Chapter 42: Beneath The Gold, The Bittersteel

They shackled Aegor Rivers in silence, iron biting into flesh long calloused by war and toil. Bittersteel, clad in black, with hair streaked silver by age but eyes burning still, said nothing as two sworn brothers of the Night's Watch japed beside him.

"Never thought I'd see the day we'd be guarding him," one said, spitting overboard. "The bastard who stirred up half the realm, headed now to freeze his balls off."

"Aye," said the other. "He'll be pissin' in the snow like the rest of us soon."

Aegor's silence unnerved them. He sat chained in the hold of the ship Storm Rook, as it sailed from King's Landing, part of a modest convoy bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The sky was grey with the threat of sleet, the sea churning beneath like some old leviathan, restless and watching.

But fate had not yet finished with Bittersteel.

Two days out from Gulltown, as mist cloaked the narrow lanes of the Narrow Sea, the Storm Rook was hailed by another ship flying the banner of a Lysene merchant. The captain, wary but untroubled, allowed it to approach.

Too late did they realize the deception.

The Lysene ship rammed into the Storm Rook's flank, and grappling hooks flew. Men in black masks and grey cloaks poured over the rails with silent precision. The Watch brothers were the first to die, throats cut before they could cry out. Others were tossed into the sea, and the deck drowned in blood and confusion.

From the shadows of the hold, a tall figure emerged. His face was hidden beneath a black mask of lacquered bone, but his voice was low and reverent as he unlocked Bittersteel's chains.

"The friends of the Black Dragon have long memories, my lord," the man said.

Aegor rose slowly, rubbing his wrists, gaze sharp as broken steel. "Who sent you?"

"We sent ourselves. We are many, even now—within the court, within the City Watch, within the septs. We knew the king would not kill you. We saw it in his soft eyes. We prepared accordingly."

As screams rang above and smoke from burning pitch rose into the sails, the masked man led Bittersteel to a longboat already waiting in the water. "Your ship awaits just beyond the shoals. She'll take you to Tyrosh. The Golden Company still waits. And the boy Daemon... he will need a sword when the time comes."

Bittersteel said nothing, only paused to look back at the ship as it began to burn.

The masked man gripped his forearm. "Your cause is not ended. Westeros still remembers. And when the time is right… we will rise."

Bittersteel boarded the longboat, disappearing into the fog.

Months passed, and in the gardens of Tyrosh, beneath silken banners of red and black, the Golden Company assembled at dawn. Horns blew from watchtowers. Soldiers, veterans of Essosi wars and bitter Westerosi sons, stood at attention as a ship pulled into the harbor under the golden dragon of exile.

From the prow stepped Aegor Rivers, still clad in black, sword on his hip, eyes hard as Valyrian steel. The men roared his name.

He walked the stone pier to where Calla Blackfyre stood, veiled in mourning black, the infant Daemon in her arms. Aenys Blackfyre awaited beside her, flanked by captains of the Company.

"You return from death itself, uncle," Aenys said with a small smile.

"I return for the boy," Bittersteel answered, gazing at the child who would one day bear the weight of his father's dream. "For the dragon yet to rise."

Calla looked at him, voice barely a whisper. "Did you suffer?"

Aegor glanced once at the sea. "Only in patience."

A great feast followed that eve, and for the first time in months, the banners of House Blackfyre flew high above Tyrosh, as swords were sharpened, gold was counted, and old dreams kindled anew in the exile's fire.