ã€ŠThe Golden Wyrm (ASOIAF &#x2B; DUNE)ã€‹


 PROLOGUE

    "Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born [...] the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land".

    ¨DKing Jaehaerys II Targaryen

    ¡­

    Aemond crept through the narrow passageways beneath the Red Keep, the air thick with the damp, earthen scent of old stone. The walls were rough, carved by hands long forgotten, and covered in places by creeping vines that found their way from the castle gardens above. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows, the orange glow dancing across the uneven surfaces, creating shapes that seemed to shift as Aemond passed. His small feet barely made a sound on the ancient stone floor, which was worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, yet the occasional scrape echoed softly in the narrow passage, a whisper of his clandestine journey. The warmth of the tunnels clung to him, and he could feel the draft of hotter air coming from deeper within, mingling with the faint, acrid smell of smoke and dragon.

    The door to the dragonpit loomed ahead, its size intimidating, but Aemond pushed against it with all his might. The ancient door groaned, granting him entry to the vast chamber where the dragon Dreamfyre lay in her cavernous lair. Moonlight spilt in from above, illuminating the pearlescent scales of the slumbering dragoness. Her head rested against her claws, but her eyes opened at the sound of his approach, her gaze falling upon his tiny figure approaching her.

    "Dreamfyre," Aemond whispered, stepping closer. He was not afraid¡ªnot of her, not of the immense power that radiated from the creature before him. The dragon''s great head moved, her eyes narrowing as she examined him. The air smelled of ash with undertones of a strong, flinty, cinnamon scent. An ancient smell¡ªand for a moment, a wave of d¨¦j¨¤ vu swept over him.

    Aemond approached her eggs, nestled safely beneath her wing, and sat beside them, cradling one of the smaller ones with a careful gentleness. "How have you been, my good Lady?" he murmured to Dreamfyre, his voice soft. "I hope your keepers were not late to tend to you today."

    The beast rumbled, a low sound that seemed to echo against the stone walls, and Aemond smiled in response. "I came to see you," he said, thumbing the grooves of the green egg in his hands. "The dreams have come again. I see things clearly now, strange places, strange people... a world of sand. They call it Arrakis in my dreams. There is power there, something I do not understand." The dragoness watched him, her eyes calm and knowing. Her hot breath warmed the cavern, and she made a low rumbling sound¡ªa noise of acknowledgment, perhaps.

    Aemond rested his forehead against the egg, closing his eyes. The memories were like scattered pieces of a puzzle, half-formed and elusive. He could remember voices¡ªcommanding, wise¡ªthe echo of the queer teachings. "I must not fear," he whispered, repeating the litany. "Fear is the mind-killer." Dreamfyre shifted slightly, her massive head coming to nudge him slightly.

    It was there, hours later, that the Dragon Keepers found him, curled asleep within her nest as if he belonged there. They spoke in hushed tones as they coaxed him away, but Aemond did not resist, dazed and half-blind in the darkness. The Keepers brought him to Queen Alicent, who stood in her chambers, her expression a mix of fury and worry. The lingering scent of lavender floated in the air, and the sunlight bleeding in from the windows cast a warm glow against the rich tapestries that depicted scenes of Targaryen triumph. His mother''s bed was draped in deep green and the air inside the room felt almost stiflingly intimate.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    "Aemond! What did I say about sneaking off to the pits? That place is dangerous, especially for a boy as young as you!" Alicent''s voice trembled as she spoke, her hands gripping his shoulders.

    Aemond looked up at his mother. "Dreamfyre was kind, Mother," he said groggily. "She lets me sit with her eggs. I just wanted to speak with her." Alicent sighed, pulling him into her embrace, but her worry remained.

    Helaena, sitting nearby, regarded him. Her eyes were distant as always, her fingers playing idly with a silver spider, the light catching its delicately wrought legs. "How was she, Aemond?" Helaena asked softly, her voice almost lost beneath the weight of the moment.

    "Sated," he said simply. Helaena smiled, a fleeting look of contentment crossing her face before she returned to her quiet musings.

    Queen Alicent sighed heavily as she regarded both her children. Shaking her head, she turned Aemond towards the courtyard, where his brother and nephews were already at practice. "Ser Criston sent a serving boy up to ask for you. He hadn''t seen you in the yard all day. You have to train, Aemond. You are a prince. You cannot keep running off like this," she insisted, though the worry in her eyes lingered.

    Aemond nodded, but his gaze was distant, the dreams still playing behind his eyes. Instead of going to the courtyard, he slipped away, his small feet carrying him to the quiet sanctuary of Maester Orwyle''s study. The room was dimly lit, the scent of parchment, ink, and dusty tomes permeating the air. Shelves reached up to the ceiling, filled with old scrolls and volumes bound in cracked leather.

    The chamber was cluttered with all the detritus of a scholar¡ªquills scattered across a heavy oaken desk, jars of strange powders, and the golden glow from the solitary window casting uncertain shadows upon the wall. Aemond liked it here; it was far away from the noise of the training yard and the whispers of court, a refuge where the voices of the past could be heard.

    There, surrounded by dusty tomes and ancient scrolls, he could think. He opened one of the old books, his small fingers brushing across the page. The histories of Aegon the Conqueror, the tales of dragons and conquest¡ªit was all there, written in words that spoke of power, legacy, and the will to rule. Aemond sat on a stool, letting the afternoon light wash over the words.

    He closed his eyes, the dream-images flashing through his mind once again. The night sands of Arrakis, the whispers of those who called themselves the Bene Gesserit, the weight of something he had yet to name. And beyond those dreams¡ªa darker vision. A vision of his family, splintered and at war. Fire and blood. Ashes where dragons once soared¡­

    Visions of a winter that knew no end.

    "What does it mean?" he whispered to himself, looking up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. He questioned Orwyle later, asking about dreams¡ªdreams that showed the future, dreams that showed things beyond understanding¡ªbut the man had little to offer beyond platitudes and cautious dismissals.

    The maester smiled faintly, shaking his head. "The minds of Targaryens are touched by flame, or so they say. It is not for men like me to understand the depths of dragon dreams."

    It was in the old histories that Aemond found his answers¡ªor at least the beginnings of them. Power was what shaped the world. Power, the way Aegon the First had wielded it, the way he had forged Seven Kingdoms into one. Aemond knew, even then, that he would not be like his brothers. Aegon the Second, with his carefree laughter and recklessness, could never understand. But Aemond wanted to understand.

    He traced his finger along an illustration of a dragon coiled around a crown, his mind filled with visions of what could be. He did not yet know what his purpose in this world would be, but he felt it¡ªan inevitable thing.

 Chapter One

    ¡°You have read that Muad''Dib had no playmates his own age on Caladan. The dangers were too great. But Muad''Dib did have wonderful companion-teachers. There was Gurney Halleck, the troubadour-warrior. You will sing some of Gurney''s songs as you read along in this book. There was Thufir Hawat, the old Mentat Master of Assassins, who struck fear even into the heart of the Padishah Emperor. There were Duncan Idaho, the Swordmaster of the Ginaz; Dr. Wellington Yueh, a name black in treachery but bright in knowledge; the Lady Jessica, who guided her son in the Bene Gesserit Way, and--of course--the Duke Leto, whose qualities as a father have long been overlooked.¡±

    ¨Dfrom "A Child''s History of Muad''Dib" by the Princess Irulan

    ¡­

    Three years later.

    The scratching of charcoal against parchment filled Aemond''s chamber, a sound as steady and rhythmical as a horse¡¯s trot. He hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue barely touching his upper lip. Before him, half a dozen sheets of vellum were spread haphazardly across the surface¡ªsketches of a peculiar contraption that might have been mistaken for a saddle, though it seemed made for something far grander than a mere horse. Each line was painstakingly drawn, tracing the vague outlines of harnesses and supports, with angular marks that resembled talons more than stirrups. An observer might think the sketches were drawn by someone possessed, the mad ravings of a mind more interested in something unspoken than a boy''s typical pursuits.

    The young prince barely noticed the state of the room around him¡ªdisordered, as though a storm had swept through. Scraps of parchment littered the ground, curling around chair legs like autumn leaves. A small brazier glowed faintly by the bed, casting its feeble warmth into the air, which still carried the lingering scent of melted wax and burnt wood. By the window, a narrow strip of sunlight was struggling to break through the haze of clouds, dappling the stone floor in pallid shades of grey. Aemond moved the charcoal stick across the paper in a tight arc, breathing life into his schematics. The contraption¡ªwhatever it was¡ªdemanded all of his attention, his mind fully consumed with the delicate interplay between dream and design.

    A knock rapped sharply on the door, breaking his focus. He looked up, the charcoal slipping from his fingers, leaving a smear across the edge of the parchment. Aemond blinked, his unnaturally blue eyes adjusting to the sudden shift in awareness, and he muttered a curse as he glanced at the interruption. Before he could bid entry, the door creaked open, revealing a young woman with a headscarf wound tightly around her hair. She peeked into the room with an air of casual familiarity, her face splitting into a smile when her eyes caught his.

    "Prince Aemond," she said, voice warm, "Your mother sent me to fetch you. You know what day it is."

    Aemond leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing. He stretched, wincing as the motion coaxed a series of small cracks from his spine. He sighed, glancing at the clutter. "The small council meeting," he said with a resigned breath. "Of course."

    The servant¡ªEllyn, her name was¡ªnodded and took a small step into the room, her gaze wandering over the scattered papers and tools, her mouth quirking upward in a half-smile. ¡°It looks like you¡¯ve been keeping yourself busy.¡±

    Aemond frowned. ¡°Not busy enough, it seems. Help me put this away, will you?¡±

    Ellyn laughed, a soft sound like the clink of glass in the kitchens. She moved towards the table, beginning to collect the stray scraps without question. There was an ease to her movements, a practised rhythm that suggested this wasn¡¯t the first time Aemond had called upon her for such assistance. Her fingers danced deftly around his scattered tools¡ªa pair of rusted callipers, some scraps of leather, a thin glass lens¡ªplacing them neatly aside as she hummed under her breath. Aemond glanced at her, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips, but he said nothing, instead focusing on tying back his loose hair, smoothing his tunic where it had bunched.

    ¡°You¡¯re really going to the council today?¡± Ellyn asked, still gathering the mess. There was a note of curiosity, even teasing, in her tone. ¡°A cupbearer, they say. Quite the elevation.¡±

    ¡°Quite,¡± Aemond muttered dryly, rolling his eyes. He caught the look she threw him¡ªa raised brow, a faint smile¡ªand he added, ¡°My mother believes it is necessary to finally put my queer mind to good use. I am to learn, observe. An opportunity, she says.¡±

    ¡°And do you think so?¡± Ellyn asked, gathering the last of the scattered pages and stacking them into a rough pile. She looked at him, her expression as open as a summer sky.

    Aemond paused, considering her question. For a moment, his gaze drifted back to the sketches on his desk, to the vague, half-formed idea of what it could become¡ªsome future unbidden, as yet unimagined. Finally, he shook his head, though a flicker of determination remained in his eye. ¡°It will be whatever I make it, Ellyn.¡± He let the words hang there, like a promise, and then added more softly, ¡°But it¡¯s best not to keep the council waiting.¡±

    She smiled, nodding her agreement, and together they worked swiftly, putting the room to rights. When at last Aemond turned toward the door, Ellyn was there to straighten the collar of his doublet, her hands brushing against the silver embroidery. ¡°There,¡± she said, her eyes warm. ¡°You look every bit the princeling now.¡±

    Aemond gave her a measured look, but it softened almost instantly. He nodded in thanks, a gesture small but genuine. He stepped towards the door, hesitating a moment to look back at the cluttered desk, at the half-finished sketches and the secrets they promised. Then he shook his head, banishing the thought. There would be time enough later.

    For now, he had other duties.

    <hr>

    Aemond stepped through the carved doors of the council chamber, his boots barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. The room was large, echoing, warmed only by the many tapestries that hung from its walls and the faint glow of a hearth at the far end. The far wall bore the banner of the dragon¡ªHouse Targaryen''s three-headed beast roaring in black and red. Aemond paused, taking in the gathered lords, the polished oaken table around which they sat, and the heavy, stagnant air that seemed to hang over all of them like a thick fog. The scent of ink and parchment lingered in this air, mingling with the scent of old wood and iron.

    Aemond moved carefully to his place by the side, the copper flagon of wine balanced in his hands. The eyes of the room, for a moment, turned to him¡ªRhaenyra''s most of all, her gaze as sharp as Valyrian steel. Her lips curled slightly, curving downward into a frown.

    "Why is he here?" she asked, her tone controlled but carrying a hint of scorn. "This is hardly a place for children."

    Aemond ignored her, keeping his eyes lowered, focused on the goblets, on the dark, rich wine within the container. On the other hand, Queen Alicent raised her head from the scroll she was perusing, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she faced the princess. "The position of cupbearer was vacant," she replied, her voice honeyed with politeness but firm, each word deliberate, as though she were speaking to a particularly slow child. "Who better to fill than Aemond? He has always been the most scholarly and level-headed of the young princes."

    Rhaenyra''s nostrils flared, her eyes narrowing. Her words were on the cusp of her tongue¡ªAemond could see it, sense it¡ªbut before she could continue, King Viserys lifted a weary hand, his voice crackling like old parchment as he spoke. "It was my decision, Rhaenyra," he said, his eyes meeting hers, though they lacked any fire. "Aemond is here with my blessing. There will be no further debate."

    For a moment, a taut silence fell across the room. Then, Rhaenyra inclined her head, her gaze never leaving Alicent''s, and Aemond could feel the weight of her displeasure settle across his shoulders.

    The council resumed, the voices of the lords merging together¡ªLord Beesbury¡¯s quivering as he spoke of the latest reports from the Riverlands, of Brackens and Blackwoods slaughtering each other like wild dogs. Lord Lyonel Strong nodded gravely, his words firm and measured, proposing a royal envoy to bring peace. Aemond could see Ser Harrold Westerling¡¯s resigned nod from the corner of his eye, a weary acceptance of another thankless duty.

    He poured wine for Lord Jasper Wylde, his hands steady, his eyes flitting upwards just long enough to catch the dour set of the man¡¯s face. The Master of Laws listened, his lips pursed, as Ser Tyland Lannister took up the topic of the Stepstones, his tone dripping with derision. "The Triarchy are at it again," Tyland said, his fingers drumming on the table in a show of impatience.

    Aemond moved on, filling the goblet of the Grand Maester, who leaned forward, his mouth set in a frown as he pondered the troubling matter. "The Dornish alliance could end up a thorn in our side," Orwyle mused, eventually making his thoughts known. "We must tread carefully. Those Dornishmen hold grudges longer than any of us here."

    Aemond watched, silent, unseen, as the council debated, every detail, every mannerism, his mind like a trap collecting it all. Alicent spoke some, but her words were most often chosen with care. In comparison, Rhaenyra spoke little, though what few words she uttered seemed aimed at countering the queen''s points. It was a trying thing for his mother, Aemond noted.

    The wine flagon grew lighter as the discussions wound on, shifting from the threat of the Triarchy to the coin needed for some important construction north of the city harbour. Lord Beesbury droned on, his voice full of frustration, while Tyland leaned back, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. Aemond knew that smile, knew it was a mask¡ªa show for the council, what he was hiding, Aemond could yet tell.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The meeting dragged to its close, the lords standing, their voices dropping to murmurs as they spoke amongst themselves. Aemond caught his mother¡¯s eye. She moved to his side, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her touch warm, grounding him in the present moment.

    ¡°You did well,¡± she whispered, her lips barely moving. Her smile was faint, but her eyes held pride. ¡°Now, go join your brother in the yard. Your father needs me."

    Aemond nodded, though a flicker of irritation crossed his face. He had no desire to cross swords with Aegon today, not when there were much more important things to be done than dealing with the wastrel. But his mother¡¯s gaze brooked no argument, and he bowed his head in acquiescence.

    He left the council chamber, his steps measured, his mind already sorting through what he had heard, what he had seen. He could still feel Rhaenyra¡¯s disapproval, could still hear the derision in Tyland¡¯s voice, the cautious wisdom in Lord Lyonel¡¯s. He remembered it all¡ªeach slight, each power play, each decision made for personal gain.

    Outside, the castle corridors stretched before him, and somewhere beyond, the clatter of steel on steel echoed faintly. The training yard. Aegon would be there, and Aemond could already picture his brother¡¯s lazy grin, the careless way he swung a sword. A tired sigh escaped him at the thought.

    <hr>

    The courtyard of the Red Keep bustled with the early morning stirrings of training. The clanking of steel against steel, the barked orders of the knights, and the occasional laughter of stable boys created an atmosphere of orderly chaos. Aemond watched from a distance, his eyes narrowed as he observed his brother, Aegon, clumsily sparring with Ser Arryk. Aegon¡¯s laughter rang out, carefree and indifferent, as if he had no sense of the weight pressing down on their family.

    Aemond felt a deep scowl forming on his face, his lips thinning in irritation. Aegon¡¯s antics were nothing new. He had always been the favoured son, born with the crown in sight, yet unable to grasp even the basic tenets of duty. There was an empty pleasure in his smiles, a shallowness that Aemond instinctively despised. How could anyone think the fool a prince, let alone a king?

    ¡°Prince Aemond.¡± The voice of Ser Criston Cole brought Aemond''s attention back to the courtyard, breaking through the haze of his thoughts. The white cloak of the Kingsguard swayed in the breeze, and Criston¡¯s stern face bore the marks of one who had grown tired of watching boys pretend at war. ¡°You must focus. Take up the sword as if you mean it.¡±

    Aemond picked up the practice sword, feeling the crude wood in his hands. It was heavy, unwieldy¡ªa clumsy replica of the elegance he sought. He adjusted his grip, tightening his small fingers around the hilt. He could remember another time, another place, another life. A life where power was not a birthright but earned, fought for, claimed through force of will. He remembered the weight of a crysknife in his hands, the sands of Arrakis shifting beneath his feet, the breath of death in his blade.

    ¡°Good,¡± Ser Criston said, nodding as he watched the young prince practice. ¡°It seems Ser Arryk had not been exaggerating when he said you were born to be a fighter. You learn faster than your brother, my prince.¡±

    Aemond didn¡¯t respond. He swung again, harder, his body moving instinctively, his mind adrift. Few of this world, he knew, could match even the weakest of the Harkonnen foot soldiers in skill. Fewer still¡ªmen like Ser Criston¡ªcould hope to best the average Atreides soldier in combat. None could even begin to fathom the lethality of your average Fremen, much less the formidable Fedaykin of his past.

    This awareness brought to Aemond a certain concern. He was a boy barely ten summers aged who could not hope to match a grown man¡¯s sheer strength, yet he knew even Ser Criston would fall to his blade should they come to blows. Was this the best Westeros had to offer?

    Aegon¡¯s laughter pulled him back. His older brother had abandoned his sparring session, stumbling towards the wine brought by a servant boy. Aegon grasped the pitcher, pouring himself a cup before lifting it in Aemond¡¯s direction. ¡°Care to join me, brother?¡± he called, his voice loud enough to draw the eyes of those nearby.

    Aemond ignored him, focusing on the training dummy in front of him, his eyes narrowed. ¡°Your brother¡¯s invitation is not one that leads to strength,¡± Ser Criston murmured beside him, his gaze shifting briefly to Aegon¡¯s antics before returning to Aemond.

    Aemond nodded curtly. ¡°Worry not, I have no interest in wine before midday.¡± He struck the dummy again, the wood splintering beneath his¡ª

    Aemond froze, feeling something cold splash his back and soak his garment. Red, and sweet-smelling. Wine.

    ¡°Are you deaf? Or did you not hear me speak?¡±

    Aemond turned to see Aegon holding an empty pitcher of wine, a mocking smile on his face. With a quiet sigh, he turned to leave the courtyard but paused when he heard Aegon speak again.

    ¡°...Spineless,¡± the word hissed beneath the older prince¡¯s breath.

    A breath of silence. Another quiet sigh. Ser Criston turned his unreadable gaze to Aegon but did not move to intervene, seemingly content to let this play out. Expressionless, Aemond turned to face his brother again.

    ¡°Fetch your sword, Aegon,¡± he said as he removed his ruined garments.

    ¡°...And if I don¡¯t?¡±

    Aemond simply shrugged in response. ¡°At least this time, no one can accuse me of beating up a defenceless child,¡± he said as he slowly closed the distance.

    <hr>

    The fire in the brazier had burned low, and the light in the Queen¡¯s chambers was dim, the flickering glow casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air felt close, thick with the remnants of a long, weary day. Alicent stood by the hearth, her fingers lightly grazing the mantle as she listened to Larys Strong speak, his voice soft and measured.

    "...the builders and carpenters assigned to maintain the Keep''s curtain wall seem to have been... misallocating resources," Larys was saying, his eyes fixed on her, watching her reaction. "Supplies meant for repairs have gone missing, and there are rumours that the materials are being sold in the city for profit."

    Alicent frowned, her eyes drifting from the glowing embers. Corruption? The thought made her jaw tighten. ¡°I want the perpetrators identified, and quietly dealt with,¡± she said, her demeanour cold but mildly disinterested. ¡°No spectacle¡ªjust ensure they are replaced by loyal men.¡±

    Larys nodded. ¡°As you command, Your Grace. It shall be done discreetly.¡±

    ¡°However, there is also the matter of Maester Runciter''s unexpected visit to Princess Rhaenyra¡¯s chambers,¡± Larys continued, his voice dipping lower. ¡°I have heard that the Princess has sought counsel from the maester outside of the King¡¯s orders. She claims it is for her children''s health, but there may be more to it. There are whispers that she is attempting to rally sympathy from the Citadel to put an end to those... rumours.¡±

    ¡°The Maester''s order serves the King and his realm," Alicent said in that same disinterested tone. "Not the whims of his daughter. Ensure that Maester Runciter understands where his duties lie. He is to serve the King¡¯s interest above all.¡±

    ¡°A gentle reminder will be given then, my Queen.¡±

    Alicent gave a curt nod, her fingers tapping against the mantle. ¡°What of the training yard incident?¡± she asked, her gaze shifting back to Larys. ¡°Ser Criston informed me that Aegon and Aemond have come to blows again. This is becoming far too frequent, and Aemond seems to have started to lose his restraint.¡±

    Larys tilted his head, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. ¡°Prince Aegon seems prone to goading his brother. He speaks ill of his brother and deliberately taunts him. His friends among the young squires encourage this behaviour, it seems, despite how¡­ detrimental it is for his well-being and reputation.¡±

    Alicent exhaled slowly, visibly frustrated. ¡°Then speak to Ser Criston. I want these ''friends'' kept away from Aegon¡ªfind duties for them far from his side. It is unbefitting for princes¡ªbrothers¡ªto treat one another in such a manner.¡±

    ¡°Of course, my Queen,¡± Larys said, bowing his head slightly. ¡°It gladdens me to know you are a true defender of the realm¡¯s propriety. One who upholds decency while others... falter.¡±

    Alicent¡¯s lips tightened, but she nodded. "It is not I alone," she said. "There are those who understand, who see clearly. Aemond..." She paused, her face softening as she thought of her second son. "He is diligent. A good son, Larys. He has always shown more care, more thought than Aegon ever has. I always wondered why his brother turned out the way he did."

    Larys shifted his weight slightly, his head still bowed. ¡°Prince Aemond is most astute, Your Grace,¡± he said, and she could hear an odd note in his voice, one that made her look up sharply.

    ¡°Has he spoken to you?¡± Alicent asked, her brows drawing together. Larys hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and then he nodded.

    ¡°A few days past, the prince came to me,¡± Larys said, his voice careful. ¡°He spoke of... courtly matters. He expressed a desire to employ some of my services, discreetly."

    Alicent blinked, surprise breaking through her weary composure. ¡°Aemond approached you?¡± Her voice was incredulous, but Larys gave no sign of being unsettled.

    ¡°He was most thoughtful in his inquiries,¡± Larys replied, watching her closely. ¡°But I felt it prudent to come to you before proceeding. I would not overstep, Your Grace.¡±

    Alicent let out a breath, her fingers tightening on the mantle, her mind racing. Aemond. Her young son, so quiet, so determined. She had confided in him, yes, more often than she ought to perhaps, but she had never thought...

    ¡°I have spoken with Aemond,¡± she said slowly, her eyes narrowing as she searched Larys¡¯s face, ¡°but not of this. Not of our arrangements, our cooperation. I would not put him in such a position.¡±

    ¡°Of course, my Queen,¡± Larys said, bowing his head slightly. ¡°It may be that the prince seeks to serve you, to assist in matters he feels are important. He is bright, and ambitious.¡±

    Alicent''s lips pressed into a thin line. Bright and ambitious. She knew Aemond was both, but the thought of him stepping into the murky depths of court intrigue so young made her uneasy. And yet, perhaps it was inevitable. He was a prince of the realm, and these were the games that would shape his life. She drew a breath, her gaze shifting back to Larys.

    ¡°Indulge him, then,¡± she said, her voice firm. ¡°But only to a reasonable extent. Keep me informed of all that passes between you. He must not be drawn too far into these matters. Not yet.¡±

    Larys bowed, his eyes flickering briefly to hers, that familiar inscrutable glint in them. ¡°As you command, Your Grace.¡±

    Alicent watched as he moved back, the clubfoot scraping softly on the stone floor as he made his way to the door. He paused, looking back at her. ¡°Rest well, Your Grace,¡± he said, his voice quiet, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

    Alicent remained by the hearth, her thoughts swirling, her heart a knot of worry. Aemond, her clever boy, reaching for the shadows. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back, feeling the warmth of the dying fire on her face. Why couldn¡¯t things ever be straightforward? She asked, despite knowing fully the answer to that question.

    A knock echoed from behind her door then.

    ¡°Who?¡± she asked and Ser Criston entered.

    ¡°A message by raven, my Queen,¡± he said. ¡°The Grand Maester says it''s from Driftmark¡­¡±

    ¡°It seems urgent.¡±

 Chapter Two

    ¡°...There is no measuring Muad''Dib''s motives by ordinary standards. In the moment of his triumph, he saw the death prepared for him, yet he accepted the treachery. Can you say he did this out of a sense of justice? Whose justice, then? Remember, we speak now of the Muad''Dib who ordered battle drums made from his enemies'' skins.¡±

    ¨DPrincess Irulan, from "Arrakis Awakening"

    ¡­

    Aemond stood before the looking glass, the dim light of early dawn creeping through the narrow slit of the window behind him. He stared at his reflection¡ªat the boy standing there, a face both stern and young. His fingers moved deftly as he finished securing the dark buttons of his mourning coat, each clasp snapping shut with a soft, final click. The fabric was of deep black, as was the custom for a funeral, its texture rich, woven from wool as dark as a raven''s feather.

    The silence of the room pressed in around him, a stillness that mirrored the cold emptiness he felt somewhere in his chest. He had never known Laena Velaryon, not truly, only through his dreams of Vhagar''s dreams. She had always been a figure at the periphery of his life¡ªa dull echo, her presence a memory formed mostly by what he remembered the dragoness remembered of her. But death had a way of drawing even the peripheral into sharp focus. It made strangers into family, and family into strangers.

    Aemond reached for the scabbard resting on his table. Its length was slender, wrapped in a dark leather that caught the light with a dull gleam. Inside was the blade¡ªa knife with a faint resemblance to something out of a well-remembered dream. A crysknife. The weapon had an alien look to it, its ivory dragon-bone blade carved with gentle curves, almost serpentine in shape. Aemond had designed it personally, commissioned its creation with the bulk of his savings. The greedy thing drank his blood readily before returning to its sheath. Today, he wore it for the first time, in the Fremen manner, tied close to his waist.

    Bloodied palm bandaged, he buckled it now, his hands moving with a sureness that belied his youth. The knife settled against his hip, the weight of it somehow grounding him. He had seen death before¡ªseen it in the eyes of his father, in the faces of the smallfolk who came to the keep seeking aid they would never receive, in the eyes of the tormented seeking reprieve in a fiery death. This life, for all its flaws, had begun to feel comfortable, and the darkness Paul once knew well, distant, something for other people, begot by other men. Alas, tonight would be different. Personal. A reminder of his purpose.

    A knock sounded at his door, sharp but respectful, and Aemond turned, his back to the looking glass. He strode to the door, unhurried, and pulled it open. A servant stood there, his eyes downcast, his voice quiet. "Prince Aemond, the family gathers."

    Aemond nodded once, a short, decisive movement and stepped out into the corridor, the scabbard at his hip swaying gently as he walked. The halls of Driftmark were a maze of stone, their walls adorned with trophies, carvings, and banners depicting the silver seahorse of House Velaryon. He could hear the murmur of voices in the distance¡ªhis family''s voices, low and sombre. The sea air carried with it the scent of salt and damp, the distant cry of gulls echoing mournfully through the hallways.

    He approached the courtyard, the place where the funeral procession would begin. The people were gathered, dark figures standing together in clusters, their faces turned to the pyre, to the casket that held Laena Velaryon''s body. Aemond moved among them, finding his place beside his mother, who gave him a brief nod.

    Across the courtyard, he saw the Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin Strong and their sons, their base-born hair dull in the pale morning light. There was tension in the air¡ªan unease that settled on the shoulders of every member of the family. The Blacks and the Greens, even now, divided by everything else.

    The funeral began, and it was Vaemond Velaryon who led the procession. He spoke in High Valyrian, his voice carrying over the assembled crowd, strong and full of conviction. Aemond listened, though his eyes remained on the coffin and the sea beyond. Vaemond¡¯s words were carefully chosen, his eulogy speaking of Velaryon strength and the importance of blood. Pure blood. He spoke of Laena, of her pride, her heritage, her lineage. His gaze flickered more than once towards Rhaenyra¡¯s sons, his voice tinged with an edge that was unmistakable.

    "Blood is what makes us," Vaemond said, his eyes drifting pointedly towards Jacaerys and Lucerys, their dark hair so at odds with the pale silver of House Velaryon. "Blood is our strength, our legacy. And it must remain pure, if we are to endure."

    Aemond saw the slight shifts in the crowd, the glances exchanged, the whispers that rose like the rustling of dry leaves. He watched as Daemon, standing apart, let out a sharp, incredulous sound¡ªhalf laughter, half sneer. More solemn words followed, drifting over the gathered crowd, carried on the wind like a lament. Aemond kept his gaze steady, watching as the casket was lowered into the sea, the dark waves lapping hungrily at the wood. The sounds of the sea grew louder, drowning out the voices around him, and for a moment, all Aemond could hear was the roar of the water, the crash of waves against the stone, the endless pull of the tides.

    <hr>

    Vaemond stood in the courtyard, exchanging formal words with guests, each phrase as practised and hollow as the gestures that accompanied them. The sound of the sea was ever-present, the distant crash of waves against Driftmark¡¯s rocky shore, and the salt in the air mingled with the scent of smoke from the brazier. The guests wore their grief like cloaks, dark colours and bowed heads, and Vaemond moved among them, a sombre figure with a mask of duty, his thoughts elsewhere entirely.

    It was a movement to his left that caught his eye¡ªa figure approaching, his gait uneven, slow but deliberate. Vaemond turned his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he recognized the club-footed man weaving through the mourners with an uncanny ease. Larys Strong. The man¡¯s eyes caught his, offering the faintest of nods, and his lips curled into something that might have resembled a smile, though there was no warmth to it.

    ¡°Lord Vaemond,¡± Larys murmured as he drew near, his voice low, nearly swallowed by the sea breeze. He dipped his head in a deferential bow, his eyes flicking up, always watchful. ¡°Might I have a word? In private, if it pleases you.¡±

    Vaemond studied him, suspicion lurking behind his gaze. There was something about Larys Strong that never settled right with him¡ªa sense that he looked not upon a man, but a mask, a facade. But curiosity gnawed at him, and there was something else too¡ªthe hope that perhaps Larys brought word of something useful¡ªfrom the queen perhaps, if the rumours were true¡ªsomething that might help him address the concerns that had festered in his heart for so long.

    After a heartbeat, he nodded, curt and purposeful. ¡°Very well,¡± he said, gesturing for Larys to lead the way.

    The two walked in silence, leaving the mourners behind, their steps muffled by the damp sand beneath their boots as they made their way towards a secluded stretch of the beach that lay beyond Driftmark¡¯s halls. The sound of the waves grew louder here, crashing against the shore, the sound drowning out the voices of the mourners in the distance. It was only when they were well out of earshot that Vaemond turned to Larys, his patience already worn thin by the charade of secrecy. "What is it you want, Strong? I have duties to attend to."

    Larys paused before he stepped aside, gesturing to a figure standing just beyond the curve of the rocks. Vaemond''s eyes narrowed further, his lips pressing into a thin line as he recognized the boy. Aemond Targaryen. The young prince stood there, his gaze sharp, his gaze fixed on Vaemond with an intensity that belied his age.

    Vaemond felt the heat of indignation rising in his chest. He would not be insulted like this. He turned on his heel, his back to them, his voice laced with disdain. ¡°If this is some jest, I have no time for it,¡± he said, already taking a step away. ¡°I will not be summoned by a child.¡±

    He had taken but a single step when Aemond''s voice cut through the roar of the waves, clear and sharp. "Then I must assume you content, my lord, to let Rhaenyra''s bastards sit the Driftwood Throne?"

    Vaemond froze, his breath catching in his throat. The words struck like a blow, the accusation hanging in the salt-choked air between them, heavy and undeniable. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing on Aemond. The young prince had not moved, his expression calm, almost indifferent, but there was something in his gaze.

    ¡°What did you say?¡± Vaemond¡¯s voice was low, dangerous now, a simmering fury just beneath the surface.

    Aemond stepped closer, his hands crossed behind his back, his gaze unbroken. ¡°You spoke of Velaryon blood earlier,¡± he said, his voice as smooth as the sea at night, each word deliberate, cutting. ¡°Of its purity, its strength. You meant every word, did you not? Yet here we stand, watching as Rhaenyra''s bastards are paraded before us as if they have a rightful claim to the Driftwood Throne. As if true-born Velaryon heirs are to be set aside. Ignored.¡±

    Vaemond¡¯s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The boy¡¯s words were like an echo of his own thoughts, a mirror held up to the fears and anger he had harboured in silence. He had seen the boys¡ªJacaerys, Lucerys¡ªseen their dark hair, their features that spoke not of Velaryon lineage, base-born. And yet Corlys had turned a blind eye, had taken them as his own, as the future of House Velaryon. It was a betrayal, a stain upon their legacy.

    ¡°What do you want, boy?¡± Vaemond demanded, his voice rough, the mask of civility slipping away, his eyes locking on Aemond''s. He could see it then, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Aemond¡¯s lips.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°An understanding,¡± Aemond said simply. ¡°Between us. You want a pure-blooded Velaryon on the Driftwood Throne. I want the same for the Iron Throne. Aegon may be a fool at times, but better a fool than a whore''s bastard. Together, we can ensure that those who are unworthy will not inherit what they do not deserve.¡±

    A pause. Hesitation.

    ¡°...Your mother sent you to me?¡± Vaemond asked at last, his voice uncertain, trying to gauge just how far the Queen''s machinations extended. Aemond gave a slow shake of his head, a hint of something almost like regret in his eye.

    ¡°No. My mother is far too preoccupied with other matters, unfortunately,¡± the boy said. ¡°But in time, I am sure she will come around. Today, however, I have come to you for a related matter, one that I believe would be of mutual benefit, one that would bring us closer to securing the purity of our bloodlines. The Driftmark throne is yours to claim, Lord Vaemond, should ill, gods forbid, befall Corlys. But you will need allies.¡±

    Again, Vaemond hesitated. He looked to Larys, who stood silent, almost forgotten, his head bowed as if to keep his thoughts hidden. The sea crashed behind them, each wave echoing the tumult in Vaemond¡¯s chest¡ªanger, betrayal, and something else¡ªa dark hope. He turned back to Aemond, searching the boy¡¯s face, looking for any sign of deceit, any hint that this was a game, a trap laid. But Aemond''s gaze was steady, unwavering, and there was a fire there, a determination that spoke to Vaemond''s own sense of injustice, his own desire to see things made right.

    ¡°What would you have me do?¡± he asked in the end, eliciting a smile from the young, blue-eyed dragon.

    <hr>

    The night was thick with mist, the kind that seeped into the bones and made everything feel heavy. Aemond moved quietly through the Keep''s halls, his footsteps barely audible on the stone floor. He slipped past the door guards, men dulled by the late hour, their heads nodding from the monotony of keeping watch over a castle that rarely saw danger. There was no excitement in his veins, only a cold resolve. This was something that needed doing, a task that fell to him alone. He did not expect glory, nor thanks. His father would call it reckless, his mother would not understand. But Aemond did not need their approval. He needed Vhagar.

    The greatest of all living dragons, ancient and terrible. She had been Laena¡¯s mount, her pride, her bond. And now Laena was gone, her body consigned to the sea, and Vhagar was riderless. No one else dared approach her since, still wrapped in their grief or perhaps cowed by the great beast¡¯s formidable nature. Aemond had no such luxury as fear. Fear, he knew, served no one but itself.

    As he left the keep, the mist thickened, swallowing the narrow path that led down towards the beach. The cold air turned his breath to mist. He could hear the sea now, the crash and pull of the waves. The darkness was heavy, pressing in from all sides, as though the night itself sought to deter him. Aemond pulled his cloak tighter.

    Vhagar loomed ahead, her great shape a terrible silhouette against the sky, her eyes twin embers glowing faintly. She rested by the edge of the water, her wings folded close, her head resting upon the ground. She looked old, older than Driftmark, older even than the sea itself, though she was nowhere near that age. Had she been one of Shai-Hulud''s many forms, she would have been but an infant. Yet, she was still a relic of another age, a weapon whose ancestors were forged in the fiery bowels of Old Valyria to reshape the world.

    Aemond approached, his gait easy and unyielding. He had no illusions about what he was attempting. Dragons were not tame beasts. They were fire and fury given form, creatures of destruction. But what was fire before the Muad''Dib? What fury before the Kwisatz Haderach?

    He took a step forward, then another, his eyes never leaving Vhagar''s. The great dragon lifted her head, her ember eyes narrowing, focusing on him. The intensity of her gaze bore into him, assessing him. He felt the weight of her attention, as though she were stripping away his skin, seeing what lay beneath. Suspicion flared in her gaze and the dragon''s maw glowed crimson as a deathly growl emanated from her chest.

    "Calm, Vhagar," Aemond intoned, calling upon the Voice as he reached out to the old queen. "Dohaeras. Serve me."

    The old queen regarded him for what felt like an eternity. Her gaze was unblinking, ancient, and knowing. Then, slowly, she moved, lowering her head, her breath hot and smelling of burnt cinnamon, washing over him. Aemond reached out, his fingers unfurling, and laid his hand on her scaled face. The warmth of her spread through him, her rough skin beneath his touch. She rumbled low, the sound vibrating through his bones, and Aemond knew. She had accepted him.

    A soft smile creased his face, his fingers trailing over her scale. The ridges of her body were steep, the climb difficult, but he persisted. He had never been the biggest nor the strongest, but he was relentless and that was enough. Soon enough, he was atop her, seated between the great ridges of her spine. The world seemed small from up here¡ªDriftmark''s towers little more than toys, the sea an endless dark expanse. He felt the power beneath him, the tension in her muscles, the heat that radiated from her.

    He tightened his grip on the reins, the old leather cool beneath his fingers. He leaned forward, his face set, his voice firm. "Soves," he commanded. Fly.

    For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Vhagar moved, her wings unfolding with a sound like the earth tearing itself apart, the force of it almost unseating him. She rose from the ground and began charging towards the sea, the beach falling away beneath them, her wings beating with slow, powerful strokes, each one propelling them higher. The wind tore at Aemond¡¯s cloak, pulling at his hair, but he held on, his body pressed low against her warmth. The mist fell away as they climbed higher, the cold air biting into his skin, each gust like the edge of a knife.

    <hr>

    As Aemond dismounted from Vhagar, his boots landing softly in the loose sand that skirted the castle walls of Driftmark, his expression sank into a mask of cold indifference as he made his way back through the gate. He knew what was coming, and he had planned for it, had set every piece in motion with the careful precision of a man playing cyvasse.

    The corridors of Driftmark were silent, save for the occasional murmur of distant conversations, voices muffled by the thick stone walls. Flickering torches threw long shadows, the light twisting and writhing, making the stone seem alive, almost malevolent. Aemond strode through these halls, his steps certain, his fingers brushing the hilt of his knife. There was no hesitation in him, no doubt. What would transpire tonight was necessary. He felt nothing for it. No anger, no remorse. Only purpose.

    He had watched them all long enough to know their reactions, to understand their anger, their entitlement. He knew they would be waiting for him, knew the rage that burned in their veins would drive them, compel them to confront him. That they would rise, like children do, without thought for consequence.

    And there they were, just as he had foreseen, gathered at the far end of the corridor. Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena¡ªall of them, waiting for him, their eyes aflame with anger, their expressions twisted with disbelief. The torchlight reflected off their faces, catching the fury in their eyes, the defiance in their clenched jaws. Aemond let his gaze sweep over them, taking in their flushed cheeks, their trembling fists. It was almost laughable, how easy they made it.

    Rhaena was the first to step forward, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her voice breaking as she spoke. ¡°You took her,¡± she accused, her grief and rage palpable. ¡°Vhagar was my mother¡¯s. She was meant to be mine.¡±

    Aemond regarded her clinically, her words carrying no weight beyond what they added to the unfolding scene. ¡°Meant?¡± he echoed, his voice intentionally dripping with disdain. ¡°A dragon is not yours by birthright, girl. She is claimed by those who have the will to take her. If you think yourself worthy, then perhaps you should have acted before I did.¡±

    He saw her eyes widen, saw the rage twist her features. She lunged, her small fists swinging, a child¡¯s rage made manifest. Aemond caught her wrist effortlessly, his grip bruising, and with a single fluid motion, he threw her to the ground. She landed with a thud, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.

    Then came Baela, letting out a cry as she started forward, but Aemond turned to her, his eye cold, his voice a low growl. ¡°Come at me, girl, and I¡¯ll feed you to my dragon.¡±

    The words had the desired effect. For a moment, there was silence, a heavy pause in which Aemond could feel the weight of their fear, their uncertainty. He waited, and then the boldest of them, Jace, moved, as he knew he would¡ªhis face contorted with anger, his hand curling into a fist as he charged. Aemond sidestepped easily, his own fist connecting with the boy¡¯s jaw and sending him sprawling into the dirt.

    Luke followed, his smaller frame crashing into Aemond, his fists flailing wildly. There was no technique, no skill¡ªonly blind rage. Aemond grabbed him by the collar, throwing him to the ground beside his brother. The boy''s head bounced off the floor with a crack as his nose broke, then he was silent, unconscious, his body limp in the dirt.

    Aemond turned then, looming over Jace, who still lay on the ground. his face was a mask of impassivity, his gaze cold and distant. He felt no satisfaction, no pride. Only resolve. He lifted his foot and drove it down, stomping the other boy into the dirt.

    It was then that the sound of footsteps echoed through the courtyard, and Aemond turned to see a trio of Velaryon guards rushing towards them, their armour clinking. Behind them, Harwin Strong emerged, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the scene before him.

    ¡°Enough!¡± Harwin shouted, his voice ringing across the courtyard. He rushed forward, grabbing Aemond by the shoulders, pulling him away from Jace. Aemond thrashed as was expected of him, his rage clear for all to see. An act.

    In that moment of chaos, Jace scrambled up, his face twisted with pain and fury. His hand went to his belt, finding the hilt of a knife., and with a cry, he lunged forward, the blade slashing upward. Aemond saw the blade come up at him, yet he didn¡¯t move. He didn¡¯t break free of Harwin¡¯s grasp, even as he felt the searing heat of his left eye coming undone beneath Jace¡¯s blade. He didn¡¯t fight back even as his base instincts bade him to do so like an animal.

    Instead, he screamed then, the sound shrill and loud, reverberating through the courtyard, echoing off the stone. Blood poured down his face, blinding him, staining his hands as he clutched at the wound. He staggered backward, feeling Harwin¡¯s grip loosen, feeling the hands that had held him pull away in shock.

    Ser Harrold Westerling arrived then, his white cloak billowing as he raced into the courtyard, his men at his heels. ¡°What is happening here?¡± the Lord Commander demanded, his voice urgent, his gaze darting between the children, the knight, the guards, the bloodied prince. He moved to Aemond, kneeling beside him, his face pale as he tried to coax the boy into calmness. ¡°It¡¯s all right, lad, it¡¯s all right. Let me¡ªGods be good! Who did this?¡±

    For a moment, there was only silence. The guards, the children, all stood frozen, too stunned to speak. And then Aemond pointed, his finger trembling, his voice weak, filled with pain and accusation. ¡°...He held me so Jace could take my eye,¡± Aemond lied, his voice cracking, the words barely a whisper.

    ¡°Lies!¡± Harwin Strong retorted, his face twisted in shock, his hands held up as though to ward off the accusation. But before he could say another word, one of the men Aemond had requested of Vaemond spoke.

    ¡°The prince speaks the truth, Lord Commander,¡± said the quickest among them, stepping forward, his expression solemn.

    ¡°We saw it happen as we arrived.¡±

 Chapter Three

    ¡°Hands turn loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread¡­¡±

    ¨DHelaena Targaryen, from ¡°The Red Sowing¡±

    ¡­

    Aemond sat rigid in the high-backed chair, the warmth of his blood trickling down his cheek as Maester Kelvyn stitched the wound and his mother fumbled over him. His face was as still as the surface of a frozen lake, his remaining eye evaluating, weighing all present.

    Corlys Velaryon entered then, Rhaenys at his side. Rhaenyra followed, her face flushed, a storm of emotions darkening her eyes¡ªfear, anger, confusion. She rushed to her sons, Jace and Luke. Daemon followed after, arms crossed behind his back, then came Lyonel Strong aiding the king. Vaemond Velaryon, accompanied by his cousins, strode in last, his gaze searching, landing on Aemond¡¯s and widening in surprise.

    King Viserys stood at the centre of the room, a crumbling statue of a man. His eyes, clouded with illness and regret, drifted over those gathered, past a shackled Harwin Strong, pausing at Aemond.

    "How did this happen?" Viserys asked, his voice echoing through the hall, strained, raw. He leaned on his cane, his once-powerful frame now frail, his authority fraying in the presence of the factions he struggled to keep united. The Kingsguard stood silent, faceless beneath their helms.

    Maester Kelvyn stepped back, his fingers red with Aemond¡¯s blood, the stitching done but crude, a raw line across the young prince''s face. Aemond took a slow breath, letting the sting of the wound pull him deeper into the moment. Pain was a tool, a whetstone for the mind. He focused, and when he spoke, his voice trembled in it.

    "I was attacked," Aemond began. He paused, letting the silence thicken, a blade hanging in the air. "Jacaerys and Lucerys, they attacked me when I claimed Vhagar."

    He gestured to his stitched eye, the movement slow, calculated. "They meant to beat me for it, for stealing Rhaena¡¯s dragon, they said. When I defended myself, Ser Harwin Strong arrived." He let his gaze drift towards Harwin, allowed vulnerability to flicker, just for a heartbeat¡ªa boy standing against his oppressor. "He held me down, and Jace took my eye as punishment."

    A murmur rippled through those present, shock evident on many faces. Corlys exchanged a glance with Rhaenys, dark and troubled. Rhaenyra''s face flushed crimson, her lips trembling as she opened her mouth to protest. Daemon¡¯s gaze narrowed. Alicent''s voice cut through the growing din¡ªincandescent.

    "This is outrageous!" the queen said, eyes like molten steel as she faced Viserys. "He held my son down, Viserys! He mutilated him! Crippled him! He must pay for it!"

    Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice trembling but loud. "Aemond lies! Ser Harwin would never do that. This... this is a manipulation¡ªa cruel game." Her gaze moved to Harwin, seeking some confirmation, some anchor in this chaos.

    Harwin stood, his hands open, his face a mask of wounded pride, but before he could speak, the Velaryon guards¡ªthose who had been present at the scene of the incident¡ªstepped forward.

    "We were there, Your Grace," one of them spoke, his voice steady, though his eyes darted to Rhaenyra. "We saw it all. Ser Harwin held the prince down... while Jacaerys moved to maim him."

    Rhaenyra turned toward the guard, her face blanching. "This... this cannot be..."

    Alicent¡¯s lips twisted into a snarl. She cast a loathing glare at the bound man before turning back to Viserys. "Lord-husband! Aemond has been damaged permanently! A prince! Your son! Surely, you would not let such an insult pass unanswered."

    The king hesitated. "...What would you have me do, Alicent?" he asked finally, frustration clouding his face.

    An incredulous chuckle escaped the queen''s chest. Then her eyes grew dark as she realised Viserys intended not to act. "A debt must be paid, my King," she spat in the end, before turning vengeful eyes at the bound knight. "I shall take his head in exchange."

    The hall erupted then. Rhaenyra shouted, Alicent responded, their voices rising and clashing like waves in a tempest. Accusations, threats, insults. Lord Strong, pale as a corpse, stared at his son, his heir, unmoving. The Kingsguard shifted uneasily, their hands resting on sword hilts, waiting for the storm to break. Viserys looked as if he might shatter, his gaze flicking between the women, his raised hand trembling, trying and failing to quiet them.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    It was then that Aemond spoke, his voice calm amidst the chaos. It cut through the noise, deceptively soft, almost gentle, yet unmistakably commanding. He leaned forward, his one good eye fixed on Harwin.

    "Perhaps," Aemond began, his words deliberate, every syllable weighted, "we should allow Ser Harwin a way to prove his innocence." He paused, watching the reactions. "Let us have a duel, here and now, as it is the old way. If he is innocent, the Gods will show us."

    Alicent''s face blanched, her eyes turning toward her son, horrified. "No! What rubbish are saying!"

    Rhaenyra, however, seized upon the offer, a lover''s fierce hope shining through. "Aemond, you wise child! Yes, let Ser Harwin clear his name, as befits a knight!"

    Viserys faltered. He looked at Aemond, at the stitched wound, at the cold resolve in his son¡¯s gaze. His gaze flickered to Alicent who looked wroth to the nine hells and back, then to Rhaenyra trembling in desperation. A decision was made in that moment.

    "Very well," Viserys said at last, without truly considering the offer, his words just as Aemond knew they would be. "A duel will decide this matter. Here and now."

    Ser Harwin was freed and made to step forward, suspicion darkening his gaze. A waster was fetched for him and another for Aemond so none might maim the other. Armed, the knight stepped into the cleared space, his posture easy, confident¡ªhe would not harm the child, he thought, but he would finally put an end to this farce, whatever it was.

    Aemond rose, slow and deliberate. He moved to the centre, feeling every eye upon him. They thought him a boy, thought him outmatched¡ªa child before a seasoned knight. They did not know. Waster struck waster, then the true strike came, fast, behind a feint and a sidestep, and with a swift, decisive motion, sharpened dragon-bone sliced across Harwin''s throat. The room seemed to hold its breath, the world suspended in that heartbeat before the crimson spray erupted. Ser Harwin staggered, his eyes wide, hands clutching at his neck, his legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the stone floor.

    A collective gasp swept through the room, the Velaryons and Targaryens alike frozen, their eyes wide with horror. Rhaenyra¡¯s scream tore through the silence, raw and filled with anguish. Alicent stared, her face drained of colour, her hands flying to her mouth. The Kingsguard moved, but too late¡ªthe deed was done.

    Aemond stood over Harwin¡¯s crumpled form, his expression impassive. Staring at the corpse at his feet, he flicked his blade clean before sheathing it back by his waist. Suppressing a sigh, he turned then, his gaze sweeping over the shocked faces before resting on Viserys.

    "The Gods have spoken," Aemond said, his voice clear, the words echoing in the stunned hall. "The debt has been paid. Now, if you will forgive me, Father, I must retire to my room to recover."

    With that, he turned and left, abandoning Viserys to mismanage the fallout as he hoped he would.

    <hr>

    In the days following Ser Harwin Strong¡¯s death, the court seemed to hang in a state of uneasy silence, like a great beast holding its breath. Word spread quickly of the prince¡¯s cold, ruthless strike, and whispers of his vengeful will filled every corner of the realm. For some, his victory had been an omen; for others, a warning.

    Rhaenyra did not linger. Disgusted by her father¡¯s reluctance to avenge her sworn knight, she departed Driftmark with her sons and sailed for Dragonstone, leaving the greens to their schemes and her father to his increasingly feeble rule. Soon after, Lord Lyonel Strong resigned his post as Hand of the King, unable¡ªor unwilling¡ªto serve in a court that harboured the kind of carelessness that had slain his son. With a heavy heart, he returned to Harrenhal, leaving the king¡¯s side and the burden of rule.

    Daemon Targaryen, too, vanished from Westeros¡¯s shores, retreating to Pentos with his daughters, Baela and Rhaena. Yet blood calls to blood. It was not long before Rhaenyra sent for him, and within months, Daemon and his girls settled on Dragonstone, a watchful presence at the princess¡¯s side. With the three dragon riders united on the ancient Targaryen seat, a sense of gathering storm settled over the realm.

    In King¡¯s Landing, however, the tides shifted to favour the greens. With Lyonel Strong gone, Otto Hightower was once again summoned to serve as Hand. The old fox returned with renewed vigour, ever-ready to bolster his family¡¯s influence over a king who now seemed more spectre than sovereign. Viserys, wracked with illness, withdrew from council meetings, leaving governance to those who circled him like vultures.

    Young Aemond Targaryen, now fifteen, seized his opportunities. He assumed the position of Master of Coin, displacing the ancient Lord Beesbury after demonstrating a deft grasp of numbers that far outstripped that of any Maester. His ambition drove him to found the ¡°Dragon¡¯s Bank¡± the following year, a challenge to the Iron Bank¡¯s shadow over Westeros. The enterprise was a success, filling the royal¡¯s coffers and granting Aemond resources to reshape King¡¯s Landing as he saw fit.

    Named Lord Commander of the City Watch, the prince set his sights on reform. With funds from his bank, he raised the numbers of the City Watch tenfold, bringing order to the capital on a scale unseen before. Side by side with Jasper Wylde, who saw in Aemond¡¯s ambitions a mirror of his own, he overhauled the city¡¯s laws, bending them to his will. Together, they carved a new bureaucracy, granting themselves an iron grip on the capital.

    That year brought other dark tidings. Laenor Velaryon, the prince consort, fell to his death from a balcony under circumstances as murky as the sea at night. Within the month, his estranged widow, Rhaenyra, wed her uncle Daemon on Dragonstone, her mourning cloak barely cast aside. Some whispered of dark deeds behind the prince consort¡¯s fall; others called it fate, a stroke of the gods. But to all who bore witness, it was yet another sign¡ªthe cracks within House Targaryen had widened, and the dragon¡¯s blood grew ever more volatile.

    And so, the realm edged closer to the precipice, while King Viserys sat unmoving, a fading shadow upon the Iron Throne, and Aemond¡¯s star rose steadily in King¡¯s Landing¡ªa young prince, sharp as a knife, and with ambitions as vast as the sea.

 Chapter Four

    "They are my priesthood, my warriors, my trusted guardians. They will die for me because they believe in me."

    ¨DLeto II on the matter of the "Fish Speakers"

    ¡­

    Ten years later.

    The room was cold, the kind of cold that settled in the stones and stayed there. It was small, walls narrow and dark, the flickering light of a torch doing little to drive away the gloom. The table between them was scarred, the wood old and heavy. Two stools, the kind that creaked if you shifted your weight too much, were placed opposite each other.

    The woman on the stool looked tired. There was dirt on her cloak, the hem wet from the slush outside, and her hair was covered by a coarse woollen hood. Her face was plain, pale from long nights without sleep, and her eyes had the sunken look of someone who had not rested in weeks. She looked like any commoner returned from the outskirts to trade¡ªwhich was exactly the point. No name, no insignia. Just another face in the crowd.

    The man before her was different. He wore robes of black, clean and pressed, with no ornament to betray who he might be, but his eyes set him apart. They were sharp, unnaturally so, the kind that might see through to a person¡¯s bones. His fingers tapped on a small iron box before him, each click deliberate, measured. He looked at her like a ledger, a balance sheet that needed to come out even.

    ¡°State your designation,¡± he ordered, voice even, as though he had asked the same question a hundred times before.

    ¡°Agent Dr5-e4,¡± the woman said, ¡°by order of Prince Aemond.¡±

    The man¡ªa Processor as some called them¡ªgave a curt nod, his fingers shifting the dials of his iron box. The clicking grew louder, a mechanical rhythm that echoed in the narrow room. He spoke again, his tone betraying nothing.

    ¡°Let¡¯s begin,¡± he said. ¡°Ready?¡±

    The woman nodded. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°Recite your baseline.¡±

    Dr5 complied, speaking,

    Dr5 complied, speaking, ¡°In ash, in blood, bound by fire, through strength, through sacrifice, through loyalty above all, I am iron in service, unwavering and unyielding; I am blood, loyal without question. The fire demands, and I answer; the blood calls, and I rise. Alone.¡±

    The man stared in silence for a moment, then spoke.

    "Fire. The fire burns, bright and unyielding.¡±

    ¡°Fire."

    "Do you feel the heat on your skin? Fire.¡±

    ¡°Fire."

    "Alone. The dragon¡¯s roar shakes the earth. You are alone before it. What do you feel?¡±

    ¡°Alone."

    "Do you trust in its fire? Alone.¡±

    ¡°Alone."

    "Do you seek its fire? Alone.¡±

    ¡±Alone."

    "Fire. They say fire reveals truth. Is that why you serve?¡±

    ¡±Fire."

    "Would you walk through it for the crown? Fire.¡±

    ¡±Fire."

    "Blood. They say blood answers only to blood. Is that why you serve?¡±

    ¡±Blood."

    "Do you feel kinship in the Blood?¡±

    ¡±Blood."

    "Would you spill it for the crown? Blood.¡±

    ¡°Blood."

    "Fire. Does it bring fear?¡±

    ¡±Fire."

    "Or strength?¡±

    ¡°Strength."

    "The fire demands it.¡±

    ¡°Demands it."

    "Loyalty without question.¡±

    ¡°Without question."

    ¡°Loyalty. Do you feel loyalty to the throne?¡±

    ¡°Loyalty."

    "Even when it stands alone? Loyalty."

    ¡°Loyalty."

    "Even when others fall? Loyalty."

    ¡°Loyalty."

    "Would you give everything to it? Loyalty.¡±

    ¡±Loyalty."

    "Your heart, your soul, your loyalty.¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡±Loyalty."

    "The throne has no rival.¡±

    ¡±No rival. Loyalty."

    "If one rose against it, would you strike them down?¡±

    ¡±Strike them down. Loyalty."

    "Even if they wore your blood?¡±

    ¡±Loyalty."

    "Say it: Fire and blood.¡±

    ¡±Fire and blood."

    "Do you mean it, fire and blood?¡±

    ¡±Fire and blood."

    "Would you betray it, fire and blood?¡±

    ¡±Fire and blood."

    "Would you live for it, fire and blood?

    ¡±Fire and blood."

    "Would you die for it, fire and blood?"

    ¡±Fire and blood."

    "Are you ash, bound to fire?¡°

    ¡±Bound to fire."

    "Are you blood, bound to blood?¡±

    ¡±Bound to blood."

    "Only fire. Only blood.¡±

    ¡±Only loyalty."

    The rapid-fire exchange was followed by a silence, thick and heavy, as the Processor watched her, his eyes flicking across her face, searching. The box clicked, slower now, almost hesitant. He frowned¡ªa flicker of movement, there and gone. His eyes narrowed as he twisted another knob, the gears spinning, clicking, then halting abruptly.

    ¡°Baseline maintained,¡± the man said in the end. ¡°You may proceed.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± Dr5 replied, her eyes still fixed on some unseen point. She rose from the stool, careful not to let the wood creak, her cloak shifting to hide her face once more. The Processor watched her without a word, already turning his attention to the iron box, adjusting the settings for whoever might be next.

    ¡°Report to Officer Varian,¡± he said without looking up. ¡°Do not deviate.¡±

    The agent said nothing, merely bowed her head slightly and left the room, the heavy door closing behind her with a muted thud. Dr5 paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit hallway. The air was cooler here and it carried a faint, mingling scent of lavender oil and something metallic, almost acrid. She gathered her cloak around her and advanced with a soft whisper of fabric. The narrow corridor led her, past three pairs of guards, a clerk and another pair of guards before reaching a stairwell that spiralled upwards, torchlight flickering against the damp, ancient stones.

    As she emerged at the top, Dr5 found herself behind a crimson velvet curtain. She listened before parting it¡ªlaughter, moans, muted conversations, a lute playing somewhere distant¡ªand then stepped out into the opulence of the brothel¡¯s inner rooms, a sharp contrast to the chambers below.

    Varian, the thick-set man donning the cloak of the City Watch, stood at attention in a shadowed corner of the corridor beyond. His breastplate gleamed dully, the black and red of his tunic visible beneath it all. His eyes caught hers as she approached. A man of few words, his mouth, as always, was set in a line that seldom moved except to bark orders or answer commands. He inclined his head when she stopped before him.

    ¡°I have been instructed to report to you,¡± Dr5 said, her voice barely above a whisper.

    He nodded, no surprise on his face. He turned and gestured for her to follow. Together, they made their way down the hallway, bypassing a richly-carved door from behind which came the languid sound of a woman laughing, then another, slightly ajar, that showed a room draped in velvet, where a merchant sat with his arm around a bare-shouldered companion.

    Varian led her through a maze of passageways at the end of the hallway and through a narrow side door into the night air. The alley outside was dark, the cramped space between the brothel and the neighbouring building just wide enough for two to walk abreast. She followed him without a word, her steps careful on the uneven cobbles, feeling the city¡¯s pulse shift as they left the brothel¡¯s shadow behind and emerged into the open square.

    The market was winding down, stalls being covered with tarps, merchants exchanging a few last coins. The smell of roasted meat lingered from a vendor who was banking his coals for the night, while the cries of beggars mingled with the chatter of the Watch patrolling in pairs. Varian strode ahead, purposeful, cutting a path through the knots of people without so much as a backward glance. Dr5 moved in his wake, her cloak blending easily in the swirl of faded fabrics and city grime.

    The Merchant Guild building loomed ahead, an ostentatious structure of polished stone, adorned with gilded sconces and large windows that reflected the torchlight from the street. The banner above the entrance bore the crest of the Guild¡ªtwo golden scales on a dark green field¡ªsignifying balance and prosperity, or so they liked to claim. The structure itself was a testament to the power of King¡¯s Landing¡¯s emerging bourgeoisie, those whose coin carried half the influence of a lord¡¯s birthright. Here, the rules of blood were challenged by wealth, power shifting not through steel or ancient name, but through silver and opportunity.

    Two guards flanked the wide double doors, their armour glinting, and they nodded as Varian approached. One of them pushed the door open, and Varian led Dr5 inside. The interior of the Guild building was filled with noise and motion, a stark contrast to the brothel¡¯s dim intimacy. Merchants, from as far south as Dorne and as far east as the Free Cities, dressed in fine cloth, their bellies straining against their doublets, spoke in heated tones about tariffs and debts. Servants darted about, carrying scrolls and trays, their heads bowed to avoid the gaze of their betters. City Watchmen stood at strategic points, their eyes scanning the crowd, ensuring that no beggar or thief dared cross the threshold.

    Varian moved steadily, and Dr5 kept pace, her hood low, her gaze sliding over the faces without catching any one eye. Past the crowded foyer, they went through a side door and up another flight of stairs, quieter here, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick, intricately woven rugs beneath them. They passed several checkpoints¡ªeach one manned by members of the Watch, each nodding in recognition of Varian. Dr5 followed wordlessly, her face shadowed, his presence enough to deter questions.

    Finally, they reached a hallway deep in the building, lined with painted portraits of the current Guildmasters¡ªmen who had made fortunes from shipping routes, grain stores, and brothels like the one they had just left. Varian stopped before a closed door, knocked twice, then gestured for Dr5-e4 to enter as it swung open.

    ¡°Wait here,¡± Varian said, his voice low. She nodded, and he turned, his heavy boots echoing softly as he retreated the way they had come.

    The room she entered was small, a waiting room, though well-appointed. The walls were covered with deep green fabric, and a tapestry hung to the right, depicting a scene from the Rhoynar Wars. A table with a silver ewer of water and a matching goblet stood near a cushioned bench. Dr5 did not sit, instead remaining near the door, her gaze steady, watching, waiting.

    After a few minutes, the door opened once more, and a young man, his tunic bearing the insignia of the Guild, entered. He gave her a curt nod.

    ¡°Lady Mysaria will see you now,¡± he said.

    Dr5 inclined her head, following him from the waiting room through another door, down a short, dim hallway, and into a wider chamber. The room was lit by several lanterns, their light casting an orange glow across a desk strewn with parchment. The Lady stood with her back to the door, her pale hair falling down her back in soft waves, her gaze fixed on a map pinned against the far wall.

    ¡°Come,¡± Mysaria said without turning. Her voice was soft, accented, but carried an authority that made the young aide step back, his head bowing as he departed.

    Dr5 moved closer, the hem of her cloak brushing the marble floor, her eyes fixed on the infamous White Worm. Mysaria turned, her eyes dark, assessing as they settled on Dr5. She was dressed simply, but there was no mistaking the power she held, her presence commanding despite her slender frame.

    ¡°The task assigned to you?¡± the lady asked. ¡°Speak of it.¡±

    ¡°I cannot speak my duties with you, my Lady. The prince impressed upon me that my task can only be disclosed on a need-to-know basis. I do not believe you need to know.¡±

    Mysaria watched her, her expression giving nothing away. She moved to the desk, her fingers brushing across the scattered parchment before picking up a quill. She dipped it in ink, her eyes flicking back to Dr5.

    ¡°You were deployed to Honeyholt, correct? Lord Beesbury¡¯s keep? I find it curious that the old man''s health took a sudden decline soon after your arrival. You wouldn¡¯t happen to know anything about that, would you?¡±

    Dr5¡¯s face remained impassive, giving her no reply.

    The faintest smile played on Mysaria''s lips as she looked up again, her gaze assessing. "Either way, it seems his Highness is pleased with your work. You''ve been briefed on the purpose of this summons, I assume?"

    "I have."

    "Good," Mysaria nodded, her tone final. "My aide will see to your lodging, provisions, and fresh garments. You are to present yourself to the prince at first light."

    ¡°Understood, my Lady.¡±

 Chapter Five

    "Good governance never depends upon laws but upon the personal qualities of those who govern. The machinery of government is always subordinate to the will of those who administer that machinery. The most important element of government, therefore, is the method of choosing leaders."

    ¨DReverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam

    ¡­?

    The next day.

    The Dornishmen bowed low as they made their farewells, their robes shifting like the sands of their homeland. Aemond inclined his head with a slow, measured grace, his lone eye watching their movements with a cool intensity, as though he could sift hidden meaning from the flick of their sleeves and the glances they cast one another. They were sleek men, sun-worn and dry as the bones of some desert beast, with voices that flowed like wine and eyes that gave away nothing. Their prince had sent them here to barter for little more than gold and iron. Trifles. Alas, despite their great renown, the Dornish seemed to have appetites that ran shallower than most thought.

    "Prince Qoren will find the terms...satisfactory," the eldest, a sinewy man named Toland, said, lifting his head. "Assurances of steady shipments, from your ports to ours, under Crown protection¡ªDorne would not soon forget such generosity."

    "Our ''generosity,''" Aemond replied smoothly, "hinges on mutual benefit, Lord Toland. The goods we discussed will flow freely, but the sands of Dorne are less forgiving to our own merchants without the same accord. I trust Prince Qoren is willing to extend his protections to ships bearing the crown''s banner?"

    "Aye, Prince Aemond. You have his word on it." Toland''s thin lips curved in a smile, the expression as dry as Dornish winds. "As well as his assurance that should this arrangement blossom...perhaps we might consider deepening relations."

    When their pleasantries concluded and the emissaries having offered their parting words¡ªcourtesies thick as honey¡ªthey departed, leaving a trail of musk and spiced leather in their wake, Aemond allowed himself a slow exhale. Dorne was no simple conquest and the prince knew there was little hope in subduing them via trade as of yet, but that was never the goal. So long as they content themselves with the baubles he spared them and did not intervene in the crown''s matters of succession, he would be content. For now.

    The sound of approaching footsteps softened his musings, and there she was, arms crossed, regarding him with that firm gaze only Alicent and Heleana dared show him.

    "Ellyn," he greeted her, the slightest hint of warmth in his voice. "Come to remind me I''ve duties beyond coddling merchants, have you?"

    "Someone must, or you''ll sit in this room until the Dornish come calling again," she replied with a small smile, one that tugged at the corners of her mouth as if restraining laughter.

    Aemond chuckled, a rare sound for those who knew him. "The small council waits, then?"

    "They do, my prince. You''ll have Tyland wringing his hands if you''re much longer."

    "Let Tyland fret," Aemond replied, though he strode from his study, Ellyn wearing an amused smile as she shut the door behind him. "He''d wring himself dry even with no reason at all."

    <hr>

    The chamber was already alive with murmurs as Aemond strode through its high doors. As the sharp echo of his boots reached the table, Queen Alicent''s face softened into a small smile. She inclined her head, and Aemond returned the gesture, noting with quiet amusement the quick, approving glance Otto cast him.

    "A touch late, are we?" Tyland remarked. "I can''t say I''m shocked."

    Aemond took his seat, eyeing the Lannister''s grudging frown. "Apologies, Ser Tyland," he said, in faux remorse, "I''m afraid I got lost on the path of life again. Surely, you must understand."

    The room filled with mild chuckles, Ser Harrold Westerling, the Kingsguard''s aged commander, the quietest but the most watchful. Otto Hightower leaned forward, shaking his head in mock resignation. "The realm is run by men who jest at coin and minutes," he muttered, though a ghost of a smile softened his words. The council eased, and even Larys raised a small, amused brow.

    As the laughter settled, the old shrew wasted no time, launching into the first order of business: the tariff on goods from the Free Cities. It was a matter the council had weighed heavily in past meetings, but Otto''s resolve had only strengthened with time.

    "We stand to gain more through partnership than through levies," he asserted. "If our coffers lose in the short term, the gains will return tenfold in time. We need only recall the profitable relations forged through Prince Aemond''s recent work with the the lords of the Westerlands."

    Aemond inclined his head in agreement, his hands resting easily on the table. "A reduction in tariffs will foster good faith," he added smoothly. "Let them pay less, and they will buy more. With the Iron Bank''s mood souring, and their refusal to reconcile, it is prudent to court new allies wherever we might."

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    A rustle of discomfort swept through the room at the mention of the Iron Bank. The Dragon''s Bank was Aemond''s brainchild, yet its existence was proving to be a challenge not only to Braavos but to any house beholden to foreign lenders. Aemond, however, was unperturbed. The Iron Bank was a great wall¡ªsturdy, yes, but even the greatest of walls could be tunnelled under, climbed over, or worn down to dust.

    "What Prince Aemond says is true," Ser Tyland added. "Court new patrons, forge new bonds, and we may yet secure more than coin. Trade with more of our allies is a strong first step. With time, even Braavos may realize their money speaks better than their ire."

    The council, all at once, murmured assent¡ªthere would be no objection, at least not today. The agreement over the tariffs flowed naturally into a review of the latest reports from the Stepstones. "And now," Queen Alicent announced, "we come to the matter of Lord Corlys''s campaign against the Triarchy. Reports say his progress has been...remarkable."

    "Aye," Otto agreed, his gaze flicking across the assembled faces. "Our support has been well-placed. An iron grasp on the Stepstones is within our reach. A foothold there could secure trade routes long troubled by the Three Whores. I propose we fortify the isles permanently¡ªa stronghold to ensure the Sea Snake''s work endures."

    The queen nodded approvingly, and Tyland''s expression brightened. "It would be a worthy addition to the realm. If there are no objections?" he queried, looking round the table.

    None came, only quiet nods and murmurs of assent.

    Seeing no opposition, Aemond took the opportunity to introduce his next point. "If we''re of one mind on this," he said, "then I propose we consider the broader impact on the realm''s infrastructure. The responsibilities of my office have grown too broad. I propose a new seat on this council¡ªa Master of Works. A position dedicated to managing and directing infrastructure¡ªnew holdfasts, new roads, sewers, the fortifications in the Stepstones, and the other growing needs of King''s Landing."

    At first, silence. Then a flicker of surprise passed over Alicent''s face, and Wylde cleared his throat in visible confusion.

    "Master of Works?" he echoed. "Has this been discussed before?"

    "It has," Aemond replied with a measured nod, "between myself and Tyland."

    Tyland gave a deferential incline of his head, but Aemond noticed the tension ripple through the council as their understanding deepened. They were accustomed to collaboration, yes, but such coordination, made out of earshot, felt like something else entirely.

    Orwyle shifted in his seat, folding his hands. "Wouldn''t that be an... unusual position? A title so close to the Master of Coin''s could... unsettle the balance of this council."

    Wylde''s brow furrowed. "And if we grant Tyland this new seat, what of the Master of Ships? Will we split these seats like logs in a hearth?"

    Tyland met Wylde''s gaze with the grace of a man already holding the position. "With the council''s blessing, I would happily assume the duties of Master of Works, and I believe Vaemond Velaryon is more suited to take on the role of Master of Ships. His loyalty and skill are proven."

    It was then, Aemond sensed, that they understood the scope of the proposal. The suspicion in Larys''s eyes, the slight crease of Alicent''s brow, and the glint of dawning realization in Otto''s gaze all told him they had seen the plan laid bare. Yet, despite the tension, Aemond was unbothered.

    After a long pause, Otto broke the silence. "I see wisdom in this proposal," he said slowly. "Our city is growing, and our realm demands attention to its every stone and shingle. And Vaemond Velaryon has indeed proven himself worthy enough."

    The rest of the council exchanged glances, uncertain. Wylde''s lips pressed into a thin line, while Orwyle tapped his knuckles on the table, his eyes clouded in thought.

    Finally, Alicent gave a slow, measured nod. "Perhaps it is time we looked beyond tradition. The realm has grown, as has the weight of each seat''s responsibility."

    Tyland seized the momentum. "Then let us settle the matter. Vaemond shall assume Master of Ships, and I, with the council''s approval, shall take on the responsibilities of Master of Works."

    One by one, they relented, a quiet capitulation, one tinged with murmurs of reluctant agreement.

    Finally, Aemond rose, clearing his throat as he addressed the assembled council. "There is one last matter. In the coming weeks, I shall be away. I will leave my duties in the capable hands of my aides. Should you need anything, please feel free to seek them."

    Alicent''s brows knitted in mild concern. "Where will you be going, Aemond?"

    "To the Vale," he replied, his tone carefully neutral. "I would pay a visit to Lady Jeyne Arryn."

    A silence settled over the room. He sensed their surprise but offered no explanation, only a slight incline of his head before he turned to leave. Let them wonder, he thought. A prince''s business was seldom anyone''s but his own.

 Chapter Six

    "We do not believe in coincidence. We are the hands of the universe, shaping destiny."

    ¨DReverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam

    ¡­?

    The stone corridor outside the council chamber felt colder than any sea breeze. Malentine Velaryon shifted his weight as he waited, glancing from time to time at the towering doors. He was a man grown, well into his thirties, but standing here¡ªawaiting Prince Aemond Targaryen''s audience¡ªleft him feeling a strange discomfort, as if he were a green boy still clinging to his sword hilt during his first battle.

    Truly, Aemond unnerved him, though Malentine would never dare show it. For all his strength and experience as a Velaryon knight, there was something about the prince that went beyond the natural order. Some whispered that he was more Valyrian than the others, that he carried a touch of the Old Blood not seen since the time of Old Valyria. Malentine was no believer in children''s tales, but even he, dense as his brothers claim he was, knew something was odd about that one.

    When Aemond finally emerged, the subtle curl of satisfaction on his lips lent Malentine a hint of relief. The prince''s good mood was never to be assumed, and he inclined his head in deference as the young dragon drew near.

    "Prince Aemond," Maletine greeted, his voice steady, if overly respectful. "I trust the council session was to your satisfaction?"

    Aemond raised a brow, a spark of amusement in his gaze. "You''ve a good instinct, Ser Malentine. Come with me. There''s much to discuss, and not all ears are meant to hear."

    They moved down the narrow hallways until they came to a less obvious path: an alcove set in a dim recess of the wall. Aemond swept his hand along a rough-hewn stone, and a section of the wall shifted, revealing a small, unmarked door. Without hesitation, Aemond led the way inside, with Malentine trailing. The passages twisted and turned, winding deep into the Red Keep, eventually spilling into a chamber lit only by a single torch and a brazier in the centre.

    A woman stood there in silence. She was cloaked and still as a statue, her gaze lowering only briefly as they entered. Aemond offered no introduction, and Malentine took the hint, keeping his eyes ahead.

    Once they were seated, the prince eased into the stone chair by the brazier''s light and turned his gaze upon Malentine. "So, Ser Malentine," he began, his tone smooth, almost conversational. "How has King''s Landing treated you?"

    The question was unexpected, and Malentine felt his tongue stumble for a moment. He steadied himself and gave a small, dutiful nod. "It''s been... lively, Your Grace. I''ve found the city full of variety, even for one accustomed to Driftmark. The markets teem with strange wares, and the people... well, they''ve grown to have a certain charm."

    Aemond chuckled quietly, folding his hands in his lap. "Indeed. A man who finds charm in that pit might even find it in the Stepstones, though I suspect they offer less to smile upon." He leaned forward, eyes flickering with some distant, private amusement. "And your cousin Vaemond, how fares he?"

    "Quite well, Prince Aemond. He''s ever eager, as you know. The men have rallied behind him, and he speaks often of your strength and vision."

    Aemond''s smile didn''t waver. "Let him praise as he pleases, so long as his ambitions do not tempt him to overstep." He paused, his gaze meeting Malentine''s with a look that froze the words on the knight''s tongue. "I say this to remind him of his place, Ser Malentine. He is not to petition the crown in my absence. I''ll see to it that a true-born Velaryon sits that seat he longs so desperately for¡ªno one needs overplay their hand."

    Malentine''s mouth was dry, but he nodded, accepting the command without question. "Of course, Your Grace. I''ll ensure he understands."

    Aemond inclined his head, and the tension in the air lightened, as if a taut rope had been carefully eased. "Good," he said, satisfaction flickering across his features. "Now, tell me of the preparations on Driftmark. The fleets¡ªare they ready?"

    Malentine found himself settling more comfortably on his feet, eager to please. "The fleets are mustered, and every seaworthy vessel has been counted. Driftmark stands ready to begin your instructions. I''ve also ensured the shipwrights will increase their output in the months to come."

    The prince gave a nod of approval, his eyes glinting like tempered steel. "Once the harbour on the Stepstones is completed, I want the majority of your vessels relocated there for the meantime. This campaign will be secure only if our reach extends to those islands."

    "Understood," Malentine answered, then paused for a moment before speaking again. "...But what of Lord Corlys?" he asked.

    "What of him?"

    "With his campaign coming to an end and his return imminent, I fear we may not have the same latitude to act as freely as we once did. Shouldn''t that be of some concern?"

    Aemond, however, didn''t seem overly perturbed by Malentine''s fears, waving them away as one does smoke. Then, almost as an afterthought, the prince gestured to the woman in the chamber with them. She had remained silent all the while, standing in the shadows without so much as a murmur. Her hood masked her face, and even the brazier''s glow couldn''t pierce the shroud she wore.

    "This," Aemond said simply, "is one of my Speakers. She will accompany you back to Driftmark to ensure all goes as planned."

    Malentine''s brows raised, but he caught himself before any expression showed. He cleared his throat and gave the woman a respectful nod, though she didn''t so much as look in his direction.

    "A Speaker?" he ventured cautiously.

    "She is one of many," Aemond said, his voice calm. "Her task is simple: to serve. She will serve as a chamberlain to Lord Corlys when he returns, and until then, she''ll serve as any other maid in your house. You are not to hinder her tasks nor draw attention to her presence. She answers to me alone."

    There was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the brazier''s dying warmth.

    "As you wish, Your Grace. I''ll see that she is settled quietly."

    The prince looked at him, a searching look in his gaze before it made way for a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good man, Malentine." He rose to his feet, his casual stance a marked contrast to the hard edges of his words. With a dismissive nod, he turned toward the door.

    "Farewell, then, and godspeed," he said, his tone light once more, almost as if they had discussed nothing more than the weather.

    Malentine inclined his head deeply, watching as the prince left, his steps echoing down the hidden corridor. He turned, meeting the woman''s gaze for the first time. Her eyes were impassive, dark and unreadable, offering nothing in return. Without a word, she moved toward the door, slipping through the shadows as if they belonged to her.

    Malentine followed a pace behind. Though his steps were sure, the unease lingered.

    <hr>

    Aegon''s head throbbed with a dull, relentless pulse, the kind that felt as if it might split his skull apart if he dared open his eyes fully. The air in the room was stale, filled with the unmistakable stench of spilled wine, smoke, and sweat. Every part of him ached, from his head down to his limbs, as if he''d been dragged through mud and beaten for good measure. When he finally forced his eyes open, he found himself in a dim, unfamiliar room, its wooden beams swaying faintly in his blurred vision.

    There was a servant girl kneeling in the corner, scrubbing furiously at the floor, her shoulders hunched over what looked to be a fresh stain of bile. His bile, he realized with grim distaste. He tried to call out, his voice coming out hoarse and rough, but the girl only stiffened at the sound, avoiding his gaze as she hastily finished her task. With her bucket and rag in hand, she darted out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

    He sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he took in his surroundings. Where was he? Aegon tried to recall the night before, piecing together scattered memories: a rowdy tavern, the warm embrace of a woman he couldn''t quite place, the blurry sight of cups filling and emptying at his lips. It all drifted away in a haze, and he cursed under his breath.

    Some minutes passed, each one filled with nothing but the muffled hum of his headache and the sour tang on his tongue. He was still trying to gather his wits when the door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped in¡ªa pale woman with a cool, appraising look and a sneer tugging at her thin lips.

    Mysaria.

    Aegon''s stomach twisted with distaste, his already foul mood darkening. Of all the people to stumble upon him in his current state, it had to be her¡ªthe worst of his brother''s lickspittles.

    She took in the room with a quick sweep of her gaze, her lip curling as she noticed the disarray, the overturned goblet and the wrinkled sheets. "Quite the mess," she remarked coolly, crossing her arms. "Again, it seems Prince Aemond''s concern would go wasted."

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    Aegon scoffed, rubbing at his throbbing temples. "I didn''t ask for his bloody concern," he muttered. "I can look after myself, worm."

    She laughed, a short, mirthless sound. "Can you, now?" She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the stains on his tunic, the grime on his hands. "The state of you would suggest otherwise."

    Aegon clenched his jaw, feeling a familiar surge of anger. He forced himself to hold her gaze, unwilling to let her see the sting her words held. "And where then is the boor, hmm? Has he grown tired already of rubbing his many virtues in my face and gone flaunting them elsewhere?"

    Mysaria''s sneer deepened. "Prince Aemond has more pressing matters than babysitting a man-child, I assure you." She adjusted the thin shawl draped over her shoulders, the pale fabric catching the dim light as she continued, her tone laden with disdain. "It takes considerable effort to even ensure you are looked after, prince. Yet, It seems you strive to make even that more of a challenge."

    He didn''t like the way she said it, the way her gaze grew colder, more distant. Her words struck him with a sharper edge than he''d expected. His brother had truly sent her, hadn''t he? To chastise him, to ensure he didn''t do anything to embarrass House Targaryen more than he already had. The weight of Aemond''s reputation, his successes, hung over him like a heavy chain, one he could never seem to shake.

    "Go on, then," he muttered, his voice bitter. "Tell my brother I''m fine. Perfectly fine, as always."

    Mysaria''s face was unreadable, her voice softer but somehow sharper. "Aemond didn''t send me to coddle you, nor to waste more time than necessary. You''ll clean yourself and vacate this room by the hour''s end, so it might be scrubbed properly. I''ll not be leaving one of my girls to be forced to deal with the likes of you again."

    With a final glare, she turned on her heel, leaving him alone in the dim light of the room, her steps echoing down the hall until they faded into silence.

    "...Fucking whore," the prince said many moments later.

    <hr>

    The forest was hushed as if holding its breath, every rustling leaf and distant bird call softened by the deepening twilight. Queen Alicent moved cautiously along the narrow trail, Ser Criston beside her, the evening''s chill creeping into her bones. Her steps were measured, the hem of her green gown trailing through the dirt. In the silence of the trees, King''s Landing felt far behind, its noise and stone walls replaced by the soft, earthy scent of damp leaves and the dim glow of evening. Her gaze fell ahead, drawn to the looming shape of Vhagar, outlined against the twilight like some ancient hill, her scales a dark, sullen grey under the dying light.

    As they drew closer, Alicent''s steps slowed. Even at a distance, the dragon''s sheer size was enough to send an instinctive chill through her. Vhagar''s head rested on the ground, her eyes narrowed to mere slits, though a faint tendril of steam drifted from her nostrils. She was old, with eyes that seemed more wise than beast.

    Alicent stopped a safe distance away, her fingers tightening around her shawl as she spotted Aemond near the dragon''s side, his tall, lean figure half-hidden by the bulk of the great beast''s flank.

    "Aemond," she called, careful not to raise it too loudly. The prince looked up, seemingly unsurprised to see her so far out of the city. His single blue eye caught hers in the gloom.

    "Mother," he replied, his tone mild as he resumed his task, tugging the final strap on Vhagar''s saddle into place. "I did not expect you to come all this way." A lie. Sometimes, she could tell when he told those. Most times though, she could not.

    She hesitated, unwilling to draw nearer, her gaze shifting uneasily between her son and the monstrous creature he called his. "A son should not depart without his mother''s blessing," she managed in the end, her voice wavering slightly.

    Aemond paused, his hands lingering on the leather straps as if weighing her words. "I ride North, as I told the council," he said, his tone light, almost teasing as he secured a pack to the netting that draped over Vhagar''s scales. "The Vale is not so distant. I''ll be back soon enough."

    She drew her shawl closer, taking a careful step forward. "The Vale¡­" she repeated, her tone probing. "It seems an unusual choice for a journey."

    Aemond''s gaze met hers, unwavering but unreadable, his face set in a calm mask. "The Vale has its charms," he replied evasively, turning back to his preparations. "High mountains, strong people, and, of course, beautiful sights."

    Alicent raised an eyebrow, unamused by his deflection. "You are not one to chase idle charms, Aemond. Tell me plainly¡ªwhat is it that draws you to the Eyrie?"

    A faint smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained focused on the task before him. "Mother, you are relentless," he said with quiet amusement. "If I am so forced to confess¡­ I go with the hope of finding myself a wife."

    The words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she thought he was jesting. "Marriage?" she echoed, disbelief turning to sharp concern. She felt her heart quicken, struggling to process the revelation. There was a hint of irritation in her voice now, her green eyes narrowing as she took a step closer, forgetting her fear of the dragon for a brief moment. "You speak of such things so easily, as if it were merely a passing matter. And yet you planned this without a word to me?"

    Aemond''s gaze softened, and he turned towards her, lowering his voice. "I would not make such a decision lightly," he assured her, his tone gentler now. "And I have not. But the matter of securing our family''s strength grows more pressing by the day. I would see the bonds of House Targaryen strengthened¡ªnot just in King''s Landing, but with allies who can be trusted."

    She shook her head, her voice tight with anxiety. "Allies, yes. But the Vale?" Her hands gripped her shawl tighter. "I had not thought you would go so far, not for marriage."

    Aemond inclined his head, acknowledging her distress. "And yet, I would not act without careful thought." He cast a glance up at Vhagar, his hand absently brushing her massive scales. "It may seem hasty, but there is wisdom in diversifying our alliances. And Lady Jeyne is a formidable ruler; she governs her lands well, and any match secured with her house would benefit us greatly." Aemond looked at her fully then, his expression turning bemused. "Besides, I am a man grown, Mother. Surely you do not think I require your leave for every decision."

    Alicent''s breath escaped in a sigh, a reluctant acceptance softening the hard line of her mouth. "You are certain of this path, then?"

    The young prince smiled. "I walk no path but my own, Mother."

    Alicent studied him, and for a moment, the memories of his childhood rose unbidden, memories of a boy who had once clung to her skirts, eager for her approval, her guidance. Now, he stood before her, poised, self-assured, a man who held his own course with quiet resolve. He would go forward, with or without her approval, and the realization struck her with a pang of both pride and sorrow.

    "Very well," she said softly, after a long pause. "But remember, Aemond¡­ even the strongest bonds can falter. I would also have you remember your brother Aegon." She took a breath, feeling the weight of her own misgivings. "There is a distance between you, and I fear it grows wider by the day. Brothers ought not to grow so apart."

    Aemond''s expression softened, a flicker of something more vulnerable showing in the set of his jaw. "I know," he replied, a rare note of hesitance in his voice. "But Aegon¡­ he has little care for responsibility, for duty. It is a difficult thing, to find common ground."

    "That may be," Alicent said, glancing away as if to shield her own worry. "But he is your brother, Aemond, and one day he may yet need your guidance, more than you think." Her voice lowered, weighted with a mother''s burden. "I should have done more to ensure you two were closer. Perhaps I gave you too much freedom in your education, in your allotment of your time, too young, and kept him too sheltered. I regret that now."

    For a moment, the silence between them deepened, broken only by the soft crackle of the wind rustling through the trees. Aemond shifted, nodding thoughtfully, as if weighing her words. "If that is what you ask of me," he said at last, "then I shall try."

    It was a small promise, but it was something, and Alicent''s heart eased a fraction. She offered him a faint, weary smile, letting her gaze linger on him for a moment longer.

    With a final nod, Aemond turned to mount Vhagar, his movements sure as he scaled the dragon''s massive flank and settled into the saddle. The great beast stirred, her wings unfurling with a heavy rustle, and Alicent took a step back, her heart pounding as the dragon''s immense power became impossible to ignore. Aemond looked down at her, a smile on his face before his gaze flickered to the knight standing a step behind.

    "Ser Criston."

    "Yes, my Prince?"

    "Look after my mother for me, would you."

    "Of course, my Prince."

 Chapter Seven

    "I will allow you to discover your own destiny, but only if you follow the paths I have set."

    ¡ª God Emperor Leto II

    ¡­?

    The morning was bright and cool as Daeron Targaryen tugged the saddle''s leather straps taut around Lord Ormund Hightower''s prized destrier, murmuring softly to keep the animal calm. The bay gelding snorted, shifting slightly on its hooves as he worked, but Daeron''s hands were practised, his motions sure. He could smell the mix of hay and leather, tinged with the petrichor of the nearby Honeywine. In the distance, the faint murmur of early morning activity in Oldtown reached his ears¡ªa trader''s call, the creak of wagon wheels, the occasional whistle of a city guard.

    Tending Lord Ormund''s mount was one of the prince''s daily duties as the lord''s squire, a task he completed without question. To most boys his age, saddling and brushing down a horse might seem a dull chore for stable boys and attendants, but Daeron thought differently. With a smile, he untangled the horse''s mane and polished the saddle, ensuring it gleamed as bright as any knight''s armour. Lord Ormund, for all his gruff ways, valued his mount highly, and Daeron took pride in his duties, however menial.

    When he''d finished with the saddle, he paused to pat the horse''s neck and lifted his head to take in his surroundings. The morning light cast a soft glow over the nearby stone walls of the Hightower, towering over Oldtown like an ancient guardian. As he stood there, catching his breath, he saw his uncle Gwayne approaching from the training grounds, signalling for Daeron to join him. Daeron took up his practice sword then from where it rested against a low wall and trotted over.

    A man of stern discipline but warm eyes, Gwayne was the only family Daeron had truly come to know in this place, and his presence provided the sort of steady companionship Daeron often craved. His uncle''s calm strength was a reminder of the duty and restraint that defined their house¡ªqualities Daeron aspired to embody, though he often fell short, his mind always trailing back to the image of his brother, Aemond, and the fierce, unyielding spirit that seemed to burn eternally within him.

    Today''s lesson was with sword and shield, a more restrained art than Daeron might have liked. The longsword he favoured was resting against the barracks wall, waiting for him to return, but his uncle insisted on well-roundedness.

    "Steady, Daeron," Gwayne said as they locked shields. "Don''t let the shield slip. Your strength is in the block as much as in the swing."

    "Yes, uncle," Daeron replied, gritting his teeth as he took the brunt of Gwayne''s next strike.

    They trained for nearly an hour, till the prince''s arms burned and his back ached from exertion. Yet, just as they finished and Daeron took a gulp of water from a skin, a loud commotion sounded from the edge of the training grounds. He turned, noticing a small group of commoners gathering near the gate. Most wore expressions of shock or awe, their voices a low hum of excitement and fear. One of the townsmen, an older man with a patchy beard, caught sight of Daeron and Gwayne and made his way over.

    "Lordling," he said, slightly breathless. "They say a dragon''s come¡ªbig as a mountain, copper and green, with scales like bedrock. Landed in the fields beyond the walls, it did. Near swallowed up the whole sky when it flew over."

    Daeron''s heart skipped a beat. Copper and green, a dragon vast as a mountain¡ªthat could only mean one thing.

    "Vhagar," he murmured, barely able to keep the smile from creeping across his face. He felt a surge of excitement rise within him, an energy that made his limbs feel light as air. He barely registered the commoner''s words of thanks before the man turned to leave, his eyes still wide with awe.

    "Daeron!" Gwayne''s voice was stern, cutting through his thoughts. "You''re not about to abandon your duties, are you?"

    "No, Uncle," Daeron replied, though his thoughts were far from obedience. Aemond is here, he thought, trying to contain his anticipation. My brother has come to Oldtown.

    The young prince made a decision then, and with a respectful nod to his uncle, he said, "Though, with your leave, Uncle, I''d go and greet my brother."

    Gwayne raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment before he let out a low sigh and waved a hand in dismissal. "Fine, then. Go," he grunted. "But remember, you''ll have twice the training tomorrow to make up for today''s liberties."

    "Thank you, Uncle," Daeron replied, his voice tinged with excitement. He barely waited for Gwayne''s nod before he turned and raced towards the outer gates of the city. He dashed through Oldtown''s winding streets, weaving between startled townsfolk who turned to watch the silver-haired boy racing past. Aemond''s letters had been sparse, his duties demanding, and though Daeron understood the responsibilities that weighed on his elder brother, he missed him dearly.

    He reached the fields, gasping as he took in the sight before him. Vhagar towered above the landscape, her scales like aged iron, a living fortress of ancient might and beauty. She rested on the ground, wings partially furled, her golden eyes scanning the crowd with an almost human intelligence.

    And Daeron he saw him¡ªAemond, standing some distance away from the old queen, tall and proud, the wind tugging at his long silver hair, his expression one of calm authority. The older prince''s gaze was steady, piercing, even as he spoke to a member of the City Watch. There was an ease in his stance that felt entirely natural.

    "Aemond!" Daeron called, his voice carrying across the field as he raced over. His brother turned, his expression softening as he met Daeron''s eyes, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise stoic demeanour.

    "Daeron," Aemond greeted when Daeron came near, his voice low but unmistakably pleased. The older prince reached out, clasping the younger''s shoulder with a firm hand. "You look well."

    Daeron flushed with pride, standing a little taller. Then realising something, he glanced at Vhagar before turning back to Aemond. "Does this mean you won''t be staying long?" he asked. "You didn''t send a raven informing us to prepare for your arrival."

    "Unfortunately, I won''t," Aemond admitted, his tone carrying a hint of regret. "There is much that still demands my attention, and I have come for little more than a passing visit to settle some matters." He glanced out toward Oldtown''s walls, his eyes distant for a moment before focusing back on Daeron. "And you, little brother¡ªhow has Ormund been treating you? Is he working you hard?"

    Daeron nodded, eager to share all he''d done, all he''d learned. Still, his curiosity won over his excitement. "Where are you going?" he asked and Aemond answered.

    "The Eyrie."

    "...Why are you here then if you are still heading north?"

    A mirthful smile creased Aemond''s face as he ruffled Daeron''s hair. "Besides the errand I came to fulfil, I am also here to see Lord Ormund. I was hoping he could lend you to me for a short while."

    Daeron was so surprised by the declaration that, for a moment, he forgot to respond. "...You want me to come with you?" he asked eventually.

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    "Of course," Aemond nodded, much to Daeron''s growing elation.

    "You and Tessarion both. It should be fun."

    <hr>

    The seas were choppy that morning, a tumultuous reflection of the emotions boiling within Rhaenyra. The ship swayed, and she held a hand to her belly as the child within shifted. She had always loved sailing, finding comfort in the vast, open waters, but today was different. The winds carried her toward Driftmark, toward the iron will of Princess Rhaenys, a woman who had more reason than most to mistrust her.

    Rhaenyra could feel the tension in the air even before she saw the high stone walls of High Tide rising above the surf. She glanced to Rhaena, who stood beside her, the girl''s silver hair caught in the wind, eyes fixed on the distant shore. Rhaena was quiet, her lips pressed thin, the echoes of her own uncertainties matching her mother''s fears. What would they find on Driftmark? An ally? Or an adversary?

    The harbour was bustling, sailors moving in concert like bees in a hive, unloading cargo from vessels and shouting orders amidst the cries of gulls. As Rhaenyra''s party docked, she helped Rhaena descend, and they were met by retainers of House Velaryon, whose stiff bows spoke more of formality than warmth. They were led up the path that wound toward the Hall of Nine, the salty tang of the sea and the crunch of pebbles underfoot their only companions.

    When the doors to the great hall opened, Rhaenys was waiting, resplendent in dark blue velvet embroidered with silver waves, her bearing regal as ever. Baela stood at her side, a flicker of genuine warmth brightening her expression when she caught sight of her sister. The two girls ran to embrace each other, and for a moment, the room seemed lighter. Rhaenys inclined her head to Rhaenyra, a slight smile on her lips that did not reach her eyes. "Princess Rhaenyra," she said, her voice all courtesy and distance.

    "Princess Rhaenys," Rhaenyra replied, her own smile mirroring the same careful politeness. "If you might indulge me in a moment of privacy," she added, glancing at Baela and Rhaena.

    Rhaenys nodded, waving the girls away. "Go, my loves. We shall speak soon." Rhaena gave her grandmother a quick hug before she and Baela departed, their excited chatter fading as they moved down the hall.

    Once alone, Rhaenyra hesitated, her eyes softening as she looked at Rhaenys. "It has been some time since we spoke in confidence," she began, her tone gentle, almost wistful. "I have always admired your strength, Princess, especially now with Lord Corlys away. It is my hope that we can speak plainly, as family." She took a breath, her gaze earnest.

    Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, her lips curving slightly. "Speak plainly, then. What troubles you so, that you have sailed all this way to Driftmark?"

    "...I fear the intentions of those in King''s Landing," Rhaenyra continued after a brief pause, her voice lowered though there were no ears save Rhaenys'' in the hall. "Vaemond is to be named Master of Ships. The Small Council is behind this decision, and with my father''s health failing¡­" She paused, her gaze searching Rhaenys''s impassive face. "I fear if Vaemond gains influence in such a position, he may grow bold enough to challenge Lucerys''s right to Driftmark."

    Rhaenys''s eyes, still and unreadable, studied Rhaenyra for a long moment. Then, as though weighing her words, she said softly, "And why should I care for the games played at court? The realm''s squabbles over titles do not concern me here."

    Rhaenyra''s heart sank, her fingers tightening around her skirts. "It affects your grandchildren, Princess," she pressed, her voice tinged with urgency. "I ask you to contest this appointment, as you are ruling Driftmark in Corlys''s stead. Your word would carry great weight."

    Rhaenys''s gaze dimmed, though her tone remained measured. "Rhaenyra, you come seeking my aid, and yet there are shadows between us that I cannot ignore. The circumstances of my son''s death weigh heavily upon me, and I wonder if there is more I should understand before we proceed."

    Rhaenyra froze, a chill spreading through her despite the fire burning in the hall. "...I don''t understand."

    "Don''t play the fool. You know what I speak of."

    For a moment, Rhaenyra couldn''t find her voice. When she did, it was with a waver she couldn''t keep out of her tone. "I swear to you, Rhaenys, I had no part in Laenor''s end," she said, her voice trembling with the effort to control it. She could see the doubt in Rhaenys''s eyes, the distrust, the unspoken accusation. The older princess held her gaze a moment longer, then sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line.

    "Perhaps," Rhaenys said quietly, "but words alone bring little comfort." She waved a hand, brushing the matter aside as though it were a passing cloud. "You come to ask favours when you cannot speak plainly with me. Vaemond''s appointment, you say. I have known of it for some time, Princess, and I find no reason to contest it."

    The words struck Rhaenyra like a blow, and she fought to keep her composure. "No reason?" she echoed, incredulous. "Vaemond would see my son''s claim undone! Driftmark belongs to Lucerys by Corlys''s own decree."

    Rhaenys''s gaze did not waver. "Driftmark belongs to Corlys. And when he returns, he shall decide what will be done. As for Vaemond, he has not moved to challenge your son¡ªnot yet. And if he does? That is more your matter to resolve than mine."

    Rhaenyra swallowed her rising panic, her eyes narrowing. "Then consider this," she said, shifting tactics. "I''ll make you an offer. Back Luke''s claim and let us betroth Laena''s children to mine. Baela will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her sons will be heirs to the throne. Rhaena will rule in Driftmark, and the seat will pass to her and Lucerys''s children in time.

    Rhaenys''s expression softened, but not with warmth; it was pity that tinged her smile. "A generous offer," she replied. "Alas, another offer has already been made to me. Vaemond seeks Baela''s hand should he be named Lord of Driftmark. His brother, Rhogar seeks Rhaena''s hand in turn."

    Rhaenyra''s breath caught, her stomach lurching. "And you would consider it?"

    "I would consider waiting," Rhaenys said, her voice calm, deliberate. "Corlys will return, and he shall decide. If your husband, Daemon, allows us that honour and does not arrange their futures before then, that is. I have no intention of interfering with the appointment of Vaemond as Master of Ships. It does not concern the direct succession of Driftmark, only the realm''s fleets." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "If you are to be queen, Rhaenyra, then be patient and act as one. Undo Vaemond''s appointment when you wear the crown, if you so wish."

    Rhaenyra could only nod, her throat tight, her heart heavy as lead. She had come seeking an ally, but she found herself alone once more, adrift amidst the dangerous currents of ambition and distrust. Rhaenys''s face was unreadable, a mask of serenity that betrayed nothing of her true thoughts.

    "Thank you for your time, Princess," Rhaenyra said finally, her voice hollow.

    "Safe travels back to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra," Rhaenys replied, her tone cool, polite¡ªand unyielding.

    Rhaenyra turned, her steps heavy as she left the hall.

 Chapter Eight

    "You must learn to be ruthless with time, Paul Muad''Dib. Waste is the enemy. Here, the desert grants nothing without a cost. Time wasted is water lost; life squandered."

    ¨DStilgar (Naib of Sietch Tabr)

    ¡­?

    The sky was as clear as polished glass, the sun high and sharp, the chill of the wind frigid against Daeron''s face. His brother rode ahead on Vhagar, his usually towering form dwarfed by the coppery wings of his monstrous mount, gliding effortlessly over the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. Tessarion flew in her own grace behind them, her blue scales catching glints of sunlight as she swayed through the cold air like a ribbon.

    Aemond had been the one to suggest they take a flight above the Vale before descending upon the Eyrie. He always did have a strange fascination with the lay of the land, the bones of Westeros that even kings and castles could not change. Daeron could appreciate the beauty of it, but his thoughts were more occupied by the cold gnawing at his fingers, the trembling in his legs, and the anticipation of what their visit to Lady Jeyne Arryn might bring.

    Suddenly, Aemond turned, his voice barely discernible over the winds as he shouted back at Daeron, pointing with his gloved hand. Daeron blinked, following the direction, peering through the steely wind. There, hidden beneath a jagged formation of rock, was a cluster of huts, smoke curling up from the craggy settlement. Daeron recognised them. Hill tribes. The Vale''s barbarians.

    Before he could think further, Aemond''s intentions became clear. Vhagar banked to the left and slowly began her descent, her movements ponderous and deliberate, like a shadow falling over the mountainside. Daeron shouted to his brother, confused, Tessarion shifting uneasily beneath him as if echoing her rider''s uncertainty. Aemond... what is he doing?

    The old queen landed heavily, her bulk settling with a deep, earth-shaking thud. She roared then, a great rumble that seemed to grow from the very mountain itself. Daeron pulled on Tessarion''s reins, keeping her at a distance, watching as his brother''s dragon exhaled a stream of fire, a molten blaze consuming the huts half-hidden in the caves. The stone and earth were swallowed by the creeping, relentless flames, and the cries of men echoed through the air, fading beneath Vhagar''s low, guttural growls.

    Minutes later, Vhagar''s massive wings unfurled with slow, laborious beats as the dragon and rider pair ascended once more, the molten ruins of the camp dwindling beneath them. Daeron stayed silent, the cold unease in his stomach refusing to dissipate as they approached the shadowed silhouette of the Eyrie¡ªperched like a white eagle upon the shoulder of the Giant''s Lance. He glanced at his brother, whose expression remained inscrutable, his silvery hair fluttering in the wind.

    When they finally landed upon the precarious cliffside at the foot of the Eyrie, Tessarion and Vhagar took up most of the available cliffside, their presence as imposing as the jagged peaks themselves. Daeron dismounted, his feet crunching against the rocky ground, the cold biting through his boots. He turned to his brother, unable to keep the question from his lips any longer.

    "Why did you do that?" Daeron asked, his voice low, almost drowned by the wind.

    Aemond paused for a moment, his eye fixed on the fortress above. Then he looked at Daeron, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. "A message, dear brother. One that will soften the will of our host and make her more open to negotiations."

    Before Daeron could respond, the castle guards finally emerged, approaching cautiously. Their eyes darted uneasily between the dragons and the two princes who stood beneath their shadows.

    "State your purpose here," the old captain of the guard called, his voice thick with uneasiness.

    Donning a disarming smile, Aemond turned and stepped forward, his posture composed, the wind tugging at his dark cloak. "At ease, good men," he said, raising his gloved hands. "We are simply here to seek an audience with the Maiden of the Vale."

    The guards hesitated, exchanging wary glances. The captain''s eyes lingered on Vhagar, then on Aemond, before he gave a reluctant nod. "Follow me, my princes," he said, his voice slightly more subdued.

    They were led inside, where the chill of the mountain winds turned to the biting cold of stone halls. Their boots echoed, announcing their presence long before they reached the great hall, where Lady Jeyne Arryn awaited, her gaze cool and discerning.

    Lady Jeyne was a beautiful woman, her features sharp and regal, with a proud bearing that spoke of her noble blood. Her eyes were stern, a shade of deep blue that seemed to mirror the cold skies of the Vale, and there was a certain firmness in her gaze that suggested she was not easily swayed. She sat on a high seat beneath a banner of the falcon and the moon, her auburn hair braided intricately, and a gown of rich blue and silver on her shoulders, her house''s emblem embroidered on her bodice.

    "Prince Aemond," the lady said, her voice carrying an edge of curiosity. "Prince Daeron. This is quite the unexpected visit." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I received no word by raven of your coming."

    Aemond inclined his head, an almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "I thought it unnecessary, my lady. We do not intend to linger long." He paused, then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "But there are matters I wish to discuss, privately, if you would indulge me."

    Jeyne''s expression flickered¡ªhesitation, suspicion, curiosity¡ªbefore she nodded, dismissing all but one of her guards, the old commander who lingered by her side. Daeron stood silently, trying not to show his surprise as Aemond''s intentions finally revealed themselves.

    "You wish for my hand," Jeyne said, her voice neutral, her eyes appraising. "Why?"

    Aemond met her gaze, his head tilting slightly. "There''s hardly a better match for me in the seven kingdoms, my Lady. You must know that."

    The silence that followed was thick, weighted. Jeyne studied him, her eyes narrowing as she considered the subtle flattery. She took a long moment, her gaze flickering to Daeron, who stood quietly, observing.

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    "Perhaps," she finally said, her voice deliberately neutral. "But I would need assurances before I can consider such a union. A dragon would need to be stabled in the Vale, preferably here at the Eyrie. Such a presence would serve to both reassure me and deter any threats."

    "You want Vhagar to stay here?" Aemond asked, seemingly unsurprised. "Then you hope to keep me in the Vale, I presume?"

    "Indeed, I do," the lady confirmed, her voice calm and resolute. "You would be my husband, would you not? And as it stands, as far as I am aware, King Viserys has yet to bequeath any lands or fiefs to you. It''s only natural you and your dragon both stay here with me."

    Aemond frowned slightly, tilting his head. "The Vale could hardly support the presence of a beast Vhagar''s size, my lady. The logistics alone¡ªfeeding the old queen, maintaining her¡ªare matters that cannot be dismissed lightly. Her hunger is vast, and it would take careful planning to sustain her comfortably without impoverishing your lands."

    Jeyne fell silent for a moment, her expression unreadable as she considered his words. Her fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of her seat before she gave a curt nod. "It can be done, Prince Aemond. This is not an insurmountable problem. The Vale can surely afford it."

    Their negotiations shifted then, Aemond raising other matters¡ªtrade, defence, and alliances. Arrangements for a Merchant Guild in Gulltown, the construction of a garrison near the Bloody Gate, and protections for trade routes that crossed the Vale.

    "A Guild in Gulltown could bring in more trade from Braavos, perhaps even direct routes from Lorath. If we establish it now, the Vale would see a boost in both revenue and influence, my lady. It would also mean a stronger economic base for our prospective union."

    Jeyne nodded, though her expression was a bit guarded. "The guild would certainly benefit Gulltown, and I can see how it would strengthen the Vale. But the construction of a garrison near the Bloody Gate is not a small matter, Prince Aemond. It will be costly, and some of my bannermen may be reluctant to contribute men and coin for such a venture."

    Aemond''s lips curved slightly. "I will provide half the coin and men required for this then. The remaining cost to you and your vassals, monetarily, will be offset by the safety it will ensure for trade and travel throughout the Vale. A secure trade route benefits every noble house in the region. As for the men, it is not my intention to take from your bannermen''s levies¡ªat least, not without giving something in return."

    Jeyne''s eyes narrowed, considering his words. "What would you offer in exchange?"

    "Tax reductions for those houses that contribute to the garrison," Aemond suggested smoothly. "As the Master of Coin I can decide that much independently of the small council. Your vassals'' support would ensure security for the entire Vale, and the incentive should lighten their burdens. It is a fair arrangement, wouldn''t you agree?"

    Jeyne tapped her fingers on the armrest of her seat, her gaze piercing. "And who would oversee this garrison? Men loyal to the Arryns, or men of your choosing, Prince Aemond?"

    Aemond inclined his head slightly, his smile not fading. "I would propose a shared command. A captain from House Arryn and one of my choosing. This way, trust is built, and no single party holds sway over the garrison''s forces."

    A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken considerations. Jeyne''s gaze flicked to Daeron, who stood quietly by, his eyes watching the exchange with a mixture of interest and wariness.

    "It is a bold proposal," Jeyne finally said, her tone thoughtful. "I can see the benefits, though it will take time for some to come around. But as you say, Prince Aemond, a secure Vale benefits us all. The Merchant Guild, the garrison¡ªthey could serve to make the realm stronger. I am willing to pursue these endeavours, provided we work together in overseeing their execution."

    Aemond nodded. "That is all I ask, my lady. Cooperation and shared purpose."

    The Lady''s eyes narrowed slightly. "I will hold you to that, Prince Aemond."

    Daeron watched, a silent spectator to this. Talk eventually turned to the specifics of their wedding, the traditions to be followed, the expectations of both sides. Aemond laid down his conditions: the heirs and spares, the names their children would bear, the insinuation about loyalty and discretion that lingered just beneath the surface. The Lady Jessamyn Redfort was mentioned once, though Daeron couldn''t discern why due to lacking context, the younger prince noticed how Lady Jeyne''s lips tightened at these demands, her eyes narrowing, her posture stiffening. Yet, even in her displeasure, she did not outright refuse. She was a woman accustomed to weighing costs and benefits, and though these terms were clearly not ideal for her, the alliance seemed worth the price.

    In the end, an agreement was made. The lady''s eyes were serene, her acceptance more akin to a queen considering an investment than a bride accepting a proposal.

    As they left the great hall, Aemond led Daeron out of the Eyrie, the cold biting at their faces once more. Tessarion was already restless, shifting uneasily on the precipice, her wings rustling in anticipation. Vhagar stood as still as a mountain, her age-old gaze fixed somewhere beyond, her presence as immutable as the Giant''s Lance itself.

    "Oldtown?" Daeron asked, glancing sideways at Aemond, who seemed lost in thought.

    Aemond looked northward, his single eye alight with a cold fire. "Not yet, Daeron. We must pay a visit to the Starks. There is some business we them we have yet to attend."

    Daeron nodded, though he felt the wind''s cold settle in his bones. There was something in his brother''s gaze, a will that brooked no argument. Whatever Aemond sought in the North must be of great importance.

    With a snap of leathery wings, they ascended once more atop their dragons, leaving the Eyrie and its cold halls behind, the mountains dwindling below them.

 Chapter Nine

    That Addam and Alyn were dragonseed no man who looked upon them could doubt, though their mother steadfastly refused to name their father."

    ¨Dwritings of Gyldayn

    ¡­?

    Alyn was all grins, the excitement of a new journey lighting his eyes as he spoke of the construction efforts at the Stepstones. He made light of it, joking about the rough seas and the even rougher men who awaited him there, but Addam knew his brother well enough to catch the slight tension beneath his bravado. Alyn was brave, perhaps too brave, and Addam felt the pang of worry gnaw at him, though he masked it with a grin of his own. They clasped arms, and Addam clapped his brother''s shoulder. "Keep your head down, brother," he said, though he knew the advice would likely go unheeded. Alyn laughed, a bright sound that seemed to carry over the water. "And you, try not to get into too much trouble without me," he replied. Addam watched as Alyn boarded the ship, his form growing smaller until it was just another shadow among the sailors. The gangplank lifted and the ship pulled away from the dock.

    Addam stood there, watching as Alyn''s ship floated down the Blackwater Rush until its mast was swallowed by the horizon. The late afternoon sun reflected off the water, turning it into a sheet of blinding gold, and he squinted, feeling the sting of salt and sun in his eyes. He gave a quick, dismissive nod to the dockhands who saluted him, then turned his back to the docks, hands resting on his hips as he took in the sprawling port.

    The city seemed to have swollen of late, growing not just in size but in the sheer frenzy of life it contained. King''s Landing had always been a place of noise and chaos, but now its pulse pounding with a relentless energy that Addam found slightly dizzying. The new wharves jutted out into the Blackwater Rush like neat, orderly teeth, their timbers freshly cut, standing straight and proud. Customs houses, built from sturdy stone, rose up along the waterfront, and the warehouses loomed behind them, silent sentinels overlooking the ceaseless activity. Merchant banners snapped in the breeze, their bright colours¡ªgreens and golds¡ªstanding out against the smoky haze that hung over the port. The air smelled of salt and tar, and the tang of unfamiliar spices, brought in from Essos, lingered on the breeze. Addam moved through the crowds, weaving between sailors with sun-weathered faces and traders hawking goods from handcarts, their cries mingling with the laughter of children darting about underfoot. There was a rhythm to it all, an ebb and flow like the tides themselves, and the constant hum of voices and clatter of wheels created an unending symphony of commerce and survival.

    Addam made his way past the towering warehouses and bustling customs houses, stepping onto the recently expanded cobblestone roads that shone pale in the sunlight, their edges smoothed by the steady traffic of wheels and feet. The street teemed with life, merchants pushing handcarts laden with sacks of grain or crates of fruits, their muscles straining as they manoeuvred through the throng. Smallfolk jostled for position, calling out to vendors selling fresh bread, herbs, or salted fish. The air was thick with the mingling scents¡ªsweet apples, pungent onions, and the sharper tang of queer spices. Addam''s gaze drifted to the great Bazaar up ahead, its domed structures rising proudly, festooned with bright silks that seemed to dance in the light breeze. Tapestries of vivid purples, golds, and greens spilt out from the booths, the shimmer of fine cloth catching his eye. The Merchant Guild building stood nearby, an imposing structure with carved stone reliefs and banners denoting its authority, but Addam barely glanced at it. Instead, he veered left, slipping into a narrow alley, its cool shadows offering a brief reprieve from the clamour. This alley was one of his favoured shortcuts¡ªa place where the walls were close and the noise of the city dulled, a hidden path leading toward the quieter Artisan District.

    The alley opened up into another widened road, where the clang of hammers and the scent of sawdust filled the air. Shops spilled onto the cobblestone, their wares displayed on rickety tables or hung from the doorframes¡ªintricately carved wooden figures, dyed wool, and jewellery that glinted under the sun. Addam paused at a small stall, where a Braavosi merchant with a hawkish nose stood behind a collection of brass trinkets laid out on a deep blue cloth. The merchant''s eyes narrowed, suspicious of a local perhaps, but Addam merely grinned. "What would you ask for this fine dragon, good ser?" he asked in fluent Braavosi as the prince had schooled him, pointing at a brass figurine with wings unfurled, its eyes tiny rubies that glowed in the light. The merchant''s eyebrows shot up, his surprise breaking into a broad smile. "Ah, one who speaks with the tongue of the daughter," he said, his tone now warm. They haggled for a few moments, the exchange more a dance than a true bargain, until at last, Addam walked away with the small dragon figurine tucked into the pouch by his belt. The merchant''s laughter¡ªgenuine, amused¡ªfollowed him as he left, echoing off the stone walls and mingling with the sounds of craftsmen at work.

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    The road broadened again as he neared the inn. It was a well-known place, not far from the brothels that lined the Street of Silk, a place frequented by Red Cloaks. Addam pushed the door open, stepping into the warmth and noise of the common room. The scent of ale and roast meat hit him, mingling with the smoke of the hearthfire. He spotted Garren and Nettles immediately, sitting at a corner table, their voices rising over each other in a heated argument. Rowenna sat with them, her expression unbothered, fingers tapping lightly on the table as she watched the two. Wyl, predictably, was at the bar, a hand resting on the barmaid''s arm as he whispered something that made her laugh.

    Addam slipped into the seat across from the arguing pair. He raised a hand, signalling for ale, and leaned back, eyeing Garren and Nettles. "Am I cursed to always find you two at each other''s necks?" he asked, his voice amused. "What is it this time?"

    Garren scowled, his jaw tightening. "She won''t admit she''s wrong," he said, jabbing a finger in Nettles'' direction.

    "Wrong?" Nettles scoffed, her eyes flashing. "You wouldn''t know right if it bit you in the arse."

    Rowenna''s lips twitched, though she didn''t look directly at either of them. "It''s a philosophy problem, Addam. Something the prince left us with."

    Addam hummed, a smile tugging at his lips. Prince Aemond was fond of his riddles and his debates. It kept their minds sharp, he said, though sometimes Addam thought it kept their tempers sharper still. The serving maid arrived, setting a mug of ale before him, and he took a long drink, letting the cool bitterness wash down his throat.

    Wyl returned then, sliding into the seat beside Rowenna, a grin on his face. "So," Addam said, setting down his mug. "Anyone has an idea where the prince''s flown off to this time?"

    "Perhaps to convince the fish of the Narrow Sea to trade with King''s Landing," Garren said dryly.

    "Or maybe he''s gone to teach ravens how to speak better Valyrian than the maesters," Nettles added with a smirk.

    Addam rolled his eyes, but it was Rowenna who answered seriously. "The Vale," she said, her voice calm. The others fell silent, eyes turning toward her.

    "The Vale?" Addam echoed, frowning. "And how do you know that?"

    Rowenna shrugged, her expression unbothered. "I asked the princess. She said he flew to the Vale to attend to some matters."

    Wyl whistled low. "The Vale, eh? What sort of matters, I wonder?"

    "Probably to finally find himself a woman," Nettles said with a scoff, clearly joking. The others laughed and moved on quickly, throwing out other far-fetched guesses. They debated it for a while longer, though none of them came close to the truth. Eventually, the conversation shifted, and Wyl brought up what they might do with their newfound freedom. "We''ve not been idle like this for a long time," he said, his eyes bright with mischief.

    "We could go find Ulf the Sot again," Nettles said, her grin wide and wicked. "He ought to have more grand tales for us."

    Rowenna, however, shook her head. "No. We return to our studies. There''s no sense creating problems for the prince when he''s not here."

    Nettles groaned, and Wyl threw his head back, exasperated. "Rowenna," he complained. "You know how to suck the joy out of a room."

    Rowenna merely raised an eyebrow, then sighed, her gaze softening as she resigned herself to indulging the others. "The amphitheatre then," she amended, her tone less stern. "I heard it opened a fortnight ago. Let''s go see what it''s about. Maybe it''ll be worth our time." She paused, her eyes meeting each of theirs, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. "But after that, we return to our studies."

    There was some grumbling, but no real protest, and so they left, making their way through the city streets until they reached the amphitheatre. It was a somewhat grand structure, its stone seats rising in sweeping arcs, filled with people of all sorts¡ªmerchants, nobles, smallfolk, and a few Red Cloaks to keep the peace. They watched a series of performances: a troupe of mummers reenacting a bawdy tale of knights and maidens that had the audience roaring with laughter, a fire-breather who elicited gasps as he spun and spewed flames that danced across the stage, and a singer with a haunting voice that seemed to make the twilight linger. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the last performance featured a masked performer who moved with the grace of a shadow, telling a story with only the silent elegance of their movements, their silhouette against the flickering torchlight.

    Later, they returned to the Red Keep and said their farewells, each peeling away to their own quarters. Addam found his chamber door ajar, and he stepped in cautiously, his hand drifting to the knife at his belt. A shadow shifted in the dim light, and Addam tensed, his eyes narrowing.

    "Easy now, ser," came the soft, rasping voice of Larys Strong. The club-footed man sat in the corner, a casual smile on his lips. "I''ve only come to talk."

    Addam''s grip on his knife tightened, but he forced himself to relax, closing the door behind him. "Talk, then," he said, his eyes never leaving Larys.

 Chapter Ten

    "You could see it from miles off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. This is the end of the world, it seemed to say."

    ¨Dthoughts of Jon Snow

    ¡­?

    The cold cut through the furs as if they were nought but summer linen, and the wind was howling like a chorus of lost souls. Cregan Stark tightened the scarf around his neck, his breath misting before him, and nudged his horse forward. The old grey mare picked her way across the icy trail, her breath steaming in the cold. Behind him, the men of Winterfell followed¡ªKarl Tanner and Roderick Slate among them, both thickly wrapped in the grey cloaks of House Stark. None of them spoke, but Cregan could feel their shared thought as clearly as if they had shouted it to the heavens: what sort of madness brought princes of the realm to the Wall in the dead of winter?

    The message had been vague, half-panicked and half-admiring, about dragons landing near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. One was massive, bronze and ancient, the other smaller, blue as the winter sky. Vhagar and Tessarion, the ravens had said. And with them, Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, both bound for the Wall, with no intention of stopping at the Nightfort or Castle Black. Straight into the Haunted Forest, of all the cursed places they could choose. It was that detail that spurred Cregan to saddle his horse and gather his men without delay.

    "Young fools," he muttered under his breath, his voice muffled by the scarf. Roderick Slate gave a snort of agreement, his breath a cloud in the wind. "Dragons can only take them so far, beyond that it''s all snow and death."

    When they reached the Wall, it loomed above them, a sheer white face, monumental, timeless, and uncaring. And there, half-buried beneath a mound of fresh snow, lay Vhagar and Tessarion. They were coiled like cats by a hearth¡ªgreat, terrible cats¡ªtheir sides rising and falling with each breath. The dragons paid little mind to the approaching party, Vhagar''s great eye sliding open for a heartbeat before closing once more, a rumbling sigh escaping her. Tessarion''s tail flicked once, snow dusting up in its wake, but she remained at rest.

    Cregan marvelled at them a moment longer before dismounting, handing his reins to Karl Tanner. "Stay here," he ordered. "If they stir, call to me." He eyed the dragons, and then the Wall. "I''ll have a word with the old bear."

    It took time for the winch to lift them up, the cage rattling as it climbed higher and higher. The wind was fierce this far above the world, biting, screaming in his ears. Castle Black lay below like a child''s toy fortress. Finally, they reached the top, the wall of ice spreading before him, endless and barren. The Night''s Watch were there, hooded in black, dark shapes against the white.

    Derrin Stonehand, Lord Commander of the Night''s Watch, stood waiting at the edge of the Wall, as gruff and unmoving as the frozen Wall itself. He was grey-bearded, thick as an oak, and his eyes were sharp beneath the bushy brows that framed his stern face.

    "Lord Stark," he rumbled in greeting, his breath misting as he spoke. "You come for the princes, I presume?"

    "Aye," Cregan replied, stepping off the platform, his boots crunching against the snow-covered ice. "Where are they, Stonehand? The Night''s Watch should have kept them here."

    The old man grunted, his eyes narrowing. "They came, aye. But they went beyond the Wall, into the Haunted Forest. A fortnight-and-half now. The elder spoke of visiting the woods, whatever that means. Young men, thinking themselves invincible, dragon riders or no." He spat onto the ice, a dark stain on the frozen white.

    Cregan felt his frown deepen, a weight of worry settling in his chest. Three weeks in the Haunted Forest¡ªeven as Targaryens, with fire in their blood¡ªit was madness. He turned to Roderick, who stood at his shoulder. "We''ll need to send a party after them, rangers, anyone who¡ª"

    Before he could finish, a shout echoed across the Wall, one of the watchmen raising his hand and pointing beyond the ice. "Movement!" the cry carried on the wind, followed by a sudden rush of figures to the edge of the Wall.

    Cregan moved swiftly, his long legs eating up the distance. He squinted northward, shielding his eyes against the glare of the snow. There, emerging from the shadow of the Haunted Forest, he saw them¡ªtwo figures, heads of white hair shining like beacon fires in the wilderness, making their way through the snow. They moved unhurriedly, confidently, despite the endless sea of ice before them.

    And trailing behind them, black shapes, hulking and sleek, the size of ponies. Cregan felt his breath catch, the sight both strange and strangely beautiful. He knew what they were; tales told around the hearth of Winterfell had given them a name.

    "Direwolves," he murmured, the word a whisper on the wind. His men exchanged uneasy glances, awe mixing with fear. The beasts moved with the princes like shadows, silent and watchful. An omen. The young lord of Winterfell felt something stir within him.

    "Well, I''ll be damned," Roderick Slate breathed beside him. "They found the wolves, or the wolves found them."

    Cregan did not answer. He watched as Aemond and Daeron strode towards the Wall, the direwolves in their wake, and in that moment he wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, these princes might know something the rest of them did not.

    <hr>

    Two weeks later.

    The hearth fire blazed, its light dancing on the walls of the Great Hall, casting flickering shadows over the rough-hewn stone and polished iron sconces. The scent of roasted venison mingled with the saltiness of the lingering ocean air, the rich, smoky aroma of pine logs, and the faint tang of fresh snow wafting in through the narrow windows. Winterfell was at feast, and Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat opposite Prince Aemond Targaryen, listening as the younger man spoke in a measured tone. Beside Aemond, Prince Daeron attacked his trencher with the appetite of a boy who had known hard travel, barely sparing a glance for the conversation. Cregan, however, found himself distracted more by the direwolf gnawing lazily on a thigh bone behind the princes, similarly content to ignore the rest of the room.

    "Trade is blood, Lord Stark. If it flows well, the body thrives," Aemond was saying, his voice calm and deliberate as he drew Cregan''s attention back to their conversation. "A Guild here, in Winterfell, would be the keystone to seeing the North progress. I have already spoken to Tyland Lannister, Ormund Hightower and representatives from other relevant parties. The guild would facilitate a trade route connecting your lands directly to the Vale, the Westerlands, and the southern cities. Imagine a steady stream of grain and wine from the Reach, olives and spice from Dorne, and precious metal from the Westerlands flowing northward. In exchange, the North''s natural bounty, resources the South has slowly come to covet, flowing south. Peat, ice, wool, and blubber. Timber, dragonglass, amber, and jet even."

    Cregan leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. His gaze travelled over Aemond''s face¡ªthe hard lines, the proud, sharp features¡ªsearching for any sign of deceit or overreach. He found none and proceeded to express what little doubt had begun to form in his mind.

    "It seems, from your words, you mean to bypass the port towns, at least to some extent? How do you intend to move trade of the volume you speak overland? The North is not like the South, my prince. We have harsh winters, roads that vanish under snowdrifts, and vast leagues of empty land where travellers can easily meet their doom. Such a grand venture¡­ these merchants you speak of would need more than good intentions to make it through these parts. What have you planned for that?"

    Aemond inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the question. "Your points are valid, my lord. Hence why, of all places, I came to Winterfell last despite her great importance. The North''s isolation has been a challenge for centuries¡­ one which I hope to resolve before my tenure as Master of Coin expires. The six great roads of the realm," the prince continued, fully pausing from his meal, "the Roseroad, the Goldroad, the Oceanroad, the Riverroad, the Highroad, and the Kingsroad¡ªmust be remade and expanded, properly paved, I''m afraid¡ªnot just paths beaten by the march of travellers. And more than that, the construction of a seventh road, cutting through from Riverrun to Highgarden, must be arranged, as well as garrisons and guardposts to watch them. The planning for these undertakings is already well underway, and preparations will begin in earnest in a few months. Soon, we will see men and materials flowing to bring these roads to a new standard, an undertaking worthy of the realm''s ambition."

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    Cregan blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, though he quickly masked it. "The expense alone¡­" he began, but Aemond interrupted with a raised hand.

    "The expense will be borne by more than just the Crown. The Merchant Guild made obscenely wealthy by my policies, as well as a few members of the nobility¡ªthose who stand to benefit from a more interconnected realm. And with those revenues from taxation and tariffs, the same coffers will grow. My plan is to lay the foundation so that commerce is encouraged to move freely across the entire continent. Each region will benefit¡ªgoods that are scarce will become accessible. In times of plenty, surpluses will move where they are most needed. The North, in particular, will gain¡­ sustenance during the leaner years. With these roads, Winterfell will no longer be a distant fortress but a crucial artery for the flow of trade across Westeros."

    Cregan ran his fingers across his beard, mulling over Aemond''s words. "You make grand promises, but your ambitions seem even grander¡­ I fear you mean to bring more than grain to the North."

    Aemond did not react to the challenge in Cregan''s tone. Instead, he nodded after a moment of prolonged silence, his demeanour mellowing into something far sombre. "I see a dark future ahead, Lord Stark¡ªportentous dreams that keep me up late at night. The true threats to Westeros lie beyond the Wall, as you must know. Death festers in those lands, and when it finally chooses to move, it will be the North that stands first in its path. Strengthening these lands, fortifying them, ensuring their prosperity¡ªthat is not just wise, it is essential. A strong North is a shield for all of Westeros. And it is only by recognizing that truth now that we can hope to face what may come."

    Another prolonged moment of silence followed. Then Cregan spoke once more, "...Do you truly believe these words you speak or are they empty gestures solely to ensure my compliance?"

    Aemond crooked a brow, a wry smile creasing the corner of his lips. "What do you think, Lord Stark? What else do I, a Targaryen prince, stand to gain this far North besides some peat and timber?"

    Cregan held the prince''s gaze for another long moment. Taking his silence as a sign to continue, the prince brought the conversation back to the matter of trade. "The North is a great power, but one that has been dormant for too long," Aemond spoke, bringing a chunk of meat to his lips as he did. "What is needed to actualize her awakening is a gateway for exchange, a solid bridge connecting your house to the wealth of the realm. A Merchant''s Guild could be that bridge." He paused, then spoke in a tone that was firm, regal, even between bites of venison. "The guild, as always, would remain under the purview of the Dragon''s bank, and the garrison that would guard it will be controlled jointly by the crown and House Stark, with each having its representative and men-at-arms upholding their interests there."

    Cregan let the words hang between them. He could feel the weight of eyes from across the hall¡ªhis closest bannermen, his family¡ªall watching, waiting. "Aye," Cregan finally replied, nodding slowly. "And the cost?" he asked. "Who will bear the cost of this bridge you''re building between North and South? The guild, I mean."

    Aemond allowed a thin smile, the barest curve of his lips. "I will. Personally. Consider it an investment in what will be¡­ a fruitful future for the realm." He gestured lightly with his hand, his fingers briefly brushing the rim of his goblet. "On the other hand, the garrison would be a joint effort between your house and the crown given the nature of its conception. However, to fully realize this endeavour, the industries to support this trade must be developed with great haste. Mines, timber yards, and other resource sites. I am willing to finance their development as well¡ªunder a lease agreement that grants me a majority stake in their output as well as full control over their usage."

    Cregan''s frown deepened, his gaze hardening at that. "No, Prince Aemond," he said firmly. "I will not lease away control over any part of the North¡ªnot our forests, nor our mines, nor any swath of land. These belong to House Stark and to the people of the North. I will not hand them to another, even if only temporarily."

    Aemond studied him, and then he nodded, conceding the point. "Very well. The resources remain under your control. The guild will still stand, and the trade will still flow nonetheless. However," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "such a grand endeavour will inevitably be costly. Your Northerners are great, but not exactly renowned for your wealth. The realm cannot afford delays due to a scarcity of funding, and to ensure the North is capable of upholding its end, I am prepared to offer loans from the Dragon''s Bank at favourable interest rates."

    Cregan nodded, his gaze still wary but now considering. "Aye, Prince Aemond. I see the wisdom in your words. Very well, should we need it, we will accept the assistance of the Dragon''s Bank¡ªso long as the terms remain as fair as you promise. As for the rest, Winterfell will hear more details of your proposal. I will speak to the other lords, and together we may judge how such an arrangement could be sustained."

    "That is well understood," the prince nodded. "On the matter of speaking to the other lords," he continued, "there is one more proposal I wish to make."

    Cregan cocked his head, one dark brow arching in cautious interest. "And what might that be, Prince Aemond?"

    "I would ask that you host my Direwolf friends within the Wolfswood for a year," Aemond said, his tone almost casual, yet there was nothing casual about the request. Another one of the Direwolves in question lay by the door, sleeping, indifferent to the men and their deliberations. Why the beasts had followed the prince south, why they walked at his heel and lingered on his command, were mysteries that had nagged at Cregan like the chill gnaw of frost beneath his skin. Mysteries, it seemed, that Prince Aemond was in no rush to unravel.

    Cregan''s gaze shifted from the slumbering beast to the prince¡ªto that one blue eye that gleamed like a shard of ice, and the faint smile carved like a scar upon his lips. Aemond Targaryen, with his riches, his ambitions, who offered gold for the inconvenience of a wolf-haunted wood.

    A deal, then. A gamble, perhaps, but the Lord of Winterfell had gambled before, and he would again. "I imagine," Cregan spoke slowly, saying what they both knew would follow, "that Winterfell might accommodate your... friends, provided we are compensated for the wood, for the inconvenience." His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, a hint of shrewdness flashing beneath the brooding. "The Wolfswood is vast, but nothing in the North is given freely, and I daresay your coffers might manage the expense."

    "Of course," Aemond answered, seemingly amused at the attempt to fleece him. "I wouldn''t have it any other way."

    Silence fell between them then. For a moment, there was only the crackle of the hearth. "Then it is settled," Cregan said at last, with a final nod. "The lords shall hear your words, and your beasts shall have their wood. May the Gods watch over what comes of it."

    "May they indeed," Aemond echoed, his attention turning fully then to the meal he was offered.

 Canon Omake: Written by Kamal12. Refined to adhere better to the plot.

    Daemon watched with that familiar mix of contempt and a reluctant admiration as the boy walked away. His back was stiff as an oak, head held high, proud and unrepentant, as though the sight of a man lying dead at his feet was no more to him than a broken stick. There was something in that posture, in the way the boy''s gaze did not falter, that stirred a pang of kinship in Daemon¡ªa glimmer of a shared fire. How could such cold audacity live in one so young? The thought was almost worthy of praise. Almost.

    The boy was a dragon, that much was certain. His strength as real and dangerous as the edge of a whetted blade¡ªa thing that could be grasped, drawn, wielded. Not like Viserys, whose every moment seemed to be drained of what little fortitude he had once possessed, his spine turned to mush under the weight of a crown and a dull-witted Hightower bitch. But this child¡­ this boy had fire. He had it in his blood, in his eyes, in his every stride.

    A growl rumbled low in Daemon''s throat¡ªirritation, something of that sort¡ªas he turned back to the scene behind him. His gaze lingered on his niece, sweet Rhaenyra, foolish Rhaenyra, cradling Ser Harwin''s head in her lap, her face pale with disbelief. Her hands were red, stained with Harwin''s blood, as it poured from the ruin of his throat, dripping through her fingers to pool upon the stones beneath her. The castle stones seemed to drink it greedily, but their hunger was unquenched. It never was, was it? Not unlike the Sea Snake and his ambitions. Daemon''s lips curled in amusement. Perhaps this horror, this spectacle of death in their own halls, might dissuade Corlys from his endless hunger for power. Though likely not. Such men were never sated.

    Viserys, meanwhile, was trying to impose some semblance of order amidst the uproar. His voice was a thin thread, wavering and weak, swallowed up by the clamour. Daemon could almost laugh at it, at the futility of his brother''s attempts. There it was¡ªthat flicker of amusement, that dark mirth¡ªbefore it was swallowed by a rising tide of disgust. The leech''s daughter¡ªAlicent, the Hightower cunt¡ªwas already moving forward, stepping in to speak for the king, to quell the nobles, to play the peacemaker for her feeble husband.

    The weak peace would not hold, and Daemon knew it. No words from Alicent, nor pleas from Viserys, would change the truth of what had happened here tonight. Viserys, in his cowardice, had undone himself. He had harmed his standing not only with Rhaenyra, but with Lyonel Strong, and perhaps even with that whore of a queen he''d wed. The balance was shattered. This night, Daemon knew, was the final shattering of any fragile pretext of civility between their families. It did not take a seer to see it: the animosity between Rhaenyra and the Queen could no longer be a mere rivalry.

    <hr>

    The sun sulked behind a shroud of sullen clouds above Dragonstone, its light a harsh lance through the heavens, painting the yard in a brutal blaze. The sweltering heat clung to the air like a lover''s unwelcome embrace, thickening the already stifling humidity into something like a punishment, a cruel jest played by the gods.

    Jacaerys cursed his decision to wear his black leathers. The garments clung to him now, soaked and heavy, sticking like a second skin. Sweat beaded upon his brow, trailing down his neck in thin rivulets, and his hands, slippery with moisture, could hardly keep their grip on the waster. He lunged with sudden, savage intensity, slashing at the dummy. The blade cut the air with a fierce hiss, blow after blow raining down upon the straw figure, each stroke vicious, unyielding. The dummy swayed with his onslaught, rocked back and forth like a reed in a storm, but it would not break, and that only served to deepen his frustration.

    The yard was empty, yet not. He trained alone, but the weight of unseen eyes was ever there. Guards on their rounds, squires at their drills, all of them stealing glances, their scrutiny a constant itch between his shoulder blades. When he was younger, these looks had carried curiosity, amusement, or at worst, thinly veiled disdain. Now, they burned with something else. Resentment, perhaps. Fear, more likely. Jacaerys knew it well enough, and he had no one to blame but himself.

    His thoughts strayed, as they often did, to another day much like this one. The day when the shame of Driftmark still gnawed at him, and a squire''s taunting words¡ªboasting of his vile uncle''s deeds with the Red Cloaks¡ªhad stirred a dark fire within him. Anger had driven him then. He had challenged the boy, in his pride and his rage, and in his hubris, he had killed him.

    The taste of blood had been far worse than he had imagined. It was not like the stories, not the sweet burn of victory. It was foul, metallic, cloying, and it had tasted of failure, not triumph. In that moment, he had thought it dragon''s blood that coursed through his veins¡ªbut he knew better now. It was not the fire of old Valyria. It was something darker, something lesser. He regretted the act, but regret changed nothing. It was done, and it had only cemented what they all believed of him: that he was treacherous, conniving, bloodthirsty. A creature unbefitting.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    With a sharp breath, Jacaerys flung the waster away and turned his back on the yard. He longed for silence, for solitude, for a place where he might hide from the gazes that sought to pierce him, to peel back his skin and reveal the weakness beneath.

    He wandered the winding halls of Dragonstone, twisting passages that coiled through the ancient keep like the belly of a serpent, old stones pressing in from all sides, cold and indifferent. His thoughts turned, as they always did, to his uncle¡ªAemond. How could they not? Aemond haunted his days and his dreams both, an ever-present spectre, the one who had taken his father. His true father. Not Laenor.

    Aemond Targaryen. Master of Coin. Lord Commander of the Red Cloaks. The Lawgiver. The Lord of Feasts. The Realm''s Favour. Dragonknight. The Merchant Prince. The One-eyed Blade.

    The titles were many, and each one spoke of accomplishment, of a legacy wrought in deeds and daring. The Dragon Bank that threatens to dislodge Braavosi influence entirely from Westeros, the reforms of Daemon''s Gold Cloaks into something more disciplined, more dangerous, more loyal. Red Cloaks. His adventures, his duels, his endless string of victories. The realm whispered his name in awe, but there was fear too. Aemond was not simply a hero of song and story¡ªhe was a creature of mystery, his depths unfathomable. It was said he practised dark Valyrian magics, that he needed no eyes to see, that he could unearth the truth from lies as a butcher might carve flesh from bone. That at his beck and call, a web of spies, thieves and cutthroats that stretched across the Seven Kingdoms. Some said he was a second Daemon, more polished, more refined¡ªbut no less deadly.

    Jacaerys found himself in a small alcove overlooking the Painted Table, the great chamber beneath empty but for shadows and the weight of history. The hearth flickered in the distance, flames casting long shapes across the walls, monstrous, hungry¡ªthe shadows of dragons, or something worse.

    He was about to leave when he heard footsteps, soft, echoing through the stone. No one was supposed to be here. Jacaerys pressed himself back, flattening against a pillar, sinking low. He peered out, watching as Daemon strode into the room with his usual briskness, Rhaenys close behind. They paused, facing each other, silence stretching between them, heavy with unspoken words.

    "It is a fair offer, Rhaenys," Daemon said, his voice tight with impatience. "Corlys would take it. You know he would. Why do you resist?"

    "Because I am not Corlys," Rhaenys shot back, her eyes narrowing. "And because I will not be bullied by you, Daemon. I will not have my granddaughters married off to those boys, those savages¡ªsons of a woman who could not wait for her husband''s corpse to cool before taking you into her bed."

    "Come now, Rhaenys¡ªsavage? Truly? They are hardly so monstrous."

    Rhaenys scoffed. "You forget, cousin. Those girls are my granddaughters, the last pieces of my daughter. You took them from me once, and I will not let you take them again."

    "I raised them," Daemon countered, his voice softening, though his eyes remained hard. "In Pentos, for years. They are my daughters. Mine to arrange as I see fit, mine to marry."

    "You raised them, yes. But they are still of me, Daemon. And I will not see them suffer for your ambition, or Rhaenyra''s." Rhaenys shook her head. "You seek alliances, you seek strength now Rhaenyra stands on crumbling ground she chose of her own hubris. Her followers slip away, her claim weakens, and Aemond¡­"

    She trailed off, a frown on her face. "The Sapphire-eye gathers strength. His schemes grow ever darker, and what does your wife do? She buries her head in the sand and hopes for the best."

    For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, Rhaenys turned sharply, her skirts swishing. "I tire of this. If you wish to speak, wait for Corlys. He will hear my mind. If you seek me again, come to Driftmark. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an egg to fetch. It is unbefitting for Rhaena to remain dragonless at her age"

    Daemon watched her leave, his lips moving, muttering something too quiet for Jacaerys to hear. Then he, too, turned, leaving the Painted Table empty once more.

    Targaryens were dragons. They felt no fear. It was their creed, their truth. Fearlessness led them to greatness, forged them in fire. Aegon the first. Jaehaerys. Daemon. Aemond.

    Yet as Jacaerys crouched there, hidden in the shadows, the truth of what he had heard sinking into his bones, he could not deny the cold knot coiling in his belly.

    He was afraid.

 INTERLUDE: The Evans Gambit

    ¡°Volantis is a freehold, and all freeborn landholders have a voice in the governance of the city. Three triarchs are elected annually to administer her laws, command her fleets and armies, and share in the day-to-day rule of the city. The election of the triarchs occurs over the course of ten days, in a process that is both festive and tumultuous... partisans of various candidates - and of the two factions - rally on behalf of their chosen leaders, dispensing favours to the populace. All freeborn landholders - even women - are granted a vote. Though the process strikes many outsiders as chaotic to the point of madness, power passes peacefully enough on most occasions.¡°

    ¨DWorld of Ice & Fire, p. 269

    ¡­

    The candlelight flickered in the chamber, illuminating the spaces between shadows, and Otto Hightower studied the subtle shift in Lady Caswell''s expression. Her eyes, rimmed with sleeplessness and grief, darted towards the heavy ledgers and documents arrayed before them. Otto remained poised, a portrait of courtesy and dispassion painted upon his features. The Red Keep had become a place of quiet undertones lately, whispers curling through the halls like tendrils of smoke from those flickering flames, unseen but pervasive. The stirrings of his grandson¡ªAemond''s machinations¡ªwere a quiet murmur beneath the courtly discourse, a murmur that Otto suspected, but had yet to fully confirm. He found himself approving of the foresight, even as he took measured steps to become part of it.

    The corners of his mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile. Empathy, carefully measured and controlled, was a weapon he wielded as well as any blade. His eyes met Lady Caswell''s as he spoke, his voice a blend of sympathy and authority. ¡°You have our deepest sympathies, my lady. The recent months could not have been kind. Bitterbridge has always been loyal, and it is in these difficult times that such loyalty is tested.¡± He allowed the words to hang in the air, heavy with expectation.

    Lady Caswell nodded, her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles stark against her pale skin. She was fraying at the edges, her composure stretched to its limits. It was the nature of grief to undo people in subtle ways¡ªways that left them vulnerable, malleable. Otto knew this well, had seen it many times in many places. She was a woman adrift, given more power than she had ever anticipated, and all the weaker for it.

    ¡°The burden is heavy, indeed,¡± she said, her voice a whisper. ¡°With my lord husband gone, I¡­¡±

    Otto allowed his lips to curve in the barest of understanding smiles. ¡°House Caswell¡¯s loyalty is not in question,¡± he said, his tone softening just enough to suggest understanding, ¡°but the realities of the present cannot be ignored. Your lord husband, may his indomitable spirit rest in peace, left behind certain¡­ obligations.¡± He glanced at the sheaf of parchments on the table, and with deliberate slowness, he lifted one into view, unfolding it with a whisper of paper against paper.

    ¡°It has come to the attention of the Crown,¡± he continued, letting his eyes drift back to Lady Caswell, ¡°that House Caswell owes a not insignificant debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos. The Iron Bank, as you may know, has become increasingly uncooperative with the Crown¡¯s needs as of late, which has complicated things considerably. There exists the real fear that the Braavosi might express their displeasure in a manner unhealthy to the livelihoods of important vassals of the crown.¡±

    The Lord Hand watched the emotions flit across her face¡ªfear, uncertainty, confusion. Otto knew that such debts, if leveraged properly, could drown a house like Bitterbridge, especially now, in the wake of the lord''s passing. ¡°Prince Aemond,¡± he continued, capitalizing on the moment to lay the weight of significance upon the name, ¡°has seen fit to intervene. He has, through channels of his own best left unnamed, purchased the debt held by the Iron Bank.¡± Otto paused, allowing the moment to stretch, to let Lady Caswell comprehend the full implications of what he was saying. She blinked, her expression slowly shifting from one of despair to something akin to hope, though it was tinged with the uncertainty of the unknown.

    ¡°Prince Aemond?¡± she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was disbelief there¡ªand, Otto thought, the beginning of gratitude.

    ¡°Indeed,¡± he said, inclining his head slightly, an acknowledgement that he was merely a messenger. ¡°He understands the difficulties you face, my lady. In light of your loss, and the burdens you now carry, he wishes to offer you terms that are¡­ far more amenable than those set forth by the Iron Bank. The interest shall be reduced, and the timeline for repayment shall be extended. House Caswell will be granted the breathing room it needs to find its feet once more.¡±

    She exhaled, a soft shuddering sound, her grip on the handkerchief loosening. Otto could see the relief washing over her, a tide that threatened to carry away her caution. ¡°I¡ªthat is¡­ most generous,¡± she said, the words catching in her throat.

    Otto allowed a small smile. ¡°The prince merely seeks to help, my lady.¡±

    Lady Caswell''s eyes glistened then, and she nodded again, more firmly this time. ¡°Please extend my gratitude to Prince Aemond,¡± she said, her voice steadier now, the hint of hope giving her strength. ¡°House Caswell will not forget this kindness.¡±

    Otto rose, the smoothness of his movement conveying a grace that was more calculated than casual. He extended his hand to the Lady, helping her to her feet. ¡°I shall convey your thanks, my lady. And rest assured, you are not alone in these trying times. The Crown stands ready to assist its loyal subjects.¡±

    He walked her to the door, his hand light upon her elbow, the epitome of a courteous host. The guards outside straightened as they approached, and Otto gave a nod to the attendant who stepped forward to guide Lady Caswell away.

    ¡°May the gods be kind on your journey back to Bitterbridge,¡± Otto said as she stepped through the doorway. Lady Caswell glanced back, her eyes meeting his, gratitude clear in her expression. She offered a small bow of her head, and then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.

    Otto closed the door behind her, the latch clicking softly in the silence that followed. He stood there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around him. Another one in the bag, it seemed. This was the fourth house in six months to suddenly find itself indebted to the young Master of Coin, through means as varied as the faces of men.

    Had Otto not been paying close attention to these matters, he might have not even noticed. The lad¡ªAemond¡ªhad a gift, he realised. A gift backed by a relentless pursuit of advantage that Otto both admired and found mildly discomforting.

    He turned back to the table, his eyes lingering on the documents there as his thoughts drifted to the other princes. Daeron was admirable, in his own modest way at least. Aegon, however¡­

    ¡°If only,¡± he sighed, murmuring to himself in a voice tinged with regret.

    ¡°If only¡­¡±

    <hr>

    The sun was low over King¡¯s Landing, painting the docks in a diffused orange glow. A fitting palette, she thought. Mysaria stood on the pier with a pair of Red Cloaks at her back, a still figure against the busy scene of sailors, labourers, and city folk. She had become accustomed to this place¡ªits scent of brine and fish, its unpredictable cacophony. Today, however, her eyes were fixed on a singular point: the approaching ships, their sails emblazoned with an unmistakable sigil.

    To the casual onlooker, Mysaria appeared serene, her slender frame wrapped in a cloak of black velvet lined with blood-red silk. Yet beneath that surface was the tension of careful preparation, of forethought. She watched the Volantene delegation as they disembarked¡ªfive men, their garments bright, richly embroidered, almost decadent against the greying port. These men bore the hedonism of their homeland in their bearing, men used to obedience. They were men from a city that prided itself on old ways¡ªa city of tigers and elephants, a city of slaves and freemen, of strength without mercy. They did not step onto the dock. Instead, they were lifted into the palanquins by their slaves¡ªsilent men with their eyes cast downward. The five landowners, freeborn and well-dressed, were hoisted high, their dignity upheld by their bearers. To walk was beneath them¡ªa custom that marked their status as the elite of Volantis.

    ¡°Welcome to King¡¯s Landing,¡± Mysaria greeted them, her accent lilting, familiar. She inclined her head slightly, enough to acknowledge their stature but not too much¡ªnever too much. ¡°I trust the Narrow Sea was kind.¡±

    The eldest among them¡ªa silver-haired man whose face was lined like ancient parchment, etched by the sun¡ªsmiled in response. ¡°The sea obeyed its nature. It brought us here safely. I trust you received our letters in advance. As promised, we have come to see this Dragon¡¯s Bank which stirs whispers even across the seas. Many say it is a place worthy of great interest.¡±

    Mysaria allowed a small nod. ¡°It is our hope that it will be worthy of your trust as well. We have heard much of the Iron Bank''s stance and of their refusal to engage with Volantis. I suspect it must have made the matter of securing your prodigious wealth¡­ rather troublesome. The Braavosi, for all their talk of free trade and commerce, are a prejudistic people too focused on matters of little significance.¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    The remark seemed to amuse the eldest Volantene, a soft chuckle escaping him. He looked at her with new consideration, though his eyes still held their habitual haughtiness.

    ¡°Partisanship is simply a wall,¡± said the seeming youngest of the five, his tone betraying the sharpness of one unaccustomed to insult. ¡°We are glad to find the dragon has no need for walls. In fact, we were hoping to be able to see the prince in person, and his great Vhagar as well. Many are the tales that are spoken of them abroad.¡±

    Mysaria¡¯s lips curved faintly at the corners into an apologetic smile. ¡°Unfortunately,¡± she said, ¡°Prince Aemond is away for some important matters and will not be back for some time yet. Regardless, he sends his regards and has tasked me to show you the Bank¡¯s offerings. This way, if you please.¡± She gestured for the procession to follow, her stride unhurried yet purposeful. Soon, they passed under the great shadow of the Dragonpit, and there it loomed in the corner¡ªthe Banking Hall, a structure as much a symbol as it was a place of business.

    Black pillars rose like obsidian sentinels at the entrance, carved into twisting forms that seemed almost alive, their surface reflecting the dying light. Heavy banners of red and black flanked the great gate, which stood reinforced. Two dragon head statues framed the entryway and beside them was a single armoured guard each. Mysaria led the Volantenes in, gesturing gracefully at the edifice.

    ¡°This is the public face of the Bank,¡± she said, her voice carrying through the hall as the Volantenes took in their surroundings. ¡°Here, emissaries and clients alike negotiate terms, arrange loans, and secure deposits. The treasurers are trained to handle all manner of business, whether it be mundane transactions or matters of great delicacy.¡± She paused, allowing them a moment to observe. ¡°The security measures are unmatched in Westeros. The men who guard this building are known as the Dragonscale¡ªhand-picked by Prince Aemond himself. Their loyalty is unquestioned, their skill supreme.¡±

    Within, the Banking Hall was cool, its air redolent with the smell of polished stone. The vastness of the hall, the dragon-emblazoned marble floor, and the soaring pillars spoke of wealth without need for boastful words. Blue-lipped treasurers behind marble counters lined the end of the hall, attending clients whilst handing strange iron boxes with dials and buttons even Mysaria herself had yet to deduce the function of.

    As she led them deeper into the bank one of the Volantenes spoke, his eyes narrowing as they followed the movement of the black-clad treasurers, their garments as immaculate as their demeanour. ¡°Your men here¡­ not all are Westerosi,¡± he remarked.

    Mysaria inclined her head. ¡°Knowledge knows no boundaries. Nor does loyalty,¡± she replied. ¡°Prince Aemond has gathered the finest to serve. They are the sentinels of coin, as the Dragonscale are the sentinels of this place.¡±

    ¡°Beneath our feet,¡± she continued, her voice lowering slightly, drawing their attention back to her, ¡°intermingled with the lairs of the Targaryen family¡¯s dragons, lies the heart of the Dragon¡¯s Bank¡ªthe vaults. A network of tunnels and chambers that delve deep into the bedrock beneath the Dragonpit. And at the centre, the Grand Hoard. Gold, gems, treasures of Old Valyria¡­ Dragon eggs, ceremonial weapons, garments¡ªwonders that even the Iron Bank cannot boast.¡±

    ¡°And besides the dragons themselves, guarding all of this is a system that is near-impervious to infiltration. Fortified entrances before every chamber, on every floor. In times of threat, they may be sealed¡ªclosed off, made invulnerable. Reinforced fall gates, hidden killing zones¡­ Only a dragon¡¯s wrath could hope to breach them.¡± Her lips twitched. ¡°And the Targaryens command the last of them.¡±

    The men shared a look. The eldest nodded slowly, the doubt around his eyes easing, his lips pressing together as if in reluctant approval. ¡°Rumour has it that Prince Aemond designed this bank himself. He must be a man of vision, to consider such foresight.¡±

    Mysaria smiled. ¡°Indeed, he is.¡±

    She led them down a corridor that grew narrower, more private. The sound of their footsteps against the stone was muffled now, absorbed by the thick tapestries that hung along the corridor walls. They came to a stop before a door of dark wood, adorned with silver fittings.

    Mysaria pushed it open, revealing a small, finely appointed room. A long table sat at the centre, and at its head, a treasurer waited. His black robes were immaculately pressed, his eyes¡ªclear and sharp¡ªmet each Volantene with a slight inclination of his head. ¡°My lords,¡± he greeted, his voice low, smooth. ¡°Welcome to the Dragon¡¯s Bank. I will be serving you this fine afternoon.¡±

    The Volantenes settled themselves around the table, their bearing radiating a mixture of curiosity and guarded interest. Mysaria stood near the wall, her presence unobtrusive but watchful, her gaze moving between the men and the treasurer. She was here to observe, to ensure that every word spoken, every agreement forged, aligned with Prince Aemond¡¯s intentions.

    The treasurer began, his fingers brushing lightly over the surface of the strange iron box set before him¡ªits purpose opaque but its presence deliberate. ¡°We understand you wish to open accounts with the Dragon¡¯s Bank. You will find that our terms are more¡­ adaptable than those of the Iron Bank. Prince Aemond recognizes the value of freedom¡ªfreedom from restrictions, freedom from outdated traditions that others cling to.¡± He paused, letting the words settle, his eyes on the Volantenes, studying their reactions.

    The eldest Volantene gave a slight nod, his expression thoughtful. ¡°The Iron Bank refuses our custom,¡± he said, a trace of disdain in his voice. ¡°They find fault with our ways. But our wealth is as good as any other¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°We do not judge, my lord,¡± the treasurer replied smoothly. ¡°The Dragon¡¯s Bank is built on pragmatism. Gold is gold, and we are here to safeguard it, to ensure that it works in your favour.¡±

    Mysaria watched as the treasurer outlined the terms¡ªthe security offered by the bank, the guarantees, the interest rates. He spoke again in clearer detail now of the vaults beneath the Dragonpit, the ones that would house whatever treasures the Volantene wished to keep. The slave masters listened, their eyes narrowing, their interest evident. They asked questions¡ªabout access, about guarantees, about the protection of their assets. The treasurer answered each query with calm authority, his voice never rising, never betraying anything beyond polite professionalism.

    Finally, an agreement was made and a date appointed to ship and store some dozen tons of gold beneath Dragonstone. The treasurer bowed his head, reaching for the iron box, adjusting dials as he completed the formal process of opening their accounts.

    The negotiations were a success. Yet, Mysaria felt a hint of unease as the finality of it dawned on her. Why the prince chose to work with these men, she did not know. Despite what the treasurer said, gold was not just merely gold. There were consequences for associating oneself with such a reviled people as the Volantene, and the Bravoosi certainly would not turn a blind eye to this.

    But then again, this is Prince Aemond¡¯s will. His methods never really seemed to make much sense at first, but Mysaria could hardly remember a time when it didn¡¯t all work out in the end.

    With this in mind, she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, her eyes moving over the Volantenes as they signed their pledges, sealing the deal.

    <hr>

    Rhaenyra sat by the window, her gaze drifting beyond the stone walls of Dragonstone to the restless sea below. The winds were high, the salt carried on the breeze, and she breathed it in deeply, letting the tang of it ground her. She rested her hand on her rounded belly, feeling the gentle shifting of life within. The child was restless today. Why?

    Daemon entered without a sound, his presence a shadow that filled the room with an easy, dangerous warmth. He crossed to her side and paused, his fingers brushing a stray strand of her silver hair behind her ear before he sat across from her. Their midday meal had been laid out¡ªa modest spread of bread, cheese, roasted fish, and a pitcher of wine, as red as dragon''s fire. Daemon poured them both goblets, his eyes never leaving hers.

    "You look troubled," he said, his voice carrying an edge of concern, veiled beneath his usual irreverence.

    Rhaenyra took the goblet, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. She gave a smile, though it didn¡¯t reach her eyes. "Trouble is my constant companion, my love," she replied. "Nothing unusual there."

    Daemon''s gaze remained on her, studying her with that unsettling intensity of his. He raised his goblet, and she mirrored him, the room falling into a heavy silence, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the rocky shores below.

    It was Jacaerys who entered then, his steps cautious, his young face unusually sombre. The air seemed to change at once, the heaviness thickening as he approached, a folded parchment in his hand.

    "Mother," he said quietly, holding out the letter. There was a gravity in his eyes that made Rhaenyra uneasy. "A raven from the Vale."

    She took the letter from his hand, a chill creeping up her spine. She glanced at Daemon¡ªhis goblet now set aside, his eyes narrowed. She broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter.

    The inked words stared back at her, a cold dread settling over her heart.

    ¡®Prince Aemond has approached Lady Jeyne Arryn with a marriage proposal. The Lady appears willing to consider the match. The princes Aemond and Daeron took to the sky, headed north shortly thereafter. Their purpose unknown.¡¯

    The words blurred as she read them again, and then a third time, each reading more ominous than the last. Aemond¡ªat the Vale, courting Jeyne Arryn. Aemond and Daeron flying north. There was something here that she could not yet fully see, but she felt it, like the chill before a storm. Her fingers tightened on the parchment until her knuckles whitened.

    She met Daemon''s eyes, and whatever he saw in her expression darkened his features. He leaned forward, reaching across the table to lay his hand over hers, steadying her.

    "What is it?" he demanded. She handed him the letter. Daemon took it, his eyes scanning the words, his face growing grim, his jaw setting.

    "Jeyne Arryn," he said, his voice tinged with contempt. "That woman would sell her soul if she thought it would buy her a dragon. The boy knows it too and gives her the largest we have. He cannot be allowed to move unchecked."

    Rhaenyra frowned, her hand drifting to her belly. "What does he hope to gain from this?" she murmured, almost to herself.

    Daemon''s face softened, just slightly, his eyes searching hers. He rose then, coming around the table to kneel beside her, taking her hand in his, his grip firm, anchoring her in the tempest of her thoughts. "Regardless of what he hopes to gain we cannot let this happen," he said. "We go to King''s Landing. We will speak to the King¡ªdemand he annul any arrangement before it can take root."

    Rhaenyra closed her eyes, nodding slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle into her bones. "Alright," she whispered before turning to Jace, who still stood at the edge of the room, his face drawn with worry. "Jace, tell the harbour master to get the ship ready. We leave for King''s Landing on the morrow."

 INTERLUDE: True Power

    "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I¡¯ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice."

    ¨DFire and Ice, 1923, Robert Frost

    ¡­

    It was beautiful.

    The salt wind was alive with a briny sharpness that mingled with the deeper, metallic scent of whale blood and the sweetness of burnt flesh cutting across the land. Heavy clouds brooded in the sky above, while the afternoon sun hung suspended, a molten coin balanced on the rim of the horizon. Its light softened the scene into a blend of pinks and lavenders, tinged with indigo and pewter hues, and touched here and there by the hints of an approaching evening.

    The waters below stretched endlessly, their horizon meeting the sky in a gentle blur, muted, as if a great hand had softly smudged the colours together in the languid stroke of a brush. Ironman¡¯s Bay was desolate in its bleakness, unending, its vastness underscored by the jagged, moss-covered rocks jutting out into the cold surf like watchful sentinels.

    The bay itself sat there¡ªrippling, silver-laden, a sheet of glimmering ambiguity; metallic waves lapping at the dark, craggy shore with an indifferent repetition. It whispered softly to itself, as if the long centuries had dulled its rage to a mere murmuring; and there, along the strand where sea met sky, and the old bones of sailors whispered through the salty breeze, sat Aemond with his brother, Daeron, among the mossy stones and the low, wind-bitten grasses that clung to this godforsaken coastline.

    Before them was Vhagar crouched over the massive, bloated cadaver of a beached whale. The great dragon''s head plunged into the carcass, each movement tearing through flesh, her immense jaws clamping down to rip burnt meat from bone and snap apart roasted tendons. There was something grotesque and yet hypnotic in her feeding; the sea breeze ruffled the frills of her tattered old wings as she gorged without a thought for the creature that had been. For a moment, the old queen lifted her great head, gore-streaked and terrible, her eyes the colour of old bronze. The scales up to the crest of her head glistened with steaming fat, and long tendrils of sizzling blubber hung from her teeth like torn banners as she looked to the sea, to something only she could see, before lowering her head once more to feed.

    Tessarion, by contrast, swept low over the bay in the distance, talons breaking the water''s gyrating surface to pull another sailfish out of the darkness. The younger dragon brought her catch ashore, setting it aflame and deftly stripping away the fatty belly, protein-rich dark meat and loin, as well as the nutrient-dense head before discarding the remains onto a growing pile. Without pause, her cerulean form launched back into the air¡ªnimble, joyous, a kite gliding over the expanse as she sought her sleek, glittering prey¡­

    Around them, the wind rolled in slow, whispering arcs that carried the cries of circling gulls and the distant breathing of the sea. Aemond sat on a low, moss-covered stone, his boots planted firmly in the wet sand as he chewed on a strip of jerky, the tough meat tasting of salt and of ash, of long journeys and meagre comforts. He watched, yet his gaze was inward, beyond the sight of dragons and the wind-tossed waves. He thought about Westeros, about the lords and ladies in their keeps, the proud ones that often spoke of duty from halls built upon old bones, with voice earned by men long dead and forgotten. He thought about the fat knights at their feasts. He thought about the old, weak king. About the naive queen, his mother. About the princess Rhaenyra wrapped in her velvety indulgence and vexing entitlement.

    To him, they were all of them like that whale, beached on the rocks, waiting for the inevitable jaws of some otherworldly predator to come and tear them apart. There was no true strength in them¡ªat least, not as Aemond understood it. It was not enough to sit in a castle, with one¡¯s wealth and comfort assured.

    Power. Oh, power! How they craved it, wrapped themselves in it. Alas, they had never seen true power¡ªnot really. For what was power in Westeros? Aemond had seen it firsthand. To them, power was the approval of a dying man on a crumbling throne, clutching at illusions and dead affections. It was the grand gestures and the notion of honour so vigorously espoused, yet so infrequently upheld. It was the endlessly squabbling in halls of gold, growing complacent on storied names and on the broken backs of serfs.

    The throne was nothing more than forged iron, no different than the iron beneath this bay, beneath this land. Power, true power, lay not in the throne, nor in the words of fools who believed themselves immortal by right of birth. True power was not gentle, nor was it fair. True power was brutal, demanding, hungry. It lay in control¡ªin the knowing, in the understanding, and in the will to use what one knew and understood without pity, to act decisively, and, if need be, to seize by force what was otherwise denied.

    Leto the First, Shaddam Corrino IV, and even the beastly Vladimir of House Harkonnen all knew what power truly was and they wielded it without remorse. The successor of all three, Paul, did as well, as did his successor after him, Leto the Second. Aemond had been Paul once. In fact, he was Paul still, in many ways, deep in the marrow of his bones, beneath his scarred flesh, beneath the ponderous stirrings of the dragon he had bonded¡ªhe was the Kwisatz Haderach, the fulcrum of history. He had been the bearer of burdens greater than the sum of their collective existence. The one by whose will entire worlds had risen and burned.

    Aemond bit the jerky, felt the toughness grind between his molars¡ªhe knew what power was. The weak nobles of Westeros didn¡¯t. They were weak! Oh, so painfully weak! Their minds fragmented, divided between lust and fear and ancient grudges, petty quarrels that kept them from seeing the vastness of what lay beyond their narrow shores. They were blind, and in their blindness, they would bring themselves, and the world, to eternal ruin.

    Aemond looked to his brother¡ªhis bright-eyed, golden-hearted brother¡ªstill untouched by the darker edges of what it truly meant to be of the line of a Dragonlord, of what it meant to hold fire in one''s hands. The boy sat beside him, eyes soft with affection and fixed upon Tessarion as she dove in pursuit of her prey. Daeron, still so young, unburdened by the truth of this world. There was innocence in his gaze, a certain happiness that Aemond knew he could no longer afford to indulge. Yet, it saddened what must be done for even he could hardly remember the last time he had looked at anything with such simple joy.

    The light in his eyes dimmed and he looked away as the child noticed his stare.

    ¡°Brother?¡± Daeron¡¯s voice carried softly, barely louder than the breeze that toyed with the strands of his silver hair. Aemond turned again, to look at Daeron, studying his young face, the smooth skin untouched by care, his eyes so bright, so trusting. There was a question there, in his gaze, one that had clearly been turning in the boy¡¯s mind for some time, hesitant but insistent.

    ¡°Why did you bring me here?¡± Daeron asked, his tone earnest, his eyes searching Aemond¡¯s face for an answer he had not yet dared to imagine.

    Aemond did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the question drift, feeling its shape, the way the wind seemed to seize upon it, pulling it toward the sea. Why indeed? There could be a thousand reasons, none of them simple. Aemond allowed himself another moment to look at his brother, to see the way youth and naivete still clung to him like the last rays of a setting sun. Daeron had yet to understand, and perhaps that was why Aemond had brought him¡ªto teach him the language of power, the harsh truth of what it meant to decide the fate of those beneath them.

    "Do you know what becomes of men too afraid to learn?" Aemond asked, ignoring Daeron¡¯s question in the meantime. The boy blinked, the light dimming momentarily in his eyes, replaced by something like confusion. ¡°I don¡¯t understand, brother?¡±

    Aemond nodded but continued nonetheless. "They remain as they are,¡± he said, answering his own question. ¡°Unchanged, unseen, and eventually, undone by a world that moves on without them. I tell you this, Daeron, so you do not become like our brother, Aegon. Or our sister, Rhaenyra."

    ¡°Brother¡ª¡±

    "Do you want to learn, Daeron? Or are you still too scared to ask?"

    A pause. Silence.

    ¡°To think I took you North,¡± Aemond continued, the words slow, measured, tasting them as he spoke, "to understand what the world looks like without walls to protect you. I showed you the giants, the mammoths, and the Direwolves. The great weirwood trees that have stood since the days of the first men. Beasts and beings you were taught no longer existed.¡± His gaze shifted to Daeron, his expression turning inscrutable. ¡°In your presence, I sang to the wolves in the tongue of the children and convinced them to follow me south. To await my return. Yet, despite your burning curiosity, you seemed too afraid to ask even for an explanation. Is the blood of the dragon so thin in you?¡±

    ¡°Brother¡ª¡±

    ¡°Are you afraid?¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°NO!¡±

    Another pause. Silence.

    ¡°Then ask,¡± Aemond sighed reaching out to squeeze Daeron¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Do not fear. You must not fear, for Fear is the mind-killer and I would not have the wits of another brother of mine addled by it.¡±

    <hr>

    The meeting room of the Iron Bank of Braavos was a study in understated elegance. The high windows, adorned with plain curtains of grey linen, admitted a pale daylight into the solemn chamber. A long table, polished to a soft sheen, dominated the centre, surrounded by chairs of carved wood, darkened by age and use. The atmosphere was one of a respectable and measured severity, the sort that lent itself well to matters of gravity and consequence. Indeed, the air itself seemed to carry the weight of decisions made and fortunes undone.

    Seated at the table were the formidable figures of the Iron Council, their countenances reflecting a shared seriousness. Among them was Matthos Nestoris, whose calm demeanour had often steered the Bank¡¯s decisions through tempestuous waters, and Elaria Thorne, whose clever eyes rarely missed an opportunity to turn adversity to profit. Each of them held, not only an air of individual distinction, but a common understanding that their power lay in the unanimity of their purpose. They began, without preamble, to consider the troubling matter before them.

    ¡°It would seem that our warnings have been, most unhappily, disregarded,¡± said Matthos, breaking the stillness. He spoke with a tone of studied neutrality, though his expression betrayed a hint of displeasure. ¡°The Dragon¡¯s Bank, despite all advisements to the contrary, has embarked upon dealings with Volantis.¡± He paused, allowing the gravity of this defiance to settle amongst them.

    A murmur, delicately scornful, rippled through the room. Elaria leaned forward, her fingers touching lightly upon the parchment before her. ¡°It is, perhaps, not entirely unexpected,¡± she observed, her voice a mixture of regret and disapproval. ¡°Aemond Targaryen is ambitious, that much cannot be denied. Yet to align himself so openly with Volantis¡ªto invest in a nation that upholds the trade of human souls¡ªis a calculated affront. It is a challenge, aimed as much at us as at the crown.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± added Savio Nocarelli, who, though generally possessed of a placid temperament, could scarcely conceal his irritation now. ¡°The Dragon¡¯s Bank has made itself complicit in the commerce of chains and collars. It is a matter of principle for Braavos, and principle is something we cannot afford to lose, not for coin nor for influence. The very founding of our city rests upon the repudiation of such trade. To ignore this would be to invite the ruin of our very reputation.¡±

    ¡°Yet what is to be done?¡± inquired Horas Di Braavo, whose measured tone revealed no hint of agitation, though his eyes were sharp. ¡°We cannot simply withdraw our influence from Westeros. It would be most imprudent, with repercussions far too numerous and troublesome to be easily contained. The Iron Bank must maintain its presence, lest we lose our hold upon the markets and thus upon the stability of the entire region.¡±

    Elaria nodded in agreement, her lips pressed thinly. ¡°To sever our dealings entirely would be disastrous. However, we are not without recourse. It is not necessary to abandon our presence in Westeros; we need only remind those who might be inclined towards the Dragon¡¯s Bank where true power resides.¡± She allowed herself a small, deliberate smile. ¡°There are debts that can be called in, perhaps at an inconvenient time for some. The Lords of Westeros are a proud lot, but they are not immune to the pressures of a well-timed repayment demand.¡±

    Matthos listened, his expression contemplative. ¡°House Beesbury, House Mallery, and the rest. They are vulnerable, reliant upon us for their solvency. If they are compelled to pay their dues, they will see the folly of placing trust in this Dragon¡¯s Bank.¡± He paused, then added, almost to himself, ¡°The Hightowers, however, must be approached with caution. They are deeply rooted, and a misstep there might strengthen Aemond¡¯s resolve instead of weakening it.¡±

    ¡°And beyond Westeros?¡± Dorian Maro interjected, his soft voice contrasting with the forcefulness of his words. ¡°The Dragon¡¯s Bank has sought opportunities in the Free Cities, in Lys and Myr, where our influence is less dominant. We could direct our energies there, subsidise their competitors, reduce their gains to mere trickles of copper where they once saw streams of gold. Aemond Targaryen has expanded quickly, but such rapid expansion brings with it certain vulnerabilities.¡±

    ¡°A matter of tariffs, perhaps,¡± Elaria mused. ¡°Or favourable rates offered to those whose allegiance remains with us. The Free Cities have long understood that loyalty is best purchased in coin, not in promises.¡±

    ¡°And the sea,¡± Savio said, his gaze drifting to the window, where the harbour of Braavos lay just out of view, bustling with life. ¡°The Narrow Sea is traversed by many ships, but few sail without our leave. There are ways to ensure that those whose allegiance lies with the Dragon¡¯s Bank find their voyages¡­ unexpectedly fraught. A delay here, a complication there. Such things accumulate, to the detriment of their trade.¡± He looked back at the table, his lips curling faintly. ¡°Even the occasional vessel lost to pirates shouldn¡¯t be too unusual.¡±

    Matthos allowed himself a nod of agreement. He rose, his hands resting upon the table as he regarded those assembled before him. ¡°We shall act as is our wont, with patience and precision. Debts will be called, markets undercut, maritime commerce disrupted¡ªall in the service of reminding Aemond Targaryen that the Iron Bank of Braavos is not so easily disregarded.¡±

    There was a murmur of assent, each member of the council giving their acknowledgement. There was no need for elaborate proclamations, nor for impassioned declarations of intent. Their resolve was quiet, steadfast, and as unyielding as the tides that lapped at the shores of their great city.

    As the council members rose, robes whispering against the cold stone floor, Matthos lingered a moment longer, his eyes fixed upon the flames of the hearth. There was a beauty in fire, yes, a fleeting grandeur. But water¡ªwater endured, reshaping itself as needed, wearing away at the unmovable until it became dust.

    And Braavos, like water, would endure. The Dragon¡¯s Bank may roar with the fire of dragons, but they would learn soon enough that the Iron Bank was not swayed by spectacle. It was time to remind the upstart that there were forces in this world that fire could neither burn nor command.

    <hr>

    Treatise: From the Histories of Westeros

    as Written by Septon Eustace, Chronicler of the Crown

    <hr>

    The Seeds of Gold.

    It was said of Prince Aemond Targaryen that he was a man who saw the world not as it was but as it might be. One-eyed though he was, his vision for King¡¯s Landing surpassed the grasp of most men with twice his sight. What the realm remembers as an age of splendour and prosperity was, in truth, born from a crucible of debts, daring, and dragonfire.

    When Prince Aemond assumed the mantle of Master of Coin, the capital teetered on the brink of collapse. King Viserys had grown too infirm to govern, and the lords of Westeros were consumed by petty rivalries. The city itself was a cesspit of squalor and thievery, its people too hungry to hope and too angry to fear. Yet Aemond, ever the strategist, knew that chaos was but opportunity in disguise.

    His first act was the establishment of the Dragon¡¯s Bank, an institution that would come to rival the Iron Bank of Braavos. To the sceptical lords of the small council, Aemond spoke with calm assurance. ¡°Why must we bow to Braavos?¡± he asked. ¡°Do they not bleed as we do? Do they not quake before fire?¡± And so, with coin plundered from Ironborn lords he deemed unworthy of their titles, the bank was born.

    The Dragon¡¯s Bank was no mere repository of gold. Aemond used it as a tool of power. More than one noble house nearly found its lands forfeit when the interest proved too much to bear, and yet more flocked to his banners, eager for coin and opportunity.

    Yet, the prince understood that gold was nothing without the stone to house it. King¡¯s Landing, sprawling and unkempt, was no city to match his ambition. Its streets were narrow and filthy, its markets unguarded dens of thieves. The Blackwater Rush stank of offal, and even the Red Keep seemed to sag under the weight of its neglect.

    Disgusted, Prince Aemond set about remaking the city. He drained the marshes west of the Dragon Gate to build new granaries and storehouses, ensuring the capital would never again be at the mercy of a poor harvest. He commissioned the paving of main thoroughfares with stone quarried from the Crownlands and ordered the construction of aqueducts to bring fresh water to the city.

    The docks along the Blackwater were expanded, their wooden piers replaced with sturdy stone wharves. Merchants from Essos and beyond now found a port worthy of their ships, and soon the markets of King¡¯s Landing teemed with exotic wares¡ªspices from the Summer Isles, silks from Myr, and lumber from the east.

    Not all welcomed the changes. The smallfolk cursed the levies imposed to pay for the prince¡¯s ambitions, but Aemond was not a man easily swayed by complaints. ¡°Better they curse the weight of gold than the grip of hunger,¡± he said. And indeed, as the city grew richer, so too did its people, though they did not always see it.

    <hr>

    <h4>Order and the Red Cloaks</h4>

    A city of gold attracts not only merchants but thieves, and Aemond was no fool. He knew that wealth would bring chaos unless it was guarded as fiercely as a dragon guards its hoard. As Lord Commander of the City Watch, he set to reforging the Red Cloaks in his image.

    Under his rule, the watch was doubled, then doubled again, then once more for good measure, its ranks filled with disciplined men armed with spears and blades forged in the Dragonpit''s shadow. Patrols were organized into shifts, ensuring that no street of King¡¯s Landing was left unwatched. Aemond himself was said to have led the training of the watch¡¯s captains, drilling into them the importance of discipline and loyalty.

    It was not enough to guard the streets. Aemond also sought to guard the hearts of the people. Public executions of thieves and smugglers became common in the squares, each one a grim reminder of the prince¡¯s justice. Yet he was not without mercy¡ªthose who confessed their crimes were often conscripted to the Wall or into labour crews, their work building the very roads and walls that kept the city safe.

    The Prince¡¯s reforms went further, far beyond King¡¯s Landing. He sought to weave the lords of Westeros into a web of trade and coin, knowing that a realm bound by commerce was harder to sever with swords. The North was lured south with promises of wealth; the West provided gold in exchange for grain from the Reach; and the East, ever fickle, was courted with loans and treaties.

    But if the Dragon¡¯s Bank was the heart of Aemond¡¯s vision, its shadow was long and dark. To fund his endeavours, Aemond extended loans to lords who could ill afford them, forcing them into submission when they defaulted. House Rosby nearly lost its lands this way, as did more than one Crownlands house that dared question his authority.

    The Iron Bank of Braavos took notice. Aemond¡¯s rise was an affront they could not ignore, and whispers of their displeasure reached even the halls of the Red Keep. The prince, disdainful of their opinions, responded with an uncharacteristic pettiness, offering the Dragon Bank¡¯s services to all cities the Iron Bank had long shunned.

    To this, the Braavosi were not amused.

    And so began the first Trade War in Westerosi history.

 Chapter Eleven

    "In terms of wealth, power, and influence, the Hightowers of Oldtown are surpassed only by the Lannisters of Casterly Rock."

    ¨DMaester Yandel

    ¡­?

    The journey to King''s Landing had been an onerous one, laden with both anxious anticipation and a familiar sense of indignation. Rhaenyra Targaryen, heavy with child, felt the weight of her pregnancy in every movement as she sat within the carriage, her eyes fixed on the approaching keep. Daemon, ever a shadow at her side, sat opposite her, his stance solid and unyielding, watching the gates come into view. Her sons sat beside her, each struggling to conceal their own apprehension beneath a veil of stoicism. Beside them sat young Rhaena, the hopeful light in her eyes a solemn contrast to the hardened expressions that otherwise populated their party.

    The carriage rumbled through the gates of the Red Keep with an ominous stillness. No cheering crowds, no banners snapping in the wind to welcome the King''s daughter. The arrival in the main bailey was marked by an absence most deliberate, as it seemed no greeting had been arranged for their arrival. Not a single banner unfurled, not a courtier hastened forward, not even the merest smattering of formality met them. The courtyard''s echoing emptiness bespoke a deep insult¡ªthe kind that nestled in one''s chest and festered there, radiating outwards like an itch one could not reach.

    Rhaenyra, her lips tightening, caught Daemon''s eye, and his own eyebrows raised slightly, an amused but seething acknowledgement of the situation. Her sons disembarked, still young and puzzled by the nature of their reception¡ªor lack thereof. Joffrey, wide-eyed, looked to his eldest brother, Jace, whose jaw clenched in an effort to mimic his mother''s stoicism. And Lucerys, her Luke, stood silent, the fear that others might see him unnerved evident behind his fragile determination.

    The clearing lay unwelcoming and silent, only a handful of stable boys and guards standing by, too few to properly meet even the humblest of guests. Rhaenyra had left this place as Princess of Dragonstone, daughter to the King, and to be greeted with a mere whisper¡ªone she did not even merit¡ªfelt as an icy chill to her very blood.

    It was not merely the cold reception that stung Rhaenyra''s pride. No, it was the looming realization that something had shifted profoundly within these ancient walls. As they approached the doors to the main hall, she was struck at once by the altered appearance of the entryway. Gone were the proud sigils of her lineage. In their place stood stark iconography of the Faith of the Seven, banners of light where her family''s legacy once hung in its true, tempestuous crimson. The marble sculptures depicting scenes of Old Valyria¡ªones she had once wandered by, entranced¡ªhad been replaced by visions of piety and serenity.

    Rhaenyra''s expression, if it was possible, hardened further. Daemon''s eyes traced the banners, a smirk playing across his lips. "Decorations," he murmured in that lilting, barbed tone of his. Rhaenyra did not answer. Her eyes remained focused on what lay ahead, though she had heard him clearly. The unspoken words of discontent echoed between them, louder than any insult could be. She knew his thoughts as he knew hers, and the betrayal they felt simmered between them.

    Inside the corridors of the Red Keep, the air was heavy with change, and a strange mixture of both familiarity and alienness pervaded each hall. Every corridor appeared altered, and there was a conspicuous absence of those they had once counted as allies, or at least friendly faces. The walk towards her father''s chambers seemed longer than Rhaenyra remembered, punctuated by the eerie silence of the castle. The clicking of their boots against the polished stone reverberated in the long halls, each sound another reminder of the castle''s now vacuous nature.

    When at last they reached the doors to the King''s chambers, the guards exchanged uncomfortable glances before opening them¡ªas if reluctant to reveal what lay beyond. Rhaenyra and Daemon entered cautiously, their children following behind, their footfalls hesitant. The room was dim, an almost deliberate effort to obscure the one who lay within. Rhaenyra''s breath caught at the sight before her. There, amidst cobwebs and the scent of sickness, lay her father, Viserys Targaryen, his once majestic presence reduced to a frail, barely recognizable shell.

    The model of Old Valyria, that which her father had adored, lay half-finished and covered in dust, its intricate details obscured by neglect. A sight once brimming with ambition and wonder, now fallen to abandonment¡ªan image that spoke of Viserys himself. The frailty of his form under the layers of blankets struck Rhaenyra deeply, his eyes closed and face sunken. She felt Daemon stiffen beside her, his sharp eyes taking in every bleak detail. The reality was far worse than they had imagined.

    Viserys stirred, his movements pained and jerking, as if even the mere act of opening his eyes required herculean effort. Rhaenyra forced herself to smile as she approached him. "Father, I have come," she said softly, her voice filled with a gentleness that belied her fears.

    Viserys opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on her. "Rhaenyra?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at her, confused, as if struggling to comprehend her presence. Rhaenyra felt tears sting her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "Yes, Father, it is I. I have come with Daemon, and my children," she said, her voice cracking.

    Daemon, impatient as ever, stepped forward, bowing slightly before speaking. "Brother, we must speak of recent decisions made in your name." His eyes, dark and intense, looked towards Viserys with a mixture of pity and anger. "The appointment of Vaemond Velaryon as Master of Ships¡ª"

    Viserys looked at him with confusion, his brow furrowing. "Vaemond... Master of Ships?" he repeated, his voice trembling. He looked between them, eyes misty and confused. "I have made no such appointment," he said slowly, as if each word took all the strength he could muster.

    Rhaenyra''s stomach dropped, the implication settling over her like a heavy shroud. "Father, Aemond''s betrothal to Lady Jeyne Arryn?" she asked, but there was no recognition in his gaze. He shook his head feebly, his gaze turning vacant, distant.

    "It is not I," Viserys whispered finally, his head lolling back against the pillows. "Alicent¡­ Otto¡­ They¡­ they handle these matters now. Speak with them."

    Daemon let out a mirthless laugh, and Rhaenyra, her lips trembling, could not hold back the bitter edge in her voice as she spoke. "This is what they have done? They rule in your stead, while you¡­ you lay here, unaware, unconsulted?" Her voice rose, trembling with fury. "While our family¡ªmy children¡ªface threats to their very birthright, you lie here, blind to it all. They have stripped you of your power, Father, and left you as nothing more than a puppet!" Her eyes flashed with both anger and pain, her hands balling into fists at her sides. She turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of her father so reduced, so impotent to aid her, so powerless.

    "The noise," Viserys winced, his eyes fluttering shut, "It hurts¡­ where is¡­ where is my tea?" The desperation in his voice struck Rhaenyra, and she felt Daemon tense beside her. His eyes narrowed, flicking to the small cup on the table nearby, its contents unmistakable¡ªthe familiar pallor of milk of the poppy.

    Daemon picked up the vial, examining it, his gaze calculating. "Your tea," he said, a sardonic note colouring his voice. "And where are those who prepare it for you?" He cast the vial aside, his eyes filled with a simmering fury.

    As if summoned, a pair of maids entered hurriedly, their steps careful and cautious. Rhaenyra, her heart aching, took one last look at her father before turning away. "Enough," she whispered, her voice heavy. Daemon moved to her side, his arm gently guiding her from the room, his expression still hard as stone.

    Together, they left the chambers, Rhaenyra''s children trailing behind them, their young eyes wide and filled with confusion and fear. Rhaenyra felt her breath shortening, a frantic, shallow rhythm as if the weight of her own rage had tightened about her chest. The corridors of the Red Keep, once her home, felt foreign and hostile, closing in around her with an unfamiliarity that stoked her growing sense of dismay. The sight of her father¡ªhelpless, reduced to a feeble figure¡ªhad shattered the fragile hope she had carried on her journey here. Panic nipped at her, the sense of betrayal gnawed at her thoughts, and her hands trembled as she brushed back a lock of her silver hair, struggling to steady her own composure.

    They were supposed to have returned to a haven, to her father''s support. Instead, she had found a tomb of lost glories¡ªthe banners of her house gone, the sculptures of her ancestors removed, her father incapacitated and left as a mere relic of power. It was a theft more insidious than anything that might have been taken with a blade. It was the slow strangling of her heritage, the creeping transformation of all that was hers into something foreign.

    Rhaenyra stopped, pressing a hand to her chest as if to keep herself from breaking apart. The dim hall, the air heavy with incense and the hollow echoes of her family''s past¡ªit all pressed in too closely. The silence bore down, each whisper of a footstep lingering, louder in her ears than it should have been. She felt as if she could not breathe, as if the air itself was rebelling against her.

    Daemon, always attuned to her moods, stepped closer. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened at the sight of her dismay. He reached for her, his hand closing over hers. His presence was a balm, his touch grounding her. "We are not without allies, Rhaenyra," he murmured, his voice low and reassuring, cutting through the swirling chaos in her mind. "The Hightowers will not have their way unchecked. We have options yet."

    His gaze was steady, his confidence unshaken despite the circumstances, and it worked to steady her. Rhaenyra took in a deep breath, her lips parting as she forced herself to focus on his words. Daemon''s voice, with all its sharp-edged certainty, brought her back from the brink.

    "Corlys will return soon," Daemon continued, his lips curling with a knowing smile. "And once he does, Vaemond''s tenure as Master of Ships will be but a brief and regrettable lapse in judgment." His tone held a hint of dark amusement, a promise of retribution that sent a shiver down Rhaenyra''s spine, her indignation slowly giving way to resolve. "And we will find a way to do what must be done in the Vale. We will not allow them to keep us at bay."

    She nodded, swallowing down her fear, replacing it with fury¡ªan emotion far more familiar and far more manageable. She had been through worse; they both had. They would not be cowed by Otto Hightower and his daughter¡ªpretenders playing at power while the King, her father, wasted away in darkness. The resolve in her heart crystallized, fierce and unyielding.

    The sudden sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall, and Rhaenyra turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she beheld Alicent Hightower coming towards them, her expression composed, but her eyes¡ªoh, her eyes¡ªholding that familiar glint of self-satisfaction that always seemed to lurk there. Rhaenyra felt Daemon''s grip tighten on her hand, and she straightened, readying herself for the confrontation that was to come.

    "Princess," Alicent said, her voice too smooth, her demeanour practised and courteous as she inclined her head. "It is good to see you returned to the Red Keep."

    "Is it?" Rhaenyra''s reply was sharp, the words escaping her lips before she could temper them. Her gaze bore into Alicent, taking in the serene poise, the placid smile that masked everything beneath. "It hardly seems so. My father''s chambers are like a mausoleum, and it appears he is kept thus deliberately stupefied." She did not bother to hide the bite in her tone, nor the accusation it carried.

    Alicent''s smile faltered, her expression furrowing for a heartbeat. "The King suffers greatly, Rhaenyra. The milk of the poppy is administered only to bring him some measure of comfort in his pain."

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    Daemon let out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with scorn. "Comfort, is it? Tell me, do the maesters also prescribe the removal of Targaryen heraldry from these halls for his comfort? The sight of his own family''s symbols must have been terribly distressing for him." His words were venomous, his eyes fixed on Alicent, daring her to respond.

    The queen''s gaze narrowed, her smile returning, though it did not reach her eyes. "The Faith of the Seven reminds us all of a higher authority," she replied, her tone lofty. "It is meant to bring unity to the court, to remind those present that there is more than the ambitions of any one house."

    "A higher authority, indeed," Rhaenyra said, her voice cold. "And which authority bade you install a Master of Ships without the King''s consent or betrothed his son without his knowledge?"

    Alicent''s smile widened slightly, her eyes gleaming as she inclined her head ever so slightly. "As Hand of the King and Queen, my father and I decide such matters when the King is indisposed. You are welcome to speak with him, though I imagine you found little comfort in doing so."

    The words cut deeply, and Rhaenyra felt a surge of anger rise in her chest, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto Alicent''s. "You presume too much, Alicent. My father''s condition is not a justification for your overreach. We will not remain silent while you and your father rule in his stead, twisting the Red Keep into some perverse parody of itself."

    Alicent did not flinch. Instead, she regarded Rhaenyra with a pitying expression, her head tilting slightly to the side. "How long will you be staying, Princess? We would prepare accommodations, though I imagine Dragonstone calls to you."

    Rhaenyra''s eyes flashed, her lips curling in disdain. "Indeed, we have no interest in sharing a roof with snakes of your nature. We will be returning to Dragonstone, posthaste."

    With that, she turned sharply, Daemon at her side, and began to walk away. Her heart pounded, her mind racing, her fury unspent. Alicent had stood there, smug in her certainty, unchallenged in her theft of power, and there was nothing Rhaenyra could do¡ªnot now, not yet. But as they left the hall, Rhaenyra''s resolve grew harder, more unyielding. They would return to Dragonstone, but it would not be in retreat.

    No. This was merely a withdrawal, a gathering of strength, of allies. The greens had made their move, and now it was time to make hers.

    <hr>

    Otto Hightower observed the council chamber, eyes narrowing with concentration. The room was enveloped in a subdued hum, voices blending in a genteel cacophony that suggested a deliberation of earnest, albeit uneasy minds. The small council sat assembled, expressions ranging from the stern composure of Vaemond Velaryon to the veiled cunning of Larys Strong as they discussed matters of grain, ships, and gold, all wound in the knotty web of Westerosi affairs. The Hand of the King leaned forward, his fingertips lightly brushing the edges of the painted map of Westeros that lay before them, feeling the coarseness of the vellum beneath his skin as he considered her with a distant expression.

    Mysaria¡ªthe dancer from Lys, though now she styled herself with the respectability that came with titles bestowed by her prince. The base-born woman, her alabaster skin stark against the deep reds she wore, stood at the other end of the council''s oval table.

    She had begun her presentation a while ago, her voice, always tinged with that foreign lilt, cutting through the chamber like the keenest of blades. Otto had listened with guarded attention, though the entire concept of a commoner¡ªa whore no less¡ªnow standing amongst them as Prince Aemond''s Secretary of Trade and Foreign Affairs was an affront that tugged against every tendon in his neck., The woman had risen, true enough, but to sit amongst the lords of Westeros? Unthinkable.

    And yet, unthinkable did not mean without merit. Prince Aemond had, regrettably, seen something in her¡ªand, even more irksome, she had proven herself worthy of his trust. Otto could scarcely find fault in her performance, and today, as she unfolded the news from Braavos, he sensed the council hanging on to every word she uttered.

    "The Iron Bank, as I''ve outlined," Mysaria said, her tone devoid of emotion, "intends to leverage their considerable influence against us. Westeros has become a target, and the Dragon''s Bank is at risk of being undercut both at home and in Essos. Lords who owe the Iron Bank will feel its demands, especially those smaller houses, as their reliance on Braavosi coin would see their solvency undermined. Our sources abroad suspect that funding aimed at subsidizing competing financial institutions and businesses across Lys, Myr, and Volantis is already being amassed. They seek to create discord among our allies, render our lending and adjacent business ventures abroad unprofitable, and isolate and outbid the bank''s investments in the Free Cities. They will bring a storm, my lords, and we must decide whether we bear it or turn it back upon them."

    She paused, her pale eyes meeting those around the table. Otto took the opportunity, clearing his throat pointedly¡ªa sound that echoed briefly, drawing all attention towards him. "If I may," he began, keeping his voice measured, authoritative. "Prince Aemond has taken upon himself a heavy mantle, playing in the shadows where others might see only danger. This manoeuvre by the Iron Bank is not unforeseen. Indeed, it is unsurprising that the Iron Bank would not watch their monopoly erode without a response. However, the Dragon''s Bank, for all its foundations in power, was conceived amid threat. Hence, my concern, Madam Secretary, is whether we are now positioned to weather a concerted strike from Braavos."

    Otto allowed his gaze to travel slowly around the table, studying each of his fellow council members in turn. Alicent''s face was drawn, though she managed a look of resolve. Tyland Lannister had a calculating glint in his eyes, as though already estimating the costs of the coming conflict. Vaemond Velaryon seemed eager. The others remained cautious, though not entirely without determination.

    His gaze returned to the secretary and Mysaria tilted her head, the long earrings that hung from her ears catching the light of the council chamber''s braziers. "Prince Aemond has been preparing for this, it seems¡ªmore than you might think, Lord Hand," she said, meeting his gaze without much emotion. "I only just discovered that there are arrangements in place to issue debt refinancing and partial forgiveness aimed at keeping the affected fiefs in check¡ªvulnerable lords will be offered new terms and low-interest loans, ensuring they retain solvency and loyalty to the Crown. Emergency credit lines will be extended as needed. And in the Free Cities, the Dragon''s Bank will move to match the Iron Bank''s subsidies, leveraging our own alliances¡ªparticularly in Lys, Myr, and Volantis¡ªto outbid them and make their efforts an unsustainable expense. Where Braavos pressures, we counter with support. We allow those houses to breathe, we become indispensable. That is the prince''s design."

    She turned, gesturing with one slim hand as though she were offering the council members something tangible. Her words continued, describing detailed plans to undercut the Iron Bank by offering temporarily reduced interest rates and forging new partnerships in places like Pentos and Qarth, where Braavosi influence was less pervasive.

    Larys Strong, Lord Confessor, who had thus far remained silent, spoke. "If the Braavosi grow desperate enough to disrupt trade with piracy, or resort to sabotage, how prepared are we for such an escalation?"

    "Prince believes it to be a possibility," Mysaria said, her tone dipped in neutrality. "Hence, we are already enacting preemptive measures and diversifying our routes¡ªoverland, if need be¡ªto bypass our most vulnerable trade routes. The prince also suggested that the fleet at the Stepstones be employed to patrol our most important routes as a deterrence against overt hostilities. A proposal has also been sent to Ser Vaemond this morning to confirm the viability of this plan but I have yet to get a response."

    Vaemond nodded, a thin smile playing on his lips. "I still have to confirm the status of the vessels Lord Corlys would be returning with before giving any assurances, but we may work out a compromise regardless. The Velaryon fleet stands ready, Lord Hand. The enemy will find no easy prey among our ships."

    Otto turned his gaze back to Mysaria and she continued. "Aside from that," she said, "I am looking into expanding our network of bonded warehouses to ensure goods are secured even if shipping routes are delayed or disrupted," she said. "We are also looking to encourage the pirates of the Basilisk Isles to¡­ target Braavosi ships, should they endeavour to do the same. Although, I pray it doesn''t come to that."

    Orwyle, who had until now contented himself with quiet observation, leaned back in his seat. "This will be a costly venture," he pointed out. "Do we have enough gold to support such an endeavour?"

    Mysaria''s lips tightened for a moment, a rare show of emotion. "We do, Grand Maester, and can supplement the bank''s coffers by issuing a limited amount of bonds should the need arise. However, Prince Aemond left instructions to inform the council that his plan would severely eat into our bottom line if executed. The bank might be unprofitable for a short while, at least until the market acclimatises to the changes in the status quo. Yet, what I fear most is the Sealord''s interference. Surely, with the stance the Iron Bank is taking, he may choose to hinder our trade more overtly in order to curry favour with the power brokers of his city."

    Otto nodded in understanding. "Alright, I will dispatch an emissary to treat with the Sealord then, to remind him that Braavos has benefited greatly from balanced relations with Westeros. An unstable realm does not serve their interests, and they would do well to remember it. But beyond diplomacy, I need you to take the initiative to also look within Braavos itself. The Iron Bank is not beloved by all in its city. There surely would exist factions who may be swayed, mercantile interests that dislike the risks being taken on their behalf. If we fracture Braavos internally, their stance weakens."

    Mysaria nodded, her lips curving into a slight smile,,. "The Prince left such instructions, Lord Hand. I shall see to it that they are executed to your satisfaction."

    Otto allowed himself a tight smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "You have spoken much of Aemond''s foresight," he said. "And yet, it strikes me that our prince flies to the North of all places instead of returning immediately after his foray to the Eyrie, leaving us to now face the repercussions of his bold dealings in Essos. What assurances have we that these measures will hold while he is away?"

    "Prince Aemond has left us with his plans, and with those empowered to act," Mysaria replied, her voice quiet but firm. "He trusts that the council, with the wisdom of the Hand at its head, will do what must be done. As for the outcome of this plan, I personally have long learned to execute the prince''s will without protest; that, I assure you, has yet to fail me so far."

    A moment of silence settled over the room, tension visible in the lines etched across Otto''s forehead. He looked to Wylde and Orwyle, both of whom nodded gravely, weighing the details presented. Finally, Otto leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him.

    "Very well," he said at last, his voice cutting through the silence. "We must not allow Braavos to dictate the terms of Westeros''s future." He glanced at Vaemond. "Ser Velaryon, your fleet¡­ are you certain it would be ready to ensure the safety of our waters?"

    Vaemond inclined his head, his voice measured. "It will be, Lord Hand."

    Otto nodded and turned back to Mysaria. "See that Aemond''s instructions are carried out, Madam. The Dragon''s Bank must not falter. And remember¡ªthe eyes of the world is upon us. We stand firm, and we act decisively. All must see that the house of the Dragon knows neither fear nor vulnerability."

 Chapter Twelve

    "What is honour to a drowned man? If I must lose my life, I will lose it fighting for my blood."

    ¨DCorlys Velaryon

    ¡­?

    The Sea Snake stood at the prow of his flagship, the salty wind tousling his grizzled hair, his eyes narrowing as Driftmark came into view. A low murmur of satisfaction rumbled in his throat, a sound only the sea might have heard, and perhaps answered, had it cared to. There, in the distance, the jagged cliffs rose from the ocean like the fangs of some ancient beast, familiar as an old lover, as dangerous too. This was home. This was Driftmark, the domain that had risen with him, and that would fall with him, if the gods proved cruel. His banners flew proudly above the harbour¡ªblue and silver, House Velaryon''s colours snapping in the breeze like heralds of old. And beyond them lay the Hall of Nine, his hall, the seat of his power, built stone by stone, coin by coin, from the spoils of the sea.

    The watchmen on the bluffs had done their duty well; even from the deck of his flagship, he could see the colours of his banners waving their welcome, the blue and silver of House Velaryon dancing against the sky. A balm for a weary soul, but more than that¡ªit was a promise, a whisper of rewards waiting to be claimed. Glory, recognition, respect. The spoils of a lifetime spent at sea. And today, they would all bear witness to what he had won.

    A cheer erupted from his crew as the Sea Snake''s ensign, a mighty sea horse emblazoned on azure, unfurled and caught the wind. Corlys allowed himself a moment of pride. She was a fine ship, sleek and swift, her sails full and proud, her hold brimming with treasure, her deck lined with men who had survived storms and steel to bring her home. Behind her, a procession of lesser vessels followed, a parade of conquest and plunder that lent magnitude to his arrival.

    The harbour was crowded, the docks thronged with villagers, fisherfolk, and nobles alike. Their voices rose in a ragged cheer, echoing across the water as the Sea Snake''s ship glided in. Musicians played, horns and drums beating out a rhythm that reverberated in Corlys''s chest, and children scrambled up the pilings to catch a glimpse of the returning fleet. This was their lord, the lord who had brought them victory, the lord who had brought them gold. And as he watched their awed faces, Corlys felt it again, that sharp thrill. Their loyalty he had earned, yes, but it was their awe that sustained him. To be above them, to command them, to be the object of their adulation¡ªthat was the true prize. That was worth every risk, every storm, every drop of blood.

    The air smelled of salt and sweat, mingled with the sweetness of fresh-cut flowers and the sharp tang of garlands woven from sea lavender. His men began to disembark, weighed down with sacks and chests and crates of treasure: pearls as big as a man''s thumb, trinkets of gold and silver, carved idols of strange gods, spices and silks from far-off lands. Behind them came the prisoners, shackled and sullen, eyes downcast as they stumbled onto the dock to be paraded before the masses. These were the spoils of his victory, trophies that would further cement his standing as one of the greatest lords of Westerosi history.

    As Corlys stepped onto the gangplank, he could hear the shouts of admiration from the crowd. He nodded to them, acknowledging their cheers with a steady, regal bearing. It was not his way to boast openly; no, he would let the treasures speak for themselves. This was his triumph, and he intended for all to see the magnitude of what he had accomplished.

    The procession from the harbour to the Hall of Nine was a grand affair, as befitting a lord''s return. Corlys walked at the head, surrounded by his most trusted men-at-arms, their banners fluttering proudly in the breeze. Alongside him, retainers carried the treasures they had brought home, tokens of conquest that would be displayed for all to see. Flower petals rained down upon them, children darted forward to offer bread and salt, and the songs of welcome filled the air. Corlys kept his gaze forward, though he took in every detail¡ªthe pride on his people''s faces, the hope that flickered there. He knew the importance of these moments, of showing strength, of reminding them that he was the lord who had brought prosperity and power to Driftmark. This was why he had ventured into the perilous waters of the Stepstones. This was what made it all worthwhile¡ªnot merely the safety of his people, but the elevation of his name and House.

    The gates of the Hall of Nine swung open before him, and there she stood, waiting. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, her beauty undimmed by the years, her bearing as proud as ever. Corlys felt his heart shiver, the only crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. She moved towards him, a goblet in her hand, a wreath of laurel held high, and her smile¡ªah, her smile. She gave him a kiss then, full of warmth and longing and a thousand unspoken words, and he accepted it, and the laurel, and the goblet. The wine was sweet on his tongue, but her touch was sweeter.

    "At last, you''ve returned to me, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible amidst the din. Her eyes held his, her gaze soft and filled with affection. "I feared the sea would keep you this time."

    Corlys reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "The sea may claim many things, but it will never take me from you, my love." His voice was low, meant only for her ears.

    She leaned closer, her forehead resting gently against his. "You are a stubborn man, Corlys Velaryon," she said, her voice touched with laughter. "But I am grateful for it, more than you know. Let us go inside, my lord. Tonight, we celebrate your triumph."

    He chuckled, a low, rough sound, and slipped his arm around her waist. Together they moved towards the hall, towards the warmth and the laughter and the light. The Hall of Nine was alive with movement, servants laying tables with roast boar and spiced fish, platters of ripe fruits, wheels of cheese, and more wine than the cellars had held in months. The scents of rosemary and honey, of smoke and salt, mingled in the air, and minstrels were already tuning their instruments. The nobles crowded close, eager to offer their congratulations, their smiles wide, their eyes sharp.

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    Corlys took his place at the head of the table, regal but relaxed, his gaze sweeping across the hall. He listened as a young nephew rose to speak, his voice quivering with excitement as he recounted Corlys''s exploits. Tempests defied, enemies outwitted, treasure brought home¡ªthe lad spoke well, and Corlys smiled, raising his goblet, cheering with the rest. This was his moment, his triumph, his reward for all he had endured.

    But as the night wore on, as the laughter echoed off the stone walls and the musicians played their merry tunes, Corlys felt the weariness settle in his bones. The journey, the battles, the sleepless nights¡ªthey weighed on him now, heavy as iron. He glanced towards Rhaenys, and she met his gaze, understanding without words. She approached, slipping her arm through his, leaning in close to whisper that it was time. He nodded, letting her lead him away amidst the cheers and farewells.

    The walk to his chambers was a blur, the minutes slipping past like waves in the dark. Rhaenys helped him to his bed, her fingers gentle as they brushed his brow, her words soft and warm, though he could not grasp their meaning. She left him then, her duties pulling her back to the revelry below. A servant girl entered, her steps soft, a chalice balanced on a tray.

    "What is this?" Corlys asked, his voice thick with fatigue as he squinted at her.

    "A draught, my lord," she whispered. She smiled, her eyes downcast, hidden in shadows, and brought the goblet to his lips. The brew was sweet, and Corlys drank, the warmth spreading through him.

    "There, there, my lord," the girl murmured, her fingers dabbing his lips with a linen napkin.

    "That should ease your troubles."

    <hr>

    The morning sun crept in through the high windows of the Hall of Nine, a pale gold light that seemed almost mocking, indifferent to the sorrows it illuminated. Rhaenys stood by her husband''s bed, her eyes fixed on the fever-wracked form of Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake lay still, his face drawn and hollow, the strength leached from him. The fire that lit his gaze just the day before was a mere ember now. Even the greatest among them were still men, and men could be broken. The fever had come for him in the night, sudden as a squall off Shipbreaker Bay, relentless as the tides.

    Maester Gerardys bent over Corlys, his long fingers tracing his brow, his lips pursed as though he tasted something bitter. Rhaenys watched him, her face a mask. It was all she could do not to press him, demand answers he plainly did not have. The Maester was not an old man, but his face was creased and worn from years of tending wounds, mending broken bones, and easing pain that could not truly be eased. His eyes, when they met hers, were grave.

    "The fever is stubborn, my lady," Gerardys said, his voice low. "I cannot yet divine its cause. The journey and the salt air may have left him weakened. I would give him milk of the poppy, to ease his pain and let him rest."

    "No," Corlys rasped, his eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to make Gerardys flinch. "No poppy. I will not have my wits dulled. I have sailed through innumerable storms, Maester. I will weather this one too."

    Rhaenys sighed, her eyes flicking between her husband and Gerardys. She knew that stubbornness well¡ªit was that same iron will that had carried Corlys across strange seas to distant lands, that had built their house into a power few dared challenge. But that same stubbornness could also lead him to folly. She opened her mouth to speak, prepared to urge a compromise¡ªperhaps a diluted dose that would not muddle his mind¡ªbut felt a small hand slip into hers. Baela stood beside her, looking up at her with those wide, earnest eyes, so much like her mother''s. A strained smile found her way to her lips and Rhaenys drew a breath, finding a measure of calm in the gesture.

    The knock on the door was soft, hesitant, but it broke the stillness. A servant entered, a scrap of parchment in his hand. "A raven from King''s Landing, my lady," he said, offering it to her.

    Rhaenys took the letter, her fingers brushing over the wax seal. She broke it and read quickly, her eyes narrowing at the words. The summons was from Viserys himself, requesting her presence at court, along with Baela. He had not mentioned Corlys. He could have not known her husband had returned, nor the state in which he''d found himself. Still, the timing of it...

    Corlys stirred, his eyes on her. "What troubles you, Rhaenys?" he asked, his voice softer now, rough with the strain of fever.

    "A summons from the king," she said, folding the letter. "Viserys bids me come to King''s Landing, and take Baela with me. But you are unwell. I mislike the thought of leaving you."

    Corlys gave a faint smile, weary but resolute. "The king''s summons must be answered, my love. The crown backed my war against the Triarchy, and now they call. We must answer, lest they think us ungrateful. Besides, I am not so weak as I seem. I have weathered worse than this."

    Rhaenys frowned, biting her lip. She glanced at Baela, the girl''s eyes filled with worry, her hand still gripping her grandmother''s tightly. Rhaenys knew she could not refuse Viserys. She would go, but she would not leave Driftmark undefended. Baela was strong, a dragonrider already, and there was no one she would rather have at her side.

    "We will go," she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. "But we will fly. The dragons will take us swiftly, and we will return to you just as swiftly."

    Corlys nodded, though his eyes betrayed the concern he would not voice. "As you wish," he said, his eyes drifting closed, the fever drawing him back into sleep.

    Rhaenys lingered a moment longer, brushing her fingers against his brow, feeling the heat beneath her touch. Then she turned to Gerardys, her gaze hardening. "Watch him well, Maester. I expect him hale and whole when I return."

    Gerardys bowed his head. "Of course, my lady. I will do all that I can."

    Baela looked up at Rhaenys, her voice soft but steady. "He will be well, grandmother."

    Rhaenys looked down at her, her lips curving into a small smile. "Thank you, child," she whispered, her voice thick with love and the iron of her resolve.

    Duty called, as it always had. For her house, for her family, for her lord. She would fly to King''s Landing, do what needed doing, and return. Come what may.

 Chapter Thirteen

    "Any man who must say, ''I am the king,'' is no true king."

    ¨DTywin Lannister

    ¡­?

    Aemond''s return to King''s Landing was unannounced, a mere ripple against the backdrop of daily life, but the currents of his presence were deeply felt. Vhagar''s wings stirred a wind that swept through the hills outside the city, heralding the prince''s arrival as the ancient beast touched down beyond the walls. The prince dismounted, his movements fluid and deliberate, the great dragoness bending her neck with a kind of tacit understanding as he removed his pack from her saddle. With a lingering touch against Vhagar''s flank, he left the dragon to watch over the open fields, striding with purpose towards the looming gates of King''s Landing.

    The Dragon Gate opened before him, guards of the City Watch snapping to attention with rigid salutes, their reverence unfeigned. They bowed their heads and murmured their greetings, but Aemond responded only with a simple nod, acknowledging their respect as it was his due, yet without vanity.

    He entered the city unescorted, moving with the confidence of a man who had memorized every twist of cobblestone beneath his boots. The streets were bustling as always, merchants calling their wares, smallfolk lingering with open curiosity, and children scampering through the alleys. Those who recognized him paused to stare, their gazes mingling fear and admiration. Aemond greeted a few, his lips curving faintly as he nodded to a vendor, a young woman curtsying deeply in his path. The Red Cloaks on duty, who had been lounging idly, straightened at the sight of him, faces hardening into professionalism as he passed. Aemond''s mere presence demanded composure, and that demand rippled across the city as he walked.

    He reached the Red Keep without incident or delay, its great shadow swallowing him as he approached the gatehouse. The Keep''s servants scattered in haste, whispers already spreading ahead of him, the courtiers'' casual chatter stiffening with the knowledge that the One-Eyed Prince had returned. But Aemond had no interest in stirring the court''s gossip; he moved quietly through the labyrinthine halls until he stood before the nursery doors, where his niece and nephew resided.

    Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, mere children who bore the weighty names of their ancestry, ran to greet him at the sight of his silhouette, their innocence cutting through the solemn air like sunlight piercing fog. Helaena rose with her usual ethereal grace, and beside her, Rowenna straightened, her expression a mixture of formality and familiarity. Aemond''s attention, however, was immediately captured by the children, who clamoured for his notice, their eager faces lit with joy.

    He smiled, his features softening in a manner that was rare. From his pack, he retrieved small trinkets¡ªgifts from Oldtown¡ªand presented them, his hands deftly unwrapping the contents as the children''s eyes widened with wonder. Jaehaera took to her carved wooden wyvern with an excited squeal, while Jaehaerys examined his intricately wrought puzzle cube with intense curiosity, his small brow furrowed in concentration. Aemond knelt before them, murmuring softly, his voice low and warm, until the children, engrossed with their gifts, allowed him to finally straighten and acknowledge the adults in the room.

    "Prince Aemond," Rowenna said, her formality tempered with familiarity. Helaena, watching the children fondly, turned to him with a brightened gaze.

    "How fared our brother?" Helaena inquired, her voice soft, lilting. She was as she always was, a quiet presence with a perpetual air of mystery, her silver hair cascading down her back.

    "Daeron performed admirably," Aemond assured her. "He''s been returned safely to Oldtown." He watched Helaena''s face ease, the tension in her gaze fading to something like contentment.

    "And you?" Aemond asked, raising a brow as he looked at her.

    Helaena''s lips curved in a faint smile, "As well as always, brother." The simplicity of her words made Aemond huff a small laugh, the sound dry and amused. He knew what she alluded to, her eyes flickering to the side where silence veiled discomfort.

    "I will speak to him," Aemond said, his voice tempered, a promise there, albeit one that hung heavily in the air. She gave a small nod, her eyes meeting his with a flash of gratitude.

    Turning his attention to Rowenna, Aemond allowed the intensity of his gaze to settle on her. "Your colleagues," he said, "Where are they now?"

    "In their chambers, my prince," Rowenna answered swiftly. "Shall I summon them? Are we to resume lessons today?"

    Aemond shook his head. "No, not today. But ensure they remain within the Keep. There are other commitments I must see to." As if to punctuate his words, a servant appeared in the doorway, hesitating before stepping forward.

    "My prince, the King requests your presence." The girl''s voice quivered with the weight of the message. Aemond turned, his eye sweeping across the room once more before he made to leave.

    "Must you really do this, brother?" Helaena asked, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes faraway, almost unfocused¡ªa dreamy tone masking the sharpness of her question. Aemond paused, looking back at her, a faint smile on his lips.

    "Sometimes, sacrifice is the only way forward," he replied, his voice an echo of something older, wiser, his words heavy with unspoken resolve. And with that, he left, his cloak trailing behind him as he made his way towards duty''s inevitable call.

    <hr>

    The throne room was colder than Viserys remembered, a chill that seemed to gnaw at his ageing bones as he entered. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, its jagged edges gleaming under the torchlight, reflecting the flickering flames in fractured shards. The very sight of it had once filled him with awe; now it only inspired a weary dread. It seemed larger today, an indifferent beast made of a thousand swords, mocking his frailty. He hunched over, each step a struggle, his breath growing more laboured as he ascended the stone steps.

    Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk Cargyll flanked him, their presence offering little solace. They moved to help as his knees buckled momentarily, but Viserys waved them off. His pride allowed no such charity. He refused to be seen as weak, especially not here, before that throne, before his court, and certainly not before an unruly son. With a grimace, he continued up the steps, his crown slipping, the ornate weight of it sliding from his head, clattering loudly upon the stone below. The sound echoed, deafening in the silence.

    Viserys sucked in a breath, the cold air biting into his lungs, and he forced himself to turn back, painfully stooping to retrieve the fallen crown. The weight seemed greater than before, and his fingers shook as he righted it upon his brow, the circlet of gold pressing uncomfortably against his temple. He finally settled on the Iron Throne, the sharp edges of the ancient seat biting into his flesh, a reminder of its unforgiving nature.

    Before him, the throne room lay in silence. On either side of the throne, Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander, and Grand Maester Orwyle bowed their heads in acknowledgement of his presence. Viserys nodded back, struggling to mask the agony in his bones, the burning ache in his knees. His eyes sought Aemond¡ªthe cause of this summons.

    The young prince leaned casually against one of the columns halfway down the room, his silhouette partially obscured in shadow. He made no move, showed no urgency at his father''s entrance. His one eye, glinting beneath his brow, was the only thing that caught the light, a cold gleam that seemed to judge Viserys without words. His face was calm, too calm, as if this was all beneath him, an inconvenience he was forced to indulge.

    Viserys cleared his throat, his voice raspy and dry as he addressed the figure in the shadows. "Aemond," he began, his tone strained, "step forward."

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    The prince moved slowly, deliberately, taking his time, each step echoing against the cold stone floors. He came to stand before the Iron Throne, his head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze unreadable. Viserys took him in¡ªthe set of his jaw, the chill in his eyes, the way he carried himself with a quiet arrogance.

    "Your recent... actions," Viserys started, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied himself, "bewilder me. Vaemond Velaryon on the small council, your betrothal to Lady Jeyne Arryn, provocations against Braavos¡ªall these done without my consent. Without even my knowledge."

    The prince met Viserys'' gaze, his expression unwavering, his eye reflecting none of the tension that Viserys felt. Aemond tilted his head, listening, though there was an indifference about him, a kind of quiet superiority. The prince allowed the question to linger, tasting the tension as if savoring it.

    "The decisions were made for the betterment of the realm," he answered plainly in the end. His gaze bore into Viserys, unwavering, like a blade aimed at the heart. "It was not I who chose to act in secrecy. Rather, it is your failing health, Father, that demanded we take action ¡ª to keep the kingdom running."

    The insinuation struck Viserys like a dagger. Fury surged through him, every muscle in his body stiffening. "You presume too much, boy," Viserys spat, his voice gaining strength from the fury bubbling within. "I am king. Not you. These matters are mine to decide, or Rhaenyra''s in my eventual absence. You were put on the council to serve, not to command. You dare take it upon yourself to make decisions that only I, or my heir, shall decree?"

    Aemond''s lips twitched into what might have been a smile¡ªa small, condescending curve. He inclined his head slightly, but not in deference; it was more a gesture of acknowledgement, as if he had already anticipated every word, every accusation. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, the words practised, as though he had rehearsed this moment countless times in his mind.

    "The realm, Father, does not have the luxury of waiting," Aemond said, his tone calm, logical, the detachment in it like ice. "As I have said before, your health is failing. We cannot afford to stand idle. Decisions must be made for the stability of Westeros. I made them, as I believed was right."

    Viserys felt the heat rising up his neck, his hands trembling as they clutched at the armrests. His breath quickened, each intake painful. "Everything!" he snapped, his voice loud enough to echo, sharp enough to cut. "You will reverse everything! Vaemond''s appointment, your engagement, even this stupid conflict you wish to start with the Iron Bank! Everything! I will not have you, in your hubris and arrogance, complicate matters ahead of my daughter''s ascension. Do you understand me, boy?"

    The moment dragged on, tense, uneasy, yet no response came. Aemond held his gaze, his expression unchanging, his eye steady and cold. When the prince finally spoke, it was with a disdain that seemed to hold a metaphysical weight. "I seek only what is best for the realm," he said. "Your orders, Father, in this state, are flawed. Illogical. I cannot, in good conscience, carry them out."

    Viserys''s chest heaved, the shock of Aemond''s words leaving him momentarily speechless. The gall of it¡ªthe absolute gall. His hands went to the dagger at his belt, the Valyrian steel glinting in the dim light as he drew it, the motion wild, almost desperate. He struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing.

    "You will heed me, or by the gods, I will have your tongue for this insolence!" Viserys shouted, his voice cracking as he pointed the dagger towards Aemond.

    Aemond looked at the blade, then back at Viserys, and there was something akin to pity in his gaze. He spoke slowly, with a maddening calm that made Viserys''s blood boil. "It is a shame," the prince said, shaking his head. "Had you not been so blinded by your emotions, you might have made a somewhat passable ruler."

    Viserys''s dagger wavered, his grip unsteady. The room around him felt smaller, the faces of those watching faded to blurs. His breath rattled in his chest, fury mingling with something deeper, something far more unsettling¡ªfear. Fear of the truth in Aemond''s words, fear of his own failing strength.

    "Guards!" Viserys rasped, his voice barely more than a croak, his eyes darting towards the Kingsguard. "Seize him! Seize the prince!"

    For a moment, nothing happened. The silence was suffocating. Then the guards exchanged glances, uncertainty written on their faces. They shifted uneasily, their hands inching towards their swords, but none moved forward. None dared.

    Viserys looked to Ser Harrold, and the Lord Commander turned on his men. "Did you not hear your king?" he demanded, anger evident in his tone. "Seize him!"

    Still, the Kingsguard hesitated. The Cargyll twins shifted uneasily, their hands brushing the pommels of their swords but drawing nothing. There was an unspoken tension, an understanding that Viserys saw too late. They were not just weighing their loyalty to him against Aemond''s. They were deciding who, in truth, wielded power.

    Ser Harrold unsheathed his blade, his eyes darkening with determination. He stepped forward, his armour clanking as he approached Aemond. But, with a flash of steel, Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk crossed their blades in front of him, barring his way. The rasp of swords sliding against one another filled the room, and for Viserys, it was the sound of something breaking.

    Viserys watched in mute horror as Ser Harrold''s advance was halted, the blade of one Kingsguard knight meeting the other''s in cold defiance. His heart pounded, the beat echoing in his ears. He saw the silent understanding among them, a consensus that turned his stomach. His son had undone him.

    Viserys sank back onto the Iron Throne, the coldness of the metal biting into his skin, the sting of his own helplessness biting deeper still.

    Aemond stared back, unblinking, his expression as cold and unreadable as stone. There was no triumph in his gaze, no satisfaction ¡ª only that same infuriating calm. The silence between them seemed to stretch, heavy and impenetrable, as the king''s breath came ragged, his strength slowly ebbing away.

    Viserys''s hands still gripped the armrests, his knuckles white against the black iron. He could feel his power slipping, his authority eroding in the face of the indifference before him. Aemond had become a stranger, one he could no longer command, and as the prince looked at him, Viserys saw not his son, but a force he could not bend.

    The air in the throne room was suffocating, the walls closing in around the king, pressing down with the weight of all his failures. Viserys watched as Aemond turned away, slowly, deliberately, as though the matter were settled, as though he had no fear of repercussion. He moved with a calm assurance that twisted the knife of humiliation in Viserys''s gut. The king''s hands clenched around the armrests, his knuckles whitening against the dark iron.

    Aemond paused in his departure, turning back to face the throne, his gaze sweeping over Ser Harrold and the other knights. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that carried an unmistakable command.

    "Take the king to his chambers and make sure he is not disturbed. None may see him without my explicit permission." The order came from a calm place, with words falling like a death knell in the quiet of the room. The prince''s lone eye then fell upon Ser Harrold, and his expression hardened. "And the Lord Commander will be taken to a holding cell to reflect upon his actions. He has failed his duties."

    "Forgive me, Your Grace," one of the younger Kingsguard knights said quietly as he approached the throne. He hesitated, his face filled with an unmistakable sorrow. His eyes would not meet Viserys'' as he extended a hand to drag the king to his feet.

 Chapter Fourteen

    "The house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first."

    ¨DTywin Lannister

    ¡­?

    The sun rose red and swollen over King''s Landing as Rhaenys Targaryen soared towards the city atop her dragon, Meleys. The copper-scaled beast moved with a grace that belied her age, her wings casting long shadows over the muddy streets below. Beside them, the silver-grey form of Moondancer kept pace, her rider, Baela, clinging with practised ease. The winds carried the mingled smells of the bustling city to them¡ªcharred wood, river water, sweat, and the sharp tang of smoke from a thousand chimneys. The Red Keep, stark and monumental, rose above it all, the symbol of Targaryen power and legacy. As they descended, the city moved beneath them like the flow of a tide¡ªpeople running to see, pointing and cheering, their voices drowned by the great leathery beats of the dragons'' wings.

    As Rhaenys and Baela alighted within the wide courtyard of the Red Keep, their dragons settling with low, rumbling growls, a small party awaited their arrival. The shining white of the Kingsguard cloaks was unmistakable, though one of the knights stepped forward with more authority than the others. His armour gleamed, polished to a blinding sheen, the white of his cloak almost too pristine under the morning sun. Ser Criston Cole.

    "Princess Rhaenys," he began, bowing his head, his voice measured, respectful but devoid of warmth. "Welcome to King''s Landing. I have been instructed to escort you upon your arrival."

    Rhaenys took in his appearance¡ªthe way he moved, the way the other guards looked to him for direction. She had known Ser Harrold Westerling to be the Lord Commander for years, steadfast and true. She had not heard of his dismissal, yet here stood Cole, seemingly in his place. It spoke of something, though she was not yet certain what.

    "What has happened to Ser Harrold?" Rhaenys asked, her tone sharp as she allowed herself to be helped from the saddle, her skirts settling around her as she dismounted.

    "Ser Harrold has retired," Criston said, his lips curving into a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Matters of health, my lady. The king''s wishes. I am honoured to now hold the position of Lord Commander."

    Rhaenys pursed her lips, glancing at Baela who had landed lightly beside her and dismounted with a dancer''s grace. No more was said of Ser Harrold as Ser Criston led them through the winding corridors of the Red Keep. The air was heavy, filled with the echoes of footsteps and distant voices. The castle felt different, colder somehow, as if a certain warmth was waning.

    They walked the unfamiliar halls¡ªthe halls she had once known all her life, halls that had seemed warmer and livelier in her youth. She remembered her time in this castle, her laughter echoing against these stones when dreams still seemed possible, when the crown could have been hers. The shadows seemed longer now, the air fraught with something unseen. They reached a set of great carved doors, and Criston Cole pushed them open, motioning for Rhaenys and Baela to enter.

    Rhaenys hesitated as she stepped inside, expecting to find Viserys reclining in his usual seat, that weary but well-meaning smile upon his lips. Instead, her eyes met with a strikingly familiar lavender eye, staring back at her, cold and watchful. It was Aemond Targaryen who stood there, in a room filled with maps and parchments, books strewn across the table as though mid-study. His posture was relaxed, his gaze regarding her with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

    "Prince Aemond," Rhaenys said, her voice sharp, confusion blooming across her features, and a flicker of irritation darkening her gaze. "Where is my cousin?"

    Aemond''s lips curled, though it was not quite a smile. He inclined his head, gesturing to the chairs set near the table. "The king is... unable to greet you, Princess Rhaenys," he began, his voice calm, betraying nothing. "Please, take a seat. There are matters to discuss."

    Rhaenys took a step forward, her voice rising. "Enough of this charade. Where is Viserys?"

    Aemond did not flinch, but his gaze grew heavier, and he met her stare unblinking. "He has passed, my lady." He spoke the words without ceremony, almost as if he were simply stating the time of day. "He died peacefully in his sleep, late last night."

    The world tilted, and for a moment, Rhaenys felt a wrenching in her chest¡ªthe dawning of something she was unwilling to name. Sadness mingled with a swell of anger. She had loved her cousin once, for all his weaknesses, for all the ways he had wronged her and her family. She steadied herself, swallowing hard, drawing herself up tall.

    "Why was I not told immediately?" she demanded, her voice thick, a deep frown lining her brow.

    Aemond moved slowly, gesturing towards a nearby seat once more, his voice never rising. "I can understand your grief and your anger, Princess Rhaenys. But there are matters of importance that must be addressed. I ask again, take a seat." His calmness was almost infuriating¡ªthe way he held himself, the absolute stillness in his demeanour.

    Rhaenys clenched her teeth, then lowered herself into the offered chair, her gaze never leaving his face. Aemond watched her, then turned to a small chest on his desk, opening it carefully. He withdrew a letter, sealed with the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen. He held it out to her.

    "The king, your cousin, left you this. Written the night before he passed," Aemond said quietly. His eye was steady, fixed on her face as he passed the letter into her hands.

    Rhaenys hesitated for a moment, the wax seal shining under the flickering light of the chamber''s candles. Slowly, she broke it and unfolded the letter. The words were scrawled in Viserys''s familiar hand, though shaky, unsteady, as if penned by a man fighting against the fading of his strength.

    Her eyes moved across the parchment, reading every line, feeling every word like a blow. He wrote of his regret¡ªfor her daughter Laena, for Laenor''s death, and for the betrayals her family had suffered, which he, in his weakness, had allowed. He spoke of his hope for the future, for mending old wounds. He wished to see her granddaughter, Baela, wed to his youngest son, Daeron, and for their offspring to be tied into the lineage of Aegon''s own children. A Velaryon upon the throne, in time, he promised, could be within reach, if old grudges could be set aside.

    Rhaenys read the words twice over, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed their meaning. The phrasing, the distinct turns of thought, the pointed lack of mention of Rhaenyra¡ªit slowly became evident. Rhaenyra had been replaced. Aegon was to be king.

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    She looked up, her eyes locking with Aemond''s. He inclined his head ever so slightly, as though he understood what she had gleaned, his expression devoid of either malice or satisfaction.

    "You are not mistaken, Princess Rhaenys," he said, his voice low. "My brother, Aegon, has been named the heir in the king''s final moments."

    The silence that followed was thick, as though the very air had turned to stone, and for a moment, Rhaenys did not breathe, her heart a thunderous drum in her ears. Her gaze hardened, her fingers tightening around the parchment, her knuckles paling. She took in a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the weight of the realization settling upon her. Aegon as heir meant a fundamental shift in all she had come here expecting¡ªand yet, more than anything, her thoughts now drifted to suspicion. Something felt amiss. The Greens had always been clever, always seeking an advantage over Rhaenyra. The timing of this revelation, paired with Viserys''s sudden death, reeked of opportunism.

    She let her eyes linger on Aemond, trying to gauge the truth of his words in his expression, but Aemond¡ªcold, collected, his face as still as stone¡ªgave nothing away. Rhaenys knew that whatever thoughts he might be harbouring lay well-hidden beneath the surface. Aemond was a son of Alicent, yes, but there was something more about him, something darker, something relentless and calculating. And now, he was the one standing between her and what had once been her family''s birthright.

    "A letter from the king," she repeated, her voice devoid of inflection. "A noble request, truly," she said, her lips pulling into something that was neither quite a smile nor a frown.

    Aemond inclined his head, a flicker of something passing through his eye, though whether it was amusement or something else, Rhaenys could not tell. "The king''s intentions were clear, Princess," he said softly. "But I am aware that these decisions cannot be made lightly. You will, of course, need time to consider." He paused, his gaze shifting briefly towards Baela, who had remained silent beside her grandmother, her own eyes wide, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. "And I expect that you will wish to discuss this with your lord husband as well."

    Rhaenys felt a twist in her gut. He was playing her, that much was obvious¡ªhe was offering her a choice that was not truly a choice at all, giving her the illusion of freedom while tightening his control over the situation. She took another breath, steadying herself, her eyes narrowing.

    "Indeed, Prince Aemond," she said, her voice cold. "It is a matter that requires careful consideration, and my husband''s counsel will be most vital. I will deliberate, and when the time is right, I shall give you my answer."

    Aemond nodded, his lips twitching at the edges, as though he had expected this. "Of course," he said, and then he paused, studying her with that penetrating gaze. "But you must understand, Princess, that time is a luxury we do not have in abundance. My brother''s coronation must proceed, and unity within the realm will be paramount."

    Rhaenys stiffened, and for a heartbeat, her carefully constructed composure cracked. He knew. He knew what she was truly thinking¡ªthat she would fly from here, that she would bring word to Rhaenyra, that she would do what she could to protect her niece''s claim. But Aemond''s smile widened, and he gave a slight nod, as though he could read every thought passing through her mind.

    "And that is why I''ve taken the liberty of making arrangements to ensure that you and your granddaughter will be well cared for here in King''s Landing," Aemond said, his voice still calm, almost too casual, as he waved a hand dismissively towards one of the nearby guards. "I am sure Lord Corlys will join you soon, given that I''ve dispatched Ser Malentine Velaryon to escort him here."

    The words struck her like a blow. Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, Rhaenys could barely contain the rage that bubbled up inside her. She rose to her feet, the letter dropping onto the table, her eyes blazing. "You have no right," she hissed, her voice trembling. "No right to summon my husband, to act as though you can command House Velaryon."

    Aemond did not move, but his gaze grew sharper, his smile fading into something colder, something far more dangerous. "I have every right, Princess," he said, his voice now like iron. "Because the throne, and the realm, demand it. I know what you think. I know what you plan. And I am not so foolish as to allow you to rush headlong into action that could doom your house, your family, and everything that we might yet achieve together."

    Rhaenys''s heart pounded, her hand clenching at her side. The room felt smaller, the air pressing in upon her from all sides, suffocating, as though she were being backed into a corner. She glanced towards Baela, her granddaughter watching her with wide eyes, her face pale.

    "You will remain here, both of you," Aemond continued, his voice softer now, though it was no less unyielding. "You will be my honoured guests, and you will await Lord Corlys''s arrival. Until then, I must insist that you refrain from taking any rash actions. For your own good, Princess."

    Rhaenys''s gaze snapped back to Aemond, fury boiling beneath her skin. "You would imprison us," she said, her voice a low growl.

    Aemond shook his head slowly, that faint smile returning. "Not imprisonment, Princess. Merely precaution. The realm is in a delicate state, and we cannot risk anything¡­ unfortunate. You and Baela shall be well taken care of, and when the time comes, I am sure we will have much to discuss."

    He turned his head towards the guards standing by the door, motioning to them. "Escort the Princess and Lady Baela to their chambers. No visitors are to be admitted without my explicit permission."

    The guards stepped forward, and Rhaenys felt Baela''s hand slip into hers, her fingers tight, trembling. Rhaenys stood for a long moment, her gaze locked on Aemond''s face, seeing nothing but coldness there, nothing but calculation.

    "This is not over, Prince Aemond," she said, her voice low, her eyes narrowed. "You cannot control the sea, no more than you can control a dragon. The tides will turn, and when they do, you will find yourself swept away."

    Aemond did not reply. He merely inclined his head, watching as the guards moved forward, leading Rhaenys and Baela away, his eye following them until the doors closed, the heavy sound echoing through the hallway.

 Chapter Fifteen

    "The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power."

    ¨DOtto Hightower

    ¡­?

    The rain fell steadily against the windows of Otto Hightower''s chambers, a persistent patter that accompanied the deep quiet of the hour. The Hand of the King, ever a picture of industrious diligence, was seated at his desk, his spectacles perched upon his nose as he perused yet another parchment. Though his face bore the marks of years spent wrestling the ambitions of others, there was still in his countenance an air of superiority, born of his own belief in his unimpeachable wisdom.

    It was, therefore, with some irritation that he heard the faint creak of the door, followed by the deliberate tread of boots upon the floor. Otto''s gaze lifted, his irritation blunting slightly as he beheld the figure of his grandson. Prince Aemond had entered without so much as a knock, his cloak heavy with rain and his expression bearing its usual severity.

    "Do my chambers now serve as a thoroughfare?" Otto inquired dryly, setting his quill aside. "Or have you come to enliven my evening with your company?"

    Aemond said nothing at first. He moved to the hearth, standing in its faint glow as he unpinned his cloak and draped it over a chair. His movements were precise, deliberate. Only when he had turned back to face his grandfather did he speak.

    "I have come, grandsire," he said, his tone as measured as ever, "to deliver news of no small consequence."

    Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands with deliberate composure. "Do tell."

    The young prince approached, his movements precise and devoid of haste as he settled into the chair opposite Otto. "There is no easy way to say this," Aemond began, "so I shall not attempt ease. Viserys is being deposed."

    The words struck like a blow, but Otto''s expression betrayed nothing. He tilted his head, his fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. "What nonsense do you speak?"

    "I mean what I say." Aemond''s voice was calm, his tone devoid of theatrics. "Viserys is no longer in residence. He has been moved¡ªsecurely, quietly. For reasons I shall presently make clear, his continued presence here posed a risk to the stability of the realm."

    Otto''s lips parted, but no words came. His silence stretched as his mind worked furiously, piecing together implications and contingencies. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.

    "You''ve detained the King," he said. It was not a question.

    "I have ensured the stability of the realm," Aemond corrected. "Viserys is a risk that must be managed with care."

    Otto''s lips thinned into a line of displeasure. "A risk? That must be managed? You speak of your father, the King."

    "Yes," Aemond replied, without hesitation. "And I do so with full understanding of the gravity of my actions. His affection for Rhaenyra and her children has clouded his judgment beyond repair. Hours ago, he sought to obstruct my betrothal to Lady Jeyne Arryn, a match that secures the Vale''s loyalty. Worse still, he threatened action that if ignored would eroded the very foundations of the Dragon''s Bank, a cornerstone of the realm''s future prosperity."

    Otto stared at his grandson, his face a mask of incredulity. "You detained the King," he said, slowly and with great emphasis. "And yet I heard nothing of it? Not a whisper?"

    "Preparations were made," Aemond replied evenly. "It was necessary. Viserys''s intentions were as predictable as they were misguided. I took precautions, and the matter was resolved without incident. He is alive, though I will not deny that his continued survival is no longer¡­ essential."

    Otto rose from his chair, his hands pressing flat against the desk. "Do you hear yourself, boy? You speak of your father''s life as though it were a ledger to be balanced."

    "Because it is," Aemond said, his voice never rising. "Viserys''s death will be mourned, but it will not disrupt the order we have built. Even now, the Silent Sisters tend a corpse¡ªone that will lie in state by morning, wrapped for a funeral befitting a King. By the time the sun sets tomorrow, Aegon will wear the crown."

    At this, Otto''s composure slipped, if only briefly. "Aegon? Why not you? You would enthrone that lout? That¡­ that libertine?"

    "Aegon is the rightful heir," Aemond replied, his gaze steady. "And, more importantly, he will do as he is told. The lords of the realm will rally to him, and he will rule¡­ in appearance, if not in practice."

    Otto turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced to the window. "And Alicent? Does she know of this treachery?"

    "She does not," Aemond admitted, "She cannot. Let Mother grieve with a clear conscience, as befits her nature. The realm requires strength, not sentimentality. Informing her invites unneeded complications."

    Otto sighed heavily, staring out at the rain-soaked courtyard. "This is a dangerous game you play, Aemond. If even a whisper of this reaches the wrong ears¡­"

    "It will not," Aemond said calmly. "I have seen to that."

    The Hand turned, his gaze sharp. "And what of the council? They will not blindly accept Aegon as King, particularly with no explanation for Viserys''s sudden passing."

    "They will accept," Aemond replied. "You will see to it, grandsire. You will summon the council and speak of the King''s failing health, his desire to see his trueborn son crowned. They will follow your lead, as they always have."

    Otto regarded his grandson for a long moment, his expression unreadable. At last, he shook his head, though whether in disapproval or grudging admiration, it was difficult to say. "You have a talent for walking the edge of ruin, Aemond."

    "Ruin comes to those who lack resolve," Aemond said, his tone cool. "I trust you will do what is required. Summon the council. We must act before the city stirs."

    "I will leave you to your work, grandsire," he exhaled as he rose to his feet. "There is much to prepare."

    Without waiting for a reply, Aemond turned and made his way to the door. Otto watched him go, his mind already racing with the steps that must be taken. When the door closed, the Hand sank back into his chair, the weight of the storm ahead settling heavily upon him.

    <hr>

    The halls of the Red Keep were restless that morning, shadows lengthening in the faint light of the torches that burned low along its narrow corridors. Otto moved swiftly, the cool air biting against his skin even within the fortress walls. His cloak billowed behind him, its heavy folds reflecting the haste of its wearer. Though his face bore the accustomed mask of solemn authority, his thoughts were less composed. The task before him was one of delicate necessity, and the price of failure loomed heavy in his mind.

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    The Small Council chamber was sparsely filled when he arrived, its occupants trickling in at his summons. Prince Aemond and Lord Jasper Wylde were already seated, the latter''s beady eyes following Otto''s every movement as though to divine the purpose of this urgent meeting. Ser Cole loomed silently in the background. Vaemond Velayron entered next while Tyland Lannister shuffled in behind him with the weariness of one roused too early for matters he did not fully understand. Maester Orwyle followed with his ever-present chain clinking softly. Only Alicent was absent, and Otto had no doubt her arrival would bring its own complications.

    When the doors finally closed, and the murmur of questions settled into an expectant quiet, Otto cleared his throat. The weight of his years seemed to settle more heavily upon him as he took his seat at the head of the table.

    "My lords," he began, his voice steady though not without gravity, "I have summoned you here to discuss matters of the utmost consequence. The King, Viserys the First of His Name, has departed this world."

    The proclamation landed like a stone dropped into still water. There was a collective intake of breath, though no one spoke at once. The room felt colder somehow, the absence of Alicent suddenly conspicuous.

    "His Grace," Otto continued, "in his final hours, penned a will, witnessed by those in his service and stamped with his seal. It was his dying wish that his son, Aegon, succeed him as King of the Seven Kingdoms."

    He reached into his cloak to produce a document. The parchment bore the King''s seal, though the handwriting was shaky and uneven¡ªa reflection, Otto had taken care to emphasize in his prepared remarks, of Viserys''s deteriorating condition. He placed the paper upon the table, allowing the council''s eyes to linger over it.

    Jasper Wylde was the first to speak, his tone measured. "This is¡­ unexpected. I was not aware the King''s wishes had changed."

    "They did, my lord, in his final hours," Otto replied, his voice calm though edged with insistence. "He saw the wisdom of preserving the unity of the realm and placing it in the hands of his trueborn son."

    Tyland squinted at the document, his skepticism plain. "Strange, is it not, that His Grace saw fit to confide this decision in no one until the last?"

    Otto''s lips tightened. "The King was often a man of private reflections, my lord. I need not remind you that his health has been failing for some time. His mind, however, was clear enough to see what must be done."

    The tension in the room was palpable, but before another voice could raise a question, the doors swung open, and Alicent Hightower entered. Her steps were brisk, her face pale and drawn. Otto felt a pang of regret¡ªfor the manner, not the necessity¡ªbut he quickly masked it.

    "My lords," Alicent said, her voice sharp, "you speak of my husband''s intent, yet it seems his death was not worth informing his wife."

    Her accusation struck a chord that even Otto''s practiced composure could not entirely deflect. "Alicent¡ª"

    "Do not Alicent me," she interrupted, advancing to the table. "You summon a council before dawn to speak of succession, yet I must learn of Viserys''s death here, as though it were a matter of state and not the passing of my husband. You thought it best to let me grieve in public, like a spectacle?"

    The lords around the table exchanged glances, some startled, others intrigued by this rare outburst from the Queen. Otto stood, his voice softening in an attempt to placate her. "This was not my intent, Alicent. But time is not our ally. The matter of the throne must be settled swiftly, for the good of the realm."

    "Time?" Alicent''s voice wavered. "You speak of time as though it excuses this¡­ this deceit! What have you planned in my name, without my knowledge?"

    Otto hesitated, then pressed forward. "Viserys''s will is clear. Aegon must ascend the throne, and swiftly. The question now is how to secure the succession."

    Alicent''s brow furrowed, suspicion tightening her features. "And what of Rhaenyra? What of her children?"

    Otto''s tone grew firmer. "The former heir must not be allowed to remain free, lest she rally support against her brother. She and her household must swear loyalty to King Aegon."

    "And if they do not?" Alicent retorted. "You know well she would not accept this."

    Otto''s pause was answer enough. Alicent''s voice dropped, cold and angry. "You mean to kill her."

    "The alternative," Otto said quietly, "is chaos. War. Thousands dead. The King¡ªViserys, in his wisdom¡ªwould not have wished for his legacy to be marred by strife."

    A gasp escaped Alicent''s lips, and her expression turned to one of horror. "And yet you dare invoke his name to justify the murder of his daughter?"

    Jasper Wylde, his voice tentative, broke in. "Your Grace, Lord Hand is merely suggesting¡ª"

    "I will hear no such suggestions!" Alicent snapped. "Another word from you, my lord, and I will see you in black and bound for the Wall."

    The silence was deafening, save for the distant patter of rain. It was Tyland who finally spoke, his voice measured. "If the Queen rejects the Hand''s counsel, what alternative would she propose? Should Rhaenyra raise her banners, it will mean bloodshed. Surely, we must act."

    Alicent faltered, her lips parting as if to speak, but no answer came. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of expectation suffocating. It was then that Aemond rose, his movements slow and deliberate. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, yet edged with finality.

    "There is no need for bloodshed," he said, rising from his seat.

    All eyes turned to him, and he continued, his tone even. "I will fly to Dragonstone. Personally. I will speak with Rhaenyra and her husband. Perhaps they may be persuaded to accept terms."

    "Terms?" Otto''s tone was skeptical. "You risk much, Aemond."

    "I risk less than you would in sending butchers," Aemond replied. "This is not a matter for steel. At least, not yet."

    Otto stared at his grandson disapprovingly, but it was clear the room had shifted. The council murmured its reluctant agreement, and Alicent''s gaze softened, though her anger did not abate entirely. Otto, sensing the council''s sentiment turning, inclined his head.

    "Very well," he said at last, though his tone carried the weight of his displeasure. "The matter is yours, my prince. Let us hope your mercy does not cost us the realm."

 Chapter Sixteen

    "Power resides where men believe it resides. It''s a trick, a shadow on the wall, and a very small man can cast a very large shadow."

    ¨DVarys

    ¡­?

    The morning sun, though barely risen, cast an unwelcome brightness upon the chambers of Prince Aegon. Its light seeped through the heavy curtains as if conspiring with the voices outside, which murmured with increasing urgency. Aegon, still buried beneath a mound of blankets, groaned as the sound of hurried footsteps approached his door.

    "Your Grace," came a tentative voice from beyond the threshold, followed by a polite knock. The title alone stirred an instinctive irritation within him, though he was still far from comprehending its full weight. The door creaked open, admitting a small procession of servants armed with steaming basins, linens, and garments finer than those Aegon usually deigned to wear.

    "What is this?" Aegon muttered, his voice heavy with sleep and the irritation of being roused so unceremoniously. "What hour is it?"

    "It is the hour of your rising, Your Grace," said one of the servants, her voice carefully deferential as she set a basin upon a nearby table. "The Queen has requested that you prepare at once."

    "The Queen?" Aegon sat up, his dishevelled silver hair falling into his eyes. "What does my mother want at this ungodly hour?"

    The servant said nothing more, merely stepping aside as Alicent Hightower entered the room. Her face, though calm, bore a shadow of grief that made Aegon pause. She dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand, their hurried retreat leaving mother and son alone in the chamber.

    "Aegon," she began softly, approaching his bedside. "You must rise. There is much to do."

    "I can see that," he said irritably, rubbing his eyes. "Why all this fuss? What could possibly require my attention so early?"

    Her voice trembled slightly, but she stifled it before continuing. "Your father is dead."

    The words, stark and heavy, hung in the air. For a moment, Aegon simply stared at her, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what she had said. "Dead?" he repeated, his voice hollow. "Viserys is¡­ gone?"

    "Yes," Alicent said, her hands clasped before her as though in prayer. "He passed in the night."

    Aegon blinked, his initial shock giving way to confusion. "And why, exactly, does this concern me? Rhaenyra is his heir. She can play at being queen while the rest of us carry on as we always have."

    Alicent hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Rhaenyra will not sit the throne, Aegon. The council has determined¡ªyour grandsire and your brother among them¡ªthat you shall be crowned king."

    At this, Aegon let out a derisive snort, throwing off his blankets and rising to his feet. "Me? King? Have they gone mad?" He began to pace, his movements restless. "I am not fit to rule. Everyone knows that. Gods, even I know that."

    "Aegon¡ª"

    "I don''t want it," he said sharply, turning to face her. "Let Aemond have it, or Daeron, or anyone else who fancies wearing a crown. I want no part of it."

    "You have no choice," Alicent said, her voice tinged with sadness. "The decision has been made. You will be crowned within the hour."

    Aegon stared at her, incredulity giving way to anger. "So that''s it? I''m to be dressed up and paraded about, made a pawn in everyone''s schemes? Gods, I''d rather leave Westeros altogether."

    Alicent''s expression softened, though her voice remained firm. "You are no pawn, Aegon. You are a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon runs in your veins, and with it, the burden of duty. I know this is not what you wanted, but the realm needs you. We all do."

    He said nothing, his jaw tight as he looked away. Alicent stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "I will leave you to prepare. The servants will see to your attire."

    Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Aegon stood there for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides, before the servants returned. They moved quickly, disrobing him and scrubbing away the remnants of sleep and the smell of wine that clung to his skin. He endured it all in silence, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of resentment and dread.

    <hr>

    The carriage ride to the Dragonpit was oppressively silent. Aegon sat across from Alicent, his gaze fixed on the floor. The crown that awaited him seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, its weight pressing upon him even in its absence. At last, he broke the quiet.

    "Was it true?" he asked, his voice low. "What you said about Father? That he wanted this?"

    Alicent hesitated, then reached into the folds of her gown. She produced a letter, the edges of the parchment slightly crumpled, and handed it to him. "Aemond was given this before he passed," she said softly. "The letter addressed to you."

    Aegon unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the uneven script. It spoke of regret, of a father''s failure to see his son''s worth, and of a newfound faith in his potential. The final lines, scrawled as though in haste, declared Viserys''s love for his son and his belief that Aegon would make a good king.

    He stared at the words for a long moment, his vision blurring as tears welled in his eyes. He turned his face toward the window, the towering silhouette of the Dragonpit looming ever closer. The next moment, he wiped at his face, hiding the evidence of his tears as the carriage rolled onward, carrying him toward a destiny he neither sought nor desired.

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    <hr>

    The carriage jolted to a halt before the towering gates of the Dragonpit, its imposing structure rising against the pale morning sky. Aegon sat motionless within, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his tunic. The weight of what awaited him settled heavily upon his chest, yet he said nothing, his face a mask of reluctant resolve. Outside, the roar of a gathered multitude filled the air, their voices rising like a tide that threatened to engulf him.

    The door opened, and Ser Criston Cole, resplendent in the white armour of the Kingsguard, extended a gloved hand. "Your Grace," he said with a bow, his tone measured and formal, "the realm awaits."

    Aegon hesitated for but a moment before stepping out into the daylight. The crowd''s reaction was immediate¡ªa cacophony of cheers and chants that reverberated through the stone streets. The sight of them¡ªthousands of smallfolk packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces alight with fervour¡ªsent a shiver down his spine. Did they cheer for him, he wondered, or merely for the spectacle?

    A procession of Kingsguard flanked him, their movements precise as they escorted him toward the steps of the Dragonpit. The great bronze doors swung open, revealing a vast, echoing hall illuminated by torches and the faint light of the sun streaming through narrow windows. The air within was thick with incense, a heady mix that made his head swim as he walked.

    At the head of the chamber stood Septon Eustace, draped in robes of gold and white, his hands folded in solemn reverence. Behind him, a raised platform had been erected, upon which rested the Conqueror''s crown¡ªa circlet of black adorned with blood-red rubies. Beside it lay Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, its blade gleaming even in the dim light.

    The procession halted, and Aegon ascended the platform alone, his steps slow and deliberate. Each footfall echoed in the silence that had settled over the crowd within the chamber. Septon Eustace stepped forward, a small vial of oil in his hands.

    "Do you, Aegon of House Targaryen, son of King Viserys, accept the sacred charge bestowed upon you this day?" the Septon intoned, his voice resonant and grave.

    Aegon''s mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, but he managed a nod. "I do."

    "Do you swear to uphold the laws of the realm, to protect the weak, and to honour the gods?"

    "I do," Aegon said again, his voice firmer this time.

    Septon Eustace anointed his forehead with the oil, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat of the room. "Then may the gods bless your reign and guide your hand in justice."

    With that, the Septon stepped back, and Criston Cole advanced. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held the Conqueror''s crown in his hands. He raised it high for all to see before lowering it onto Aegon''s head.

    "Behold Aegon, Second of His Name," Cole declared, his voice carrying through the chamber. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

    Aegon stood, his back straight, his gaze steady as he turned to face the crowd. The chamber erupted in cheers, their voices a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Dragonpit. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, the weight of their adulation pressing upon him as surely as the crown itself.

    It was then that his eyes fell upon Blackfyre. The sword, so steeped in the history of his house, seemed to beckon him. He stepped forward and grasped its hilt, the leather-wrapped grip familiar even to his untrained hands. Drawing the blade, he raised it high above his head, its edge catching the light and casting reflections across the crowd.

    The cheering redoubled, a tide of sound that drowned out the tumult of his thoughts. In that moment, something within Aegon shifted. The crown, which had felt so foreign mere hours ago, now seemed to sit more comfortably upon his brow. The sword in his hand, the cheers of the people, the power that surged through him¡ªall of it combined to ignite a spark of something he had not felt before: triumph.

    Aegon lowered Blackfyre, his gaze sweeping over the throng. The crowds outside the Dragonpit roared in unison with those within, their chants of "Aegon! Aegon!" reverberating across King''s Landing. For the first time, he allowed himself to smile¡ªnot the forced, awkward smile of a reluctant boy, but the confident grin of a man who had tasted power and found it intoxicating.

    As he descended from the platform, flanked once more by the Kingsguard, Aegon caught his mother''s eye with the rest of his family¡ªhis grandsire, his sister-wife, his children. His gaze flickered over the scene to find Aemond''s absence. Aegon quickly forgot about the bastard though. His gaze flickered back towards his mother. Alicent watched him with a mixture of pride and sorrow, her expression unreadable.

    Outside, the city awaited its new king, and Aegon strode forth to meet it, the weight of Blackfyre in his hand and the crown of Aegon the Conqueror upon his head. Whatever doubts he might have harboured, they were buried now beneath the roars of the crowd and the fire that burned within him. He was a king, whether he had wanted it or not.

 Chapter Seventeen

    "The power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it."

    ¨DMuad''Dib

    ¡­?

    The descent to Dragonstone was, in Aemond''s estimation, an exercise in the futility of theatricality. Perched upon the saddle of Vhagar, he regarded the fortress below, smoke rising faintly from fissures in the rock, the wind carrying the sulfurous tang of its volcanic heart.

    Vhagar''s shadow, vast and ominous, had stretched across the churning waves as she circled the fortress with a deliberate slowness that Aemond found nearly tedious. Such grand gestures were expected, he supposed, yet he could not resist the narrowing of his eye at the thought: if they did not already fear him, no number of circles in the sky would correct the deficiency.

    When Vhagar landed upon the bleak, storm-battered beach, the reaction was as predictable as it was unremarkable. The garrison spilled forth from Dragonstone''s gates in an undisciplined rush, swords sheathed and steps hesitant. They came no closer than necessary, their courage arrested by the sight of his mount, who lounged upon the sands with the air of a great beast entertaining an interruption it could scarcely bother to notice.

    Aemond dismounted, his boots sinking into the wet earth. He adjusted his cloak with a certain deliberateness, as though to illustrate his utter lack of concern. "Summon the Princess Rhaenyra," he called to the garrison, his voice booming over the waves. "I come under a flag of parley."

    He needn''t have waited long. The sound of beating wings announced their arrival before they came into view. Moments later, the Princess descended from the skies astride Syrax, her golden dragon gleaming even beneath the ashen sky. At her side flew the blood wyrm, his serpentine body twisting through the air. The pair landed close to the gates, their riders dismounting with a flourish of righteous indignation that, in Aemond''s view, bespoke an exhausting need to prove something he couldn''t be bothered with.

    Rhaenyra''s gaze met his, and he observed at once the cold fury that animated her every movement. "You dare to darken my shores, Aemond?" she spat, her voice as sharp as the salt-laden wind. "You vile, wretched beast! Leave Dragonstone at once!"

    Aemond did not so much as flinch. Instead, he inclined his head, allowing a faint, knowing smile to touch his lips. "Good day to you, Princess," he replied, his tone polite. "I bring news of great import."

    The tension hung thick, a force as palpable as the presence of dragons. Rhaenyra''s expression remained a mask of cold anger, but her knuckles whitened where they gripped her skirts. Daemon, ever the tempest, stood poised as though awaiting the merest excuse to be foolish. "Speak, then," his wife demanded before he had the chance, her eyes flashing with impatience.

    "It is my solemn duty to inform you," Aemond began, his voice carefully measured, "that our father, King Viserys, has passed from this life."

    Another man might have expected anger, or perhaps denial, but Aemond received the silence expected. A quietude so absolute it seemed to swallow the sound of the sea itself. Rhaenyra faltered, her expression slowly collapsing into one of disbelief, her hand grasping at her side as though the very air betrayed her. Beside her, Daemon''s reaction was swifter and more animated: his hand flew to the hilt of Dark Sister, his gaze narrowing with suspicion.

    "You finally killed him," the older prince accused, his voice a low growl. "You and your vipers on the council. Tell me, did the Hightower snake slit his throat while he slept, or was it you, boy, with your single, pitiful eye?"

    Aemond arched a brow, tilting his head with the faintest trace of mockery. "Do you truly believe me so lacking in subtlety, uncle? The King''s passing was natural, though inevitable. And, as is proper, his will was executed without delay. King Viserys named my brother, Aegon, his rightful heir. And as per the Queen''s will, he was crowned in the dragonpit, before the masses."

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    The words hung heavy in the air, their weight pressing down on all who heard them. Rhaenyra''s expression crumbled into further disbelief, her hand clutching at her stomach. Her lips moved as though to form words, but none came. Daemon''s fury, meanwhile, similarly deepened with each passing moment.

    "You dare," Daemon snarled, stepping forward. "You dare come here and speak of usurpation as though it were ordained? The Iron Throne belongs to Rhaenyra, named heir by Viserys before the whole of the realm. To think you would try to snatch her crown with falsehoods and treachery. Say what you mean, boy, and draw your blade if you dare."

    Aemond did not answer immediately. Instead, he regarded Daemon with a faint air of annoyance, as one might observe an overeager dog barking at a storm. "I did not come here for violence," he said at last. "I came with terms."

    "Terms?" Daemon repeated, the word dripping with scorn.

    "Indeed," Aemond replied, turning his attention back to Rhaenyra. "King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne; in exchange, his Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. And, in the event of your demise, it will pass to Aegon the Younger, your firstborn son by Daemon¡ªensuring its rightful Targaryen succession."

    Rhaenyra''s gaze flickered to Aemond, widening in ever-growing disbelief, but the prince pressed on, indifferent. "Your other children," he continued, pausing just long enough to let the implication linger, "the ones sired by Ser Harwin Strong, shall not be disinherited. They will retain the Velaryon name and their honours. As for their sibling, young Viserys will receive a seat of high honour at court as the king''s squire and cup-bearer."

    The terms immediately proved themselves rather too much to bear. Rhaenyra staggered then, her breath catching sharply. Aemond''s gaze followed her as her hand pressed to her abdomen. She cried out faintly, her knees buckling, and Daemon was at her side in an instant, his fury momentarily replaced by concern.

    "Get her to the Maester!" The older prince barked at the nearest guards. Two men rushed forward, bearing her away as Syrax growled in distress.

    Daemon turned back to Aemond then, his hand once again on Dark Sister. "This is your doing," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage as he drew the blade. "You vile creature!" The garrison, emboldened by their prince''s rage, did the same. Behind them, Caraxes and Syrax snarled, their aggression mounting.

    But Vhagar shifted then, her massive frame blotting out the sun as she rose to her full height. Her maw opened slightly, and the faint glow of death illuminated the cavernous depths of her throat. The heat of her breath warped the air, and her growl deepened into a sound that resonated through the soft earth into the feet of every man present.

    In response to everything, Aemond merely arched a brow, his gaze panning to Daemon. "Do you truly mean to fight me, uncle?" he asked. "Here? With so many you care for within half a dozen wing beats of my dragon?"

    At this, Vhagar growled again, somehow deeper this time, steam curling from her maw. Syrax and Caraxes bristled in turn, but neither advanced.

    Daemon hesitated, his fury warring with the cold calculus of survival. Aemond, however, did not wait for his reply. Turning his back to the enemy, he strode towards his mount with deliberate calm. "I will await your answer on the morrow," he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying over the sounds of dragons and waves alike.

    "Do choose wisely."

 Chapter Eighteen

    "The forms of treachery are always triangular, three-sided affairs that move through innocence toward the strongest point."

    ¨DMuad''Dib

    ¡­?

    The room smelled of blood and sweat and fear.

    Though a fire roared in the hearth, its warmth was feeble against the chill that seeped into the ancient stones of Dragonstone''s walls. Shadows leapt and writhed on faded tapestries as the midwives bustled about, their faces pale, drawn, and anxious.

    Rhaenyra Targaryen lay in the great bed, her silver hair matted to her brow, darkened with sweat. Her face twisted in anguish as another contraction seized her, and the sound she made was half-snarl, half-moan¡ªa feral cry of fury as much as pain.

    "More milk of the poppy," one of the midwives urged, holding a small vial aloft.

    "No," Rhaenyra spat, her voice sharp despite the pain. "I need my wits."

    The midwives exchanged nervous glances but obeyed. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, but her eyes burned with an intensity that made even the most seasoned of them avert their gaze. Her sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon, stood near the foot of the bed, their faces pale and pinched. Jace, taller and leaner now at sixteen, clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white. Luke, a step behind him, looked as if he might faint, his dark eyes wide with fear.

    "Come closer," Rhaenyra commanded, waving them forward. "There is no time to waste."

    Jace moved first, his steps stiff, deliberate¡ªlike a soldier marching onto a battlefield he did not yet understand. Luke followed, more hesitant, his every movement tinged with uncertainty. Rhaenyra''s lips curled into what might have been a smile, had the pain not twisted her features so cruelly.

    "You are my strength," she said, her voice fierce despite its fragility. Her hand shot out and gripped Jace''s wrist with startling strength. "Do you hear me, my son? You are my strength now."

    Jace nodded, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing as he found his voice. "Yes, Mother."

    Her gaze shifted to Luke, softer now, though no less intense. "And you, my sweet boy. You must stand tall. The realm will need us all."

    Luke''s lip quivered, but he nodded.

    Rhaenyra''s face twisted again as another wave of pain hit her, and the midwives sprang into action. Jace and Luke glanced at each other, but neither moved to leave. When the contraction passed, Rhaenyra''s voice returned, hoarse but commanding.

    "Your grandsire is dead," she said, the words cutting through the heavy air like a blade.

    Luke''s brows furrowed. "Viserys?" he whispered.

    Rhaenyra nodded, her expression hard despite the sheen of pain. "The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne." Her voice was filled with venom, and her grip on Jace''s wrist tightened. "They''ve crowned Aegon king."

    Luke''s eyes darted to Jace, his face pale as milk. "Aegon?" he whispered. "He''s king?"

    Jace''s jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. "What is to be done about it?" he asked, his tone firming in anger.

    "Nothing," Rhaenyra spat. "Nothing yet."

    Confusion, understanding, the grudging acceptance. Jace nodded, though his fists remained clenched. "Where is Daemon?" he asked after a pause.

    "I don''t know," Rhaenyra hissed, her voice breaking. "Gone. Gone to madness. Gone to plot his war."

    "...Leave Daemon to me." Jace''s tone was steel-sharp as he turned toward the door, his hand nudging Luke''s shoulder in passing.

    "Jace¡ªJacaerys!" Rhaenyra''s voice rose, and the young prince paused by the threshold, glancing back.

    Rhaenyra''s eyes closed briefly, as if even this conversation had drained her. "Whatever claim remains to me," she said, "you are its heir. No sword is to be drawn, no word spoken, save by my command."

    Jace inclined his head, his voice tight but resolute. "Yes, Mother."

    And with that, he was gone, his boots echoing down the cold stone corridor.

    <hr>

    "Darklyn, what strength does Dragonstone boast? Give me numbers!"

    Steffon straightened, his chainmail clinking softly. "Thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Enough to hold the island against a fleet, my prince."

    Daemon drummed his fingers on the table, his nails clicking against the wood like the ticking of some infernal clock. "Good. Double the patrols along the cliffs and shorelines. The greens are snakes, and snakes do not bite from the front. The dragonkeepers will join these patrols. They know the island better than any."

    Darklyn bowed, "It will be done."

    "Now," Daemon continued, turning his attention to Lord Bartimos. "What of our allies? The Velaryons? What tidings have we?"

    Celtigar''s lips thinned. "I had received word yesterday that Rhaenys and young Baela took wing to King''s Landing, possibly a few hours after King Viserys was proclaimed dead. They have not returned."

    Daemon''s jaw tightened, and his fingers stopped their infernal drumming. "And Corlys?"

    "His ship was seen sailing the same way not long after. While no betrayal is evident, the timing is¡­ odd and one cannot help but question their loyalties."

    A snarl twisted Daemon''s lips. "They''ve gone to the greens," he said coldly. "Or worse, to hedge their bets." His voice was sharp enough to cleave stone. "Rhaenys'' pride blinds her to duty. And Baela¡­" He paused, the fire in his eyes dimming briefly. "She''s a child. Corlys, however, should know better."

    Gerardys, the maester, interjected gently. "It is not yet certain they mean to betray us, my prince. Their intentions may yet be true."

    Daemon waved him off impatiently. "Intentions matter little when blades are drawn. And what of the Vale? Has Lady Jeyne declared? Surely, she was also made aware of this plotting to steal Rhaenyra''s throne by her betrothed."

    Celtigar''s tone was cautious. "No word has come from the Eyrie, but she has always been cautious. The Lady of the Vale keeps her own counsel, my prince. If she leans toward the greens, she will not declare it outright. But her ties to Aemond are telling."

    Daemon''s laugh was bitter. "The greens offer her chains wrapped in silk and she sells her integrity without thought. She''d be a fool to trust them. But the Vale has ever been wary of dragons. We cannot count on her."

    Simon Staunton grunted in agreement. "Neither can we trust the Lannisters. They will side with their kin. Tyland Lannister is Otto''s creature. The Westerlands will follow."

    Daemon leaned heavily on the table, his hands spread wide over the map of Westeros craved into the table. "The Riverlands will be our cornerstone. If we hold the Trident, we divide the realm in two. Stark and Baratheon must follow. The wolves are oathkeepers; they will come. Borros Baratheon, however, must be reminded of his father''s vows."He straightened, his gaze panning to fix on Ser Celtigar. "Ravens are to fly to Massey, Staunton, and Bar Emmon. Call our banners. And one to Riverrun. We must have House Tully. I will fly there myself if I must."

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    "You will do no such thing."

    Daemon turned to face Jace as he entered the room.

    "My mother has decreed no action be taken while she is abed," the boy continued. Daemon continued to stare at him for a long moment before responding.

    "It''s good you are here, young prince. You are needed to patrol the skies on Vermax."

    "Did you not hear what I said?"

    Another pause. Annoyance.

    "...The ravens, Lord Bartimos," Daemon said in the end. Celtigar nodded in response before leaving to comply.

    Without waiting to dismiss the council, the angered prince marches out of the chamber, nudging Jacerys along ahead of him. "Come with me, boy. I''ll show you the true meaning of loyalty."

    <hr>

    The sun rose over the Vale with an ethereal light, its pale rays dancing upon the snow-capped peaks that shielded the Eyrie from the tumultuous world below. Within its airy halls, the morning promised serenity, a balm to those who dwelled in this fortress above the clouds. Yet for Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Vale, serenity was a fragile fiction, fraying rapidly as she sat across from Jessamyn Redfort, her secret and only confidante in matters of the heart.

    The breakfast table, adorned with the simple but hearty fare of the Vale, seemed an ill match for the strained silence that hung between them. Jessamyn poked at her plate of oatcakes and honey, her brow furrowed, her appetite diminished by more than the thin mountain air.

    "You''ve barely eaten," Jeyne observed, her voice calm though her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.

    "Neither have you," Jessamyn countered tightly. "Do you expect me to sit here, idle, knowing you''ll soon be bound to him?"

    Jeyne sighed, her gaze drifting to the open window, where the world beyond seemed distant and cold. "You''ve made your feelings clear."

    Jessamyn leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Have I? Let me be clearer. Aemond Targaryen is no ordinary man, Jeyne. He''s a prince whose ambitions are whispered of in every corner of the realm. How can you sit here and prepare for this¡­ this marriage to such a man without a trace of dread? You''re stepping into a game where men like him play for blood."

    Jeyne''s lips curved into a faint, humourless smile as she reached for her goblet of watered wine. "Do you think I don''t know that? Do you think I agreed to this lightly?"

    "Agreed?" Jessamyn scoffed. "He knew about us¡ªsomehow he knew¡ªand now he''s forcing you to submit."

    Jeyne''s gaze sharpened. "He''s offered to turn a blind eye, provided we are discrete. A compromise, Jessamyn. Do you think every noble lord or lady of Westeros weds for love?"

    Jessamyn''s anger faltered, her voice tinged with desperation. "And you believe him? You trust a man like him? Aemond of the fearsome dragon and reputation alike? Does it not trouble you that he wields ruthlessness as easily as his sword? That he comes with a dragon older than our mountains and ambitions that could crack them? Do you even know what he truly wants from you¡ªbeyond this marriage, this alliance?"

    Jeyne sighed, setting her knife aside. "He''s a prince, Jessamyn. He wants what all men of his station want¡ªpower. He sees me, and the Vale, as means to advance his ambition¡ªthat bank of his, most likely. Pieces on his board."

    Jessamyn''s hands stilled, her voice sharpening. "And you''re content to be a piece? To give yourself over? Gods, Jeyne, have you even looked at him? He''s¡ª"

    "Mysterious? Terrifying?" Jeyne interrupted, her tone steady but tinged with weariness. "Yes, I''ve looked at him. I''ve also looked at his dragon. That, Jessamyn, is the choice laid before me: a marriage to a prince of great renown, wagons of gold to enrich the Vale, and the greatest dragon of them all¡ªor nothing."

    Before Jessamyn could reply, footsteps echoed down the hall. A knock followed, and the door creaked open to admit Maester Vardis, his grey robes and chain glinting faintly in the morning light. He carried a sealed parchment, the red wax bearing the unmistakable imprint of the Targaryen sigil.

    "A raven, my lady," Vardis said gravely as he presented the letter to Jeyne.

    Jeyne took the parchment, her face betraying nothing as she broke the seal. Her eyes scanned the contents swiftly, her expression unchanging until she reached the final lines. A shadow passed over her face, and she lowered the letter with a steadying breath.

    "What is it?" Jessamyn asked sharply.

    Jeyne did not answer immediately. Instead, she handed the letter to Jessamyn, who read it in silence. As the words sank in, Jessamyn''s features twisted in disbelief. "The King is dead," she whispered. "And this¡­ this tale of Viserys naming Aegon as his heir¡ªit reeks of foul play!"

    Jeyne leaned back in her chair, her fingers laced tightly together. "Viserys''s death was inevitable," she said, exhaling sharply. "The timing, perhaps, was not. That foul prince¡ªplayed me like a fiddle." She sighed again, rubbing her temples. "Yet, that doesn''t end things, does it? The bastard has played his hand, and I must decide how to play mine."

    Jessamyn set the letter down, her gaze filled with something close to despair. "You cannot mean to accept this. To support this¡­ usurpation!"

    "And what would you have me do?" Jeyne asked, arching a brow. "Raise my banners? Defy the Greens when they make it so painfully foolish to do so?"

    Jessamyn hesitated, her indignation faltering in the face of Jeyne''s logic. "You would align with usurpers?"

    "I would align with stability," Jeyne said. "And do not mistake my acceptance for approval. Aemond''s ambition may be distasteful, but it is undeniable. The Greens have offered me a deal I cannot refuse, even after realizing their deceit. Defying them and supporting Rhaenyra would achieve nothing of value for the Vale."

    Jessamyn''s shoulders sagged, and she looked away, her fingers knotting in her lap. "And what of you?" she asked softly. "What of your happiness?"

    Jeyne allowed a brief silence to pass before replying. "Happiness is a luxury I have rarely afforded myself, Jessamyn. My duty lies with my people, not with my heart." She rose from her seat, her movements deliberate as she turned to Maester Vardis. "Prepare a reply to Prince Aemond. Inform him that the Vale acknowledges King Viserys''s will and pledges to honour it. I shall proceed with the arrangements for our union."

 Chapter Nineteen

    "Fear is the mind-killer. It is the little-death that brings total obliteration."

    ¨DMuad''Dib

    ¡­?

    The grey skies above Riverrun wept with a gentle drizzle, a fitting accompaniment to the solemn gathering in the godswood. The air carried the faint tang of wet stone and freshly turned earth. Oscar Tully, though but eighteen, stood with a composure belying his years, a black cloak draped over his broad shoulders and his face drawn in the appropriate solemnity of grief. The death of his grandfather, Lord Grover Tully, had been a thing anticipated with the resigned inevitability of winter''s arrival, yet the finality of it had left its mark upon the young man. His new station as Lord of Riverrun was less a triumph than a burden, one he bore now under the scrutiny of a hundred expectant eyes.

    The assembled mourners clustered in small knots, their whispers floating on the misty air. Rivermen of note¡ªMallisters, Freys, and Blackwoods among them¡ªpaid their respects, but their attentions lingered not on the departed Grover but on Oscar himself, the living embodiment of House Tully''s future. He had grown accustomed to such notice in recent months, his grandfather''s increasing frailty necessitating his assumption of many lordly duties. Yet now, with Grover gone, the weight of expectation had grown heavier, settling upon him like the damp chill of the morning.

    The septon''s voice rose in a sonorous prayer, its cadence blending with the soft rush of the Tumblestone River. Oscar bowed his head, his mind adrift amid the ceremony, when a sudden, distant roar shattered the tranquillity. Heads snapped upward as the shadow of a great beast darkened the sky.

    A collective gasp rippled through the mourners. Overhead, the vast form of Vhagar soared, her bronze scales gleaming dully in the cloudlight. She circled once, her wings stirring the air with the might of a storm, before descending in a slow, graceful arc toward the fields beyond Riverrun''s walls. The sight of a dragon so far inland was rare enough with its presence casting an immediate pall over the gathering.

    Oscar''s heart quickened. He turned to his steward, a grey-bearded man whose years had bred more caution than curiosity. "Fetch my horse, Harlan," he said briskly. "Quickly, now."

    Harlan''s brows furrowed in protest. "My lord, the funeral¡ª"

    "The funeral will proceed without me," Oscar interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "Our visitor demands attention."

    The steward hesitated only a moment before hurrying off. Oscar straightened his shoulders and cast a brief glance toward the mourners, many of whom now stared at him in open curiosity. He offered them a reassuring nod before striding toward the gates, where his horse awaited.

    <hr>

    The fields beyond Riverrun were damp, the grass glistening with rain. Vhagar loomed like a living mountain, her body a mass of sinewy power, her wings folded like banners at rest. Oscar reined in his horse some distance from the dragon, the beast''s immense eye tracking his approach with unnerving intelligence. Beneath her shadow stood a figure clad in dark leathers and a long cloak, his hair pale as winter snow.

    Prince Aemond Targaryen.

    Oscar dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. He approached with measured steps, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. "Prince Aemond," he said, his voice steady despite the peculiar intimacy of the moment. "Riverrun is honoured by your presence."

    Aemond turned toward him, his expression as inscrutable as the storm clouds above. His single remaining eye, a piercing violet, fixed on Oscar with unsettling intensity, while the sapphire in his empty socket gleamed faintly in the grey light. "Lord Oscar Tully," he said, his tone measured but not unkind. "It seems I have come at an opportune time."

    Oscar inclined his head, his words carefully chosen. "We are in mourning, Your Grace. My grandfather passed but days ago."

    Aemond''s lips curved into a faint smile, a gesture devoid of warmth yet free of malice. "A loss anticipated is no less a loss. I offer my condolences. Lord Grover was a steadfast servant of the realm."

    "My family is grateful for your kind words," Oscar replied, his hands clasped behind his back. "May I ask what brings you to Riverrun, my prince?"

    Aemond''s gaze did not waver. "I come on behalf of King Aegon, my brother, to secure the allegiance of the Riverlands. It is my understanding that a raven bearing word of King Viserys''s final will was sent to you."

    Oscar nodded. "The raven arrived, but its timing was... unfortunate. My grandfather''s passing and the preparations for his funeral delayed my reply."

    Aemond tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "No reply was expected. The matter of Lord Grover''s health was well known." He paused, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Still, I understand that mourning must take precedence."

    Oscar hesitated, uncertain how to navigate the prince''s peculiar mixture of formality and candour. "Riverrun has ever been loyal to the Iron Throne," he said carefully. "Our allegiance remains unchanged."

    Aemond''s faint smile returned. "That is good to hear. Loyalty is the foundation of all order. And yet¡­" He let the words hang for a moment before continuing. "It is best reaffirmed in person."

    Oscar inclined his head again. "Shall I escort you to the castle, my prince? The funeral rites will conclude shortly."

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    Aemond''s gaze shifted toward Riverrun''s distant walls, his expression briefly thoughtful. "I will attend, if only for a while. There are other matters that demand my attention."

    Oscar felt a flicker of relief. "Your presence will honour my grandfather''s memory."

    "Then let us proceed," Aemond said, his tone brisk but not unkind. He gestured toward Vhagar. "I will follow."

    Oscar mounted his horse once more, casting a glance back as Aemond turned toward the dragon to fetch something from its saddle. The prince''s calm presence belied the storm his arrival had wrought, and as they made their way back to Riverrun, Oscar could not help but wonder what lay behind that piercing violet eye.

    <hr>

    The wind howled like a thing possessed, tugging at Jacaerys''s cloak as he followed Daemon up the jagged, treacherous path. Above, a sky heavy with grey clouds threatened rain, and below, the sea crashed against Dragonstone''s black cliffs, sending sprays of foam high into the air. The climb was steep and unrelenting, yet Daemon moved as if he had walked the trail a thousand times, his boots finding purchase on slick stones without hesitation. Jace stumbled once but caught himself, his hand brushing against the cold, wet rock.

    "Why are we going so high?" Jace finally asked, his voice raised against the wind, though his question was laced with confusion. "What is it you wish to show me?"

    Daemon didn''t answer at first. He simply continued upward, his cloak snapping in the wind like the wings of a restless dragon. Only when they reached a narrow plateau did he pause and turn. His silver hair glinted in the pale light, and his dark violet eyes seemed to pierce through the mist. "Tell me, boy," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "where does true power over Westeros lie?"

    Jace frowned, taken aback by the question. "What sort of question is that?" he asked after a moment''s hesitation. "The throne, of course. Whoever sits upon it¡ª"

    Daemon''s laugh was sharp and sudden, cutting him off. "Naive," he said, shaking his head. "You think power comes from a chair of melted swords? You think Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms because he had a throne to sit on?"

    Jace frowned, utterly baffled now. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Daemon silenced him with a dismissive wave and turned toward the horizon. "Look," the older prince said, gesturing toward the distant sea.

    Confused, Jace squinted into the gloom, where the sea met the sky in a grey, indistinct line. A small, lone ship was visible far off in the distance, its sails barely visible against the murky backdrop. Jace could make out no more than its dark silhouette, though the shape of it¡ªa modest cog perhaps bound for King''s Landing or the Gullet¡ªseemed ordinary enough.

    "That," Daemon said, his voice softer but no less intense, "that is where power lies."

    Jace''s frown deepened. He squinted at the shape. "The ship?"

    "No," Daemon snapped impatiently. "Not the ship. What it carries. Spice, grain, wine, iron, gold, silk¡ªThe lifeblood of lords and peasants alike. That, boy, is power. That, and our dragons, of course."

    Jace felt his stomach tighten. "What are you saying?"

    Daemon turned back to him, his expression grim. "The Greens have been stealing power over the realm piece by piece, coin by coin¡­ dragon by dragon. While we rested on our laurels, blind, they have amassed every form of authority imaginable. The Small Council, the City Watch, King''s Landing, the Dragon''s Bank¡­ Even the Velaryons, who were meant to be our allies, seem to have given them two dragons¡ªtwo! They now have six to our four: Vhagar, Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Meleys, Moondancer, and Tesarion. And of our four, three are untested in battle. Even if they were, how much good will they do us when the Greens fly their mounts to war, backed by a fortune in gold? Gold that can buy armies, fleets, and the loyalty of men who swear otherwise to honour."

    Jace could feel the cold bitterness of the truth creeping into his bones as Daemon''s words took root in his mind. "That can''t be true," he protested, grasping at whatever thread of comfort he could find. "The lords of Westeros are not so easily swayed. Grandmother, Grandfather¡ªthey wouldn''t. They have their honour¡ª"

    "Honour?" Daemon spat the word like a curse. "Ha! The lords of Westeros are not nearly so noble as you imagine, boy. You think they will die on the altar of honour when their bellies can be full and their coffers even fuller? When they see the power of gold and dragons lined up against them? Honour is a luxury only the strong can depend on. Tell me, Jace¡ªdo you feel strong?"

    The accusation stung, but Jace refused to falter. "Regardless, Mother said no action was to be taken until¡ª"

    "Your mother," Daemon interrupted, his voice rising, "is abed, bleeding and screaming while the Greens tighten their hold on the realm! If you want to sit on your hands and wait for her leave, do so. But do not, for the love of the gods, get in my way."

    Jace''s heart hammered in his chest as Daemon turned away, his cloak swirling in the wind. For a long moment, Jace stood there, the weight of his uncle''s words heavy upon him, the cold wind cutting at his cheeks. Daemon''s steps carried him down the path towards the castle, and Jace was left standing alone, staring out over the waves.

    The merchant ship was almost out of sight now, a dark speck on a vast expanse of endless grey. For the first time, Jacaerys felt a deep, gnawing fear. Not just for his family, not just for the realm, but for himself.

 Chapter Twenty

    "Anger is a great thing, sometimes. It makes a man strong. It makes him do things he might not otherwise do."

    ¡ª Brienne of Tarth

    ¡­?

    It was a truth universally acknowledged that Prince Aemond could be a source of vexation should he choose to. Otto Hightower, seated in his chambers with the intent to fashion order from chaos, found himself more than usually burdened by such vexations. The quill in his hand trembled with the force of his displeasure as he completed a letter meant to soothe the frayed nerves of a minor lordling. The missive, though trivial in nature, was yet another proof of the disorder that plagued his life as Hand of the King.

    The interruption of a knock at the door was, in this case, not unwelcome. Otto called for his steward to enter, who bowed low before announcing, "Prince Aemond has returned, my lord. He was seen speaking with one of his companions in the west courtyard."

    Otto''s expression betrayed neither the relief that sprang to his heart nor the irritation that soon followed it. He rose, adjusting the folds of his cloak, and strode from the room with the dignity befitting his office.

    The courtyard, illuminated by the soft hues of twilight, presented an elegant tableau. Aemond leaned on a pillar, his one good eye trained upon the young woman at his side. She was striking in appearance, her height lending her an air of command, though her features betrayed a youthfulness that tempered such impressions. Her hair, a cascade of white, and her lavender eyes marked her as one of the dragonseeds the prince had taken to keeping around.

    Pets, some called them¡ªthough such insolence was never expressed in their presence, for Aemond''s temper was well-known and little inclined to forgiveness. Indeed, Aegon himself had once ventured a jest on the matter, an indiscretion for which he had paid dearly. Remarkably, he had not since repeated the offence¡ªa testament, perhaps, to the wisdom that occasionally followed chastisement.

    Their conversation ceased upon Otto''s approach. Aemond turned to face him as he approached, his smile polite but reserved. "Grandsire," the prince greeted, inclining his head. The young woman curtsied gracefully, though she did not speak.

    Otto allowed no time for pleasantries. "The council has been most uneasy, Aemond," he said, his tone measured but firm. "Your absence for such a length of time¡ªwithout warning, no less¡ªhas caused considerable alarm. It was feared that Princess Rhaenyra or her husband might have detained you¡ªor worse."

    Aemond regarded him with an expression that seemed to convey amusement. "I apologise for any distress I have caused, Lord Hand. I was delayed, though not by the Princess or her lord husband. I chose to visit Riverrun and offer my condolences upon the death of Lord Grover Tully. His grandson, Oscar, seemed most willing to renew their house''s fealty to the crown."

    This reply only deepened Otto''s annoyance. "A commendable effort, to be sure, but one that ought not to have been undertaken without the council''s knowledge. You are a prince of the realm, not a knight-errant to roam the Riverlands at your leisure."

    Aemond inclined his head again, the picture of contrition. "You are quite right, of course. It was a lapse in judgment."

    The apology, though deftly spoken, rang hollow in Otto''s ears. Before he could press the matter further, Aemond turned to the young woman. "Rowenna, fetch Addams and Nettles, if you would. Remember to tell them to pack for a trip."

    Rowenna curtsied once more and departed without a word. Otto watched her go, his curiosity briefly piqued, before returning his attention to his grandson.

    "You spoke of renewing fealty," Otto resumed, determined to reclaim control of the conversation. "Allow me to inform you that ravens have brought news of sworn allegiances from Houses Arryn, Tyrell and Lannister as well as from two dozen minor houses. Aegon''s claim grows stronger with each passing hour."

    "That is excellent news."

    "And yet you seem unsurprised."

    "I had every confidence in your guidance, Grandsire," Aemond replied. "What cause had I to doubt the outcome?"

    Otto''s patience, frayed as it was, found its breaking point. "Confidence in my guidance is well and good, until said guidance touches upon matters of actual import. Why, pray, did you speak against my proposal to deal with Princess Rhaenyra swiftly and decisively? Every moment she draws breath is a moment of peril for the realm."

    Aemond''s expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of thought crossing his face before he responded. "I had my reasons."

    "Which you have not deigned to share."

    "No, I have not."

    The simplicity of this admission struck Otto like a closed door. For a moment, he was rendered speechless, a condition he found both unfamiliar and intolerable. Aemond, sensing his discomfiture, stepped forward and rested a hand upon his shoulder¡ªa gesture at once familiar and unsettling.

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    "Grandsire," Aemond said softly, his voice carrying an earnestness that belied the coolness of his manner, "you have placed your trust in me before, and I ask that you continue to do so now. The risks I take are mine alone, and I assure you, they are undertaken with the utmost care."

    "You speak in riddles, boy."

    "Perhaps," Aemond allowed. "But there are some burdens best borne alone. Were I to share every detail, you might find yourself inclined to counsel against them. That is not a risk I am willing to take."

    The audacity of this statement left Otto stunned. He opened his mouth to reply but found no words that could adequately convey the depth of his exasperation. Aemond withdrew his hand, his demeanour once more one of formal deference.

    "Trust me, Grandsire," he repeated.

    "As you always have."

    <hr>

    The air of Dragonstone was thick with salt and smoke. The great pyre at the heart of the island''s ancestral grounds had been hastily assembled¡ªstone and iron and dry wood piled high, the flames already licking hungrily at the air. Daemon stood at the front of the assembly, unmoving, save for the restless flick of his fingers. His eyes, dark and hollowed by grief, were fixed upon the swaddled form set at the heart of the fire, upon the child that had never breathed, never lived, and now was claimed by the flames in a tradition older than the throne itself.

    Rhaenyra stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the fire, her face as pale as the ash that began to rise from it. The wind caught the edges of her gown, tugging at the fabric as though to remind them both of the world''s relentless turning. The Greens had taken everything from her: her peace, her father, her birthright. And now, they had taken her daughter too.

    Daemon said nothing as the fire consumed the child. What was he to say? There was no need for words; for, in truth, there were none to be spoken. The rituals of the day, so often full of ceremony and pomp, seemed so utterly inadequate in the face of such grief. His heart, like the flames before him, was a fierce thing, though it burned with a darker fire than that of Syrax''s breath.

    Beside him, Rhaenyra''s distress seemed to swell, and though she did not weep aloud, it was clear that her grief was an unspoken tempest. A fury, perhaps, which could never be quelled, not even in the face of such an irreparable loss. Daemon felt it as surely as if it were his own, but still, he remained silent

    "They took her, Daemon," Rhaenyra said, her voice scarcely rising above the whisper of the wind, yet there was a tremor in her words that betrayed her quiet anguish. Her eyes, though fixed upon the flames, seemed to search for an answer in them. "They killed my daughter."

    A muscle twitched in Daemon''s jaw, but he made no reply. What words were there to speak? There was nothing that could undo what had been done, nothing that could restore that which had been lost. He stood motionless, his gaze still locked upon the pyre, his thoughts as distant and cold as the sea itself.

    When the funeral rites had concluded, and the mourners¡ªthose few who had borne witness¡ªhad dispersed, Daemon turned away from the scene. He did not glance back at the pyre, nor did he speak to Rhaenyra. Even then, there were no words to be found, for he knew not what to say.

    The salt of the air stung his nostrils as he strode away from the heart of the island, the wind tugging at his cloak. Yet he did not allow it to sway him. He walked with a steady step, as though the very motion of his limbs might somehow steady his spirit, though in truth it did little to quell the storm within. At length, he found himself upon the rocky shore, staring out at the vastness of the ocean. The waters, though constant in their motion, seemed to him as endless and indifferent as his grief.

    It was there, alone amidst the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, that Daemon found a peculiar kind of solace. For though his grief was vast, it was not to be given over to tears or lamentations. There would be no more mourning today. There would be no more grief. Not while the Greens still lived, still held the throne, still robbed them of all they had. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his thoughts darkening with a resolve that could not be dismissed.

    "Aemond," he muttered, his voice low and dark, as though he spoke to the very sea itself. "Another wrong, another sin added to the tally. You have stolen from me what can never be returned, and for that, I swear by all that is sacred, you shall answer. Indeed, your gods may be merciful, but you shall find none with me."

 INTERLUDE: Pinky. Ring.

    "Words are wind, but the wind can fan a fire."

    ¨DTyrion Lannister

    ¡­?

    "¡­and if we are to even contest the boy''s claim, she must be crowned," Daemon declared, a tinge of annoyance in his tone. "We may argue over tactics and allegiances for hours yet, but the simple truth remains: Without that symbol of legitimacy, our cause falters before it begins. It is unfortunate that Viserys crown is in the Green''s possession, but that is no reason to forgo tradition."

    For a moment, the room was silent, save for the distant crash of waves against the Dragonstone cliffs. Rhaenyra stood straighter, her expression cool, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. Then, with a measured nod, she spoke.

    "Very well," she said. "A temporary crown shall be forged. Let it serve as a token of my claim until my father''s crown is returned to me. And it shall be returned."

    The lords murmured their assent, though their voices carried little enthusiasm. Rhaenyra''s gaze swept the table, lingering on each face in turn before she finally spoke.

    "Has there been no word from the capital?" she asked.

    The silence that followed was answer enough, though the assembled lords exchanged uneasy glances. The maester, Gerardys, shifted where he stood but said nothing. It was Daemon who finally broke the quiet. "Nothing," he said grimly. "It seems the Greens have silenced the city. Ravens do not fly as freely as they once did."

    "That would be a feat beyond even One-Eye''s cunning," Bartimos retorted. "The Keep''s employ is vast. To purge all the queen''s loyalists would require a degree of control that ought to be impossible. And as for the city''s silence, while it is not unthinkable that they wish to delay us from learning the truth, it is also possible," Bartimos added, with a pointed look, "that Aemond lied."

    The suggestion sent a ripple through the room. Daemon narrowed his eyes at the Celtigar lord. "Would you have me believe Aemond Targaryen lied about the King''s death and his brother''s coronation? What purpose would that serve?"

    Bartimos opened his mouth to respond but quickly shut it again under Daemon''s withering glare.

    "My prince, my lords," Gerardys interjected, his tone weary but firm, "the truth will reach us soon enough. Matters of this magnitude cannot be hidden for long. If we wish to expedite the process, we might send someone to King''s Landing¡ªa messenger, discreet, with orders to return by raven."

    Rhaenyra seized on the suggestion. "Do it," she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. "Ser Lorent, you will handle this task. Go at once, and take care to remain unseen."

    The knight straightened bowing low before leaving the chamber. With that, Rhaenyra dismissed the topic, her tone making it clear she would entertain no more conjecture regarding Bartimos''s suspicions. "Whether Aemond lied or not, it is best we assume the boy spoke true. Aegon has been crowned, and we face a divided realm," she declared. "Now, to the matter of our allies. Gerardys?"

    Gerardys cleared his throat. "Missives have been sent, as Prince Daemon commanded," he said carefully, casting a glance toward the prince, whose face betrayed neither apology nor regret. Rhaenyra''s glare, however, was unmistakable.

    "And their responses?" she asked icily.

    The maester hesitated. "There is troubling news. The Velaryons appear to have sided with the Greens. Vaemond Velaryon commands the fleet, and if his loyalty lies with Aegon, then Driftmark''s strength is lost to us. Moreover¡­" He faltered, wringing his hands. "There is reason to believe Jeyne Arryn may align with the Greens as well. Her engagement to Prince Aemond complicates matters."

    Before Rhaenyra could respond, a servant burst into the chamber, clutching a sealed letter. "For the maester," he stammered, handing it over with trembling hands.

    Gerardys broke the seal and opened the missive, his face paling as he read. "Your Grace," he said, his voice hoarse. "House Tully has declared for the Greens."

    The declaration landed like a hammer''s blow. Daemon did not need to look around the table to feel the shift in the room. Rhaenyra took the letter from Gerardys'' hand, reading it for herself. "The Riverlands are lost to us," she said quietly, though her tone carried a weight that silenced even the murmurs of disbelief.

    A heavy stillness settled over the council. Rhaenyra set the letter down, her fingers trembling slightly before she folded them together.

    "West of the Golden Tooth is lost to us as well," Rhaenyra continued. "The Lannisters will almost certainly side with the Greens." She exhaled then, visibly calming herself.

    "We will address this matter later," the queen declared, turning her gaze to meet Daemon''s. "For now, we must secure what allies we still can. The North, the Reach, and the Stormlands must be brought to our side."

    Her words were met with grim nods. The weight of the discussion seemed to pull the very air from the chamber. Rhaenyra stood as though carved from stone, her hands resting heavily on the table before her. It was Bartimos Celtigar who finally broke the oppressive silence.

    "The Ironborn," he began cautiously, "loathe Aemond. I doubt they would willingly raise a single ship for Aegon. If approached with care, they might be persuaded to lend their strength to our cause."

    Daemon leaned back in his chair. "Persuaded by promises of plunder, no doubt. They are as predictable as the tide."

    "They are also a force to be reckoned with," Bartimos replied. "And one the Greens might not expect."

    Rhaenyra''s expression darkened. "Are we so desperate that we must sully ourselves by courting pirates and reavers?"

    "We are desperate enough to consider all options," Daemon replied smoothly, though there was a glint of steel in his tone. "I will treat with them on my way north."

    Rhaenyra turned to him, her expression questioning.

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    "I intend to fly to Winterfell personally," Daemon clarified. "To Cregan Stark. The North will likely not rise quickly, but when it does, it will hopefully do so in full strength."

    Rhaenyra nodded, her brow furrowing. Before she could voice her assent, Jacerys spoke for the first time that evening. "If Daemon is to treat with the Starks, I will fly to Storm''s End and treat with Lord Borros."

    Rhaenyra''s lips parted as if to refuse, but after a long pause, she inclined her head. "So be it. You''ll leave in the morning."

    Before the conversation could shift further, Lucerys also broke his silence. "Then if Jace is to go to Storm''s End, I will go to Highgarden¡ª"

    "No," Rhaenyra interrupted, "it is too dangerous."

    Jacerys spoke in his brother''s defence. "We could go together, fly to Storm''s End first before taking a detour to Highgarden."

    Daemon spoke up then. "We have no better option. If we are to treat with Highgarden in person, this is the way."

    Rhaenyra''s hands tightened into fists on the table. "Then I will go to Highgarden myself," she declared. "I am the queen. My presence would carry more weight."

    The room fell silent, her words hanging in the air like a challenge. It was Gerardys who broke the quiet, his tone calm but firm. "You are too valuable to risk, my Queen. If something were to happen to you, all would be lost. Jace and Luke can handle this task."

    The others nodded in reluctant agreement, their collective resolve pressing against her will. At last, Rhaenyra relented, though the hesitation in her eyes remained unquenched. "Very well. But you will be careful," she said, her voice thick with emotion as she addressed her sons. "Both of you."

    Jace and Luke exchanged a glance, their resolve strengthening in unison. "We will, Mother," Jace promised.

    With the major tasks divided, Rhaenyra smoothened her dress, her movements slow but deliberate. "The council is dismissed. Go now and make your preparations."

    Daemon lingered as the others began to disperse. Rhaenyra caught his gaze. There were no words, but a silent exchange passed between them.

    As Daemon turned to leave, his thoughts turned northward. The war had begun, though no swords had yet clashed. He knew, for the Blacks to triumph, there could be no hesitation, no mercy.

    Only fire and blood.

    <hr>

    The chamber was dimly lit, the moonlight filtering through a narrow window of oiled parchment. Shadows danced upon the walls, cast by the single candle that burned low on the heavy wooden table. Addam Velaryon stepped inside, his boots muffled against the thick stone floor. He carried a pack, neither overly large nor modest, slung across one shoulder. He was not one to dawdle or come ill-prepared, not when his prince summoned him.

    Rowenna was already there, her long hair tied back, her expression a mask of calm. Nettles leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed over her chest, her wild curls framing a face that was unflattering. A pack sat at her feet, carelessly tossed, adding to her already uncouth appearance¡ªnot that she particularly cared about that to begin with.

    "Addam," Aemond said from his seat at the head of the table, his voice low but deliberate. His lone violet eye fixed on him, the patch over the other lending his visage a sharpness that could cut through steel. "Shut the door behind you."

    Addam obeyed, closing the heavy door and letting the iron latch click into place. He turned back, his face betraying only a hint of unease. Aemond gestured for him to step closer.

    "You''ve spoken with Larys Strong," the prince said. It was not a question.

    "I have, my prince." Addam''s voice was steady, though he felt the weight of the prince''s gaze pressing on him. "I delivered your message, word for word. He seemed... intrigued."

    "Intrigued is good," Aemond said, leaning back slightly in his chair. His tone was unreadable, as always. "And the gold?"

    "It''s in my quarters. I did not think it proper to¡ª"

    Aemond waved a hand, cutting him off. "Spend it. On food, wine, women, or horses if you wish. Let Larys think you are easily bought. Let him believe he holds your leash. Such illusions often prove useful."

    Addam hesitated, then gave a slight nod. He did not fully understand the prince''s reasoning, but he knew better than to question it. Aemond did not explain himself unless he wished to, and even then, his explanations often left more questions than answers.

    The prince rose from his seat with a fluid grace, his cloak swirling around him. His eye flicked to Rowenna, then Nettles, and finally back to Addam.

    "I believe the time is right," he said in the end.

    Nettles tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowed. "Right for what, my prince?"

    "For you to claim Sheepstealer," Aemond said, his gaze flickering to Addam, "and you, Seasmoke. You''ve earned the privilege, I believe."

    The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of wind against the tower walls. Rowenna said nothing, unsurprised. It seemed she knew of this beforehand. Typical. Nettles, for her part, let out a sharp laugh.

    "Sheepstealer?" she said, her voice laced with incredulity. "Surely, you jest my Prince¡ª"

    "I would call you two to my chambers at this hour to jest, Nettles?," Aemond interrupted, the brow above his good eye crooked. "The blood of Valyria flows through your veins, as it does mine. Dragons are not tamed by fear or doubt. They are claimed by fire and will. You will succeed, because you must. Because I have decreed you must. Understood?"

    "...Yes, my Prince."

    "Have you all you need for the journey?" Aemond asked, his voice softer now.

    Addam nodded. Nettles hesitated, then nodded as well. Aemond''s gaze lingered on them for a moment, then he turned and strode to the door.

    "Then we leave at once," he said, throwing the door open. The chill of the corridor swept into the room. "The dragons will not wait, and neither will I."

 INTERLUDE: Sheepstealer

    "Sheepstealer''s savagery in battle would earn him a fearsome reputation, though he fought but seldom."

    ¨DArchmaester Gyldayn

    ¡­?

    The wind screamed past Nettles'' ears as Vhagar descended toward the Wendwater. The ancient beast''s wings beat slow and heavy, each stroke churning the air like a storm at sea. From her perch behind Prince Aemond, Nettles clutched at the leather straps, her knuckles white. Every muscle in her body strained against the terrible force of the descent.

    She dared a glance downwards and immediately regretted it. The trees below looked like bristling pins, the river a coiled silver snake winding through the forest. Aemond rode as if born to the saddle, his back straight, his one eye fixed on the horizon. He seemed oblivious to the gale that whipped Nettles'' face and hair.

    When at last they descended, the landing was as abrupt and decisive as the prince himself. Vhagar''s immense claws tore into the earth of the clearing, scattering moss and twigs as though the forest itself was inconsequential. Hastily, Nettles slid from the saddle, her trembling legs betraying her confidence, or lack thereof.

    She looked up to see Aemond dismounting in a single, fluid motion, his cloak trailing behind him as he strode forward without hesitation. "Come," he commanded in a tone brooking no argument.

    Nettles hesitated but followed, her boots crunching against the undergrowth. The air in the forest was thick and damp, the scent of rain mingling with the earthy aroma of moss and bark. It might have been pleasant under different circumstances, but here, in the prince''s shadow, it felt oppressive. The trees closed in around them as they walked, their branches forming an intricate lattice above that filtered the weak sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground.

    After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at a clearing unlike any Nettles had ever seen. The charred remains of trees stood as stark blackened sentinels, and the ground was a mosaic of fire-scorched earth and patches of stubborn grass. But what drew Nettles'' attention were the bones. They lay in haphazard piles, some bleached white by the sun, others still blackened and splintered.

    The stench of old ash hung in the air, thick enough to taste. Nettles wrinkled her nose but stepped forward, curiosity prickling at her. She crouched beside a pile of bones, brushing her fingers over the charred remains. Sheep, perhaps. Maybe cattle. The shapes were indistinct, melted together like wax figurines left out in the sun.

    A strange unease prickled the back of her neck. She realised then the woods around the clearing were too quiet. No birdsong, no rustling of leaves, only the faint whisper of the distant river. Even the air seemed wrong, heavy and stifling, as if holding its breath.

    "What is this place?" she asked, her voice quieter now. She glanced back at Aemond, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching her with an inscrutable expression. His gaze lifted then and Nettles followed it¡ª

    A great shadow moved at the edge of the woods.

    Her breath caught in her throat. The creature emerged from the darkness, slow and deliberate, its orange eyes gleaming like embers.

    A dragon.

    It was massive, and though smaller than Vhagar, Nettles would later wonder how it managed to hide itself in those woods. Its scales were a mottled brown and grey, blending seamlessly with the bark of the trees and the ash-covered ground. Smoke curled from its nostrils, and its maw glowed faintly, a pit of firey death that grew brighter as the moment passed.

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    "Fuck¡ª"

    "Laodikio! Lykir¨©!" Aemond hissed, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. The beast paused and turned to face him, hesitating as the glow in its maw dimmed. The prince''s voice had changed as he spoke, taking on a cadence that Nettles could not place. It was deeper, resonant, layered with something seemingly beyond human.

    Aemond stepped forward, his expression calm, his movements deliberate. He spoke again, this time his tone firm but almost... tender. "Ziry iksis lo hen Valyria. B¨¥ issa n¨¡dris iksis gaomilaks, em¨¡ jorr¨¡elagon iks¨¡. Em¨¡ v¨¥j¨©, rhaenagon jorr¨¡elagon syt naejot kesan jael¨¡zma zir?la."

    (You are a creature of Valyria. Fire is your blood, and you are loved. Be still, beloved of fire, for I have brought you a rider.)

    Nettles perfectly understood the language¡ªAemond had made certain of that during their gruelling lessons¡ªbut it was not just the meaning of the words that struck her. It was the way the dragon reacted. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she feared it might ignore him. But slowly, ever so slowly, the fire in its maw dimmed until it finally disappeared. The beast''s golden eyes shifted, focusing on her.

    Nettles glanced at the prince only to meet his expectant gaze. She swallowed hard, her feet moving before her mind could catch up. She stepped forward slowly, the crunch of charred bone beneath her boots echoing in her ears. The dragon lowered its massive head, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed her. The air that rushed out of its nostrils was hot and foul, carrying the stench of sulfur and death.

    For a moment nothing happened, but when it exhaled again, the sound was low and guttural. It took her a moment to realize the beast was laughing at her.

    "Oh, you think this is funny?" Nettles snapped, her apprehension melting into indignation. "Bloody giant lizard thinks it''s clever, does it? Laugh all you want, but I''ll¡ª"

    The dragon nudged her with its snout, sending her stumbling back. She glared at it, her fists clenched.

    And then, impossibly, Sheepstealer lowered his head to the ground, his wings folding against his sides. The gesture was unmistakable: submission.

    Nettles blinked, her mind struggling to make sense of what she was seeing. She turned to Aemond, who stood with his arms crossed, a single brow arched impatiently.

    "Well?" he drawled. "We don''t have all day."

    Her lips parted, a retort forming, but she thought better of it. Instead, she turned back to Sheepstealer. With a deep breath, she placed her hand on one of the dragon''s ridges and hauled herself onto his back. The scales were rough and warm beneath her fingers, and she gripped tightly, her heart pounding in her ear.

    "Wait¡ª" Nettles cried, but the dragon shifted beneath her. Without warning, the great beast lumbered forward, his wings unfurling. Nettles barely had time to brace herself before they were airborne, the ground falling away in a dizzying rush. She clung to the dragon''s back, her fear giving way to exhilaration as the wind tore at her hair and filled her lungs.

    And then she began to laugh. It started as a shaky chuckle, born of terror, but quickly grew into something else. Elation. Freedom. Power.

    She was still laughing as Sheepstealer soared higher, the wind whipping her hair into a wild tangle. For the first time in her life, Nettles felt unbound.

    She laughed until the tears came, and even then, she could not stop.

 INTERLUDE: Seasmoke

    "Laenor Velaryon''s Seasmoke was a splendid creature, pale silver-grey in colour, swift and gracious in the air."

    ¨DArchmaester Gyldayn

    ¡­?

    The moon hung low and swollen in the sky, its pale light casting a ghostly sheen on the churning waters of Blackwater Bay. Addam Velaryon stood at the helm of a tiny fishing sloop, his calloused hands steady on the tiller as he guided the craft through the treacherous currents. The island of Dragonstone loomed ahead, its jagged silhouette a dark, brooding presence against the starlit sky. Beyond the crags and steep cliffs lay the distorted, ancient castle, a monument of Valyrian stone and fire, but Addam''s course led him far from the fortress and its guarded harbour.

    He aimed for the northern crags, where the waves lashed against the rocks with relentless fury. The journey had been planned with meticulous care¡ªPrince Aemond had ensured that no detail was left to chance. Addam''s instructions had been clear: avoid the castle, avoid detection, and approach from the unguarded side. The small sloop creaked and groaned as it weathered the surf, but it held steady, its shallow keel skimming over the churning waters. Addam tightened his grip on the tiller, his face grim with concentration.

    At last, the craggy shoreline came into view, a tangle of jagged rocks and salt-streaked cliffs. Addam let the sloop drift closer before leaping onto a boulder, his boots crunching against the rough stone. He tied the boat loosely to a jutting rock, knowing full well that the tide would claim it before dawn. The vessel had served its purpose; it mattered little if it was lost.

    Adjusting the rucksack strapped to his shoulders, Addam took one last glance at the sloop before turning inland. The sound of the waves faded behind him as he clambered over the rocks and into the dense forest beyond.

    The forest was alive with the sounds of night. Branches creaked overhead as the wind swept through the canopy, and unseen creatures rustled in the underbrush. The air was thick with the scent of pine and salt, mingling with the faint tang of sulfur carried from the distant volcano. Addam moved cautiously, his boots crunching softly on the leaf-strewn ground. Shadows danced around him, cast by the flickering light of his lantern, and he felt the weight of the island''s primal presence pressing down upon him.

    For hours, he pressed onward, navigating by starlight alone as his prince had taught him. His path was uneven, the terrain shifting from dense forest to rocky outcroppings. Once, he paused to rest, his breath misting in the cold night air. The fire he kindled was small and brief, more for warmth than light. He crouched by the flames, his thoughts drifting to the one who had sent him on this errand. Aemond''s voice echoed in his mind, calm and deliberate as he had outlined the journey before he and Nettles departed Driftmark atop Vhagar. "Follow the crags south until you find the lake. From there, follow the shore east to the river feeds it. It will guide you to the dragon."

    Addam extinguished the fire with a handful of dirt and rose to his feet. The forest seemed darker now, the shadows deeper, but he pressed on. His path grew steeper as the trees began to thin, giving way to a clearing bathed in moonlight. Before him lay the lake.

    It was a thing of beauty, its surface smooth as glass and reflecting the night sky in perfect clarity. The water seemed to glow faintly, its edges rimmed with pearly mist that sparkled like diamonds. Addam paused to take in the sight, his breath caught by the lake''s stillness. He crouched by the water''s edge, cupping his hands to drink. Somehow, the water was icy and sharp, a welcome relief from the journey''s weariness.

    Rising, Addam followed the shoreline eastward, his steps careful on the dew-slick rocks. The river came into view as Aemond had promised, a slender ribbon of silver snaking into the distant mountains. With a final glance at the lake, he turned to the river and followed it up.

    The flow wound its way into the heart of Dragonmont, its waters growing swifter and shallower as Addam climbed higher into the mountains. The air here was thick and humid, carrying the unmistakable tang of sulfur. Steam hissed from cracks in the ground, and the earth beneath his boots was warm to the touch. Geysers erupted in the distance, sending plumes of scalding vapour skyward. The landscape felt alive, as if the mountain itself were breathing, its fiery heart beating just beneath the surface.

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    Addam moved cautiously, his senses heightened by the eerie stillness that seemed to permeate the slopes. The only sounds were the rush of the river and the occasional hiss of a geyser. He kept his eyes sharp for any sign of the dragon''s presence, his thoughts returning to Aemond''s instructions. "You''ll know you''re close when you see the bones."

    It was just past midnight when he stumbled upon them. The pile of charred bones lay in a shallow depression near the riverbank, their blackened edges gleaming in the faint light of his lantern. They were old but unmistakable¡ªribs the length of spear shafts, skulls with teeth like needles. The remnants of an infant whale perhaps, scattered among the larger remains told a grim story of predation and fire. Addam knelt beside the pile, his gloved hand brushing against a shard of bone. It crumbled beneath his touch, the ash staining his fingers.

    Rising, he scanned the area for further signs. It didn''t take long to find them. A set of massive footprints, partially obscured by the shifting earth, led away from the bones and up into the crags. The tracks were unmistakably draconic, their deep impressions marked by clawed toes and the drag of a long tail. Addam swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it.

    Following the tracks, he ascended into the higher reaches of Dragonmont, where the air grew hotter and the ground more unstable. The terrain was treacherous, a maze of jagged rocks and steaming fissures. Addam slipped more than once, his hands scraped raw by the sharp stone, but he pressed on.

    At last, he found it¡ªa dark maw set into the rocky face of the mountain, faint wisps of smoke curling from its depths. Heat radiated from its depths, the air within shimmering like a mirage. The entrance was ringed with scorch marks, the rock blackened and cracked from countless bursts of dragonfire. Addam hesitated at the threshold, his breath catching in his throat. He could sense the being within, a presence that seemed to fill the space with its weight.

    He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. The air grew heavier with each step, and the faint scent of sulfur deepened into something sharper. The faint sound of breathing reached his ears¡ªa low, rhythmic rumble that reverberated through the cave. He stopped just short of the shadows, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.

    Seasmoke lay coiled in the darkness, its silver-grey scales glinting faintly in the light of Addam''s lantern. The dragon''s eyes were closed, its massive head resting on its foreclaws. Even in slumber, it was a fearsome sight, its body radiating heat and power. Addam felt a wave of awe wash over him in that moment.

    He took a cautious step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rytsas, Embr¨­rbar."

    Greetings, Seasmoke.

    The dragon stirred, its reptilian eyes flickering open. For a moment, they fixed on Addam, their depths swirling with an intelligence that seemed to pierce straight through him. Seasmoke huffed softly, a plume of steam curling from its nostrils, before lowering its head back onto its claws.

    The creature''s indifference was almost more unnerving than aggression, but Addam let out a breath he hadn''t realized he''d been holding.

    "Guess you''re not much for introductions," he muttered, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. He stepped back slowly, careful not to disturb, and began to set down his pack near the cave''s entrance. The warmth emanating from the dragon was enough to ward off the chill of the mountain air, but he still felt the need to kindle a small fire for light and reassurance.

    As he worked to gather kindling, he spoke aloud to no one in particular. "I suppose I can wait until you''re done resting. Then we can talk. No rush, is there?"

    The sound of his voice echoed faintly in the cave, but Seasmoke paid him no heed. Addam struck flint to steel, coaxing a small flame to life. As the fire crackled and grew, he sat back on his haunches, his gaze flickering between the dragon and the stars visible through the cave''s entrance.

    A sense of calm settled over him, tempered by the ever-present tension of being in the presence of such a mighty creature. For now, however, he was content to simply wait.

 Chapter Twenty-One: Honour and Loyalty

    "A man is a fool who puts aside his own house for the sake of another''s."

    ¨DThufir Hawat

    ¡­?

    The rain fell in sheets, driven sideways by the fierce winds that howled through the courtyard of Storm''s End. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Lucerys adjusted his cloak, pulling the damp fabric tighter around him as he trudged behind his brother, Jace.

    As they entered the great hall, the atmosphere turned heavier still. Lord Borros Baratheon sat on his great oaken chair, flanked by his daughters and bannermen. His broad face was a mask of disdain, his thick black beard glistening with wine. The hall was dimly lit, the torches sputtering in the storm''s breath.

    "You come at last," Borros intoned, his voice a drawl. "I had begun to think you dragon lords had forgotten my house entirely. But, of course, you remember the Stormlands only when of have need of us."

    Luke felt the sting of the words even as Jace inclined his head respectfully. "My lord," Jace began, his tone measured, "we come not to demand, but to entreat. The crown requires steadfast allies, and none are more steadfast than you. My mother, the queen, values your loyalty above all others."

    Borros snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Your mother values it now, perhaps. But where was her regard for the Stormlands when dragons flew high and peace reigned? It is a bitter thing, to be remembered only when the winds shift and the storm rolls in. Now you come again, asking for fealty. What does your mother offer that I should give it?"

    Jace paused, his lips tightening. "The honour of standing with the true heir to the Iron Throne. My mother, the Queen Rhaenyra, is¡ª"

    "Spare me your titles," Borros interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Honour? Words are wind, Prince Jacaerys. My house needs strength, not platitudes." His dark eyes narrowed. "If I were to stand with Rhaenyra, which of my daughters would you wed?"

    Lucerys froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Jace hesitated, and Lucerys knew what his brother would say before he spoke.

    "I cannot offer that, my lord," Jace said carefully. "I am my mother''s heir. The matter of my betrothal lies with her."

    Borros laughed¡ªa short, derisive sound. "So, the queen''s heir cannot offer his hand. You would have me pledge my strength to a woman who cannot even grant me the courtesy of a proper bargain? Go back to your mother, boy, and tell her the Lord of Storm''s End is no dog to be called upon at her whim."

    Panic flared in Lucerys'' chest. The stormlands were vital. To lose them would be a blow from which their cause might not recover. Before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out of his mouth.

    "I will wed one of your daughters, my lord."

    The hall fell silent. Jace turned to him, shock and anger warring on his face. Borros raised a thick brow, his lips curling into a smirk. "You, boy? And why should I believe you''d keep such a promise?"

    "I swear it," Lucerys said, his voice steadier than he felt. "If you will support my mother''s claim, I will marry one of your daughters."

    Borros leaned back in his chair, his laughter booming. "You have a spine, I''ll give you that. Very well, boy. Tell me, which daughter you would have."

    Luke''s face burned as he looked toward the dais. The ladies Baratheon regarded him with varying degrees of amusement and disdain. He hesitated, his thoughts racing. Finally, he pointed toward the youngest; a safe gamble, he reasoned.

    "Floris," Borros announced, his grin widening. "A good eye, boy. Floris is a fine lady, and she''ll make a fine match for a prince."

    Luke swallowed hard, his chest tightening with the weight of his impulsive offer. Borros''s laughter filled the hall, the stormlord clearly pleased with the turn of events. "Go on, then," he said, waving a hand. "Take this news back to your mother. Tell her the stormlands stand with her¡ªand her younger son."

    Jace bowed stiffly, his face tight with controlled emotion. "We thank you, my lord," he said, his voice strained. "But before that, we must travel to Highgarden. House Tyrell''s support¡ª"

    Borros cut him off with another laugh, this one darker. "Highgarden? Tyrell has already thrown his lot in with the Greens. You''ll find no succor there."

    Luke felt the blood drain from his face. Jace stood frozen for a moment before nodding stiffly. "Then we will return to our mother," he said, his voice quiet.

    <hr>

    It was late afternoon when the crimson shadow of Caraxes fell upon the Winterfell. The skies above the Wolfswood were an iron grey, heavy with the threat of snow. The dragon descended, wings beating heavily against the frigid northern winds, which carried with them the scent of pine and petrichor. Men and women alike paused in their labours to gape at the creature''s immense, serpentine form. Yet, despite the dragon''s overbearing presence, Daemon could feel his mount''s displeasure as an undercurrent to their landing. Caraxes loathed the cold.

    As the dragon''s claws scraped against the packed snow and ice, a gout of steam rose from his nostrils, the heat of his breath hissing upon contact with the frostbitten ground. Daemon dismounted with the air of one who expected deference, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister. His boots crunched upon the snow, and his violet eyes swept over the gathered Northerners.

    A few men approached, cloaked in thick furs. Their faces, wind-chapped and weathered, betrayed no awe nor fear¡ªonly the reserved caution of men accustomed to their own hardships. At their forefront was a lean, broad-shouldered figure, his hair as pale as fresh snow and his expression as stony as the grey walls of Winterfell itself.

    "Prince Daemon," the man said, inclining his head. "Welcome to Winterfell."

    Daemon''s sharp eyes narrowed as he surveyed the speaker. "And where is Lord Stark?"

    "Lord Cregan rides in the Wolfswood," the man replied evenly. "He is overseeing preparations for the coming winter and will return on the morrow."

    A flicker of irritation passed across Daemon''s features. It was not in his nature to wait, much less for an audience with a lord whose allegiance should already be secured. "I trust Winterfell''s hospitality will suffice in his absence," he said, his tone edged with faint annoyance.

    The man bowed slightly. "You will be well cared for, my prince. If you will follow me."

    Daemon nodded curtly, casting a final glance at Caraxes. The dragon settled uneasily, his tail sweeping the frigid earth as the men stationed nearby kept their distance. One brave stablehand approached cautiously to see to the dragon, but Caraxes let out a low growl, sending him scurrying back. Amused, Daemon turned and followed his escort through the gates of Winterfell.

    <hr>

    The guest quarters were humble by the standards of King''s Landing, but they bore the mark of Northern practicality. Thick stone walls shielded against the wind''s bite, and a modest fire crackled in the hearth, though its warmth felt fleeting in the vast chamber. A servant girl entered quietly, carrying a tray laden with roasted venison, dark bread, and a flagon of spiced ale.

    "Warm water has been drawn for your bath, my prince," she said softly, her eyes darting to his face before lowering respectfully.

    Daemon eyed her for a moment before dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. "The chill would undo the effort," he said, his tone clipped. "Leave it."

    The girl hesitated but nodded, retreating from the room as silently as she had entered. Alone, Daemon seated himself at the table, tearing into the venison without ceremony. His thoughts drifted, restless and impatient, to the task ahead. The North was vast, its strength undeniable, but its isolation bred a stubborn independence. Securing their loyalty was paramount, and yet he could not shake the unease that curled at the edges of his mind.

    When the meal was done, Daemon shed his travel-worn cloak and eased himself onto the bed. The furs were coarse but serviceable, and though the fire in the hearth burned steadily, the cold seemed to creep into his bones nonetheless. Sleep did not come easily, and when it did, it was fitful, plagued by dreams of shadowy wolves and distant storms.

    <hr>

    Morning broke with a pale, wan light filtering through the narrow windows of Winterfell. Daemon rose, his movements deliberate as he dressed and fastened Dark Sister at his hip. Stepping into the corridor, he caught sight of a passing servant in the hall, a boy of no more than fourteen, and demanded, "Where is your lord?"

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    The boy blinked, startled, before stammering, "In the yard, my lord."

    Without another word, Daemon strode down the hall, his boots echoing off the stone walls. Outside, the air was sharp and bracing, the sun casting long shadows over the snow-dusted yard. Men were at work tending to horses, sparring with dulled swords, and hauling supplies to the storerooms. Amid the bustle stood a figure that could only be Lord Cregan Stark.

    The Lord of Winterfell was broad-shouldered and grim-faced, his dark hair swept back and bound loosely at the nape of his neck. He had the look of a man accustomed to hardship, though he bore it without complaint. As Daemon approached, Cregan turned, his grey eyes locking onto the prince.

    The lord dismissed his men with a nod and strode forward, extending a hand in greeting. "Prince Daemon," he said, his voice steady. "I must apologize for not receiving you sooner. Winter is no time for idleness in the North."

    Daemon inclined his head but did not take the offered hand. "And yet, it is no time for delays either," he replied. "I trust we can dispense with formalities."

    Cregan''s hand fell to his side, and a shadow passed over his features. "Come," he said, gesturing toward the Great Hall. "We can speak within."

    Daemon followed, his gaze flickering over the men in the yard. Though he said nothing, a small knot of unease tightened in his chest.

    <hr>

    When the servants brought breakfast, Daemon waved them off impatiently. "I won''t be staying long. What I require is your word, Lord Stark. Will the North rise for Rhaenyra?"

    Cregan regarded him steadily, his face unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. "You are direct," he said finally. "I respect that. Then allow me to be the same."

    Leaning forward slightly, Cregan rested his forearms on the table. "I have thought long and hard on this matter, Prince Daemon. I have spoken with my bannermen, weighed the risks and rewards, and considered what is best for the North. After much deliberation, I have concluded: involving my people in you southerner''s game of thrones is not in the North''s best interest."

    The words hung in the air like a frost-laden wind. For a moment, Daemon did not react, his face an impenetrable mask. But the silence was deceptive, for beneath it his temper surged, a dragon''s rage tethered by a fragile chain.

    "How much?" Daemon asked, his voice low and sharp as the blade at his side.

    Cregan frowned, his brow furrowing. "How much, my prince?"

    "How much did it cost?" Daemon pressed, his tone rising with each word. "What did Aemond promise you? Gold? Ships? Titles?" His words spilled out in a torrent, each one more accusatory than the last. "Tell me, Stark, what price did you place on your honour?"

    The insult landed like a blow. Cregan''s jaw tightened, and a flicker of anger lit his storm-grey eyes. "Do not presume to question the honour of House Stark," he said coldly.

    Daemon''s lips curled into a sneer. "Then explain yourself," he demanded, his temper rising. "What possible justification can there be for breaking your oaths? Why cast your lot with a usurper?"

    Cregan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "I will remind you, prince, that the North''s oaths were sworn to the crown, not to a single claimant. It is my duty to protect my people, and bringing war to their doorstep would betray that duty. You ask me to fight for Rhaenyra, but what do the people of the North gain from her victory? More southern meddling? More blood spilled in the name of kings and queens who do not understand our ways?"

    "You would abandon the rightful queen to curry favour with a usurper?" Daemon shot back. "You think Aemond and his cronies will respect your borders, your traditions? They will bleed you dry, just as they will the rest of the realm."

    Cregan''s jaw clenched, but he did not raise his voice. "You presume much, Prince Daemon. You come here seeking allies, but you act as though the North owes you our lives. We are not your lap dogs, and we will not be treated as such."

    Daemon rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You forget yourself, Stark. Do you think the North can stand alone when the dragons of the South take to the skies? When the fire spreads across the realm, do you think your walls will protect you?"

    Cregan stood as well, his movements slow but deliberate. He was taller than Daemon, his presence as solid and unyielding as Winterfell itself. "The North remembers, Prince Daemon," he said quietly, the words heavy with meaning. "And we choose our battles carefully."

    Daemon''s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his mind racing through his options. He could feel the weight of his failure pressing down on him, the sting of rejection cutting deeper than he cared to admit. But he was no fool. He knew that to escalate the confrontation here would be disastrous, both for himself and for Rhaenyra''s cause. Adopting a calmer tone, he attempted a different approach.

    "House Stark has always valued honour and justice," Daemon said, his voice deliberate, almost imploring. "Would you truly turn your back on an oath sworn by your House? Would you sully the legacy of Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, by supporting a usurper who seized the throne through treachery?"

    Cregan''s expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes¡ªdoubt, perhaps, or irritation. Daemon pressed on.

    "The Greens do not respect you," he said, his tone hardening. "To them, you are nothing more than a barbarian lord from a frozen wasteland. They will smile to your face and spit on your name the moment your back is turned. But Rhaenyra¡ªshe understands the value of loyalty. She will honour her allies, and the North will prosper under her reign."

    For a moment, it seemed as though Cregan might yield, his gaze dropping to the table as he considered Daemon''s words. But then he straightened, his expression hardening into one of unyielding resolve. It was clear the Lord wasn''t about to be swayed.

    Daemon''s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white as frost. His fiery temper simmered beneath the surface, and when he next spoke, his tone was sharp enough to cut. "If it is gold that sways you, Lord Stark, name your price. Whatever Aemond has promised, I will see it doubled. Treble it, if need be."

    Cregan Stark regarded him with a composed, almost languid air, as though the prince''s heated words had amused rather than unsettled him. He allowed a pause to linger before responding, his tone as even and deliberate. "You speak generously, my prince, but forgive me if I question the practicalities of such a pledge. The North is not a bauble to be purchased, nor are its loyalties so easily swayed by promises of coin. And even if we were inclined to entertain such an arrangement, might I inquire how you propose to outmatch the coffers of the Dragon''s Bank, the Lannisters'' gold, and the Hightowers'' wealth combined?"

    Daemon''s lips pressed into a thin line, the heat rising to his cheeks. The truth of Cregan''s challenge lay bare before him, and for the first time in their conversation, the prince seemed at a loss. Cregan''s grey eyes bored into his own, and in their unflinching steadiness, Daemon again felt the sting of defeat.

    The moment stretched, tense and bitter, before Daemon straightened with a sudden, forceful motion. "When the dragons roar, and fire sweeps the Seven Kingdoms," he said, his voice low but tinged with unmistakable steel, "remember this moment, Stark. Remember who offered you friendship, and who you turned away."

    Cregan''s eyes flashed with anger, but he did not rise to the bait. "The North remembers, my prince," he said quietly, his voice laced with meaning. "It always does."

    Daemon''s violet eyes burned with the promise of retribution, but he knew better than to make threats he could not yet deliver. The North was vast, its people unyielding as its winter, and to fight them, even with dragons, was to fight the land itself. He spun on his heel and strode from the hall, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

    Outside, the cold air bit at his face, and he found himself greeted by Caraxes, who trilled low in his throat, his irritation mirroring Daemon''s own. And as Daemon climbed into the saddle, he cast a final glance at the grey walls of Winterfell. The cold, unyielding bastion stood resolute, indifferent to the storm brewing within him.

    The spurned prince did not linger. With a sharp command, Caraxes leapt into the air, his wings beating against the frozen sky. The winds howled in protest, but neither dragon nor rider paid them any mind. Below, Winterfell faded into the distance, its rejection seared into Daemon''s memory.

    He would not forget this slight. Nor would he forgive it.

 Chapter Twenty-Two: Pawn to H5(Provocation)

    "A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct."

    ¨D"The Manual of Muad''Dib" by the Princess Irulan.

    ¡­?

    The faint hum of the tide brushing against the pier echoed in Nettles'' ears as she tightened the last strap of Sheepstealer''s saddle. The dragon shifted beneath her touch, his scales hot and rough like volcanic rock left too long in the sun. His low growl rumbled, more a protest than a warning, and she patted the scaly ridge of his neck to soothe him.

    "Easy now, you big brute," she murmured, her voice barely rising above the sound of the waves. Sheepstealer snorted but stilled, his glowing amber eyes fixed on the horizon where the Narrow Sea met the grey morning sky.

    Behind them, the fishing village whose pier the prince had commandeered for his ends, was little more than a scattering of low stone cottages and weathered shacks. It seemed to huddle against the eastern edge of Massey''s Hook, as if bracing itself against the elements. Thin wisps of smoke rose from chimneys, carrying the tang of brine and damp wood into the cold morning air.

    Prince Aemond stood beside her, a stark contrast to the roughness of the village and the primitiveness of their task. His silver hair caught the pale light of dawn, and his violet eye narrowed as he assessed the saddle.

    "The girth is too loose," he said flatly, adjusting the strap until it creaked under the pressure. "A dragon''s movements are not as forgiving as those of a horse. Don''t forget next time."

    Nettles bit back a quip, her lips twitching with the effort. "Aye, my prince," she said in the end. "Wouldn''t want to tumble into the sea, now, would I?"

    Aemond didn''t smile. He finished his adjustments and stepped back, the wind catching the edges of his dark green cloak. Beyond him, further inland, Vhagar rested on a hillock, her colossal frame stretched out in a display of indifference. Her massive wings were sprawled out by her sides, and her tail flicked idly, the tip gouging trenches into the earth. She might have been sleeping, were it not for the occasional shift of her head as she scanned the horizon indifferently.

    Nearby, the merchant vessel that had brought the dragon saddles to Massey''s Hook sat moored, its weathered sails furled and its deck bustling with activity. Red Cloaks moved between the ship and the pier, their crimson capes muted by the salt-streaked air. Dragonkeepers worked among them, their black leather armour distinct against the greys and browns of the fishing village. The second saddle, a twin to the one Nettles had just secured, was being hauled from the ship''s hold with great care.

    Nettles cast a sideways glance at the vessel. The saddles had been smuggled here days ago, seemingly long before she or Addam had even known they were claiming dragons. The prince had been so certain they would succeed. How, she did not know, but Nettles knew better than to ask.

    Just as she was about to step back and inspect her work, a sharp whistle cut through the air. One of the men unloading the ship was pointing toward the eastern sky, his voice rising in alarm.

    "Dragon!" he shouted.

    Sheepstealer growled low, his muscles coiling, but Nettles tutted, pressing her palms against the underside of his neck. His growl subsided into a throaty rumble as he shifted uneasily on his haunches.

    Prince Aemond, by contrast, showed no reaction. He merely looked toward the sky, his expression unreadable. Nettles followed his gaze and soon understood his lack of concern.

    The dragon circling above was pale and silver-grey, its form sleek and agile as it glided effortlessly through the air. It let out a piercing cry before banking downward, aiming for the beach some distance from the pier. The beast landed with a grace belying its size, claws sinking into the soft sand. Seasmoke.

    A figure dismounted, boots crunching against the sand as he approached. Addam, his face flushed with exertion, strode toward the pier with the confidence of a man triumphant.

    "My Prince," he greeted, his voice breathless. "I have completed the task you set for me."

    Nettles crossed her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips. "None of us are blind, Addam. We can see the dragon."

    Addam''s jaw clenched as he shot her a strained smile. "And you''re as charming as ever, I see."

    Aemond chuckled, a rare sound from the prince. He clapped Addam on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Well done. Seasmoke is a worthy mount. But this is only the beginning. There is still much to do."

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    Turning toward the men on the pier, Aemond raised his voice, switching effortlessly to High Valyrian. "Nazoro!"

    A dragonkeeper stepped forward, bowing his head. "Yes, my prince?"

    "Assist Addam," Aemond instructed. "Prepare Seasmoke for his saddle, and ensure it is done properly. I trust you to see to this personally."

    Nazoro inclined his head again. "It will be done, my prince."

    <hr>

    The sun had climbed higher by the time Seasmoke''s saddle was secured. The silver dragon''s saddle¡ªsimilar to Sheepstealer''s in design but narrower and more streamline¡ªhad been carefully hoisted onto the dragon''s back under Nazoro''s watchful eye. Addam stayed close, listening intently as the keeper explained the intricacies of the straps and buckles, the techniques to ensure the saddle wouldn''t shift during flight.

    Nettles observed from where she leaned against Sheepstealer''s flank, her arms crossed. It was then Prince Aemond reemerged from the merchant vessel, his movements unhurried but purposeful. A leather rucksack was strapped across his shoulders, its weight barely noticeable against his tall frame.

    reaching them, he unslung the rucksack and knelt, unfastening its straps. From within, he withdrew two objects, each no larger than a small book and polished to a metallic sheen. The sunlight caught on their surfaces, making them glint like freshly forged steel.

    "What are those?" Addam asked, stepping closer to inspect the objects.

    "Radio telegraphs," Aemond said. "Modified and miniaturized for use on dragonback."

    Nettles frowned, her curiosity piqued. "Like the ones the bean-counters at the bank use?"

    "In principle, yes," Aemond said, passing one to Nettles. The device was light but felt sturdy, its surface etched with intricate designs that seemed more functional than decorative. "But these have a fifth as many functions and are far simpler. Compact. Portable. They also lack a full-sized keyboard as you might have noticed, relying instead on this for inputting messages in Morse code." He demonstrated, pressing a small spring-actuated lever that clicked with each press.

    Nettles frowned as she examined the device. "And what happens if it falls? Or if Sheepstealer decides he doesn''t like it and breathes fire on it?"

    Aemond arched an unamused brow in response. "If you are careless enough to drop it, or to expose it to fire, you will find yourself without a means of communication. You don''t want to find yourself without a means of communication."

    "They are sturdy enough for flight," the prince continued, turning his gaze to Addam. "But they are not impervious. The batteries that power them are extremely volatile; avoid dropping them or exposing them to water. The rotary press mechanisms that print the output are also delicate¡ªA few grains of sand could render them useless. Treat them as you would a babe¡ªfragile."

    The prince tossed the device he held to Addam who caught it in panic. "The range on these are good, but nowhere near good enough to reach King''s Landing from the Eyrie or Riverrun. Luckily for you, I had the foresight to have a few relay stations secretly installed along the Trident. So long as you remain within range, you should be able to communicate with the rest of us."

    The mention of their destinations drew both riders'' attention. Nettles was the first to speak. "The Eyrie? And Riverrun? What are we meant to do there?"

    Aemond''s gaze settled on her. "Your task is twofold: dissuade the Blacks from striking at our allies and bolster the confidence of those who stand with us. Lady Jeyne Arryn is already sworn to our cause, but the sight of a dragon will reaffirm her decision. Oscar Tully has pledged himself to the Greens, but Riverrun lies dangerously close within reach of Dragonstone. Addam, your task is to ensure the Tullys'' resolve does not falter."

    "And if someone asks what a bastard is doing riding a dragon for the Greens?" Nettles asked.

    "You will speak only of your loyalty to the crown and will not reveal nothing more," Aemond said simply. "If questioned, offer no more than that. Your names and your pasts are irrelevant. Your dragons are your banners, and their presence should, for the most part, silence any inquiries."

    Nettles glanced at Addam, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "Sounds simple enough."

    "It rarely is," said Aemond, his tone dry. He straightened, his gaze moving between them before he spoke. "Fly safe, you two. Your Prince is counting on you."

 Chapter Twenty-Three: The Kings Justice

    SEVEN YEARS AGO

    <hr>

    Royal Decree of His Grace, King Viserys I Targaryen?

    To the Lords and Ladies of the Realm, and all those sworn to the Iron Throne, let it be known:

    By the grace of the Seven and the will of the gods, I, Viserys of the House Targaryen, the First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do address this grievous matter to the good and lawful lords of Westeros.

    It has come to our attention, through complaints raised by the noble houses of the west and the south, and by the witness of our loyal servants, that the Ironborn, led by Dalton Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and pretender to the Seastone Chair, have flagrantly defied their oaths to the Crown and committed grievous offenses against the peace and prosperity of the realm.

    ?

    <hr>

    On the Matters of Tribute and Taxation?

    The lords of the Iron Isles, by their ancient fealty to the Iron Throne, are bound by sacred oath and law to render tribute unto the Crown. Yet, for years now, no silver, no iron, no offering of worth has crossed the seas to the royal coffers. The silence of their ships speaks of a betrayal of their sworn duty, for House Greyjoy has withheld the due coin owed to the Crown and the realm at large. Such dereliction not only insults the honor of the Iron Throne but cheats the honest lords of Westeros who labor under the burden of their own obligations.

    ?

    <hr>

    On the Matters of Piracy and Lawlessness?

    Further, reports from the coasts of the Westerlands, Riverlands and the North tell a grim tale of indiscriminate piracy and reaving. Fisherfolk and traders alike tremble at the sight of sails bearing the Kraken, knowing that death and ruin follow in its wake. Villages have been burned, ships plundered, and innocents enslaved or slain in numbers too great to ignore. This unchecked lawlessness disrupts the peace of the realm and endangers the prosperity of our merchants, whose trade routes are vital to the flourishing of Westerosi markets.

    ?

    <hr>

    On the Matters of Military Ambition?

    Lastly, whispers brought before the small council suggests that Dalton Greyjoy has taken the spoils of his unlawful raids and turned them to a dark purpose. In defiance of the Crown''s authority, he amasses ships, men, and arms to fashion a fleet of staggering size, one not meant to defend the Iron Isles but to challenge the very dominion of the Iron Throne. Such ambitions are not only a threat to the Westerlands, Riverlands and the North but to the peace of the Seven Kingdoms entire.

    ?

    <hr>

    The Summons of Dalton Greyjoy?

    For these grave transgressions, Dalton Greyjoy is hereby summoned to King''s Landing to stand trial before the small council and a jury of lords of the Westerlands, Riverlands and the North. Let him come to defend his actions and refute these accusations if he can. The Kraken must answer for the storms it has unleashed, and the blood it has spilled.

    Should Lord Dalton refuse this lawful summons, his defiance shall be taken as an admission of guilt, and the full might of the Iron Throne will be brought to bear upon the Iron Isles to restore order, justice, and peace to the realm.

    ?

    <hr>

    To the Lords of Westeros?

    I call upon the noble lords of Westeros, particularly those who have borne the brunt of these atrocities, to bear witness to this trial. Your voices, your grievances, and your judgment shall shape the justice that the Crown must mete out.

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    By the blood of my ancestors and the will of the gods, I swear that this matter shall not go unanswered. Let the Ironborn learn that the tides obey the moon, and no man, not even one who claims dominion over the sea, is beyond the reach of the Iron Throne.

    In the sight of gods and men,

    Signed and Sealed,

    Viserys of House Targaryen

    First of His Name

    King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men

    Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm?

    ????

    An Excerpt from The King''s Justice, by Septon Eustace

    In the waning years of King Viserys I Targaryen''s reign, when the Iron Throne tottered under the weight of age and infirmity, there arose the matter of the Ironborn''s defiance¡ªa storm that would forever mark the histories. The decree issued by His Grace, though signed in his hand, was the work of the small council, who sought to act decisively against the reavers of the western shores. Lords from the Westerlands, Riverlands, and North answered the Crown''s call, journeying to King''s Landing to testify against the Kraken and its brood.

    The testimony of these noblemen painted a grim tapestry of burning villages, stolen treasures, and grieving widows. Yet, on the appointed day of the trial, the conspicuous absence of House Greyjoy cast a shadow over the proceedings. Word soon arrived of the grim fate that had befallen the royal delegation sent to Pyke¡ªslaughtered by Dalton Greyjoy himself, a clear mockery of the Crown''s authority. This insult could not go unanswered, and the Greyjoys were tried in absentia. Their crimes were declared not only piracy, but treason and contempt, and their punishment demanded swift and unrelenting justice.

    <hr>

    The King''s Wrath Takes Flight

    With King Viserys unable to act due to his failing health, the burden of command fell to his council. Yet hesitation gripped them, for to move against a great house was to risk a broader war. It was Prince Aemond Targaryen, young but already formidable, who rose to the occasion. As Master of Coin, he had seen firsthand the toll of the Ironborn''s lawlessness on trade and the royal treasury. Aemond argued that no realm could long endure while one of its lords openly defied its king.

    Armed with the Crown''s decree and his own grim resolve, Aemond mounted Vhagar, the mightiest of living dragons, and took to the skies. His task was twofold: to demand reparations and overdue levies from the Greyjoys, and to remind them that no lord, not even the Red Kraken, was above the Iron Throne.

    At Pyke, Dalton Greyjoy received him, though it is said the shrewd and savage Lord Reaper greeted Aemond with mockery rather than deference. Words were exchanged, sharp as swords, until one of Greyjoy''s men dared to strike at the prince. The fool was slain, his blood soaking the saltstone floor of the Great Hall of Pyke. Aemond, enraged but unshaken, left the hall, climbed Vhagar''s back, and unleashed fire and fury upon the Iron Islands.

    <hr>

    The Wrath of Vhagar

    For three days, the skies above the Iron Islands darkened with smoke, and the air was filled with the cries of the dying. Vhagar''s shadow swept from island to island, her flames consuming ships, halls, and villages alike. The once-proud Iron Fleet, long the terror of the seas, was broken beneath her wrath, with half its strength reduced to charred and splintered ruin.

    Saltcliffe, Pyke, and Harlaw alone withstood the onslaught, their halls blackened but still standing. By the fourth day, as Vhagar descended upon Pyke once more, Dalton Greyjoy and his remaining lords bent the knee. The Red Kraken, defiant to the last, swore fealty only when his people begged him to end the destruction.

    <hr>

    The Reaving of the Ironborn

    A week later, the Lannister fleet arrived, carrying the king''s justice to the smoldering ruins of the Iron Islands. The coffers of every Greyjoy bannerman were emptied, their wealth taken as reparations for the realm. For the first time in history, the Ironborn, so long the scourge of Westeros, suffered a reaving of their own.

    This event, known henceforth as The Fire and Salt Reaping, was met with widespread approval across the realm. The lords of the Reach, Westerlands, and Stormlands sent letters of commendation to the Crown, for the Ironborn had long been hated and feared but rarely challenged. The smallfolk, too, celebrated, for their villages would no longer tremble at the sight of kraken sails.

    <hr>

    Aftermath and Legacy

    Though the Ironborn bent the knee and paid the price for their defiance, the scars left by Aemond''s campaign would linger. Saltcliffe, Harlaw, and Pyke rebuilt slowly, and the Iron Fleet never again regained its former glory. Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, lived to see his people humbled but vowed vengeance in his heart.

    For Prince Aemond, this marked the beginning of his reputation as the Iron Throne''s most feared enforcer. To some, he was a hero who had restored order to the realm; to others, a tyrant who wielded fire and blood without mercy. In truth, he was both, and it is said that when he departed the Iron Islands, Vhagar''s roar echoed for miles, a warning to all who would challenge the Crown.

    Thus ended the brief rebellion of the Greyjoys, and with it, the long tale of the Ironborn''s unchecked actions. Where once they ruled the seas, they now feared the skies, for even krakens must bow to dragons.

 Chapter Twenty-Four: The Red Kraken

    "War was an ironman''s proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song."

    ¨DTheon Greyjoy

    ¡­?

    The wind carried the salt of the sea and the screams of gulls as Dalton the Greyjoy stood atop a jagged promontory overlooking the grey, restless waters below. The rock-studded waves surged and retreated in a rhythm older than the Ironborn themselves, their endless crash a dirge for the drowned and the damned. Dalton''s black cloak whipped around him as he observed the scorpion being assembled on the rocky slope below, its iron arms glinting in the weak light of the overcast sky. The assembly of the monstrous contrivance progressed with all the enthusiasm that might be expected of men pressed into its service.

    "Shift the weight to the base, you clumsy fools," Dalton barked, his voice cutting through the din of the sea. The thralls below scrambled to obey, sweat glistening on their brows despite the chill air. The weapon, one of many secreted along the craggy coastline, was a declaration writ in iron that the Ironborn, for all their reaving and rough-hewn ways, would not be cowed by fire and dragonwing again. Dalton had seen to it that every man who could lift a hammer was set to work under the watchful eye of his blacksmiths, fortifying the islands. He would not have his defences fail again for want of diligence.

    Yet even the grandest declarations are not immune to the murmurs of dissent. Behind him, two lords waited, their unease palpable. Harrik the Swyft and Grell the Wynch had sailed to Pyke days earlier, summoned by Dalton to discuss the looming war between the Greens and the Blacks. The two lords had come reluctantly, each bearing warnings from their own men about crossing the One-Eyed again. Their apprehension only deepened as Dalton had ignored their counsel for two days, focusing instead on the preparations for war.

    It was then, as the men made another attempt to broach the matter, that the cry went up, a single shout echoing across the rocky cliffs. "Dragon!"

    The men fell silent, their faces blanching as they turned toward the sea. Dalton did not move. He stood rooted to the promontory, his gaze fixed on the distant figure that now appeared on the horizon. It was unmistakably a dragon, its crimson form glinting in the weak sunlight as it soared closer. Not Vhagar, the great beast that had visited such ruin upon the Ironborn years before, but a more sinuous creature, its movements imbued with a disquieting grace.

    Caraxes.

    A few of scorpions mounted along the cliffs swivelled into position, men scrambling to man them. Below, sailors and thralls abandoned their tasks and fled inland, seeking the safety of the tunnels and caves that honeycombed the islands. These tunnels had been dug on Dalton''s orders after Aemond''s last assault, a grim lesson learned from the scorched remains of their forts and holdfasts. Inspired by tales of the Crabfeeder''s stubborn resistance in the Stepstones against the Red Wyrm, Dalton had resolved that the Ironborn would never again be so easily destroyed.

    As the beast drew closer, its piercing shriek set Dalton''s teeth on edge. The scorpion crews held their nerve, but only just. One man loosed a bolt, and the great weapon sang as its projectile flew true¡ªonly to pass harmlessly beneath the dragon''s wing.

    In response, Caraxes banked in the air, its long neck twisting in a manner that suggested surprise as it retreated out of range. For a time, it circled above the distant waters before alighting from the shore on a reef far exposed by the low tide, the jagged rocks barely accommodating its bulk. There it perched, still and watchful. Seemingly harmless.

    Dalton''s lips pressed into a thin line. The dragon had not attacked. Was this a prelude to destruction or an attempt at parley? Dalton''s instincts, honed by years of experience, told him it was the latter.

    The Greyjoy turned to his men. "Ready a skiff," he said. "If this dragonlord wishes to visit Pyke, let us see what he has to say."

    The men hesitated, their unease palpable. It was Grell who found the courage to speak. "You mean to row out there? Are you mad?"

    Dalton''s gaze narrowed as he turned to face the man. "I am Ironborn," he spat, cowing the fool. "I''d sooner face him on the water and drown than wait for another dragonlord to torch our cliffs again."

    With a handful of his bravest men, Dalton descended to the shore, where a small skiff was being prepared. The sea was choppy, the wind biting as they set out toward the reef. As they approached, Caraxes came into clearer view, its long neck curving as it watched their approach with eyes like molten gold. The dragon perched on the rocks, its claws gripping the slick stone like a crow on stilts.

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    When they were close enough for voices to carry over the waves, the rider¡ªDaemon¡ªcalled out. "Who comes to parley?" he asked, his voice carrying over the roar of the waves. "And who dares to aim their toys at my dragon?"

    The words, imperious and laden with scorn, did not deter Dalton. He stood tall in the skiff, shouting back. "I am Dalton the Greyjoy, lord of Pyke and master of these isles. And I''ll raise what I please against any who think themselves my better. If you''ve come to burn us, dragonlord, you''ll find us less yielding than the last time your kind visited."

    Daemon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Dalton Greyjoy," he mused. "Ah, the infamous Red Kraken. I''d expected someone taller."

    Dalton''s men bristled at the insult, but Dalton himself remained unmoved. "Expectations are often the ruin of lesser men. Why have you come, Targaryen?"

    Daemon smirked, shifting his weight atop Caraxes as the dragon hissed softly, steam curling from its nostrils. "Why am I here, you ask? Isn''t it obvious?"

    Dalton crossed his arms, unfazed. "You didn''t come all this way for riddles, Targaryen. Speak plainly, or take your beast and go."

    Daemon''s laughter echoed over the waves. "Bold words for a man of your stature. But no, I didn''t come to burn your precious rocks. I''ve come to see if the Ironborn have the spine to join the true ruler of Westeros in taking what is owed."

    At this, the men with Dalton bristled, hands going to the hilts of their weapons. One even stepped forward, glaring up at Daemon. "We owe you nothing, dragonlord," he spat. "Least of all fealty."

    Daemon''s gaze flicked to the man. "Careful, kraken-spawn. I''ve killed men for less."

    Dalton raised a hand, silencing his follower. "You speak of a true ruler," he said, his tone even. "I assume you don''t mean yourself but your woman." Daemon''s expression darkened at the jab. "The one who would have us bend the knee to a Targaryen once more. What makes you think we''d trade one tyrant for another?"

    Daemon spat to the side, his eyes narrowing at Dalton. "Rhaenyra doesn''t demand your coin, Greyjoy. She offers you vengeance. I''ve seen what Aemond did to these islands. Fire and salt, wasn''t it? Entire fleets burned, villages razed to ash. He called it justice, but we both know better."

    The name Aemond was a spark to dry tinder, and Dalton''s expression darkened as well. "Do not presume to know the hearts of the Ironborn. Our grievances are many, and our wrath is not yours to command. Aemond may hide behind his dragon and his lies but if you think to use my hatred of him as your leash, you''ll find yourself sorely disappointed."

    Daemon shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "I don''t need a leash. I need swords and sails. Men who know how to raid and burn. Men who don''t flinch at the sight of blood. The Ironborn have always been good for that. You want guarantees, Kraken? Very well. Fight for us, and you shall have them. The Ironborn will rule the seas, free of the Iron Throne''s demands. No levies, no taxes, no dragon ever again darkening your skies. Your enemies will be my enemies and together we shall see them vanquished."

    The promise, spoken with such certainty, was a hook cast into deep waters. Dalton''s men shifted again, their unease giving way to murmurs of contemplation. Revenge was a currency the Ironborn understood well, and Daemon was offering it in abundance.

    But Dalton was not so easily swayed. "That is nowhere near enough compensation for the ruin your house wrought upon my people."

    Daemon threw back his head and laughed, the sound harsh and echoing against the cliffs. "Don''t be greedy, Greyjoy. My terms are more than generous enough."

    "And if we refuse?" Dalton asked, narrowing his gaze.

    "Refuse me," Daemon said leaning forward with malice, "and I''ll take Caraxes up to your cliffs¡ªI''ll make what Aemond all those years ago did look merciful."

    For a moment, the only sound was the sea. The Ironborn had spent six years preparing for this moment¡ªdigging their tunnels, bolstering their defences, crafting their weapons of iron and spite. Six years to ensure the dragons would never again hold dominion over the islands. Yet Dalton, for all his boldness, was not so eager to test his handiwork against another one of the foul beasts.

    The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, before Dalton spoke. His voice was low, his words measured. "What do you want, Targaryen?"

    Daemon''s smile was slow and dangerous. "Have you considered taking a little jaunt to the Riverlands?" the prince asked, his tone almost casual. "I hear the weather there is rather pleasant this time of year."

 Chapter Twenty-Five: Chaining the Serpent

    "Seventy-nine years of age, he had served four kings and a queen, sailed to the ends of the earth, raised House Velaryon to unprecedented levels of wealth and power, married a princess who might have been a queen, fathered dragonriders, built towns and fleets, proved his valor in times of war and his wisdom in times of peace. The Seven Kingdoms would never see his like again."

    ¨Dwritings of Gyldayn

    ¡­?

    The world came into focus slowly, hazy shapes and muted sounds blending into a cacophony that made Corlys Velaryon groan low in his throat. It was this, along with the incessant buzzing of flies¡ªthose vulgar denizens of rot and filth¡ªthat first roused the great lord of Driftmark from his uneasy slumber. As his senses returned, so too did the awareness of his predicament, though clarity, like the shifting tides, was slow to come.

    Corlys opened his eyes, his gaze meeting not the familiar grandeur of his hall nor the reassuring sight of his flagship''s stately sails, but instead a tattered sail hung limp against a pale blue sky, its edges fraying in the sun. He shifted, his back pressing against rough, splintered wood, and took in the sloop around him¡ªa humble fishing vessel, its deck strewn with baskets of prawns, crabs, and other sea fare. The air was heavy with the mingled odors of brine, tar, and fish¡ªa medley that no amount of fine breeding could render palatable. Around him stood a half-dozen figures, their postures varying from the indolence of laboring fishermen to the more practiced nonchalance of men accustomed to bearing arms. Their scrutiny was neither deferential nor hostile; they merely looked upon him as one might an old figurehead, once splendid, now weathered by years at sea.

    "Awake at last," a voice drawled, cutting through the haze. It belonged to a man standing at the prow, arms crossed over a chest that spoke of strength hard-earned rather than inherited. His grin¡ªif it could be called such¡ªwas crooked, more the shape of sardonic amusement than genuine mirth.

    Corlys turned his head slowly, squinting against the sun to better examine the speaker. Recognition dawned after a moment''s hesitation. "Malentine?" he said, his voice rasping from disuse.

    His nephew¡ªif such a distant relation could warrant the title¡ªmade a shallow bow, the kind that suggested obligation rather than respect. "Uncle," he replied, his tone light. "I was beginning to wonder if you might sleep the whole journey away."

    Corlys'' confusion only grew. "What is this? Why am I here?"

    "You are aboard the Codfather, Uncle," said Malentine, naming the sloop. "We crossed the mouth of the Wendwater but a few hours past. With fair winds, we shall reach King''s Landing before the sun sets."

    "King''s Landing?" Corlys repeated, his brow furrowing. His mind was sluggish, pieces of memory floating just out of reach. He remembered Driftmark, the Hall of Nine, the celebration¡­ the fever. He pressed a hand to his temple, as though the act might jog his thoughts into alignment. "And why, pray, am I bound for King''s Landing? I gave no such orders."

    Malentine''s grin widened, though the humor in it did not reach his eyes. "The summons came from the Crown, of course. It is not for humble men like me to question such commands. I was tasked to bring you, and here you are."

    A flicker of confusion passed through Corlys'' mind. He recalled, vaguely, a summons delivered to Rhaenys some days¡ªor had it been weeks?¡ªpast. But that had been her concern, not his. And if such a call had come for him, he would have answered it aboard his flagship, as befitted his station, not¡­ like this.

    Corlys shook once more, dismissing the thought. "Whatever," he said, rubbing his temples. "Just take me back. I am in no mood to deal with this at the moment."

    Malentine''s response was more than surprising. "I am afraid I cannot do that uncle," he said.

    Corlys turned sharply on the younger man. "I would remind you, nephew," he said with the faintest edge of steel in his tone, "that I am lord of Driftmark. My commands supersede any you might have received. Turn this vessel around at once."

    Malentine''s expression didn''t sour, but his feigned pleasantries did vanish like mist before the morning sun. "With respect, uncle, my orders were clear. Your wishes¡ªhowever grand they may be¡ªare of no consequence here."

    The words struck like a slap, not for their insolence, but for the truth they implied. Corlys stilled, his gaze sharpening as he looked around the sloop with renewed interest. The men-at-arms standing near Malentine bore no colors of Driftmark, nor any insignia of note. The fishermen at the rudder seemed equally detached, their eyes fixed firmly on their work. This was no escort in the service of his house. This was something altogether different.

    "You speak boldly," Corlys said, his voice quieter now, though no less commanding. "Too boldly for a man simply carrying out his orders. Viserys would never dare order this, and neither would the Queen. Tell me, Malentine, whose bidding do you truly follow?"

    Malentine didn''t answer at once. He adjusted the grip on his belt, his expression slipping away entirely. "What does it matter, uncle?" he said at last, shrugging. "You''ll have your answers soon enough. For now, enjoy the voyage. The weather is fair, and the company tolerable. That''s more than most ever get."

    It was then that the full weight of his predicament settled upon Corlys'' shoulders, though his expression betrayed none of it. If he had truly been summoned to King''s Landing, it would not be like this¡ªnot in secrecy, not in conditions so beneath his dignity. No, this was no act of duty or protocol. This was abduction, thinly veiled in the language of obligation. The question now was a straightforward one.

    Who would dare order such a thing?

    <hr>

    The warm hues of dusk spilled into the chamber, touching upon every gilded edge and finely woven tapestry with a golden softness. It was a room that spoke of luxury¡ªso well-appointed and inviting as to feel almost absurdly out of place given Corlys Velaryon''s current predicament. The lord of Driftmark had spent the better part of the evening alternating between restless pacing and stewing in silence, his thoughts a tempest as tumultuous as the seas he had once commanded so masterfully.

    The city of King''s Landing beyond the narrow windows appeared no less alive for his captivity. The hum of commerce and the cries of street vendors carried up even to this height, mingling with the occasional peal of laughter or burst of song from some distant revelry. Yet all such sounds, vibrant and joyous though they might have seemed, rang hollow to his ears. The knowledge that he was held not as a guest but as a prisoner hung heavily over him, and the elegance of his accommodations only deepened the insult.

    When a knock sounded at the door, Corlys turned sharply, his brow furrowing as the guard stepped inside and announced a visitor. Relief flooded his expression when Rhaenys stepped into the room. For the first time since his arrival, his tightly held composure gave way, and he strode toward her without hesitation.

    "Rhaenys," he said, his voice heavy with both concern and an almost imperceptible softness, the kind he reserved for her alone. He closed the distance between them, his arms encircling her as though she might vanish if he let go. She returned the embrace fiercely, her fingers gripping his shoulders, her head pressed to his chest.

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    "For once, the gods show mercy," she murmured, her voice trembling as she pulled back just enough to study his face. "When they told me you were here, I feared... I feared what they might have done."

    He smiled faintly, though the expression was more an attempt to reassure her than any reflection of his own feelings. "They have yet to do anything but test my patience," he replied, his tone wry. "But seeing you unharmed eases my heart."

    For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of their shared relief filling the room like a balm. But soon, the questions that had plagued Corlys since his awakening resurfaced with fresh urgency. He gestured for her to sit, taking the chair opposite hers, and fixed her with a look of steely resolve.

    "Now tell me," he said, his voice lowering, "what is the meaning of this madness? Why are we here, under guard no less? Has the king lost what little sense he once possessed?"

    Rhaenys''s expression darkened, and she folded her hands in her lap, her fingers tightening briefly. "Viserys had no hand in this, my love. The king... he is dead."

    The statement was delivered with a solemnity that struck Corlys harder than he had anticipated. He stared at her, the words sinking into him with the weight of a great stone. "Dead," he repeated quietly, his tone devoid of its usual commanding strength. "When?"

    "Two nights ago," Rhaenys replied, her voice steady though her gaze was distant. "Baela and I arrived shortly after it happened. They say it was peaceful, but such claims are convenient for those who stand to gain from his death. The Greens," she spat, her lips pressing into a thin line. "They wasted no time. Aegon has been crowned king. It is Aemond, however, who seems to steer their course."

    The words hung in the air between them, cold and heavy. Corlys leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "Aemond," he said, almost to himself. "And this¡ª" he gestured around them, to the guards outside and the locked door "¡ªthis is his doing?"

    Rhaenys hesitated, her gaze falling briefly to the floor. "I believe he wishes to ensure our support¡ªor, failing that, our neutrality. By force if need be. The fleets of Driftmark are too great a prize for him to leave to chance. And we command two dragons, more than enough to tip the scales."

    Corlys''s jaw tightened, and he rose to his feet, pacing toward the window with long, deliberate strides. "He dares to think he can bend us with chains? To hold my house in thrall as if we are nothing more than pawns on his board?"

    "He spoke of marriage as well," Rhaenys scoffed, her voice cutting through his anger. "Wedding Baela to his brother, Daeron."

    The muscles in Corlys''s jaw worked furiously as he digested her words. But as he was about to respond the door opened once more, and the guards stepped aside to admit a figure who moved with the deliberate stride of a man who knew he had every advantage. Prince Aemond entered the chamber, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the room. He was dressed plainly, in dark green and black that seemed to drink in the shadows. A spectre.

    Corlys stiffened, his entire frame seeming to grow larger as he turned to face the prince. "You have overstepped, boy," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Release us now, and I may yet find it in me to forgive this insult."

    Aemond raised a single brow, his expression unchanging as he moved to one of the chairs and seated himself with deliberate ease. "Lord Velaryon," he said, his tone calm, almost cordial. "I trust you are feeling better? The fever was most concerning."

    Corlys narrowed his eyes, the pieces falling into place with chilling clarity. "The fever," he repeated. "That was somehow your doing, wasn''t it, wyrm?"

    Aemond smiled faintly, though the expression carried no warmth. "It was," he admitted without hesitation. "A precaution, nothing more. A means of ensuring certain... eventualities did not come to pass. One cannot be too careful when dealing with a man of your... stubbornness. But rest assured, my lord, had I wished you dead, you would not be standing here now."

    Rhaenys stood abruptly, her posture taut as a bowstring, her voice brimming with righteous indignation. "A precaution?" she repeated, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "You speak of poisoning my husband as though it were no more consequential than plucking a weed from the garden. Have you no shame, no honour?"

    Aemond shifted his gaze to her, his single eye cool and unflinching. "Honor is a luxury afforded to those who can afford to lose," he said with maddening composure. "It is not a currency I trade in lightly. Nor should you, Princess."

    Corlys took a step forward, his frame casting a shadow across the room as he loomed over the prince. "Poisoning me was reckless. Killing me would be suicide. You cannot expect this treachery to go unanswered."

    Aemond tilted his head slightly, as though considering the thought. "As I said, I could have killed you if I wanted," he admitted with the faintest shrug. "And the truth is, there were few reasons not to. Yet here you stand, hale and hearty. That is no accident, Lord Velaryon. It is a choice."

    "Hence," the prince continued, leaning forward in his chair, "I will be courteous and also offer you a choice. War is coming, and when it does, there will be no room for divided loyalties. You must choose a side, my lord. And the side you choose now will ultimately determine the fate of your house."

    Corlys folded his arms, his expression stony. "I will not entertain this farce."

    "But you will," Aemond said, his voice softening just enough to give his words an air of reason. "While you still have the chance to decide at least. Swear fealty to Aegon, disinherit Rhaenyra''s sons, and join us in securing the realm. In return, Driftmark remains yours, and your granddaughter strengthens our houses through her marriage to my brother. And in time, a Velaryon might even sit the Iron Throne. It is a generous offer."

    "Generous?" Rhaenys interjected, her voice cold and cutting. "To strip us of our dignity, our honour, and our oaths? To ask us to betray the very blood that runs through our veins? Do not mistake survival for submission, Prince Aemond."

    Aemond rose then, his movements slow and deliberate, his height and presence suddenly filling the room. "And what do you imagine will come of loyalty to Rhaenyra?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with meaning. "She is isolated, mistrusted, and unprepared for the war she claims to want. Her cause will drown, and you with it. Or worse¡ªyou will live to see Driftmark burn. But I would rather not for it still holds great value to me. Which is why I offer you this path¡ªone that ensures your survival and that of your house."

    "And if we refuse?" Corlys asked.

    Aemond met his gaze directly. "Then your lives are forfeit," he said without a change in his expression. "I will have no choice but to name Vaemond Velaryon Lord of Driftmark. He is eager, loyal, and willing to serve the crown without hesitation. A subpar alternative given his popularity compared to yours, but one nonetheless."

    Silence fell over the room, heavy and suffocating. Aemond turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as he made his way to the door. "You have until morning to decide," he said over his shoulder. "I suggest you use the time wisely."

 Chapter Twenty-Six: Setting Pieces

    "A skinny brown girl on a skinny brown dragon"

    ¨Dwritings of Munkun

    ¡­?

    The morning light fell soft and pale upon the great hall of the Eyrie, illuminating the austere grandeur of its vaulted ceilings and cold stone floors. Lady Jeyne Arryn sat in her customary chair of carved weirwood, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she presided over yet another dreary matter brought before her. Her countenance betrayed no hint of her inner sentiments, though it must be said that her thoughts strayed far from the petty quarrel unfolding before her.

    Before her stood two farmers, both in a state of considerable agitation, arguing over the rights to a certain stream that marked the boundary of their pastures. One of them, a man of middling years with a complexion as ruddy as a ripe apple, gesticulated wildly toward a crude map spread out on the table before him.

    "It is not a matter of mere convenience, my lady," he declared, his voice tinged with indignation. "My sheep have drunk from that stream for generations! And now this rogue," he added, gesturing toward his adversary, "dares to lay claim to it?"

    The "rogue" in question, a younger man of wiry build and sullen expression, crossed his arms in defiance. "Your sheep foul the waters with their waste, and now mine sicken. It is your trespass, not mine, that has caused this misfortune."

    Lady Jeyne resisted the urge to sigh aloud. The matter, while undoubtedly of great significance to the two men before her, seemed trifling compared to the greater concerns weighing upon her mind. Yet she knew well the duty she bore to her people, however humble their grievances.

    "Enough," she said at last, her voice cutting through their bickering like a blade. "It is evident that the stream in question serves both your lands and that neither of you has the sole right to its use. Therefore, you shall erect a fence along its course, with equal contributions from both parties. This should suffice to prevent your flocks from mingling and, I hope, restore harmony to your pastures."

    The farmers exchanged glances, each clearly dissatisfied but unwilling to challenge their lady''s decree. With murmured thanks, they departed, leaving Jeyne to the rare solace of a quiet hall.

    She had little time to enjoy it, however, for scarcely had the doors closed when one of her guards entered in great haste. His boots clattered against the stone as he approached, his face pale and his breath uneven.

    "My lady," he began, bowing deeply, "a dragon approaches the Eyrie."

    Jeyne froze, her heart quickening despite her outward composure. "A dragon?" she repeated. "Whose?"

    The guard shook his head. "It is not Vhagar, nor any dragon known to us. It is smaller, dark of scale, and with tattered wings."

    For a moment, the enormity of the announcement rendered her speechless. A dragon whose allegiance was uncertain? Her mind raced through the possibilities, each more alarming than the last. If it were a representative of the Blacks, what would this mean for her precarious alliance with the Greens? The thought chilled her, but she quickly resolved to meet the situation with the decisiveness for which she was known.

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    "Ready the men," she said, her voice firm. "I will meet this rider myself."

    The guard hesitated, his expression betraying a flicker of doubt. "My lady, would it not be wiser to remain within the safety of the keep?"

    "I am no cowering maid to hide behind my walls," Jeyne replied sharply. "Do as I command."

    The guard bowed and retreated, and Jeyne rose to her feet, her steps purposeful as she made her way to the outer courtyard. The chill of the mountain air struck her as she emerged, though she scarcely noticed it. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, where the dark shape of the dragon was now clearly visible, descending toward a rocky promontory just beyond the gates.

    When the beast landed, a low rumble emanated from its maw. The dragon loomed large upon the rocky outcrop, its scales a deep, mottled brown, like burned earth. Its great wings folded against its sides, and its tail coiled like a serpent around the rocks. Jeyne halted, her breath catching in her throat. The beast''s eyes burned a molten amber, and its massive head turned toward her, nostrils flaring as it scented the air.

    A figure slid from the dragon''s back, lithe and quick. Jeyne blinked in surprise. The rider was a girl, no older than eighteen summers, her thin frame draped in well made leathers. Her skin was a deep brown, her hair a tangled mass of black curls tied loosely at her nape. From the scars that crisscrossed her face and hands it was obvious she was no Valyrian princess, no silver-haired scion of Targaryen nobility.

    What was a peasant doing atop a dragon?

    One of Jeyne''s guards stepped forward, his spear lowered. "State your name and purpose, rider!" he demanded.

    The girl snorted, crossing her arms. "Name''s Nettles. Purpose? Your prince sent me. Thought you''d be glad of another dragon watchin'' over your pretty castle."

    Jeyne''s brow furrowed. "Prince Aemond sent you?" Her gaze flicked to the dragon¡ªsmall compared to Vhagar but still a force of nature. "And this beast is yours?"

    "Sheepstealer''s mine, aye," Nettles said, her tone brusque. "Ain''t no one else gonna ride him now, if that''s what you''re asking."

    Jeyne studied the girl, her rough-hewn manner and blunt speech. "Very well," she said at last. "You and your dragon will have shelter here. But understand this: while you are within my walls, you will obey my rules."

    Nettles smirked, a gesture that was half amusement, half insolence. "Wouldn''t dream of causing trouble, my lady."

    Jeyne turned away, her cloak billowing in the breeze. As she ascended the steps back to the keep, her thoughts were a storm of questions and doubts. A dragon in her court, yet not the one she had expected. And a girl whose very existence constituted a disruption she had not anticipated. The Vale''s future, she realized then, had become far more uncertain.

    What was that mad prince up to now?

    In the distance, Sheepstealer let out a low, guttural growl, a sound that seemed to echo through the mountains like a warning.

 Chapter Twenty-Seven: Deterrence

    "I have no fear of armies. Many and more have broken themselves against my Bloody Gate, and the Eyrie is known to be impregnable. But you have descended on us from the sky, as Queen Visenya once did during the Conquest, and I was powerless to halt you. I mislike feeling powerless. Send me dragonriders."

    ¨DJeyne, to Jacaerys Velaryon

    ¡­?

    It was a fine, if somewhat overcast, morning when Oscar Tully found himself engaged in conversation with a stranger on the wide expanse of green that stretched beyond Riverrun. The field, with its gentle undulations and the faint glint of dew still clinging to the blades of grass, bore an air of serenity that was at odds with the unease that had begun to creep into Oscar''s heart.

    The young lord, clad in a dark doublet adorned with the colours of House Tully, sat astride a chestnut gelding that shifted restlessly beneath him. Flanking him were several men-at-arms, their expressions veiled but their hands resting lightly on their sword hilts. Before them stood the stranger¡ªa man of perhaps twenty or twenty-two years, whose bearing was strikingly self-assured. His face, lean and angular, betrayed neither hostility nor warmth, and his attire, though simple, bore the wear of one accustomed to the rigours of travel. Yet it was not the man himself that drew the eyes of Oscar and his companions but the great silver-grey dragon that loomed behind him.

    The creature¡ªSeasmoke, though Oscar knew it not by name¡ªstood as a marvel and menace alike. Its wings, folded neatly, shimmered with a muted metallic sheen, and its long tail flicked idly, as though it too listened intently to the exchange. Its eyes, like twin pools of molten gold, seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, their gaze unsettling even the most stalwart of hearts.

    Oscar shifted in his saddle, his fingers tightening on the reins. "I confess I know little of you," he said cautiously, his tone formal, "and nothing of your dragon. Neither you nor your mount is known to me, ser."

    The stranger inclined his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That is perfectly understandable, Lord Tully. I am but a man of little renown."

    This reply, though polite, did little to ease Oscar''s suspicions. "May I inquire as to your name, ser?"

    The man''s smile widened, though it remained cool and distant. "Names are curious things, my lord, as mutable as the tides. You may call me Addam, if it pleases you, though I suspect the name will tell you little."

    "Addam," Oscar repeated, tasting the plainness of the name and finding it did not fit the bearing of the man before him. A pseudonym? The young lord''s frown deepened, though he held his tongue. The presence of the dragon made mockery of doubts, for who could truly question the rider of such a beast? "And what is it you want here, ser?" he asked.

    "I ride at the behest of Prince Aemond," the strange dragonrider replied evenly, his gaze steady. "His Grace deemed it prudent to stable a dragon in the Riverlands. War is afoot and it would reflect poorly on the Crown should one its staunchest allies remain undefended."

    Oscar frowned, a flicker of relief mingling with his apprehension. If this Addam truly served Prince Aemond, his presence might yet prove to be a reassurance rather than a threat. "And how long are we to expect your watchful gaze?" he asked, his tone less guarded now.

    Addam parted his lips to reply, but his voice froze mid-breath. His head turned slightly, his gaze shifting past Oscar with sudden intensity. The faint smile that had lingered on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden hardness. Behind the dragon rider, Seasmoke stirred, his massive form tensing as a low-pitched growl began to rumble from his throat.

    "My lord," murmured one of Oscar''s guards, his voice tight with alarm. "Something comes."

    Oscar turned in his saddle, his heart quickening. At first, he saw nothing but the pale sky and the horizon''s gentle slope. Then, faint and distant, a shape emerged¡ªa dark blur that grew larger with each passing moment. It was a dragon, unmistakable in its serpentine grace, its red scales gleaming dully in the muted light.

    "Caraxes," one of the guards whispered, his voice laced with dread.

    Oscar''s breath caught. By the time he turned back, Addam was already mounting Seasmoke. The dragon crouched low, its tail lashing, its golden eyes fixed on the descending form of the bloodwyrm as its rider ascended its scaly back.

    Above, Caraxes banked, circling the field once, his massive wings slicing through the air with an audible rush. Then he descended, landing with a beat that flattened the sodden grass. The beast folded its wings with slow deliberation, its neck weaving as its gaze fell upon Seasmoke. Its mouth parted slightly, revealing jagged teeth as a distinctly reptilian trill emerged from its throat.

    "My Lord," One of Oscar''s men hissed, grabbing the reins of Oscar''s panicky horse and guiding it away. "We have to leave. Now!"

    The rest of the guards did not need to be instructed, retreating to the castle wall as Oscar followed. He turned back to the dragons, the tension between the two beasts as palpable as the chill in the air.

    Caraxes crept forward on all fours, his tail flicking behind him like a cat preparing to pounce. The smaller Seasmoke responded in kind, its wings spreading slightly as it issued a deep, guttural growl. The standoff stretched unbearably long. It was broken only by the voice of a man¡ªsharp, commanding, and edged deeply with suspicion.

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    "Who the fuck are you," Prince Daemon demanded, his words ringing out across the field, "and what are you doing on my nephew''s dragon?"

    <hr>

    "Who the fuck are you?"

    Daemon did not dismount, seated high in Caraxes''s saddle as he looked down suspiciously at the unknown dragonrider. The stranger was perhaps a dozen or three years Daemon''s junior, his features finely wrought, with pale hair that hinted at Valyrian blood. His posture was certain, his pale grey eyes meeting Daemon''s with a calmness that was both unusual and, to Daemon, quite irritating.

    For a moment, Daemon''s thoughts turned to Lord Corlys. There was something in the stranger''s sharp cheekbones and angled jaw that recalled the Sea Snake, a resemblance faint yet persistent. Daemon dismissed the notion almost as soon as it had arisen. He knew the Snake''s kin well enough, and this boy was not among them. Still, the resemblance stirred something at the edges of memory, a detail he could not quite place.

    The bloodwyrm shifted beneath him, eager and restless, tail lashing through the tall grass like a scythe. Daemon leaned forward slightly in the saddle, his voice cutting through the stillness as he spoke again.

    "Are you deaf?" he asked, his tone cold. "Or did you not hear this prince speak?"

    For a long moment, there was nought but silence. The young man straightened stiffly in his saddle, and Daemon''s gaze flickered to notice the fellow''s combat straps were fastened and restricting his motion. A strange emotion had settled on the stranger''s mien. His head tilted slightly at Daemon''s question, and for the briefest of instants, a faint frown touched his brow.

    "I am Addam," he replied in the end, evenly, his voice unhurried and smooth. "And Seasmoke is mine."

    Daemon''s scowl deepened. "Addam who?" he pressed, his tone biting. "Declare your house, or are you too ashamed to name it?"

    The young rider did not falter. "Ashamed? Not in the least," he said, a non-answer.

    At that, Daemon''s lips curled into a sneer. "You''re either a fool or suicidal," he said. "Perhaps both. But you will answer me all the same. By what right do you claim Seasmoke? Who gave you leave to ride a dragon of House Targaryen?"

    Addam''s pale eyes met Daemon''s, and his voice, when he spoke, was like ice, "I ride with the blessing of a kin to the King of the Seven Realms. Prince Aemond himself saw fit to grant me this right, and it was his word that made it so."

    For a moment, Daemon could only stare, his mind grappling with the essence of what had been said. Aemond? Gifting dragons? At that, the rage came quickly after, surging through him like fire.

    "The gall!" Daemon hissed, in his anger struggling to articulate his thoughts. "The fucking gall! What fucking right has he, that treacherous vile spawn? What fucking blessing?"

    Daemon''s hand tightened on the reins, and Caraxes trilled angrily in response, the bloodwyrm''s massive wings shifting as its tail lashed again, carving deep furrows into the ground. His attention returned quickly to the pretender atop Laenor''s dragon and killing intent glinted in the depth of his eyes.

    The air grew hot beneath the impending shadow of violence. Seasmoke answered with a threat of his own, his maw steaming as he crouched in readiness. The two dragons seemed a hair''s breadth from tearing into one another.

    But the rider atop Seasmoke appeared unmoved, his composure unsettlingly intact. Pale eyes calm and watchful met Daemon''s without emotion as his left hand shifted to some unseen object in a pouch at his side. For a moment, Daemon thought he saw a glint of polished metal, but he could not make out what it was.

    That was when suspicion crept in, dousing his anger with a cold, sharp edge of doubt. The pretender''s silence, his stillness¡ªit was not the fear of a man overmatched. Daemon''s gaze shifted to Seasmoke, and it was then he forced himself to breathe.

    The dragon was larger than the last time Daemon had seen him. Seasmoke had grown, now slightly more than two-thirds Caraxes''s size. And not some youngling anymore, he thought grimly. If a fight broke out, Caraxes could kill the beast, but to say without injury, Daemon could not. An injured Caraxes was an invitation. There still was Vhagar, the hoary bitch, not to mention Meleys, should the Velaryons side fully with the greens. Daemon could see the consequences unfurling as clearly as a map. Aemond would be waiting for such a misstep. The Greens would capitalise.

    Daemon''s jaw tightened. The stakes loomed clear in his mind. One mistake, and his house would be left vulnerable, with no adult dragons save Syrax to defend them. He knew then, despite the haze of his simmering rage clouding his thoughts, It wasn''t worth the risk.

    His fury grew as he met Addam''s gaze once more, weighing the man for the full extent of his worth. There was no fear there, only resolution, and something about it set Daemon''s teeth on edge. Alas, he had made his decision and could only be patient.

    "Tomorrow," he muttered under his breath. He would return tomorrow. With Jace, Vermax, and fire enough to burn the pretender from his saddle¡ª

    "Ang¨­s, Embr¨­rbar!"

    The command split the air, shattering Daemon''s thoughts like brittle glass. His eyes widened in alarm, and in that moment of unnatural clarity, he saw it more vividly than ever before.

    His end.

 Chapter Twenty-Eight: MAD

    "In 138 AC, the bones of Addam were returned to Driftmark from Raventree Hall. His brother Alyn, by then Lord of the Tides, put only the word "LOYAL" as the epitaph on Addam''s tomb."

    ¨DUnknown

    ¡­?

    "Ang¨­s, Embr¨­rbar!"

    The words came with malice, and before Daemon could react, his world was fire. A torrent of death erupted from Seasmoke''s maw, a wall of orange and gold that swallowed the space between them in the span of a heartbeat. Heat washed over Daemon''s face, and for a fleeting instant, he felt the searing sting of it, tasted the acrid bite of char, burnt hair, and scorched leather. Caraxes bellowed, a furious, wounded sound that rattled bone. Instinct took hold¡ªDaemon barely needed to urge him. The dragon wheeled, throwing one massive wing between them and the fire, shielding his rider from the worst of it. The air shimmered with heat, the edge of the wing membrane blackening, curling at the edges like parchment caught in a brazier.

    With a powerful beat of his wings, the bloodwyrm surged upward, seeking escape, his body twisting in the air to shake off the heat, his maw parting to answer in kind¡ªBut the enemy was already upon them.

    Seasmoke burst through the fiery veil like a silver spectre, jaws wide and wings outstretched. The collision was jarring, a tangle of muscle and scale, the force of impact enough to send both dragons tumbling earthward. The younger dragon struck first, low and fast, sinking its teeth into the thick base of Caraxes'' throat¡ªjust above the chest, where the crimson scales were thinner, more vulnerable.

    Caraxes shrieked, the sound of it more enraged than pained, and lashed out in turn¡ªhis fangs found purchase in Seasmoke''s left shoulder, clamping down on scale and sinew and drawing a bellowing roar from the enemy. His massive wings flapped violently, buffeting Seasmoke and sending gusts of wind whipping across the field. The thrashing forms tore furrows into the damp earth, setting the grass alight as fire spilled unchecked from their maws.

    Daemon clung to the saddle, teeth bared in a snarl, hands and thighs fighting for purchase. Twice, he was nearly thrown off. Twice more, he was nearly crushed. The heat of the flames licked at his armour, the smell of his burning hair filling his nostrils. His skin burned and his eyes watered from the heat. Then a sharp jolt ran through his spine as the two dragons tumbled down a slight incline in the field, their writhing bodies breaking apart at the last moment, again narrowly avoiding crushing their riders beneath their bulk.

    With a brutal wrench, Caraxes had managed to twist free, but not without consequence¡ªdeep gouges marred his crimson scales, and black blood oozed down his neck. Seasmoke, smaller and quicker, leapt first, taking to the skies. Caraxes, bloodied and enraged, was not far behind. He surged upward with a high-pitched bellow, his massive form struggling for balance before finally rising from the earth.

    Ahead, Seasmoke wheeled about to face them again. The distance between them shrank rapidly and the two dragons met once more with a sickening crunch of scale against scale, their clawed feet kicking and raking and talons locking as they spun in a chaotic spiral toward the earth, wings beating against each other with furious desperation. The sound of their snarling echoed across the heavens, accompanied by bursts of dragonfire that scorched the sky and left trails of smoke in their wake.

    They were losing altitude. Fast. The earth rushed towards them with malice and Daemon''s world became a blur of motion¡ªsky, earth, fire, sky again. He fought to stay in the saddle as Caraxes thrashed, struggling to break free. Just as they were about to crash into the earth, the bloodwyrm broke free again, and with a furious snap of his wings that pressed Daemon back into his saddle, he levelled out mere meters above the ground.

    The two beasts separated and rose again, circling each other above the scorched battlefield. Alas, the calm was merely momentary. With a bellow and a savage pull, Caraxes pulled deeper into the turn, circling toward Seasmoke with frightening agility. The silver dragon twisted in the air, locking its talons with Caraxes before diving and pulling itself free again. Caraxes followed, but the smaller dragon simply pulled itself higher out of reach. Fleeing.

    Disoriented, Daemon tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets. His blood roared in his ears, his lips curling into a snarl as he turned his attention towards the retreating enemy.

    "Face me, coward!" he bellowed as he spurred Caraxes forward, the dragon''s bellows echoing his words. They closed the distance again and Seasmoke wheeled in the air for a moment to clash talons with Caraxes but quickly broke away once more, spewing flames as it did. Distantly, Daemon could see its rider urging it away despite its desire to face them and his anger surged anew.

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    They soared across the Riverlands, bellowing and snarling, twisting and diving and exchanging gouts of dragonfire. Below, the earth rolled by in a blur of green and brown. The wind howled in Daemon''s ears as Caraxes climbed after the enemy. Below, even the silhouette of Riverrun behind the faded into a smudge of green and grey.

    For a moment, the distance from their quarry grew, but the injuries Seasmoke sustained were perhaps too great to ignore. The smaller dragon soon began to slow and Caraxes drew closer. Daemon could taste the sweetness of victory upon his lips.

    It was then he saw it.

    A shape in the distance, approaching from the east. The prince''s stomach clenched as he turned his attention toward it, his gaze narrowing. The shape grew larger as it drew closer, its outline unmistakable. Another dragon.

    Daemon''s mind raced. Vhagar? No, too small. Dreamfyre? No, too large. Another of the Green''s creatures? Meleys?

    As the dragon neared, its mottled brown hide came into view, its tattered wings and ungainly gait impossible to mistake.

    "Sheepstealer," Daemon muttered, his tone tinged with confusion.

    The old, ugly dragon was a creature of the wild, a beast with no love for men or dragons alike. Yet there it was, and worse¡ªa rider sat astride it, a feminine figure wrapped tightly against the wind. The sight sent an uneasy chill to rest in Daemon''s guts. Seasmoke was flying directly towards the newcomers. The sight stoked a flicker of doubt in his mind, one he could not afford to let grow.

    A trap?

    "Fuck!"

    Daemon swore then. "Motherless sons of whores," he spat, yanking hard on Caraxes'' reins. The bloodwyrm resisted, trilling in protest, his bloodlust unwilling to abandon the fight. But Daemon knew they could not face the two alone. Sheepstealer was larger than Caraxes¡ªclumsy in the air, yes, but powerful, and more than capable of inflicting harm if the moment came. And while Seasmoke was smaller, the injuries Caraxes bore now were proof enough of the threat the younger posed. Together, they were an unwelcome challenge, one Daemon had no interest in indulging at the moment.

    For a moment, it seemed as if the bloodwyrm might ignore him. But, alas, the gods were good and with a reluctant, rumbling growl, Caraxes turned, wings hammering against the wind as he pulled away.

    Daemon''s fingers tightened on the saddle as he forced his gaze forward, trying to rid himself of the unease coiling in his gut.

    It was then Caraxes called, a trilling, high-pitched sound that vibrated through Daemon''s very bones. The bloodwyrm twisted his head slowly, and Daemon turned to follow his dragon''s gaze. Immediately, a frown crested his brow.

    The injured Seasmoke was turning to follow and Sheepstealer was slowly catching up. The chase had begun anew.

    "Fuck!"

    <hr>

    "Faster," Daemon growled, pressing himself low against the saddle, his fingers tightening around the reins of Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm shrieked his displeasure, a keening wail that echoed across the sky, but he obeyed. His wings beat harder, slicing through the cold air, and they surged ahead with a lurch that made Daemon''s teeth clench. Higher they climbed, higher still, angling away from their pursuers with each powerful stroke. The wind howled in his ears, but he paid it no mind.

    Daemon risked a glance over his shoulder. Seasmoke lagged behind, his pale hide streaked with blood, wings labouring against the weight of his wounds. Sheepstealer followed, his tattered wings beating against the wind, yet even he could not close the gap. A flicker of relief curled in Daemon''s gut, though he did not trust it. Not yet.

    Below, the jagged outline of Rook''s Rest rose from the mists, its grey stone tower a lone sentinel against the vast expanse of the sea. Daemon looked back once more, his gaze tracking the movements of the dragons behind him. They were slowing, their course curving away, retreating to whence they came.

    And yet, the sight brought him no comfort.

    As Caraxes cut through the mist-laden skies above the ragged coastline, Daemon brooded in his saddle, his mood as dark as the waves crashing against the shore below. The Greens had claimed two more dragons¡ªsomehow, some way¡ªand worse yet, they had found riders bold and skilled enough to ride them. It gnawed at him, a slow, simmering anger beneath the surface. He and Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, the fiercest weapon in their arsenal, had been driven from the field like whipped curs.

    It was no retreat, not by name. But Daemon knew the truth of it well enough. And truth, like a blade, cut deep.

    This was ill. Ill beyond reckoning.

 Chapter Twenty-Nine: Gilded Chains

    "This is the power of the Guild. They can refuse to ship certain goods. They can refuse to transport certain people. Without the Guild, no interstellar commerce exists."

    ¨DMuad''Dib

    ¡­?

    Mysaria watched in silence from the narrow slit of a high window in the Merchant Guild building, her gaze fixed on the slow, deliberate approach of the ornate galley as it glided into the Blackwater Rush. The vessel, black and gold, cut through the water with an effortless grace, its sails taut under the brisk autumn wind. An hour earlier, one of her little mice had whispered of unusual activity at the High Wharf. Dockworkers had been ordered to prepare for an unknown arrival, and then word came that an elaborate Braavosi galley bearing the Targaryen sigil had been sighted in Blackwater Bay. Suspicious of its identity, she had hurried to the best vantage point she could find in order to investigate. And there it was¡­

    The Absolution.

    Mysaria knew the name well. Many months had passed since she first laid eyes on the ship''s writs and financing ledgers, long before it had taken form in the Braavosi shipyard that birthed it. Commissioned in secrecy when the Crown''s dealings with the Iron Bank still maintained a veneer of civility, the vessel was unlike anything else in the Royal Fleet. She recalled its specifications with eerie clarity¡ªsixty meters in length, a beam just over six meters, the sleek, narrow frame a testament to Braavosi craftsmanship. Its hull, reinforced with oak and pine, bound by iron fastenings that gleamed faintly even from this distance.

    Her eyes lingered on the massive lateen sails, black as a starless night and embroidered with the crimson three-headed dragon. The sigil rippled with each gust of wind as the ship moved steadily forward, escorted by two smaller sloops that guided it past the towering winch towers standing like silent sentinels at the river''s mouth. She counted the oars, dipping into the waters in perfect unison¡ªfifty-nine on each side, arranged in three staggered tiers. A crew of at least two hundred and fifty, perhaps three hundred. An unusually large number compared to the longships and cogs that typically haunted Westeros'' shores.

    This was the first time she had seen The Absolution in its full glory. The Prince had kept it well hidden, sending it to Qohor immediately after its keel-floating for what he deemed necessary refinements. Mysaria had reviewed the vast sums funnelled into the venture without question, though her curiosity had never waned. The initial Braavosi crew had been dismissed after the voyage to Qohor, replaced with less competent slave rowers¡ªa fortunate decision it seems now, given how swiftly relations with Braavos had soured soon after.

    Her gaze shifted to the bow, where an imposing iron pipe jutted forth¡ªgrotesque in shape, tapered, and bell-mouthed. It was flanked by four smaller counterparts, all perched atop reinforced wooden platforms. Cargo, perhaps? Or were these the vaunted "refinements" Aemond had sunk obscene amounts of gold into? Whatever their function, Mysaria found it difficult to justify the extravagant cost, though she had long since learned not to question the Prince''s vision.

    The Absolution slid into position beside the royal flagship, which once seemed grand but now paled in comparison to Aemond''s new acquisition. The Dromond''s sails hung limp, its once-pristine hull appearing almost provincial next to the Braavosi galley''s dark sleek majesty.

    A small, knowing smile played on her lips. A frivolous purchase, she had once thought. But Aemond was not a man prone to frivolity. He was methodical, calculated, and usually several moves ahead. Whatever purpose The Absolution was meant to serve, it was undoubtedly a piece in a much larger game she could yet see.

    A soft knock at the door interrupted her reverie. Turning, she beheld her aide¡ªMedgar¡ªclad in his usual dark green tunic, the Merchant Guild''s sigil embroidered on his right breast. The young man inclined his head respectfully.

    "Madam, you are running late. Shall I inform the Grandmaester to proceed without you?"

    Mysaria regarded him for a moment before shaking her head. "No need for that. Lead the way."

    Casting a final, lingering glance at The Absolution as a group of Red Cloaks prepared to board it, Mysaria drew a slow breath. Then, with measured steps, she turned and allowed herself to be led away, her curiosity now tempered by a measure of satisfaction.

    <hr>

    It was a truth universally acknowledged¡ªif not spoken aloud¡ªthat the affairs of the Merchant Guild were seldom conducted with haste, nor with undue enthusiasm for change. Thus, when the guildmasters of King''s Landing found themselves summoned to the grand hall of the Merchant Guild, they arrived with expressions ranging from studied indifference to thinly veiled consternation.

    The great chamber, panelled in dark oak and adorned with the sigils of the various guilds, was filled with the rustling of fine robes and the subdued murmurs of whispered speculation. It was an assembly of men and women, each a power unto themselves within their respective domains; masters of their crafts, accustomed to deferring to none but the weight of coin and tradition. Some had grown fat and complacent with their wealth, others sharp-eyed and lean. Their conversations carried the undertone of unease that Mysaria had come to recognize over the years¡ªangst hidden beneath civility, doubts masked by bluster.

    At the centre of it all was a circular table of polished ebony. Grand Maester Orwyle loomed at its head, his expression as inscrutable as ever. He wore his chain of office with the weariness of a man long accustomed to its weight. A stout ledger rested in front of him, and every now and then he made an idle notation, as if to suggest that the proceedings were of no greater consequence than the tallying of barley stocks. Mysaria caught his eye; he inclined his head in silent acknowledgement, though his lips pressed into a thin line.

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    The Secretary let her gaze sweep the room once more before entering. "Guildmasters," she greeted them as she reached the table, her Lysene accent a whisper against the Common Tongue. Conversations tapered off as heads turned her way. "Thank you for your attendance. I trust the summons was not too inconvenient."

    A few polite nods followed though suspicion lingered in more than a few eyes. Mysaria had grown used to such scrutiny. Her role as Prince Aemond''s aide placed her at the nexus of power and secrecy, and mistrust clung to her like a shadow.

    A polite cough from Orwyle drew the room''s attention, and silence fell with the inevitability of a closing door. Mysaria sat then and leaned forward, offering a thin, measured smile.

    "Shall we begin?"

    The guildmasters settled reluctantly, and she waited until she held the room''s full attention before speaking again.

    "The Crown, as you know, has long valued the contributions of this esteemed collective," Mysaria began, her words measured and deliberate. "Your endeavours fuel the prosperity of the realm, from the lumber that builds our fleets to the grain that feeds our people. But we live in... uncertain times. The prosperity we enjoy today cannot be taken for granted, nor can we afford to stagnate while the world changes around us."

    Her gaze swept the table, pausing briefly on each guildmaster. Some returned her look with guarded curiosity; others with mere confusion. She pressed on, her voice steady.

    "It is for this reason that the Crown has issued a series of reforms to strengthen and unify our industries. You have before you the Merchant Guild''s newest provisions regarding the operation of your respective vassal guilds, as prepared under the auspices of the Small Council and ratified by His Grace, Prince Aemond Targaryen, Master of Coin."

    A rustle swept through the room as each guildmaster turned their attention to the thick sheaf of parchment laid before them by the servants lingering at the edges of the hall. Prince Aemond''s blue-lipped clerks had ensured every document was immaculately penned, the decrees precise and unyielding in their scope. The wax seals gleamed in the candlelight, heavy with significance.

    Gormon of the Perfumers'' Guild, a man whose substantial girth was outmatched only by his fondness for self-importance, adjusted his spectacles with an affected sigh. "It is no small thing, Madam Mysaria, to present us with such... comprehensive reforms," he said, his voice tinged with condescension. "Standardized production quotas? Resource-pooling? Mandatory use of bank-issued promissory notes for internal trade and taxation matters¡ªI trust the Crown has given due consideration to the... practicalities of such measures?"

    Mysaria''s smile did not waver. "His Grace," she said smoothly, "has considered every aspect, Guildmaster. I am certain you will find his instructions both clear and compelling."

    "Indeed," murmured Marbrand of the Shipowners'' Guild, his fingers tracing the gold trim of his velvet doublet. "And yet, one cannot help but wonder if there is not some room for discussion. Economic autonomy is the lifeblood of our prosperity. These mandates would see the Prince alone dictating terms that have long been the province of the guilds themselves. Surely the Crown does not intend to impose such sweeping changes without¡ª"

    "A measure of negotiation?" Mysaria interjected, her voice deceptively mild. "No, Guildmaster, I am afraid not. His Grace has deemed these changes necessary and final. The Merchant Guild will conform to the new order as outlined within these documents. Naturally, your cooperation will be expected."

    A ripple of discomfort passed through the gathered guildmasters, some exchanging uneasy glances, others feigning composure. Madam Embreth of the Market Guild tapped the edge of her parchment. "Forgive me," she said, "but I cannot help but observe that should these mandates be enacted, our once-autonomous guilds would become little more than extensions of the Crown''s treasury."

    "That is not the intent," Orwyle intoned mildly, looking up from his ledger. "Alas, efficiency requires certain sacrifices, Madam."

    Mysaria watched as the words settled, their meaning sinking into the minds of the assembled. The guildmasters shifted in their seats, some frowning down at their parchments, others stealing glances at one another as if seeking reassurance.

    "His Grace is wise in many things," Madam Embreth spoke again, her words carefully chosen, "but wisdom is best tempered with counsel. I trust he will not disregard the experience we offer in favour of expediency."

    "Perhaps you would prefer to express this to His Grace in person when next he is available?" Mysaria offered with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Embreth blanched, shooting her an equally hollow but far less confident smile. She did not speak again.

    The room fell silent, save for the distant chiming of bells from the harbour. Mysaria allowed the quiet to stretch, watching until she caught it¡ªthe first real glimmer of understanding dawning behind their carefully composed expressions. The guildmasters were not fools; they knew what was being asked of them, and more importantly, what was being taken.

    "Shall we proceed with the specifics, then?" Mysaria said at last.

    And with that, the first tether of their independence was drawn tighter.

 Chapter Thirty: Closing Walls

    "A man is a tool of his own body, a tool of his mind, a tool of his emotions. The trick is to learn how to wield that tool properly."

    ¨DDuncan Idaho

    ¡­?

    Rhaenyra stood at the center of this somber space, a figure of majestic discontent. Her voice, though even, carried the weight of reproach as she addressed her sons, who stood before her like errant schoolboys caught in the midst of mischief.

    "Well," said she, her tone measured, "it seems my trust in your discretion was sorely misplaced. Tell me, Lucerys, at what point did you determine that the proper course of action at Storm''s End was to offer your hand in marriage to one of Lord Borros''s daughters?"

    The younger boy, fair-haired and slight, shifted from foot to foot, his eyes fixed upon the intricate patterns of the stone floor. "I thought¡ªI thought it would please him, Mother. He seemed reluctant to pledge his support, and I believed¡ª"

    "You believed?" she interrupted, her brows arching in a manner that made her sons quail. "You believed that the Stormlands'' loyalty could be bought with promises you have no authority to give? Did it not occur to you to seek counsel before such a rash declaration?"

    Lucerys opened his mouth, though no sound emerged, and his silence seemed to irritate her all the more. She turned her gaze upon Jacaerys, her eldest, who stood a little apart from his brother with the stoicism of a soldier prepared to weather an onslaught. "And you, Jace. Was it not your duty to act as my voice at Lord Borros''s hall? How is it that you allowed this¡ªthis spectacle to occur?"

    Jace, though crimson tinged his cheeks, held her gaze with steady determination. "I sought to intervene, Mother, but the words were spoken before I could prevent them. I thought it unwise to argue the matter before Lord Borros and his court."

    "Unwise to argue? Perhaps. But wisdom would have spared you the embarrassment of making offers on my behalf, as though I were some merchant hawking wares," she retorted. "You are sons of House Targaryen, princes of dragonlords. That you should stoop to such¡ª"

    Her reprimand was interrupted by the sudden, hurried entrance of one of her Queensguard. His armor bore the sheen of haste, and his expression betrayed a man torn between dread and duty. He paused only long enough to bow deeply before her.

    "Your Grace," he began, his voice tight, "forgive the intrusion, but you must come at once."

    Rhaenyra''s dark eyes narrowed. "Must I?" she asked, though her tone suggested she was not accustomed to being summoned. "Speak plainly, Ser. What is this matter of such urgency that it warrants an interruption?"

    The knight hesitated, as if uncertain how to frame his words. "It is the prince, Your Grace. Prince Daemon has returned."

    A flicker of surprise crossed her features, swiftly tempered by skepticism. "Daemon has returned? And what cause is there for such alarm in this?"

    "It is his dragon, Your Grace," the knight explained. "Caraxes... the beast bears grievous wounds. Gouges and tears¡ªhis neck, his wings¡ªthey are unlike anything I have seen. The prince himself remains astride, though I fear¡ª"

    But Rhaenyra did not wait for him to finish. The severity in her gaze gave way to worry, and she swept past the knight without hesitation, her skirts trailing like banners of war. "Come," she called sharply over her shoulder to Jace and Luke, who followed, their earlier shame forgotten in the wake of this revelation.

    <hr>

    Even in the fading twilight, the gashes along the Bloodwyrm''s neck and wings were unmistakable, deep rents in once-impervious scales, blackened at the edges where fire had seared flesh. The great beast moved sluggishly, wings beating with effort as he turned eastward, seeking the solitude of his roost beyond the cliffs.

    And then there was Daemon.

    Rhaenyra found him at the Dragon''s Gate, his boots stirring loose gravel beneath them. His leathers, once fine and supple, were blackened and curling at the seams, his silver hair shorter now where fire had stolen its length. Yet it was his expression that unsettled her most¡ªit was not pain, nor anger, but something quieter, something she had not seen in him before.

    Worry.

    With hurried steps, she reached for him, her hands finding his arms before he could object, her breath uneven as she took him in.

    "You are burned," she observed, her fingers barely skimming the scorched leather before clenching into fists.

    Daemon exhaled slowly, and there was the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem I am," he murmured, "but I shall live."

    "That remains to be seen," she countered, sharp-eyed, unwilling to be placated. "Tell me what happened. What madness was this? And why¡ª"

    "Later." His voice, though weary, held an undeniable finality. He cast a glance over her shoulder, and she followed his gaze, finding what she had not noticed before¡ªthe servants, their wide eyes betraying their alarm. The sight of their prince returned battered, his dragon bloodied, would probably be enough to set tongues wagging from Driftmark to the Vale by the morrow.

    Rhaenyra, ever proud, drew herself up and forced composure into her limbs. "Come," she said simply, her hand pressing against Daemon''s arm. "We will speak of this inside."

    Even more worryingly, he did not argue.

    <hr>

    The grand hall of Dragonstone was no stranger to solemn meetings, and tonight was no exception. The firelight cast long shadows across the stonework, playing cruel tricks against the banners of House Targaryen that hung from the vaulted ceiling. The sconces flickered fitfully, their dim glow casting the space in something almost like mourning.

    Daemon sank into a chair by the hearth, the motion carrying more weight than he might have liked. His fingers dragged through his hair¡ªwhat remained of it¡ªbefore falling to rest against the carved arms of his seat.

    "You will tell me now," Rhaenyra demanded.

    Daemon did not immediately answer. Instead, a breath escaped him, long and slow. He let his head loll back against the carved chair, his eyes half-lidded.

    "Lucerys," Rhaenyra called, not looking away from her husband. "Bring your father some wine."

    The boy, who had lingered near the door as though unsure of his place, nodded once before slipping away without a word.

    Silence reigned in his absence.

    With a sigh, Rhaenyra moved to Daemon''s side. She did not speak as she undid the buckles of his leathers, her hands steady despite the storm in her chest. The scent of char clung to him, mingled with sweat and the unmistakable acrid bite of dragonfire. The more she uncovered, the clearer the burns became¡ªthin, cruel lines where the heat had kissed too close, patches of raw skin where his flesh had been tested by the flames.

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    "Did you think to die today?" she asked at last, her voice quieter than before.

    Daemon tilted his head, his violet gaze settling on her with something unreadable behind his eyes. "I have thought of death often," he admitted, as though it were a casual thing. "But not today."

    Before Rhaenyra could reply, Lucerys returned, his hands wrapped around a flagon of wine. He crossed the room quickly, his expression betraying his unease as he placed the drink on the table.

    Daemon took it without ceremony, drinking deeply, his throat working as the liquid slid past his lips. He finished in several long gulps, then let the empty cup rest against his thigh.

    For a moment, he did not speak. Then, at last, he began.

    "I went to Winterfell first," He said, his voice roughened by drink and weariness alike. "Cregan Stark heard me out, let me sit by his fire, but he would not uphold his oaths. Not for me. Not for you. Not even for the promise of dragons in the sky."

    Rhaenyra said nothing, though her lips pressed into a thin line.

    "He said he would not march against you, only that he would not march for you, either."

    "A convenient neutrality," Rhaenyra said, her voice cold.

    Daemon did not argue.

    He drank again before setting the cup down with a heavy hand.

    "I left the North behind and turned west. The Ironborn were less¡­ reluctant. Dalton Greyjoy still counts Aemond among his greatest enemies. I barely even needed to threaten him." His smirk was sharp-edged, bitter. "And so, I went to the Riverlands. If we could not gain the North, I thought, perhaps we could weaken the Greens instead¡ªif the Tullys could be convinced to abandon Aegon, it would have undone all of Aemond''s careful work."

    "But they did not," Rhaenyra guessed.

    Daemon''s expression darkened. "No. Because the Greens had sent one of their own."

    She frowned. "Aemond''s emissaries have been known to move quickly, but¡ª"

    "It was no emissary," Daemon interrupted. "It was a dragon."

    A chill curled around her spine. "You fought Vhagar?"

    "Seasmoke," he said simply, his voice flat. "The Greens have found him a rider."

    There were many things Rhaenyra had been prepared to hear. That the North had refused them, that the Ironborn were as faithless as ever¡ªthese were disappointments, but they were not surprises. This, however, was something else entirely.

    Jacaerys, who had remained silent thus far, took a step forward, his eyes flicking between his mother and uncle. "Are you certain?"

    Daemon''s smirk returned, but it was a bitter thing. "I chased them from the skies myself," he said, "only to find that they had stolen Sheepstealer as well whne it joined the battle."

    "...What?" Rhaenyra did not realize she had taken a step back until the chair behind her caught her legs, forcing her into its embrace.

    Silence fell again.

    The power of the dragons had never been fair to them, but now, what once had been a worrying imbalance had become a chasm. Rhaenyra''s mind raced, but the thoughts would not settle. The walls were closing in, and for the first time since the war began, she wondered if they had already lost. Four dragons to eight. The words repeated in her mind, a cruel rhythm that refused to abate.

    Jacaerys was the first to break the stillness. His voice, though steady, was not without strain.

    "What do we do?"

    A simple question, and yet it echoed through the vast chamber as though the stones themselves demanded an answer.

    For a long moment, Rhaenyra said nothing.

    Was there anything left to do?

    The notion that she might yield, that she might put aside her claim and retreat to Dragonstone as a defeated pretender, whispered insidiously in the corners of her mind. Would it not be better to live than to lose everything?

    But before the thought could fully form, Daemon spoke.

    "No."

    His voice, though not raised, carried across the hall with the force of a command. Rhaenyra lifted her gaze to him, and what she saw in his eyes sent a flicker of anger through her bones.

    He had seen it. He had seen that treacherous thought cross her mind, and he was disgusted by it.

    "No, Rhaenyra." Daemon leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees, his voice sharp as the edge of a dagger. "You will not surrender."

    Rhaenyra''s nostrils flared. "And what chance do we stand, Daemon? If you see one, then by all means, enlighten me!"

    For once, he did not reply immediately. He regarded her in silence, his gaze searching hers. Then, slowly, he straightened in his seat.

    "If they have found riders for their dragons," he said, "then so must we. Vermithor and Silverwing. They have lain unclaimed too long. If we wish to contest the skies, we must find riders for them."

    Rhaenyra opened her mouth, then hesitated. She had known the thought would come, but it unsettled her all the same.

    There was danger in it. Too many to count.

    And yet, what choice did they have?

    She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Even if we succeed, that would only bring our numbers to six against their eight," she murmured.

    "And that is without counting the armies," Jacaerys added glumly. "Much of the realm has sworn to Aegon. He holds swathes of the Reach, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Riverlands at his feet. Even if we match them in the sky, we do not match them on the field."

    A cruel truth, but a truth nonetheless.

    Daemon, however, appeared unperturbed. He took his time pouring another cup of wine, lifting it to his lips and drinking deeply before answering.

    "Perhaps," he mused, setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. "But the Greens have as many enemies as they do friends."

    Rhaenyra frowned. "You speak of the Ironborn?"

    "Not only them," Daemon said, tilting his head slightly. "I have been thinking on this for some time. We have few friends in Westeros, that much is true. But Westeros is not the whole world. Aemond has earned himself no shortage of enemies in Essos. While they may hate me, the Triarchy despises him and Corlys far more. Braavos has no love for the man either, and the Free Cities watch him as warily as they watch us." He lifted a brow. "It may be time we make use of that."

    At that, Rhaenyra sat up, exhaling slowly. She tapped her fingers against the wood, considering.

    It was a dangerous path. A very dangerous one.

    But then again, there were no safe paths left.

 INTERLUDE: Goading

    "Show me a flattered fool and I will show you a weak ruler."

    ¨DLeto II

    ¡­?

    It was an afternoon of singular indolence within the august walls of the Red Keep, where Aegon had installed himself most comfortably upon the Iron Throne¡ªnot in the manner of a sovereign dispensing justice with solemn dignity, but rather as a disaffected youth might slump into a chair too grand for his frame. His posture spoke of languor, his expression of mild irritation, and his leisure of absolute negligence. A goblet of rich Arbor red dangled precariously from his idle fingers, while a contingent of like-minded companions lounged at various angles about the hall, all engaged in merriment that was unseemly in the sacred chamber of kings.

    The business of the Crown, such as it was, had little place in Aegon''s daily concerns, and what little he endured was often made tolerable only by drink and distraction. Thus, when Larys Strong¡ªa man whose gait was as deliberate as his speech was guarded¡ªentered the hall, Aegon gave him only the most cursory of glances, his interest kindled not by expectation, but by a vague curiosity as to what amusement the club-footed man might unwittingly provide.

    "My Lord Strong," he drawled, his voice thick with wine and boredom. "Come to deliver more riddles? Perhaps a prophecy or two? My mother would love that."

    Larys smiled, small and careful. "Your Grace jests, and yet even the jests of a king hold wisdom. Prophecies are merely the words men whisper when they are too fearful to speak plainly. It gladdens my heart to see His Grace presiding over court with such¡ªah¡ªdistinction."

    Aegon, who had never been accused of resembling his father in temperament nor his great-grandfather in wisdom, narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The dubious compliment, framed with such delicate artifice, roused in him the inclination to preen and the instinct to doubt in equal measure.

    "You''ve a talent for flattery, Lord Larys," he muttered, with the careless arrogance of one accustomed to honeyed words. "And as I have not the patience to unravel its sincerity, I shall simply accept it as my due. What is it you want?"

    "A mere moment of Your Grace''s time, if you would grant me the indulgence of a private word," Larys replied, lowering his gaze as though the request itself was an imposition too bold to utter outright.

    Aegon cast an idle glance toward his companions. They had long since ceased to be amusing; they had begun repeating their jests, a most egregious sin in his estimation. He sighed, dramatically aggrieved, and waved a languid hand. "Go on, then. Off with you all."

    His companions, muttering but obedient, filed out of the chamber, their revelry departing with them. Only Larys remained, his hands clasped before him in an attitude of near-monastic humility.

    With a slow, measured step, Larys guided the king towards the open balcony, where the city sprawled before them in all its chaotic splendor¡ªrooftops glinting beneath the afternoon sun, winding streets teeming with the ceaseless motion of trade and toil. For a long moment, neither spoke, though Aegon''s patience for silence was not renowned.

    "Well?" the king prompted, his tone irritable.

    "My King," Larys began at last, with a hesitation most artfully employed, "it is not my place to offer unsolicited counsel¡ª"

    "And yet, here you are, offering it," Aegon interrupted, grinning. "Come, out with it. You always have something slippery to say."

    Larys smiled faintly, a mere twitch of the lips, and lowered his eyes in practiced deference. "I speak only out of duty, Your Grace. I would not dare presume¡ª"

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    Aegon sighed. "Larys, I am neither drunk enough nor patient enough to suffer through all these pleasantries. Speak plainly."

    Larys inclined his head. "Your Grace is most magnanimous."

    Aegon rolled his eyes.

    There was a pause, then a most careful unfolding of words. "I have been troubled, Your Grace, by whispers that ought not to persist¡ªwhispers that, if left unchecked, might take root where they do not belong."

    Aegon tensed, though he did not yet know why. "Whispers? Of what?"

    Larys allowed himself a moment''s hesitation, as though he must choose his words with the utmost care. "There are some, perhaps ill-intentioned, who perceive that Your Grace''s authority is not... absolute."

    Aegon frowned. "What in the seven hells does that mean?"

    Larys clasped his hands before him and sighed, a picture of regret. "Only that Prince Aemond, in his ceaseless service to the realm, has become... rather formidable. His influence is vast, his actions decisive. Some might say¡ªthough I would never suggest it myself¡ªthat he governs with such efficiency, such unerring confidence, that one might wonder where the seat of power truly resides."

    The king stiffened, his features darkening. "And who, pray, has dared to wonder such a thing?"

    Larys spread his hands in a gesture of vague regret. "It is not for me to give voice to the murmurs of the court, Your Grace. I merely relay the perception that exists¡ªthat your esteemed brother, in his zeal to safeguard your rule, may be seen as ruling in your stead."

    Aegon''s face twisted into a sneer. "Aemond is my brother. He serves me."

    "Indeed," Larys murmured. "And yet, it was only this morning that Prince Aemond called for a Small Council meeting¡ªone to which I was summoned, and yet of which Your Grace remains unaware."

    Aegon, who had been irritated before, now bristled with a sharper sort of anger. "Aemond called a council meeting? Without informing me?"

    "It would appear so."

    "And what in the name of the Stranger is this meeting about?"

    Larys tilted his head, as if reluctant to add more fuel to the flame. "It concerns measures being undertaken in Your Grace''s name¡ªreforms aimed at consolidating power within the city, removing undue influence from the guildmasters."

    Aegon scowled. "And what of it? The guildmasters are parasites."

    "Undoubtedly," Larys conceded. "Yet, the manner in which this has been enacted¡ªthe decisiveness with which the decree was issued¡ªmight give some the impression that it was Prince Aemond, rather than Your Grace, who authored it."

    Aegon, who had never been overly concerned with the particulars of governance, was nonetheless incensed at the suggestion that he was a mere figurehead. That he, Aegon the Second, was being managed¡ªas his father had been by his grandfather, as a child by his nursemaid.

    His indignation flared. "Where is Aemond now?"

    "In the council chambers, Your Grace. He gathers the lords even as we speak."

    Aegon''s eyes burned with resentment. He had suffered many things in his young life¡ªindifference, condescension, even ridicule¡ªbut he would not suffer the indignity of being made a fool before his own court.

    "Then I shall attend this meeting," Aegon declared, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic edge of command. "And I shall remind my dear brother where true authority resides."

    Larys bowed, his expression unreadable. "As Your Grace wills it."

 INTERLUDE: Confrontation

    "The Lords of the Vale could field twenty thousand swords at need."

    ¡ª Alayne II, A Feast for Crows

    ¡­?

    The map was an elegant thing. A masterwork of parchment and paint, its vast surface spread across the council table in a careful arrangement of colour¡ªwhite for those yet to declare, green for the faithful, black for the rest. There was very little black. A smattering in the Reach, a handful of errant Riverlords, and a single great blot staining the Stormlands beneath Lord Borros Baratheon''s name.

    Aemond had spoken little as the attendants laid it out before them, his gaze lingering over the precise, inked borders as the council lords, by silent accord, lifted their heavy marbles of office so that the parchment might be laid smoothly against the polished wood of the table; then, one by one, they set their weighted spheres upon the curling edges, ensuring that the document lay undisturbed before their collective scrutiny. Only when the last corner had been weighed did the prince finally break his silence.

    "Lord Larys is absent," he observed.

    The comment might have been idle, were it not for the source. It was not quite a question, nor yet an expression of concern, but a statement laid before the room, to be acknowledged and swiftly passed over. The council met it in kind.

    "As ever, he knows what we do not," Otto murmured, dry as old parchment.

    Aemond inclined his head, dismissing the matter. "Then let us proceed."

    The room quieted.

    "Rhaenyra has had herself crowned."

    There was no gasp of outrage, no frantic exchanges. They had all known it was coming.

    Aemond continued, his tone unperturbed. "She held her own coronation upon Dragonstone, styling herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with her rogue prince-husband declared Protector of the Realm, and her eldest bastard installed as Prince of Dragonstone. This, of course, is an act of open defiance. In light of the King''s boundless generosity, we had offered her the dignity of a peaceful irrelevance, had she only the sense to bend the knee. She has refused this grace. That refusal, my lords, makes her not merely an inconvenience, but a danger to the stability of the realm. It is my proposal, therefore, that a declaration be issued forthwith: the false queen and her prince are to be deemed traitors against the realm. Their execution is to be demanded in the King''s name. Furthermore, let it be known to all lords of Westeros that any who persist in their misguided support of this rebellion shall suffer the same fate. A reckoning is at hand, and it will not be gentle to those who defy their rightful king."

    As his words settled over the table, he cast a glance at the painted territories upon the parchment. "I name to you the lords who have declared for the pretender," Aemond said, with the crisp efficiency of a man dictating an inventory. "In the Reach: the Costaynes of Three Towers, the Mullendores of Uplands, the Tarlys of Horn Hill, and the Oakhearts of Old Oak. In the Riverlands: Samwell Blackwood of Raventree, Tristan Vance of Wayfarer''s Rest, Walys Mooton of Maidenpool, and Petyr Piper of Pinkmaiden. The Ironborn, as expected, rally behind Dalton Greyjoy in their traitorous ways. And the Stormlands¡­"

    His gaze lingered upon the largest cluster of black, smudging the lands south of the Crownlands. "Lord Borros Baratheon and his vassals have declared for Rhaenyra in full rebellion."

    A tense silence followed. It was Alicent who broke it, though her words were measured and spoken with careful restraint. "Such proclamations will carry weight, but the enforcement of them will fall upon the Crown''s strength. The lords named here will not surrender their banners merely for the reading of a letter."

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    It was Otto who answered, his voice rich with satisfaction. "Then they shall be made to surrender." He turned to Aemond. "We should send ravens at once. Ormund Hightower can be commanded to put down the uprisings in the Reach. Oscar Tully shall be tasked with breaking the rebellious houses of the Riverlands. As for the Stormlands, the King''s forces will not stand idle¡ªif we must send a force to Borros''s gates, let it be with the men of the Westerlands and the Vale. The Lannisters and Arryns can each muster a force to meet ours in the Crownlands and move southward to deal with this upstart."

    At this, Aemond allowed himself a moment''s consideration before replying, his tone measured. "A sound proposal, Grandfather. But I suspect the matter of Lord Borros may be resolved before such hosts are even needed."

    A flicker of surprise passed through the council. Otto Hightower, ever composed, narrowed his eyes in appraisal. "And how is that, my prince?"

    Aemond did not answer at once. Instead, he turned his gaze to Criston Cole, giving the knight a silent nod of permission.

    It was Cole who answered. "Because, my lord," he said evenly, "Prince Aemond has already given the order."

    A flicker of something passed across Otto''s face. Surprise. A rare thing, and a dangerous one. "What order?"

    "The mustering of the City Watch," Cole said. "A force of twenty thousand men is being prepared for an expeditionary battle into the Stormlands. They shall march within the week to unseat and apprehend Lord Borros and his vassals before they can properly organize a defence."

    The chamber stilled.

    Even Alicent, composed as she was, tightened her fingers over the arm of her chair.

    It was Otto who finally spoke, his voice sharp. "Twenty thousand men? The City Watch can field such a force?"

    Cole gave a slight nod. "The Watch has grown alongside the city itself, my lord. With the population of King''s Landing surpassing seven hundred thousand as of the last census, the Watch stands at just over fifty thousand strong. And with two thousand more men in reserve, we can comfortably spare twenty thousand to pacify the Stormlands."

    A silence stretched long between them. Otto''s face was unreadable. But his voice, when he spoke, was measured steel. "And when, exactly, were we to be informed of this?"

    Aemond exhaled softly through his nose, as though the question itself was of little consequence. "Now."

    Otto''s lips thinned. "And what else, pray, have you seen fit to keep from us?"

    Aemond considered the question for a moment, then finally relented. "If you must know, I have secured riders for Sheepstealer and Seasmoke. They have already been dispatched to the Eyrie and Riverrun, ensuring our allies there are defended should the Blacks move against them."

    A sharp intake of breath from Alicent.

    "You what?" Otto''s voice had dropped into something low and dangerous.

    But before he could demand an explanation, Aemond cut across him, his voice cool as steel.

    "It has already proven wise," he said, "for only days ago, those two dragonriders drove Daemon Targaryen from the field when he attempted to descend upon Riverrun with ill intent."

    Silence.

    Even Cole had not been made privy to this.

    Aemond let the moment stretch before opening his mouth to speak. But before he could, a voice rang from the chamber''s entrance, one thick with something sharp and seething.

    "Did you just say you gave dragons to men of your choosing¡­ without informing me, your king?"

    Aegon stood in the doorway, eyes dark, voice cold.

    And for the first time in the entire meeting, Aemond paused.

 INTERLUDE: Setting Boundaries

    "Fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit."

    ¡ª Roose Bolton

    ¡­?

    The air in the chamber was thick with the oppressive weight of silence. It pressed upon the assembled lords and councillors with an authority more profound than any spoken command, lingering in the space between breaths, settling into the very stones of the Red Keep. Aegon stood within it, his hands clenched at his sides, his face a study of indignation and incredulity, and yet, in the face of all this, his brother remained entirely¡ªinsufferably¡ªundisturbed.

    "Did you just say you gave dragons to men of your choosing¡­ without informing me, your king?"

    He expected at least a flicker of acknowledgment, an admission of the gravity of such a transgression, or at the very least, an expression of passing interest in the words he had spoken. But no such reaction was granted him. Aemond merely regarded him as one might regard a distant thunderhead¡ªacknowledging the storm, perhaps, but in no great hurry to seek shelter from it.

    Instead, Aemond''s gaze swept over him with measured indifference before shifting ever so slightly. His single eye alighted on the bent figure lurking just behind Aegon''s shoulder, the shadowy specter of Larys Strong, who, for all his cunning, had clearly not anticipated finding himself in such a place, at such a moment. For the briefest of instances, the prince''s gaze lingered there, assessing, dissecting, dismissing.

    Then, as though the matter were of no true importance, Aemond''s attention returned to Aegon with the most fleeting lift of his brow, a gesture that carried the quiet derision of a scholar interrupted in his reading by the unremarkable wailing of an infant.

    Leaning back into his chair, Aemond tilted his head with a sigh, the faintest edge of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

    "And what is it that His Grace desires?" he inquired with a languid air, his voice rich with indulgence and wholly devoid of deference. "Have you at last tired of your cups and whores? Have the pleasures of the court grown stale so soon? Does the king now seek some new amusement to pass the time?"

    Aegon felt the heat rise in his chest, a flush of mortification that had little to do with the Arbor red he had consumed earlier and everything to do with the tone. It was not a question posed to a monarch but rather to an errant younger brother, one whose intrusions could be endured, but only for so long before one was required to feign a greater engagement elsewhere.

    It took him a moment longer than it should have to form a response, and when it came, it was not as forceful as he might have hoped. "I¡ª" He stumbled over his words before collecting himself. "I am the king. It is my right¡ªmy duty¡ªto be here."

    Even to his own ears, the words did not ring as he wished them to.

    The declaration might have been a noble one had it not been undercut so entirely by the way in which it was spoken¡ªnot with conviction, but with insistence. And worse still, the realization of that faltering note must have shown upon his face, for it was then that Aegon truly saw where his brother sat.

    The weight of it settled over him in an instant.

    Aemond had taken his place at the head of the table, the seat of the king.

    And no one had spoken a word against it. Not a single member of the Small Council had protested it. Not Otto, not Criston, not their mother. None of them had even looked as though they found it unusual.

    Aegon''s anger surged anew, the heat of his humiliation rushing to his cheeks. "Get out of my seat," he snarled, pointing at the chair. "That is my place. I am king."

    If Aemond heard him, he gave no indication. Instead, he turned his gaze to Otto Hightower, speaking as though Aegon had simply not been present at all.

    "The letters, Lord Hand," he said, his voice a calm, measured thing. "Send them as we have discussed. The Tullys, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, and the Arryns must be made aware of the situation at once. We shall require swift replies."

    A dismissal. Aegon''s breath came sharply, his knuckles white with rage.

    The assembled lords exchanged uncertain glances. The weight of the moment was not lost on them, nor on the queen mother, whose silence was as telling as any declaration could be.

    For a long moment, Otto Hightower did nothing. He held Aemond''s gaze, angry, considering.

    Then, at last, his pale green eyes flickered toward Aegon.

    And in that moment¡ªin that single, damning instant¡ªAegon saw the shift.

    The faint, imperceptible change in expression.

    The movement from anger to irritation. From uncertainty to decision.

    Otto rose.

    And he rose for Aemond.

    Aegon''s rage boiled over.

    "No," he snapped, his voice loud in the chamber. "Sit!"

    The words rang through the hall like the snap of a banner in the wind.

    The room hesitated.

    Aegon turned, his furious gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. He gritted his teeth, doubling down on his own authority.

    "I said sit."

    With a sigh, Aemond gave a vague, dismissive gesture and¡ªslowly, hesitantly¡ªthey did.

    Aegon inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the force of his barely contained fury. Then, turning back toward his brother, he set his hands flat upon the table, leaning forward as he leveled Aemond with a glare that held the full weight of his crown.

    "You forget yourself, brother," he said, his voice low, threatening. "I am king. Not you."

    A pause.

    Aemond did not so much as blink.

    Then, with an expression that bordered on amusement, he gestured toward the chamber. "Then let the king speak his mind."

    Aegon''s jaw clenched. With effort, he steadied his breath, forcing himself into composure. He would not allow Aemond to steer the moment, to reduce him to some quarrelsome child bickering over a toy.

    Stepping closer to the table, he spoke again, his voice more measured this time. "Explain yourself," he demanded. "Concerning the dragons."

    And yet¡ªeven now¡ªAemond''s response came with the same unbothered ease.

    "I had riders secured for Sheepstealer and Seasmoke," he said, his voice smooth. "They have been sent to our allies, ensuring that, should the Blacks act in aggression, our own forces remain unchallenged."

    It was a reasonable answer. A logical one.

    But it was not what Aegon wanted.

    "Who gave you permission?" he pressed, his voice harder now.

    Aemond crooked a brow.

    "Since when," he asked, "have I ever required your permission?"

    The chamber paused.

    The words hung there, cold and sharp, each syllable a precise and deadly blade.

    Aegon''s pulse thundered in his ears. Truly, Aemond had never asked for permission. Not from him. Not from Otto. Not from their mother.

    He did as he pleased, because he could.

    The realization left Aegon speechless. But only for a moment.

    "That changes now," he said, voice tight. "From this day forward, you will require my permission before executing any action in my name."

    The chamber held its breath.

    And then Aemond chuckled.

    It was a low, unbothered sound, so quiet that it might have gone unnoticed¡ªhad it not been for the sheer weight of it.

    Aegon clenched his fists.

    Aemond turned back to Otto, still chuckling. "The king has nothing of importance to say. We are finished here, grandsire. Shall we continue in private later?"

    "You will not dismiss me!" Aegon snarled, slamming his hands against the table, his fury boiling over.

    Larys stirred behind him. "Your Grace, perh¡ª"

    Aemond''s eye snapped toward him so quickly, so precisely, that Larys stilled at once. The prince did not so much as blink. "Ser Criston."

    Cole turned his head slightly. "My prince?"

    "If Lord Strong speaks again," Aemond said, voice smooth, measured, "carve out his tongue."

    Larys immediately lost his composure. His mouth parted slightly, his pale eyes darting between Aemond and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Criston, to his credit, did not react outwardly. But he moved his hand deliberately, curling his fingers around the hilt of his blade in a manner that was entirely unambiguous.

    The message was clear.

    Larys closed his mouth.

    It was Alicent who finally moved. She reached across the table, placing a hand over Aemond''s own. A silent plea.

    Aemond held her gaze for a long moment. Then, in a rare show of something that might have been fondness, he patted her hand.

    "Give us privacy, Mother," he said.

    Alicent hesitated¡ªbut then, with obvious reluctance, she rose. She cast a final glance at Aegon before stepping away, the skirts of her gown brushing the stone floor.

    One by one, the others followed. Otto. Jasper Wylde. The council lords. Even Larys, who slunk from the chamber like a rat escaping a sinking ship.

    Aegon''s breath came hard and uneven.

    "No," he said, voice thick with rising frustration. "No. You will not¡ª"

    And yet, the doors shut all the same.

    The great, towering chamber was suddenly much emptier. Aegon turned, his gaze furious, disbelieving.

    Only six men remained.

    Aemond. Aegon.

    Criston Cole.

    And two silent, ever-watchful Kingsguards.

    Aemond had not once taken his eye off him. And when the sound of footsteps on the other side faded with an ominous finality, the younger prince leaned back in the king''s chair, his expression unreadable.

    "Sit," he said.

    Aegon''s jaw tightened. He did not move.

    Aemond arched a brow¡ªthen turned to the Kingsguards and gestured.

    The knight nearest to Aegon stepped forward.

    "Unhand me, you fucking¡ª" Aegon hissed, struggling as the man seized his arm.

    The burly knight did not heed him. With practiced ease, he wrenched Aegon toward the seat and shoved him into it.

    Aegon tried to rise immediately but the knight forced him back into the chair with a single, heavy hand pressed to his shoulder. He twisted in the seat, glaring at the Kingsguard, searching for some flicker of hesitation. Some sign that they would not stand for this, that they remembered who he was.

    Nothing.

    Froom the side, Criston Cole watched with a detached expression, his fingers curled loosely around the pommel of his sword. The others did not move. No one came to his aid.

    His breathing was uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears.

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    Aemond sat unmoving in his seat¡ªthe king''s seat¡ªwatching him with an expression that was neither gloating nor apologetic. Just¡­ waiting.

    The silence in the chamber pressed down on Aegon''s skin like a weight.

    And then, at last, Aemond leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped before him.

    "What," he said, his voice cool and quiet, "did you hope to achieve by interrupting the council?"

    Aegon refused to answer.

    Aemond waited.

    When the king did not speak, his younger brother rose from the chair.

    Aegon''s body tensed on instinct as Aemond rounded the table, boots echoing softly against the polished floor. The prince did not stop until he stood just before him, looming. Then, with slow, measured ease, Aemond bent at the waist, bringing himself to Aegon''s eye level.

    Aegon met his gaze head-on, glaring.

    Aemond stared back, unblinking.

    And then, without warning, his hand whipped through the air.

    The slap cracked like a whip.

    Aegon''s head snapped to the side, the sting of the impact blooming across his cheek in an instant.

    The silence in the room deepened.

    The Kingsguard did not shift.

    The sound of Aegon''s own breath came ragged and uneven, half-stifled by his stunned silence.

    Aemond''s voice was cool as glass. "Are you deaf, brother?"

    Aegon turned his head back slowly, his face burning. The gall. The audacity.

    "You¡ª"

    The second slap landed before he could even finish.

    His skull rattled, his cheek burning. He snapped his head back up immediately, his mouth parting in disbelief.

    His brother had slapped him.

    Him. The king.

    Aegon blinked. "You¡ª"

    A third slap.

    Aegon clenched his jaw so tight he felt his teeth creak. "You fucking slapped¡ª"

    A fourth.

    His entire face felt hot now, his ears ringing. He barely heard himself when he croaked, "You slapped the king."

    Aemond blinked. Then, in a tone so unbothered it made Aegon''s fury burn hotter, he said simply, "I did."

    Aegon''s chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven gasps. His hands clenched into fists against his thighs, nails biting into flesh. He wanted to lunge at him, to wipe that look off his face¡ªbut the Kingsguard were still standing there, their hands on their hilts, their presence a silent warning.

    For a long, suffocating moment, Aemond just watched him.

    And then, finally, he straightened.

    He turned away without another word and walked toward the chamber doors.

    Aegon swallowed. His cheek throbbed. His dignity burned.

    The room had not moved.

    Then, just as he was considering whether to do something, Aemond spoke again. "Bring the king," he commanded.

    The words sent a spike of cold down Aegon''s spine.

    The Kingsguard grabbed him before he could react.

    "No¡ª"

    His protest was ignored.

    The hands on his arms were unyielding as they dragged him to his feet and forced him forward. He twisted and jerked, but the men holding him were trained knights, and his struggles might as well have been those of a child in their grip.

    Aemond led the way out of the chamber, not once looking back.

    They descended deep into the Keep, through halls Aegon barely recognized.

    The air grew cooler as they moved downward, into a hidden, twisting passageway tucked away beyond a large mirror. And then they reached it¡ªa chamber unlike the others.

    Aegon''s breath hitched.

    Two guards stood at the entrance, their expressions unreadable as they stepped aside to let them through.

    The room within was dimly lit, but Aegon''s senses caught something immediately¡ª

    The smell of milk of the poppy.

    His pulse quickened.

    There were servants within, milling about, tending to the chamber. And at the center¡ª

    Aegon froze.

    There was a man seated before him, slouched within his chair. Unmoving. Wrapped in a thick blanket. His eyes fluttered half-lidded, his breathing slow, heavy, labored.

    Aegon''s stomach dropped.

    No.

    No, that was not possible.

    The figure before him¡ªthe man who should have been dead¡ª

    Viserys.

    Aegon felt his entire body go cold.

    His father. Alive.

    The rotting king was barely even breathing, nothing more than a husk now, a shadow of a shadow, his face waxy and pale, his body too still, too thin beneath the blankets. Aegon stumbled back, eyes wide with horror. "What¡­?"

    His voice came out breathless, disbelieving. He tore his gaze from Viserys, turned it on Aemond¡ªdemanding answers. But his brother was calm as ever.

    Aemond pulled out a chair, seating himself at Aegon''s left. A servant approached then, placing a small table between them. Another came forward with a tray¡ªthree goblets, a flagon of wine, and several vials of¡­ something.

    Aegon barely saw it. His gaze remained locked on Viserys, his mind racing.

    His father should have been dead.

    He should have been dead.

    Aegon turned back to Aemond, his voice barely above a whisper.

    "Why¡­?"

    Aemond reached for the flagon of wine, pouring three cups in leisurely fashion. Then, as if discussing the weather, he said, "He made himself a nuisance."

    Aegon felt as though the floor had dropped beneath him.

    He stared at his brother.

    He had faked their father''s death.

    The will. The succession. The heartfelt message Viserys had left him¡ªall of it had been a lie.

    Aegon''s hands trembled.

    "Aemond," he whispered, his voice breaking. "What have you done?"

    Aemond did not look at him.

    He placed the last goblet on the table, reached for one of the vials.

    Then, glancing at Aegon, he murmured, "Pick one."

    Aegon''s mind reeled. "What?"

    Aemond gestured at the vials. "Every known poison in the world, from the Iron Islands to Asshai," he said smoothly. "Pick one."

    Aegon''s breath shallowed.

    When he did not move, Aemond chose for him.

    "Sweetsleep," Aemond said, tipping the vial into each of their cups.

    Then, without hesitation, he lifted his goblet¡ªand drank.

    Aegon watched in stunned silence as brother imbibed the poisoned wine down in a single go. The goblet clicked softly against the table as Aemond set it down, his fingers lingering briefly on the polished silver before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His single violet eye flickered toward Aegon then, gleaming in the dim light.

    "Drink."

    Aegon did not move.

    The word barely registered in his mind. His hands were shaking. He stared at Aemond, then at the goblet before him, the dark wine swirling lazily within.

    "I want to leave," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

    Aemond merely tilted his head, as though considering the statement. Then, with deliberate ease, he rose from his chair, took the third goblet from the tray, and turned toward Viserys.

    Aegon felt his breath hitch.

    "Aemond," he warned, but his brother ignored him.

    Kneeling before their father''s slumped form, Aemond pressed the rim of the cup to Viserys''s cracked lips. The old king did not resist¡ªhe barely even stirred. His eyes fluttered weakly, too dulled by the milk of the poppy to comprehend what was happening.

    Aegon shot to his feet. "Don''t¡ª"

    But it was too late.

    Aemond tipped the goblet.

    The wine slid past Viserys''s lips.

    The old man swallowed.

    Aegon froze.

    It happened slowly.

    For a long moment, Viserys merely sat there, unmoving, his breath thin and shallow. His fingers twitched slightly against the blanket. His chest rose.

    Then¡ª

    A deep, rattling exhale.

    The rise never came again.

    The room fell silent.

    The servants did not move. The Kingsguard remained stone-faced.

    Aegon felt something cold crawl up his spine, curling tight around his ribs.

    Aemond, unhurried, wiped a small drop of spilled wine from the corner of Viserys''s mouth with his sleeve.

    Then, slowly, he turned back to Aegon.

    For the first time since they had entered this hidden chamber, Aegon saw something different in his brother''s face.

    Not anger. Not amusement.

    Not even calculation.

    Something colder. Something final.

    Aemond''s voice was soft. Too soft.

    "I tolerate your existence, brother," he murmured. "For our mother''s sake."

    Aegon''s skin went cold. The meaning behind the words was not lost on him.

    Aemond straightened, stepping toward him with measured ease. "You are king," he continued. "You may drink. You may whore. You may indulge every miserable whim that suits you."

    The words were mocking, but Aegon barely heard them.

    Aemond stopped in front of him.

    "But you will not," he whispered, "interfere in matters that do not concern you."

    Aegon felt something tighten in his chest.

    He thought of his father''s face.

    Of the lies, the manipulation, the careful weaving of falsehoods that had led him here.

    Aegon had never wanted the crown.

    And yet, he had believed¡ªtruly believed¡ªthat his father had wanted him to take it.

    A lie.

    Aemond had seen to that.

    Aegon''s fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

    Aemond merely watched him.

    Then, without another word, he turned back to the servants. "See to it that the king''s body is prepared for cremation," he instructed. "It must be done by nightfall."

    Aegon felt his throat close. That was it. That was the end of it. No mourning. No state funeral. Only fire and silence. His eyes flickered between his brother, the cup, the dead king in his chair.

    The servants bowed their heads and moved at once, lifting Viserys''s frail body from the chair with the same impersonal efficiency one might show for clearing a table after a meal.

    Aegon stared.

    He wanted to scream.

    But no sound came.

    Aemond turned back to the Kingsguard. "The king is tired," he said smoothly. "See him to his chambers."

    Aegon''s body moved before his mind could catch up. His feet dragged against the stone floor, his movements dull, distant, as the knights flanked him, guiding him out of the room.

    He did not resist.

    There was no point.

    As the door shut behind him, the last thing he saw was Aemond, still standing in the center of the chamber, his back turned, speaking softly to Criston Cole.

    Aegon did not know what he was saying.

    He did not want to know.

    He did not look back.

 Chapter Thirty-One: Terms of Necessity

    "The Iron Bank is always glad to be of service."

    ¨DTycho Nestoris

    ¡­?

    The chamber smelled of old coin and older ambition, though neither scent was strong enough to mask the faint bitterness of ink drying on parchment. Light slanted through high windows, thin as a miser''s smile, casting long shadows across the polished surface of the council table. Here, the fortunes of kings and queens had been measured, weighed, and too often found wanting.

    Daemon Targaryen sat with the lazy grace of a man unused to waiting, though he''d possibly done more of it than he liked since setting foot in Braavos. Across from him, Matthos Nestoris sat¡ªhis garments tailored but austere, his ink-stained fingers folded neatly atop a ledger thick with debts. There was no sword at his hip, no need for one. The Iron Bank''s blade was subtler, and infinitely sharper, its edges in its loans, interests, and in the slow strangling grip of insolvency.

    "I trust your journey was not too taxing, Prince Daemon," he greeted as he leaned back in his seat.

    Daemon''s smile was thin. "I''ve had worse rides. None ended in as numbing a room."

    Matthos let the jab pass without comment, merely adjusting the quill on his ledger by a fraction. His fingers stilled upon the parchment. "You must forgive the cold," he said at last, his voice seeped in polite civility. "The Iron Bank does not keep a hearth in these chambers. Fire may warm the hands, but it has been known to soften the mind. Alas, let us not opine upon the mundane. You have come a long way, Prince Daemon, and I trust not for idle conversation."

    Daemon arched a brow. "Surely then, you must know why I am here."

    "Of course," Matthos said with an incline of his head. "The Princess of Dragonstone seeks aid in reclaiming what she believes to be hers. You wish to know if Braavos will support her cause."

    "You waste no time getting to the marrow of things," Daemon observed with a hint of irritation.

    "I simply prefer we dispense with prevarication. The Iron Bank is not in the habit of taking sides in dynastic squabbles¡ª"

    "Name your price."

    A smile. Matthos steepled his fingers. "The dissolution of the Dragon''s Bank," he said.

    The words, simple as they were, struck the air like a stone upon still water. A lesser man might have flinched, but Daemon only tilted his head, eyes narrowing fractionally.

    "You ask for much," he said at length.

    "And offer more." Matthos''s tone remained composed. "In exchange, we can guarantee you the support of the Sealord''s fleet. Enough gold to hire every mercenary company from Lys to Pentos and even more ships to carry them. But before that, some sacrifices must be made on your part. Braavos cannot stand idle while a rival institution flourishes, least of all one that deals with Volantis and its ilk. It offends our founding principles. It offends our interests. If Braavos is to stand at Queen Rhaenyra''s side, it cannot do so with one hand while the other is shackled to such an enterprise."

    Daemon''s fingers drummed against the table. "And if I refuse?"

    A flicker of amusement¡ªor perhaps pity¡ªpassed through Matthos''s eyes. "Then you shall find us as intractable as the chill of your northern lands, my prince. There is no path forward without the dissolution of the bank. In addition, we will require a formal renunciation of all financial entanglements with Volantis and any other city complicit in the abhorrent trade of human souls. Braavos was founded in defiance of slavery; we will not finance a queen whose court accommodates it."

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    Silence stretched between them, taut and unyielding. Outside, the wind keened through the narrow streets of the city, and the bells of the Moon Singers echoed faintly over the canals.

    After a moment, Daemon exhaled, shaking his head. "You are not wanting for audacity, Nestoris."

    Matthos inclined his head. "Nor, my prince, are you."

    Daemon''s gaze flickered to the cup placed before him, a moment''s reflection passing behind his eyes before he straightened once more. "The bank is Aemond''s creation, and no boon to Rhaenyra in any case," he conceded. "But Volantis¡ª"

    "No," Matthos interrupted, his voice sharper than before. "The Compact of Fire must end. The slaver cities cannot be your allies if Braavos is to be your patron."

    Daemon scowled, clearly displeased.

    Matthos shrugged elegantly. "I refuse to believe the Iron Bank is demanding an unfair price. Unless, perhaps, you have greater concerns than war."

    Daemon''s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with visible reluctance, he inclined his head. "Fine," he said tersely. "But, there exists a few Pentoshi magisters with whom I have maintained most amicable relations, and they, in their generosity, have already pledged a fleet of warships in support of Rhaenyra''s claim. I cannot, in good faith, renege on that understanding just to placate you."

    Matthos, pausing in reflective consideration, at length offered a measured compromise. "Very well," he said. "Pentos may be indulged, though not without balance. In return, I must insist upon concessions regarding trade, tariffs, and financing between Westeros and Braavos."

    Daemon''s brow arched slightly, the faintest suggestion of displeasure flickering in his eyes. "Tariffs?"

    "Did you think this was charity, my prince?" Matthos''s amusement was a subtle thing. "We will require guild privileges in King''s Landing, as well as preferential treatment for merchants of our choosing at all ports under the queen''s control and a two-thirds reduction in docking fees. Also, we require exclusive rights to manage all the Crown''s debts, internal and abroad, for the next fifty years."

    Daemon shook his head, but there was no fight left in it. "And what else?" he muttered, as if half-afraid to ask.

    "A guarantee that no future Westerosi monarch will move against the interests of the Iron Bank."

    Daemon ran a hand through his silver hair, frustration threading through his movements. But he didn''t argue. Matthos knew he couldn''t. Not with war looming like a dragon''s shadow, hungry and vast.

    Silence stretched between them, taut as drawn steel, each man measuring the other. Then Daemon stood, his chair scraping against the cold stone floor. "Fine," he said at last, irritation sharp in his voice. "I''ll fetch you your pound of flesh."

    Matthos rose as well, a thin smile curling his lips. "Tis'' a fair price for a kingdom, my prince," he mused. "Shall we put this to parchment?"

 Chapter Thirty-Two: Leashed

    "A certain amount of fear is necessary for control."

    ¨DBaron Vladimir Harkonnen

    ¡­?

    It was a morning of solemn temper when Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, stood before the grand arches of the Dragonpit, her countenance composed, though not entirely free from the indignation that had settled upon her spirit. The morning air carried with it a bracing chill, tempered by the faint acrid scent of dragonfire that perpetually clung to the ancient stones of the pit. The sun, pale and veiled behind a thin gauze of clouds, seemed reluctant to lend warmth to the occasion.

    Her hands, steady from years of serenity rather than discipline, moved deftly over the leather straps of her saddle, fastening and refastening each buckle with an exacting eye. Meleys shifted beneath her touch, the flick of her tail sending up a small storm of dust. Her scales gleamed like blood and copper, dulled only where soot and ash had settled from old fires. She was a magnificent beast, large and lean, her wings folded like a lady''s fan, her long neck craning as she watched her rider with eyes as yellow as old gold. The dragon''s jewelled eyes, glinting with cunning and no small measure of displeasure, fixed upon the lone figure standing nearby.

    Prince Aemond Targaryen observed his elder with a manner at once indifferent and meticulous, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his features composed into a visage of effortless command. He was dressed in dark riding leathers, green and black interwoven as if to visually reaffirm his allegiance. The wind teased at his silver locks, but his stance remained immutable, his bearing one of a man entirely assured of his dominion over the proceedings.

    "If you should require further instruction, Princess," Aemond said at last, his voice carrying the smooth edge of one accustomed to wielding authority with a deft hand, "I shall be happy to repeat myself."

    Rhaenys did not deign to glance his way, though the slight pause in her movements suggested that his words had indeed been heard.

    "I am to fly to Driftmark," she said, her voice quiet but firm, each syllable weighted with contained ire. "I am to remain there and leave only at your permission. I am to refrain from extending any communication to Rhaenyra, nor am I to receive any from her or her emissaries. If she or her forces come, I am to repel them." Her hands, though still methodical, now worked with a briskness that betrayed her mounting vexation. "And should I fail in this¡ªshould I seek to act in accordance with my own judgment rather than yours¡ªmy husband and granddaughter will pay the price."

    Aemond inclined his head, the faintest of smiles ghosting across his lips, though whether it was born of satisfaction or some more wry amusement, none could say. "You have an enviable grasp of instruction, my lady. It is a simple task, is it not? One hardly demanding of you beyond your nature. You need only play the role of deterrent, and all shall be well."

    The muscles in Rhaenys''s jaw tightened, though still she did not turn to him. A war raged within her breast¡ªpride railing against prudence, fury against restraint. The path before her was not unknown; she had walked it before. The silent concessions. The measured acquiescence. The swallowing of one''s own will in the service of necessity.

    Meleys rumbled beneath her, a deep, simmering sound of discontent that echoed her own unspoken thoughts. And for the briefest of moments, she considered it¡ªconsidered the command, the single word that would see dragonfire consume this arrogant princeling where he stood.

    Aemond did not move, though it was clear from the way he regarded her¡ªone eye bright with knowing, the other a hollow void of polished sapphire¡ªthat he understood the moment as she did. There was no alarm in him, no tension in his stance. He merely waited, as one might when indulging the indecision of a child.

    In the end, Rhaenys merely exhaled, long and slow, before lifting herself into the saddle with the practiced ease of a woman who had known the skies longer than most men had known the earth. The dragon beneath her stilled, though the fire within her had not abated, merely banked into something colder, harder, more enduring.

    Aemond chuckled¡ªlow and approving, as though entertained by the restraint rather than perturbed by the near threat to his life. "Wise," he murmured.

    Rhaenys finally turned to look at him, her expression smooth as polished steel. "You mistake wisdom for necessity, Prince Aemond. It is not the same."

    He inclined his head, acknowledging the distinction with that same air of languid ease. "As you say."

    There was nothing more to be spoken. Aemond had won the day, and Rhaenys knew it, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her anger unfurl in vain. Meleys unfurled her vast wings, the force of their movement sending ripples through the dust and sending Aemond''s dark cloak billowing in the wind.

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    "Rhogar will see to the day-to-day affairs," Aemond reminded her, though they both knew it was not a reminder but a warning. "He has done so these past years and shall continue to do so in your stead. Your duty is singular and unambiguous."

    Rhaenys did not reply. The air shimmered with heat, the sky breaking into a dazzling spread of blue as Meleys leapt into the heavens. The gust of her ascent sent a tremor through the ground, scattering loose hay and dust in her wake.

    Aemond watched as the dragon''s crimson form faded into the morning light, his hands still clasped behind him, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

    <hr>

    The sea was a dull, endless grey, indistinguishable from the sky save for the restless churn of waves breaking against black rocks. Salt clung to the air like old grief, bitter on the tongue, sharp in the nose.

    Dalton Greyjoy stood at the prow of his flagship, one hand resting on the carved kraken that jutted from the ship''s stem, his black cloak snapping in the morning wind. The tide was with them. The fleet was ready. And yet, his thoughts were sour.

    There was a vigour to the air, an excitement among those who had spent too long sequestered in the damp and salt-riddled halls of the Iron Isles, their tempers growing restless with disuse. Men shouted, ropes groaned, sails unfurled like the wings of some vast seabird. Ships crowded the waters¡ªlongships with lean hulls and sharp prows, round-bellied cogs heavy with men and iron, sleek raiders painted with the grim faces of drowned gods and screaming krakens. One hundred and fifty ships, give or take a few. A thousand men, eager for reaving, their hearts as hard as the iron that gave them their name.

    And yet, for all the might arrayed before him, there were absences as well, and absences were as much a presence as those who remained.

    Dalton''s gaze drifted inland, toward the dark cliffs and jagged towers of Pyke where shadows clung like barnacles. There, the cowards remained. Clusters of Ironborn¡ªlords and freeborn alike¡ªwho had refused to sail.

    Grell the Wynch had declared himself unwilling to court Aemond''s wrath a second time. Many had flocked to his side¡ªsurvivors from all eight islands¡ªpreferring the relative safety of their ruined halls over the uncertain hazards of the mainland. Their reasoning, perhaps, was sound. Six years had passed since One-Eye had visited his fury upon the Ironborn, and six years was not so long a time that their wounds had fully healed. Fire left deep scars, and the Destroyer''s wrath had been seared into the very stones of the isles. But fear was a poor excuse for cowardice, and Dalton Greyjoy had no use for cowards.

    A man''s wounds should make him stronger, he thought, not more timid. What use was a blade that had dulled after battle? What use was a man who had tasted fire and decided he should sooner kneel than rise again? The Drowned God had not made the Ironborn to cower in their halls like frightened children. They were krakens, meant to grasp and pull down, to drown their foes beneath the weight of their fury. Dalton''s disdain was a cold, hard thing lodged behind his ribs, a stone where warmth might have been. Let Grell and his ilk rot in their holes. The sea had no pity, and neither did he.

    Those who remained, however, had no such reservations. They were men who still dreamt of conquest, men who bore grudges as the sea bore the tide¡ªendless, unrelenting. They had seen their homes burned, their families slaughtered, their histories turned to ruin. They had survived. And there is nothing in this world so dangerous as a survivor with a score to settle.

    So it was that Dalton turned his face away from those cowards who would not follow, and towards the promise of war.

    The fleet moved at his command, their sails billowing as they cut across the dark waters of Ironman''s Bay. The wind favoured them, as if the Drowned God Himself had reached forth to hasten their course. Ships skimmed the sea and the rhythmic creak of timber and the snap of sails filled the air, a song known well to those who called the sea their home.

    Dalton stood silent, the salt spray like memory upon his tongue. He thought of the burning of Great Wyk, of the screams that had echoed over the water when Aemond and Vhagar had come. He thought of ash falling like snow. His jaw clenched. This was not merely about Daemon and his threats. This was not merely about oaths or thrones or the petty squabbles of dragonlords. This was about vengeance. This was personal.

    Oldstones awaited. A ruin for the ruined. Fitting, he thought. The place, long since abandoned, would serve as their first foothold in the Riverlands. From there, they would raid and reave, taking what they pleased, drowning in blood what they did not. The Rivermen would pay, as all the mainlanders must.

    Dalton allowed himself a rare, thin smile. The Ironborn were sailing to war, and the mainland would soon be reminded why the Kraken was to be feared by all.

 Chapter Thirty-Three: Forging Cloaks of Red

    It is said that the strength of an empire lies not in its gold, nor its castles, nor even in the dragons that darken its skies¡ªbut in the men who march beneath its banners, willing to die at the whim of a being they shall never meet, for a cause they scarcely understand. The Drakarmar were such men. And yet, they were more.

    In the long annals of the Targaryen reign, their name stirs whispers still, though the dust of centuries lies thick upon their deeds, dulled only by peace, the passage of time and the erosion of memory. The Drakarmar were the spine of the empire, its mailed fist and iron heart forged in dragonfire. They were not a rabble of sellswords drawn together by greed, nor proud knights adorned with bright banners and songs sung in their name. No songs were sung of the Drakarmar. Their names did not pass from bard to bard, nor were their deeds etched in the hearts of poets. Their glory was quieter, carved into the bones of the empire itself, written in blood and smoke upon fields long forgotten.

    They were bound by oaths, as all soldiers are, yet their oaths were not to lords or lands. Their loyalty belonged to the Vezarys, the High Castellan of Dragonstone, the keeper of the empire''s flame, and through him, to the very idea of Targaryen dominion. A strange thing, to swear fealty to an idea. Stranger still to keep it. But keep it they did, with a fervour that outlived kings and conquered kingdoms alike.

    Wherever the banners of the dragon unfurled, their shadows followed¡ªdisciplined, relentless. They were the empire''s breath drawn in sharp, measured cadence, exhaled with intent upon battlefields that sprawled from the jagged shores of the Lost Islands to the wind-scoured edges of the Grey Waste.

    The chronicles speak of them as an institution, but this is a simplification borne of ignorance. The Drakarmar was not a thing; it was a design, a structure woven into the fabric of the empire itself, sustained not by the strength of arms alone, but by the precise alignment of loyalty, ambition, and the calculated dispensation of power.

    Consider the empire as a living organism. The Drakarmar was its musculature, taut and disciplined, composed of two distinct fibres: the First Sons and the Oathsworn.

    The First Sons were not sons in the literal sense, though the metaphor holds¡ªcitizens born to the empire''s bosom, their lives given over to service before they had ever drawn breath. They were not soldiers so much as bricks in the empire''s wall, indistinguishable from one another save for the scars they bore and the battles they''d survived. They were trained from boyhood to stand, to march, to fight, and most importantly, to obey. A hearthband of eight men lived, ate, and bled together until they moved as one creature with eight hearts and a single mind. Ten hearthbands made a company, and six such companies formed a battalion. Stacked one atop the other like stones in a wall, until the wall itself became a weapon.

    Above them stood captains, chosen not for the accident of noble birth but for their ability to hold the line when others faltered. There were sergeants and watch commanders, ensigns to bear the banners, though it was said the Drakarmar needed no banners¡ªonly the grim set of their faces, the disciplined drum of their march. A Lord-Commander ruled over all, a man as much lord as soldier, for what is an army if not the sharp end of a realm''s ambition?

    But the Drakarmar''s strength did not lie solely in the uniformity of the First Sons. It breathed also in the fractures¡ªthe spaces where difference grew fertile. The Oathsworn filled these spaces, drawn from dusty towns and distant shores where the dragon''s shadow fell faint and thin. They were not citizens when they arrived, but the empire was patient. They came with their strange tongues, their strange gods, their skills honed in strange lands, and the empire took all of it, kneaded it into shape, and called it loyalty.

    Riders from the grass seas, archers from sun-baked isles, light-footed skirmishers who knew how to vanish like mist and strike like vipers. The Oathsworn were mercenaries only in name. In truth, they were aspirants. Their service was a transaction, yes, but the currency was not gold¡ªit was belonging. After ten years beneath the empire''s banners, after a decade of spilled blood and swallowed pride, they could claim the prize denied to most: citizenship. A reward that did not end with them but spilled forward into their children, and their children''s children, binding foreign blood into the empire''s endless lineage.

    It was a clever thing, that promise. Gold runs out, but hope endures. A man will die for coin, but he will live for a future. The empire knew this well.

    And so the Drakarmar marched, century after century, across continents and histories, leaving behind not songs, but the mundane peace that follows conquest. They were not heroes. They were not villains. They were the empire made flesh, the dragon''s breath given form, the long shadow cast by ambition across the face of the world. And in the end, perhaps that is legacy enough."

    ¨DGrandmaester Rhoggo

    ¡­?

    Alicent descended the stone steps with slowly, her hands gathering the folds of her dark green gown. Aemond did not look up at her approach, but she knew he was aware of her, for there was a slight shift in his posture¡ªa quiet acknowledgment, though no words yet passed between them.

    She stopped a few paces away, watching as he secured the last of his gear, his expression betraying nothing of the thoughts that surely occupied his mind. The council meeting from the week prior remained fresh in her memory, and with it, the sharp lines of tension that had settled upon the faces of those present. Aegon''s fury had been evident, the storm of his temper roiling behind every word, and yet Aemond had remained as he ever was¡ªserene, unshaken. Seeing her sons at each other''s throats, even now that they ought to be more united than ever, had left her very uneasy.

    At last, when the prince had made his final adjustments, he turned to her with the smallest of inclinations of his head. "Mother."

    "Aemond." She folded her hands before her, studying him.

    There was a pause, and then, with an exhale softer than a sigh, she allowed herself the question she had carried from the moment she had been dismissed from the council chamber. "And your brother?"

    Aemond tilted his head slightly, as though he had expected the inquiry but found it of little consequence. "We have reached an understanding," he replied simply.

    An understanding.

    The words were delivered with such casual finality that she nearly let them pass unchallenged. But she knew better than to take them at face value. She knew her son. She knew his manner of speaking, the deliberate way he chose his words. Understanding could mean many things.

    "And that is all you will say?" she pressed.

    Aemond fastened the clasp of his glove with a small, almost indulgent smile. "What more is there to say? Aegon is king, and I serve him. That has not changed."

    It was an answer, and yet not one at all.

    She frowned, stepping closer, lowering her voice. "I know what you think of him, Aemond. I know how you¡ª" She hesitated, glancing about, as though wary of unseen ears. "You must not treat him with such¡­ disregard. He is your brother, and despite his flaws, he is still your king. You must be gentler with him."

    Aemond let out a soft hum, his expression unreadable, though there was something in his eye that flickered¡ªnot quite amusement, but something adjacent to it. "Gentler," he echoed, as though tasting the word and finding it unfamiliar.

    "Yes," she said firmly. "You may have the will and the mind for governance, but Aegon is the one who wears the crown. He¡ª" She exhaled, shaking her head. "He needs you, Aemond. And I would ask you not to make an enemy of him. Not now. Not ever."

    At this, Aemond did something unexpected.

    He reached out, cupping her face with gloved fingers, his touch as light as the fall of a feather. For all his coldness with the world, there was warmth in him yet, if only for her.

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    "Mother," he murmured, his voice a low reassurance. "You worry too much."

    She caught his wrist, holding it there for a moment longer, as though she could will him to hear her plea, to understand it. "Promise me, Aemond."

    For a moment, he said nothing.

    Then, with a sigh that was almost indulgent, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

    "As you wish," he said softly.

    It was not quite a promise.

    But it was all she would get.

    She stepped back, watching as he mounted his horse with the fluid grace of one born to the saddle. The morning mist curled about the courtyard as he gathered the reins, the great black beast shifting beneath him with restless energy.

    He cast her one last glance, and then rode off.

    Through the gates, past the waiting banners, and into the city beyond, disappearing into the pale morning light.

    Alicent stood in the courtyard long after he had gone, the hush of the keep settling in around her once more. There he goes, she thought quietly to herself. My sweet son, off to wage another of his many wars.

    A sigh escaped her then and she cupped her hands in supplication.

    "Mother above," she prayed, "hear my plea. Shield my son, Aemond, from the shadows that follow him. Grant him wisdom to temper his wrath, strength to carry the weight he bears, and mercy, where his heart grows cold. Father, guide his judgment; Warrior, guard him in battle; Smith, fortify his spirit; Maiden, keep his heart from ruin; Crone, grant him the sight to know friend from foe; Stranger, turn your face from him a while longer. Keep him safe, I beg you¡ªNot for the realm, not for the crown, But for a mother who cannot bear to lose her son."

    ????

    <hr>

    It is written that the strength of a kingdom is measured not in its victories but in the rhythm of its march¡ªthe steady cadence of boots upon soil, the breath drawn in unison, the slow, relentless advance of men shaped into something more than men. So it was with the host that left King''s Landing beneath the shadow of Vhagar, the largest force at the time ever single-handedly marshaled under the green banners of House Targaryen. The records of the Citadel, kept by those who had never lifted a sword nor marched to war, would call it a campaign of swift and calculated devastation. Others, closer to the blood and dust, whispered of it as something altogether different¡ªa tide of men and iron, methodical, unrelenting, as inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

    The dawn was thin and brittle as they departed, the air sharp with the salt tang of the Blackwater Bay. Aemond Targaryen was said to have rode at the van, Vhagar above him, her wings carving slow, lazy arcs across the pale sky. The city emptied to watch¡ªsmallfolk pressing against one another, faces upturned in silent awe. They did not cheer. There was nothing in this host that invited celebration.

    Twenty thousand strong, the army uncoiled from the city''s gates like a great wyrm. This was no feudal levy, hastily gathered and ill-disciplined. It was a host shaped by reforms both subtle and sweeping, drilled into cohesion by a doctrine alien to Westerosi tradition. Three great standards of six thousand men each formed its backbone, supported by auxiliary units numbering two thousand more. They did not march as the lords of Westeros had marched in ages past, a ragged tide of banners and boastful cries. This was a different thing altogether¡ªsilent, their cadence a steady, measured rhythm that echoed across the cobblestones and out into the open fields beyond.

    The vanguard moved first: light cavalry and scouts spreading like fingers into the land ahead, probing. Behind them came the First Standard, the elite of the host. Aemond''s command followed¡ªa retinue of High Marshals, scribes, and officers. The Lord-Commander was rumoured to not have spoken as they rode, his mind perhaps not with the city they left behind but with the lands ahead, where rebellion took root like rot beneath the skin.

    The day''s march was relentless. It carried them beyond the rolling pastures and farmsteads that fringed the capital, following the ancient road that led south toward the Wendwater. The cadence, steady: one hundred paces per minute, the army stretching for a mile and a half behind its vanguard. The men did not falter. They had been trained not to. Rest was brief, meals taken standing or in the saddle. By mid-day, the river came into view, its slow, dark current cutting a line across their path. The bridge there was old, its stones worn by centuries of feet and hooves, but it held beneath the weight of the army as the host crossed in disciplined silence.

    Upon reaching the Wendwater bridge, the army''s first encampment was established. Site selection was no matter of whim; it had been scouted in hours advance, its perimeter already marked, its strategic merits assessed and confirmed. The process unfolded with mechanical precision. The First Standard fanned out, forming a defensive zone while engineers marked out the camp''s grid: streets for the orderly arrangement of tents, designated zones for supply depots, command quarters, and livestock. Hearthbands moved as one, driving stakes, raising tents, digging shallow ditches where needed.

    The second day saw the host divide according to the strategic design laid out before the campaign began. The First Standard was detached, tasked with marching westward to seize Haystack Hall, the seat of House Errol. Yet their mission did not end there. Orders directed them to press on to Parchments, the stronghold of House Penrose, to secure the surrounding territory before rejoining the main host.

    Simultaneously, the Second Standard veered southward, its battalions advancing toward Felwood. This maneuver served a dual purpose: to neutralize a potential staging ground for enemy forces and to create the illusion of a broader front, sowing confusion among Lord Borros Baratheon''s bannermen regarding the Crown''s true objective. Upon completing their task, the Second Standard was to double back, converging with the main host in preparation for the final assault upon Storm''s End.

    The Third Standard, along with the auxiliary forces, continued the primary advance toward Bronzegate. This route was chosen not solely for its ease but for its necessity, as Bronzegate controlled a key crossing point and served as a strategic gateway into the deeper reaches of the Stormlands.

    As the army advanced, its logistical apparatus cycled relentlessly. Supply lines stretched behind them for many miles. The auxiliary engineers proved invaluable, repairing roads where necessary, constructing pontoon bridges when needed, and clearing obstacles that might hinder the host''s progress.

    As they neared Bronzegate, the terrain grew more rugged, the rolling hills giving way to dense thickets and rocky outcrops. Yet the army''s formation adapted seamlessly, its columns shifting as needed to accommodate the changing landscape. Scouts reported sporadic sightings of enemy scouts, but no significant resistance materialized. Whether this was due to fear, disorganization, or the simple inability of Lord Borros''s bannermen to coordinate an effective response, the records do not say. Perhaps it was all three.

    The encampment outside Bronzegate was established with the same efficiency as before, though the proximity of the enemy dictated stricter security measures. Pickets were doubled, patrols increased, and siege towers constructed and positioned under the cover of darkness to mask the army''s true strength. Fires burned low, their light shielded by makeshift barriers to prevent detection from afar.

    The host rested then in anticipation of battle. Bronzegate would fall, as would Felwood, Parchments, and, in time, Storm''s End itself. That much, as history had quite obviously proven, was certain.

 Chapter Thirty-Four: Bronzegate, Before the Dawn

    "The Fremen were supreme in that quality the ancients called ''spannungsbogen''¡ªwhich is the self-imposed delay between desire for a thing and the act of reaching out to grasp that thing."

    ¨DFrank Herbert

    ¡­?

    Lord Buckler had always thought himself a practical man. He was not the sort to rush into folly, nor to be ruled by passions unbecoming of a lord. He kept a firm hand on his household, a tighter grip on his coffers, and an unshaking belief in the gods and the order of things.

    Yet as he stood within the chill of his own hall, roused from uneasy sleep by the braying of a horn, he felt something creeping through him that he dared not name.

    It was not fear. No, certainly not fear.

    He shrugged on his cloak as the sound came again, sharp and insistent, reverberating through the stones of Bronzegate. Below the castle walls, the streets of the town were silent, save for the distant neighing of horses. He could hear his men assembling in the yard, armor clinking, voices low.

    "What is it now?" he muttered, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. "Another damned messenger?"

    Ser Osmund, his captain of guards, nodded grimly. "Another one, my lord."

    Buckler scowled. "One would think they might allow a man to take his rest before demanding his ruin. What more do they want of me?"

    The answer did not matter. The mere fact that the enemy had sent another envoy meant that they believed the matter was still open for discussion. That, at least, was something.

    Buckler took the stairs two at a time, emerging into the stone courtyard, where the faces of the gathered townsfolk turned toward him. Women held their children close. Old men leaned against their canes, whispering to one another. A nervous hush lay over them all, as though the weight of the very air pressed down upon them.

    The castle had been their refuge for two nights now. When word of the approaching army had come, the people of Bronzegate had abandoned their homes and shops, dragging their belongings, their families, their lives inside these walls. They had whispered prayers that the host would pass them by, but prayers had never stopped a war before.

    Lord Buckler pushed through the throng, stepping into the misty predawn air. Above, the sky was beginning to pale at the edges, the night retreating before the coming sun.

    Beyond the walls, past the fog-covered moat, a lone rider sat atop a dark horse, clad in black and red, his cloak stirring lightly in the breeze. The golden dragon of the City Watch streaming from a standard flapped beside him, bright even in the dim light. He bore no shield, carried no sword. His only weapon was his voice.

    "Lord Buckler of Bronzegate!"

    The words rang out, echoing against the stone walls, loud enough for the men on the battlements to hear, loud enough for the huddled smallfolk to hear, loud enough for every trembling heart in the keep to clutch at the sound.

    "By the will of King Aegon, second of his name, and by the command of his highness, Prince Aemond Targaryen, Warden of the Realm, I bid you open your gates. Yield your swords, and no harm shall come to the people of Bronzegate. Defy us, and you will bring ruin upon them!"

    The silence that followed was almost as loud as the horn.

    Lord Buckler took the steps to the battlements, his guards flanking him, his hands curling into fists. He did not look down at the townsfolk in the yard below, nor at the banners flapping in the distance where Aemond''s host lay in wait. He fixed his gaze instead upon the rider, upon the banner of the City Watch of King''s Landing. The Usurper''s Men.

    He forced his voice steady.

    "Warden of the Realm? First I''ve heard of such a title. Regardless, tell your master that I am no man''s subject but to my rightful liege, Lord Borros Baratheon, and my rightful Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! If Aemond One-Eye wishes to break his oaths and burn the Stormlands, let him try! I shall not yield my house to traitors and oathbreakers!"

    The messenger did not recoil. Indeed, he did not so much as shift in his saddle. With the audible tinge of a sneer, he lifted his voice again, but this time, his words were not for Buckler.

    "Men and women of Bronzegate!"

    Buckler stiffened.

    "You have heard your lord''s words. He would have you fight a dragon. He would have you perish for his pride. He would let your homes be put to the torch, your fields turned to ash, your children left with nothing but death and ruin. Prince Aemond does not seek the destruction of Bronzegate. He will not harm those who lay down their arms. He asks only for your lord''s surrender. A just punishment for a rebel and a traitor¡ª"

    "You dare!" Buckler bellowed.

    The messenger''s voice did not so much as falter. "Think well upon this. There is no shame in bowing to the rightful king. Open your gates, and Prince Aemond will show mercy. Will you place your faith in a rebel, knowing that the greatest dragon of our age sits beyond these walls? Will you stake your lives upon a cause that is already lost? Continue in defiance, and there will be no mercy at all!"

    The moment stretched long. A shifting murmur rose from the gathered throng then, and Buckler, startled, turned to regard the smallfolk who stood below him in the courtyard. The shift in their countenance was unmistakable. Where once there had been only fear of the host outside, now there was a different unease, one turned inward upon their own lord. A child clung to her mother''s skirts, her voice thin and plaintive: "Will they burn us, Ma?"

    Buckler felt a hot flush of fury rise to his throat. "Hold your tongues! I shall not be made to answer to cravens and turncloaks!" he bellowed. "This castle shall not yield! This is the house of my fathers, and we shall not¡ª"

    "My lord."

    A hand, firm upon his arm. Ser Osmund.

    "My lord, we should return to the hall," the knight said, voice low and measured, though his grip did not loosen. "Now."

    Only then did Buckler realise what had begun to take root amongst the gathered folk¡ªthe soft tremors of whispering voices, the glances that no longer turned to him in hope but in doubt. A shift, subtle but insidious, like the first crack in a wall before the flood came roaring through.

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    He swallowed.

    "My lord," Ser Osmund repeated. More urgently than before.

    "We must leave."

    <hr>

    Shadows danced along the oiled leather of the walls, swelling and contracting with each shift of the flames, mimicking the rise and fall of breathing things. The air was thick with damp and smoke, the scent of men and war. The tent, though well-appointed for a campaign, could not boast the refinement of courtly lodgings, nor indeed the comforts afforded to a man of station when at leisure. Aemond, however, was not given to idle complaints, nor did he suffer such trifles to weigh upon his mind. He had spent too many nights beneath open skies, on the scaly backs of gods that had outlived empires, to be troubled by the coarseness of war. He had chosen this path, and he would see it through with all the resolve expected of him.

    He sat before a table scattered with missives and maps, the flickering light of a low light casting shifting shadows upon his face. A cup of wine had been poured and left untouched. He had no need of it, for his thoughts were far too preoccupied with matters more pressing than his own comfort. Lord Buckler, ever the practical man, had refused his most practical offer.

    The answer was, of course, a foregone conclusion. The men of the Stormlands were renowned for their steadfastness¡ªone might even call it a proclivity for obstinacy, though not, Aemond thought, the sort that led to prosperity. And yet, for the sake of appearance, he waited, for one must allow a moment to pass between the asking and the answering, lest any man claim he had not been given his due consideration.

    It was in the midst of such contemplations that a rustling at the entrance of the tent announced the arrival of a most singularly practical man¡ªhis Marshal of the Camp. The marshal, whose name Aemond rarely found the need to recall, but did¡ªSer Roderic Varnen¡ªwas a figure of impressive gruffness. He was a man of angles, his face carved by discipline, his movements clean, precise, a being composed entirely of purpose. There was no wasted motion in him.

    "My prince," he said, voice like gravel under boot, "the scouts have returned."

    Aemond nodded, indicating for him to proceed.

    "The roads to Storm''s End will require work. The rains have made the passage treacherous¡ªour wagons will sink if we do not fortify the path. Thankfully, it is nothing beyond our means. If we set the engineers to it at first light, no more than a few hours. The men know their work. It will be done. As for Storm''s End, it remains well-secured¡ªLord Borros has drawn his people within its walls and is assembling a host, though it is a gathering of levies. Raw men, uncertain hands. They will not march to meet us in the field."

    Aemond considered that. No doubt, the Baratheon lord fumed behind his stone walls, pacing his hall, railing against the news of their advance. But Roderic was correct, Borros would not ride out to meet him. He knew better.

    There was no further need for discussion. The work would be done, the path made clear, and when the time came, the walls of Storm''s End would offer no more protection than a child''s wooden sword.

    Before the Marshal could take his leave, another figure entered¡ªa scout as obvious from his uniform, his boots still caked with the mud of his ride. He carried himself with the air of a man who had expected no different outcome than the one he bore.

    "My prince," the messenger began, bowing low. "Lord Buckler refuses surrender. He names you an oathbreaker and will not yield his keep."

    Aemond neither scoffed nor sighed. He did not rage as Aegon might have, nor sneer as their grandsire would. He simply nodded with all the interest one might afford to a particularly dull sermon.

    "Very well," he said, rising to his feet. He fastened his rich, blood-red cloak, letting the weight of the fabric settle across his shoulders before turning his eye toward the Marshal. "Order the men to stand ready," he instructed the Marshal. "Bronzegate falls before the sun reaches its height. Remind the men¡ªno harm is to come to those who yield, nor to women or children."

    The Marshal inclined his head in understanding. There was nothing more to be said.

    Aemond departed without preamble, stepping beyond the confines of his tent into the cool stillness of dawn. The camp lay before him in quiet repose, the men either asleep or awaiting the break of day in solemn readiness. There was no need for pomp or spectacle; the hour was too late for speeches, and Aemond had never been a man for empty words.

    He walked alone, as was his habit, making his way through the silent encampment towards the clearing where Vhagar lay. The great beast was a looming shadow in the darkness, her bulk rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, her presence vast and immovable as the mountains themselves.

    Aemond approached without hesitation, pressing a hand to the warm, time-worn scales of her snout. He spoke to her as he always did, his voice a murmur of High Valyrian, soft words meant only for her ears. She rumbled in reply, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath them.

    Switching to the common tongue, he said simply, "It is time."

    Vhagar did not require further instruction. She had known war longer than any man living.

    Aemond climbed with practiced ease, settling into the saddle that was as much a part of him as the sword at his side. With a firm grip upon the reins, he gave the command, and with a mighty beat of her wings, they rose into the night.

    Below, Bronzegate stood dark and silent, stubborn in its defiance, its walls high, its gates closed. Immutable.

    An illusion.

    Without ceremony, without proclamation, without hesitation, the old queen folded her wings by half and fell towards the stronghold. The wind howled, the earth rushed forth.

    And then¡ª

    "DRACARYS!"

    The world burned.

 Chapter Thirty-Five: Storming the End

    "A storm is only a storm until a man stands beneath it."

    ¨DWesterosi Proverb

    ¡­?

    Lord Borros Baratheon, being a man of no inconsiderable self-regard, had always maintained a firm belief in the natural order of things. The gods, in their wisdom, had dictated that the Baratheons were a family of consequence, that Storm''s End was a fortress of indomitable repute, and that he, its lord, was a figure of singular importance. That such a foundation should now be called into question by an invading host of usurpers and smallfolk with poor manners was, he felt, exceedingly unjust.

    It had now been five days since Lord Borros had, in a moment of both princely loyalty and self-preservation, had a missive sent to Rhaenyra, informing her of the regrettable presence of her half-brother''s army within his lands. He had been assured¡ªthough in what vague and highly qualified manner he did not care to admit¡ªthat aid would be forthcoming. Yet no dragons had darkened his sky bearing the queen''s colours. No armies had arrived at his gates in noble defiance of the enemy.

    Instead, what had arrived were the ragged remnants of Bronzegate and Haystack Hall.

    Now, his once-imposing fortress swelled with the weary and the wounded, the desperate and the destitute. The noble halls of Storm''s End, meant to be filled with knights and banners and the echoes of Baratheon strength, now reverberated instead with the unending murmur of displaced humanity. The scent of unwashed bodies was beginning to overtake even the salt air. The kitchens, accustomed to serving well-fed retainers, were now besieged by mothers with thin-faced children clinging to their skirts. There was no great tragedy in that, of course¡ªso long as one was not compelled to suffer it personally.

    As it stood, Borros was suffering most dreadfully.

    Seated in his chair¡ªhis own, his ancestral, his very fine chair¡ªhe bore the latest unpleasantness with all the patience of a man who has been thoroughly exasperated and is now expected to endure just a little more.

    "¡­and now Parchments has fallen, my lord," Ser Merrel was saying. The knight stood before him, helm tucked under his arm, face grim beneath the torchlight. "The survivors say the prince''s forces were¡­ measured. The prince took no delight in slaughter, it seems, but he has left the castle garrisoned by his own men."

    Borros said nothing, his teeth grinding harder.

    "The yards are full," Merrel continued, shifting where he stood, "the lower halls brimming, the kitchens overwhelmed. Storm''s End cannot feed this many mouths for long, nor can it hold them at bay. Worse still¡­" He hesitated.

    "Speak plain, gods damn you," Borros snapped.

    The knight stiffened, then lowered his voice. "There are whispers, my lord. In the yards, in the corridors. They say the prince''s men spared the people of Felwood, that they did not burn Haystack Hall. Some say his mercy is greater than your own."

    A deep, slow breath filled Borros''s chest, but the heat within him only grew. "Mercy?" he echoed, his voice flat. "Mercy, you say? The mercy of a usurper''s whore-son bastard who brings fire to my lands?" He slammed a fist upon the table. "These trembling peasants would sooner bend the knee to a man who marches with dragons at his back than hold fast to their rightful oaths. Have we grown so weak?"

    Merrel hesitated. "They are frightened, my lord. Fear makes fools of men."

    "Then we shall teach them what it means to be fools," Borros growled. "Any man caught speaking treasonous words shall have his tongue removed. Any who calls for surrender shall be put in the stocks."

    The words left his mouth like iron, and Merrel flinched. "My lord, I only meant to¡ª"

    "Enough," Borros snapped, waving a hand. "Go, carry out my will, and do not return with more craven tales."

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Merrel''s jaw tightened, but he bowed stiffly and turned to leave, his boots heavy upon the stone. The other men in the chamber did not speak, but Borros could feel their unease like a weight upon the air.

    Cowards, the lot of them.

    Borros slumped back into his chair, glaring at the missives upon the table. He could not personally read them, but knew well enough what they said. What had once been promises of security, declarations of loyalty, plans for the defense of his lands¡ªnow they were little more than ink upon parchment, meaningless in the face of a force that could not be reasoned with.

    Aemond the Destroyer had come to the Stormlands. And he had brought death and misery with him.

    The doors swung open again, and this time, it was Ser Harlan¡ªone of his younger knights, breathless and ruddy-faced, which was never a promising sight.

    "My lord," the lad gasped. "The enemy has been sighted."

    The declaration sucked the warmth from the room.

    Borros pushed himself upright. "Where?"

    "Just behind the hill to the north. The enemy''s forward elements have been seen clearing ground to make camp. The rest of the host ought to be here before nightfall."

    A long silence stretched between them, the words settling in; singularly unpleasant things to hear.

    Borros exhaled sharply. But before he could speak a loud scuffle outside drew his attention. Moments later, just as he was beginning to wonder what happened, bootfalls hurried toward the chamber. The door burst open again, and another man¡ªa guardsman¡ªstrode in, breathless, his face pale.

    "My lord! "There is trouble in the yard."

    Borros frowned. "What trouble?"

    "The levies," the man panted. "Some of the smallfolk¡ªthey have taken up arms, demanding surrender."

    A cold hand clenched around Borros''s chest. "What?"

    "They say you will only bring them ruin. They wish to submit to Prince Aemond''s mercy."

    For a long moment, Borros did not move. Then he was on his feet, his fury bubbling over like a storm-wracked tide. "Ungrateful fucking wretches," he snarled, shoving past the guardsman and marching toward the steps. "I have given them shelter, food, and this is how they repay me?!"

    The halls blurred past him, torches casting jagged shadows as he stormed toward the yard. He could already hear the shouting, the cries of discontent. The clash of steel.

    Then he was outside.

    The yard was a sea of chaos.

    A group of men¡ªpeasants, fishermen, tradesmen¡ªhad taken up whatever weapons they could find, rusty blades and pitchforks and kitchen knives, and they were pressing forward against the castle guards. A guardsman drove his blade through a ragged man in a tattered cloak, only for three more to fall upon him with crude clubs, beating him into the mud.

    "Put them down!" Borros bellowed.

    Steel met flesh. A peasant woman shrieked as she was run through. But then the dam broke. The smallfolk surged forward, and suddenly it was no longer a skirmish but a massacre in the making.

    A guardsman was yanked from his feet, fists and boots falling upon him, caving in his skull. Another woman¡ªhalf-mad with rage or fear¡ªscreamed as she drove a carving knife into a soldier''s throat.

    It was a frenzy. A madness.

    Borros turned, breath quick, hands clenched. His men-at-arms were rushing to bar the doors¡ª

    Too late.

    A great crash split the air as the wooden doors buckled. The flood came roaring in.

    He turned, just in time to see the man.

    Burly, bearded, clad in ragged leathers. A makeshift mace in hand.

    Borros had time to raise his arms¡ª

    Then a sharp pain burst through his skull.

    The world spun.

    Then darkness.

 Chapter Thirty-Six: Breaking of the Stag

    An excerpt from The Prince of Fire and Fate by Archmaester Vaelor, written in 153 AC

    <hr>

    The storm broke upon Storm''s End not by dragonfire, nor by siege engines, nor by the steel of foreign invaders, but by the hands of those sworn to its protection. The death of Lord Borros Baratheon at the hands of his own smallfolk was a moment of profound disgrace, a spectacle so steeped in horror that the chroniclers of the age struggled to record it without recoiling in revulsion.

    When word first reached Aemond Targaryen that Storm''s End had fallen, it was not to his banners but to the starving, the wretched, and the dispossessed. The great seat of House Baratheon, long thought unconquerable, had turned against its own lord. Borros, so long convinced of his indomitable will, met his end in the very halls that had birthed him, beaten and broken, his corpse dragged through the muck like a butchered swine. His wife and daughters suffered fates too grim to set to parchment, and when the dawn rose over Storm''s End, its gates were thrown open not by knights, but by beggars and butcher''s sons, who called out for the mercy of the Prince of Dragons.

    Prince Aemond gave them no reply at first. He rode through the gates upon a black steed, his great wyrm''s wings blotting out the sun as she circled above. The smallfolk, who had slaughtered their own lord in the hopes of securing their lives, fell to their knees before him, pleading clemency.

    The corpses of House Baratheon¡ªBorros''s desecrated body among them¡ªwere laid before him in the castle''s yard. His surviving kin, battered and bloodied, were dragged forth as offerings of appeasement. The Prince of Dragons surveyed them, and in them, he saw nothing worth saving.

    Each noble of House Baratheon, each man suspected of aiding their lord in his doomed resistance, was put to the sword by the prince himself. Their heads were collected and bundled with those Aemond had already taken from Bronzegate, Parchment and Haystack Hall, a gruesome tally of his conquest.

    Some had escaped. A handful of knights, a smattering of retainers, and men of the Stormlander fleet had fled northward, their sails set for Dragonstone. Perhaps they believed themselves swift enough to outrun fate. Perhaps they believed that the sea would hide them from the prince who had already bent the land to his will. They were mistaken.

    Aemond pursued them as a storm pursues a ship, relentless and indifferent. He flew alone, untethered from the limitations of an army, unburdened by the weight of supply lines or siegeworks. He had no need for such things. His war was waged upon the air itself. The fleet was a scattering of wooden hulls upon a vast and empty sea. Aemond was a god descending upon them.

    What transpired upon the Narrow Sea has been called a battle, but that is a misnomer. There was no battle, no contest of arms. There was only fire. Vhagar fell upon them like a beast starved of destruction. Ship by ship, mast by mast, the fleet was consumed. The sky itself turned black with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning pitch and boiling flesh. Sailors threw themselves into the sea, their screams swallowed by the tide. But there was no escape. Fire does not care for surrender.

    By the time Aemond turned back for Storm''s End, there was nothing left to pursue.

    Upon his return, the banners of House Baratheon were torn down, their stags trampled underfoot, and as the prince left, only a token garrison remained to hold Storm''s End before marching east, toward Griffin''s Roost.

    It was there that Lord Connington, who had heard the storm break over his liege''s house, decided to meet the tempest rather than be consumed by it. Before Aemond''s siege lines could be drawn, the lord of Griffin''s Roost rode forth beneath a white flag, alone, save for a single squire. He knelt in the mud before the Prince of Dragons, denounced Rhaenyra as a false queen, and swore his allegiance to Aegon. Aemond accepted his submission and granted him back his lands, not out of kindness, but out of necessity. The Stormlands were in chaos, with the rebellious lords either dead or dispossessed. Aemond''s war was not yet over, and he needed men to hold what he had taken. Lord Connington¡ªas did Lord Fell of Felwood before him¡ªeager to preserve his life and legacy, pledged himself to the task with a fervor that left no doubt as to his sincerity.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    So it was across the Stormlands. Word of Borros''s fate spread like wildfire, and lords who might have otherwise resisted surrender or found themselves prisoners of their own vassals. Blackhaven, Stonehelm, Weeping Tower, and Rainhouse¡ªall fell, not to Aemond''s host, but to insurrection. Fearful of the prince''s retribution, the smallfolk turned on their lords, offering them up in supplication, just as had been done at Storm''s End. Those who remained steadfast found no salvation in their own men-at-arms, for hunger and terror are stronger than loyalty, and mutiny soon did what siege engines could not.

    Only Tarth defied Aemond''s conquest. Seated beyond the Straits, Evenfall Hall believed itself beyond the reach of his wrath. They had misjudged. On the first day after, Vhagar''s shadow darkened their skies. On the second, the Velaryon fleet, which had spent the better part of the Dance blockading the Stepstones, sailed to the isle and disembarked their troops. The Straits, which had so long been the Sapphire Isle''s protection, had instead become its trap. Evenfall Hall fell within hours, its lord sent to join the others in Aemond''s growing collection of heads.

    With the Stormlands pacified, the ripples of the campaign spread beyond its borders. Sharp Point and Stonedance, distant but not distant enough, felt the tide turn against them. The smallfolk, having seen what fate awaited those who resisted, turned against their lords before Aemond''s banners had even reached them. Sharp Point surrendered after a fail revolt and its lord fearing another. Stonedance''s lord, hoping to crush the whispers of insurrection before they could bloom, tightened his grip upon his holdfast. In doing so, he only hastened his doom. The smallfolk rose in rebellion, and his own men-at-arms turned against him. By the time Aemond''s host was informed of the happening, there need not be any work done for it had already been completed.

    In King''s Landing, the news of Aemond''s campaign sent ripples through the court. King Aegon was said to have secluded himself for in his chambers three days and three nights after he was informed, rejecting all offers for food or wine. As a result, the prince would later sponsor a tourney from his own purse to thank his King for holding a fast in celebration of their great victory.

    Prince Daemon, in the meantime, had been dispatched to Essos in hopes of raising coin and swords for Rhaenyra''s cause. Had he been present, there is little doubt that the Black Prince would have flown forth upon Caraxes to meet his nephew in battle. But with him gone, the queen was left with only hard choices and harder counsel.

    Some say she wished to fly herself to the Stormlands, to bring fire and fury down upon her tyrannical half-brother. But Syrax was not Vhagar, and even the most devoted of her supporters knew that to face Aemond alone was to court annihilation. Prince Jacaerys, eager to prove himself, offered to take Vermax in her stead, but this too was denied. Rhaenyra''s hand was stayed by reason, and so she could do naught but watch as her enemy returned to King''s Landing unchallenged.

    Two weeks after departing, Aemond returned to the captial. With him, he brought the heads of a dozen lords, their visages twisted in the rictus of their final moments. They were presented in court, in silent tribute to his conquest. No banners were raised in mourning, no songs sung for the fallen. The war was far from over, but in that moment, the Stormlands belonged to Aemond Targaryen.

    No one had dared to stand against him. And no one could deny that he had won.

 Chapter Thirty-Seven: Revelations

    ¡ª Frank Herbert, Dune

    ¡­?

    In the shaded recess of a Pentoshi villa, where the air was thick with the scent of myrrh and the flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows upon the lacquered walls, Daemon sat at his ease, his goblet turning lazily in his hand, the dark red within sloshing against its gilded rim. He had drunk little. Arbor red was a fine vintage, but he had learned long ago not to dull his wits when haggling with mercenaries.

    The room was warm, filled with the heady scent of spice and myrrh, the heavy silken curtains drawn against the heat of the Pentoshi afternoon.

    Across from him was Magister Rybero. The Pentoshi merchant-prince was a man of considerable girth, his robes a cascade of gold and saffron silk, a clear testament to the wealth he had amassed through dealings less than savory. His fingers, adorned with rings set with rubies and jade, tapped against the polished table in a rhythm neither impatient nor idle¡ªa measured tempo that suggested calculation.

    To his left sat the leader of the company Daemon had come to bargain with. Captain Mauron of the Free Lances, a man of Braavosi descent, bore no ornamentation save for a single silver chain looped about his wrist, a mark of his rank among his own men. His manner was one of careful restraint; his eyes sharp as a falcon''s, assessing the Targaryen prince in much the same way Daemon had assessed him. The sellsword was neither overly obsequious nor insultingly bold, which Daemon considered, at the very least, a promising start.

    "I shall remind you, my lord, that my company does not trade in lost causes," Captain Mauron said, lifting his goblet of Arbor red with a deliberate slowness. "There is profit to be had in war, but not in folly. If I am to throw my lot in with the Black Queen, I must have assurances¡ªgold, of course, but also the certainty that I am not marching my men to slaughter in a contest already decided."

    Daemon inclined his head, the faintest curve of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "You mistake me, Captain. I am not here to beg for swords. I offer an opportunity. " He paused, swirling the contents of his own cup, though he hesitated to drink from it again. "You say you do not trade in lost causes. Good. You will find no cause more righteous than ours. Rhaenyra is the true queen of Westeros, denied her birthright by schemers and usurpers. War is never certain, captain. No victory is written in stone. You place your men in the service of my wife, and you will have gold and plunder when the war is won. And should we lose, well¡­you''ll be dead, so what does it matter?

    Mauron snorted. "A noble sentiment. I see now why you are beloved of sellswords."

    Daemon smiled. "I am beloved of whores and killers. The distinction is slight."

    Magister Rybero, though silent until now, chuckled, a soft and knowing sound. "A jest for the ages, my prince," he mused. "But Captain Mauron must be convinced by more than witticisms. A sellsword is a man of caution. He must be, lest he become one of those unfortunate men who has no need for gold once the fighting is done."

    Daemon exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, but close. "Indeed. And yet, I wager you did not summon me here to debate the merits of prudence."

    Magister Rybero spread his bejeweled hands in mock innocence. "I summon no one, my prince. You came of your own accord. And as it happens, our good captain is an honest man, or as honest as a sellsword may be. He wishes to know what he is committing to before he commits."

    Daemon turned his gaze back to Mauron. "Very well, then. Let us dispense with pleasantries. I offer you a contract¡ªthree thousand swords, well trained, well disciplined, to serve at my command for the duration of the war. You will be compensated accordingly, with an advance of twenty thousand gold dragons upon signing, and a further fifty thousand upon the successful capture of King''s Landing."

    Mauron studied him carefully. "A fine sum," he said finally. "But I have conditions. If my men fight for you, they fight under my command. I will not have my officers disregarded by Westerosi lords who think them beneath their notice."

    "Agreed."

    "And the gold¡ªhalf of the remainder is to be paid after the first victory, not at the war''s end."

    Daemon''s gaze did not waver. "Agreed."

    Mauron set his goblet down. "Then it appears we have an accord."

    Just as the terms were to be sealed, a sudden commotion at the doorway interrupted them. A Pentoshi guard, broad of shoulder and clad in lacquered scale, stepped through, speaking in hurried Essosi. His voice was low, but there was urgency in his tone.

    Daemon did not understand the words, but he saw the change in Mauron''s expression, the flicker of something unreadable before the captain turned to him.

    "A dragon has been spotted," Mauron translated. "It landed outside the city, near where yours is stabled."

    Daemon set his goblet down with deliberate care. "Another dragon," he said, his voice edged with something hard and sharp. "What does it look like?"

    The guard answered in the same tongue, and Mauron''s brows knit together. "He says pale. White as new-fallen snow."

    Daemon rose.

    "It seems our business is concluded for now," he said. "Prepare your men, captain. You will have your gold."

    With that, he strode from the villa, his boots clicking against the marble floor as he stepped into the street, where the warm breeze carried with it the distant sound of waves breaking against the docks.

    It did not take long to find the dragon. Arrax was smaller than Caraxes, its pale scales gleaming in the midday sun. Beside it stood Lucerys Velaryon, the boy''s shoulders tense with apprehension. His eyes widened as Daemon approached, and though he straightened, there was no hiding the worry in his young face.

    "What in the Seven Hells are you doing here, boy?" Daemon demanded, his tone sharp but not unkind.

    Lucerys swallowed. "My lord¡ªmy uncle, I¡ªI bring word from Dragonstone. The Stormlands¡­ they have fallen."

    Daemon stilled. "Fallen?"

    "Lord Borros¡­ he''s dead."

    Daemon''s eyes narrowed. "That craven? How?"

    Lucerys shifted, his hands curling into fists. "I don''t know. There''s some talk that the smallfolk turned on him. My mother¡ªshe needs you at Dragonstone, at once."

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Daemon exhaled through his nose, fury flaring in his chest. "The Stormlands are lost, and no one knows how?"

    Lucerys shook his head. "Only that Aemond was there. Atop Vhagar."

    Daemon muttered a curse, more for Borros''s incompetence than anything else. The Baratheon had been proud, blustering, but not a fool¡ªor so Daemon had thought. And yet, he had been swept aside in days. But how? Even with Aemond''s dragon, such a campaign should have taken weeks, months¡ª

    There was no time to dwell on it now.

    "Mount up," Daemon ordered, glancing skyward where Caraxes stirred. "We leave at once."

    <hr>

    The sky was a bleak, mercurial shade of grey, the sea beneath it restless and sullen, and the air, though not frigid, carried a chill that clung to the skin with the damp insistence of mist. From her vantage upon the pale sands of High Tide''s beach, Rhaenyra waited. Her hands, cool despite the warmth of the dragon beneath her, rested upon the gilded pommel of her saddle, fingers tightening imperceptibly each time the wind, sharp with salt and brine, pressed against her face.

    Syrax shifted beneath her, golden scales dappled in the half-light, her great wings flexing with idle impatience. She was a creature bred for the skies, not for stillness, and the Queen shared in her disquiet. What was she doing here? What had compelled her to step away from the secure halls of Dragonstone and venture to this place, this forlorn stretch of sand where once she had been welcomed as a daughter of the realm, the rightful heir of House Targaryen? The answer lay just beyond the waves, where a crimson shadow loomed in the murky heavens.

    Meleys, the Red Queen, was a thing of splendor even in the dull light, her vermilion wings casting a great shadow upon the waters as she descended. Rhaenys Targaryen, the woman who might have once been queen, rode astride her as she had done for decades, her countenance unreadable, her silvered hair twisted into an intricate braid beneath the steel of her dragonrider''s helm. No banners heralded her arrival, no escort rode at her side. There was only her, only Meleys, and the sound of the wind screaming through the cliffs as she landed.

    The two women¡ªdragon and dragonrider alike¡ªregarded each other in a silence heavy with meaning, the salt-stained air between them thick with all that had gone unsaid. They were kinswomen, and yet today they were strangers.

    It was Rhaenyra who broke the silence, her voice cool, yet trembling beneath its composure.

    "Why?"

    No embellishment, no demand laced with fury or grief. Simply why? A question so small, so slight in form, yet vast in its implication. Why had Rhaenys chosen to betray her? Why had she turned her back upon Viserys''s final decree? Had she not, once, been the woman who understood what it was to be denied, to be supplanted by lesser men?

    A sigh left Rhaenys, a quiet, sorrowful thing, like the breath of an aging wolf too tired to bare its teeth.

    "Go home, Rhaenyra," she said. Not unkindly, nor with derision, but with something softer¡ªsomething that spoke of resignation rather than triumph. "You should not have come. Aemond will not take kindly to your presence here."

    There was something deeply unsettling in the way she said it, the careful phrasing, the quiet warning. But Rhaenyra''s pride bristled at it, curling like a wounded beast within her chest.

    Aemond. That name, that thing, slithered through her mind like a viper, venomous and insidious. What did she care for his displeasure? Why, of all people, should Rhaenys concern herself with the will of a subhuman beast?

    She sniffed, the gesture small, but edged with disdain. "It is not Aemond Targaryen I have come for."

    Rhaenys said nothing, only watching her with those unreadable eyes, steady as the tides.

    "I would speak with your lord husband," Rhaenyra pressed on, as though the answer had been a mere oversight. "Summon Lord Corlys. I would know where he stands in this war."

    Again, there was silence, broken only by the waves that lapped against the shore. Then, with a patience that was somehow more cruel than outright refusal, Rhaenys said, "He is not here."

    Rhaenyra''s brows furrowed. "Where, then?"

    "King''s Landing."

    "Then I will speak with Baela," the queen declared. "Surely she has not forgotten where her true loyalties lie. You cannot tell me my stepdaughter would stand against her own father, her own blood."

    A shadow crossed Rhaenys''s face then, something fleeting and troubled. But the answer came all the same.

    "She is not here either. She remains at King''s Landing."

    A pause.

    Rhaenyra''s fingers twitched, then curled inward, gripping the pommel of her saddle. "Why?"

    No answer came.

    And yet she did not need one. Slowly, the pieces assembled themselves in her mind, their implications sinking like stones in deep water. Corlys Velaryon¡ªthe lord of Driftmark¡ªabsent. Baela¡ªher stepdaughter, her ward, a dragonrider¡ªabsent. The words Rhaenys had not spoken, the way her lips pressed thin, the careful, measured way she had delivered each answer.

    Not absent, Rhaenyra realized. Taken.

    Aemond.

    Aemond.

    That wretched, one-eyed thing. That serpent of a man, who spun his web with all the patience of a septon and all the cruelty of a dragon at roost. He had bound Rhaenys in chains of velvet and iron alike, shackled her with the lives of those she loved, knowing she would never break them for her own sake.

    The realization stole the fury from her, drained the venom from her tongue. She saw Rhaenys now¡ªnot as a traitor, but as a woman ensnared, a mother and wife shackled by the cold cunning of the Greens.

    No words passed between them for a long time.

    When at last Rhaenyra spoke, her voice was quiet, and not without sorrow.

    "I see."

    Aemond had won this piece of the game. There was nothing more to be done here.

    She turned Syrax with the slightest pull of her wrist, the dragon rumbling deep in her throat as her golden wings flexed. With a final look, one that held neither condemnation nor absolution, Rhaenyra inclined her head.

    Then, without another word, she soared into the grey sky, the wind carrying her away from High Tide, away from the woman who, once, might have been her ally, but who now stood a prisoner upon her own shore.

 Chapter Thirty-Eight: Rewards for the Strong

    "The more you depend on forces outside yourself, the more you are at the mercy of those forces."

    ¨DLeto II Atreides

    ¡­?

    The green walls of the chamber absorbed sound, muffling the murmur of activity beyond its heavy doors. The light within was muted, filtering through thick curtains drawn against the midmorning sun, pooling instead from a single candelabrum of polished brass. Shadows flickered against the embroidered fabric covering the walls, the scene upon the great tapestry¡ªNymeria''s fleet scarlet atop the storm-tossed seas off Dorne¡ªdistorted by the shifting glow of the flames.

    Larys Strong sat alone upon a cushioned bench, his hands folded atop the head of his cane. The silver ewer and goblet upon the table before him caught the candlelight in brief flashes, yet he made no move to touch them. He had been waiting for some time.

    Long enough to understand that he was being made to wait.

    Mysaria was not a woman known for lapses in efficiency. She had built her power on timeliness, on the ruthless culling of wasted hours and misplaced efforts. That he had been seated here for so long, listening to the distant footsteps of Guild functionaries passing in the hall, meant only one thing: she wanted him to feel his position.

    And that, Larys reflected, was the greater indignity. That he was in such a position at all.

    He had known, of course, that there would be consequences. The prince was not a man to be crossed lightly, and he had wagered poorly in his last play. Had he succeeded in upturning the balance of authority between Aegon and Aemond, the landscape of power in the Red Keep would have been a different thing altogether. Better still, and of more pressing importance, certain influential allies¡ªboth among the nobility and within the Merchant''s Guild¡ªwould have found their positions reaffirmed at a time when the prince''s policies had rendered him increasingly irksome to those whose interests he had disrupted. But Larys had miscalculated, and Aemond, in his own fashion, had made sure that he understood the cost of failure. A cold shoulder at court was one thing¡ªtedious, perhaps, but hardly insurmountable. But this?

    Sweeping arrests. Confiscations. A sudden and urgent review of his accounts within the Dragon''s Bank, funds frozen under suspicion of misconduct. His network of informants, spies, and whispered contacts¡ªcut off at the root. The streets had been reshaped overnight, his careful web of control sundered by a single decree.

    And now he was here. Begging for an audience with the prince''s whore.

    The door opened at last.

    A young man stood in the threshold, dressed in the green and gold livery of the Merchant''s Guild, his dark tunic bearing the embroidered insignia of his mistress¡ªa merchant''s scale, silver against the fabric. He had a clerk''s face, sharp-eyed and expressionless.

    "Madam Mysaria will receive you now, my lord," the aide announced.

    Larys did not move at once. He shifted his cane slightly, adjusted the fall of his sleeve, then, with the deliberate ease of a man unconcerned by snubs or slights, pushed himself to his feet. He gave a slow, shallow nod to the young man before making his way past him into the office beyond.

    The room was warm, lined with dark wood, lit by several lanterns, its furnishings chosen for comfort rather than ostentation. A brazier smoldered in one corner, scenting the air with the faint bite of citrus and spice. At the far end of the chamber, seated behind a broad desk of carved oak, Mysaria signed her name upon a parchment with slow deliberation.

    She did not look up.

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    "Sit."

    Larys did, settling himself into the chair across from her. The cushions were softer than he expected, though not deep enough to be a trap.

    She continued writing, her quill scratching against the parchment, her hand moving with careful economy. The silence lengthened. Larys, long accustomed to such tactics, did not fidget. He did not clear his throat, nor shift in his seat. Instead, he watched her.

    Mysaria was not a woman of great height, nor of great physical presence, yet power clung to her in a way that needed no embellishment. Her hair, silver as the prince''s, fell in neat waves about her shoulders, her dress cut finely but simply. Jewelry had never been her way; the only adornment she wore was the narrow chain of office clasped at her throat.

    When she set her quill aside and at last raised her gaze to him, she smiled.

    "My lord," she said lightly, as though his presence were some unexpected delight, "to what do I owe this honor?"

    The pleasantries of feigned surprise. A courtesy that was not a courtesy at all.

    He returned her smile, equally false. "Had I a choice in the matter, madam, I would have preferred to seek an audience with Prince Aemond himself. Yet, regrettably, his present engagements have left him most¡­ inaccessible."

    "Indeed," Mysaria murmured, tilting her head. "A great pity."

    "It was suggested to me that you might resolve my concerns in his stead."

    She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, something between a hum and a laugh. "I see. And what pressing matter has led you to my door, I wonder?"

    Another performance. Another step in the game.

    Larys had spent his life understanding the roles that people played. The lies they told and the truths they hid. Mysaria knew why he was here. There was no way she didn''t.

    But she wished to hear him say it.

    He obliged.

    "The prince''s recent reforms," he said smoothly, "while admirable in their intent, have, unfortunately, created certain¡­ difficulties. The city''s brothels, gambling halls, and similar establishments have long served a purpose beyond their outward function. Information flows where wine and coin are free. The closures, the arrests, the seizures of property¡ªthese have disrupted my ability to conduct my work effectively."

    Mysaria''s brows lifted slightly. "Your work?"

    "The work of the Master of Whispers," Larys corrected. "And, by extension, the work of the realm."

    A pause.

    Then she leaned back in her chair, studying him with idle amusement. "You would have me believe that the prince''s actions are detrimental to the Crown?"

    "I would have you understand that they have consequences."

    Mysaria did not answer at once. Instead, she traced a single finger along the polished edge of her desk, considering.

    "And this," she said at last, "is why you have come to me?"

    "There is also the matter of my accounts," Larys said, with just the right note of reluctance. "It appears the Dragon''s Bank has been instructed to audit my holdings. My assets are frozen. It has made¡­ certain efforts rather difficult."

    Mysaria tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "A most serious charge."

    "Indeed."

    Another silence stretched between them.

    Then, with exquisite slowness, she reached for another document, unfolded it, and began reading.

    Larys waited.

    And waited.

    And when she finally spoke again, her voice was smooth as silk, carrying all the weight of an iron door closing on its hinges.

    "I shall pass your complaint along to the prince. He will decide how best to proceed."

    Larys inclined his head, but the tension in his shoulders did not ease.

 Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Wages of Caution

    "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die."

    ¨DCersei Lannister

    ¡­?

    The sun had barely crested the rooftops of King''s Landing when Jasper Wylde arrived at the chamber of the Small Council, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor as he stepped inside. He had not expected to be the last to arrive, yet such was his luck. The meeting had already begun.

    Prince Aemond sat, as he always did of late, at the head of the table¡ªhis brother''s chair, one might argue, but none present had thought to question it. The prince leaned slightly toward the Lord Hand, his voice pitched low enough that Otto Hightower had to incline his ear to catch his words, while the Queen and Grand Maester listened on with solemn expressions of careful interest.

    To the side, Lord Tyland Lannister and Lord Vaemond Velaryon spoke quietly between themselves, their hushed words indistinct, yet their shared glances laden with meaning. A little further down sat Larys Strong, the very picture of self-possession¡ªor he would have been, were it not for the barely perceptible tightness in his jaw.

    It did not take long to discern the cause.

    Seated across from him, her fingers idly tracing the rim of a goblet filled with watered wine, was none other than Mysaria.

    Aemond''s creature.

    His aide. His informant. And, if the whispers that curled through the court were to be believed, his whore as well.

    An interesting development, to be sure.

    Jasper took it all in as he crossed the floor, his footfalls swallowed by the thick carpets.

    "Forgive me, my lords," he said, bowing his head. "It seems the years weigh heavier upon me than they once did."

    Aemond turned his head, his mouth curling in a way that was not quite a smile. "Come now, Lord Wylde, let us not be too harsh upon old age. You seemed light enough on your feet when last I saw you at the lists."

    A jest. A friendly one, perhaps, but only a fool mistook the prince''s humor for warmth. Jasper chuckled, offered some polite reply, and took his seat beside Vaemond Velaryon.

    Aemond did not prolong the pleasantries. With an easy motion, he leaned forward, his fingers steepled together in quiet contemplation.

    "Now, to the matter at hand," he said, the air in the room shifting as the conversation turned to the business of war.

    The prince spoke first of the Stormlands, where his recent campaign had yielded a decisive¡ªif not wholly orthodox¡ªvictory. The last embers of defiance had been stamped out, the rebels put to the sword, and the region left in no state to rise again.

    No boasts. No reveling in the victory. Aemond did not smile, did not exult. But he did not need to.

    Jasper had seen the reports. A rebellion within a rebellion. It was not pretty.

    A lesson, Aemond had called it.

    Jasper had no doubt that the lords of the realm were listening.

    Yet for all that, the war was far from over.

    "Regrettably," Aemond went on, exhaling as though he had been personally slighted, "we are met with unfortunate delays, and our lord paramounts find themselves unable to muster a sufficient force to bring their recalcitrant bannermen to heel with any great haste."

    Otto Hightower frowned. "Lord Ormund cannot raise an army from thin air¡ª"

    "True," Aemond echoed, his voice a blade''s edge. "But he and Lord Tully still suffer from a measure indecision. The longer they linger in this indecision, the greater the risk. Prince Daemon has been sighted in Braavos. In Pentos. He solicits gold, raises swords. He moves in the dark, but not so darkly as he might wish."

    Aemond made a gesture.

    And, to Jasper''s surprise, it was not Larys who answered.

    "The Iron Bank," Mysaria said, "has given its blessing to the pretender''s cause. They have granted her gold. Braavos itself sends its fleet. It sails now for Dragonstone."

    The silence that followed was punctuated only by the slow tapping of Otto Hightower''s fingers against the table, his thoughts no doubt already turning to the logistics of countering such a threat.

    "More concerning," Mysaria continued, "are the sellswords."

    She goes then to list the names of the mercenary companies involved¡ªcaptains Jasper had heard of in passing, but never thought to see fighting on Westerosi soil. Their headcounts. Their estimated numbers. Their ships. And, most concerning of all, their destination.

    "They make for Crackclaw Point," Mysaria finished.

    A hush fell over the room.

    Then a murmur of discontent from the council¡ªa quiet protest against the notion of foreign sellswords trampling upon Westerosi lands. Jasper himself found the idea distasteful, but even as he felt the stirrings of anger, another thought settled heavily in his mind.

    They have little choice.

    The longer this war dragged on, the clearer it became that Rhaenyra''s position grew ever more precarious. Aemond''s grasp upon Westeros tightened with each passing moon. For all that Rhaenyra might name herself queen, her hope to rule was but a shadow beneath the weight of her brother''s relentless machinations.

    The Black Queen''s supporters were dwindling, her coffers drained. If she did not invite the Essosi to fight for her, she would have no one left to fight at all.

    Tyland was the first to speak. "Will you march, my prince?"

    Aemond tilted his head. "Why?"

    "To stop them before they land," Tyland pressed. "Drive them back into the sea."

    Aemond arched his brow.

    "Let them land," he said simply.

    The silence stretched taut.

    Otto was watching him now, wary, calculating.

    Alicent was the one to voice the question hanging in the air. "Why, Aemond?"

    "Because it is a mistake," the prince said. "And I do not make a habit of stopping my enemies from making mistakes."

    Jasper exhaled slowly, realization dawning.

    Let them land. Let the foreign mercenaries spill onto Westerosi soil like locusts, let them pillage and burn in Rhaenyra''s name.

    Let the people see her for what she was.

    Otto, the one who possibly understood the weight of perception more than any other present, gave a slow, considering nod.

    Aemond straightened, as if brushing aside the matter of war itself, and turned his attention back to the council.

    "There is another matter to discuss," he said lightly.

    Jasper frowned slightly.

    Alicent mirrored the sentiment. "Another matter?"

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    "Yes," Aemond nodded.

    "A new appointment."

    <hr>

    For all his reputation as a man of calculation, Jasper was almost taken aback by the brazenness of it.

    The Small Council was no stranger to Prince Aemond''s unexpected manoeuvres¡ªindeed, they had become almost an expectation¡ªbut the matter he now introduced had caught more than a few of them unawares.

    "A new appointment," Aemond announced, leaning back in the chair that was¡ªtechnically¡ªhis brother''s.

    Jasper, along with Tyland and Vaemond, exchanged a glance. The Lord Confessor did not miss the flicker of something in Larys''s gaze. The twitch of his fingers against the wood of the table. The subtle tightening of his throat.

    Alicent, too, appeared surprised by this turn of events. "Aemond, what appointment?" she echoed, looking between Aemond and Otto.

    The chamber stirred with unease, though none more so than Larys Strong. The man who had, up until now, remained a picture of cautious silence, had suddenly stiffened in his seat.

    Aemond smiled then. "I believe it prudent that we acknowledge the efforts of those who have served the realm well," he said smoothly, his eye flicking¡ªever so briefly¡ªin Mysaria''s direction.

    If there had been any doubt as to his meaning, it was swiftly erased by what came next.

    "I would have Mysaria named Mistress of Whispers," Aemond declared.

    For a moment, there was no response¡ªonly the lingering weight of words spoken too casually to be anything but deliberate.

    Jasper saw it in real time¡ªthe dawning realization, the shift in posture, the silent calculations being adjusted and re-adjusted in the minds of those present.

    Even Otto Hightower, who had no doubt been informed of this decision beforehand, did not attempt to mask his distaste. His lips pressed together thinly, his posture stiffening ever so slightly. Even still, he gave a slow, begrudging nod.

    The Lord Hand''s reluctance was evident. It was clear that he did not approve of Mysaria, but his feelings toward Larys Strong had soured in recent weeks. The Master of Whispers had grown too bold, too eager to sow division where it was not needed. Perhaps he had forgotten that even Otto himself could not move unchallenged in court.

    Alicent''s brows furrowed, though she remained composed. "Mysaria?"

    "She has already proven herself invaluable," Aemond stated, with the same cool certainty he applied to all things. "Her network extends beyond Westeros, into places our dear Master of Whispers could not hope to reach. It is only fitting she be recognised for her services."

    At the far end of the table, Larys Strong had gone utterly pale.

    Jasper Wylde had seen men removed from power before. He had seen them dismissed, exiled, stripped of title and dignity alike. But this¡ªthis was something else.

    This was a man being made an example of.

    A slow, deliberate gutting, done in full view of those who had once treated him with wary deference.

    "My prince," Larys said, his voice carefully measured, "I am already the Master of Whispers."

    Aemond''s smile did not waver. "You were."

    Larys''s fingers twitched once more before stilling. "If I have displeased you, I would know the reason."

    Aemond hummed, tilting his head in feigned consideration. "Displeased me?" he mused. "No, Lord Strong, you misunderstand. You have served the King well. Your loyalty has been duly noted."

    That was when Jasper knew for certain.

    He is dead, and he knows it.

    Not dead in the literal sense¡ªAemond was not so foolish as to openly murder a man like Larys Strong without cause¡ªbut dead in every way that mattered.

    The silence stretched taut.

    "...I do not recall a dismissal," Larys said at last, treading carefully now.

    "Then allow me to rectify that," Aemond replied. "This council has a new need for you, Lord Strong. A most crucial responsibility. Indeed, you are to be appointed Master of the King''s Minor Rites and Pious Observances."

    For a long moment, the words hung in the air, as though waiting for the council to register the absurdity of them.

    Then Jasper saw it.

    Tyland''s barely concealed smirk.

    Vaemond''s derisive snort.

    Even Otto''s mouth twitched, though whether in approval or amusement, Jasper could not be sure.

    Larys, to his credit, did not let the mask slip. "I¡­ see," he said carefully. His expression did not change, but Jasper could see the tension in the way he held himself¡ªthe briefest flicker of something in his eyes.

    Still, he tried.

    "My prince," he began, voice as measured as ever, "I fear there may be some misunderstanding¡ª"

    "There is no misunderstanding," Aemond interrupted smoothly. "The realm has need of faithful men in these times of strife. The gods demand that even the smallest of rites be observed with unwavering devotion. I can think of no one better to uphold these sacred traditions than you, Lord Strong."

    Jasper observed the moment Larys realised the fight was already lost.

    His lips pressed together, his hands folding neatly before him¡ªa man accepting a sentence he could not protest.

    And yet, he tried one final bid to reclaim what had been stripped from him.

    "Does the King approve of these new appointments?" Larys asked, voice even.

    Aemond smiled. "You may take it up with His Grace."

    It was an invitation made in full knowledge that Aegon would see no one. Not even his queen.

    Jasper wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the king even knew what was being done in his name.

    Perhaps he did. Perhaps he did not.

    In the end, it did not matter.

    Aemond did not look at Larys again.

    Instead, he turned to Mysaria, offering a nod. "Congratulations, Mysaria."

    The newly appointed Mistress of Whispers inclined her head. She did not thank him. She did not need to.

    Jasper, observing from his seat, could not help but reflect on the nature of power.

    For years, Larys Strong had been indispensable.

    For years, he had moved through the court with the assurance that no one but the king could unseat him.

    And yet, in the end, he had been replaced not by a lord, nor by a knight, nor by any highborn adversary, but by a woman who had once been little more than a whore.

    Jasper Wylde was no fool.

    He had seen what had become of those who stood against Aemond Targaryen.

    And he knew, now more than ever, that he had no intention of sharing Larys Strong''s fate.

 Chapter Forty: Draconic Suppression

    "They say night''s beauties fade at dawn, and the children of wine are oft disowned in the morning light."

    ¡ª A line from the smallfolk''s sayings (referenced in A Feast for Crows)

    ¡­?

    The wind came in off the bay, sharp and cold as a knife''s edge, carrying the salt stink of the sea and the distant murmurs of waves crashing against wood. Addam''s fingers ached where they gripped the myrish eye, the polished brass cold against the joints of his phalanges as he watched the Ironborn disembark.

    One ship. Two. Three. More behind, dozens, all leaning in with the tide, their black sails bellied by the wind. Like so many carrion birds on the wing, gliding in to pick the bones of whatever fool village lay in their path. Their oars beat the waters into a froth, each stroke punctuated by a low, guttural chant that echoed across the rocky shore. The tide pulled at the longships'' hulls, eager to swallow them back into the deep. The men aboard moved quickly, organized despite the ragged look of their leather skirts and salt-rusted mail. They made no noise upon landing, no shout or battle cry. Grim men. Dead men, if the prince''s plan held true.

    "What do you see?" asked the man beside him, voice low and rough as gravel.

    Addam lowered the myrish eye, letting it dangle by the leather strap around his wrist. He turned to face the speaker¡ªa grizzled man with a sharp nose and sharper eyes, his red cloak muted by the shadows beneath the trees. He was a lean thing, all sinew and bone, with the sort of haunted look a man only got from too long a hard life. Kellen Rivers, the Marshal of this detachment. Though his men called him ''Stoneface'' when they thought he wasn''t listening. Addam doubted he cared.

    "A thousand," Addam replied. "Maybe more."

    "Aye," Stoneface murmured, his voice rough and low. "A bit more than we were told."

    Addam glanced sideways at the man. "Think the prince was wrong?"

    Stoneface''s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. "The prince is never wrong."

    He said it the way a man might say the sun would rise tomorrow. Inevitable. Unquestionable.

    Addam looked back to the shore. Ironborn axes glinted in the morning light, broad heads polished and honed to brutal edges. Heavy shields, dark wood bound in iron, stacked in neat rows along the surf. Their commander stood knee-deep in the water, barking orders in that guttural manner they spoke. A man with a tangled beard and hair black as pitch, armor the color of tarnished silver. A crow among gulls.

    Dalton Greyjoy.

    "Do they know we''re here?" Addam asked, more to himself than Stoneface.

    "They don''t," Stoneface replied. "I doubt they would have a reason to suspect. The Ironborn are cautious, when they think it matters. It ought not to matter now."

    Addam hummed in agreement. "How many of us did you say are waiting in the woods?"

    "Eight hundred," Stoneface mused. "More beneath the castle."

    An army, hiding among the moss-covered stones of Oldstones, ghosts among ghosts. Addam had never known the ruins to be more than broken walls and crumbled towers. Nothing but an old song. He could still hear it in his mother''s voice, a soft tune to lull babes to sleep.

    And so they rose, and so they fell,

    The kings of mist and bone.

    Their halls lie hushed, no banners swell

    O''er the ruins of Oldstones.¡­

    He shook the memory away, a bitter taste rising in his throat. There were no songs here. Only cold wind and colder stone, broken by time and war. But Aemond had made use of them, dug deep beneath the ruins to build his garrison, his tunnels, his cabins and training yards in the heart of the woods, his secret stronghold. And the means that fed these men? Stoneface attests to a network of hidden couriers slipping through the woods at night. Small boats in the dark sailing up the Bay of Crabs, through the Blue Fork and into the Hag''s Mire, laden with supplies meant for a battle no one knew was coming. How many other hidden fortresses did the prince command, in nameless woods and forgotten keeps? Addam didn''t know. He wasn''t sure he wanted to.

    "They''ll come through the valley," Stoneface said, his words as cold as the air. "It''s the quickest route to the castle. No other path wide enough for their numbers. They won''t know what hit them."

    "Seasmoke?" Addam asked, glancing sideways at the older man.

    "You''ll bring him down once the fighting starts. No sooner. The smoke and the screams''ll keep the rest from breaking. We want them to run, aye, but not before we''ve had our fill of blood. Afterwards, burn the bodies. The trees. The grass. Leave nothing standing. Nothing to say who was here, or why."

    Addam could see it already, painted in his mind as clearly as a tapestry. The valley, choked with bodies and blood, Ironborn shields broken and discarded, axes rusting in the dirt. The scent of smoke and death, heavy in the air. And above it all, the roar of dragonfire, the shadow of Seasmoke circling the field.

    No songs. No mercy. Only death. The wind howled through the trees, whispering of ghosts and graves.

    Addam turned his back on the shore. "I''ll get Seasmoke."

    The commander said nothing, watching him go. The man''s eyes were empty. Dead. Addam wondered if his own looked the same.

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    The Ironborn were coming, and they would die here, nameless and forgotten. Another secret buried in the ruins of Oldstones.

    Another verse in the song of blood.

    <hr>

    Mud. Gods, so much mud. It sucked at Daryn''s boots, greedy and heavy, dragging him down with every cursed step. The rain had turned the field to a bog, slick and stinking of blood and shit. A man could drown in mud like this. Wouldn''t even need a sword. Just fall face first and let the earth take you.

    They were screaming again. The lot of them. Bellowing like madmen as they charged, voices raw and ragged. You''d think they''d learn, after the first two waves broke on the line, but no. They came again, charging through the muck, eyes wide and white with fury or fear.

    "Bastards just don''t know when to give up," muttered Jorun beside him, his face smeared with dirt and blood, a crusted cut above his brow. He grinned, showing a gap where his front teeth used to be. "Ironborn, eh? Thick as oxen."

    Aye, thick as oxen. And just as easy to kill.

    "Shields up!" The order came down the line, the captain''s voice hoarse from barking all day. Daryn raised his shield, the weight familiar, the cracks and splinters a map of every charge it had withstood. And now it would see another.

    The Ironborn hit the line like a wave, all momentum and fury. Daryn''s shield shuddered under the impact, the rim jarring against his cheekbone, teeth rattling in his head. He grunted, legs braced in the mud, shoving back as best he could.

    A face loomed over his shield¡ªwild and bearded, mouth twisted in a snarl. Bloodshot eyes gleamed with madness. The Ironborn swung a rusty axe, and Daryn barely jerked his head back in time. The blade grazed the wood, splinters flying. Daryn rammed his shield forward, the edge catching the Ironborn under the chin. His head snapped back, mouth snapping shut with a wet crunch.

    The bastard staggered, arms flailing. Then a mace crashed into his face, caving it in with a sickening thud. He crumpled, dragging Daryn''s spear down with him, the haft wrenched from his grip.

    Daryn swore as he fell back in line, the mace in his grip heavy and unbalanced. A blunt tool for a blunt job.

    Jorun was laughing, a high, mad cackle as he swung at a man''s leg, bringing him down in the muck. "Like chopping bloody trees!" he shouted, then grunted as a shield slammed into his side, knocking him into Daryn. They stumbled, tangled for a heartbeat before shoving off each other, shields up again.

    "Hold!" the captain snarled behind them, voice cracking. "Hold the fucking line!"

    Easy for him to say, Daryn thought. He wasn''t in the muck with us. But he gritted his teeth, feet sliding in the mud, and held. Breaking meant dying. And he wasn''t ready to die.

    The man in front of him swung a sword, wild and clumsy. Daryn caught it on his shield, the impact jarring his arm. He stepped in close, quick and vicious, ramming the spike at the end of his mace into the man''s gut. The son of a whore doubled over, choking, breath hot and rank with beer and blood.

    With a hiss, Daryn shoved the dying man off his shield, watching him crumple, face pressed into the mud. He didn''t move. None of them did once the mud got them.

    Another wave hit¡ªfresh meat, eyes wide and wild. Daryn swung, stabbed, blocked, moved without thinking, a machine of flesh and bone. One unfortunate bastard was caught by the neck with a mancatcher and draw into Daryn''s mace. He died quicky, at least. But Daryn was tired. So bloody tired. His arms were lead from the butchering, legs trembling, head pounding. But he kept fighting.

    It was chaos. Noise and pain and blood. The world narrowed to the next swing, the next thrust, the next breath. Just kill, kill, kill.

    When his gaze finally broken free of the tunnel it was caught in, he noticed a shadow pass overhead, vast and terrible, the wind whipping with the beat of massive wings. Daryn looked up and saw the dragon. Silver scales gleamed in the light as the beast swooped low over the treetops, flame pouring from its maw, a torrent of death sweeping across the hillside, turning men to ash, armor melting to slag.

    Minutes later, a horn blew, long and low. There was a moment of hesitation, then the Ironborn broke. Their lines shattered, men turning to flee, dragging their wounded, stumbling over the corpses. Some sank in the mud, sucked down like stones in a swamp.

    Daryn moved forward with the rest, breath heaving, shoulders screaming, barely keeping formation. Jorun was there, grinning through the blood on his face. "Still breathing?" he asked, bending to pick up a discarded spear before driving it into a man crawling away.

    "Unfortunately" Daryn grunted, smashing his shield into the face of another who had turned back, screaming, before driving his mace into his skull.

    Jorun laughed. "Lucky bastard."

    To their left, the battle line parted, making way for the cavalry held in reserve to finish the task. In moments, the rout became a chase, then a slaughter.

    Daryn looked out over the field, over the churned earth and broken bodies, the carrior birds already gathering. Aye, it was over. For now. More would come. They always did, at least in the stories. But it never mattered, really. Whenever they do return, one can at least be certain the crows would eat well again.

 INTERLUDE: The Princes Demands

    "Fear cuts deeper than swords."

    ¡ª Arya Stark

    ¡­?

    Wind and sea conspired to gnaw at Pyke''s ancient stones. It was a grey day, grey as the iron in the blood of the men who called these islands home, and the brine-laden gusts seemed to whisper across the towers and rope-bridges in a secret, mournful tongue. Grell Wynch stood at the edge of a freshly dug pit in one of Pyke''s lesser courtyards, watching thralls struggle under the weight of heavy stones. They looked like ants at their labors, sullen and tireless, faces etched by salt and fear.

    He folded his arms across his chest, sniffing the air. Salt and damp mortar¡ªan old smell, yet oddly comforting. They were fortifying Pyke again, bracing for storms and the possibility of more ruin from the mainland. The Iron Islands had not forgotten what dragonfire could do to rock, and Grell was determined to see the castle''s foundations strengthened. A new cellar, deep and wide, would serve to store what meager supplies they scraped together in these harsh times, but it might also be repurposed should calamity come knocking. The thought gave him scant comfort.

    "See that you shore up the walls before nightfall," he told the foreman, a thickset fellow whose brow glistened with sweat. "If you''ve no taste for collapsed stone burying you in your bed, then get it done."

    The man nodded, barking orders at the thralls in a harsh accent. Grell watched them form a ragged line, passing rocks hand to hand, the scrape of stone on flesh setting his teeth on edge. The wind gusted again, driving a fine spray over the courtyard. He wiped his mouth and tasted salt.

    He turned at the sound of frantic footsteps. A boy¡ªthin as a rail, hair plastered to his skull¡ªskidded to a halt at Grell''s side. "My lord," the lad panted, "ships¡­ Lord Dalton''s ships."

    Grell''s first thought was that the boy must be mistaken or a fool. Dalton Greyjoy had left with two-third''s the Iron Isles'' strength, bent on war across the sea. None expected his return so soon. "What are you blathering, boy?"

    The thrall swallowed. "They''ve been sighted, m''lord. Sailing towards Lordsport. Sails black as the depths."

    For a moment, Grell could only stare. Dalton''s reaving was meant to be long, punishing, a vicious foray against the mainland to avenge old wounds and carve out new glories. Yet here he was, if the boy spoke truly, returning far sooner than sense or rumor might suggest.

    His heart thudded in his chest as he waved the lad off with a brusque nod. "Say nothing more," Grell commanded, "to anyone. If you''ve spread this about already, keep your mouth shut now."

    The thrall scrambled away, nearly stumbling over the rubble. Grell cast one last glance at the laborers, then strode off across the courtyard. His long cloak lashed at his ankles with each step. The ancient corridors of Pyke were damp and chill, carved from black stone as old as the sea itself. He could feel the presence of ghosts here¡ªmen and women drowned or starved or broken on the edge of an Ironborn axe, their spirits swirling in the gloom.

    He climbed until he reached one of Pyke''s swaying rope bridges, stepping onto the slick planks with a caution that belied his stoic fa?ade. The wind snatched at him, tugging the bridge side to side, but Grell''s grip was steady on the ropes. From this vantage he could see the horizon beyond the cliffs. And there, in the shifting light, he spotted sails¡ªdark silhouettes bobbing against the grey swell.

    He counted them. Almost the full complement that Dalton had taken, by the look of it. But there was something¡­ off about the formation. The ships moved in eerie unison, like men marching to a funeral dirge, without the swagger or brash defiance one might expect of Ironborn returned from a triumphant raid.

    He stood a moment more, the cold wind whipping at his face, before turning away. He hurried down the cliffs, mounted a horse, and rode hard for Lordsport. The clouds hung thick overhead, promising rain, and by the time the harbor came into view, a misting drizzle had begun.

    What he found there did not ease his unease. A knot of islanders clustered along the docks, confused and murmuring. The vessels¡ªindeed Dalton''s ships¡ªwere moored, the ropes creaking as sailors made them fast. But the figures who disembarked were not the battered, surly Ironborn that had departed. No sea-stained raiders howling about plunder. Instead, Grell glimpsed red cloaks.

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    His breath snagged. Aemond''s butchers.

    They came off the gangplanks, quick and disciplined, forming neat ranks. Their shields bore the golden three-headed dragon, and their helms gleamed in the feeble light. Grell saw fear and anger flicker across the faces of the Ironborn on the dock, men who had not forgotten how these same Red Cloaks once arrived on the heels of a dragon''s wrath, plundering and cutting down what Aemond''s fire had spared.

    He dismounted, pushing through his own people with a rising dread that clawed at his throat. He came face-to-face with a man in dark leathers and a deeper crimson cloak than the rest, trimmed in silver thread. This stranger had a lean, hungry look, his hair tied back tight. At his hip hung a long, utilitarian mace.

    Grell halted, swallowing back the swirl of alarm in his gut. "You," he began with a barely suppressed tremor in his voice, "I am Grell Wynch, who stands for Pyke in Dalton''s absence."

    The man regarded him with an expression of mild condescension. "Kellen Rivers, Marshal of the Camp, Seventh Standard," he said in a clipped tone, not offering so much as a bow.

    Without preamble, Grell posed the question that pressed upon his mind like lead. "Dalton?"

    In answer, Kellen Rivers gave the slightest nod to one of his men. The soldier stepped forward, bearing a sack that dripped darkly onto the dock. He overturned it with a brutal casualness. A head rolled free, hair still flecked with dried blood. The face that stared back was ghastly pale, eyes open and empty. There was no mistaking that face, even matted with gore.

    A hiss tore from Grell''s throat, more emotion than words. Around him, the Ironborn murmured or called out, recoiling at the sight of their lord''s severed head. A hush fell over the dock, broken only by the crash of the waves on the shore.

    "What do you want?" Grell forced the words from his tightening chest. "We have no gold left. If it''s plunder you''ve come for¡ª"

    Kellen Rivers shook his head, the motion almost pitying. "The Prince has wearied of krakens and their insolence. He sends us to see these islands yield, once and for all. You are to surrender¡ªunconditionally. We will remain, garrisoned here, for however long the prince deems necessary. Any who break his peace will die."

    A numbness spread through Grell, as cold as the sea spray that lashed the docks. He felt an urge to snarl defiance, to spit at these foreign curs in their scarlet finery, but one glance at Dalton''s severed head silenced him.

    "What if¡­ we refuse?" he managed.

    Kellen Rivers''s smirk turned cruel. "Then we do what we were instructed to do from the start. Burn every tower, torch every house, slay every man, woman, and babe with salt in their blood. When the last of you sinks to the bottom of the sea, we''ll return to Lannisport, our task complete."

    Grell looked over at the Ironborn gathered on the piers, saw fury and fear contorting their features. He did not doubt for an instant that these Red Cloaks would carry out their threat. The Destroyer''s ilk had proven long ago that mercy was not something they traded in.

    Kellen Rivers followed Grell''s gaze. "Should you choose that path, it would please me well enough. Less time spent on these wretched rocks."

    The wind gusted, stirring Dalton''s hair where it lay in a slick, bloody coil. Rain began in earnest now, pattering upon armor and flesh, running in thin streams over the dock. Grell''s stomach churned with disgust, with grief, with a grim knowledge that the moment for heroics had passed.

    He stared at Dalton''s lifeless eyes and felt the weight of his people''s fate pressing down on him like a millstone. The Ironborn had always prided themselves on their stubbornness, yet the memory of dragonfire and One-eye''s savagery remained too fresh.

    Surrender or die, the choice as stark as the cliff edges of the island.

    Grell swallowed hard, tasting salt and sorrow. "We will¡­ do as Prince Aemond commands."

    He nearly despised himself for uttering those words, but the alternative was to see Pyke''s towers crumble in flame, the men he had fought beside butchered, and their children drowned in blood. Grell turned away in disgust as he made his way back to a castle certain to be claimed by new masters. He did not bother offering a last glance at Dalton Greyjoy''s severed head, staring sightless at the sky. The days of krakens defying dragons were finished. Now, the best he could do was snatch what valuables he could from Pyke before it was too late.

 INTERLUDE: Pink in the Morning

    "Dragons. The grief and glory of my House, they were."

    ¨DMaester Aemon

    ¡­?

    Night hung heavily over Dragonstone, its basalt towers looming stark and black against a moonless sky. A chill wind hissed across the sea, rattling the shutters of the keep''s narrow windows. In her small bedchamber, Rhaena sat with her head bowed over a worn book. A single candle sputtered in a brass sconce at her elbow, shedding a wavering glow on the pages.

    She hardly read the words. Outside, the wind lashed the battlements, and she thought of her sister Baela, held captive in King''s Landing¡ªalongside their grandsire, Lord Corlys. In the gloom, Rhaena shifted, drawing her cloak about her shoulders. Her eyes flicked to the dragon''s egg resting on the table before her.

    It was a sad little thing, this egg. Dull and cold, its once-vibrant shell faded to a grayish hue. She had carried it with her since childhood, convinced it might hatch in time, if only she wanted it hard enough. But year upon year had passed, and the egg had remained lifeless. Now it served more as a memento of all she yearned for but could not possess.

    She sighed, turned another page, and tried to lose herself in the old histories: tales of the first Targaryens who had conquered these Seven Kingdoms with fire in their veins and dragons beneath them. A line or two caught her eye¡ªsome mention of the Old King and his mighty Vermithor¡ªbut her heart clenched at the thought of what had transpired mere days past. Too many would-be dragonriders, convinced that blood alone would grant them mastery, had paid in gore for their overreach.

    A soft rapping on her door jerked her from her reverie. Before she could rise her father stepped into the chamber. He had not bothered with ceremony. He seldom did these days.

    "Rhaena," he said, shutting the door behind him. His face was all sharp angles in the candle''s uncertain light, and he looked weary, drawn. "Are you well?"

    She nodded, though she did not quite meet his eyes. "As well as can be expected, Father. I was only¡­reading."

    "Good. You should read. Words are too often undervalued among our family, overshadowed by steel and flame." Daemon paused a moment, as if searching for the right words. "Though I suspect your thoughts stray to other matters."

    He crossed to where she sat, the flickering candle illuminating the silver in his hair. There was a warmth in his voice, beneath the gruff edge¡ªa fondness reserved for his children, especially in these dark times.

    Rhaena set aside her book. "It is Baela, Father. I cannot help but wonder if she''s truly safe, locked away in the Red Keep. And Grandfather Corlys¡ªwill he withstand Aemond''s wrath? What if¡ª"

    Daemon stilled her with a light touch on her arm. "I cannot speak to their conditions, but know this: we dragonlords endure. Baela, Corlys, Rhaenys¡ªthey know the consequences of this war. The best we can do is bring it to a swift end."

    She tried to find solace in that, though anxiety still gnawed at her. After a silence, he eyed the old egg upon the table. His brow furrowed. "You still keep that close?"

    Rhaena forced a small smile. "It offers a sort of comfort¡­perhaps foolishly so."

    "It is not foolish," Daemon said. Then, after a moment, he exhaled, as though bracing himself. "I come bearing news¡ªand a request. I have spoken to your mother."

    His tone told her at once this was no trifling matter. She set her shoulders, prepared for whatever words might follow.

    "You recall how we sought to bind Vermithor again," Daemon began, "only to see men of proud houses left as so much charred bone. Vermithor is an old beast, and not kindly to strangers." His mouth tightened. "But Silverwing was once a gentler creature, or so we are told. Rhaenyra and I would have you try again, come the morrow."

    Rhaena''s stomach lurched. She had known the day might come when she''d be asked to attempt such a claim. Yet the memory of those charred and broken bodies lay fresh in her mind. "Silverwing has gone riderless for so long¡­ perhaps she does not wish for another."

    Daemon inclined his head. "She might not. But she might. The truth is, we have too few dragons¡ªand fewer riders still. Silverwing may be more amenable than Vermithor, and you have the blood, Rhaena. Better you than the next fool who fancies himself a dragonlord."

    She twisted her fingers in her lap. A part of her felt sudden, heart-thudding fear. Another part felt the faintest thrill. A living dragon. A bond that might make a difference in the war. She wanted to be brave, for herself, for Baela, for their house. But the tales of those scorched in their attempts¡­

    Daemon squeezed her hand, as though sensing her turmoil. "Have courage. I will not force you, but I think it well worth the risk. Think on it tonight, and be ready by dawn."

    His voice gentled. "We cannot leave all to chance. We must try. You must try."

    Rhaena swallowed hard, then nodded. "Yes. Very well."

    Satisfied, Daemon rose. He touched a hand briefly to her shoulder. "Rest, daughter. May the gods grant you a kinder dream than they have me these last months."

    He was gone before she could summon another word.

    <hr>

    She attempted to settle herself after Daemon''s departure, but the castle''s stillness grew oppressive. She heard the distant sigh of the wind through narrow windows, the soft scrape of scales from beyond¡ªdragonish murmurs, perhaps. Sleep did not come easily.

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    Eventually, she banked the small hearthfire and climbed into bed, wearing only a thin shift beneath her blankets. Yet still her pulse drummed. Giving in to the old habit, she reached for the lifeless egg and drew it close, cradling it against her belly. She listened to her own breath and let the candle gutter out.

    Her thoughts spun: Baela caged in the Red Keep. Silverwing waiting, or refusing. Her father''s eyes, lined with worry. Her mother''s counsel. She prayed, in that fumbling way of the uncertain, that tomorrow might bring some hope.

    <hr>

    Rhaena did not know she had slept until the pale edges of dawn lit her chamber. She stirred, half-dreaming of dragons. Warmth pressed against her side, more tangible than any dream. A gentle snuffling sound reached her ears.

    Blinking away the blur of slumber, she sat upright¡ªand froze. Nestled in the sheets where the egg had been was a creature the color of pale rose, with slender limbs and tiny black horns. A hatchling.

    For an instant, she scarcely drew breath. The little dragon blinked up at her with eyes like polished onyx. Its skin gleamed faintly in the weak morning glow, so impossibly alive and delicate.

    "My dragon," Rhaena whispered, wonderstruck. She slid carefully off the bed and scooped the hatchling into her arms. The creature let out a soft chirp, fragile wings fanning. How had this come to pass? After all these years of nothing¡­

    Her heart hammered in her chest. She had to tell someone¡ªno, she had to tell everyone. She rushed to the washbasin, splashing water on her face, scarcely able to contain her joy. Then, with trembling hands, she gathered her cloak about her shoulders, perched the hatchling against her breast, and hurried from the room.

    <hr>

    She made her way through Dragonstone''s dark passages with an eager step. Servants she passed looked upon the little beast with expressions ranging from awe to unease, but she did not slow. Soon, she arrived at the doors to her parents'' chamber and knocked, breathless.

    It was Rhaenyra who answered, voice heavy with sleep. "Enter."

    Rhaena pushed open the door. Within, she found her mother stirring, propped on one elbow, hair unbound, while Prince Daemon rose from the bed in a loose-fitting robe. At the sight of his daughter, disheveled and holding a pinkish dragon hatchling, Daemon''s eyes went wide. Rhaenyra sat upright.

    "Seven save us," she said in a hushed voice, her gaze sweeping over the tiny creature. "Rhaena¡­"

    "It hatched," Rhaena said, hardly knowing how else to speak. "I¡ªfound it this morning."

    Rhaenyra''s face broke into a radiant smile. "Truly? After all this time¡­ Let me see." She reached out, wonder in her eyes. The hatchling flicked its forked tongue, seemingly unafraid.

    Daemon, however, seemed more cautious than marveling. He approached, brow furrowed, as if uncertain whether to celebrate or fear some dire omen. When he spoke, his voice was tight. "A new hatchling, days or even years from flight."

    Rhaena lifted her gaze to him, expecting pride. Instead, she saw something close to anger flicker across his face. "Father?"

    The prince turned away, running a hand through his silver hair. "The Greens have six grown dragons¡ªsix. Vhagar, Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion¡­ and they''ve new riders for Seasmoke and that damned Sheepstealer. We have only four: Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax." His lips curled in frustration. "Now that your egg''s hatched, you are bound to this hatchling, Rhaena, and that means you cannot claim Silverwing. That was what we needed¡ªone more adult in the sky."

    Rhaenyra''s eyes narrowed at him. "Surely this is still good news. Another Targaryen bonding with a dragon is no small thing."

    But Daemon let out a harsh breath. "A miracle that wins us no battles. It may be grown in ten years¡ªor never, for all we know." He looked again upon his daughter and her new dragon, as though he wanted to rejoice but could not. "Now we must pin our hopes on peasants, half-blood bastards who claim Targaryen descent, to bind themselves to Vermithor or Silverwing. Pray the gods they succeed where others failed."

    Rhaena shrank back, clutching the hatchling protectively. "I¡­ I did not ask for this, Father."

    Her words hung in the air, raw as an open wound. Rhaenyra shot Daemon a glare, but he only turned and strode toward the tall window at the far side of the chamber, shoulders taut with pent-up fury.

    "What use is it?" he murmured, scarcely directing the question at anyone. "What good is another infant dragon, when we are losing this war by the day?"

    His bitterness left the room stifling. Rhaena felt tears prick her eyes, but she blinked them away, unwilling to cry before her father.

    Rhaenyra reached for her daughter, guiding her a step aside. "This is a blessing, Rhaena. Do not doubt it. Your father''s anger is not with you¡ªhe is weary of the war, of defeat after defeat. But in time, he will see the wonder of this moment."

    Her mother placed a comforting hand on her back. Daemon still lingered by the window, staring out across the churning sea, as though longing to take flight himself and punish their foes. Without a word, he pushed open the shutters and stepped onto the narrow balcony, letting the wind whip at his robe.

    At last, Rhaenyra sighed. "Let him sulk. He will come around, or he won''t¡ªbut this is your dragon, Rhaena. Yours." She brushed a strand of hair from the girl''s face and offered a reassuring smile. "I am proud of you, Rhaena."

 Chapter Forty-One: Hostile Denial

    "Let us raise an army of bastards."

    ¨DRhaenyra Targaryen

    ¡­?

    Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the threshold, her breath misting before her in the morning chill. The stone beneath her feet was ancient, weathered by time and tempest.

    She found Daemon there, seated before the high table, his figure carved of shadow and gloom. His silver hair fell loose over his shoulders, gleaming faintly in the dim light. He was dressed for court, in the black and red of their house, yet his posture betrayed the unrest within him. One hand curled around the armrest of his chair, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. His other hand lay still upon the table, mere inches from the hilt of Dark Sister.

    Rhaenyra''s heart tightened. She knew the fury that smoldered still beneath his stony visage. It had been there since dawn, since Rhaena had burst into their chambers with a dragon hatchling cradled against her breast.

    Rhaenyra approached, her skirts whispering against the cold floor. "Husband." Her voice was soft, but it echoed in the vaulted hall.

    Daemon did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, his jaw tight. "If you''ve come to speak of Rhaena, save your words."

    "She did not ask for this," Rhaenyra said, stepping closer. "Nor did we. It was a miracle, Daemon."

    "A miracle," Daemon repeated, the word twisting bitterly on his tongue. He leaned forward, his shoulders rigid. "A miracle that binds her to a hatchling¡ªa whelp that will see no battle for years, if ever. And now we are one rider short. One dragon fewer." His eyes turned to her, dark and cold. "Tell me, wife, how is that a miracle?"

    Rhaenyra''s patience was thinning. She met his glare with one of her own. "You would rather she have no dragon at all?"

    His jaw tightened, but he did not reply.

    Rhaenyra''s voice softened. "She is a child, Daemon. And now, by the grace of the gods, she would be a rider. We should be grateful."

    "Grateful," Daemon muttered, his fingers curling into a fist. "Grateful that our daughter is bound to a dragon too weak to serve us when we need her most. Grateful." He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Pray, then. Pray that the bastards and mongrels waiting below can succeed where Ser Steffon Darklyn and his ilk failed so miserably."

    Rhaenyra''s mouth fell open, no words escaping her. Daemon''s face was a mask of bitter resignation. "If they fail," he continued, his voice low and hard, "then we march on the enemy short in every way that counts. And then, my queen, I will hear no more talk of miracles."

    Without another word, Daemon swept past her, his cloak billowing behind him. The door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the hall long after he was gone.

    Rhaenyra stood in the cold silence, her shoulders heavy with grief. She watched the dying light flicker along the walls and felt a chill deeper than that of mere stone. The weight of her crown bore down upon her, a burden would not surrender. Not to Aegon. Not to anyone.

    She squared her shoulders and followed her husband from the hall, her mood bleak and heavy. She could not afford despair. Not today.

    <hr>

    The chamber below the castle was cavernous, the stone walls arching overhead like the ribs of some great beast. The dragonseeds were gathered there¡ªcommon folk, bastards, fisherfolk, and merchants'' sons¡ªall huddled together beneath the wary gaze of the Dragonkeepers.

    The men of the ancient order stood apart, their arms crossed over their chests, faces hard and unyielding. At their head stood Vezhof, their leader, a man as old and weathered as the castle itself. His hair was white as sea foam, and his eyes as cold as the waves beyond the castle''s walls.

    He saw her before she reached the foot of the stairs. His mouth tightened, and his arms fell to his sides. "My queen," he began, his voice carrying clear through the stone vaults, "this is folly."

    Rhaenyra held her head high. "How so? These men and women have come to prove themselves worthy of a dragon."

    Vezhof''s lips curled in distaste. "Andals and mongrels. Not one of them is fit to serve a dragon, let alone ride one." His gaze swept the gathered dragonseeds, his expression darkening. "You bring filth before the last divine remnants of Old Valyria. Have you no reverence?"

    Rhaenyra''s temper flared. "These folk are of the blood of the dragon."

    The Dragonkeeper''s face grew hard. "Blood too fouled with Andal impurity. None here is a dragonlord, and neither were the ones that came before." He pointed a gnarled finger at the assembled hopefuls. "These are not your kin. They are rabble. They are pretenders. They are sacrilege."

    Daemon''s patience finally snapped. "And whose truth is greater? Yours, keeper, or hers?" He stepped forward, his presence commanding, his voice a whip crack against stone. "Rhaenyra is queen, a dragonlord, descended of Old Valyria. These are her dragons, her birthright. If she says they may be claimed, then who are you to defy her?"

    Vezhof did not flinch. "I am Vezhofbelmon, Torch Holder, keeper of the dragons. It is my sacred duty to protect them from those who would defile them. They are the last magic of a beautiful age. Not weapons. Not playthings for lesser men." His chin lifted, defiance in his ancient eyes. "My order will take no part in this desecration."

    The air grew cold. Daemon''s face darkened, his lips drawing back in a snarl. Before Rhaenyra could react, Dark Sister was in his hand, the Valyrian steel pressed to Vezhof''s throat.

    The chamber fell silent. The Dragonkeepers tensed, hands drifting to their own blades. The commonfolk cowered, eyes wide in terror. Rhaenyra felt her heart lurch.

    Daemon''s voice was low and dangerous. "Repeat that."

    Vezhof''s gaze was steady, his voice unwavering. "I will not take part in this abomination. Not for you. Not for anyone." His eyes never left Daemon''s. "Kill me, if you must. I will not betray my oath."

    The blade did not waver. Rhaenyra watched, her heart pounding in her chest. She placed her hand on Daemon''s arm, her voice soft, pleading. "Enough, husband. Please."

    For a long, tense moment, Daemon did not move. His muscles were rigid, his jaw clenched, his eyes alight with fury. Then, at last, he lowered his blade. A thin line of blood welled on Vezhof''s neck, gleaming red against his pale skin.

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    Without a word, Vezhof turned and walked away, his back straight, his head high. The other Dragonkeepers followed, their faces grim, their silence damning.

    Daemon sheathed his sword, his jaw tight. He did not look at his wife. "Let them go," he said, his voice cold. "If they will not serve, then they are of no use to us."

    Rhaenyra said nothing. Her hand lingered on his arm a moment longer before she let it fall away. She looked at the dragonseeds, the fear and awe in their eyes. She looked at her husband, his face hard as the stone around them. She looked at the door through which the Dragonkeepers had vanished, shadows swallowing them whole.

    And in her heart, doubt took root.

    <hr>

    The stairwell spiraled endlessly downward, narrow and steep, the stone steps slick beneath Morya''s worn boots. Each breath clouded before her, the chill of the underground air clinging to her skin. She gripped the iron rail as she descended, her fingers numb and stiff, her heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm.

    The crowd pressed close around her, a mass of bodies moving as one, faces pale and drawn in the flickering torchlight. Shadows danced along the walls, twisting into monstrous shapes that seemed to leer at them from the dark. Morya shivered, feeling the weight of the ancient stones bearing down on her.

    Soon, the air grew warmer, heavy with a scent she couldn''t place¡ªsharp and acrid, burning at the back of her throat. Sulfur. It was the smell of dragons. In the end, they reached a door, the crowd spilling into a vast, yawning chamber. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, their light barely touching the high, vaulted ceiling. A gantry of stone stretched from the threshold to the heart of the room, suspended over a drop so deep Morya could barely see the bottom in the dark. She hesitated at the entrance, her knees weak, but the press of bodies behind her drove her forward.

    At the end of the gantry stood the Queen, Rhaenyra, her silver hair shimmering in the torchlight, her face cold and pale as marble. Beside her was her wraith of a spouse, his arms crossed, gaze dark as he stared at them.

    Rhaenyra''s voice rang out, clear and strong, cutting through the murmurs. "Vermithor," she said. "He is the largest in the world after Vhagar. Perhaps the most fierce. He is called the Bronze Fury. Today, the bravest and most worthy amongst you will claim him."

    Her gaze swept over them, cold and imperious. "Turn back now, if you lack the will. This is your last chance."

    She turned then, facing the darkness at the far end of the chamber. Her voice changed, falling into a low, guttural chant, the words harsh and alien, echoing off the stone. Morya shivered. She did not know the words, but it felt old. Older than the castle, older than the sea itself.

    Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. Morya''s heart thudded in her chest, her skin prickling with cold sweat. Then, a sound¡ªa low rumble, distant and deep, like thunder beneath the earth. The air grew hotter, dry and stifling, carrying the stench of sulfur and charred bone.

    The darkness moved. Golden eyes appeared first, terrible, gleaming with ancient malice. The shadow took shape, teeth, scales, horns, immense and monstrous, unfolding from the darkness with the slow, deliberateness of a predator.

    The dragon''s breath came in low, hissing exhalations, smoke curling from his nostrils. His claws scraped the stone, the sound like knives grinding against each other. He lowered his head, eyes sweeping over the crowd, cold and indifferent.

    Morya felt herself shrink under that gaze. She was nothing before this creature¡ªless than nothing. Her blood was ice, her knees weak. She fought to breathe, to move, but her body was frozen.

    Rhaenyra''s voice cut through the silence. "I have nothing more to tell you. It will be the dragon who speaks."

    Without another word, the queen turned and walked away, her cloak trailing behind her. Daemon, who had been caressing the beast''s chin, followed, his gaze lingering on the crowd, his mouth curled in disdain. The doors boomed shut behind them, the echo reverberating through the chamber.

    Morya''s heart sank.

    The crowd murmured, uncertain, fearful. Some stepped forward, faces pale and drawn, eyes wide with awe. Others edged backward, inching toward the door. Morya felt her feet move of their own accord, carrying her backward, away from the beast. But there was nowhere to go.

    Vermithor growled, low and deep, the sound vibrating through the stone. His eyes narrowed, his lips curling back to reveal dark gums gnarled with teeth. The heat of his breath washed over them, hot and suffocating.

    A man stepped forward, his hands trembling as he reached for the beast. "Blood of the dragon," he whispered. "I am¡ª"

    The flame came without warning, a torrent of fire that engulfed him in a flash. He did not scream. There was no time. His body crumbled to ash, the air filled with the sickly sweet stench of burnt flesh.

    Panic erupted. The crowd surged, screaming, shoving, trampling each other in their frenzy to escape. Morya stumbled, her foot catching on something. She fell hard, her knees slamming into stone. She gasped, pain shooting through her legs.

    She pushed herself up, eyes wide with terror. The dragon was moving, his body uncoiling, his wings unfurling. The air crackled with heat, the light dimming as shadows danced across the walls.

    Morya ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding. Down the stairs, into the darkness below. Others followed, their faces twisted in panic, their voices rising in a cacophony of terror.

    Soon, they stumbled into a smaller chamber, cold and dark. At its center lay another dragon, smaller and sleeker, its scales gleaming silver in the dim light.

    The beast''s head rose, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing with suspicion. It watched them, silent and still.

    Before Morya could think, a man screamed, his voice high and wild. "Ashes to Ashes!" he howled. "Blood to Blood!"

    Then, without warning, he charged the beast with a dagger raised. The dragon''s eyes dilated, its mouth opening wide, glowing. Fire burst forth, hot and blinding, filling the chamber with light. Heat. Pain.

    Morya screamed¡ª

 Chapter Forty-Two: Killing Morale

    "If I look back, I am lost."

    ¨DDaenerys Targaryen

    ¡­?

    Daemon stood, unmoving, his gaze locked on the last of the dragonseeds as he stumbled to the ground, his body charred and broken. The air around Dragonstone still smelled of sulfur and burnt flesh, the echo of Vermithor''s final bellow lingering in the stone halls of the keep.

    Not one had succeeded. Not a single man had lived long enough to make it onto Vermithor''s back, and now the beast¡ªits dark form vanishing into the gloom of the tunnels¡ªwas gone. Gone, as were any fleeting thoughts Daemon had entertained that one of these fools might have had the luck to survive the dragon''s fury. No. In the end, they were all the same¡ªfoolish, desperate, and dead.

    Daemon''s hand tightened on the hilt of Dark Sister, though it remained still at his side. He did not look at Rhaenyra, who stood beside him, her figure as rigid as his own. He could feel her, though, the weight of her silence pressing against him. He had known, deep down, that this was the likely outcome. No dragonseed would ever match the power of true Targaryens. But for a brief, foolish moment, he had let himself hope. And that hope was gone now, burnt to ash along with the rest of them.

    "Not one of them," Daemon muttered to himself, eyes narrowing as the last of the bodies were carried away by the wind, the remnants of their lives vanishing into the gloom of the night. The echo of their anguished screams still hung in the air, like the fading memory. "Not a single one."

    Rhaenyra did not speak, but he could feel the question on her lips. The same one he had asked himself a hundred times since their cause had begun to falter. What now?

    The answer came with the same bitter taste it always had: Nothing.

    Aemond was winning. That much was clear. Daemon had heard it unfold in the south, in the Stormlands, where One-eye''s lightning offensive had ripped through their allies, leaving only scorched earth in its wake. There was no time for mercy in the foul beast''s world. Only fire. Only conquest.

    And then there was Ormund Hightower, marching north with a great host and Daeron on Tessarion. The Reach was lost, as much as they tried to deny it. Lord Tarly, that old fool, had already bent the knee, and others would follow. The Reach was the Greens'' now. Daemon could feel it in the way the winds shifted, in the way the news arrived too quickly, too easily.

    And then, the Riverlands. Oscar Tully of Riverrun had raised his banners, his great host marching beneath the banner of the Green cause, with Seasmoke and the one named Addam at his back. Daemon had fought against that rider once. He knew well, as much as he might try to deny it, the fellow was competent. Daemon had seen it, felt it, tasted it. The Riverlands would bend the knee, or they would die.

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    In the Vale, the situation was no better. Jeyne Arryn, Aemond''s betrothed, had gathered her forces, bolstered by Sheepstealer and his unnamed rider. Daemon had met that pair once, too, and had been forced to flee. Two dragons against one was never a fight a sane man would choose, especially when his own was injured.

    The Ironborn had failed him. Dalton Greyjoy, that treacherous dog, had most likely ignored his orders to raid the Riverlands. The raids had not come. Not a single whisper of news from the men he had ordered to harry the enemy. It was no surprise, really. The Ironborn had never been known for their loyalty. But Daemon had thought¡­ Perhaps. Perhaps this time, they might prove themselves. But no. They were as useless as they had always been¡ªspineless reavers, too frightened of the flames to venture into the heart of the storm.

    All across Westeros, their enemies gathered, while they watched helplessly as their allies fell. Each day that passed, their grip on the realm loosened further. Rhaenyra''s claim withered in the wind, like a leaf caught in a firestorm. She could feel it, too. He saw it in the way her eyes seemed distant, the way her shoulders were a little more hunched, a little more weary. This was supposed to be her moment. They had all believed it¡ªat least, Daemon had. But now, it seemed that the gods had other plans.

    He turned to Rhaenyra, though his eyes did not meet hers. Instead, he fixed them on the darkness, where the last traces of Vermithor''s form had disappeared.

    "I must leave for Rook''s Rest," Daemon said, his voice colder than the air around them. "There is nothing more for me here."

    At first, Rhaenyra did not answer. He had expected that. She was lost in her own thoughts, as lost as he was in his own. They had always been two sides of the same coin, but now, they seemed as distant as two strangers. Yet, when she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, carried on the wind.

    "Be careful, Daemon."

    He paused, his fingers brushing the hilt of Dark Sister. For a moment, he thought of replying. Of reassuring her. Of telling her that there was no other way¡ªthat they were trapped in a web of their enemy''s making, and he was the only one who could cut them free. But no words came. Instead, he merely nodded, the cold truth of it sinking deeper.

    Without another word, he turned, his boots echoing in the stillness as he made for Caraxes. The sun had fully risen now, and yet the cold wind of Dragonstone wrapped itself around him, a reminder of how alone they were in this fight.

    It was only a matter of time now, it seemed.

 Chapter Forty-Three: Precipice

    "I believe in second chances. I don''t believe in third chances."

    ¨DDoran Martell

    ¡­?

    Aegon woke to the taste of bile and stale wine, Westeros''s king reduced to a mess of tangled sheets and aching bones. His head pounded, each thud in his skull in perfect rhythm with the muffled clamour from beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Sunlight stabbed through the narrow window, a golden spear that skewered him straight through the eyes.

    He groaned, curling tighter into himself, trying to shrink away from the light, from the pain, from the world. But there was no shrinking from this. His bed was too soft, his skin too clammy, his mouth too dry. He felt like something dredged from the bottom of the Blackwater, slick with rot and festering in his own misery.

    Then he saw the shadow.

    Aemond sat in the corner of the room, as still as a statue, as silent as death. His long legs stretched before him, his hands steepled beneath his chin, and that single, violet eye watching Aegon with the cool detachment of a hawk eyeing a wounded hare. The patch he wore over his other eye seemed to disappear into the darkness around him, melding into the shadows as though it were made from the same fabric. He said nothing, merely watched, his posture so rigid it was as if he had been carved from stone.

    The sight struck the breath from Aegon''s lungs. He lurched upright, his limbs a tangled mess, his hands scrabbling against the stone wall as if he might climb through it and away from that unblinking stare. The sheets twisted around his legs, dragging him down, his back smacking against the stone floor with a dull, wet thud. Immediately, he rose, scrambling backwards, his limbs clumsy, still tangled. His back struck the wall this time, and he slid along it until he was pressed into the furthest corner of the room.

    He curled there, gasping, the pain in his head now a secondary ache to the cold, creeping terror that slithered through his veins. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid jerks, his eyes fixed on Aemond. His brother remained motionless, a ghost in the shadows, unimpressed and unamused.

    After a long, agonizing silence, Aemond let out a soft sigh. It was not the sigh of a man at the end of his patience. No, it was the sigh of a man who had lost patience long ago and found nothing worthwhile in trying to reclaim it. He stood, his movements slow, deliberate. No sudden motions. No rush.

    Aegon''s fingers dug into the stone floor as he pressed himself against the wall. He felt the cold seeping into his skin, or maybe that was the fear, numbing him from the inside out.

    Aemond moved to the table, his long fingers curling around the silver flagon. The wine glugged softly as he poured it into a cup, the sound strangely loud in the oppressive quiet of the room. Aegon could only watch as his brother brought the cup to his lips, the dark red liquid staining them for a moment before disappearing into his mouth.

    Aemond stared out the window, his expression unreadable. The city sprawled below, crooked roofs and twisting alleys, the ceaseless motion of King''s Landing like ants on a rotting fruit.

    The silence stretched, thin as a knife''s edge, sharp enough to draw blood.

    Aegon''s pulse thundered in his ears. His skin itched with sweat and dread. He had to say something. Anything. The quiet was too heavy, pressing down on him, threatening to crush him where he sat.

    "What¡­ what do you want?" His voice came out hoarse, cracked. Weak. He hated himself for it.

    Aemond did not move. "Sit."

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    The word had no weight to it. Just a simple instruction, the sort a master might give to a particularly dim-witted dog. Aegon hesitated, but the look Aemond gave him¡ªbrief, sharp, enough to slice through his spine¡ªsent him scurrying to the edge of the bed. He sat, his legs trembling, his fingers digging into his knees.

    Aemond turned back to the window, his cup half-full, his posture the perfect picture of calm. "You''ve been well-behaved."

    Aegon blinked, confusion cutting through the fog in his head. "I¡­ I have?"

    "Yes." Aemond''s tone was flat, devoid of praise or disappointment. "You have done exactly as instructed. Kept to your chambers. Drunk yourself to the edge of stupor. Stayed out of trouble." He took another sip of his wine. "Well done."

    Heat flared in Aegon''s chest. Not warmth, but anger, hot and sharp. "You told me to stay out of your way," he muttered. "And I have."

    Aemond''s lips curled, a thin, razor-edge of a smile. "You have." He set the cup down with a soft clink of silver on wood. "Yet I must confess that I find myself rather perplexed."

    Aemond''s eye pinned him in place. "Our mother. Her insistent on your value. That I indulge you. She believes you indispensable. And yet, I look at you now¡­." He tilted his head, studying Aegon as one might study a smudge on a mirror. "¡­and I am at a loss to understand why."

    Aegon''s hands tightened on his knees. His nails bit into his skin, hard enough to draw blood. "I''m the king," he said, the words brittle, like glass ready to shatter.

    Aemond said nothing. He didn''t need to. His silence spoke volumes.

    Aegon swallowed, his throat tight. "What do you want from me?"

    Aemond turned away, his gaze once more on the city. "I fly to Rook''s Rest tomorrow," he said, his voice as calm as ever. "Daemon''s rabble have made their camp there. The Iron Bank''s gold has bought him Essosi blades, and I mean to turn them to ash."

    Aegon shivered. There was something chilling about the way Aemond spoke of war¡ªof burning, of conquering. It was too easy for him. Too familiar.

    "And when I return, this rebellion at an end, and your crown secured," Aemond continued, "we shall host the tourney I promised. During which, you will announce our intention to go to war with Braavos."

    Aegon blinked. "War¡­ with Braavos?" The words tasted like ash on his tongue. "Why?"

    Aemond''s expression did not change. "Because I decided so."

    The room seemed colder. Smaller. The walls pressing in. "And if I don''t?"

    Aemond turned, his movements smooth as silk. He stepped closer, each footfall a quiet promise of violence. "Then you will remain as you are¡ªa puppet whose strings I have grown weary of pulling. And when history writes your name, it will be in small, inconsequential letters." He leaned in close, his breath warm against Aegon''s cheek. "This is the last chance I will give you to redeem yourself, Aegon. The last chance you will get to be something more. Something lasting. Take it¡­ or be nothing."

    Aegon''s breath hitched. He couldn''t move, couldn''t think, couldn''t breathe.

    Aemond straightened, turned away, and dropped his cup to the floor. The wine pooled across the stone, dark and sticky, a spreading stain that reached Aegon''s bare feet.

    "Think on this, brother. I must go now to make preparations for Daeron''s arrival. The boy must be sore from his travels."

    Without another word, Aemond left.

    Aegon remained where he was, alone in his chamber, his heart pounding and his thoughts swirling. The room felt unbearably cold, the shadows long and dark.

    He was the king.

    And he had never felt so small.

 Chapter Forty-Four: A Gathering of Heirs

    Cont. from INTERLUDE(True Power)?

    <hr>

    The older prince watched as his younger sibling fiddled with a stick, drawing squiggles in the soft earth. "...So, will you tell me?" the boy said in the end. "Is it true?"

    "Is what true?"

    "I''ve heard rumours. From the dragonkeepers in the Pit. Some say you dabble in old Valyrian magic. Is that how you were able to master the Direwolves?"

    Aemond leaned back, stretching his spine as he did. "Valyrian magics are costly things to invoke, brother. I would not call on them to pacify mere wolves."

    "So, you do know them?"

    Aemond arched a brow as he tossed a piece of jerky into his mouth.

    "Yes."?

    Present

    <hr>

    Daeron''s arse was numb, his thighs aching, and his throat parched from the dust that clung to the air. King''s Landing sprawled before him, a jagged cluster of roofs and walls, the Red Keep perched above it all like a basking dragon. He shifted in the saddle, gritting his teeth as his knees ached in protest. He''d never been fond of long rides.

    "About bloody time," muttered Ser Gwayne Hightower at his side, wiping the sweat from his neck with a gloved hand. "I was starting to think we''d marched to the edge of the world."

    Behind them, the host of the Reach stretched back like a river of steel, banners snapping in the breeze. A few dozen sigils on a few thousand shields, all loyal to Lord Ormund Hightower. And above, gliding lazily in the sky, was Tessarion, her sapphire scales glittering like a thousand polished blades. Daeron watched as she banked sharply, her wings stretching wide as she descended in the direction of the Dragonpit. For a moment, his heart ached, wishing to be riding her, to feel the rush of the wind against his face as they dived and spun. Yet, there was a lesson in restraint. Aemond would have reminded him of that. Today, dignity required that he enter the city as a prince, not as a dragonlord.

    The Old Gate loomed before them, its ancient stones draped with banners of green and gold. The city guards were resplendent in polished armor, their cloaks a deep, rich crimson, saluting sharply as Daeron passed. As the host entered King''s Landing, the throng of people grew thicker, cheering and waving as petals were flung from balconies above. Their laughter and shouts filled the air, an outpouring of adoration.

    Daeron sat taller in his saddle, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. News of their triumphs over the rebels in the Reach had evidently preceded them. There had been no battle of note; their enemies had surrendered readily enough when faced with the might of Lord Ormund''s army and the promise of dragonfire. It had been more a campaign of parley and submission than conquest. Yet victory was victory.

    As they passed through the bustling streets, Daeron could not help but notice the changes. The King''s Landing he remembered was a foul and filthy place, its air thick with the stench of rot and piss. Now, the air was uncommonly clean, tinged with the faint scent of blossoms. Colorful murals adorned the buildings, vivid depictions of dragons soaring over fields of wheat, and golden crowns encircling the realm. Plants hung from archways and windows, vines intertwined with flowers in shades of crimson and gold.

    The streets were cleaner too, swept free of filth and mud. Even the cobblestones seemed newer, polished by the countless feet that trod upon them. And the people¡­ Daeron''s brow furrowed as he studied them. They were better clothed than he remembered, their faces less drawn and more content. There were fewer beggars lining the streets, and the few he did see were not the skeletal wretches of old, but healthier-looking souls with hollow eyes. As for the whores¡­ they were present, certainly, but so artfully adorned, draped in silks and glittering stones, that they resembled the courtesans of Braavos more than common streetwalkers.

    "It is beautiful," Daeron murmured, his lips curving into an unbidden smile. "Like a place from the old tales."

    "Indeed," Gwayne replied, a touch of skepticism creeping into his tone. "Though I daresay tales are seldom so tidy. Your brother''s work. He''s turned this cesspit into something almost¡­ pleasant."

    Daeron chuckled, his good humor undiminished. "Brother Aemond has ever been a lover of order."

    <hr>

    The Red Keep loomed ahead, crimson walls stark against the golden sky. At the base of the steps stood their welcoming party, banners of House Targaryen and Hightower fluttering side by side. His mother was the first to reach him, her embrace fierce and warm, her hair still as golden as he remembered. Queen Alicent spoke softly as she kissed his cheeks, her fingers tracing his face as if to memorize it.

    "My son¡­ my brave boy," she whispered, her voice choked. "You have returned to me."

    He smiled, hugging her back before turning to his sister. Helaena stood apart, her three children gathered around her skirts, their eyes wide with curiosity. She embraced him awkwardly, her hands cold but gentle. "It is good to see you, Daeron," she murmured, her gaze drifting somewhere distant. "The threads are tighter now¡­ they weave so tightly¡­ it''s good."

    Daeron did not understand her words, but he smiled, glad to see her well.

    His grandfather, Otto Hightower, stood just behind, his face a mask of measured approval. The Lord Hand''s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he looked upon his grandson. "You have done well, my prince," he said, his voice soft and firm. "Your return is most timely. The realm is safer for it."

    Finally, Aemond stepped forward, regal in his black and green robes. His eye shone with mirth as he clasped Daeron''s hand, pulling him into a firm embrace. "You''ve grown taller again, little brother," he teased, his voice smooth and measured. "And more formidable, I hear. The Blue Dragon of the Reach."

    Daeron laughed, his chest swelling with pride. "And you, brother," he shot back. "Aemond the Stormbreaker, they call you now. Is that not your third or fourth epithet already?"

    Aemond''s mouth curved in amusement. "Fifth, I think."

    Before Daeron could reply, Alicent took his arm, leading him towards the Red Keep. "Come, you must be exhausted. You will rest tonight, and tomorrow you shall stand before the King."

    Daeron hesitated. "Aegon¡­ how fares he?"

    Aemond made a dismissive gesture. "You will see him tomorrow," he said. "Rest tonight. You will be busy come morning."

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    <hr>

    Daeron''s boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he made his way down the long hall, his mind lingering on the image of his elder brother. Aegon''s skin had looked too pale, his eyes sunken, and there was a dullness to his gaze that Daeron could not reconcile with the drunken reveler he remembered. He had tried to ask his mother, but she had merely smiled and lied¡ªshe was bad at that¡ªtold him it was only a cough. The kind men got every day, and they got over it too, she said.

    Still, Daeron did not press her. It was not his way to disturb the surface of things when the waters beneath were so obviously troubled. And besides, there were other matters requiring his attention, not least of which was the summons he had just received.

    Aemond was waiting for him at the City Watch''s East Barracks, a detail imparted to him by a small servant boy who had all the appearance of a startled hare. The boy had stammered his message, bowed thrice, and nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to depart. Daeron, who had always found the urgency of others somewhat amusing, had merely chuckled and made his way to the stables.

    The Red Keep''s stables were as he remembered¡ªwarm with the breath of horses, the air thick with the scent of hay and leather. His stallion, a fine creature with a glossy coat and bright eyes, greeted him with a snort. "Yes, yes," Daeron murmured, stroking the animal''s neck. "We are off again, my friend."

    The ride through the city was brisk, the cobbled streets echoing with the clatter of hooves. Soon, the East Barracks rose before him, austere and formidable. High walls of dark stone framed a massive gate, the iron-banded wood marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its scales rendered in gleaming gold. Guards stood at attention, their halberds crossed, and Daeron felt a ripple of surprise when they did not immediately part to allow him passage.

    "Name and purpose," one of the guards intoned, his voice a flat echo against the stone.

    For a moment, Daeron could only blink. "Prince Daeron Targaryen," he said slowly. "I am here to see my brother, Prince Aemond."

    The guards exchanged a glance, then signaled to those above. Daeron heard the soft shuffle of feet, the creak of leather as archers above relaxed once more. It seemed even he was not exempt from the careful order that had settled over the city.

    "Welcome, Your Grace," the guard said, stepping aside. "Forgive the caution. Prince Aemond is most¡­ particular about the barrack''s security."

    "So I see," Daeron murmured, dismounting. A smaller gate opened, and Daeron offered the reins of his steed to a young groom who took them with a bow. The courtyard he stepped into was neat, sober in its appearance. Gravel crunched underfoot as he moved, his gaze sweeping over the orderly rows of stabled horses, the squat, practical buildings, and the main structure that loomed ahead, its windows narrow and shuttered.

    A guard guided him inside, the air shifting from the brisk chill of autumn to the cool dimness of stone walls. They ascended a set of steps, the iron railing cool beneath his hand. The building was devoid of the usual trappings of wealth¡ªno tapestries to soften the echo of their footsteps, no lanterns save for the occasional candle burning in its niche. It was a place of work, not leisure, and Daeron found himself comforted by its simplicity.

    At last, they reached a door bound in iron. The guard knocked once, a crisp, curt sound, then opened it to reveal a modest chamber filled with the scent of parchment and ink.

    Aemond stood at the center of the room, his head bent over a table strewn with maps and documents. His hair, a pale silver that caught the candlelight, fell loose around his face, and he wore his customary green and black, the colors sharp against the muted backdrop of the room.

    Daeron cleared his throat. "Brother."

    Aemond''s head lifted, and a smile spread across his lips. "Daeron. You made good time. Close the door."

    Daeron did as asked, the door clicking shut behind him. He turned back to find Aemond''s attention returned to the documents arrayed before him.

    "I hear Aegon is unwell," Daeron ventured, crossing the room to stand by the table.

    "Aegon is many things," Aemond replied, his tone dismissive. "Unwell is only one of them."

    Daeron looked down at the map, recognizing the Crownlands and the coastlines of the Narrow Sea. Red lines and black arrows crisscrossed the parchment, marking troop movements and defensive positions. "You''ve been busy," he noted, his finger tracing a line on the map.

    Aemond''s mouth curled into a thin smile. "I''ve no time for idleness. Daemon''s rabble is entrenched at Rook''s Rest, fifty thousand strong, and I have begun to grow impatient with the Black''s rebellion. The City Watch will march in a few hours from now. Three days after, the Hightower host you brought with you will follow."

    "Without the Lannisters?" Daeron asked, frowning. "Their host is still weeks away."

    "The Westerlanders will join us en route. Fifteen thousand Valemen are already on the march, moving to meet us just east of Antlers. I will not risk them being caught alone. I trust you are ready?"

    Daeron hesitated. "Of course¡­ though I did not expect we would move so soon."

    "Wars wait for no man," Aemond said, his attention flickering from the table. "Lord Ormund has pledged ten thousand swords to our cause, greatly bolstering the host we''ve already assembled. With the Vale at our side, the scales tip in our favor. The time to strike is now. Every day we linger, we squander coin and supplies, feeding idle men who grow restless."

    He leaned back, fingers drumming against the wood. "Twice now, Rhaenyra''s allied fleets have sought to break our hold on the Stepstones. They are desperate to reopen the trade routes to the rest of Essos, to keep the coffers of their Braavosi and Pentoshi patrons fat and their allies appeased. I''ve commanded the Hightower fleet to strengthen the blockade, but I would see this matter settled at Rook''s Rest." His voice hardened, a shadow crossing his face. "I will not suffer two fronts to fester. One swift blow, and this ends before they can muster another breath of defiance."

    Aemond turned to a trunk in the corner of the room, lifting it unto the desk and unlocking it with a key from his belt. The lid creaked as he opened it, revealing a pile of stone eggs nestled within. The eggs were ancient, their colors faded, their surfaces cold and rough.

    Daeron''s breath caught. "Are those¡­?"

    "Dragon eggs," Aemond confirmed. "Turned to stone long ago. The dragonkeepers had written them off claiming they will never hatch." He closed the trunk with a firm hand. "You will take them with you. Speak with my men at the Dragonpit about how best to secure them on Tessarion''s saddle. They will be expecting you."

    Daeron stared at the trunk, his thoughts whirling. "Why? What use are stone eggs?"

    Aemond merely shook his head. "Keep them safe, brother. They are worth more than you know."

 Chapter Forty-Five: A Gathering of Foes

    "We march to victory, or we march to defeat. But we go forward. Only forward."

    ¨DStannis Baratheon

    ¡­?

    Daemon leaned against the battlements, hands resting on the cool, damp stone. The salt-laden wind tugged at his cloak, stirred the silver of his hair as he gazed out over the endless stretch of water. The waves rolled and heaved beneath a sky the color of old iron, their white crests breaking against the hulls of a thousand ships. Never had he seen such a fleet¡ªnot even during his wars in the Stepstones. He chewed the inside of his cheek, considering the scene, considering his options.

    The Narrow Sea stretched out before him, a great heaving mass of gray, darker where the clouds pressed low, lighter where the sun broke through in half-hearted streaks. Of the hulls bobbing on the restless waters, the Braavosi vessels stood out among them, their purple sails still bold despite the grime of salt and spray. The Sealord''s own, bought and paid for by the Iron Bank to see Rhaenyra''s claim secured and that drunk fool Aegon and his warhound brother''s bank stamped out.

    Others lurked among them¡ªmany plain-sailed, sharp-keeled. Pentoshi, maybe. Or Lyseni. Hard to tell with privateers. They fought for gold, not flags, and gold had a way of changing hands. Today they were his. Tomorrow? He''d seen the way the wind blew.

    Not that it mattered much.

    Ships didn''t seem to win wars these days. Men did. Dragons did. And while the fleet was vast, it had been useless in breaking the Greens'' hold on the Stepstones. Three times they''d tried, three times they''d failed. The warships of the enemy¡ªless than two hundred of them¡ªhad made a fortress of the islands, turning every narrow pass into a slaughterhouse. Aemond''s men had laid scorpions and trebuchets along the cliffs, sending ship after ship to the bottom.

    The one time their fleet had tried for King''s Landing, at the behest of some fool commander, Vhagar had come screaming out of the black. The plan had been sound¡ªfrom the fool''s perspective perhaps. A swift, brutal strike before the enemy could react.

    One did not need a report to know how that turned out.

    By dawn, Blackwater Bay had become a funeral pyre, two hundred ships lost before the survivors could scatter into open water.

    Daemon flexed his fingers. The ache in his knuckles had been a constant thing of late, though whether it came from his age or the weight of his sword, he could not say. He had spent half his life in war, yet never had he felt so hemmed in, so powerless. The Essosi captains would not dare another fool''s venture against the Stepstones, nor would they risk another charge upon the capital. They had been tempered by fire and learned well that dragons were not mere beasts to be trifled with.

    So they lingered here, anchored in the churning waters between Rook''s Rest and Dragonstone, waiting, waiting. Daemon had ordered it so. He had seen enough folly for one war. Better to hold firm than squander more lives in futile engagements. Let the enemy come to them, for once.

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    And come, they had.

    Daemon turned his gaze westward, towards the rolling fields beyond the keep. The Greens were out there, somewhere, crawling in like a sickness. Soldiers spilling across the hills, setting up camp, planting their banners deep into the mud.

    And the dragons.

    He''d known they were coming. He''d known for days. Vhagar, Seasmoke, Tessarion, and Sheepstealer. Four dragons lurking on the edges, the creatures proving a far greater blow to morale than Daemon would''ve liked.

    He had watched them arrive. And now, they waited in a perpetual state of tension.

    The echoing hallway carried the sound of hurried footsteps, boots upon stone.

    Daemon didn''t turn. Didn''t need to. He knew the sound of a boy hurrying when he''d rather be anywhere else.

    "My prince," the squire said, breathless from the stairs. "A messenger''s come from the Greens. They seek parley."

    Daemon let out a slow breath. Took his time turning, studying the boy. Couldn''t have been more than fifteen. The lad stood straight, like he thought it might help, like delivering the words with enough stiffness in his back might make them less unpleasant.

    It didn''t.

    Daemon rolled his shoulders. The tension in them never left these days, no matter how many hours he spent flying Caraxes, no matter how many swords he broke in the training yard.

    "Parley," Daemon murmured.

    The Greens had Aemond, and Aemond had no need for words. He had fire, he had steel, and his enemies had seen the proof of his wrath from the Stormlands to the Iron Islands.

    And yet, here was a messenger.

    Which meant someone else was speaking now. Otto, most like. The old man still clinging to his schemes, trying to play the game with words when his grandson had already moved to swords.

    Or maybe it was Aemond himself, playing at diplomacy. If so, that meant he wanted something that force alone would not win him.

    Interesting.

    Daemon turned back to the sea, tapping his fingers against the stone. Parley meant talking. Talking meant a delay. A delay meant time. Time could mean a great many things. More entrenchments to break the enemy''s charge. More tunnels to hide from dragons haunting the skies.

    He gave a small nod. "I''ll hear them."

    The squire nearly sagged in relief. Not that Daemon blamed him. He''d seen grown men piss themselves bringing milder news.

    "Fetch Prince Lucerys," Daemon added. "Tell him we have words to hear."

    The squire hesitated.

    Daemon arched a brow.

    "Now," he said, voice quiet.

    The boy scurried off, leaving only the wind and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

    Daemon lingered a moment longer, watching the sea. Watching the fleet. Watching the fires in the enemy''s camp to the west, their banners rising against the dark.

    So, it begins.

    He sighed, turned, and strode off the battlements to meet whatever came next.

 Chapter Forty-Six: The Butchers Terms

    "When I am weaker than you, I ask for freedom because that is according to your principles. When I am stronger than you, I take away your freedom because that is according to my principles."

    ¡ª Frank Herbert, Children of Dune

    ¡­?

    The morning mist had yet to fully burn away, lingering in the hollows between hills and creeping in from the pines like half-formed wraiths. The grass beneath Daeron''s boots was damp with the night''s chill, the earth soft enough that a man could leave his print and know it would stay until the next rain. The sky overhead stretched vast and dull, as though drained of color, and the waters to the south gleamed pale and silver, where the Narrow Sea met the Blackwater Bay.

    They waited in the field east of Rook''s Rest, a great open space where no walls rose to give comfort and no trees loomed to give shelter. Behind them, their army stretched in ordered camps, the banners of the Vale, the Reach, and the City Watch of King''s Landing rippling lazily in the cool air. The Lannisters had yet to arrive, but that mattered little. They had the numbers they needed. They had four dragons to the enemy''s two. And still, they waited.

    Daeron was tired of waiting.

    He glanced at his brother. Aemond crouched low, fiddling with a knife, turning the blade between his fingers as if it were some puzzle whose solution lay hidden in its edge. His one good eye was fixed on the distance, on the hills and the trees that stood between them and Rook''s Rest. His face was impassive, unreadable as ever. He was thinking. That was never good.

    Daeron cleared his throat.

    "We could take them now," he said, quiet but firm. "We have the men. The dragons. Rhaenyra''s army might have the greater numbers, but they have no real answer to us in the skies." He gestured towards Rook''s Rest, though his gaze never left Aemond. "Why do we wait?"

    For a long moment, Aemond gave no sign that he''d heard.

    Across from them, Addam Hull and Nettles¡ªAemond''s dragonseeds¡ªturned their attention towards their prince, clearly as curious as Daeron.

    Still, Aemond said nothing.

    Just as Daeron was about to speak again, his brother lifted his knife and pointed with it, straight at the pine forest and mist-shrouded hills beyond.

    "Scorpions," Aemond said simply.

    Daeron''s brows knit together.

    Aemond flipped the knife in his grip, the edge glinting briefly in the morning light. "Daemon has lined the treeline with them," he continued. "Dozens. Hidden beneath bramble, behind rocks, in the natural gaps between trees. Their bolts lie in wait like vipers in the grass. Should we attack Rook''s Rest directly, Sheepstealer will fall first, three bolts in his left side. Nettles burns with him. Seasmoke and Vhagar will take their wounds as they kill Caraxes, and I take mine along with them. Seasmoke crashes, his wings tattered in the fight. Addam will break his back in the fall. You will be left to lead a demoralised army in a slow, grinding slaughter for Rook''s Rest, while Rhaenyra, emboldened by the blood we spilled, will call for more gold and soldiers from Braavos. The Iron Bank will answer, and the war will drag, as costly as ever, but now we will be bleeding for it too."

    His voice was even. Absolute.

    Daeron stared at him.

    Across from them, Addam and Nettles exchanged glances, uncomprehending.

    Aemond looked back to the trees, his lips pressing into a thin line.

    "He''s trying to die valiantly," Aemond said after a moment. "Daemon. He''s known for some time that he won''t live to see the end of this war. He''s made his peace with it. But he means to drag as many of us down with him as he can." He exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet. "He is dangerous as a result. We must be cautious."

    Daeron considered his brother carefully.

    Most men, hearing such certainty in another''s voice, would have asked how he knew. The dragonseeds certainly seemed to wonder as much, their eyes darting between Aemond and the distant woods as though some unseen truth might manifest itself before them. But Daeron had long since stopped asking such questions.

    Ever since the trip to the North, he had known there was more to Aemond than met the eye.

    So, instead of questioning, he simply asked, "Then what is your plan?"

    Aemond fell silent again, considering. Then he rose, brushing dirt from his knee. "We bait out Caraxes. Butcher him outside the scorpions'' range. Once he is dead, our men can dismantle the siege engines, and then we burn what remains."

    Daeron hesitated, but only for a moment. "How do we draw him out?"

    Aemond did not answer. His gaze had shifted to the horizon, to the east, where two figures were drawing near. Even at a distance, one was unmistakable¡ªtall and broad-shouldered, with a bearing that needed no name. The other smaller, slighter¡ªa boy, or near enough to one.

    Daemon and Lucerys.

    So, it begins.

    Daeron squared his shoulders. Whatever Aemond''s plan was, they would soon see the first pieces of it unfold.

    <hr>

    Lucerys had never liked silence. Too much space for thinking. And thinking, in times like these, was a dangerous thing.

    The fog still clung to the dips and hollows of the land, reluctant to part, as if even the mist itself had the good sense to hesitate before stepping onto this field. Rook''s Rest lay behind him, its walls crouched low in the distance like an old dog waiting to see who came out of this mess alive. Before him, open ground, damp earth, a few wind-blasted trees standing lonely on the ridge. And four men waiting in the dull morning light.

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    Aemond stood at their head, because of course he did. The bastard always wore his importance like a second cloak. One eye, sharp as a dagger, watching as Lucerys and Daemon approached.

    To the prince''s left, his younger brother Daeron, softer of feature but standing straight-backed and knightly, as if that meant something. Then the two others, dragonriders both, though neither bore the name Targaryen.

    The man¡ªAddam, Daemon had called him once¡ªhad the look of a Velaryon, more or less. Silver hair, dark skin, all the hallmarks Lucerys had sought greedily ever since he truly understood what they meant. But the woman? No one knew her name, not even Daemon. She had none of the usual refinements. Rough-hewn, like she''d been carved from lesser stone. She stood apart, her gaze wary but sharp.

    The two sides came to a halt, close enough that Lucerys could see the details of their armor, the little movements of their hands. Far enough that a sword wouldn''t reach, but not so far that a quick man couldn''t close the distance if treachery reared its ugly head.

    Silence stretched between them.

    Lucerys shifted his weight, tried not to feel the way his stomach was tightening like a badly-knotted rope. Aemond''s gaze flicked over him, slow, deliberate, lingering just long enough to let Lucerys know he was being measured. Weighed. Found lacking, most like.

    Daemon, never one to let a moment go unspoiled, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Well?" he said, voice rough as the waves against the rocky shore. "You called for a parley. Here we are. I don''t care much for standing in empty fields this early in the morning, so speak your piece."

    Aemond did not so much as blink. "I have come to give you your terms of surrender."

    A pause. Then Daemon laughed, short and sharp. "Surrender," he repeated, as if the word had a bad taste. "Gods, you''ve been spending too much time with Otto."

    Aemond didn''t react. Might as well have been a statue, save for the faintest tilt of his head.

    Sighing, Daemon gave a theatrical wave of his hand. "Oh, by all means, let''s hear what we''re refusing."

    Aemond laid out his demands like he was reading off a ledger.

    The dragons, save for Caraxes, would be taken to the Dragonpit in King''s Landing and chained. Hatched, unhatched, eggs still in their nests, it mattered not. All of them would be surrendered.

    Rhaenyra would renounce her claim. Not just quietly, but publicly, for all of Westeros to see, at a tourney of all things. She would kneel before Aegon and call him king.

    Aegon the Younger would be taken to King''s Landing as a "guest," though Lucerys had a guess at what sort of guest he''d be. As for himself and his brothers? They''d be required to "acknowledge their true parentage," and bear the name Strong, rather than Velaryon.

    Dragonstone? Gone. Taken by the Greens, no longer Rhaenyra''s by right or might. And as a final flourish, exile. The lot of them¡ªDaemon, Rhaenyra, Lucerys and his remaining brothers¡ªgone from Westeros for good. And should they dare return without explicit royal permission, well, that would be a short conversation.

    Then, as if the rest wasn''t galling enough, the indemnity. The cost of war. The price of their rebellion, to be paid in gold and treasures and whatever else Aemond felt was owed. Valyrian steel, if they had it. The last of the gold from the Iron Bank, if it still remained.

    Aemond finished speaking.

    The wind stirred the grass, made the trees in the distance rustle and snap. No one moved. No one spoke.

    Then, at last, Daemon let out a long breath through his nose. He tipped his head, lips quirking. "Is that all?" he asked in a voice low and edged with mockery.

    Aemond tilted his head, watching, weighing, measuring. "You should know," he said, his voice as smooth as still water, "that I offered better terms before. And I assure you the next ones will be worse. For your family''s sake, you would do well to consider that."

    Daemon spat at the ground. His boot crushed the spit into the dirt as he turned. "Come," he said to Lucerys, already walking away.

    Aemond''s voice was slow, careful, amused. "Is that your answer, uncle?"

    Daemon did not look back. "Go fuck yourself."

    Lucerys could feel the tension shift, could feel something shift in Aemond''s bearing. He did not need to turn to know One-eye was smiling.

    "I had thought you''d be wiser with age," Aemond said. "But it seems I gave you too much credit."

    Lucerys dared a glance back. Aemond was watching them go, his stance easy, his hands loose at his sides.

    "Put on your riding leathers," the bastard called after them. "We will be coming to take your heads in half an hour. Do make sure the duel isn''t too dull, uncle. I''d hate to be disappointed."

    Lucerys swallowed.

    Daemon did not slow. Did not acknowledge the words. Just kept walking, long strides cutting through the damp grass.

    Lucerys had to hurry to keep pace. His hands felt cold. His stomach felt hollow.

    He had always known this day would come. Had always told himself he was ready.

    He had lied.

 Chapter Forty-Seven: The Duel

    "To suspect your own mortality is to know the beginning of terror. To learn irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of terror."

    ¡ª Frank Herbert, Dune Messiah

    ¡­?

    The chill off the Narrow Sea gnawed at Daemon''s bones as he and Lucerys crossed Rook''s Rest''s outer courtyard. Dawn''s light crept in sluggishly, turning the battlements a pale, sickly gold. The sun should have cast warmth, but instead the fortress walls reflected only a dreary pallor, as if they too sensed the storm of violence rolling in from beyond the hills.

    Their breaths plumed in the cold. Around them, soldiers and servants scurried with grim purpose¡ªdragging up barrels of pitch, wheeling out barrels of salted meat for the day''s rations, adjusting harnesses on horses that would serve little purpose if dragons set the sky ablaze. There was no chatter, no easy banter. Men whispered their fears to themselves, or turned them into muttered prayers to gods unlikely to listen.

    Daemon felt the weight of each footstep on the damp stone. He was tired. By the gods, he was tired. Only minutes earlier, he''d faced his nephew Aemond on that wide, lonely field of grass. A parley, if one could call it that. Come to me and surrender, or you will burn. Aemond had never possessed much subtlety, but in the past, there had at least been some veneer of courtesy. Not now.

    He spared a glance at Lucerys, the boy keeping pace beside him. Lately, Daemon had taken to studying the set of the lad''s jaw, the color in his cheeks when fear mingled with pride. Will he break if tested? The question haunted him. The unfruitful parley had turned that question into a lead weight in Daemon''s gut.

    They reached the entrance to the keep itself¡ªan arched doorway flanked by a pair of tired guards, spears in hand. Inside, the narrow corridors smelled of stale rushes and damp stone. Smoke from the torches gathered in the higher vaults of the ceiling, ghosting in lazy drifts. Daemon saw the same uncertainty in every soldier''s face as they moved aside for the prince: Will these walls hold against dragonfire? Rook''s Rest was no mean castle, but no fortress in Westeros could withstand a determined skyborne assault forever.

    A slim figure waited at the next cross-passage: Jamie, Lord Staunton''s heir. A squire''s belt still looped his waist, but he wore a worn cloak pinned by the Staunton sigil. The lad tried to stand straighter as Daemon approached, and if he was afraid, he hid it better than most.

    "Your Grace," he said, voice wavering slightly. "We have men on every battlement. Orders?"

    Daemon didn''t waste words. "Prepare for attack. We''re moments from an onslaught, minutes at best. The Greens will come from the air first. Keep your best archers on the ramparts, but out of open sight. If they see your men standing like sheep, they''ll torch them from afar. Make them earn every pass."

    He leaned in, lowering his voice so others wouldn''t overhear. "Have your riders outside the walls send word to the scorpion crews. The moment any of those beasts strays into range, I expect a volley of bolts to greet them."

    The heir swallowed. A faint tremor rippled across his pale features, but he kept his stance firm. "Yes, Your Grace. At once." He bowed again and hurried off, barking instructions to subordinates who nearly tripped over themselves in their haste.

    Lucerys let out a slow breath. "They''re frightened."

    Daemon nodded, pressing his lips into a line. "With good cause."

    They moved on. Each corridor felt narrower than the last, blackened sconces flickering with halfhearted flames. The fortress air was thick¡ªspiced with mold, damp straw, the stale remains of last night''s cooking fires. It clung to Daemon''s lungs like a curse. He could hardly imagine how this place would reek if it fell under dragonflame. Bones and ashes, that''s all that''ll be left.

    Eventually, they emerged into a lower courtyard open to the sea, where Caraxes and Arrax were roosting. The dragons looked on edge¡ªrestless, shifting weight from foot to foot. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, let out a low hiss that reverberated off the stone walls, stirring dust from hidden corners. Arrax was smaller by far, though the faintly luminescent sheen of his scales hinted at a power yet to come. They both sensed the tension in their riders.

    Daemon approached Caraxes slowly, stroking the underside of the dragon''s throat. The beast''s chest vibrated with a deep growl. "Easy," Daemon said, not sure if he was speaking to the dragon or to himself. "This day''s not done with us yet."

    Lucerys stood beside Arrax, hands fumbling with the leather straps that would secure him during flight. Though the boy tried to hide it, Daemon recognized the fear in those darting eyes. Too young, he thought, with a pang of regret that cut deeper than any sword. This was war¡ªno place for a boy. But what choice did they have?

    When Lucerys looked up, there was a question in his eyes, unspoken but ringing clear as a temple bell: What do we do now?

    Daemon inhaled slowly, letting the salt air fill his lungs, letting it wash away the roiling coil of anger and dread in his stomach. "Listen to me, Lucerys." His voice was softer than usual, roughened at the edges. "You''re going back to Dragonstone."

    The boy''s brow furrowed. "You said¡ª I thought¡ª"

    "¡ªI said a lot of things," Daemon cut in, voice tight. "And I was a fool to say them. Arrax is a brave dragon, but no match for Vhagar or Sheepstealer. We have four beasts heading our way: one ancient as all Seven Hells, two scarred from war, and one nimble enough to catch us unawares. Caraxes and I¡­ we''ll do what we must to defend this castle, but your mother needs you alive. If I keep you here, the only difference it''ll make is that I''ll have to watch you die before I meet my own fate. I won''t have that on my conscience."

    Lucerys''s frustration and fear fought for control of his features. "I can fight," he said in a strained whisper. "I''m not a child."

    "No," Daemon agreed gently. "You''re a prince. And that means making choices to safeguard the realm. Sometimes it means knowing when you''re outmatched."

    Silence hung between them. The wind off the sea kicked up, rustling their hair, and Caraxes snorted impatiently. Daemon could feel the weight of the boy''s pride brimming just behind those dark eyes. But if he insisted, Daemon would have to force him away. Better a resentful son than a dead one.

    At last, Lucerys exhaled, shoulders sagging with resigned acceptance. Daemon released a quiet breath of relief. He grasped Lucerys by the forearms and leaned in, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "If I¡­ if this day goes ill, tell Rhaenyra¡ª" His throat tightened, words refusing to come smoothly. "Tell her I''ve always been hers. That everything I did, I did for her and the crown she wears. Tell her¡­ I wish I''d more time."

    Tears threatened to well in Lucerys''s eyes, but he blinked them away, nodding. "I will."

    Daemon offered a wry smile, doing his damnedest to project confidence he didn''t feel. "Go. Now."

    Just then, a thunderous roar ripped through the dawn air: Vhagar, calling out her challenge, a menacing echo that vibrated in Daemon''s very bones. Across the ramparts, men lifted their gazes skyward in horror. Even Caraxes'' eye pin-pricked at the sound, emitting a hiss soaked with bloodlust.

    Lucerys''s eyes darted to Daemon''s, fear renewed in his face. "Are you sure¡ª?"

    "I said go!" Daemon snapped, urgency lancing his voice. If he stays a moment longer, he''ll waver.

    Lucerys scrambled onto Arrax''s saddle, fastened the closest straps with trembling fingers, and with a cry both boyish and terrified, he spurred the young dragon into the sky. Arrax''s wings beat the air, lifting them clear of the keep in a gust of wind and loose debris. Daemon allowed himself a final glance, heart twisting at the sight of the small, pale dragon silhouetted against the brightening sky. Fly fast, boy.

    Then he turned to Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm''s serpentine neck twisted to meet his gaze. "Soves, Caraxes," Daemon muttered, swinging into the saddle with practiced grace. "Let''s give that old bitch something to remember us by."

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    He checked the fastenings then¡ªbelt, harness, stirrups¡ªeach loop and buckle meant to keep him alive during flight. Or alive long enough, at least.

    Pushing off with his heels, Caraxes sprang from the stone, wings unfurling like crimson sails. The initial drop made Daemon''s stomach lurch before the beast caught an updraft. A swirl of cold wind battered his face, stinging his eyes and whipping his hair. Below, the fortress shrank, revealing the vague shape of hastily assembled scorpions hidden along the walls.

    Daemon steered Caraxes in a wide loop, scanning the sky. The day''s light was strong enough now to show him the landscape in stark detail: the rolling green hills to the north, the grey expanse of the sea to the east, and the dark blemish of the Green host''s camp to the west. Tents and fires spread in uneven rows. From that direction, silhouettes rose from beyond the ridge, leaving the Green host''s camp in a flurry of dust and scattered tents. Vhagar, Sheepstealer, Seasmoke, Tessarion¡ªa dread choir of wings and flame. They climbed higher, then leveled off, soaring toward Rook''s Rest in a flat, predatory arc.

    They came on in a steady rush, just as Daemon had planned. The Greens seemed oblivious. Close enough now that Daemon could taste the moment. Let them come, he thought, jaw clenched. Only death lies this way. One more wingbeat, and they''d be in range¡­

    Only they weren''t. At the last heartbeat, the enemy riders banked south, their dragons tilting as one to pick up the sea''s updraft. He saw them shift formation, long shadows flickering over restless waves. He frowned, Caraxes giving a puzzled snarl beneath him. If they weren''t aiming at Rook''s Rest, what was their target? Daemon''s gaze trailed their new course¡ªand there it was, a small pale dragon cutting a lonely line through the clouds. Arrax. Lucerys. Daemon''s belly turned to ice.

    They meant to kill the boy first.

    "No!" He practically spat the word, jerking on Caraxes''s reins. Every sense sharpened under a cold lash of panic. The scorpions in the cliffs might as well have been a world away. All that mattered now was Lucerys, out there all alone, the slowest prey in open sky. Daemon leaned low across Caraxes''s neck, urging the Blood Wyrm faster, the wind roaring past like a thousand angry voices.

    "Forward!" he roared at Caraxes, leaning hard into the dragon''s neck. With a guttural snarl, Caraxes propelled himself on a forward dive, wings beating to gain speed, each stroke an agony of urgency.

    Lucerys was but a scrap of color in the distance, Arrax''s wings beating in frantic time with his rising terror. Seasmoke led the chase, nimble and quick, the other three behind but not by much. Daemon cursed under his breath, the taste of salt on his tongue as the sea churned below. Each second, the gap shrank. A few more heartbeats and they''d be on Lucerys like wolves on a wounded deer.

    "Dracarys!" he bellowed, all the fury of his soul in one cracked word. Caraxes unleashed a blistering column of flame. It caught Seasmoke broadside, forcing the dragon to jerk away with a roar, battered scales smoking. Not a killing blow, but enough to spare Lucerys a grisly end, for the moment. Seasmoke banked, and Daemon dived after him, flame licking at the trailing edge of the grey dragon''s wing.

    Then Daemon recalled, with a sinking lurch, that Seasmoke was hardly alone. Three more hung behind like hungry crows. The sun suddenly died above him, replaced by a vast shadow¡ªVhagar, tucking her wings and dropping like a thunderbolt. Daemon yanked Caraxes left, and Vhagar''s claws clipped the sea''s surface in her descent, sending up a billowing curtain of foam that, for a moment, masked her colossal shape. She burst through it an instant later, jaws wide, snapping shut just yards from Caraxes''s tail.

    A near miss, yet Vhagar pressed on with an enraged growl, exhaling a sheet of white-hot fire that licked at them. The stink of singed hair curled in Daemon''s nostrils, but he had no time to dwell on it. He forced his mounting terror down, clung to Caraxes''s speed, rolling clear of the old bitch''s snapping maw.

    One danger gone, three more waiting. He glanced up: Sheepstealer and Tessarion soared overhead, banking their wings, likely sizing up the best angle to pounce. Seasmoke hung to Daemon''s right, ready to cut off any dash for the anchored fleet and the scorpions there. Daemon ground his teeth. So that was their game: they were herding him away from his own defenses. The only open route lay straight back toward Rook''s Rest. Better, Daemon decided.

    He wheeled Caraxes round, aiming north for the fortress. He glanced around and spied Sheepstealer behind, stooped in a shallow dive, heavier but gaining speed with each heartbeat. A single glance told Daemon the old beast would collide with them from above if he kept his course.

    He threw his weight into the reins, and Caraxes sliced sideways. Sheepstealer whooshed past in a gust of ragged wings, missing them by a hair. A bellow from the bigger dragon, a laborious climb back skyward, and Daemon let out a breath.

    Hurriedly, he took stock. Sheepstealer on the right, Seasmoke on his tail, Vhagar closing on the left with that dreadful inevitability of an avalanche. As for Tessarion¡ªDaemon squinted, blinded by the sun rising in the east. A sudden prickle of dread crawled up his spine. Where was she?

    There. A small silhouette, a pinprick of blue in the glare, ballooning to dreadful size in a blink. Daemon cursed, yanking on Caraxes''s reins too late. Tessarion slammed into the Blood Wyrm''s left wing, talons biting deep before she kicked off, leaving Caraxes spinning, lurching, tumbling. Sky, sea, sky, sea. Gravity ripped Daemon free of coherent thought, pressing him back into the saddle so hard his ribs ached. He held to the harness with white-knuckled desperation¡ª

    Impact!

    Brine flooded his mouth and nose, cold as an assassin''s knife. He tumbled in the murk, tossed like driftwood. Now and then a gasp of air, now and then the roar of dragons overhead. Pain knifed through his leg, then his shoulder. Consciousness flickered in and out, the world a half-lit dream of boiling water aflame in dragonfire and the cold shadows of the depths beneath.

    He surfaced once, choking, and glimpsed Caraxes hauling his bulk through the shallows near a narrow strip of rocky shore. The battered dragon''s left wing dragged uselessly through the sand. Broken. Broken wing. Gods, a broken wing. That hideous truth sank in as Daemon retched up a lungful of seawater. No flight, not now, not for Caraxes.

    But the enemy gave them no mercy. A pounding of wings made the very air tremble. Daemon squinted through wet lashes, heart pounding. Vhagar slammed down onto the beach in a shower of sand and pebbles. In a single motion, she planted one colossal talon on Caraxes''s neck, pinning him down with an audible grind of scale and bone. Viciously, her maw opened. Then came the sickening crack. Caraxes''s other wing was jerked back in a wrenching bite, twisted under the pressure. The Blood Wyrm''s roar turned to a broken shriek. Through the haze of his vision, Daemon saw his partner flail, spitting a desperate gout of flame that licked ineffectually off Vhagar''s armored hide.

    An eerie hush fell over Daemon''s senses, a hollow ring that silenced everything but his own ragged breathing. Time slowed. Through a haze of salt and pain, he watched as a figure slid down the old bitch''s flank, stepping onto Caraxes''s spine with dreadful poise.

    One Eye. The bastard stepped lightly as though he treaded a tavern floor. He paused, face expressionless, one eye cold as polished steel. "You really should have taken my offer," he said. Daemon opened his mouth, though no proper words came¡ªonly a pained, ragged laugh. Aemond shook his head and crouched before Daemon before slowly sliding Dark Sister free from Daemon''s own hip, and hammered him across the face with the pommel.

    The tang of blood flooded Daemon''s mouth. Blackness followed, quick and uncaring, and he sank into it like a stone in deep water.

    Time stretched, a single endless moment of blackness pulling him under. He thought of Rhaenyra, a fragment of her face in candlelight. I''m sorry, he tried to say, but his lips wouldn''t move.

    Then, all was dark.

 Chapter Forty-Eight: The Butchering

    "Only death can pay for life."

    ¨DMirri Maz Duur

    ¡­?

    Daeron''s breath came fast and shallow as Tessarion alighted upon the wet sand, her talons sinking into the brine-soaked shore. His heart thundered against his ribs, the taste of salt on his tongue as he surveyed the scene before him. Vhagar loomed over Caraxes, and the Blood Wyrm writhed beneath her pinned claw, both wings twisted at impossible angles. One dripped fresh blood onto the sand, the other hung limp, cartilage and membrane shredded.

    He had never seen anything so monstrous and heartbreaking. Over Caraxes''s shrill keening, Daeron heard the wet crunch of bone as Vhagar pressed her weight down. Daeron flinched, bile rising in his throat. He had read songs of dragons slain, but the harsh reality of it¡ªtorn flesh and the shrieks of a dying beast¡ªburrowed into his ears like a worm, threatening to unman him right there on the shore.

    Aemond dropped lightly from Vhagar''s flank and onto Caraxes''s back, so sure of foot it looked as if he were stepping onto a rug in the Red Keep. The great mass of Vhagar pinned Caraxes at the base of the skull, preventing the dragon from thrashing. Daeron caught a glimpse of Daemon¡ªhis renegade uncle¡ªstill strapped in his saddle, drenched from the crash, face twisted with mingled rage and pain. Yet the Rogue Prince refused to cry out, even as Caraxes''s tortured wailing rattled every stone along the beach.

    Aemond bent low, said something Daeron could not hear through the cacophony, then reached for Dark Sister, slowly tugging it free from Daemon''s belt in one fluid motion. The next instant, the pommel struck Daemon''s temple with a dull thud. The prince''s head lolled back, eyes rolling white, and Aemond wasted no time slicing through the saddle straps that bound him.

    "Bind him," Aemond commanded, his voice somehow calm amid the din. "Keep him under watch. I''ll have no unexpected heroics this day."

    Addam and Nettles, who had dismounted from Seasmoke and Sheepstealer, rushed forward at once. Addam already bore chains and manacles as he had been informed to expect such an order; the links clinked ominously as he moved. Nettles merely nodded and dropped to a crouch, taking Daemon''s arms while Addam secured the metal about his wrists and ankles. Soon, Daemon''s unconscious form lay in the sand, shackled like a prisoner condemned.

    Daeron swallowed, feeling the sour tang of fear and disgust curdling in his belly. He forced himself to dismount Tessarion, reminding himself that he was a prince of the realm¡ªnot a boy to cower in a corner. He placed a hand on Tessarion''s flank for reassurance, her scaled hide warm even in the chill breeze, and turned to face his brother.

    Aemond stepped closer, the wind snatching at his silver hair and flinging it across his face. He did not bother to push it aside. His single eye glimmered with something terrible¡ªhunger, perhaps, or an unholy resolve.

    "The eggs," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "Bring them to me. Now."

    Daeron blinked. "Eggs¡­?" It took him half a heartbeat to recall the wooden box strapped securely to Tessarion''s saddle. He had almost forgotten the ancient, stone-cold dragon eggs entrusted to him by Aemond.

    "Hurry," Aemond repeated, turning his gaze on Caraxes. Vhagar''s talon tightened, provoking another agonized roar from the pinned wyrm.

    Daeron hastened to Tessarion''s side, unbuckling the bindings that held the wooden chest in place. His mind churned with questions, none of which he dared utter: Why now? Why here, on this bloodstained shore, with war still raging and Caraxes lying broken beneath Vhagar''s weight? He retrieved the box, a solid oaken thing reinforced with iron bands, and carried it gingerly to his brother.

    Aemond took the box from his arms without ceremony and upended it. The eggs tumbled out onto the wet sand, each a different shade¡ªfaded reds and bronzes, dull greens, mottled greys. Daeron cursed inwardly; one errant drop might crack them. But these eggs had apparently turned to stone long ago, or so the dragonkeepers claimed, and indeed they only thumped solidly onto the ground, half-sunk in the saturated shore.

    Aemond sank to his knees, making no remark as Caraxes spat a feeble gout of flame that fell embarrassingly short of reaching him. The wounded dragon''s breath reeked of copper and salt, each exhalation labored. Yet Aemond paid it no mind. He used his bare hands to carve a shallow trench in the sand, scraping out a wide circle around the eggs. Then, with maddening calm, he dragged his cupped fingers toward Caraxes''s flank, creating a narrow channel.

    "What are you¡ª?" Daeron began, but at a curt gesture from Aemond, he fell silent. His brother stood, brushing sand from his hands, and approached Caraxes''s head.

    The Blood Wyrm''s eyes narrowed in hate, flames flaring weakly in its half-closed maw. Aemond set a hand upon the dragon''s crest, and in High Valyrian, murmured something that sounded like an apology¡ªa soft string of syllables that hovered in the air like a dirge. Daeron felt the hairs on his neck prickle.

    Then Aemond turned and fixed Daeron with a stare. "Move back," he said, so quietly that Daeron almost missed it beneath Caraxes''s ragged breathing.

    Daeron took a few steps, glancing to either side. Addam and Nettles knelt near Daemon''s chained form, both watchers wide-eyed with fear or fascination. Aemond gestured again, insisting Daeron move even farther. He did, heart pounding.

    A hush fell as Aemond raised Dark Sister high. In one brutal thrust, he drove the blade into the side of Caraxes''s neck. The dragon shrieked, all the remaining air in its lungs forced out in one wild, keening bellow. Hot, black blood spurted from the wound in an arterial gush, splattering the sand and soaking the shallow trench. For a moment, Daeron could only gape. The smell of it¡ªsharp and acrid¡ªdrove tears to his eyes.

    Caraxes''s blood pooled quickly, a dark steaming tide swirling towards and around the eggs. Even pinned, the wyrm struggled, wracked by final spasms. Daeron fought the urge to look away.

    Aemond stood amidst the gore calmly. When the circle around the eggs was a brimming ring of steaming black, he raised his hand toward Vhagar. Dracarys, he said. The ancient she-dragon opened her maw, then belched forth a lance of fire that ignited the blood-soaked trench as though it were doused in the most volatile oil.

    The conflagration that followed drove Daeron another step back, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Blood burned with an intensity he would never have imagined¡ªmultihued flames roared around the circle, dancing with an unholy life of their own. By the time his eyes adjusted, he saw Aemond on his knees in the midst of the inferno, chanting in High Valyrian. His voice seemed¡­ altered, echoing off the surf and the stones in layers. Shadows gathered around him¡ªno, not shadows, Daeron thought, but shapeless things of writhing black smoke. They formed and dissipated, as if drawn to his voice, or perhaps birthed from it.

    For several minutes this continued. Then, suddenly, Aemond drew Dark Sister again, this time across the meat of his palm. He swung and his blood splattered onto the flames. Instantly, the inferno leapt higher, flickering in unnatural shades of green, purple, and pale gold. Sparks rained down, and Daeron had to turn his face aside. The heat was intense beyond reason, scorching the wind.

    Then, as quickly as the flames had surged, they began to dwindle, flickering down to embers and smoke. Steam rose from the sand. Daeron tentatively lowered his arm and blinked to clear the dancing afterimages. Seven eggs lay in a charred hollow, each glistening as though polished anew, color throbbing along their scales like a heartbeat.

    He thought them ruined at first, some bizarre trick of the light. Then one of them cracked. A small sound, almost like the snap of kindling. Another followed, then another, until lines spiderwebbed across all seven eggs. The hush of the beach was broken by the distant hush of waves and a final, shuddering groan from Caraxes.

    Daeron could scarcely breathe. As he watched, tiny claws and snouts tore their way free of each shell. One after another, the newborn dragons emerged, scrawny and wet with amniotic fluid, each letting out a high, piercing squeak of life. Seven of them, each hue more vibrant than the last: emerald, sapphire, ruby, topaz, amethyst¡­ the colors of all Valyria, reborn in miniature.

    He realized only then that his mouth hung open. Shock and some trembling, nameless awe pressed upon his chest. Aemond remained kneeling in the sand, skin glimmering with sweat and blood, as the newly hatched creatures trembled in the ashes, then turned him as if awaiting guidance. The hush was absolute save for their mewling cries and the sound of the sea meeting the shore.

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Daeron tore his gaze away from the miracle¡ªor monstrosity¡ªbeing birthed before him, and looked instead at his brother. Aemond lifted his head, his gaze dull, exhausted as those newborn dragons dragged themselves across the sand, wailing for his attention. Daeron found himself, in equal measures, chilled to the core and awed¡ªwondering to himself what abominable pact his brother had just forged.

    An Excerpt from The Lives of the Dragons by Grand Maester Althorus, written in the reign of King Aemond II

    "¡­and thus did the Prince of the City of Dragons (that most restless spirit, Daemon Targaryen) fall at last into his enemies'' hands, bringing about the swift ruin of Rook''s Rest and the final collapse of the Blacks'' hold upon the mainland."

    <hr>

    In the waning hours of that fateful day, Prince Daemon Targaryen¡ªlong famed for his boldness¡ªfound himself undone by the cunning of Prince Aemond One-Eye. The Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, had served Daemon valiantly through many campaigns, yet even that fearsome drake proved no match for the converging might of Vhagar, Seasmoke, Tessarion, and Sheepstealer. Some dubious accounts refute the fact that it was Tessarion, not Seasmoke, who struck the first crippling wound to Caraxes''s wing, but all agree that Vhagar''s final assault spelled the end. The ancient she-dragon delivered the grievous blows that left Caraxes broken upon a thin strip of rocky shore.

    The wyrm''s rider, Daemon, was himself ultimately overwhelmed upon the beach, his blade, Dark Sister seized from his person. Thus fell the Rogue Prince, subdued at the very threshold he had hoped to defend. He was carried away in irons.

    In the immediate wake of Daemon''s defeat, Rook''s Rest was left in disarray. Though Daemon had cleverly arranged an array of scorpions hidden in the pines and brambles surrounding the castle, these engines could not be brought to bear without the Prince''s direction. Panic took root as word of Caraxes''s fall spread among the defenders. Some among the Essosi free companies were heard to say, "If the Blood Wyrm can be slain, what hope have we?"

    Seeing their chance, the Greens dispatched light horse and lancers to sweep through the outer woodlands, where the scorpions lay concealed. Foot soldiers followed, bearing torches and oil. Within hours, those great siege-killing machines burned in the smoky pines, scuttled before they could even loose a proper volley. Lord Staunton''s men resisted bravely at first, harassing the raiders from behind hillocks and fallen trunks, yet cut off from their leadership, they could not hold. By midday, every scorpion set outside Rook''s Rest lay in ruin.

    Freed from the threat of bolt-fire in the open, the Green''s dragons and their host next encircled the fortress. Ser Gwayne Hightower commanded the bulk of the infantry¡ªstalwart men of the Reach trained to fight in disciplined ranks. At his side were the City Watch contingents loyal to Prince Aemond, and from the Vale came knights and mounted serjeants. En mass, they battered at Rook''s Rest''s defenses, seeking weaknesses in the walls.

    Yet Daemon''s preparations were not so easily undone. Anticipating an aerial siege, he had ordered the fashioning of yet more scorpions within the very heart of Rook''s Rest¡ªheavy machines kept hidden under stone vaults and stable roofs. Men strong of arm and steady of nerve waited to wheel them out whenever a great winged shape appeared overhead. Time and again, the Greens attempted to bring their dragons close to scorch a breach in the curtain walls, only to be driven off by a sudden volley of iron-tipped bolts.

    Still, the Greens pressed relentlessly. Daylight assaults met stiff resistance, and the castle defenders turned each gatehouse into a killing ground. A mounted sally from the keep was repulsed amidst savage fighting in the outer yard. Smoke drifted across the battlements, mingled with the cries of the wounded and the clash of steel on stone.

    When dusk came, the battered defenders hoped for respite. Instead, under cover of darkness, the Green dragons flew once more. Prince Aemond had ordered lanterns and fires dimmed in the Green camp so that, from the ramparts, the sky beyond the walls seemed black as pitch. Out of that gloom swooped Tessarion, Seasmoke, even the cunning old war-mount Sheepstealer, each guided by watchfires set behind the lines.

    In half-seen raids, they rained destruction upon the gate towers and ramparts. All through the night, the defenders fought to push the scorpions back under stone arches whenever the telltale roar of wings sounded overhead. Some scorpions found their marks, wounding Seasmoke and scarring the underside of Sheepstealer''s left flank¡ªbut many more were lost to dragonflame, their crews perishing in the inferno.

    By dawn, a breach had been opened in the western wing of Rook''s Rest''s walls, where the stone had grown brittle under repeated blasts of dragonfire. The Greens funneled men into the gap, driving the defenders back from courtyard to courtyard. And yet, Daemon''s labyrinth of trenches and barricades, combined with an escape network of tunnels burrowed beneath the keep, preserved the defenders from an outright rout. Whenever the dragons passed overhead, fighting men melted below ground, emerging again only after the shadows of wings had passed.

    So began two days of bloody, back-and-forth struggle. Simon Staunton, lord of Rook''s Rest, sought to coordinate a last stand. He labored to keep men fighting from within the castle''s thick stone halls, where dragons could not reach. The tunnels, though stifling with smoke and the stink of too many men crammed together, gave a semblance of shelter from the fury above.

    Might alone could not break Daemon''s defensive measures, so the Greens resorted to starve or smoke out the defenders. King''s Landing engineers constructed great fires at the base of key ventilation shafts, spewing hot fumes into the subterranean passages. Mercenaries and knights alike choked for air. Hunger, thirst, and the imminent threat of fresh dragonfire began to gnaw at even the staunchest among them.

    In the end, loyalty proved as frail as courage. The ragged ranks of Essosi free companies¡ªonce paid by Braaovsi gold¡ªbegan to mutter that their cause was hopeless. The news of Caraxes''s fall weighed heavily, for the Blood Wyrm had been a symbol of their contract''s might. Now that Prince Daemon''s fate was unknown, the fear of reprisals or slow starvation saw entire mercenary banners throw down their arms. Some even turned their blades upon Lord Staunton and took him prisoner, offering him as a peace-gift to the Greens.

    With the castle''s most steadfast commander in chains, any lingering resistance soon crumbled. One tunnel after another fell, until all Rook''s Rest lay in Green hands. Fires roared in some wings of the keep; in others, triage stations were hastily erected by the victors for their own wounded.

    Meanwhile, at sea, the great Black fleet¡ªcomprising numerous Braavosi, Pentoshi, and Lysene ships¡ªhad remained anchored off the coast, waiting for a sign of victory or an opportunity to strike. Yet the sight of Caraxes broken on the shore, coupled with the news that Rook''s Rest was all but lost, convinced the ships'' captains to weigh anchor ere the Green dragons turned their attentions on them. Before the second night had passed, the sea was bare but for the detritus of war¡ªbroken rafts, driftwood, a few bobbing corpses. The Blacks'' fleet made haste for Dragonstone, offering no further aid to Lord Staunton or the doomed garrison.

    Thus did Rook''s Rest become the last significant stronghold of the Blacks on Westerosi soil. Its fall marked the dissolution of Rhaenyra''s final pocket of military power on the mainland. Only the island fortress of Dragonstone remained loyal to the queen''s cause, and on Dragonstone the princess-turned-queen brooded with her remaining dragons and a scattering of sworn men, diminished and grim.

    "In the end," wrote Maester Renly of the Vale, "all causes rise on wings of hope, yet they may just as readily perish when those wings fail. With Caraxes broken and Daemon in fetters, it was as if the Blacks had lost the very heart of their cause. From that day forth, the war took a darker shape, with the Greens claiming total dominion over the realms."

 Chapter Forty-Nine: Flee!

    "What is there for me in Westeros but death?"

    ¨DTyrion Lannister

    ¡­?

    Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by the high windows of the Sea-Dragon Tower, gazing out over a churning grey sea. Dawn had barely touched the sky, yet every corridor of Dragonstone thrummed with footsteps and anxious whispers. The small council had gathered in the antechamber behind her¡ªlords of old houses, captains of her fleet, and a handful of trusted advisers. They spoke of supply lines, alliances, and future hopes. None of it came easy. Since Daemon''s departure for Rook''s Rest, the castle had felt as though it were balanced on a knife''s edge.

    She turned away from the window. The painted table in the council chamber, carved in the shape of Westeros, sat strewn with parchment, half-unfurled maps, and ravens'' scrolls. She could see the worry etched into every face, but she forced herself to stand tall. A queen does not bow to dread.

    "My lords," she said calmly, "we must consider fresh entreaties. The Stormlands are bled and the smaller houses hesitate to show support in light of this. There is no quick victory on the mainland¡ª"

    Before she could finish, the heavy door slammed open. A breathless squire burst inside, face sallow with panic. "Your Grace¡­ Prince Lucerys has¡ªhe''s returned¡ªhe''s in a state¡ª"

    The words coalesced in Rhaenyra''s mind like shards of glass. Beside her, Jacaerys stiffened. "Luke? Here?" he blurted. "But that''s impossible. He flew with Daemon¡ª"

    Rhaenyra''s heart thudded. Daemon was at Rook''s Rest, with Caraxes to bolster their defenses. He had insisted Lucerys accompany him. Why would Luke have returned alone?

    In the echoing silence, she exchanged a glance with Jacaerys. Neither spoke. They didn''t need to. A chill gripped her spine.

    "Show me," she said, voice tightening.

    <hr>

    They found Lucerys in the lower courtyard, near the stables where Arrax stood panting, wings drooping in exhaustion. Dragonkeepers hovered uncertainly, looking like they feared the dragon might snap at them in its distress. Luke himself was on his knees, trembling so violently that one of the guards was trying to cradle his shoulders to keep him from collapsing. His hair was plastered to his brow, sweat dripped along his temples, and his breaths came in frantic gulps.

    Rhaenyra hurried forward. "Luke. Luke!" She knelt, ignoring the dampness soaking through her skirts. Jacaerys dropped to one knee beside her.

    Lucerys''s eyes were wide and wild¡ªfilled with tears, fear, and something worse. Guilt, perhaps, or heartbreak. He clung to Rhaenyra''s arms as though she were the last bit of solid ground in a storm-lashed sea.

    "Mother¡ª" he rasped, voice hoarse. "I¡ªI had to¡ªDaemon said¡ªArrax¡ªCaraxes¡ª"

    His words devolved into a strained wheeze, and he doubled over, gasping. Jacaerys gripped his shoulder. "Breathe, Luke. Slow."

    But Luke only shook his head, fresh panic flooding his features. "They¡ªthey killed him. I couldn''t¡ªthere was no time¡ªDaemon told me to go. He told me to flee! I¡ªI left him, Mother. I left him behind¡ª"

    The boy collapsed forward, sobbing. Rhaenyra froze. She could hear Jacaerys suck in a sharp breath. She felt her own breath catch in her chest. For a moment, the courtyard seemed to waver around her¡ªlike she was looking through a haze of smoke. Daemon¡­

    Dead?

    Jacaerys slid an arm around Luke, blinking rapidly as if to ward off tears of his own. Rhaenyra drew a shaking breath, forcing herself to speak low and calm.

    "You''ve done well to return, Lucerys. You did as your father and commander bade you. Now, hush¡­ hush." She stroked the side of his head, brushing damp hair from his eyes. "Tell me everything. Slowly. From the beginning."

    <hr>

    For a time, Lucerys could only cling to her and Jacaerys, trembling. Then, in fitful bursts, words tumbled out: the parley. Aemond''s impossible demands. Daemon''s dismissal. The pursuit that followed and the one-sided brawl that came after.

    "Caraxes crashed in the shallows." His voice quivered with the memory, eyes distant. "Near the shoreline. He was screaming. I''ve never heard a dragon scream like that, Mother¡ª" Luke broke off, shuddering.

    Rhaenyra''s nails bit into her palms so hard she felt the sting of blood. She forced her face into stillness, for Lucerys''s sake. Daemon, dead. The thought threatened to steal the air from her lungs. No. I must be steadfast. For them.

    She nodded and, with all the authority she could muster, said, "Go to Gerardys. He''ll give you a draught to help your nerves." She cupped Lucerys''s chin, making him meet her gaze. "You did right by Daemon. He wanted you safe. Understand?" He nodded through tears, too tired to argue. Guilt radiated from him, but exhaustion was winning. "Jace, take him inside. Make sure the maester sees to him."

    Jacaerys helped Luke to his feet. They stumbled toward the keep. Rhaenyra watched them go, her heart thudding so heavily she felt faint. Only when they were gone did she let her composure crack, just for a moment¡ªher lips trembling in a silent curse. Daemon¡­

    No.

    No.

    <hr>

    For two days, Rhaenyra waited. At times, she felt like a statue in the courtyard, scanning the sky for ravens. News came in fragments. One messenger said the Greens had begun in earnest their siege upon Rook''s Rest. Another swore that a man was flown to the Green''s camp in shackles, that Daemon might still be breathing. The same fool also spoke of hatchlings crawling down from Vhagar''s back. Still, hope¡ªthin, foolish and desperate¡ªflared in Rhaenyra''s breast. Please, gods¡­ let him live.

    She thought of the labyrinth of scorpions and fortifications Daemon had prepared at Rook''s Rest. He had been so confident that if Caraxes forced even one of the Greens'' dragons down, the fortress''s archers and hidden war-engines could bring it to ruin. But the next day''s ravens told a darker tale: confusion and panic in the defenders'' ranks; the mercenaries of the free companies laying down arms; Lord Staunton betrayed by their hired swords. Rook''s Rest had fallen. Simon Staunton was taken prisoner. Of Daemon''s fate, there was no mention.

    Rhaenyra read the letter in her bedchamber, candlelight flickering across her pale features. She read it once more, then a third time, hoping something might change. But the words remained stark. She shut her eyes. This is how the war ends. With betrayal and a hush, not a roar of victory.

    Jacaerys appeared at the door, voice laced with dread. "Mother¡­?"

    She handed him the scroll without a word. He read and blanched, shoulders sagging under the weight of the final blow. "Then¡­ what do we do?"

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Rhaenyra gazed at the flame on the bedside candle, remembering the time Daemon had spoken of the war that had just then begun¡ªfiery, certain of victory. Now I alone must decide. She straightened her back. "We do what we must to survive."

    <hr>

    At once, she convened a midnight council in the Great Hall of Dragonstone. The men gathered with taut faces and hushed voices. Rhaenyra spoke clearly, making sure each syllable cut through their shock.

    "We are outnumbered and outflown," she said. "We have dragons left, but not enough to meet the Greens on open ground. Our allies are scattered; our fields are bare. We cannot hold Dragonstone if they come with all their might."

    A ripple of dismay. One or two lords protested¡ª"We cannot abandon Westeros, my queen!"¡ªbut she silenced them with a glance.

    "If we remain," she said coolly, "we will be butchered¡ªour cause ended in a single stroke. Yet if we flee across the sea, we can rebuild. Gather coin, armies, mercenaries. We can strike again. Or at least stay alive. This is not a surrender. It is merely a necessary retreat."

    Slowly, the lords bowed their heads. They knew the truth. The war was all but lost for now.

    Rhaenyra continued: "Our fleet remains anchored about Dragonstone. Half have Braavosi or Pentoshi captains, men who have known us well now. They will ferry my loyalists to Essos¡ªPentos, Braavos. Where any friend to my claim might harbor us."

    She turned to Lord Celtigar, the old man with watery eyes. "See to it. Inform the captains. They are to depart at once with our men and await my command in the Eastern ports."

    He bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."

    "That done," said Rhaenyra, "we do likewise." She glanced at Jacaerys, who stood with fists clenched at her side. "We take what remains of our dragons¡ªSyrax, Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, Morning¡ªand fly to Braavos. The Iron Bank supports my cause and have invested a lot in me. Perhaps they will continue to do so¡­ or we can negotiate something new."

    No one spoke. A hush fell, heavy and bitter. Rhaenyra realized her nails were digging into the table''s edge. So this is how queenship can taste¡ªin the moment of defeat.

    <hr>

    Just before daybreak, in the midst of frantic preparations, another panic erupted in the courtyard. One of the serving women rushed up to Rhaenyra, breath hitching in her throat. "Your Grace¡ªPrincess Rhaena¡ªshe''s gone!"

    Rhaenyra''s head snapped up. "Gone? Where?"

    "I¡ªI don''t know, Your Grace. She''s not in her chamber. No one''s seen her since the bells tolled an hour past midnight. And¡­ Morning is missing as well."

    For a moment, Rhaenyra could not process the words. Rhaena, so young, with only that fledgling dragon¡ªwhere would she go? Fear lashed her. What if she tried to find Daemon? Or Baela? Gods, no¡­

    She grabbed the woman''s arm. "Spread the word. Search the castle towers, the beaches, every hidden cove. Find her! Now!"

    The serving woman curtsied in terror, stumbling away to relay the order. Rhaenyra''s mind whirled. First Daemon lost, now Rhaena vanishes in the night.

    Yet precious time was slipping away. The Greens might already be en route. Vhagar could be on them by midday, a monstrous shadow devouring the sky. Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, praying to every god that Rhaena simply wandered the cliffs in a moment of reckless youth. I cannot lose another. I will not.

    Tension coiled around every rampart and courtyard of Dragonstone, the sense that doom was coming. The dawn sky lightened by the minute, each ray of sunlight a warning bell in Rhaenyra''s mind. Hurry¡ªbefore it''s too late.

    Alas, Rhaena did not appear.

    And soon, Rhaenyra would have to choose¡ªrisk everyone by delaying, or leave the girl behind to an uncertain fate. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing down the horror of that thought.

    ????

    Rhaena awakened to the jarring roll of waves against the hull. A salty wind stung her cheeks; when she tried to sit upright, a sharp ache pulsed through her temples, as though she''d been struck or drugged. Overhead, a pallid sky stretched across endless water, a stark reminder that she was far from Dragonstone''s black cliffs.

    She blinked groggily, and found herself on a small sloop¡ªa cramped deck, its timbers worn by years of hard voyages. Sails slapped in a restless breeze. Three men in faded cloaks manned ropes or tended the rudder. They scarcely spared her a glance, but their presence immediately set her nerves aflame.

    At her feet sat a small iron cage. Inside, her dragon, Morning, let out a plaintive hiss, pressing her pale snout to the bars. Even more panic lanced through Rhaena. Her last memory was pacing Dragonstone''s outer battlements, restless with worry for her family¡ªthen an arm around her neck, a gag of cloth. Her vision had dimmed.

    She struggled to her feet, gripping the side of the sloop for balance. "Who are you?" she demanded, voice shaky but braver than she felt. "What have you done with me? Where are we going?"

    One of the men, tall and gaunt with a greying beard, turned from the rudder and stared at her for a long moment before speaking. "We are the Vezarys'' Speakers, Princess." he said, as though that explained everything. "Please remain calm."

    Rhaena''s mind spun¡ªshe had never heard that name. A pirate crew? Mercenaries? She glanced at Morning, searching for some way to pry open the cage. Her dragon scratched at the bars, annoyed.

    "What is this?" Rhaena asked again, breath hitching. "Why am I here? Who sent you?"

    The man with the grey beard said simply, "We have been instructed to deliver you to your sister and your grandsire, Princess Rhaena. There is no need to panic. Again, I would implore you to remain calm."

    Her heart stuttered, confused hope flaring, only to wither as she remembered that they had been taken to King''s Landing. That Prince Aemond holds them captive.

    A chill that had nothing to do with the ocean air swept through Rhaena.

    Her captors offered no further explanation, returning to their tasks. One man coiled a rope, the other silently checked the rigging. Only the grey-bearded man glanced her way.

    A tremor passed through Rhaena''s limbs. She tried to steady herself. "I¡­ I demand you free me at once," she said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice.

    "We do as our master bids," the man said calmly. No anger. No malice. Just an emptiness that scared her even more.

    At her feet, Morning let out a distressed keen. Rhaena sank to her knees, pressing her fingers through the cage''s bars in futile comfort. The ocean stretched in every direction; no land, no ship of rescue. She fought back tears.

    Mother will come, she muttered. She has to.

    In the distance, thunderheads gathered on the horizon. Or perhaps it was only Rhaena''s dread, taking shape in the brooding sky.

 Chapter Fifty: Coda

    Five Years Ago

    <hr>

    The girl was fourteen the night her father sold her.

    She had known it was coming. In the days leading up to it, his temper had grown shorter, his hands heavier, the smell of ale ever-present on his breath. He had lost again¡ªat dice, at cards, at life¡ªand when the men with hard eyes and harder fists came knocking, he had no coin to give them. Only her.

    Rowenna had been quiet as they took her, as her father muttered something about debts and sacrifices and how she was old enough now to stop being a burden. She had not begged, nor wept, nor screamed. What would have been the point? His mind had been made up.

    So she went without protest, though her heart pounded in her chest like a frightened bird trapped in a too-small cage.

    The brothel was worse than she had imagined. It smelled of sweat and cheap perfume, of wine gone sour. The women there looked at her with pity, some with boredom, a few with something like resentment. The brothel master, a fat man with thin hair and a mouth that curled too easily into a sneer, appraised her with shrewd, hungry eyes.

    ¡°A pretty thing, at least. Men will pay well for a girl like you,¡± he had said, gripping her chin with fingers thick as sausages. ¡°You¡¯ll scream a little, and then you¡¯ll learn.¡±

    She did not scream. Not then.

    Later, in the chamber where one of the friendlier whores bathed her and brushed her hair and painted rouge on her lips, she thought she might. But she swallowed it down. Incense burned in the corner, its heavy sweetness failing to mask the stink of desperation that clung to the walls. Rowenna sat curled on the edge of the narrow bed, her shift bunched around her knees, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her nails dug into her palms. The woman had told her to be still and quiet. "No man likes a chattering whore," she had said. "Especially not a highborn lord, and you¡¯ll have one tonight, girl. Count yourself lucky."

    There was a knock at the door. Rowenna stiffened.

    But it was not the young lord she had been promised. Instead, the brothel master himself appeared, sweat beading on his bald pate. Behind him came two men. One was slight and soft-faced, his gait careful, his expression unreadable. The other¡­

    Silver hair, a sharp nose, a sculpted mouth. A noble face, pale and cold as carved ivory. He wore dark leathers and a green cloak clasped at his throat with a dragon-shaped brooch, but even without those, Rowenna would have known him.

    Prince Aemond Targaryen.

    The hush in the room was thick as fog. Everyone in King¡¯s Landing knew him¡ªwho could claim they did not know One-eye? Who could claim they did not know the one who had tamed Vhagar, the largest beast in the world. The one who slain Breakbones with but a shard of sharpened bone.

    He stood in the doorway, his face a pale mask in the dim candlelight, his violet eye fixed on her. The sapphire in his other socket caught the light, glinting like ice.

    The brothel master scuttled forward, his hands wringing together. ¡°My prince,¡± he simpered, bowing low. ¡°An honor, an honor. I did not know you were visiting us tonight.¡±

    Aemond did not look at him. His eye did not leave her. Rowenna¡¯s hands curled into fists in the silk sheets.

    "This one," he said, his voice cutting through the brothel master¡¯s nervous babbling. "How much?"

    The brothel master chuckled nervously. ¡°Aye, my prince, if it¡¯s her maidenhead you want¡ª¡±

    ¡°You mistake me,¡± Aemond said, annoyance bleeding into his tone. "I asked how much she is."

    The brothel master stiffened, looking between Aemond and Rowenna, as if searching for some hidden jest. Finding none, he licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Fifty dragons, my prince."

    Aemond tossed a pouch at him and turned to go.

    The soft-faced man  accompanying the prince cast her an unreadable glance before gesturing for her to follow. When she hesitated, the brothel master grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her forward. "Go on, girl."

    Rowenna¡¯s feet moved before she could think, carrying her out of the brothel and into the cool night air. Her mind still could not make sense of it. She had known her fate, had prepared herself for it, had steeled herself to endure. But this¡ªthis was not it.

    The prince was waiting outside astride a black steed. When she stopped before him, he offered his hand. Long fingers, calloused but steady.

    Rowenna stared at it, her breath shallow. Then, unsure why, she reached out and took it.

    His grip was firm, his skin warm as he pulled her aloft. The streets were cold. The stars above were distant and uncaring. The Red Keep loomed ahead, dark and foreboding.

    Rowenna did not know what awaited her there.

    But for the first time in a long time, she thought she might not be afraid.

    ???

    Present Day

    <hr>

    Rowenna felt the salt wind whip her hair as Vhagar descended through ragged clouds, vast wings beating thunder from the sky. Beneath her, the old beast¡¯s scales were rough as river-stone, her hide gleaming slate-gray in the half-light. Rowenna¡¯s heart battered against her ribs, not from fear¡ªafter five years in Prince Aemond¡¯s orbit, she had learned to master that¡ªbut from the overwhelming presence of the ancient dragon beneath her.

    She huddled close to the prince¡¯s chest, the front of her cloak warm from the hatchlings she carried. Seven of them, skittish and fitful in her arms, their tiny claws scraping at the fabric. One let out a thin, piping squawk, flaring delicate wings no bigger than a huntsman¡¯s glove.

    Dragonstone rose from the sea ahead: black towers against a slate sky, the fortress perched on basalt cliffs as though the entire island had sprouted from some volcanic dream. Once, it had teemed with men-at-arms and banners of black and red. Now, the ramparts were eerily still. Rhaenyra was gone; word said she had fled for Essos barely a week ago with her sons and her loyal retinue.

    Vhagar let out a rumbling growl as she alit on the outer courtyard. The stone yard was near empty but for a handful of smallfolk who gaped at the arriving dragons with equal parts awe and dread. Nettles and Garren, came fluttering down on the leathery wings of Sheepstealer, that flame-scarred brute who hissed at the sea wind. Daeron settled Tessarion with a deft hand, while Addam guided Seasmoke in a graceful spiral.

    Rowenna gingerly slid from Vhagar¡¯s saddle, mindful of the hatchlings in her arms. She glanced around. No sign of guards anywhere. Only a few ragged fisherfolk and a scattering of wide-eyed stewards. She caught Garren¡¯s eye; he shrugged, as if to say, We expected as much.

    Aemond wasted no time. He strode across the courtyard, his cloak snapping behind him, offering no comment on the deserted fortress. Rowenna followed, keeping pace on long legs, the warm squirming dragons cradled carefully. In the Great Hall, the echoes of their boots rang hollow. Where once the Targaryen queen¡¯s supporters had feasted or held councils, now only silence reigned, broken by the rasp of wind through the rocks and the occasional hatchling peep.

    They were not alone. At the hall¡¯s far end, a cadre of Dragonkeepers stood in a wary half-circle. Their leader stepped forth¡ªa tall, austere man whose hair was white as foam. When he inclined his head, Rowenna saw a liveliness in his gaze that belied his years.

    ¡°Prince Aemond,¡± he greeted with a bow, voice resonant in the chilly space. His eyes danced to Rowenna¡¯s arms, and for an instant, naked wonder flashed in them. Seven new hatchlings, each scale reflecting faint torchlight in metallic sheens of copper, silver, emerald¡­ The man almost forgot himself, so evident was his fascination¡ªbut he wrestled it back into composure, and bowed more formally. ¡°My lord. Welcome.¡±

    Aemond inclined his head in return. ¡°Vezhof. You have managed the isle since Rhaenyra quit this place, I presume?¡±

    Vezhof nodded. ¡°We do what we can, my prince. Many shops and storehouses stand empty, with no coin or commerce. Rhaenyra¡ªwhen she was here¡ªhad purchased our provisions in Pentos. Since her departure however, the shipments had ceased altogether. Our stores are near spent.¡±

    Aemond¡¯s thin lips tightened. Rowenna had learned to read his moods well enough. Annoyance? She could not be completely certain. ¡°You need not worry on that count,¡± he said at last. ¡°I have lifted the embargo. Ships will come from the mainland now that the war¡¯s tide has turned. You will not starve.¡±

    Vezhof relaxed fractionally, though his gaze flitted again to the hatchlings. ¡°I am pleased to hear it, my prince. We have many smallfolk here who deserve better than an empty larder.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡± Aemond turned to Rowenna and gestured her over. That was her cue. She carefully walked forward, each of the seven hatchlings clutched in a makeshift sling. Their tiny eyes, some gold, some green, glittered with bright curiosity.

    Aemond gestured. ¡°They are called Aenara, Vaelion, Rhogar, Meraxes¡ªnamed anew in honor of my ancestors¡ªalong with Gaemith, Baerion, and Xyrella.¡± He rattled them off the names. ¡°They are newly hatched, as you can plainly see. Rowenna¡ªhand them over.¡±

    With delicate caution, Rowenna transferred the wriggling brood to the Dragonkeepers. Vezhof cradled one, his stern face nearly alight with reverence. Another keeper assisted, layering thick cloth to keep the hatchlings warm. She heard them chirr in protest, and she felt oddly bereft to see them leaving her arms. They are safer with the keepers, she reminded herself. They are meant for greater tasks than my trembling embrace.

    Aemond¡¯s eye found Vezhof¡¯s. ¡°Tend them well,¡± he said, ¡°and see they are fed. I¡¯ve not brought them here to let them languish.¡±

    Vezhof bowed. ¡°Of course, my prince.¡± He looked up, no longer able to hide his delight. ¡°We will show them every courtesy. I swear it by all the old laws.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± Aemond nodded curtly, his voice softened by faint approval. ¡°And the others¡ªVermithor and Silverwing? How fare they?¡±

    At that, Vezhof¡¯s spine straightened. ¡°Hale as ever. They wait in the lower cavern, well-fed and restless. Rhaenyra sought to bind new riders to them¡­ to no avail.¡± His lips tightened, as if recalling some unpleasantness.

    Aemond inclined his head. ¡°I suspected as much. In truth, I had the same intention.¡±

    Vezhof¡¯s expression chilled as quickly as it had brightened over the hatchlings. ¡°No, my prince. I shall not help you see it done. Rhaenyra tried to make mongrels of our proud beasts. The attempt failed¡ªsome died for it. We shall not condone such irreverence again.¡±

    Though Rowenna expected an chilly outburst (Aemond¡¯s patience with defiance was typically short), the prince merely gave a measured nod. ¡°I see your position, Torch Holder. I will not force you. Take your keepers and the dragons you watch¡ªand step aside. I shall manage the matter myself.¡±

    A small hush fell. Rowenna could see Vezhof wrestling between old devotion and new wonder, but in the end, the man bowed low. He turned to gather his subordinates, carefully bearing the seven hatchlings. ¡°As you command, my prince,¡± he said, voice hardening with resolve. ¡°We will do our duty to them. And you may do what you will with the others¡­ so long as no keeper is forced to take part.¡±

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Aemond half-smiled, though the scarred side of his face made the expression harsh. ¡°I shall remember that.¡±

    With that, the dragonkeepers filed out with the new brood. The Great Hall¡¯s doors boomed shut behind them, leaving only Rowenna, Garren, Nettles, Daeron, and Addam in the echoing hush.

    Rowenna shifted, unsettled by a sense that something momentous was about to transpire. Nettles stroked Garren¡¯s arm in a nervous gesture, while Daeron merely frowned at the empty air. Even Addam pressed his lips tight, as if remembering his own brush with Seasmoke.

    Aemond¡¯s gaze swept them all, lingering on Rowenna and Garren in particular. ¡°You two,¡± he said, his voice resonant. ¡°Come.¡±

    Rowenna¡¯s heart fluttered, though not entirely in surprise. She sensed Garren stiffen beside her.

    ¡°You would have us¡­?¡± she began.

    Aemond¡¯s single eye narrowed. ¡°Vermithor and Silverwing are old, grand beasts that deserve riders worthy of them. Rhaenyra¡¯s attempts failed, but that need not doom ours. You¡¯ve seen how I treat mine. Addam and Nettles, too. They have served me¡ªand the realm¡ªwell. You shall do the same. Come.¡±

    Rowenna swallowed, glancing at Garren. His face was pale beneath his freckles, but he nodded once, determined.

    Aemond turned on his heel, leading them from the hall toward the bowels of Dragonstone.

    Rowenna followed, each step echoing in that dread, hollow keep. A swirl of conflicting feelings coursed through her: fear, excitement, and the memory of five years past, when she had first been taken from one life and thrust into another. She squared her shoulders, forcing herself to step forward.

    No¡ªthis time, she would choose to be brave. If the gods truly smiled on her, perhaps she would not be afraid.

    ???

    Garren could hear the rumble long before he saw Vermithor. It was a sound deeper than distant thunder, reverberating off the cavern walls beneath Dragonstone. The passages were chiseled from ancient, volcanic stone, and their shadows seemed endless, devouring what little light the torches offered. In front of him, Prince Aemond¡¯s tall figure led the way, his step sure-footed upon the uneven ground, while Rowenna walked to his left. The prince had said little since they descended, giving only clipped commands¡ªno wasted words.

    Garren¡¯s breath felt tight, as if the press of stone above weighed upon his lungs. Memories flitted through his mind, unbidden: the day the good Prince took him from the service of his former masters, the taste of ash in the air as the Iron Islands burned under dragonflame so long ago, and every story he¡¯d heard about the might of Vermithor, once the trusted mount of the Old King Jaehaerys. Garren had never much believed in fate, but he could not deny the weight of it pressing down on him now.

    ¡°Here,¡± Aemond said abruptly. His voice carried in the darkness like a knife¡¯s whisper.

    They entered a chamber wide enough to fit three houses side by side. Hot, sulfurous air fanned Garren¡¯s face, and he squinted through the gloom to see a massive, sinuous form curled in the far reaches of the cavern. Two great amber eyes reflected the torchlight, the pupils shrinking to slivers.

    Vermithor.

    An uneasy thrill shot through Garren. He tasted salt on his lips¡ªwhether from sweat or sea spray carried in on the wind, he couldn¡¯t tell. The ancient dragon lifted his great head, ridges of obsidian and dull bronze catching the flicker of the torches. A flick of Vermithor¡¯s tail sent a cloud of ash spiraling into the air. The dragon let out a slow breath, heat rippling through the air. The glow of his maw deepened, illuminating his scars, the places where time had weathered him.

    Even from yards away, Garren could sense the heat rippling from the beast¡¯s monstrous silhouette.

    Aemond stopped, turning to Rowenna. ¡°Remember what I told you. Move calmly. Speak confidently if you must. The old beast has no patience for the timid.¡±

    Rowenna drew in a slow breath. Garren watched her fingers curl at her sides. She had always been as fearless as she was disciplined¡ªso much so that she frightened even some of their fellow Dragonseeds. But again, fearlessness was little armor against a dragon¡¯s wrath.

    She looked back at Garren, and he nodded. The words he wanted to say clogged in his throat: Be careful. Don¡¯t die. But he said nothing.

    When she stepped toward Vermithor, Garren¡¯s pulse hammered. Each footfall echoed in the hush. An acrid tang filled the chamber as the dragon exhaled, nostrils flaring in a haze of steam. Rowenna paused just beyond Vermithor¡¯s coiled tail, close enough for her to feel the scent of death upon her face.

    Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Vermithor¡¯s eyes smouldered. Then, Rowenna lifted a hand, palm open. She said something in a low voice¡ªtoo soft for Garren to hear. The dragon¡¯s lips parted over teeth as long as a man¡¯s arm. A low rumble reverberated in the chamber, a half-growl, half-grunt.

    Garren¡¯s heart pounded. For a dreadful instant, he was certain the beast would unleash dragonfire. The warmth in the cavern intensified, and the Bronze Fury¡¯s massive chest seemed to swell. Seven save her, he prayed silently. He felt the press of sweat on his brow and forced himself not to move.

    Then, like a boulder shifting, Vermithor lowered his head. He snuffled at Rowenna¡¯s outstretched hand, letting out another rolling breath. Rowenna didn¡¯t flinch¡ªonly slowly placed her palm against the dragon¡¯s brow scale.

    She did it.

    A strangled laugh escaped Garren¡¯s throat before he even knew it was there. Relief flooded him, so strong he laughed again.

    Prince Aemond¡ªtall, severe, scarred¡ªwatched in silence, no flicker of emotion upon his pale features. After a moment, however, he inclined his head, an acknowledgment both regal and sincere. ¡°Well done,¡± he commented, his voice echoing in the hollow space.

    Rowenna slid her hand across the dragon¡¯s massive snout, and Vermithor did not recoil. She turned back toward them, her breathing just very slightly uneven. In that moment, Garren saw the tightness in her posture¡ªa stiffness that told of how close she had come to the cusp of death.

    Aemond allowed them a brief moment before he spoke again, placing a firm hand on Garren¡¯s shoulder as he drew him away.

    ¡°We¡¯ll give them their time.¡±

    Garren nodded mutely, casting one final glance at Rowenna, who was still leaning close to her newly bonded dragon, as if reluctant to part for even a moment. He offered her a quick, tight smile, and then followed the prince deeper into Dragonstone¡¯s winding tunnels.

    <hr>

    They moved through the twisting corridors in silence, the occasional trickle of water echoing through the gloom. The air grew warmer still, and flecks of volcanic rock crunched beneath Garren¡¯s boots. Some path led upward, to the old walkways near the fortress courtyard; others burrowed downward, to unknown depths.

    Aemond finally broke the hush. ¡°You¡¯re anxious,¡± he said, not quite a question.

    Garren grimaced. ¡°Forgive me, my prince. I suppose I am.¡±

    Aemond¡¯s single violet eye cut sideways, that sapphire shining cold in his other socket. ¡°You have served me for years, Garren. Longer than most. Wyl, I could understand, but not you. Why this fear? Do you not trust in your prince any longer?¡±

    Garren met Aemond¡¯s gaze only briefly before looking away. ¡°It¡¯s not a matter of trust, my prince. Dragons are¡­ not horses. It is only natural to fear them.¡±

    Aemond huffed. ¡°A fair answer, I suppose.¡±

    Before Garren could ruminate on the response, a low rumble shuddered through the rock beneath them. Then he heard it¡ªa dragon¡¯s growl, higher pitched than the Bronze Fury¡¯s thunder. It reminded him of a great cat¡¯s warning.

    Silverwing.

    She was smaller than Vermithor¡ªsleeker, too, her argent scales gleaming in the dim firelight as they stepped into a high-roofed cavern. Even so, she was a formidable beast: once the mount of Good Queen Alysanne, beloved by smallfolk and rumored to be as gentle as any dragon might be. Yet in that moment, Garren saw only primal suspicion in those slitted eyes. The she-dragon¡¯s long neck arched, and her wings rustled, stirring ash motes in a swirl around her.

    Aemond lifted a hand, speaking in High Valyrian. The words sounded like silk and steel interwoven¡ªGarren made out the phrases, translating them in his mind as they were spoken: Please, calm yourself.

    Silverwing shifted restlessly, her breath escaping in a slow, growling exhalation. She pinned Aemond with her gaze, as though deciding whether to incinerate him where he stood.

    ¡°Forgive me, Silverwing,¡± he murmured, gentler now. ¡°It had to be done. For your sake.¡±

    Garren watched, transfixed, as Aemond moved closer. He placed a gloved hand upon the curve of her neck, speaking in hushed Valyrian. Whatever it was the prince said worked. Silverwing¡¯s tense posture eased. The hiss died in her throat, replaced by a soft, wary trill. After a long moment, Aemond stepped back and motioned Garren forward.

    ¡°Garren, come,¡± he said, again reverting to the Common Tongue. ¡°You need not fear her. She will not harm you now.¡±

    Garren took an uncertain step, then another. He half-expected Silverwing to lash out at any moment. Yet the dragon only blinked, her nostrils flaring at his scent. He was close enough now to see the fine edges of each silver scale, the shadows dancing between them. His heart beat so loudly he feared she might sense it.

    Aemond¡¯s words in High Valyrian were directed to Silverwing this time, quiet but clear: ¡°A rider for you, dear queen. I have found one who is worthy. Look upon him.¡±

    Silverwing turned her head, studying Garren. He could feel her breath, warm and vaguely sulfuric, wash over him. This was the moment.

    The She-dragon lowered her horned head so her muzzle was near Garren¡¯s chest. The heat of her exhalation ruffled his cloak, and she sniffed, as though reading every secret that clung to his skin. Time seemed to stretch into an eternity of pounding blood and shallow breath.

    Then, suddenly, Silverwing let out a brief, almost gentle rumble. She nudged him with her snout, and the force of it nearly knocked him off-balance. A sudden trill followed¡ªan approving sound, if Garren had ever heard one.

    Garren let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding. He dared lift a hand to stroke the dragon¡¯s neck, and her silver scales felt warm under his fingertips.

    A quiet laugh sounded behind him. The prince, watching them both, offered a rare smile that reached his good eye. ¡°She finds you amusing. I concur.¡±

    Confusion and relief warred within Garren¡¯s chest. He caught the glimmer of genuine warmth in Aemond¡¯s face. For one impossible heartbeat, he almost imagined that the enigma of a man had been replaced by something¡­ more human. More relatable.

    Then Aemond¡¯s gaze shuttered again, inscrutable. ¡°I would advise you to remember to hold tight,¡± he said, gesturing and drawing attention to the fact that Silverwing had lowered her neck so Garren could mount her. ¡°The first flight is always... memorable.¡±

    Garren nodded wordlessly as he climbed onto her back, gripping tightly as Silverwing spread her wings wide. The cavern walls echoed her trill as she stalked out of the cave system.

    Outside, the sea crashed against the basalt cliffs, and in the air, Garren could see Vermithor circling high above the island. On the beach below, he could see the tiny figures of the dragonkeepers watching, possibly in awe. Without warning, Silverwing took off into the wind. The world fell away, replaced by the intoxicating promise of freedom from mortal trappings, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Garren allowed himself the luxury of a laugh¡ªa fierce, exultant sound swallowed whole by the wind.

    ???

    (An Account of the Great Reckoning, as recorded in The Annals of the Green Triumph, penned by Archmaester Vaelor in the reign of King Aegon II Targaryen)

    <hr>

    In the waning days of the Dance, as the tide of war turned inexorably against the Black pretender, the false Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen fled Westeros, abandoning her seat, her subjects, and what remained of her legitimacy to the mercy of her enemies. Hounded by misfortune and misrule, she took to the sea, her remaining loyalists and the great Essosi fleet that had once promised her dominion now reduced to instruments of exile. With her fled, her husband, Prince Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, the black traitor, whose name had once been spoken with reverence and dread in equal measure, is left to his fate: The end he had long evaded found him at last at Rook¡¯s Rest, where Prince Aemond the Golden, bested him in the sky and slew his mount, Caraxes, breaking the last great strength of the Blacks. Captured and bound in chains of black iron, the traitor-prince was sent to kneel before his king, Aegon II.

    It was then, with the usurper¡¯s army shattered and their might undone, that Prince Aemond One-Eye, yet High Castellan of the Realm and Master of War, set his sights upon Dragonstone. The island had been the ancestral seat of House Targaryen since the first Valyrians had come westward, yet it stood hollow now, its keepers abandoned by their queen, its gates left open to whatever fate the gods might decree. With Vhagar beneath him and his loyal dragonlords at his side¡ªPrince Daeron upon the sapphire-hued Tessarion, Addam Velaryon upon Seasmoke, and the Lady Nettles upon the fearsome brute Sheepstealer¡ªPrince Aemond descended upon the Dragonmont.

    There was no battle, for there were none left to fight. The queen¡¯s loyalists, those who had not fled or perished, found themselves leaderless and forsaken, with neither queen nor court to give them succor. Only two dragons remained within the depths of the Dragonmont, unclaimed¡ªVermithor, the Bronze Fury, and Silverwing, mount of Good Queen Alysanne, beasts of ancient might whom Rhaenyra had sought to bind to her cause, yet failed.

    Thus, in what many named a sign of divine favor, Prince Aemond did what the false queen could not: he found riders for them. From among his dragonseeds, those whose loyalty he held from their youth, he chose two. Rowenna, a woman of unknown origins and rumored to be the prince¡¯s own woman, strode forth to claim Vermithor, the second-largest dragon in Westeros, and the great beast bent its head to her touch. Garren, stalwart and stoic, approached Silverwing, and she too accepted him. Thus, with two mighty beasts brought to his cause, the dominion of the Greens over dragonkind was at last made whole.

    Having seized Dragonstone without bloodshed, Prince Aemond made his triumphant return to King¡¯s Landing. There, in honor of his great victories, he fulfilled a promise made to his royal brother: a grand tourney was proclaimed, to be held in the capital, where lords and knights from all the Seven Kingdoms might bear witness to the glory of the Greens and the downfall of the Black pretender.

    Yet, it was not merely a celebration of war¡¯s end. It was a herald of new beginnings. Alongside the tourney, two momentous unions were declared: Prince Aemond himself was to take to wife Lady Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale, thus binding the Eyrie to the Iron Throne. And his younger brother, Prince Daeron, The Blue Dragon of the Reach, would wed Princess Baela Targaryen, last of the rogue prince¡¯s daughters, who had long dwelled as an honored guest in the Green court.

    Thus did the Greens secure their rule over Westeros. The usurper Rhaenyra was gone, her Essosi patrons sent scurrying back across the Narrow Sea, her loyalists crushed or cowed. And in the halls of the Red Keep, amidst the banners of black and green, a new dawn had come at last for the realm of men.

 EPILOGUE: The Princes Tourney

    "No man is so accursed as the kinslayer."

    ¨DEddard Stark

    ¡­?

    Jeyne had spent much of her life in the austerity of the Eyrie, perched high above the clouds where the winds rattled the moon doors and courtyards. A place of clarity and isolation. Yet never had she felt so remote from ordinary life as she did now, seated on the dais at the Red Keep''s grand feast in King''s Landing. Every sparkle of torchlight, every clang of distant steel and ring of laughter, seemed amplified and yet strangely distant, as though she were observing it all through a pane of glass.

    At her side sat her soon-to-be husband, Aemond¡ªpale, sharp-featured, and possessed of a manner so cool it bordered on frost. This was their wedding feast, though it was a double one: Prince Daeron, Aemond''s younger brother, would wed Baela Targaryen as well, joining the king''s youngest brother to the youngest daughter of perhaps the greatest of his enemies. Strange how queer alliances take shape in the shadow of defeat, Jeyne thought, her gaze flicking over to the soon-to-be-newly wedded couple seated nearby.

    King Aegon II presided at the center of the table, with Queen Helaena by his side¡ªmeek and lovely, though her attention was fixed on private conversation with mother, the Queen Dowager.

    The Velaryons had been granted a place of honor at the king''s left, though one would not know it from their bearing. Lord Corlys, the Sea Snake grown silver and somber, whispered low with Ser Vaemond, his brother, their words too hushed for polite ears. Beside them sat Princess Rhaena, demure and doll-like, with eyes lowered and hands folded in her lap.

    Baela was to the right of Jeyne and Aemond, while Daeron sat to her left beside the king. Where Rhaena wore meekness like a veil, Baela bore her displeasure openly. Her face was carved in stone, yet the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. The young bride seemed to seethe with every glance she cast at her new in-laws.

    It is not hatred alone that fuels her, Jeyne thought, studying the stiffness of the young bride. To be bound so soon, with her father''s cause not yet cold in the grave... it wounds more than pride. Anger and heartbreak made poor bedfellows, yet Baela seemed host to both. Jeyne found it in herself to pity her, if only a little¡ªbut such thoughts were best kept hidden, and sympathy seldom safe at court.

    A wave of cheers rippled through the hall, and Jeyne realized the third course was being served: honeyed boar, roast capons stuffed with figs, and thick loaves of black bread. A hush followed as King Aegon rose, raising a jeweled goblet. "To Prince Aemond and my good sister, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and to Prince Daeron and Lady Baela," he intoned, his voice tight from either wine or exertion. "May their unions strengthen this realm for generations to come." He lifted the goblet higher, and the assembled lords and ladies echoed his words.

    Beside Jeyne, Aemond lifted his own goblet in silent toast. Their eyes briefly met¡ªhis single violet eye calm, the sapphire set in his scarred socket glinting like ice. Jeyne mustered a polite smile. My husband, she reminded herself, fighting the twinge of unease that accompanied the thought.

    <hr>

    By tradition, a grand melee followed the feast. It was held in the Tourney Grounds outside the King''s Gate, a stretch of packed earth ringed by ancient stone stands. Tapestries bearing the dragon sigil rippled from scaffolding, while trumpeters proclaimed the next events. The lords and ladies of the realm gathered, cloaked against a cool autumn breeze that swept in from Blackwater Bay.

    From her seat of honor on the raised viewing platform¡ªan open box richly draped with green silks¡ªJeyne surveyed the crowd. There was Lord Ormund Hightower of the Reach, leaning close to some of his sworn bannermen, the star of the Hightower prominent on his surcoat. Next to him loomed Lord Jason Lannister of the Westerlands, proud-chested in a tunic of crimson and gold. Lord Oscar Tully held court with a small cluster of Riverlords, his fish sigil resplendent. The battered remnants of Stormland nobility, newly cowed under Aemond''s subjugation, lingered somewhat apart¡ªuncertain and wary. The war had not left them unscathed. Closer still, Jeyne saw Lord Cregan Stark sitting straight and broad-shouldered, stark grey wool about his shoulders. Even from a distance, his expression seemed as cold as the winds of the North.

    Her gaze wandered. Beside Prince Aemond sat a lithe, long-limbed man with dusk-dark eyes and sunburnt cheeks, clad in silks the color of parched sand and blood. A Dornishman, she recalled hearing, though none had deigned to introduce him formally. Some envoy or lesser cousin to a prince¡ªQoren Martell''s man, if rumor was to be trusted.

    Jeyne lifted her cup of watered wine and drank without tasting, tilting her head just so to better hear their hushed exchange. The Dornishman spoke swiftly, hands dancing as if to give weight to his words. His voice was low but pressed with urgency.

    "¡­the blockade in the Stepstones¡­" Jeyne heard. "¡­the Prince requests¡­ Dornish trade suffers¡­ Interests in Lys and Tyrosh¡­"

    Aemond''s reply was too soft to make out fully, but Jeyne caught the cool arch of his brow. She recognized the look in his eye¡ªdisinterested, perhaps even amused, at another''s predicament. Food shortages¡­ Famine? The prince said softly, though Jeyne couldn''t be sure. The Dornish envoy''s face blanched, and Jeyne read what she could of the mood that emerged afterwards. it was not what was said that mattered, but the set of their faces. The envoy leaned forward, beseeching. Aemond reclined like a man with time and power both. One asked. The other dismissed.

    The Dornish needed Aemond''s leniency, and Aemond did not feel inclined to offer it.

    A small crowd of knights battered each other in the melee below, stirring dust and cheers. Greatswords and morningstars clanged on shields in a chaotic tumult. Now and then, a warrior fell, battered senseless or forced to yield. A swirl of capes and house sigils made for a colorful spectacle, but Jeyne could practically feel the political currents swirling behind the stands. Many lesser lords jockeyed for House Hightower''s favor or the ear of Lord Lannister¡ªanything to secure the opportunities emerging with the fall of the Black loyalists. Scavengers at a corpse, she thought.

    The last fight concluded to a roar of voices. A final, triumphant knight in a red serpent-lion surcoat wrested the last opponent to the ground. The Queen Dowager herself rose, offering mild applause. Jeyne clapped politely; so did Aemond, though she noticed his attention half-lingered on the Dornishman, observing him.

    When the final victor took his bow, the herald stepped forward into the dusty yard. "My lords and ladies!" he cried, voice magnified by the hush that fell. "We have one more spectacle to present¡ªby the decree of Prince Aemond Targaryen!"

    A prickle of unease traced Jeyne''s spine. What now?

    A wooden gate on the far side of the yard rattled. Out from the shadows walked four men-at-arms in red cloaks, leading a fifth figure by a chain collar. The captive''s hair shone silver-gold, though tangled and dull. He wore a flimsy shift, barefoot, wrists manacled. Jeyne''s lips parted in surprise. Prince Daemon. The Rogue Prince, once so notorious and proud. Now he was a wretched sight, but still carried himself with a certain dignity¡ªspine unbowed, though his hands trembled faintly.

    A hush fell over the stands, broken by the wind''s whistle. King Aegon stared from the dais, his lips pursed. Queen Helaena shrank behind a half-veil of embroidered lace. And on Jeyne''s left, Baela let out a sharp breath¡ªsomething between a gasp and a hiss, her hands whitening around the edge of her seat. Jeyne glanced at Aemond, whose face revealed nothing.

    The herald''s voice echoed again. "Daemon the Betrayer, once of House Targaryen, stands accused of high treason against His Grace, King Aegon the Second, and the Crown. Brought here by Prince Aemond''s command, so that His Grace may pass final judgment."

    Jeyne''s stomach twisted. She saw King Aegon shift, uncertain, glancing from Daemon to Aemond. A flicker of disquiet marred the king''s brow as he said hesitantly, "Why is he brought here, brother?" in a voice too low for most to hear.

    Aemond rose, and the entire yard seemed to hold its breath. "Your Grace," he said. "In the name of our new sister"¡ªhe inclined his head toward Baela with a slight smile¡ª"I have decided upon a¡­ boon."

    Baela''s mouth tightened with anger, but she did not speak.

    Aemond continued, his voice resonating. "Rather than put Prince Daemon to death for his treasons¡ªas would be just¡ªwe offer him a choice. A chance to redeem what little honor he has left, and perhaps spare the lives of those he holds dear. Let him face me in single combat. Should he prevail, he will not hang nor burn, but take the black and live out his days in exile upon the Wall. Princess Rhaenyra and her sons may yet be granted clemency and allowed to return to Westeros. Bronzegate shall be their seat, and there they may live out their days in quiet disgrace. The Targaryen name shall be stripped from them. Their claims to the Iron Throne and succession dissolved. Yet they shall inherit the lands and titles of the late Lord Buckler, whose line is no more."

    A low ripple of whispers swept the stands. Jeyne could see heads turning, lords blinking in disbelief. One or two voices cried out in protest¡ªStormlanders, perhaps, outraged that traitors might yet be given a strong castle¡ªbut none dared speak too loudly. It''s madness, Jeyne thought, but cunning. Aemond would rather keep Rhaenyra''s brood under watch in Westeros than see them stirring trouble in Essos, beyond his reach.

    King Aegon hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed. The look he cast at Aemond was half questioning, half deferential. Then he cleared his throat. "If that is your will, dear brother, so be it."

    The look sealed Jeyne''s suspicion. She felt both awe and a twinge of apprehension. She had known the rumors¡ªthat the king was but a puppet and Aemond his puppetmaster. Now she saw it. She would have to be dishonest to claim the thought did not faintly terrify her.

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    Daemon was forced to his knees before the king. Baela''s eyes shone with something close to hatred as she watched Aemond. She must realize that he''s half mocking her father, half doing her an unwelcome kindness by sparing him from a common headsman.

    "Bring him arms," Aemond commanded. The gates rattled again as two squires bustled forth, carrying Dark Sister, the fabled Valyrian steel blade that Daemon once wielded, and a battered set of blackened steel armor etched with faint dragons. The yard erupted in astonished murmurs: never had they expected Aemond to hand Daemon his own sword, nor grant him a proper harness for single combat.

    Daemon himself stared with open disbelief. But soon enough, that disbelief twisted into dark amusement. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. "Do you fancy yourself so unstoppable, nephew?" he rasped, as the squires fumbled with his chains and began strapping his armor to him. "You beat me once in the sky¡­ thrice, perhaps, at sea. But not like this. Sword to sword, it might be I who kills you."

    Aemond''s thin lips curled at the corners. "I have ever been curious," he laughed, "who was the better swordsman. Let us find out."

    Shock greeted his words, but no one dared gainsay him. This battle would be had today.

    <hr>

    All around the yard, the lords and knights and ladies fell silent as Daemon''s armor was buckled into place, piece by piece. Jeyne could not help her quickening pulse. Will Aemond truly fight him himself?

    Jeyne watched him step onto the dusty field in his court attire¡ªdark green velvet, no breastplate, no helmet. At the edge of the ring, he drew a steel longsword from a baffled guard''s hips, tested its weight in one hand, and nodded.

    Dark Sister glimmered in Daemon''s grip¡ªValyrian steel so sharp it would split lesser blades. And Daemon wore a full suit of plate. Jeyne''s mouth went dry. "He''s mad," she whispered under her breath.

    Prince Daeron watched with tightly controlled composure, though his hand slid to the pommel of his own sword, as if ready to leap into the fray should matters turn sour.

    The herald looked uncertain, but in the end, he cleared his throat and declared: "Prince Aemond Targaryen has entered the field! Let the gods judge the righteous cause."

    A bell rang. Daemon surged forward at once, spinning Dark Sister in a vicious cut aimed at Aemond''s midsection. Jeyne''s heart lurched, but Aemond twisted aside with preternatural speed¡ªalmost as if he''d known exactly where Daemon would strike. Soon, she realised something. It''s as though he''s dancing. The move reminded her of some text she had read in a dusty Braavosi manual on the Water Dance, yet it was sharper, more primal.

    Their swords gleamed in the sunlight. Aemond gave ground, letting Daemon press the attack. Despite wearing no armor, he showed not a flicker of fear. Every slash or thrust Daemon unleashed was met with a sidestep, a half-parry, or a sudden pivot that allowed Aemond to rap his steel blade against the plates of Daemon''s armor¡ªping, ping, ping¡ªyet always avoiding a direct clash, for Valyrian steel could cut his sword like a common twig. Aemond''s expression was impassive, almost bored.

    Daemon, by contrast, seethed. Furious slashes made the onlookers flinch, but none found their mark. In the stands, Jeyne felt an odd flush of relief with each near miss. She realized, with a start, that she was frightened for the fool.

    Then, abruptly, something changed in Aemond''s posture¡ªhe stilled. The next time Daemon lunged, Aemond stepped inside the blow with a sudden lethal grace. His left hand wrenched Daemon''s sword arm up and back, forcing the older man to pivot. Aemond''s steel found a gap in the armor just above Daemon''s armpit and slid in with a spray of blood.

    Daemon gasped. His grip spasmed, and Dark Sister clattered to the ground. A ragged cry arose from the crowd¡ªBaela half-rose in alarm, face white.

    But Aemond did not stop. Fluidly, he twisted free, following Daemon''s stumbling retreat. Daemon tried to raise an arm in defense, but Aemond''s next thrust took him in the inner thigh, finding another gap. The prince¡ªthe rogue¡ªbuckled to his knees. Blood ran in a dark rivulet down his leg.

    For a long, tense heartbeat, Aemond stood there, sword poised at Daemon''s visor slit. One thrust forward and it would all be over. Silence smothered the yard like a heavy cloak. Jeyne could almost see the final blow forming in Aemond''s mind. Do it! Kill him now!

    Finally, Aemond withdrew with a flourish. He turned from his wounded uncle without so much as a backward glance, tossing the borrowed sword back to its owner who caught it clumsily. Daemon slumped to the dirt, choking on muffled curses.

    Aemond strode back toward the dais. In the hush, each footstep seemed to echo. He climbed the steps and reclaimed his seat beside Jeyne, drawing a goblet of wine to his lips. Only then did the crowd exhale. The yard erupted into confused chatter: some cried out in shock at Daemon''s downfall, others roared triumph for the Greens.

    Aemond raised his cup in a salute to Baela. His voice cut across the tumult, loud enough for all nearby to hear: "A gift for you, my lady¡ªyour father''s life. Let him keep it. He shall take the black."

    ????

    Aegon tried not to look at his uncle''s bleeding form. Instead, his gaze flickered to Aemond, stepping away from Daemon without so much as a backward glance. Gods, he moves like a serpent, Aegon thought, swallowing hard. There was a smugness in the tilt of Aemond''s shoulders, a detachment in that single pale eye.

    When at last Aemond settled beside his bride-to-be and spoke his words to Baela, he glanced sidelong at the king. The prince''s brow rose fractionally¡ªthe faintest arch above his good eye. That¡­ that was the signal. Aegon felt his lips go dry. That is it, is it not?

    For one breathless beat, Aegon forgot what it meant. Cold sweat broke along the back of his neck. The speech¡ªhe wants me to speak.

    He clenched his hands on the carved arms of his seat and forced himself to stand, ignoring the protest from his guts to find a corner to curl into. For the love the realm bears its king¡­ get on with it.

    He lifted the goblet he held. The yard quieted again, expectant, and Aegon forced a smile he did not feel. "My lords," he called, surprised at how thin his voice sounded in his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. "My lords, let us toast Prince Aemond, whose victory here¡ª" He swallowed the dryness in his throat. "¡ªproves that the valor and skill of our noble house remain second to none."

    A murmur of assent rose from the stands, punctuated by a few scattered cheers. Aemond gave an infinitesimal nod, urging him onward. Aegon cleared his throat again.

    "In days past, none dared meddle in our affairs. Yet of late, there are those¡­ fools¡­" He paused, remembering the words he''d rehearsed under Aemond''s watchful eye, his mind racing to recall the speech''s exact phrasing. "Essosi fools meddling in our affairs, believing they may shape the fate of Westeros to their whim."

    A wave of agreement rippled through the lords.

    Aegon wet his lips. Go on, Aegon. Go on.

    "And who was chief among them?" he demanded, forcing some steel into his voice. "Braavos¡ªthe so-called Hundred Isles. Braavos, who dared grant coin and succor to the traitor Rhaenyra. Braavos, who harbored her fellow traitors and financed her ruse of queenship."

    There was a scattered rumbling of anger. Aegon seized upon it. He had practiced this, almost parrot-like. You are a king, damn it. Speak like one.

    "They would see us divided, my lords. They would fund rebels, buy our traitors into our midst, feed illusions that Rhaenyra Targaryen¡ª" He nearly spat the name. "¡ªcould remain a queen in exile, nurturing illegitimate princes to lay claim to my rightful throne!"

    A sharper growl of discontent rose, and Aegon sensed his own rising fervor. He risked a sidelong glance at Aemond, saw his brother''s solemn mien, and took it as encouragement.

    "This will not stand," Aegon said, each word trembling ever so slightly as he forced it out. "Westeros will not endure another brood of traitors, skulking in Essos, with their young dragons, growing¡­ Freed to raise another army to raze our lands!"

    He heard Baela faintly gasp beside to his right, half in fury, half in heartbreak, but he did not stop.

    Aegon took a deep breath. His voice rose higher. "Let the Free Cities and the lords of all the world know that we of Westeros do not bow to foreign meddlers. If Braavos thinks to harbor Rhaenyra and her bastards, to help them gather the strength to sow discord in our land¡ªthen they have declared themselves our enemy."

    The lords in the stands erupted in assent, some cheering, others beating mailed fists on wooden railings. Aegon''s heart pounded. He stammered, momentarily losing his place in the memorized lines. He cast a quick, panicked look at Aemond.

    His brother nodded, calmly, as though to say: Press on.

    So Aegon squared his shoulders, drawing what little pride he had left. "Henceforth," he proclaimed, "by the grace of the Seven and in defense of our realm, I, Aegon of the House Targaryen, Second of His Name¡ª" He paused, swallowing again. "¡ªdo hereby declare war¡­ on Braavos!"

    The words rang out over the yard and a thunderous roar arose in response¡ªsome leapt to their feet in excitement, others murmured to one another in uncertainty, and still others seemed shocked. But many cheered, especially those who scented spoils or craved further glory.

    Aegon forced a triumphant look, though inside, his stomach churned anew. War on Braavos. The mightiest of the Free Cities, famed for its fleets, wealth, and Faceless Men. A terrible foe indeed.

    Suddenly, he was seized by the urge to sit down, to rest the weight of his battered body. But he remained standing a moment longer, because Aemond had taught him that kings do not slump in the face of their own pronouncements. Only after the crowd''s shouting reached its fever pitch did Aemond nod slightly, gently gesturing for him to retake his seat.

    Aegon did so. Gladly.

 EPILOGUE: Casus Belli (End of Book One)

    "Survival is the ability to swim in strange water."

    ¨DBene Gesserit Teaching

    ¡­?

    In the twilight hours, when shadows stretched long across Braavos''s famed canals, an unsettling hush blanketed the lagoon. Word had spread all day¡ªby gondoliers whispering into each other''s ears, by shopkeepers recounting bizarre rumors to their last customers, by fishermen docking along the Purple Harbor and overhearing hushed talk from the city guard¡ªthat Westeros had declared war upon Braavos. Not some piecemeal skirmish over tariffs or pirate raids, but a formal pronouncement: King Aegon II Targaryen now counted Braavos among his enemies.

    At first, many scoffed. Folly, they said, for all the world knew the Free City was a power none trifled with lightly. Yet by sundown, when the streets glowed in torchlight, the revelations proved impossible to ignore. The truth took hold: It was the Targaryen princess in exile¡ªthis so-called Queen Rhaenyra¡ªwho had lured the dragon''s wrath upon them.

    The Iron Throne blamed Braavos for supporting the "traitor," Rhaenyra Targaryen. She had found asylum in the city''s winding byways, financed by the Iron Bank''s gold and protected by a Braavosi fleet. A reckoning loomed, the kind that unsettled merchant princes and common boatmen alike.

    <hr>

    Throughout the serpentine alleys, small crowds soon gathered in anxious knots. The city''s distinct hush was shattered by raised voices: tradesmen proclaiming that war would ruin commerce, fishwives weeping that their men might soon be conscripted into the Arsenal''s expanding navy, children wide-eyed as they listened to the echo of shouts. "Why should Braavos pay for a Targaryen''s war?" demanded a dockworker, brandishing a net in frustration. "Why should we feed our sons to dragonfire?"

    Within hours, an angry mob converged upon the Sealord''s grand palazzo, a grand edifice of columned courtyards and sculpted facades. By nightfall, a greater throng pressed at the bronze gates, demanding answers. Lanterns bobbed amid the jostling sea of faces as voices rose in anger: "Cast out the Targaryen pretender!" one cried. Another: "We are Braavos, not some puppet city of Westeros!" The city guard formed a thin defensive line in front of the gates, spears bristling. They exchanged worried glances, for seldom did the Braavosi turn so fierce against their own ruler.

    The Sealord, a tall man with a careful smile, was forced to address the throng. Publicly, he absolved himself of blame, claiming the fleet sent to Westeros had sailed only to protect Braavosi interests¡ªnamely the Iron Bank''s gold threatened by Aemond Targaryen''s "Dragon''s Bank" and the chaos of the Targaryen civil war. He gave no sign of fear, yet behind the high walls of his palace, he dispatched envoys to King''s Landing to plead for peace. He knew too well that Westeros was vast, its dragons numerous and fearsome, and that Braavosi ships might burn like dry tinder if it came to open war. Still, Aegon II¡ªgoaded by his Master of War, Prince Aemon¡ªspurned these missives, determined to punish those who had financed his half-sister''s rebellion.

    Seeing the clamor and the Sealord''s failed attempt at appeasement, the Iron Bank also moved swiftly to cut its losses. Rhaenyra''s claim, once so promising, seemed all but doomed. The Bank had been stung by scornful blame¡ªwho else was rumored to have supplied her gold for mercenaries and ships? One director, an aging woman with jewels woven in her hair, would be remembered saying, "We should never have put coin into a woman who lost half her realm before we ever lent a groat." Yet, the deed had been done, and the consequences now laid bare at their feet, a city imperiled. Seeking to preserve their reputation, the Bank''s directors secretly met with Aemond''s emissaries in the Crown''s capital, offering to withdraw their support for the princess and pull out whatever funds might remain. If any quiet settlement could protect the Bank''s branches and holdings, they would pursue it. Better secret capitulation than open ruin. Yet the King''s Master of War showed them no mercy, not even when they threatened to send Faceless Men into his chambers at night. "You wanted war, I will give you war," one witness overheard him say, flinty-eyed.

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    Meanwhile, in the high-walled Braavosi manse where she resided, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen refused to be hunted like a boar at bay. While the mobs bellowed outside, she laid plans of her own. The princess was said to have penned the letters herself, and a small retinue delivered her proposals before dawn. Many families balked at first¡ªthe prospect of wedding Targaryens might as easily bring dragonfire upon their door. But Rhaenyra played on their ambition: "Imagine your heirs astride dragons, your house the envy of the Hundred Isles. Let the Targaryen name safeguard your fortunes. Would you kneel to Aegon''s threats or forge your own destiny?"

    Within a fortnight, betrothal announcements were made, each more astonishing than the last. One by one, her sons¡ªall who boasted ancient blood and bonded dragons¡ªwere betrothed to the wealthiest and most ambitious merchant families of Braavos. A series of swift negotiations sealed these pacts: dragon riders for lavish dowries and protection, Targaryen sons for Braavosi daughters, weaving her cause into the city''s very tapestry. Within days, the disquieted city watched as Braavos''s mightiest houses¡ªfamily names that graced the highest echelons of trade in spices, silks, and precious gems¡ªaligned themselves with Rhaenyra. Their factor lords extolled a new refrain: "We are the city that once defied Valyria. Shall we bend the knee to lesser tyrants?"

    Slowly, public sentiment pivoted. Those who once decried Rhaenyra''s presence now pointed out the monstrous cruelty of Aemond Targaryen, rumored to have tortured foes and burned entire swathes of the Stormlands in his war with the Blacks. Braavos''s famed street orators¡ªsingers, too¡ªtook coin to spin tales of Rhaenyra''s nobility, her rightful claim, and the injustice that forced her from her throne. They condemned King Aegon as a puppet enthroned by warlords. They sneered at how he had let his own realm bleed in his lust for power.

    The Free City bristled at the idea that foreign kings could dictate who took refuge behind Braavos''s Titan. Braavosi swordsmen were hired by the thousands, the Arsenal worked day and night forging new war galleys, and the city''s once-quiet canals echoed with talk of open defiance. The Iron Bank, for all its caution, saw itself pulled along by the fervor of the newly formed alliances. The Sealord too realized that the tide of popular sentiment would turn against him if he bowed to the Greens'' wrath.

    Thus did Braavos and the emboldened princess stand on one side, Westeros and the Iron Throne on the other¡ªone exiled queen''s desperate intrigues entwined with the city''s prideful spirit. Few who took up arms would recall what had truly been lost. Fewer still would understand what more they stood to lose.

    And so the realms were drawn toward ruin¡ªBraavos and the Blood of Old Valyria. A war of Titans and Dragons, it was called by some.

    Of slaves unshackled and blood unbent.

    Of fire remembered¡ªand fire reborn.

    And so it proved to be.

 Bk 2 - PROLOGUE: Stranglehold

    An Excerpt from The Annals of the Green Triumph, penned by Archmaester Vaelor in the Reign of King Aegon II Targaryen

    "Of wars unlooked for, it is said: Fortune''s wheel turns swiftest when pride and grievance compel great powers to folly."

    <hr>

    It was in the waning days of that fateful year¡ªunder the last moon, as the snows began to drift upon the Crownlands¡ªthat envoys from the lagoon city of Braavos passed beneath the shadow of Maegor''s Holdfast. Robed in the austere greys and violets of their order, they entered the Red Keep as men accustomed to power and unafraid to show it, bowing shallowly¡ªsome claimed insolently¡ªbefore the Iron Throne.

    Their words were plain, if not impudent. The Sealord of Braavos, in his infinite grace, urged the Crown to acknowledge the rightful claim of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen¡ªdispossessing the Iron Throne¡ªor else face the Titan''s wrath.

    It is said that Prince Aemond Targaryen, the Butcher Prince, stood at the foot of the throne that day, silent and still as a statue of old Valyria. He listened to the Sealord''s envoys speak their peace, and said nothing in reply. That night, their heads were found aboard a galley bound back to Braavos, the bodies never recovered.

    Pinned to one of the heads was a message, inked in Aemond''s own hand:

    "Your masters, in their wisdom, have allowed you to play at liberty, content to watch as you squander their indulgence on trifles. Yet now, unbidden, you reach beyond your grasp, meddling in affairs far beyond your lowly station. Perhaps the hour has come for the bastard daughter to be reminded of her place beneath the yoke."

    ¡ªAemond Targaryen?

    The response in Braavos was swift and furious. To slay envoys was an affront to the oldest customs of peace among the Free Cities, and Aemond''s letter¡ªveiled as it was in rhetoric¡ªwas an insult to the very essence of Braavos''s existence. In the Palace of Truth and the counting halls, the cry went up: War! Only then was it apparent to those few voices of reason that perhaps a peaceful reconciliation was truly now a foregone matter.

    Yet in Westeros, the demands of the Titan had stirred a new anger. With House Velaryon''s sea-power largely under the Crown''s aegis (through Lord Corlys Velaryon, who had proven staunchly loyal to the Crown), and Houses Hightower, Lannister, Arryn, Redwyn, Tully and Stark newly ascendant under a new reign, the mightiest lords had no further appetite for Essosi impudence.

    Rhaenyra''s remaining few supporters¡ªthose not dead, exiled, or cowed¡ªfound no refuge now in Westeros, for her retreat to Braavos had tarred her as a tool of foreign powers. Lords who once might have quietly harbored Black sympathies realized the kingdom''s enmity was fixed on Braavos alone; to stand with Rhaenyra anew was to join a cause that the Butcher Prince had vowed to crush.

    Thus, decrees were issued from the Red Keep: any harbor that welcomed Braavosi trade would be judged traitor. A flurry of envoys crossed the sea lanes to Pentos, Myr, Lys, Tyrosh, Lorath, and even Norvos each one carrying letters sealed with the Three-Headed Dragon of Targaryen, warning those city-states not to entangle themselves in Braavos''s folly. At home, the words "Enyoke the Bastard Daughter" became a refrain. Old rivals set aside grudges to answer the Crown''s muster.

    <hr>

    In the shipyards of Oldtown, Lannisport, Gulltown, and White Harbor, masts rose like forests of oak and pine. The Royal Fleet¡ªnumbering in the mere dozens¡ªsaw its ranks swelled to the thousands by privateer galleys and merchantmen crafts. From across the realm, the great fleets gathered: House Redwyne''s storied wine ships were refitted with scorpions; House Lannister''s bright-lacquered carracks carried steel-tipped rams. Even modest ports from the Sunset Sea, and as far east as Qarth, hammered Hightower cogs and caravels into warships.

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    The realm''s armies, yet relieved from the musters of Dance, were reformed under new standards. Lords from the Riverlands, Reach, Westerlands, and even the previously lethargic North answered the King''s call, each raising fresh levies in the tens of thousands to add to an already grand host. True, those swords could serve only if Braavos dared land troops on Westerosi shores¡ªor if Westeros itself meant to cross the Narrow Sea. But rumours had it that the King desired to show no weakness.

    Above all, the Crown prized its dragons. All nine of them: the monstrous Vhagar, still formidable despite her age; Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke and Sheepstealer, newly claimed by Aemond''s handpicked riders; Sunfyre, the noblest of all; Dreamfyre, the regal mount of Queen Helaena; Meleys, the Red Queen, Tessarion, the Blue; and the petite, Moondancer¡ªsmall but agile. None could deny that Westeros''s aerial supremacy was more than assured.

    Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, Braavos channeled the fervor of its storied past. In the famed Arsenal, fires glowed day and night as oarsmen and shipwrights toiled to birth more war galleys to match Westeros'' swiftly growing navy. The city''s labyrinthine canals bobbed with new ships: sturdy dromonds armed with bolt-throwers and cunning nets said to be capable of hampering even the greatest of dragons.

    <hr>

    In the end, all recognized that the Stepstones would become the crucible of conflict.

    Scattered and sun-blasted though they were, the isles had long held outsize importance in the balance of power across the Narrow Sea. Now, with Prince Aemond Targaryen''s grip tightening like a mailed fist about their coasts, the lanes that once flowed freely with Braavosi goods ran dry. Trade with the southern ports of Essos was hindered, and the Titan, ever jealous of its merchant primacy, would suffer such indignity no longer.

    And so, with fire smoldering behind their outward calm mein, the Sealord''s court dispatched a host of warships to Tyrosh. Some claim as many as four thousand galleys bore the Braavosi pennants; others, more sober-minded, place the number nearer twenty-two hundred. Regardless, the intent was plain: to rally the sellsails of the southern seas, test the mettle of the Westerosi defense, and perhaps succeed where the Queen''s own forces had once faltered.

    Alas, King Aegon¡ªwith cunning counsel from his Master of War¡ªhad long reinforced the isles. Watchtowers rose upon the hills, and fortresses bristled with scorpions and catapults. Garrisons had swelled fivefold, and the patrols prowling the narrow straits by day and night had tripled in number over mere moons. Some smallfolk whispered that Aemond himself had flown Vhagar above the islands more than once, though whether this was truth or rumor none could say.

    For the moment, the Braavosi schemed cautiously. Their admirals recalled too well the bitter cost of Rhaenyra''s earlier forays¡ªhow the isles had swallowed coin and life alike. They tested the defenses in feints and skirmishes, probing for weakness, but the Crown''s lines held fast.

    Both sides knew the stakes. One reckless assault, too soon or ill-coordinated, might shatter the Braavosi host. Yet one lapse in the defense¡ªa fort undermanned, a convoy caught adrift¡ªcould unravel the carefully laid blockade.

    Thus the Stepstones brooded beneath storm-laced skies, a tinderbox where fire might be struck at any hour. And all who watched from afar understood: a great war was about to begin in earnest.

 Bk 2 - Chapter One: The High-handed Enemy

    "He who controls the spice controls the universe."

    ¨DBaron Vladimir Harkonnen

    ¡­?

    Prince Qoren Martell never thought he''d miss the days when the name "Targaryen" meant nothing but a sour taste in the Dornish mouth and a few charred corpses on the wrong side of the border. Then again, that was before the war. Before the blockade. Before rumors of starving peasants in the hinterlands rattled the Old Palace''s very walls. Before trade ships languished in port, half-laden with fresh dates that''d rot for no vessels could cross the Stepstones.

    Now, here he sat, on a high-backed chair that gave him a fine view of Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon¡ªthe quite obviously bastard-born princelings who''d soared all the way from Braavos on dragons. Supposedly. Qoren hadn''t seen those beasts in flight. Maybe they left them roosting somewhere. Maybe they didn''t exist at all. Gods, if only that were true.

    He sat upon the high seat of Sunspear''s Old Palace with a brooding silence that stretched as long as the shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. Though his father''s throne had always seemed to him a symbol of endless desert cunning¡ªunbent, unbowed, unbroken¡ªtoday, Qoren Martell felt only the weight of obligations and careful calculations. The braziers burned low, adding a faint warmth to the hushed hall, and the battered dunes of the Dornish Sea glittered faintly through the open windows in the distance. Dorne might be known for its stubborn independence, but Qoren saw with chilling clarity how the present conflict threatened to extinguish that very pride.

    A hush lay upon the throne room: servants pressed against marble columns, spearmen in burnished helms stood at attention. In the courtyard below, the desert wind rattled through palm fronds, a restless susurrus that somehow managed to soothe his troubled mind. His attention returned then to the so-called "Black" Targaryens. Bastards or no, they wore the mantle of dragonriders. In another time, that fact alone might have made him hold his tongue for fear of their wrath. But times had changed, and Qoren was not so sure these particular scions of House Targaryen had teeth enough to strike terror into Dorne. Not when they had much to fear themselves.

    The elder of the princelings did most of the talking, speaking in polite, measured tones, a smile hovering on his lips as though it might charm Qoren into compliance. "¡­my mother, Queen Rhaenyra, stands ready with her allies in Braavos to liberate the Stepstones from¡ª"

    He''d prattled on in that vein for a time. After moons of hearing the name Targaryen on every whispering tongue, Qoren had all but soured on the entire brood. Still, he''d not made himself Prince of Dorne by ignoring messages from across the sea. Near the end, Qoren had caught enough to know the gist: Rhaenyra''s forces, funded by the Iron Bank and aided by Braavosi ships, intended to break the Westerosi blockade at the Stepstones. They wanted Dorne to muster its fleet¡ªpinned behind the Sea of Dorne like a hawk in a cage¡ªand to meet the Braavosi armada for a grand assault.

    Qoren seriously considered the proposal. For good reason. With each day that passed, shipments from the Reach and Westerlands became more crucial to feeding Dorne''s lesser houses. The slender farmland along the Greenblood could not sustain them alone. That alone was no cause for alarm. What troubled Qoren was the grip Prince Aemond held upon this trade, firm as a mailed fist around the throat of a debtor. How swiftly One Eye had encircled them¡ªwith that accursed guild and bank of his. If the blockade could be shattered, the trade lanes to Essos might reopen. Dorne could free itself from the creeping reliance upon Westeros for vital goods, the same chokehold that now kept Qoren''s folk fed and clothed, if only just.

    Qoren''s attention returned to the princes. For all their speeches and entreaties, neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys looked entirely comfortable standing in a Dornish throne room. Nor did they appear especially confident that their mother''s cause would be welcomed. Lucerys, the younger one, let his half-formed scowl speak volumes. A lad still, but old enough to know when odds were poor.

    Qoren exhaled through his nose, letting the sound fill the chamber. Before he could form a response, a new voice interjected.

    "You assume we have means to strike at the Westerosi fleet without consequence," said Aliandra, Qoren''s daughter and heir, languid and poised, perched upon a low divan near the foot of her father''s dais. Dark hair framed a face that was too clever by half, and the dryness in her tone revealed no admiration for Jacaerys or the "Queen" he served. "But what of the might behind the blockade? This Aemond Targaryen you speak so ill of, the same man who forces us all to weigh our choices in fear¡ªwhat is Rhaenyra''s answer to him?"

    She asked it softly, almost demurely, but Qoren knew that tone. His daughter''s words often concealed barbs, a willingness to see the truth of a matter without flinching. She had grown ever more vocal of late¡ªlike a viper uncoiling from a heated rock, ready to strike. Yet, more recently, there exists something else there, too¡­a subtle tinge whenever she spoke of Aemond One-Eye. But Qoren could not place it, nor did he dwell on fleeting impressions¡ªhis mind was too full of the war at hand.

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    The girl did not wait for Jacaerys'' response. Her voice came again, gently, but with an edge of amusement. "And what does your mother propose when The Butcher¡ª" her lips curved slightly at the sobriquet¡ª"takes to the sky atop Vhagar? You speak of armadas, princes, but a single pass of that old beast will lay waste to a line of galleys. Did that not happen to your own forces when what remained of Lord Borros'' fleet attempted to flee the Stormlands?"

    Jacaerys stiffened. "My mother will¡ª"

    "She will what?" Aliandra asked softly. "Ask her patrons for gold to bribe the dragon?"

    Qoren could see Jacaerys bristle at his daughter''s barbs. "Aemond Targaryen is no paragon," he said. " He''s a tyrant with stolen power¡ª"

    "And how does that help your cause?" she returned. "For all your condemnation, none of it changes the truth: Vhagar sits under his command. He slew Caraxes¡ªso the tales go¡ªand your Rogue Prince father, the mightiest warrior among the Blacks, could not stand before him."

    Lucerys''s cheeks flushed. "He needed four dragons to best Caraxes. A fair fight it was not. Even the greatest dragon can be brought low by four."

    Aliandra only cocked her head, the corner of her mouth curving at Lucerys''s vehemence. "True enough. Yet did not the Rogue Prince lose again in the tourney that followed, singly, to Aemond? There were no dragons to blame there. Merely steel and skill. Unarmored, and with a common blade, Aemond faced him. Daemon had a Valyrian steel sword and wore half a forge on his body, yet still lost."

    Qoren rapped his knuckles on the arm of his seat, drawing all eyes to him. "Be silent," he said. He did not raise his voice, but it was enough. The throne room stilled, silence falling like a drawn curtain. They were all fools if they expected a simple solution. The blockade, the Targaryens, the dragons, the presence of Braavosi gold and warships¡ªit was a swirling knot with no obvious thread to tug free.

    Qoren exhaled through his nose and steepled his fingers. His eyes closed briefly as he thought of the reams of parchment that had crossed his desk these last months. Missives from Myr and Tyrosh, from Pentos too, all lamenting the blockade that starved their commerce to all but Westeros. They had begun forging closer ties with Braavos, hoping in vain that coin might match dragons. But Qoren saw how precarious the alliances were. Should the Braavosi captains anchored at Tyrosh grow restless, or should the island city''s supplies strain beneath the load of their fleet¡­ a disorganised rout would follow long before they even met the Westerosi at sea.

    He reopened his eyes. "Princes," he said, schooling his voice into a careful politeness. "You have come to me asking for ships and men. In truth, I share your displeasure at this blockade. My people suffer the same constraints. And yet¡­" He spread his hands, letting the silence hang. "Dorne does not make hasty choices."

    A flicker of relief lit in Jacaerys''s eyes. He latched onto Qoren''s words. "Prince Qoren, your wisdom is well-known throughout the Free Cities. I beg you to consider this alliance. Should we succeed in reopening the Stepstones, the lifeblood of trade flows anew."

    Qoren nodded, though his face remained a mask. By the Seven, how tempting it was. To slip from the stranglehold of the Greens'' blockade, to remind House Targaryen that Dorne would not be yoked like some docile swine. Yet one victory at sea might only awaken the wrath of the Butcher, as the smallfolk taken to calling him. Fitting name, that bastard.

    "Thank you for bringing your mother''s offer," Qoren finally said with regal courtesy. "I shall give it the thought it deserves. Tell your mother and her allies in Braavos that they shall have my answer in due time."

    Jacaerys''s shoulders sagged, though he tried to hide his disappointment behind a respectful bow. "Then we beg leave to remain in Sunspear for a fortnight, Your Grace, until¡ª"

    "No," said Qoren. "You''ll have better welcome in the Planky Town, I think¡ªor beyond. Dornish hospitality only stretches so far. I will send word when I have decided. Unless you prefer to fly back to Braavos in the meantime."

    Jacaerys inclined his head, though Qoren sensed the frustration thrumming beneath his princely fa?ade. He gestured for Lucerys to follow. Together, the Targaryen youths bowed stiffly and made their exit. Qoren did not rise from his seat, and the hush of the throne room deepened once they were gone.

    For a long while, Qoren remained silent, studying the swirling mosaic on the floor: sunbursts and spears intertwined in patterns older than the current feud. At last, he exhaled, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of the throne.

    Of course, One Eye does not act without purpose. Qoren had learnt that some time now. The kingmaker wanted something. Qoren knew what, but was uncertain of his willingness to provide. We have remained free for centuries, he wanted to say, but the words tasted hollow. Dorne had bested Targaryens before¡ªbut those had been earlier generations, with fewer dragons overhead. And even then, they only just managed. The times had changed, and no Dornish steel could ward off hunger if Aemond Targaryen severed what remained of their lifeblood.

 Bk 2 - Chapter Two: Control

    "The tones, the timbre, the subtleties¡ªthey are a secret language all their own."

    ¨DFrank Herbert, Dune

    ¡­?

    She went by Linora now, this nameless girl of Braavos whose true face lay buried beneath the borrowed features of a dead servant. Each morning in the Red Keep, she awoke in the cramped alcove behind the scullery, a place reeking of stale bread and boiled turnips, her breathing steady and measured like a hound set to the hunt. For many moons, she had laboured here in quiet obedience, scrubbing floors until her knees ached, carrying jugs of ale to the king''s men, sucking cocks in hidden corners, and fetching fresh linen for the ladies of the court. None spared her more than a glance. That was as it should be. A servant was only as visible as the tasks set before her, and a Faceless Man¡ªFaceless Woman, in truth¡ªexcelled at invisibility.

    At last, the chance she had awaited arrived on a crisp morning when the sky outside King''s Landing glowed with the sickly red hue of sunrise. She was ordered to carry the prince''s breakfast tray up to his private apartments in Maegor''s Holdfast. "He wants only bread, fruit, and a carafe of honeyed wine," said the chief steward, a weary fellow whose left eye twitched whenever anyone looked at him too long. "You, Linora, will attend him. See to it personally."

    So she set about her work in the kitchens, cutting ripe melon and spicing the wine with fresh mint leaves. Only when the cook turned away did she slip the pinch of powder¡ªThe Strangler¡ªbeneath the melon slices, where it would dissolve unseen. The Strangler: colourless in liquid, near-instant once ingested. Through every step of the meal''s preparation, her pulse drummed against her ribs. Soon, she told herself. Soon, her task would be complete and she would return to where she had come.

    Balancing the tray in her arms, she ascended stone steps until she reached the prince''s chambers. A pair of guards stood outside the doors, eyes hooded with boredom. At her meek curtsey and gentle knock, one guard motioned her in with a grunt. Inside, she expected gloom and shadow, yet the windows were thrown open to let in the day''s pale light, and the chamber smelled faintly of rosewater and smoke. Her face threatened a frown when she saw no sign of the prince in the bed. Then she heard his voice, echoing behind a half-drawn curtain that led to the small solar where a copper tub steamed.

    She crept forward, the tray secure in her grip, only to find Prince Aemond Targaryen immersed in a hot bath. He was reading from a small leather-bound volume, the edges of its pages stained gold. He looked up at her approach, strands of silver hair clinging damply to his shoulders, his single violet eye seeming to pierce her at once. The sapphire in his other socket glinted in the dimness. She schooled her face to pleasant deference, placing the tray on a narrow wooden platform beside the tub.

    "Good morrow, your grace."

    "Good morrow," he said, the words soft but carrying unmistakable authority. "You''re new to my service."

    She bowed her head. "I serve, my prince, as needed."

    "Sit," he commanded, lifting his free hand from the water to gesture at a cushioned stool across from him. His tone was mild, almost languid, but something about it brooked no refusal. Already her plan began to fray. She had meant to deliver the meal and go, leaving him to choke on the Strangler the moment it found his throat, but now he seemed intent on conversation. Cautiously, she lowered herself onto the stool.

    Silence hung between them as he set aside the book and reached for the meal. Through the haze of bath-steam, she watched him pluck a morsel of melon and chew. Her pulse thundered. The Strangler, when swallowed, began its lethal magic within moments¡ªa dryness constricting the throat, a desperate rasp for breath, death within a few heartbeats. She watched, waiting for the telltale sign: him clutching his neck, eyes bulging. But the prince only quirked a pale brow at her.

    "What is your name, girl?" he asked.

    "Linora, my prince?"

    He gestured to his meal. "Would you join me, Linora?"

    She shook her head meekly and he chuckled softly at that.

    "Do you trust me so little," he asked, "that you won''t share a bite?"

    She forced a laugh, hollow. "It is not my place, my prince."

    His thin lips curled, but he made no protest. Instead, he set another melon slice against his tongue, chewing slowly, swallowing with every appearance of ease. Malaise flickered through her. Could the poison have gone bad? The Strangler never lost potency, so far as she knew. She had measured it precisely.

    "Tell me," said Prince Aemond, turning to swirl the honeyed wine in its carafe. "Do you think men are shaped more by the lies they tell, or by the lies they believe?"

    A strange question. "I¡­ cannot say, my prince."

    "You demure," Aemond said, "but you have an opinion. Surely, you must."

    He waited, as if expecting something, then shrugged when nothing was said. "No matter. We Targaryens have lied to ourselves for ages, about power and prophecy. Now, the realm stands on the brink once more. Deceit¡ªlike breath¡ªcannot be parted from mortal men. It''s everywhere, all around us." He poured himself a goblet, sipped, then continued to eat with maddening calm. Still no choking, no discolouration of the lips.

    Her stomach twisted. He should be dying. She reached a careful hand beneath her skirt, grazing the end of the tiny hiltless blade strapped to her thigh. She had not wanted to use it, for the Strangler promised a clean, silent death, but something had gone wrong.

    "Is my presence not to your liking?" Aemond asked, noticing her shift. "You look ill at ease, dear Linora. Or is it because you have been lying to me?"

    She froze. "My prince¡­ I do not know what you mean."

    He took another leisurely bite. "Come now. Tell me your name. The one you bore before you wore your first face."

    Anger warred with resolve in her chest. I have failed, she realized. He suspects. How? No matter. I must act. Now, before the moment passes. Without warning, she lunged for his throat, blade drawn¡ª

    Yet Aemond spoke a single phrase, the words pitched oddly. It was the same language she recognized, but it struck her ears like a jolt of lightning. Her knees slammed the marble floor, the weapon loosening in her hand. Panic tore at her mind. She had no notion of what force compelled her, only that her limbs refused to obey. She was kneeling beside his copper tub, breathing in ragged gasps, the blade clattering uselessly at her feet.

    Prince Aemond turned his attention back to his book, flipping a page with wet fingers. "Yes," he murmured, almost to himself, "just as I suspected. You are skilled. But there are limits to an art as unrefined as yours."

    "What¡ªwhat have you¡ª" She tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick.

    He glanced at her, sapphire catching the candlelight. "Your order intrigued me for some time, little shadow. The first of your kin who struck at mine died too quickly for me to glean anything useful. But you, dear girl, you have done well. I barely had to nudge you along. You did well. So very well." He smiled, not unkindly.

    "Hush¡­" he whispered again in that unnatural tone of his as she moved to speak. Her mouth opened to curse him, to vow she would never speak a word of her order''s secrets, but again that strangling force within her seized every muscle in her jaw. Her tongue refused to move. In the end, her voice came out a ragged exhale.

    Aemond half-turned in the water, hooking an arm on the tub''s rim. "I do not expect you to yield easily," he said leaning back. "But rest assured, dear girl. I''ve methods to coax truths from even the staunchest tongues. Again, tell me, little shadow¡­ What is your name?"

    The demand in the end emerged as a warble. And this time, her lips moved. Her jaw ached to resist, but her body betrayed her. The name spilled forth, soft and strangled, yet unmistakable.

    "...Nyessa."

    Rowenna caught the first glimpses of King''s Landing through the hazy glare of morning, the wind tearing at her hair as she and Vermithor descended toward the Hill of Rhaenys, the silhouette of the Dragonpit emerging into clarity. A second set of wings whirred close on her flank, red as fresh blood¡ªMeleys, the Red Queen, bearing her rider.

    She spared only a passing glance at the elder princess. Rhaenys the "Queen Who Never Was," forced into submission by her Prince. The woman had scarcely spoken since Rowenna arrived at Driftmark with Aemond''s orders. Yet her silence, Rowenna thought, spoke as loud as any cry of defiance. She knew enough of House Velaryon''s plight to understand the bitterness that simmered behind Rhaenys''s stern gaze. They had all seen the illusions of power crumble during the war, and Aemond''s threats had proven more binding than any oaths.

    In the end, however, Rowenna felt neither pity nor sympathy. Duty was what mattered. If Rhaenys begrudged their arrangement, that was her affair. Rowenna would complete her task as her prince had commanded: Escort Rhaenys to King''s Landing, supervise the yielding of Meleys to the Dragonpit, and remand the detained princess to the Red Keep. Everything else was noise.

    The Dragonpit rose before them¡ªa blackened dome of fused stone, pitted with age, brooding over the city below. There, upon the hill, the difference between their mounts could not have been more stark.

    Vermithor came first, skittering on the slope, his claws scoring deep furrows in the earth. He gave a low, grumbling bellow as Rowenna slid down from his saddle. The old bronze, refusing to squeeze his bulk through the great arch, preferred instead to stalk into the pit on wing and clawed feet, ignoring the calls of the few dragonkeepers who mustered the nerve to approach him. Meleys, by contrast, needed no such pause. For formidable though she was, she was still the smaller of the two and could simply glide into without issue.

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    Rowenna straightened her riding leathers as she waited. She glimpsed Rhaenys dismounting from her mount inside the cavernous Pit. Even from where she stood, Rowenna could sense the princess''s tight expression, as though every muscle in her face was coiled to contain smoldering fury. Rhaenys did not speak as the dragonkeepers gingerly secured Meleys''s muzzle and chains. Rowenna took that as her cue to fetch the watch garrison outside, ensuring horses would be ready when the princess emerged.

    In light of the increased attacks by saboteurs from Braavos, the city watchmen had set up a small guardhouse near the Pit''s main gates. Men in polished halfhelms saluted Rowenna when she approached. Their expressions were wary but respectful; all in the Watch knew her by now, if only as the woman who rode the Bronze Fury. She instructed them to bring two horses and prepare a mounted escort. One vanished at a brisk trot, while the others looked on, curiosity in their eyes.

    In short order, Rhaenys appeared from the depths of the Pit. The scowl etched on her features was all the greeting Rowenna got. She responded with stony indifference, gesturing for the horses. No courtesies. No attempts at conversation. Why bother? The princess was no friend of her prince, only a prisoner with the tenuous courtesy of high birth.

    They rode down from the Hill under the watchful gaze of more Red Cloaks posted at intervals. All these men for a single city? Rowenna thought. Aemond will tolerate no meddling in his domain. She approved in her own silent way. Better too many guards than too few, when Faceless Men lurked in every rumor.

    Soon, the city opened below them¡ªa sprawl of stone dwellings, market stalls, and winding alleys. Rowenna glimpsed new watchtowers under construction, scaffolds covering half-finished turrets. She recalled Aemond''s words at the most recent Small Council meeting she had been ordered to witness: We must lock down King''s Landing if we are to maintain order against foreign infiltration. And so they had. Extra patrols strode the cobblestones, stopping suspicious folk, rummaging carts for contraband or signs of the dreaded Braavosi assassins.

    At the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole stood waiting in his white cloak, the sun''s reflection dancing along his polished pauldrons. He eyed Rhaenys with measured calm, then turned to Rowenna, who dismounted and dipped her head stiffly in acknowledgement.

    "The princess is yours now," she said, her tone steady, businesslike. She reiterated her prince''s orders that Rhaenys was to remain confined to the Keep, where she would receive every courtesy as long as she complied. Rhaenys shot her a look that might have withered a lesser soul, but Rowenna only shrugged. Ser Criston nodded and gestured two Kingsguard forward, who ushered the captive inside.

    Rowenna turned to Criston, her tone unchanged. "Where is His Grace?"

    He looked back to meet her gaze. They had known each other long enough to dispense with the usual pretenses. She bore no noble title, wore no spurs upon her boots, yet of late she gave commands that even the Lord Commander obeyed. Whether that made her his equal, or his better, or simply the favored mouthpiece of a mercurial prince, no one could say for certain¡ªand Prince Aemond had taken care to keep the matter murky.

    "I believe his Chambers?" Cole eventually said, uncertain. "I was heading there myself. Will you walk with me?"

    "I see no issue with that," Rowenna replied, stepping into stride beside him. They moved through the corridors, the banners of the Greens hanging overhead. Rowenna noted the smaller details¡ªa fresh set of triple locks on certain doors, new guard posts at blind corners. The Red Keep had changed once again in the few days she was away.

    They reached Aemond''s antechamber, from which wafted a faint, cloying scent of incense. Rowenna exchanged a glance with Cole¡ªthere was something off about the hush inside. Gently pushing open the door, they stepped in and sought out the prince.

    Aemond lay half-submerged in a copper tub, the water steaming around his lean form. His silver hair caught the dim sunlight, and a platter of sliced melon rested on a narrow wooden platform beside the tub. By the platter was a leather bound volume upon which a brown, rubbery fabric was laid. From this where she stood, it appeared to Rowenna as a scrap of cured leather.

    Her gaze drifted¡ªand caught.

    A girl knelt stiffly on the floor, half-shadowed beneath the bathing alcove. She was young, perhaps fifteen, with arms bound not by rope but by some cruel tension in her own muscles, as though her body warred against itself. At first glance she might have been a statue carved in haste, but there was nothing still about her save her posture. Anger was frozen on her delicate face, terror in her brown eyes. At her knees lay a blade¡ªslender, bare, and waiting. And there it was¡ªbeneath the perfume of herbs and heated stone, beneath the sharp tang of oiled leather and steel; the odor of fear clung to the air like damp on old walls. Subtle, but unmistakable.

    The room was quiet, save for the girl''s ragged breath. Aemond, seemingly oblivious, lifted his head and greeted them with a smile. "Ser Criston. Rowenna. You make a timely entrance."

    Rowenna''s gaze flickered¡ªfrom the girl to her prince and back again. "My prince," she said, forcing her gaze to return to Aemond. "Princess Rhaenys has been delivered to Ser Criston, as commanded."

    Aemond nodded and Rowenna continued.

    "Reports from Dragonstone are favorable. The fortifications are near completion, and the fast ships sent to Driftmark have begun their patrols of the shipping lanes supplying the enemy fleet at Tyrosh. Also, Addam and Garren have received your command. They took wing this morning. If the winds hold, they should reach the Stepstones by nightfall."

    "Good." Aemond said, taking a piece of melon between his fingers and biting into it. His face betrayed neither surprise nor urgency, though Rowenna could sense an undercurrent of satisfaction. He turned to Ser Criston, who offered a folded parchment. "A letter, from your lady at the Eyrie," said the Kingsguard, voice carefully even.

    "Ah." Aemond scanned it, water sloshing as he shifted. "So, Jeyne arrived at her seat without trouble then?" The prince read some more. "Good¡­ It seems the Eyrie''s stables near completion as well. Very good." He gave a slight nod, as though the matter held little interest. "She wonders when I''ll bring Vhagar there, no doubt."

    Rowenna knew exactly what that meant. "When do you intend for us to leave?"

    "In time," Aemond replied without looking up. "I intend to settle the matter with Braavos''s fleet at Tyrosh first. There will be days enough to visit the Vale."

    Rising from the bath, Aemond let the water stream from his lithe frame, unconcerned by any watchers. Rowenna glanced aside only briefly, a faint warmth on her cheeks she refused to acknowledge. She had seen him unclothed many times before, but something in her chest tightened all the same.

    "First," he said, "I have business. A lesser matter." He brushed aside his damp mane with one hand and, with the other, reached for the leathery fabric on the tome lying beside him. Only when he pressed it to the servant girl''s face did Rowenna grasp what it truly was¡ªa mask, fashioned from flayed skin. Human, no doubt. The thing clung wetly to the girl''s features as Aemond smoothed it down with a meticulous hand, and before Rowenna''s eyes, the contours of her face shifted, reshaped by some enchantment or chemic craft until she resembled someone else entirely.

    Rowenna did not ask who. She doubted she wished to know.

    Before she could summon words, Aemond bent to retrieve the thin, hiltless blade from the floor. With no more ceremony than a man spearing fruit, he drove the point into the side of the girl''s skull. A strangled gasp escaped her. Her limbs convulsed, a ghastly shudder that broke the silence. Even Rowenna, who had seen men disemboweled before, flinched.

    Aemond held the girl as she spasmed, arms steady, brow tucked to his side in a mockery of intimacy. He murmured something¡ªtoo soft to hear¡ªand only released her once the twitching ceased. Then, with the same calm he eternally bore, he angled her body forward, adjusting her weight so the blood would trickle into the bathwater rather than sully the marble floor.

    For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then, as if nothing had happened, Aemond reached for a towel, wiping the blots of red off his hands and right thigh.

    "I mean to see Wyl bond with the Grey Ghost," the prince continued, tone as measured as though he had not just murdered someone. "The pale drake has roamed the wilds too long without a rider," he said, "and I have use for every dragon we can muster."

    Rowenna blinked a few times, and the shock of the killing passed quickly. Bowing her head, she asked, "Shall I fetch him, my prince? Wyl."

    Aemond nodded, pulling the tunic over his damp shoulders. "Do so, and have Vermithor saddled¡ªwe fly at noon." He paused, eyeing the motionless corpse by the tub, sprawled, pale and unmoving in a pool gone pink. "And have someone remove that, would you? Tell them to be careful about it¡ªI''d rather not have blood tracked through my halls."

    Rowenna inclined her head. "Of course. As you command, my prince."

 Bk 2 - Chapter Three: Bond of Circumstance

    "We look up at the same stars and see such different things."

    ¨DJon Snow to Mance Rayder, A Storm of Swords

    ¡­?

    Larys Strong paused on the wide marble steps leading up to the sept, his gaze drifting across the bustling plaza. Already the late-summer sun began its slow descent, bathing the building''s domed spires in a gold so bright it bordered on blinding. Smallfolk milled about¡ªsome with the reverent hush of true worshipers, others only seeking shade within these high walls. Larys bore little devotion to the Faith, but on this day¡ªwell, necessity made a man devout of a sudden.

    He ascended in his halting way, leaning on his cane more than usual. The footmen guarding the sept''s doors barely spared him a glance, for in the eyes of many, Larys Strong was a man of diminished consequence, relegated to trifling duties in the realm''s labyrinth of rites. Exactly as the prince had intended¡ªand precisely as Larys wished them to believe.

    Within, the air grew cooler, perfumed by incense and echoing with quiet footfalls on polished stone. The sept''s grand dome soared overhead, ringed by tall windows depicting the Seven in brilliant shards of tinted glass. A choir of novices rehearsed a plaintive hymn near the altar; their voices rose and fell like the tide, but Larys had little ear for their music. He was here for a holier transaction still.

    He made his way past the worshipers kneeling before the Mother''s statue, threading between slender columns supporting the central nave. At last, near a dimly lit side passage that disappeared behind a half-drawn tapestry, he found a solitary Holy brother standing in silent meditation. The man''s hood was drawn low, hiding most of his features, but the glint of his eyes briefly caught Larys''s approach. No words were exchanged as the brother turned, guiding him through the tapestry''s narrow opening and into a cramped alcove not meant for public worship.

    A single candle burned upon a small wooden bench, casting flickering shadows that danced across the brother''s hands. Larys let the silence stretch. To speak first was to yield an advantage in this game, and he had been bested quite enough of late.

    "Lord Strong." The voice was soft, intentionally ever so lightly accented¡ªBraavosi, if one knew what to listen for. "To what do we owe this most pious visitation?"

    Larys inclined his head in a show of deference he did not feel. "I fulfill my duty, Brother, to pay respects to the Seven and to bestow alms upon the poor souls I occasionally find." His tone was dry, but the dance must be had. "Though my¡­ new office demands I observe certain rituals, I do not forget the old tasks set before me."

    A beat of quiet. A flick of candlelight. The brother''s cowl shifted, revealing neither face nor expression, only a slight tilt¡ªacknowledgment, or invitation to continue.

    Larys exhaled, feigning regret. "The cutthroat you placed within the Red Keep¡­ the woman I brought in¡ªshe is gone. Dead, so rumor tells. I only discovered her fate by idle talk in the stables. The body was found, they say, but not the details of how she was dispatched or by whom." He paused, letting a note of simmering grievance enter his voice. "I suspect Aemond had a hand in it, though I cannot say precisely."

    "The House of Black and White is not unaccustomed to failure," the brother said softly, as though remarking on a passing shower. "That is the nature of a mission such as ours. Some seeds do not bear fruit."

    "But you assured me she was skilled," Larys pressed. "And I risked much to see her smuggled inside. Now I find the Butcher has grown even more¡­ attentive."

    "Prince Aemond does seem to have a heightened watchfulness," the brother agreed, the shadows flickering across a hooded visage. "Hence, we shall plant another seed. You will embed another of my kin, at a time and place I shall name soon."

    Larys tightened his grip on the handle of his cane. One-eye''s guard dogs had grown sharper teeth of late. But he forced calm into his voice. "Your men¡ªyour¡­ order¡ªwill have my assistance. But my meager freedoms have grown even more restricted these days. I am not certain how much I can offer."

    "And yet you slip away to meet me here." A hint of cold amusement undercut the Faceless Man''s whisper. "You remain resourceful, Lord Strong."

    Larys replied only with a curt nod. "Yes, but I am not omniscient. The scraps I glean of Aemond''s business come through channels I had in place before he tore apart my web." He allowed a wry twist of the lips. "I believed them reliable. You wrote claiming otherwise. Now¡­ I find the source wanting."

    "Indeed. The last morsels you sent while valuable, were incomplete. We require more precise knowledge of the Prince''s next moves¡ªparticularly regarding his naval maneuvers in the Sea of Dorne and his negotiations with Prince Qoren. If we cannot access the information in its fullness, it''s no better than a child''s gossip."

    A prickle of annoyance kindled in Larys''s gut. Addam assured me his intel was solid. That whelp. "You''ll have it," Larys said through gritted teeth. "I shall¡­ redouble my efforts. My contact in the Red Keep will press deeper." He did not mention Addam by name. One never knew how these Faceless Men gleaned their own intelligence, but he thought it wise to play his cards close to the chest.

    "Good. This war does not favor the timid."

    Larys cleared his throat, fighting a pang of personal frustration. "And what of my other request, Brother?" he asked. "The matter regarding Mysaria?"

    The Faceless Man''s gloved hand dipped briefly into his robe, only to emerge empty. "Your whore-lady with the silver hair, yes. The one assigned to that task remains with her¡­ but has not yet completed the contract."

    Larys blinked. "They remain with Mysaria?" He had heard not a whisper of the Mistress of Whispers leaving on a journey. "What do you mean? Where is she?"

    "She took a fast ship east down the Summer Sea. Your assassin travels with her retinue. No success has been reported. No failure, either."

    "But why would she depart?" Larys hissed, confused. "She only just ascended as Master of Whispers. It makes no sense that she would abandon King''s Landing¡ªher seat of power¡ªfor some errand across the sea."

    "Sense or not, that is her path." The Faceless Man shrugged, an almost lazy motion. "If you wish the kill done surely, you must discover her intent and location. Relay that knowledge to me at your earliest convenience¡ªI will handle it. Or wait for her return. That is¡­ if you fancy letting fate shape her demise."

    A taut silence followed. Larys realized he still had no notion why she would leave. "I will look into the matter," he said in the end. "Perhaps a clerk in the Bank or the Merchant''s Guild can be coaxed to speak. Or one of her own subordinates¡ªthough the new watchers are thorough."

    The Faceless Man inclined his hood. "Good. We shall speak again soon."

    Larys did not reply. Instead, he pulled his cloak tighter, as though a chill wind had swept through the alcove. He turned to go, leaning on his cane. But as he reached the tapestry''s edge, the Assassin''s soft voice stopped him.

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    "Lord Strong."

    Larys paused, half-glancing over his shoulder. A single glint of candlelight caught the brother''s eyes¡ªa silver spark in the gloom.

    "You have lost much," the Faceless Man said, "and stand to lose more should your game be discovered¡­ Be certain you can finish it."

    ????

    Excerpt from the Journal of Damios Haar, delegate of Myr

    <hr>

    They led us through Braavos with minimal pageantry, as if our arrival were a nuisance best rushed underfoot. Still, I''d rather pass unnoticed than parade beneath sneering eyes. My companions¡ªsix of us in all¡ªstepped cautiously through the Palace of Truth''s broad corridors, guarded by Braavosi sentries who spared little courtesy for slaver outlanders. Stone pillars rose around us, carved with designs of sword-dancers and flamboyant braids, each telling fragments of Braavos''s proud, defiant history.

    It was near twilight when we entered the antechamber: a lofty hall lined with columns of smooth granite, each wrapped in swirling mosaics of the Titan. Braavosi envoys waited there in austere violet robes¡ªstern men and women, some as pale as driftwood, some with ink-dark hair and lined faces. Their leader and her chief patron, a solemn fellow called Armeno Sarren, gestured for our delegation to remain silent as he parted the carved double doors to the main hall.

    And so we found ourselves before Rhaenyra Targaryen¡ªthe fallen queen, the exiled claimant¡ªand her Braavosi patrons. She stood near a raised dais surrounded by a wide half-circle of high-backed chairs. A wisp of silver hair framed her face, and a worn tension clung to her features. Still, there was a quiet steel in her eyes. Behind her loomed the Sealord''s personal advisors, though the Sealord himself was absent. In his stead, a tall figure in embroidered robes presided, face set with grim resolve: Koja Terys, rumored to be a chief strategist for Braavos''s war council.

    I was no stranger to halls of power¡ªMyr''s Counting Houses are famed for their cunning deals and endless wrangling¡ªbut the tension in that Braavosi hall brought a cold sweat to my back. Two braziers smoldered on either side of Rhaenyra''s dais, casting her shadow large upon the mosaic floor: a slender woman with a crest of silver hair, overshadowed by flame. An image that might have been awe-inspiring in better days.

    Yet the hush that fell was not for her alone, but for the war that pressed upon us from across the Narrow Sea. Westeros. The Butcher Prince. The blockade that strangled our city''s lifeblood.

    I cleared my throat and bowed stiffly. "My lords¡­ and Your Grace." Titles felt strange on my tongue, but a man must be polite if he wants to acquire what he desires. "I am Damios Haar, delegate of Myr, bearing official word from the Council of Twelve. We¡­ come to pledge support to the Braavosi cause against the Greens of Westeros, under Her Grace Rhaenyra Targaryen."

    Rhaenyra watched me with measured calm, eyes rimmed with unreadable emotion. So many losses in her life¡ªher husband, home, her throne. Yet I saw a flicker of relief in her posture. Perhaps one more ally¡ªeven one so reluctant¡ªwas a precious balm.

    "Welcome, Master Haar," Rhaenyra said at last, voice low but unwavering. "I was informed you attempted negotiations with Aemond. Did he entertain them in good faith?"

    A harsh, humorless laugh nearly broke from my lips. I stifled it, offering only a small, brittle smile. "We were promised an audience with the Crown''s representatives, yes. But when we arrived at King''s Landing, we were greeted by an underling from the Dragon''s Bank¡ªno lords, no mention of the Prince. They demanded we pay tribute, disclaim all merchantile ties to Braavos, and accept their ''favorable'' shipping levies¡­ or remain blockaded."

    One of the Braavosi¡ªan older man with an aquiline nose¡ªspoke with bridled disdain. "Aemond Targaryen does not bargain. He dictates."

    "At sword-point," added another, an echo of resentment underlying every word.

    Rhaenyra nodded, her expression pinched. "Aemond has declared a total blockade on any city that dares side with me. I regret that, Master Haar. The path he lays is submission, or war."

    I forced a sigh. "We Myrish do not relish war, Your Grace¡ªbut we are left with little choice."

    Across the dais, Koja Terys gave a crisp nod. "You''ve come to join us, then¡ªto fight?"

    "Yes." The word weighed heavily in my mouth. Once, Myr might have shied from direct confrontation with the Targaryens. But we were out of options. "We will commit our ships and soldiers to the alliance with Braavos¡ªand with Her Grace," I said carefully. "Our crossbowmen, known across Essos for their skill, are at your disposal. And though our fleet is not so grand, it carries keen-eyed mariners with experience on these waters."

    Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes lingering on me¡ªalmost searching for signs of falsehood. "What do you ask in return, Master Haar?"

    We''d hashed it out in Myr''s council, with hours upon hours of bickering. In the end, the demands were steep, but if Braavos wanted Myr''s unflinching service, we wanted redress for the blockade''s ruin. "First: If we break Westeros''s hold on the Stepstones, Myr shall have favorable terms in any new trade pacts. Second: Should we be forced to land armies on Westerosi soil, Myr''s injuries must be repaid from seized Westerosi assets. And third: Once Her Grace takes the throne¡­" I paused, aware of the delicacy. "Myr humbly requests exclusive rights in certain crafts. Tapestries, especially, and our famed laces, so that we might recoup the costs of this war."

    I braced for offense. Targaryen and Braavosi pride were similarly formidable; their needs might clash with Myr''s demands. But Koja Terys exchanged a glance with the Queen, then nodded with visible reluctance.

    Rhaenyra spoke then, her voice tight. "I will not lightly sign away the realm''s resources to foreigners. But we are not ungrateful. If Myr stands by me against Aegon¡ªif you help us loosen One-eye''s chains¡ªthen I shall see your city rewarded with open ports, minimal duties. As for the lace and tapestries¡­ we will talk further." She exhaled, a trace of weariness in the lines of her face. "We must all do what is needed to win this war."

    "How soon can you muster your fleets in Tyrosh''s waters?" asked a Braavosi admiral, stepping forward. I did not catch his name, but he wore a sea-green cloak embroidered with a thousand tiny waves.

    I spread my hands. "I can only speak for Myr''s main flotilla. We can be at Tyrosh in a moon¡ªperhaps sooner, if we press the admirals and their crew."

    Koja Terys nodded, imposing a brisk close to the matter. "The details can be hammered out in the counting halls," he said.

    Rhaenyra managed a wan smile. "Come, then. We have letters to sign, routes to finalize. The Butcher Prince grows bold with each passing day. We have none to waste."

 Bk 2 - Chapter Four: Chasing Ghosts

    "Though he was large and old and fearsome to look upon, Grey Ghost would flee at the first sign of a man."

    ¨DArchmaester Gyldayn

    ¡­?

    The air on the eastern slope of the Dragonmont was thick with the fumes of sulfur and the faint tang of salt from the sea below. Wyl wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow as he surveyed the black crags and rising plumes of steam, which hissed and spat from fissures in the ancient rock. Far overhead, columns of smoke drifted across a waning sun. The day felt subdued, as if the mountain itself brooded at their intrusion.

    He turned his gaze westward, where Vermithor perched in silent vigilance on a broad ledge, bronze scales catching the stray beams of sunlight. The Bronze Fury huffed once at Wyl''s attention, then returned to his watch. At the old dragon''s side stood Rowenna, cloak drawn tight against the sulfurous breeze. She had not spoken in some time¡ªnothing beyond curt nods and the occasional gesture of direction. Then again, she did not need words to convey authority. Wyl always sensed her keen eye upon him, measuring his every step.

    Beyond them, the smoking vent yawned like a wound in the mountainside. Wisps of acrid haze curled out of it, dissipating into the open air. Inside that vent lurked the Pale Drake¡ªthe reclusive Grey Ghost, seldom glimpsed by man or dragon. Aemond had led them here to corner and claim him, for the Prince had a use for every living fire-breather. Even the timid ones.

    Wyl tore off a piece of salted beef from the strip in his hand. He chewed, almost without tasting, his mind swirling. He was no green boy. But Grey Ghost was a dragon. Timid, but a dragon nonetheless. A creature that valued its freedom over all else, so it seemed. Catching such a dragon was half-luck, half-lunacy. Keeping it? That demanded more than nerves and a stout heart.

    He glanced sidelong at the Prince, who stood a short distance away upon a jutting spur of rock, gazing down at the sea. Vhagar waited behind him, ancient and immense. Aemond spoke then¡ªa few low words with Rowenna; something about watch rotations, from the snatch of phrase Wyl caught on the wind¡ªthen turned and strode toward Wyl.

    The Targaryen''s expression was severe, as always, though not unkind. "Figured out how you''ll approach him yet?"

    Wyl rubbed the back of his neck. "Careful-like, my prince." He gave a small, lopsided grin. "He''s cornered up there, and cornered beasts are the most unkind. I''d rather not get roasted on the first introduction."

    "He must remain cornered if your attempt is to have any hope," Aemond said. "No matter, do what you must. Vhagar and I will be heading out to fetch some feed for the dragons. Vermithor and Rowenna will remain to bar the lower path. Think you can manage till we return?"

    Wyl exhaled. "I will, my prince."

    Aemond studied him with that single violet eye, unreadable for a moment, then nodded. "Alright then." A faint trace of something that could have been encouragement ghosted across his lips. "We''ll remain here until you''ve succeeded. Or until the mountain itself falls to pieces, whichever is first."

    With that, he turned and made for Vhagar, scaling her back to mount her saddle with practised agility. Wyl stepped back, hand rising to shield his face from the sudden gust of heated wind as the ancient dragon launched herself off the ledge, flapping mightily. The ground trembled faintly. Within heartbeats, they soared high, a silhouette against the reddening sky. Aemond was gone to hunt, just as promised, leaving Rowenna and Vermithor to hold the pass, with Wyl alone to face the Pale Drake.

    Wyl swallowed. "well" he muttered under his breath, "I better get to it then."

    <hr>

    They made a small camp in a hollow of rock that shielded them from the sulfur-laced breeze. Rowenna busied herself rearranging supplies, ensuring the three tents they''d brought would stand firm on the cracked basalt. Night would come soon enough, and the temperatures might drop. Vermithor lay at the perimeter, a living bulwark of claw and fang. The old bronze eyes were narrowed in rest. Wyl, for his part, found a perch on a stone near the meager fire, finishing the last of his beef jerky.

    He could still taste the salt on his lips when he made his decision.

    Now is as good a time as any. Grey Ghost had gone quiet since they''d cornered him that morning. Perhaps the dragon was spent from his initial panic and might allow an approach. Or maybe not. Still, Wyl''s nerves thrummed with a gambler''s restless energy. He gave Rowenna a small shrug of his shoulders, as if to say I''m off now, and climbed toward the vent.

    Every step up that jagged slope tested both his balance and his resolve. Loose scree threatened to tumble underfoot, and little puffs of steam leaked from cracks in the stone, scalding the air around him. The mouth of the cave lay partly hidden behind a pillar of rock. He paused there, rubbing his hands together. The flesh felt dry and parched from the swirling heat. Beyond, the darkness pulsed with a dull red glow¡ªdragonflame or volcanic embers, he could not tell.

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    He swallowed, then took a single step into the vent''s threshold. "Grey Ghost," he called softly, voice trembling a bit more than he''d have liked. "Easy, friend. I mean no harm." He forced calm into his words, recalling half-remembered lines from old Valyrian commands. "I have¡­ come for you."

    A swirl of dust eddied at his feet. For a moment, nothing else. He edged deeper, eyes straining. Then a shape¡ªpale, serpentine¡ªshifted in the gloom. The acrid stench of dragon overcame the smell of sulfur. Wyl''s breath caught.

    The Pale Drake. Longer than he''d imagined, though not so thick-bodied as Vhagar or even Seasmoke. Scars marred his flank, souvenirs from skirmishes unknown. Huddled at the far recess of the vent, he had nowhere to run but no intention of going quietly.

    Wyl spread his hands, dropping to a knee as if to appear smaller. A trick learned from his days as a huntsman: hopefully, dragons read gestures as well as stray hounds. "You''re safe," he murmured. "Safe enough. I only want to¡ª"

    Lightning erupted from the darkness. A rolling, white-hot roar, tongues of flame lashing out in a searing wave. The heat singed the hairs of Wyl''s forearms before his mind even registered the attack. He threw himself backward onto the rocky slope, scraping his elbow raw. The smell of burnt cloth swirled.

    He heard his own yelp echo off the vent''s walls. Panic stung him, a surge of fear so profound he almost turned and fled. But he forced himself to stay low, to scramble back out onto the slope rather than run blindly downslope. No sense in tumbling into a crater, or giving the dragon another angle for a second blast.

    Grey Ghost shrilled, a high, anguished cry, then withdrew deeper into the gloom. The furious glow of flame flickered and died. Silence followed, broken only by Wyl''s ragged breathing.

    Moments later, he found himself half-crouched on a ledge outside, gasping for air. The stone beneath him was warm enough to burn, but he barely felt it. He''d almost been roasted. All for a parley that lasted three heartbeats. "Well," he muttered hoarsely, "that went splendidly, didn''t it?"

    He risked a glance back. Steam choked the entrance. He could see no sign of the Pale Drake, though the reek of singed leather lingered near the threshold. He''s not calm, not in the least.

    Footsteps clattered from below. Rowenna appeared behind a jagged boulder, crossbow braced, scanning for danger. Vermithor rumbled from afar. She met Wyl''s eyes, her expression stony, but worry flickered there too. "You''re not dead, then."

    "Not for lack of trying," Wyl quipped with a shaky grin. He patted out a patch of smoldering cloth on his sleeve, wincing at the blistered spots along his wrist.

    Rowenna lowered the crossbow, glancing up at the vent. "How is he?"

    "As fine as a cornered dragon can be," Wyl said. "He spat fire and dashed back. He''s¡­ frightened." He let out a breath. "I don''t want to push too hard."

    She nodded. "So. Slow and steady, then?"

    Wyl made a face. "Slower. I''ll have to coax him, let him get used to my smell, my presence. Show him I''m not here to¡­ to pin him in chains." A small, bitter laugh. "Gods, I''d hate this, if I were him."

    A pause. Rowenna''s eyes softened, ever so slightly. "It''s what Aemond wants."

    "I know. I''ll do it. I just¡ª" He flexed his throbbing hand, the skin angry red from near-scorch. "I just might get crisped in the doing."

    She turned her gaze to the swirling clouds above. "We all might. This is war, Wyl. The Prince has need of you."

    He fell quiet. Yes, he thought. War. Aemond''s war. The blockade. Braavos. Stepstones. It felt so distant here, on a mountain of smoke and rock. Yet it was the reason they''d come. A reason that left him torn. I don''t want to fight a war, I only want to serve my prince. But there was no separating the two now.

    By the time they returned to the camp''s small fire, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in muted oranges. Aemond was not yet back. Vermithor still lay watchful, massive jaws parted slightly in the heat. Wyl sat down, exhaustion creeping into his limbs. The flare of panic still thrummed in his chest, but behind it, a strange new resolve. I''ll do it. I have to.

    "Tomorrow," he said softly, more to himself than anyone. "Tomorrow, I''ll try again."

    Rowenna poked at the embers, silent. Overhead, the mountain''s breath hissed and groaned, a promise of uneasy nights to come. Despite the sting of his burns, Wyl felt a thread of determination wind through him. He glanced toward the vent, now only a dark silhouette against a bruised sky. Yes. We''ll see each other again, Grey Ghost, he thought. Just¡­ please don''t roast me before I''ve made at least a bit of progress. That would just be embarrassing.

 Bk 2 - Chapter Five: Progress

    "No man had ever claimed Grey Ghost."

    ¨DArchmaester Gyldayn

    ¡­?

    By the third day, the very stones beneath Wyl''s feet seemed as weary of his presence as he was of theirs. The smoking vents huffed and sighed at all hours, and the mountain''s cliffs offered little comfort save a merciless wind that chapped his lips and stung his eyes. His burns had all but healed to an angry pink, but the deeper wound¡ªGrey Ghost''s stubborn, skittish refusal¡ªstill gnawed at him.

    He stood near their makeshift camp, gazing up the slope where steam and ash belched from the dragon''s lair. The skies overhead were a bleary wash of cloud, the sun hidden behind drifting smog. Rows of jagged basalt framed the vent in question¡ªa deep cleft from which Grey Ghost had not ventured once since that ill-fated blast of fire two days prior.

    In truth, the poor beast was starving.

    Wyl could see it in the drag-marks along the cave floor, how seldom the creature shifted. The occasional hiss or restless scuffle told him Grey Ghost was still alive but refusing to emerge, too terrified of the watchers outside. On the first day, that fear had manifested in scorching flame. On the second, it had turned to sullen silence. By this morning, Wyl heard only ragged breathing whenever he crept close.

    He exhaled. Damn all Targaryens, he thought, though not without a wan note of irony. And their scaly pets, too. Yet he pitied the Grey Ghost. Cornered. Hungry. A proud creature brought low. He knew that feeling, in some dim sense.

    Behind him, a muffled grunt drew his attention. Aemond stood at the far edge of camp, Dark Sister in hand, carving thick slabs of whale meat off a monstrous flayed carcass Vhagar had hauled back at dawn. Its colossal mass dwarfed their camp, enough to feed Vermithor and perhaps the smaller Ghost for days. But for now, lumps of that reeking blubber lay in piles on the stone.

    Rowenna crouched near Vermithor, her expression impassive as she monitored the beast''s feeding. Vermithor tore into the carcass''s hide with savage relish¡ªyet the Bronze Fury never removed his single-minded watch from the vent above. Any moment Grey Ghost might dare an escape, and Vermithor would be ready. So it had gone for three tense days.

    "Wyl," Aemond said suddenly, not pausing his blade. "Come here."

    Wyl complied, stepping over twisted lumps of greasy flesh. The stink was enough to turn his stomach, but he kept his composure. Aemond gave him a brisk nod, then slashed free another meaty hunk dripping crimson. "Take this," the prince commanded, thrusting it forward. "Carve it smaller if you must."

    "Aye." Wyl took the chunk, the weight of it near to dislocating his shoulder. Gods, but it stank. Warm from rot, oily, blackish. He tried not to gag as he set it down on a flat rock. For the dragon, he reminded himself. It''s all for the dragon.

    Aemond wiped his blade on a rag, violet eye flicking upward. "He refuses to emerge. Then carry the meal to him. Let hunger do the persuading." His tone was mild, almost bored.

    Wyl nodded and complied. He hacked at the blubbery mass for what felt like ages, shaping a piece large enough to tempt a dragon but small enough to drag up the slope. Whale sinew parted reluctantly, squirting foul juices across his boots. He almost retched. The prince watched, unblinking, until at last Wyl hefted the slab in a sling of canvas netting. Whale''s blood pattered upon the stone, forming a slick trail behind him.

    "Don''t tarry," Aemond said. But that was all.

    <hr>

    Halfway up the slope, Wyl paused to catch his breath. I''ll never complain about salted beef again, he thought sourly. The stench made his eyes water, and the bundle weighed more with each step, as though mocking him. You want to feed a dragon? Suffer for it. Crouching near a jag of basalt, he felt the heat intensify from a nearby vent. Smoke curled around him, stinging his throat.

    He pressed on, following the same route he''d memorized by day two: a zigzag path to avoid the deeper crevices where steam might scald him unawares. In time, he reached that all-too-familiar mouth of gloom¡ªthe cave entrance where Grey Ghost lurked. The dragon had hissed at him earlier in the dawn, a feeble protest.

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    Today, silence.

    Wyl set the whale meat on a stone shelf just shy of the threshold. "Alright, friend," he murmured, voice softer than the hush of steam. "You''ve got to eat." He pulled the net open, letting the slab slump free, its juices pooling. Please let me keep my face intact, he thought. "You must be hungry."

    No reply came from the darkness.

    He edged the meat a bit closer, using the tip of his boot to nudge it. "Look, I''m not¡ª I won''t hurt you." Gods, I must sound a fool, Wyl thought. But so be it. "Just eat. Please. Or you''ll starve."

    His words were swallowed by the cave''s breathy hush. For a long while, nothing stirred. Wyl''s arms shook with the strain of hauling the meat. He licked chapped lips, waiting for an ember''s glow or the hiss of another flame. Nothing. If the Pale Drake lay deeper in the cave, he made no sign of approach.

    Wyl closed his eyes, feeling the mountain shift beneath him. I have to push it further inside. Risk. Always risk. He crouched, braced his hands beneath the whale chunk, and shoved it beyond the threshold, letting it slide into the dimness. The rancid stench wafted back at him, thick as tar.

    Then he backed away, heart pounding, until he stood a safer distance on the ledge. He tried to slow his breathing. If the beast came for the meat, he''d see it.

    Time passed in dragging minutes. Wyl''s legs soon ached from standing there, half-crouched behind a rock. The sun overhead grew hotter. His shirt clung with sweat, and the reek of whale turned worse by the minute.

    Still, no sign.

    Finally he let himself slump onto a stone. "Seven be good," he mumbled. "Is it dead?"

    He debated crawling in to check, but the memory of dragonfire scorching his eyebrows dissuaded him. Instead, he rummaged a waterskin from his belt and took a few desperate swallows. The dryness in his throat persisted.

    Then, a sound. Gentle, scraping. Scale on stone.

    His breath caught. He''s moving. Wyl strained to peer into the gloom, glimpsing only shifting shadows. A whiff of movement. A faint growl¡ªindecision, or threat? Another scrape.

    Wyl''s heart hammered. Then, out of the darkness, a slender muzzle emerged, pale as bone. Two luminous eyes flitted over the hunk of whale. Grey Ghost let out a ragged exhale, as if uncertain. So hungry, yet so wary.

    He withdrew once¡­ then returned, muzzle parted. Abruptly, with a snarl, the dragon clamped jaws around the blubbery morsel. The ripping noise set Wyl''s teeth on edge. Whale gore splattered, and Grey Ghost skittered backward into half-shadow, devouring the chunk in desperate gulps.

    A smile broke unbidden across Wyl''s lips. Not quite triumph. Relief, more like. He''s eating. Thank the gods, he''s eating. For a few moments, the only sounds were the wet tearing of flesh and the dragon''s heavy panting. Then the Pale Drake withdrew further, leaving behind only congealed blood and scraps of cartilage.

    Wyl exhaled the breath he''d been holding. He slid from cover, taking a few careful steps near the mouth of the cave. The dragon had retreated out of sight again, but the tension in the air felt¡­ different. Less aggression. More wariness.

    "All right," Wyl murmured. He crouched, not quite daring to cross the threshold. "That was good. Right, buddy? You''ll get more in a moment, I swear. We''ll sort this out."

    A faint hiss flicked from the darkness, not hostile, not welcoming. Wyl decided that was answer enough. He rose, turning carefully so as not to spook the creature. Step by step, he retreated down the slope, heart thrumming with cautious elation. It''s something. In these last three days, hope had been a scarce commodity. But now he had it, small though it was.

    At the base of the slope, Rowenna looked up from sharpening her dagger. She cocked an eyebrow in question. Vermithor''s molten eyes fixed on him too, curious.

    Wyl found himself laughing, breathless. "He ate," he said, hardly able to believe it. "He bloody ate."

    The corner of Rowenna''s mouth quirked¡ªher version of a grin. "Huh," she managed. Then, in a quieter tone, "You''re making progress."

    "Let''s hope so." Wyl turned to cast one last glance at the cave. The vents still hissed, but in his mind, that sound no longer felt quite so ominous. Maybe tomorrow the pale bastard will let me a tad closer.

 Bk 2 - Chapter Six: Threshold

    "Lord Alyn was an insolent boy and did not love his king."

    ¨DMushroom?

    The salt wind felt sharper than he remembered.

    Alyn Velaryon drew in a deep breath as he stepped off the gangplank, his boots meeting the creaking timber of the newly built quay. The brine in the air stung his nostrils, mingling with the smell of tar and old fish. Gull cries cut across the clamor of men heaving cargo from the hold, and a pair of Velaryon marines barked orders at the foot of the pier. The heat pressed down like a heavy cloak, and sweat already beaded on his temples.

    He paused to look around and let the bustle of the landing wash over him. How many times had he sailed these waters? He had once known every crooked dock, every hidden cove along these islands. But he felt a stranger now¡ªthe Stepstones had changed again in the short moons since he departed.

    On the crags that edged the harbor, fresh palisades jutted skyward: a wall of sharpened stakes braced by heavy timbers. Scorpions were set at intervals like watchful eyes, and behind them, men wearing patched surcoats patrolled with bows half-drawn. Farther inland, he glimpsed a modest fortress rising on a hill of pale stone, dominated by a half-finished tower. Whichever engineer oversaw the construction had wasted no time. The king plainly meant to hold this place, no matter the cost.

    Welcome back to the war, Alyn thought, suppressing a wry smile. Patrolling the waters south of the Steps made the conflict seem so distant, but being here again brought everything into sharp focus. For all the glory the songs might sing, the reality of this blockade was a slog of sweat and blood.

    At the base of the dock, a few passing sailors hailed him with a half-salute. He recognized a face or two¡ªlads from Driftmark or the mainland who''d somehow found themselves roped into the Stepstones campaign. Their unspoken question was plain: You back for more, Hull?

    He had no ready answer. Instead, he returned the salute in a perfunctory way, adjusting the small trunk slung on his shoulder. At his hip, the sea-serpent¨Chilted sword bounced lightly as he strode forward.

    "First Mate!" someone shouted¡ªa deckhand from the war dromond that had borne him these past few months. Alyn offered a curt nod. He had been named First Mate only recently, after bold (or foolhardy) actions in a prior skirmish. The promotion still felt like a borrowed coat. It fit well enough, but he worried it might tear in the next scuffle.

    "Alyn!"

    The familiar voice pulled him from his introspection. He turned to see Addam, his younger brother, standing near a battered crate of supplies, his sliver hair tousled by the stiff breeze. Alyn felt a surge of warmth at the sight. Gods, how he''s grown in so little time. There was a new poise in Addam''s stance, his carriage more assured. He even looked leaner, as though the burden of adulthood had carved away any remaining softness.

    They clasped arms. Alyn''s grin tugged at his cheeks, unbidden. "You''re a sight for sore eyes," he said.

    Addam''s smile was more reserved, but genuine. "Likewise, brother," he said, voice colored by a faint dryness. "I half-expected to find you maimed or drowned by now. Heard you got your share of battle, though."

    "I might prefer this lull if I am being honest," Alyn quipped, letting out a breathy laugh. He lowered his voice, scanning the hodgepodge encampment. "You''ve been busy."

    "Aye," Addam said. "Come¡ªwalk with me, we have much to talk about."

    They set off along a freshly laid boardwalk that ran parallel to the fortifications. The boards creaked underfoot. Alyn took in the masses of supply wagons being unloaded¡ªbarrels of salted pork, casks of fresh water, great coils of rope for siege engines. Everywhere he looked, men carried arms or hammered planks. He recognized House Velaryon''s trident seahorse on many a banner, but the crowned stag of Baratheon also appeared, along with Hightower''s beacon and Lannister''s golden lion. The allied presence felt fragile¡ªtoo many proud lords pressed close, each with private ambitions. But for now, it seemed to hold.

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    "They''ve poured a small fortune into fortifications," Addam said, noticing his gaze. "The prince intends to hold these islands forever, it seems."

    At the mention of Aemond, Alyn''s expression grew guarded. He had never quite grown comfortable with the Butcher Prince''s name, nor with the power the man wielded. Yet here was his brother, proudly wearing the role of dragonrider in Aemond''s ranks. The rumours had long reached him, though he could scarcely believe them. "You truly ride with him?" he asked quietly. "Serving him well, I hope?"

    Addam nodded, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "We do what we must in times of war. Seasmoke is¡­ bound to me, and the prince offered me a place in his ranks. Better that than¡ª" He shook his head, letting the words trail away. "Come, my dragon is up ahead."

    Alyn tensed as they rounded a bend and found themselves by a cleared courtyard near the shoreline. There, a winged wyrm dozed in the midday sun, slender-limbed and elegant, pale scales tinted silver in the dusty glare. The dragon lifted its head lazily at their approach, revealing eyes like molten steel. Even at rest, the beast was terrifying. Alyn''s heart hammered in his chest¡ªhe had seen dragons flying in the distance before, but to stand mere paces from one was another thing entirely.

    Addam walked forth and set a hand on the creature''s flank, whispering a soft word. Seasmoke blinked slowly and lowered its head again. Alyn swallowed, a pang of envy flaring in his chest. Then, a grin found his lips. We''ve come far, both of us.

    "We should go for a ride together sometime," Addam teased in passing. Alyn''s head shook like a rattle in response, eliciting a laugh from his brother.

    Soon, after gawking at the resting beast for some time, they fell into step again, heading inland through a hastily erected gate. Beyond it lay a series of fortified earthworks. Men hammered stakes into the ground or hauled logs for ramparts. The clang of tools formed a relentless rhythm. Now and then, a sentry on the parapet shouted, or a foreman barked orders to new arrivals.

    Time passed in quiet conversation. Alyn recounted his brush with death at the Steps; Addam spoke of his bonding with Seasmoke. They laughed over childhood pranks, fell silent over the names of lost friends. The air between them felt weighty with things unsaid¡ªfear, hope, loyalty, and doubt all swirling in an uneasy brew.

    The sun had begun its slow descent when Alyn, leaning over the rampart, caught a peculiar stirring on the horizon. Sails, faint but gathering. At first, he thought it might be another friendly fleet returning from its patrol of the region¡ªbut no. His breath caught.

    "Addam," he said softly, pointing. "Look there."

    Shadowy silhouettes dotted the ocean''s edge, just a haze at first. But as the moments wore on, the shapes refined. Ranks of masts, tight in formation. More slid into view, carefully arrayed, each wave of ships merging to form a broad front. Alyn''s pulse kicked, the memory of prior battles stinging his mind.

    Addam''s expression darkened. "They''re mustering¡­" Alyn''s voice trailed away.

    His brother didn''t answer at once, gaze fixed on the distant sails. The wind seemed to pick up, tugging at their clothes, as though the sea itself recognized the approach of trouble.

    For a moment, they just stood there, the final glimmer of sun casting long shadows across the rough-hewn fortifications. Around them, gulls cried, oblivious to the sense of doom that crept up from the horizon.

    "We must ready the men," Addam said in the end. "I''ll take to the skies on Seasmoke to gauge the size of the enemy fleet."

    Alyn nodded, eyes darkening. "Stay safe, brother," he said as Addam turned to leave.

    The younger man paused for a moment before replying. "You too."

 Bk 2 - Chapter Seven: Breakpoint

    "Dorne has danced with dragons before. I would sooner sleep with scorpions."

    ¨Din response to a letter from Ser Otto Hightower, asking for support during the Dance of the Dragons

    ¡­?

    Salt stiffened the collar of Vylant Darry''s surcoat as he paced the weathered planks of his flagship''s deck. The Grey Herald was not the grandest vessel in the royal fleet, nor the swiftest, but Vylant had commanded her through two wars now, and she had yet to fail him. A briny breeze ruffled his close-cropped hair as the midsummer sun cast golden motes across the Sea of Dorne. The sky was clear but for a few drifting clouds¡ªtoo tranquil, he thought, for the storms brewing in the wider realm.

    They had been patrolling the coastlines here for nearly a fortnight, running an endless circuit from the mouth of the Greenblood to the broken headlands below Storm''s End. By direct order of the Master of War, Prince Aemond Targaryen, no warship¡ªsave those of Westerosi origin¡ªwas to sail within a league of the continent''s eastern coastline. Though Braavosi presence was scant in these warm waters, the men had grown uneasy. Rumors abounded¡ªtalk of a grand alliance mustering north of the Steps, of Pentoshi money and Myrish crossbowmen, of the Tyroshi falling in line behind the Titan''s call. Vylant did not need rumors to sense the tension. He saw it in every face on board: men glancing at the horizon with worried eyes, muttering about the blockade''s next turning.

    He found no solace in speculation. He only trusted orders. And so they had patrolled.

    That morning, a swift galley flying the Targaryen standard had come alongside with all urgency, her sailors crying out for an audience with the Admiral. Vylant had them ushered aboard, curious and concerned. Perhaps it was news of an enemy incursion, or a change in strategy. He had not imagined it would be this¡ªan urgent summons that could reshape the war in days.

    He clutched the wax-sealed parchment now, reading its contents for what felt like the fourth time:

    Admiral Vylant Darry,

    You are hereby commanded to rally every available warship under your purview and sail at once to Estermont. There you will await further orders to bolster our strength against the fleet mustering at the Stepstones'' foot. Let none tarry on these shores, nor waste precious days scouring the shallows. The threat from the Essosi coalition is immediate.

    ¡ªMaster of War, Prince Aemond Targaryen

    Vylant exhaled then moved to seclude himself in the cramped warmth of his cabin. A battered lantern swayed overhead, painting shifting shadows on the wall. A moment later, he hunched over a writing desk, pen in hand, formulating a response to the Prince:

    By your command, Prince Aemond,

    I, Admiral Vylant Darry, do gather the fleets under my authority and shall sail at once to Estermont. I have left only skeleton coverage on the Dornish coast, at greatest speed. Expect us within a day¡ªtwo at worst. May the winds favor our cause, and Long Live the King.

    ¡ªVylant Darry

    He sprinkled sand over the ink, waiting for it to dry. Outside, the wind rattled the porthole. He closed his eyes, recalling the day he first hoisted the admiral''s pennant on the Grey Herald, full of uncertain pride. Ah, youth. He missed those days.

    At last, the letter was sealed with wax. Vylant rose, wincing at the ache in his joints, and stepped out onto the quarterdeck. In an hour, they would weigh anchor. One by one, caravels, cogs, and war galleys would form up behind the Grey Herald, and together they''d depart the Sea of Dorne. The next journey would lead them past Cape Wrath, along the Stormlands coast, and straight to the port at Estermont¡ªas the prince had ordered.

    A gull screeched overhead, circling. Vylant drew a deep breath, tasting salt and unspoken dread. His resolve firmed, he handed his reply to couriers and turned his gaze on his crew.

    "All hands to station!" he bellowed. "Strike those sails and make ready¡ªwe weigh anchor on the hour! Let none among you tarry, for we sail on the prince''s word, and I''ll have no sluggards in my fleet!"

    ????

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    By the time the raven flew in, the sun had begun its steady drop toward the jagged horizon, gilding the Palace of Sunspear in a deep copper light. Qoren stood upon a shaded balcony overlooking the broad courtyard, eyeing the restless banners that stirred in a merciless desert wind. The day had been a scorcher, like most of late, and though the sun cast long shadows across the sands, heat still radiated from the stone beneath his feet.

    He felt the dryness in his throat, a tightness born of more than the Dornish climate. He''d known the day of decision loomed¡ªonly a fool would assume Dorne could remain aloof forever. Still, he had hoped for more time.

    A soft knock at the lattice doors. One of his guards, lean and sharp-eyed under a burnished helm, stepped through. "My Prince," the man said, bowing his head. "A raven arrived from the coast. The letter bears the sigil of House Yronwood."

    Qoren frowned. He dismissed the guard with a curt nod and accepted the parchment. Yronwood? They controlled the eastern marches near the Broken Arm, close enough to watch the seas. He broke the wax seal at once.

    The missive''s script was hurried:

    My Prince,

    The seas lie quiet of late. No Westerosi sails remain on our horizon. The watchers we posted in the dunes confirm the Westerosi ships stationed here have weighed anchor. They are rumoured to have sailed east in a great haste, presumably to the Stepstones. We suspect a major engagement looms. Your orders are awaited.

    Qoren sighed, rolling his shoulders as if to ease an ache. The letter told him no more than he already feared. Still, it was confirmation enough. The Westerosi watchers have left. The seas around Dorne stand open¡ªif we choose to sail.

    He let the breeze tug at the edges of the parchment. Below, in the courtyard, smallfolk bustled about, stowing crates of dates and pomegranates for evening trade. A child squealed with laughter, chasing a scrawny cat behind a pillar. For a heartbeat, the ordinary hum of life pressed a pang against his chest.

    He closed his eyes, remembering the weeks of tension¡ªthe embargo, the dread that Prince Aemond''s blockade would strangle them all. With the Westerosi fleet gone from these waters, Dorne had, in theory, a rare chance to seize advantage. Braavos had long eyed an alliance. If Qoren dispatched his ships now, he might tip the scales in the Stepstones. Free the shipping lanes. Break the blockade that threatened to turn Dorne into a beggar realm.

    Yet there was cost, too, in crossing the Targaryens. Aemond had proven lethal, and his dragons unstoppable. He had made it clear Dorne''s neutrality would be respected only while it served him to do so. But if Qoren aligned with Braavos and the exiled Rhaenyra, the Butcher Prince might bring nine dragons down on his people.

    His lips pressed into a grim line. I''ve stalled long enough.

    He turned to call for ink and parchment, mind still churning. Dorne''s fleets, though not as numerous as the Redwyne or Velaryon ships, held cunning sailors with desert tenacity. They could join a Braavosi attempt to smash the blockade at the Stepstones¡­

    At that moment, a second guard rapped softly on the doorsill. The man bowed with another letter in hand¡ªone sealed with a plain circle of black wax. "This just arrived, My Prince."

    A trickle of apprehension prickled Qoren''s spine. No sigil, yet the black wax felt urgent or ominous. He broke the seal carefully, half-expecting some grave news. Instead, he found only a handful of words, written in a sharp, slanted script he had come to recognize:

    The time is nigh.

    Choose wisely.

    ¡ªThe Butcher

    Qoren''s skin ran cold.

    He crushed the parchment in his fist. He let the crumpled letter fall to the table and walked to the balcony''s edge, laying both palms on the sun-warmed stone balustrade. Beyond Sunspear''s walls, the dunes stretched in shifting gold, bathed in the dying light.

    In the hush of the late afternoon, Qoren felt the dryness in his throat again. His resolve firmed in his chest; he turned and strode back to his desk. Quill and parchment lay ready. With a steadying breath, he touched quill to parchment. The path ahead was fraught with grave danger, but he would not stand idle any longer.

    He began to write.

 Bk 2 - Chapter Eight: The Battle of the Steps

    <h2>An Excerpt from The Conflagrations of the Narrow Sea, by Maester Theomund of Sunspear</h2>

    (Composed in the reign of King Aegon II Targaryen, regarding the events at the Stepstones known as the "Battle of the Steps.")

    <hr>

    Few naval actions in living memory matched in scale the carnage unleashed in the last moon of 131 AC, when the Braavosi-led Essosi coalition attempted to pierce the Westerosi blockade at the foot of the Stepstones. Though its name would come to be known simply as the "Battle of the Steps," the clash was neither contained to one single strait nor concluded in one single night. Rather, it spread across a labyrinth of isles and channels, and lasted close to a full turn of the sun, culminating in an overwhelming Westerosi victory and the near-complete rout of Braavosi-led grand fleet.

    Prelude and Intentions

    All contemporaneous sources agree the Braavosi coalition numbered in the thousands of hulls, though estimates vary wildly: some cite as many as three thousand ships; others, more sober-minded, place the figure nearer eighteen hundred. In either case, this assemblage included armed galleys from Pentos, Myr, and Lys, as well as numerous war-dromonds from Tyrosh, and several Braavosi vessels newly launched from the famed Arsenal. The Titan''s envoys had boasted of retaking the Stepstones through sheer force, determined to shatter the blockade that for many moons had choked their trade with the wider world.

    Unbeknownst to the Essosi commanders, Prince Aemond Targaryen and his war council had long prepared a trap. Heavy fortifications rose along the Stepstones'' key anchorages, bristling with scorpions, trebuchets, and stores of wildfire casks¡ªa terror few men dare to name lightly. Moreover, the crown had quietly summoned its major war fleets to Estermont, whence they might sail unobserved to strike the rear of any force attempting to breach the Stepstones.

    So it was that in the final days of that autumn, the Braavosi flotilla gathered south of Tyrosh, then pressed onward at dusk, intending to force an entry north into the Steps. Their Lysene allies pushed from the south, hemming the Westerosi defenders in the positions. Having received intelligence (later believed to be a ruse spread by Aemond''s "Speakers") that many Westerosi patrols had sailed for the waters east of the Dornish coasts to confront the smaller Lysene fleet, the coalition believed, at that time, the straits guarded only by coastal artillery and a token force of local war galleys.

    Initial Engagement

    Well before midnight on the twenty-ninth day of the moon, the Braavosi vanguard advanced into the straits, their decks lined with sellsails and mercenaries from across Essos. They found, as they expected, some stony ramparts manned by Westerosi soldiers¡ªand from the shore erupted the first barrage of projectiles: stones, scorpion bolts, pots of burning pitch. Most accounts agree the Essosi advance met these opening volleys in good order, proceeding with caution, scorpions on their own ships returning fire. The allied captains believed these defenses, though staunch, could be overcome by first light.

    But the defenders did not await the dawn.

    Instead, close to the hour of the bat, hidden watchers on the heights signaled the release of casks bearing wildfire. Hurled by trebuchets onto the sea, these casks burst in emerald flame. Green fire leapt from hull to hull, sowing panic. Confusion mounted further when, overhead, three dragons descended upon the coalition''s center. Maester Rallent, who accompanied the Braavosi captain Aetho Naras, writes of an "unearthly spectacle," describing how Vhagar, Vermithor and Silverwing bathed whole lines of ships in flame. To the south, Tessarion and Seasmoke darted to and fro, harrying Lysene stragglers that had turned to flee. Meanwhile, certain watchers on shore (most notably the soldier-chronicler Ser Eustace Craik) reported glimpsing a pale dragon aloft in the moonlight¡ªpossibly Grey Ghost, though no definitive record places his rider, Lord Wyl, upon him at that time. This specter apparently did not loose flame, but circled high overhead, seemingly observing.

    The Essosi force, already disordered by wildfire, now splintered under draconic attack. Many turned back, rowing frantically¡ªonly to find their path blocked by more catapult volleys from the Stepstones'' forts. A band of Myrish dromonds, under the command of one Admiral Qinos, made a valiant attempt to rally, seeking to bring ship-mounted scorpions to bear on the dragons overhead. But the gloom and rising smoke hindered their aim. Within the hour, half the Myrish squadron was ablaze.

    Arrival of the Westerosi Fleet

    Shortly thereafter, as dawn approached, the main Westerosi fleet emerged from the east. Having assembled near Estermont days prior, this grand force included war galleys from the Crown, House Velaryon''s formidable contingent, Lannister carracks, and Redwyne ships refitted with rams and scorpions. Thrusting into the straits with the tide, the Westerosi force enveloped the now-scattered Braavosi ships from behind.

    Caught betwixt coastal defenses and a sudden wedge of warships, the Essosi tried in vain to extricate themselves. A few battered vessels strove to fight on, loosing flaming bolts toward the Westerosi line, but were outmatched by the combined might of the royal fleet. The slaughter was extensive. Many who could not row fast enough to break free found themselves boarded, their decks red with blood, or else driven onto the rocks, battered by merciless catapults. Captain Erroth of Lys, it is said, scuttled his own dromond rather than yield to the "Butcher''s minions."

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    The most dramatic blow fell, however, when dragons again took wing as daylight brightened. Led by the monstrous Vhagar, they rained fresh flame upon any cluster of resistance, turning the sea black with smoke. Ser Eustace claims that as many as a thousand ships perished in those infernal hours, though that figure is likely exaggerated. Still, no witness disputes that the devastation was among the worst of the war.

    The Dornish Turn

    Just as scattered elements of the coalition appeared ready to flee westward¡ªsome presumably seeking refuge in the Sea of Dorne¡ªanother twist sealed their fate. From that quarter, a fresh fleet arrived, bearing the blazing sun-and-spear of Dorne. For a moment, the Braavosi and Pentoshi remnant believed they might find succor there, or at least safe passage. Prince Qoren Martell had long maintained a precarious neutrality, and some among the Essosi pinned hopes on Dorne''s sympathy.

    They were mistaken. Whether by prior arrangement or a last-minute decision, the Dornish turned on the battered coalition without mercy. The war galleys of Sunspear, Planky Town, and the Greenblood surrounded the retreating vessels, raining projectiles that snuffed any hope of escape. According to Maester Ullaron in his account from Sunspear, Prince Qoren had warned the Braavosi he would not abide any threat upon Dorne''s survival¡ªand seizing the chance, he chose to extend an olive branch to his choleric neighbours by siding with the Westerosi in that final hour.

    Thus hemmed in from all sides, the remainder of the Braavosi-led coalition either struck their banners, surrendered, or were smashed to splinters. It is said a third of the entire allied fleet was lost or captured, many vessels found adrift and ablaze, the rest escaping in a chaotic rout. Wildfire slicked the water in ghastly green whorls, and the stench of burned pitch and flesh carried for leagues.

    Outcome and Tally

    Contemporary chronicles differ on the exact toll. Maester Rallent bemoans "A thousand galleys lost in flame," which is likely a vast overstatement. The more conservative estimates speak of six to eight hundred vessels sunk, with countless thousands of men drowned or burned. Over five hundred warships were seized intact and pressed into royal service. The Titan''s flagship, a Braavosi dromond called Penitent''s Vigil, was among the last to strike its banner. All told, the coalition that had once threatened to break the Westerosi blockade lay in shambles.

    Westerosi losses were not inconsiderable¡ªsome speak of forty or more ships destroyed by counterfire, a figure that might climb higher if including the smaller cogs and support vessels. Yet by day''s end, Aemond''s fleet remained a cohesive force, holding the Stepstones firmly. On shore, the fortifications had sustained minor damage but remained operational, their store of wildfire not nearly exhausted. The dragons, in particular, proved a decisive edge, though none of the monstrous beasts (Vhagar chief among them) were said to have suffered more than superficial wounds.

    The role of Grey Ghost remains cloaked in mystery. Some speculated it might have been newly tamed or unaccustomed to battle. Others whispered it had come merely to observe¡ªthough for what purpose, no one could say. In subsequent months, rumors arose that this strange drake had taken a rider in secrecy, but for some more time yet no proof emerged.

    As for the Dornish, their last-minute intervention confirmed the precarious position of Prince Qoren, who seems to have weighed the risk of Targaryen wrath against potential gain in allying with the Braavosi. If the Braavosi had triumphed, perhaps Qoren might have chosen differently. But confronted with the Greens'' strength (and the looming presence of dragons), Qoren evidently believed neutrality would no longer serve and that the time had come to show alignment with King Aegon II''s regime.

    Consequences

    The Battle of the Steps shattered Braavos''s immediate hopes of piercing the Westerosi blockade. In the days that followed, many captured vessels were sailed as prizes into Crown ports, fueling triumph in King''s Landing and among the allied lords. Prince Aemond''s stratagem¡ªenticing the coalition into a narrow kill-zone and then striking with both coastal artillery and an encircling fleet¡ªwas hailed as a masterstroke, solidifying his fearsome reputation.

    For Braavos and its allies, the defeat proved calamitous. With so many ships lost, the city''s remaining eastern merchant routes never fully recovered that season, and the threatened assault on the Stepstones dissolved into a piecemeal retreat. Several petty captains fled across the sea lanes in disorganized packs, leaving the Titan''s proud navy gutted. The war was far from over, but this decisive battle ensured Westeros''s continued dominance over the Narrow Sea for months¡ªif not years¡ªto come.

    Thus ended a night (and day) of green fire and black waters, a clash that left the Steps thick with wreckage and the toll of uncounted dead. Many songs have been composed to memorialize the carnage, though few capture the horror as vividly as the simple words of a surviving Braavosi oarsman, recorded by Ser Eustace Craik:

    "We rowed into a cauldron of flame. The dragons above and the fires below¡ªthere was no escape but death."

    So it was written, and so it stands in the annals of our realm.

 Bk 2 - Chapter Nine: The Scorpions Gambit

    "Dorne is sand and scorpions, and bleak red mountains baking in the sun."

    ¨DReznak mo Reznak to Skahaz mo Kandaq

    ¡­?

    Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair of carved ebony, hands folded in her lap, the weight of fresh calamity pressing against her ribs. She had grown used to the echo of her own pulse whenever ill tidings arrived, yet today, those beats felt particularly loud. The hearing room in the Palace of Truth stretched before her like a cavern¡ªpillars of dark marble, floors of polished jade, and towering windows draped in violet hangings that caught the last of the day''s light. Beyond those windows, Braavos''s canals wound their labyrinthine ways, shops and manors crowded along watery streets. The city seemed calm, at least from a distance.

    But Rhaenyra knew better.

    News of the Battle of the Stepstones had come that morning: a decisive defeat, disastrous for Braavos and its coalition. Worse yet, Dorne¡ªlong courted by Braavosi envoys and even Rhaenyra''s own sons¡ªhad sided with the Greens at the final hour, crushing all hope of a route to safety. Countless Essosi war-galleys destroyed, hundreds more captured or burned. In a single night, the Titan''s grand push had been undone.

    Now, she found herself once again in the presence of Armeno Sarren, her chief sponsor, and the rest of Braavos''s War Council. A hush had fallen¡ªfresh agony shared by all. Only the hiss of the braziers broke the silence.

    Koja Terys had issued summons to deliberate the next steps. The Sealord himself, a tall older man with sunken cheeks, presided from a dais. The atmosphere was as tense as any war council Rhaenyra had attended in Westeros¡ªperhaps more so, for here she was a foreign queen in exile, reliant on the generosity of proud merchants who had lost much at her behest.

    Armeno, ever stoic, stood close by her. The patriarch of Braavos''s arguably wealthiest family, he radiated a composed dignity that belied the headache she knew he felt. His third daughter was betrothed to Jace, a marriage arrangement that had once seemed a golden opportunity. Now, not so much, especially not after such a crushing defeat.

    Rhaenyra drew a slow breath, recalling the words of the letter. There would be a reckoning today she knew. At the far side of the room, Marogro Otharys, head of the most powerful family in Braavos with a grudge against the Sarrens, glowered openly. He had made no secret that he considered the war with Westeros a fool''s errand. He had refused to even consider Rhaenyra''s cause from the start, citing her half-lost crown and questionable alliances. Today, he seemed in an even fouler temper than usual.

    Koja, hands folded behind his back, spoke at last. "The news is confirmed: The fleet we dispatched has been near destroyed. Thousands drowned or burned. The remainder scattered or forced to surrender. Our stores of ships in the Arsenal are reduced by half. This defeat¡­ cripples our immediate ability to challenge the Westerosi at sea." His voice was measured, but behind it Rhaenyra sensed the sting of suppressed fury. The battle was too total a defeat to swallow easily.

    A murmur rippled through the gathering. Then, inevitably, Marogro stepped forward. "And whose fault is that, my friends?" he demanded, gaze flicking with venom to Rhaenyra. "Had we not cast ourselves into this mad alliance, we needn''t have lost so much¡ªnor antagonized a realm led by actual dragon lords."

    Rhaenyra stiffened, though she kept her jaw set. Armeno was quicker to respond, stepping between them with an even glare. "Watch yourself, Master Otharys. Braavos was never forced at swordpoint to support Her Grace. We chose to stand with her claim because the Titan''s trade routes were threatened by the Greens from the start. Had we stood idle, the blockade would have strangled our commerce in time. Do not pretend Rhaenyra alone is the cause."

    "The cause?" Otharys''s voice rose. "Oh, let us see! Since the moment this exiled queen arrived, we poured gold and manpower into her so-called righteous war. And our reward? Flames on the sea, a blockade grown nigh unbreakable, and the treacherous Dornish turning traitor at the last. Where is your precious new Targaryen throne, Rhaenyra? Where is the payback we were promised?"

    Rhaenyra felt her cheeks flare with a hot mixture of guilt and anger. She opened her mouth to speak¡ªbut Sarren lifted a hand, eyes cold as chipped onyx. "You will not speak to Her Grace with such disrespect," he warned. "She is a guest of our august city; do not shame the rest of us with your poor conduct. We in Braavos made our choices knowing full well the dangers. We are no babes in arms."

    Otharys spat. "And now our people bleed for it."

    Tension mounted palpably. The Sealord watched from his high seat, face unreadable. Rhaenyra was about to stand¡ªdignity demanded she defend herself¡ªwhen Koja Terys cleared his throat sharply.

    "Enough," Koja said, cutting into the argument. "We are the leaders of Braavos, not squabbling children. We must address the crisis at hand."

    His voice carried the weight of authority given him by the city''s leadership. Even Otharys grudgingly silenced his tirade. The Sealord stirred, glancing about the hall. "We shall have order," he intoned, a quiet finality that brooked no defiance.

    Koja drew a breath. "We have lost this battle. The Westerosi blockade stands stronger, with Dorne allied to the Greens. For the near future, another assault on the Stepstones is unthinkable. Such efforts would be folly."

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    At that, the chamber buzzed with murmurs and uneasy shuffling. For Braavos to admit futility was a bitter pill indeed.

    Koja continued, "Yet we are not beaten entire. The fleet can be rebuilt; new keels laid daily, once we reclaim our finances and workforce. But that will take time¡ªmoons, if not years. Meanwhile, we must find new trade routes to keep the Titan fed." He gestured to a large map behind him, lines leading eastward toward Ibben, Lorath, Saath, and the northern seas.

    Rhaenyra found some measure of relief in the matter-of-fact tone. It could be a second chance. Koja''s strategy seemed to revolve around shifting Braavos''s commerce away from the Narrow Sea, offsetting the blockade''s stranglehold by forging trade pacts in the northeast. She had heard reports of the ongoing negotiations with the Ibbenese. For Braavos, it was a pragmatic retreat¡ªone that could preserve the city''s lifeblood while fleets were rebuilt.

    Koja folded his arms. "In the meantime, we must redouble shipbuilding in the Arsenal. Our people must see that Braavos remains strong, or the Titan''s name will falter. If Westeros believes we are cowed, they may press further. We cannot allow that."

    Otharys, still sulking, gave only a tight grimace. But others around the table¡ªmerchant captains, lesser patriarchs¡ªnodded at Koja''s words. Then the Sealord spoke again, voice low and resonant. "We rebuild. We persevere. The Titan does not kneel."

    ????

    Prince Qoren Martell stood upon the Old Palace terrace as he had done so many times before, gazing over the wide courtyards, the lofty date palms, and the distant dunes turned gold in the afternoon sun. An arid wind carried the faint spice of desert sage, stirring the silken pennants that hung from Sunspear''s high walls. Qoren''s realm¡ªDorne¡ªhad once prided itself on independence, outlasting dragons and Targaryen might. Now, the times were changed, and he felt the weight of those changes on his shoulders like a clawed talon pressing down.

    He ran a hand along the sandstone balustrade. From here, he could glimpse the small harbor beyond the palace gates, where war galleys under the Martell sun-and-spear bobbed in the shimmering waters. That harbor had been tense with possibility ever since his fleet made its choice at the Stepstones. A choice, Qoren reminded himself, that saved us from a different doom. If Braavos had triumphed, he might have chosen another course. But Braavos did not triumph. The Greens did. And Dorne reaped the spoils of aligning with victors.

    He was not so naive as to think the Butcher Prince would fling open every gate to him, but by the Seven, Qoren would see Dorne repaid somehow. For the first time in centuries, the Princes of Dorne had chosen to stand with a Targaryen on the battlefield¡ªthat alone merited consideration. So he had written to Aemond, proposing further talks to "renegotiate the blockade''s impositions," as he had phrased it. In truth, he wanted more than a few small concessions. He hoped he would succeed.

    Now the day''s heat pressed heavily, and Qoren retreated indoors to his private solar. In the cool shadows of the chamber, he had barely settled at his desk when a servant hurried in with a roll of parchment on a silver platter. Qoren felt an unaccustomed flutter in his chest. Aemond''s reply, no doubt.

    Without a word, he took it and broke the seal¡ªa simple circle of black wax impressed with the Three-Headed Dragon¡ªand scanned the slanting lines of domineering script:

    Prince Qoren of Dorne,

    Your message is received. The alliance you demonstrated at the Stepstones was both prudent and pleasing to the realm. His Grace, King Aegon, will not soon forget Dorne''s contribution. I, too, acknowledge our mutual interest in lifting certain burdens from your ports in recognition of your loyalty.

    I shall fly to Sunspear that we may speak plainly and in good faith. Expect me within the fortnight.

    ¡ª Prince Aemond Targaryen

    ¡­Not the Butcher? Qoren thought snidely. He exhaled as he put the letter away. A fortnight¡ªhardly any time at all. The text was brief but decidedly favorable, with no mention of conditions or disclaimers. For a moment, relief warred with suspicion. The Butcher Prince always moves with purpose. If he comes in person, he must want something beyond a mere courtesy.

    Qoren found himself recalling the stories: how Aemond had grown into a cunning statesman as well as a fearsome warrior. If so, Qoren must match that cunning. He rose, rang a small bell to summon a scribe. The door opened, revealing a slender man in plain desert robes, ink-stains on his fingers.

    "Send letters at once," Qoren instructed. "To House Jordayne, House Yronwood, Dayne, and Manwoody. Inform them that Prince Aemond Targaryen will arrive within a fortnight and that we will hold a proper reception. Also, quietly request that the lords remain calm¡ªno provocations. Let them know I will handle all negotiations personally. We want no overzealous fool spoiling this moment."

    The scribe bowed and hurried away. Qoren turned next to the wall, where a silver-inlaid spear hung crossed with a gilded scimitar¡ªthe symbolic arms of Dorne. We have fought Targaryens before, repelled them with desert cunning. Now we find ourselves allied with them. He still struggled with that reality, but in war, choices are seldom pure. He had chosen survival and potential prosperity over empty pride.

 Bk 2 - Chapter Ten: The High Roost

    "He married her for a claim. A crown is worth a thousand times what any woman is."

    ¨DPetyr Baelish, A Feast for Crows

    ¡­?

    They had told Kellen to expect the auditor by midday, yet the hour crept past noon before the ship appeared¡ªan unassuming carrack bearing neither the understated insignia of the Merchant Guild nor the three-headed dragon of the Crown. A hush fell over the wharf as the vessel drew in, sails trimmed, hull scraping the barnacled pylons of Lordsport''s battered docks.

    Kellen stood in the biting wind, cloak pressed to his frame, fighting the lingering sting of salt in his lungs. Around him, a small honor guard¡ªfifteen men in half armour¡ªwaited silently. The usual rank reek of fish and seaweed mixed with fresh sawdust from the newly built slipways behind them. A small group of Ironborn onlookers loitered behind a rope barrier, gazes watchful, expressions sullen. None dared approach. Even the gulls seemed to sense the tension, Kellen hearing only a few desultory cries overhead.

    The ship''s gangplank lowered with a groan. A pair of escorts in black-and-crimson livery strode off first, then Emory Celtigar descended. He wore a severe black cloak lined with faint gold piping, pinned at the collar with a small dragonglass brooch. His posture was impeccable, his face set in stoic calm. If he noticed the stiff breeze or the resentful stares from the salt-blooded smallfolk, he gave no sign.

    Kellen advanced, gave a crisp half-bow. "Welcome to Lordsport, Master Auditor. I am Marshal Rivers, at your service."

    Celtigar paused, gloved hands resting easily on the pommel of his short baton. His eyes flicked over Kellen, then the Red Cloaks behind him, then the harbor. "Marshal Rivers," he said at last, voice a measured baritone. "Thank you for receiving me."

    "Of course, sir." Kellen allowed himself a nod. "If it pleases you," He said, falling into step alongside the auditor as they went up the winding path towards Pyke, "we can discuss more in my chambers."

    "By all means," Celtigar said, allowing Kellen to lead him inside.

    <hr>

    There was a brief pause. The auditor glanced around the room¡ªfreshly converted from an old storage room. The rotting beams replaced, a table polished to reflect the minimal torchlight. He gave a faint nod, acknowledgement without warmth. "I see you''ve been busy here." he said.

    "Indeed, sir," Kellen nodded. "Restoring this castle is one of the duties I was charged with by the Good Prince. If it pleases you, we may dispense with the formalities and get started."

    "By all means," Celtigar said, stepping forward. Kellen sat in his chair, posture politely erect. The auditor took the seat opposite and placed a slender leather-bound ledger onto the table. "Let us start with a formal statement of compliance," the man said. "I trust you have your tallies and inventories at hand?"

    Kellen nodded. "Of course." He gestured to one of his subordinates to bring forth the documents that had been arranged. "Our daily logs, rosters, and estimates. We can go through the ledgers in detail. Afterwards, I''ll guide you for an on-site inspection."

    Celtigar nodded.

    Kellen took the cue to begin. "Let us start with the barracks expansions on Orkmont," he said. "We''ve completed the first building¡ªcapacity of five hundred men. The second and third are halfway done. Construction progress on the fourth is one-fifth the way to completion, by last night''s measure."

    Kellen passed a parchment listing supply usage: stone, mortar, nails. The auditor studied it with heavy-lidded eyes. "You used more stone than the original estimate."

    "Yes, we encountered structural issues," Kellen replied, clearing his throat. "The southwestern corner of the first building needed reinforcement after the hillside showed signs of slippage in the heavy rains. An additional two hundred stone blocks had to be cut, and we needed to purchase more mortar. This caused a¡ªeight-day delay. We overcame it by doubling shifts for the thralls."

    Celtigar dipped his quill, neatly marking the margin. "Understood. I would urge you to speed up construction if possible, but I am sure you are already cognizant of this need. The crown requires the capacity to billet more men on these islands. The Prince''s expansions cannot proceed if our men-at-arms are sleeping in damp tents." His voice never rose above that measured calm. Then, "I see the cost of nails soared by fifteen percent. Issues with the local blacksmiths then? Your last report mentioned some¡­ recalcitrant locals."

    Kellen shook his head. "No, sir. A family died from dysentery two weeks ago and they¡ªa father and three sons¡ªhad been responsible for producing a significant amount of the nails we used for construction. Their deaths have forced us to rely on shipments from Lannisport, which drives up cost. Measures, however, have been taken to ensure this incident does not repeat."

    Celtigar wrote a single line in his ledger, lips pursed. "Hmm. I will write to King''s Landing for more labour and supplies," he said. "Just be careful with these ones; many of the thrall that would be sent are Essosi prisoners of war and they have been known to have a habit of causing trouble. The prince will expect you to maintain this schedule, so avoid situations that would permit sabotage. These expansions must be completed within the next half year."

    "Essosi, sir?" Kellen asked, confused, as he slid a second sheaf forward.

    "The ones detained during the battle of Rook''s Rest, yes," Celtigar said. "Too many were being sent to the Wall, hence, the Small Council decided the realm would be better served if they were dispersed more evenly across the realm." The room fell silent for several moments as the man skimmed through the document Kellen passed to him. "What am I looking at?" he asked in the end.

    "The dry docks in Lordsport, sir," Kellen replied. "The two slipways are now fully operational. The first batch of longships are also nearly complete. We''re fitting the final riggings now. A second set of hulls are half-framed. You''ll see here," he pointed to a set of columns, "the daily man-hours allocated, plus supply usage for timbers, pitch, and iron rivets."

    Celtigar nodded and ran a critical eye down the columns. "The pitch usage is lower than the allotment. Are you short?"

    Kellen nodded in turn. "Some. The local pine pitch is subpar. We rely on shipments from the North, but belays at sea hamper us and the Iron Isles can''t produce enough on their own."

    The auditor''s quill flicked again. "We might route some from Rosby, if shipping lanes permit. However, that will take some time. Though, at least, the cost should be manageable. The Guild''s latest disbursement covers you for how many more fortnights again?"

    Kellen steeped his fingers. "Four, sir, if all goes smoothly. After that, we''ll need either a fresh infusion of gold or slave labor¡ªpreferably both."

    Celtigar kept his voice neutral. "I have noted the request. Yes, before I forget, show me the reports on the foundries."

    Kellen passed another ledger.

    Celtigar read it and frowned moment''s later. "What happened? You still haven''t completed the repairs of southwestern mine shaft?"

    "More sabotage, sir, but we''re addressing the matter aggressively. To compensate, our lead mason suggested we open a new shaft west of the Ten Towers on Harlaw; this one deeper than the first. I expect to recover that shortfall soon."

    Celtigar''s mouth pressed into a thin line. Annoyance. "You have compiled an incident report, correct?"

    Kellan nodded and passed another ledger. "Two sabotage attempts, both minor," he said. "One infiltration attempt from the coast by returning raiders. No large-scale revolts." The Marshal realized then how that must sound, an attempt at positivity. "Morale among the enlisted is stable however¡ªmost appreciate the hazard pay. As for the rest of the population¡­ they keep their heads down and try to stay out of our way."

    Celtigar''s mouth pressed into a thin line, perhaps annoyance or acceptance. Then without saying a word, he closed the ledger with a soft thump. The auditor rose, smoothing his dark cloak. "Shall we proceed with the inspections now, Marshal?" he finally said. "I''d prefer to see these new structures with my own eyes. The prince is never content with ledgers alone."

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Kellen rose as well and gave a polite half-bow. "Of course. This way."

    The pale morning light seeped through the veiled windows of the Eyrie''s upper solar, casting shifting patterns across the embroidered tapestries. Jeyne stood by the tall mirror of polished bronze, one hand bracing Jessamyn''s waist as she guided a lace through the slender loops of her gown.

    In the mirror, she caught the flicker of Jessamyn''s eyes¡ªwide and restless, their russet flecks catching the hearth''s glow. Hers was a face carved for fretting. She did it well¡ªlips forever twitching into a half-frown, brow knotting up with little worry lines at the corners of her eyes. "You''ll be splendid," Jeyne laughed lightly, sliding the final lace loop snug. Her own voice was hushed, as she dusted Jessamyn''s shoulder with the back of her hand.

    "You''re certain I must be there?" Jessamyn murmured, as though the stone walls might overhear. "I¡ªI''d rather not stand before him if I can help it. He frightens me."

    Jeyne pursed her lips. "He frightens everyone, sweetling," she said gently, smoothening a curl behind Jessamyn''s ear. "But, we can ill afford to offend him. I want him to see you, speak with you, so he has no cause to believe we might conspire behind his back. That would be most dangerous. If he''s content, we remain safe. More than safe¡ªwe thrive."

    Jessamyn''s cheeks colored as she exhaled slowly. "I¡­ yes. I suppose you''re right." Her gaze flicked away, uneasy. "Still, I do not care for the sight of him."

    Jeyne''s mouth pressed thinly. She understood the sentiment, but this was simply the shape of their reality. "It matters not," Jeyne replied, crossing to the wardrobe. "All you need do is show polite courtesy, give him no cause to think ill. He tolerates us. Let''s keep it that way."

    She withdrew a slender silver chain from the wardrobe''s top drawer, returning to Jessamyn''s side. "Here," she said, fastening the chain around Jessamyn''s throat. The silver contrasted nicely with her friend''s pale skin. "You look lovely. That will do"

    She offered a small, reassuring smile, then turned toward the door.

    "Come, Jess. We mustn''t keep him waiting."

    <hr>

    They found Captain Myles Stone in the antechamber, straight-backed and grim despite the grey that touched his hair at the temples. Four guards flanked him, each in the falcon-marked livery of House Arryn, their polished boots echoing dully on the stone floor. A hush hung in the corridor¡ªa hush so brittle it felt a single harsh word might shatter it.

    Myles cleared his throat, his voice rasping with an age-earned authority. "My lady," he said, dipping his head toward Jeyne Arryn. "The prince has landed beyond the northern parapet, near the dragon stables. He¡ª"

    "I know," Jeyne said, adjusting the silver clasp at her own throat. Her gown was a somber blue, the color of a winter''s sky, fine enough for a Targaryen husband but without gaudy flourish. "We''ll receive him straight away. Please lead on, Captain."

    He bowed, turned, and they followed his measured steps through a hallway of pale stone. The hallway beyond was all pale stone and solemn tapestries of eagles in flight¡ªworn testaments to House Arryn''s lofty pride. Yet Jeyne took no comfort in them today. Her thoughts drifted to the arrival that waited outside, to the unearthly roars that faintly echoed in the distance.

    Minutes later, they emerged onto a broad stone walkway. From here, the mountainside fell away in a dizzying sweep of chiseled rock and shifting clouds. But Jeyne''s attention fixed on the shadowed caverns that sat in the stony slope: massive natural hollows in the mountainside converted for use as stables.

    Partially hidden by the shadows and smog borne of their labour were two great beasts of monstrous proportions. Vhagar and Vermithor. The dragons twisted their massive bodies in half-lit hollows, exhaling flames that turned raw stone into molten slag. Even from a distance, Jeyne felt the scorching breath wash over her, a deathly furnace that made the Vale''s usual chill seem pitiful. Beside her, Jessamyn flinched, color draining from her face. Jeyne understood that fear. Few beings were so unnerving as the sort that remade the land to suit themselves.

    That was what had been delivered to her doorstep. She lifted her chin, trying to summon the poise her station required. After all, she had requested to have these dragons roost here. She closed her eyes for an instant, recollecting the terms she''d struck with Aemond: even now, she thanked the Seven she had been wise enough to seize the offer when it was made. Better them on her side than upon the horizon with the enemy.

    Her thoughts snapped back to the present when she spotted two figures approaching¡ªa tall man in black leathers, silver hair gleaming in the sun, and a white-haired woman at his side. Aemond. The woman must be Rowenna, his rumored mistress, and the rider of the bronze fury. Jeyne exhaled and squared her shoulders.

    She descended the few steps that led to a stone landing, Jessamyn clinging just behind. Myles Stone and the four guards followed at a respectful pace. This close to the dragon''s lair, Jeyne could smell scorched minerals mingling with the crisp mountain breeze.

    Aemond and his companion soon reached them. He looked every inch the princely warlord: stance relaxed, single violet eye appraising Jeyne with mild interest. Rowenna halted a pace behind, poised like a sentinel, her expression neutral but for a flicker of curiosity in her pale eyes.

    Jeyne curtseyed, mindful of the tilt of her head. "Lord husband," she said, voice kept steady. "We welcome you back to the Eyrie. The flight must have been¡­ bracing?"

    Aemond inclined his head, lips curling in a slight smile. "Bracing indeed, my lady. Your mountain winds do not disappoint." His tone was courteous, but laced with an undercurrent of authority. "I trust all is in order for our stay?"

    Jeyne nodded. "Of course¡ª" She forced a gentle smile. "The Vale remains at your disposal."

    Nodding, Aemond half turned, extending a hand toward Rowenna. "Allow me to introduce Rowenna. She attends me on certain matters for the Crown." A crisp explanation, ignoring any mention of the rumored closeness of their bond.

    Jeyne returned Rowenna''s polite smile. "Welcome indeed," she offered, her tone mild but measured. She saw no point in pressing for more detail. Just as hers, the prince''s business was his own. In the background, the hiss and roar of dragonfire churned, echoing across the stone.

    The silver-haired woman dipped her chin in acknowledgment. "My thanks, Lady Arryn."

    Jeyne allowed the moment to settle, then touched Jessamyn''s elbow, guiding her forward. "This is Jessamyn Redfort," Jeyne said. "She attends me in some courtly duties. I''d have her known to you, husband, as she''ll be assisting me for some time."

    Aemond''s gaze flicked over Jessamyn with disinterest. "A pleasure, Lady Redfort," he said smoothly. Jessamyn''s murmur of greeting was nearly lost in the gust.

    No further remarks; clearly, Jessamyn''s presence did not intrigue him. Jeyne let relief seep through her bones. "If you''d care to rest, my lord, I can escort you to our chambers," she ventured. "I imagine the flight was tiring."

    Aemond inclined his head but turned aside to Captain Myles Stone, ignoring Jeyne''s final words. "Captain," he said, "dispatch summons to the garrison at once, and see that the Merchant Guild factor in the foothills is also notified. I shall expect representatives from both to attend me before sundown."

    Myles hesitated for a moment, glancing at Jeyne for direction. When she nodded he bowed, steel in every movement. "As you command, my Lord."

    Jeyne turned her gaze back to Aemond. She felt a subtle sting at his attempt to sideline her, but forced it down with a gracious tilt of her head. "Let me show you to our quarters then, Husband," she offered. "It''s a short walk, if the new corridors do not chill you."

    Aemond merely smiled in response. "Yes," he said, seemingly amused. "Lead on, my lady."

    Jeyne nodded and turned to leave, ignoring the flush of annoyance creeping along her neck.

 Bk 2 - INTERLUDE: The Games Men Play

    "Alyn''s wife, Baela Targaryen, disliked hearing about Aliandra."

    ¨DA Wiki of Ice and Fire

    ¡­?

    Three days of feasting and no sign of the Butcher.

    These were Qoren''s thoughts as he stood on a sun-baked terrace overlooking the tournament grounds outside Sunspear. Tents flapped in the desert wind, bright with Dornish colors¡ªscarlet, orange, and gold. Lords and knights, lesser scions, merchants from lands near and far, all drawn by Qoren''s invitation: a grand reception spanning multiple days, meant to greet Aemond Targaryen with proper fanfare. Only, the Targaryen had failed to appear, and Qoren endured the polite inquiries and occasional grumbles from guests who expected the star of the show.

    He exhaled, feeling the dryness in his throat. The Prince is not one to be trifled with, he reminded himself. But he might have sent a raven if delayed. Beyond the lush courtyard, minstrels played a lively tune, unaware of their host''s growing impatience.

    His gaze drifted to the sandy horizon, shimmering under the midday sun. It had been this way for three days: celebrants jousting, sampling spiced Dornish wines, forging alliances or enmities, while Qoren hovered in a swirl of courtesy. And still no dragon in the skies.

    Aliandra, his daughter, lounged against a carved stone pillar, entertaining half a dozen young men in flamboyant attire. Or so it would seem¡ªthough her eyes, half-lidded, betrayed disinterest. Qoren watched her, noticing how she stifled a yawn at one man''s flowery compliment. His other children, Coryanne and Qyle, were also engrossed entertaining guests of their own, though they seemed more invested in their respective discussions than their older sister.

    Just then, a servant in yellow-laced robes hurried up, breathless. "My prince," he whispered by his side, bowing low, "a great dragon has been sighted. Circling above the old dunes outside the city."

    Qoren exhaled¡ªrelief, annoyance, curiosity all at once. "At last," he muttered. He nodded at the servant. "Summon a small escort to meet the prince. And have an extra horse saddled. Move quickly."

    The servant scurried off and he glanced at Aliandra, who had caught the stir and was dismissing her admirers with a polite smile on her face. She drifted to Qoren''s side in a swirl of bright skirts. "What is it, father?" she asked, brushing a swirl of dark hair behind her ear.

    "He is here," Qoren said simply.

    Aliandra crooked a brow. "Oh? Took him long enough." Her tone was one of faint interest.

    Qoren gave a small grunt. "It did. Gather yourself." He swigged a final mouthful of the spiced wine and set the goblet on a passing tray. "We''ll greet him at the pavilion''s entrance."

    <hr>

    Some quarter-hour later, Qoren stood beneath a canopy of woven palm leaves set up at the front of the festival grounds. The day''s heat still bore down harshly, though the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon. The crowd parted, excited murmurs rushing through them, as a small column of riders approached. At their head rode Prince Aemond, silver hair unmistakable even in the golden half-light.

    He wore black riding leathers, dusted with a fine layer of sand. His posture upright, single violet eye scanning the throng, as though measuring each face in a single sweep. The Dornish around him offered a hush of curiosity, caution, some thread of resentment. They remembered how this Targaryen had crushed Braavos at the Stepstones, how he burned and slaughtered his way through the Stormlands just across the sea from Dorne. They also recalled the old wars. Qoren felt the tension in the air, brittle as sun-baked clay.

    Beside Qoren, Aliandra straightened, smoothing an imaginary crease in her dress. Then she stepped forward slightly, a slight smile on her lips that might fool those not attuned to her sharper edges.

    Aemond halted his mount before them, dismounting in a graceful motion. One could almost forget his many deeds. The Butcher Prince had a certain elegance about him now, a faint smile that might be real or might be all artifice.

    Qoren inclined his head in greeting. "Prince Aemond. Dorne is honoured by your presence. We feared you might not come while the celebrations ran their course."

    Aemond handed his reins to a waiting guard. "I would not miss the warmth of Dornish hospitality," he said, voice smooth, "you would have to forgive me. I had some matters to resolve personally."

    He turned to Aliandra, who offered a small curtsy, her face wearing a pleasant expression. "Prince Aemond, we are delighted you''ve finally arrived," she said, her voice honeyed. "A few more days and father might have had to toast you in absentia."

    Aemond''s single eye flicked over her. There was a flicker of a smile¡ªif such a minimal movement could be called that. "Princess Aliandra," he greeted, turning slightly to nod politely at Coryanne and Qyle who had quietly joined them upon his arrival. "Truly?" he said, his gaze panning back to Aliandra. "Then I am fortunate to arrive before my own toasts go stale."

    Aliandra laughed lightly, the corners of her mouth quirking. "Your tardiness fueled the festivities, I fear. We had to amuse ourselves."

    Aemond nodded once, apparently unoffended by her lightly teasing tone. Qoren stepped aside, gesturing for him to join them in the main pavilion. "We''ve prepared an informal welcome, if it pleases you. The lords and ladies will want to raise a cup to your presence."

    And so they entered the final day''s festivities¡ªa swirl of music, final jousts in the yard, and lords toasting the union of Dorne and the Crown''s cause. Aemond was ushered into a grand tent pitched for the final hours of feasting, where fresh fruit, spiced meats, and sweet wines lay in abundance. Qoren observed as the prince strode in, his presence centering the crowd. Aliandra, for her part, hung close, occasionally slipping in a mild question or jest. She flashed a smile that Qoren recognized as her best political face.

    The swirl of conversation hushed, all eyes turning. Musicians eased into a bright, bold tune. Here, dozens of Dornish nobility had gathered¡ªDaynes, Yronwoods, Santagars, Gaunts by marriage, and lesser lords, each wearing the vivid colors of their houses. They parted respectfully as Qoren led Aemond to a raised platform draped with House Martell''s sunspear.

    Unlike her siblings, Aliandra followed them, a half-step behind her father. A servant pressed a goblet of pomegranate wine into Aemond''s hand, another into Qoren''s. Aliandra accepted one for herself. The noise in the pavilion swelled, expectant.

    Aemond surveyed the crowd as if picking just the right moment. Then he raised his goblet. "Lords and ladies of Dorne," he began, his voice carrying with practiced authority. "I thank you for this warm welcome. Dorne has ever been fierce, and that ferocity now stands behind righteousness. I salute your bravery, your honor, your passion, your beauty¡ªTo you, noble Dornish, I drink."

    He lifted the goblet. A wave of raised cups followed, a ripple of applause and shouts. Qoren sipped, feeling the warmth of spiced wine across his tongue. The speech had been short, pointed. He noticed many lords exchanging nods of approval. The Butcher had, in his own way, salved some old wounds by assuaging Dornish pride.

    For a while, the festival resumed in earnest. Aemond wandered among the crowd, clasping wrists or exchanging measured pleasantries. Servants refilled wine with a promptness unusual even for Dornish gatherings¡ªclearly mindful of the prince''s comfort. While he was saddled with interactions of his own, Qoren hovered close enough to note the man''s deliberate charm, kept at a distance from some, more cordial with others.

    Eventually, the sun bled orange across the dunes, and the day''s festivities wore to a gentle close. Lords trickled away from the pavilion, speaking of tomorrow''s contests or returning to their lodging in Sunspear''s halls. Qoren, at last, signaled to Aemond that the time had come for a more private talk.

    They reconvened in a shaded corner of the palace courtyard¡ªa smaller, quieter space with a few braziers to keep out the desert night''s chill. Aliandra eyed them from afar. Aemond had doffed his cloak, revealing the sleek cut of his doublet, black as a crow''s wing. Qoren motioned for servants to bring fresh dates and a clay pitcher of water. The day''s heat left him parched, and negotiations demanded a clear head.

    "Shall we begin, my prince?" Qoren said softly. "We had sought this meeting to finalize Westeros''s stance on the blockade of the Stepstones."

    Aemond nodded, hooking an arm on the back of his chair. "Indeed, Prince Qoren. You have my thanks for your boldness at the Stepstones¡ªyour fleet was crucial in the final assault."

    Qoren nodded. "Dorne put forth its might, yes. But in doing so, we hope to see some relief. The Stepstones remain strangled, and Dorne''s trade strangles with it. We have kept our promise, siding with the Crown. We want the blockade lifted to allow us free commerce with the parts of Essos you are currently warring with¡ªthe import of grain, most especially."

    Aemond''s expression cooled. "Surely, you know what I want then. Dorne has a proud history, but let us not pretend we can do without the rest of Westeros. The Crown invests heavily in continuing the blockade. Braavos and its allies must be contained, or the war festers anew. Without a guarantee of your allegiance, I cannot simply open lanes for you."

    Qoren drew a measured breath. "Dorne has always resisted outside rule. We do not intend to sacrifice our independence for a war we did not start. We only desire the blockade lifted for crucial goods." He forced calm into his tone, though inside he bristled.

    Aemond let silence linger, that single eye glinting in the firelight. Then, "Full assimilation," he said. "That is the ideal solution. A formal acceptance of the Iron Throne''s suzerainty¡ªno more disclaimers. If you yield, we''ll welcome you as the seventh realm in truth. I would need not write a single decree for no Westerosi ships, regardless of origin, would be turned back at the Steps."

    Qoren''s jaw tensed. "That is non-negotiable. We do not intend to relinquish our sovereignty."

    A faint dryness touched Aemond''s lips. "Then you must accept that the Crown''s blockade stands. The best I can offer is partial relief¡ªexemptions for a few key Dornish exports, and a small corridor for certain imports essential to the creation of these exports. But for this I would have to demand more; a third of your fleet shall join mine in a broader blockade I plan to impose on the entirety of the Narrow Sea. No trade shall depart or enter the ports of the Free Cities that aided Braavos." He spoke as though listing items on a ledger. "Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Lys. All to be choked."

    Qoren paused for a long moment, still processing the words. Then his stomach lurched at the sheer scope of what was said. "That is half of west Essos," he murmured, gobsmacked.

    Aemond only nodded. "If they would meddle in Westeros''s affairs, I must ensure they regret it. Let them all feel the Crown''s hand. Regardless, if you are to agree to this, then you would need to accept a further stipulation¡ªI will be purchasing a control stake of all your ports through the Merchant Guild, meaning you would have to accept Westerosi oversight on the trade that would be allowed. The Stepstones remain closed for other goods, including any large-scale grain imports. If you need grain, you may buy from Westeros, as we will see fit to supply it. I am willing to quadrupel the current supply from the Westerlands and double what you currently can purchase from the Reach."

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    A swirl of frustration coursed through Qoren. "That cedes excessive control of our commerce to you," he said tightly. "We want¡ª"

    "It is either that," Aemond interjected, "bending the knee or remaining walled off from the seas entirely. Perhaps watch your people starve if your desert yields too little. I doubt your lords would prefer that."

    Silence stretched. Qoren glanced aside. He thought for a long time, once more reviewing his options. In the end, he saw no better path. Slowly, he gave a single nod. "Then let us refine the details."

    They spent another hour locked in terse negotiation, line by line. Aemond insistence on Guild branches in every major Dornish port¡ªPlanky Town, Yronwood''s river mouth, Spottswood, all of them¡ªremained. The Crown would purchase controlling stakes from the lords concerned and station men of their own in supervisory roles. Qoren managed to pry a few extra concessions: certain Dornish exports (fruits, fabrics and Dornish yew) that Aemond initially resisted would pass the blockade, albeit with quotas and heavy oversight. The final terms left him uneasy: yes, Dorne would have more trade than before, dispelling the fears of mass starvation, but the Butcher''s grip on their commerce tightened further.

    By the time the last parchment was scrawled with their signatures, the braziers burned low. Qoren felt wrung out. Aemond folded the document, tucking it into a leather satchel. A glimmer of satisfaction lay behind his calm expression. Qoren recognized the look of a man who''d gained more than he''d lost.

    "There," the Butcher said quietly. "We do what must be done. Neither of us is truly pleased, but it is as close to a favorable outcome as we can craft."

    A swirl of desert wind gusted in from the open arch, stirring the dying flames. Qoren forced a polite tilt of his head.

    Aemond gave a thin half-smile, and stood. "We can speak further on the morrow. For now, I shall retire." He touched Qoren''s shoulder in a gesture that might be called friendly if not for the weight behind it. "My thanks, Prince Qoren."

    ????

    The courtyard lamps burned low when Aliandra at last excused herself from the evening''s bustle of laughter and cordial chatter. The day''s festivities had worn on with a splendid array of music, dancing, and drinking, all quite merry¡ªuntil, at length, the crowd began to disperse to their respective quarters.

    The princess glided like heat through the halls¡ªbarefoot, silent, scenting of oranges and crushed hibiscus. The stone corridors of Sunspear held the memory of sunfire even in the depth of night, warm underfoot, the air thick with salt and secrets. The sand-silk robe she had worn all day hung loosely from her shoulders, the ties half undone. Beneath it, she wore little more than skin and will.

    She passed no guards. Her father''s men had been dismissed early, too deep in their wine to mark her passing. The minstrels had played their final tune, and Qoren had retired to his private solar with his closest advisors, muttering of ledgers and shipments and what scraps of sovereignty Dorne might yet clutch in its sun-scorched hand. While she had been distant from the discussion, Aliandra had not missed the tight line of her father''s mouth after the Targaryen carved more of Dorne into his ledger like so much meat. Nor had she missed the faint gleam in the Butcher''s eye after he did it.

    She hated the man.

    She wanted him.

    His rooms had been granted in the Old Tower, high above the western courtyard, with its weather-worn gargoyles and narrow, winding stairs. She climbed without a lantern. Darkness clung to her like perfume.

    At the chamber door, she paused. Her breath stilled. No guards. No noise beyond the heavy cedar door carved with ancient spears and curling serpents. She pushed it open.

    The scent hit her first. Not perfume, not Dornish oils, but leather, steel, and something faintly smoky¡ªdragon scent, she decided. Fire and salt.

    Aemond Targaryen stood by the window, cloaked in half-shadow. He had removed his coat but still wore his black linen tunic, the high collar framing the sharp lines of his face. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight. He was pouring himself a measure of wine from a flagon, and did not look up.

    "You walk like a thief," he said quietly.

    Aliandra smiled. "Only because I''ve come to steal."

    He turned. That single violet eye studied her, flat as glass. His features were sharp, patrician, severe. If he was surprised, he did not show it. Aemond did not speak. He took a sip of water, then set the goblet down with perfect care. She saw his hands¡ªlong, pale, uncalloused¡ªand thought of how many had died at his command.

    Aliandra walked to the center of the chamber. "I thought the Butcher Prince of Westeros would be larger."

    "And I thought the Jewel of Dorne would be quieter."

    A pause. "You find me irritating?"

    "Yes."

    She circled him slowly, barefoot on cool stone, the silk of her shift whispering. "I find you fascinating," she exhaled, desire burning in her eyes.

    "Flattery is wasted on me."

    "Who said I was flattering you?" She grinned. "You are far too arrogant."

    "You''re trying to provoke me."

    She smiled sweetly. "Is it working?"

    He turned to face her fully now. The moonlight caught his profile, the scar cutting down his sapphire eye. Beautiful, in a cruel way. She felt the thrill of danger¡ªa prickling warmth beneath her skin. He looked at her like a man assessing a blade.

    "I''ve no interest in these games. They are a fool''s pastime."

    "You think me foolish then," she said.

    "I think you spoiled. And reckless."

    "Why? Are you afraid, my prince?" she asked softly, lifting her hand at last to graze her fingers along the plane of his jaw. He didn''t flinch, but neither did he move toward her. "Indeed, my father would be displeased to hear of this; myself, unchaperoned in your chambers at this hour."

    "No," he murmured. "But I tire of this debate."

    Aliandra stepped in. Her body was flush with his now, heat to heat. She pressed her mouth near his neck, whispering: "Then let us stop talking."

    She kissed him.

    He didn''t respond. For a breath, for two. And then¡ªhe did.

    Aemond''s hands were sudden on her waist, strong, sure, unyielding. He pushed her back against the cool wall, eyes blazing. The kiss turned hard, devouring. When he pulled away, it was only to look at her, truly look at her.

    "Foolish girl," he muttered after a moment and turned away.

    Aliandra was confused. "Why?"

    "I''m married," he said flatly, turning back to his desk with a kind of languid grace. There he brought another cup of wine to his lips.

    Aliandra licked her lips, ignoring the faint sting to her ego. "Married or no, your bed can hold more than one occupant. Your wife is not here¡ªnor does she own you." She let her gaze roam over the lithe lines of his back, the glimpses of muscle. The knowledge that he had allowed her so close excited her all the more. "Besides, men have taken more than one mistress before. Are we to pretend you do not keep a few?"

    A faint snort. "Rumors," Aemond said, but he did not deny it. He spared her a glance. "You should leave." The quiet in the room pulsed with danger.

    Aliandra ignored him and took a step closer, letting her candle''s glow wash over the planes of her face. She was the Jewel of Sunspear, heir to Dorne, and the most desired maiden of these dunes. Her laughter could cut. Her glances could kill. And she had decided tonight she would taste the Butcher for she could think of no greater first to be had.

    Truly, She was going nowhere until he took her tonight.

    With a shuddering exhale she pressed her fingers into the small of his back before running her fingers along his waist to cup at the fore. "I am the heir to Dorne," she said softly, pressing her cheek into his back. "Have you ever considered what might happen should I bear a silver-haired babe?"

    He paused. She sensed the tension in him, the breath that slowed in his chest. He turned to face her, the lamp''s glow dancing over his features¡ªsharp, almost predatory. "Do you understand truly what it is you offer?"

    Aliandra lifted her chin. "Yes."

    He regarded her for a long moment, jaw tight. "You assume I have a blind hunger for dominion over Dorne." His brow crooked by a small degree. "I have your kingdom already in my grasp, Aliandra. Hungry or not, I need not impregnate you for a claim."

    She only smiled. "Perhaps not. Yet in these matters, a direct line is so much more¡­ assured. Why leave it to chance or endless negotiations, when Dorne itself might yield more willingly through me?"

    He studied her in the uncertain candlelight, the flicker of flame dancing along the planes of his face. She felt the hush of the moment, more electrifying than any idle festival banquet. Then, with a measured exhalation, he muttered, half to himself. "Your father would not be amused."

    "My father is a statesman," she replied, the words turned sharp. "He wears courtesy like armor and convinces himself that patience is strength. He does not yet see the storm gathering¡ªperhaps chooses not to. But in time, he will come to understand my reasons."

    She took a step closer, her voice softening¡ªsubmission. "I know you, Aemond. More than you think. You are not the sort of man who lets anything slip from his grasp. You would sooner burn Dorne to ash than let it float free."

    Her gaze held his, unflinching. "And with every moon, your shadow grows longer. The seas speak of your victories, your enemies flee, vanish or kneel. You will come for us. Not today, not perhaps this year, but you will. It is in your nature."

    She tilted her head, letting her hair spill like shadow across one shoulder. "I would rather be part of this storm, Aemond¡­ than caught beneath it. You want Dorne. If I were the mother of your child¡ªwho could dispute your claim to these lands?" She stepped, her confidence growing as she pressed into him again. "In return, I am assured my House has a place of supreme standing in your kingdom. No other way can we rise so quickly to prominence despite contributing so little in comparison."

    He watched her steadily, face giving little away, but the air in the chamber felt electric. She sensed his pulse, or perhaps it was hers. A long moment stretched. Silence. Then, slowly, he lowered his head. Their mouths met¡ªnot with tenderness, but heat, restraint snapping like thread.

    Aemond kissed her like a man starved.

    Her hands tangled in his hair. His arms found her waist, pulled her tight. There was no ceremony to it, no sweetness, only fire and need and the deep, unspoken understanding that both of them were playing with knives.

    When he lifted her, it was with terrifying ease.

    And as he laid her down upon the silken coverlets of a foreign bed in a land that not-quite-so secretly hated him, she smiled into his mouth.

    The Butcher, she thought. At last.

 Omake(Lewds): Aemond & Aliandra

    The world tilted as Aemond carried her to the broad oak table near the window, its surface strewn with maps and parchment that crinkled beneath her weight. He set her down hard, the edge biting into her thighs, and she gasped¡ªa sound swallowed by his mouth as he pressed himself between her legs. The silk of her robe parted like water, sliding from her shoulders to pool at her elbows, baring her to the cool night air and the heat of his gaze. His hands roamed her skin, fingertips tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her spine, as though mapping a new conquest.

    Aliandra arched into him, her nails digging into the taut muscle of his shoulders through the thin linen of his tunic. She could feel the coiled strength in him, the barely leashed violence that simmered beneath his composure, and it thrilled her. Her lips found his throat, tasting salt and steel, and she bit down¡ªnot gently. A low sound rumbled in his chest, half-growl, half-sigh, and his grip tightened, bruising.

    With a swift, brutal motion, he shoved the maps aside, sending quills and inkpots clattering to the floor. The table groaned as he pushed her back, her spine meeting the wood, her hair fanning out like spilled ink. He loomed over her, a shadow carved from moonlight and menace, and for a moment she thought he might refuse her still¡ªmight turn away and leave her wanting.

    But then his hands were on her again, rough and certain, parting her thighs wider. The air was thick with the scent of him¡ªsmoke and leather and something darker, something that made her pulse race. He shed the last of his restraint like a snake sloughing skin, and when he tore into her, it was with a force that stole her breath. She cried out, a sharp, wild sound that echoed off the stone walls, and he stilled for a heartbeat, watching her with that unreadable gaze.

    "Too much?" he asked, voice low, mocking, though there was a flicker of something else beneath it.

    She laughed, breathless, her legs wrapping around his hips to pull him deeper. "Not enough." Her hands clawed at his back, urging him on, and he obliged with a ferocity that matched her own. The table rocked beneath them, its legs scraping the floor, a rhythm as old as the dunes and as relentless as the sea.

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    There was no gentleness here, no courtly pretense. It was raw, primal¡ªa clash of wills as much as bodies. Aliandra felt the heat of him, the weight, the way he filled her until there was nothing else, no thought of Dorne or Targaryens or the consequences that would surely follow. Only this¡ªonly him, his breath ragged against her throat, his hands bruising her flesh, his silver hair falling into her eyes as he drove into her again and again.

    When the end came, it was sudden, shattering. She arched beneath him, a cry tearing from her lips as the world dissolved into white-hot sparks. He followed a moment later, a guttural sound escaping him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his body shuddering against hers. For a long, suspended moment, they were still¡ªtwo beings caught in the aftermath, breath mingling, sweat cooling on their skin.

    Then he pulled away, abrupt and cold, leaving her sprawled across the table. He straightened, running his hands through his hair with precise, unhurried movements, his face once more a mask of indifference. Aliandra propped herself up on her elbows, her chest still heaving, her robe a tangled ruin around her. She watched him, a slow smile curling her lips.

    "Will you send me away now, Butcher?" she asked, her voice husky, teasing.

    Aemond glanced at her, his sapphire eye glinting in the dim light. "You''ve had what you came for," he said flatly, turning to retrieve his goblet from the desk. "Go."

    She slid off the table, her legs unsteady but her pride intact. Gathering the remnants of her robe, she crossed the room with the same grace she''d entered, pausing at the door to look back at him. "I will come again tomorrow," she said, her tone a promise, a threat.

    He didn''t answer, only watched her go. The door closed behind her, and the night swallowed her footsteps, leaving the chamber to its shadows and the faint, lingering scent of oranges and smoke.

 Bk 2 - INTERLUDE: The Siege of the Narrow Sea

    An Excerpt from The Annals of the Green Triumph, penned by Archmaester Vaelor in the Reign of King Aegon II Targaryen

    "Yet, as has often been the case with the prince, his brilliance lay not just in the ferocity of his victory, but in his restraint after."

    <hr>

    The Battle of the Steps, fought in the year 131 AC, was, without question, a most singular and decisive event in the ongoing contest for control of the Narrow Sea. Yet it is not merely the battle itself, nor its immediate effects, that earned Prince Aemond Targaryen a reputation as the preeminent master of the seas; rather, it was the manner in which he conducted his affairs in its aftermath that firmly established his place at the pinnacle of power, ensuring that no one might doubt his capacity for both boldness and restraint.

    For many years, tension over the Stepstones had simmered, and it was to this prolonged dispute that Aemond turned his attention with a resolve most admirably cold and methodical. But, as has often been remarked upon by those acquainted with the prince''s character, it was not merely in the ferocity of his victory that his genius lay but in his discerning ability to govern his impulses with perfect restraint. Had it been a less calculating mind that guided him, Aemond might well have rushed to overwhelm his foes with a swift and forceful assault; but the prince, though not wanting in courage, chose a far subtler course of action. He deferred the moment of triumph, retreating to the Eyrie where, for many days, he pondered the next move.

    At length, his gaze turned southward, toward the warm and sun-kissed sands of Dorne, where Prince Qoren Martell had graciously extended an invitation. Aemond''s journey was undertaken with the swiftness one might expect of a man with such a purpose in mind, and upon his arrival at Sunspear, he found himself the guest of honor at feasts, tournaments, and various splendid festivities, all arranged to mark both the victory and the dawn of a generational union between the Martells and the Crown. Though the revelry was not without its indulgences, Aemond, ever the discerning diplomat, would have recognized it for what it was¡ªa means of securing the submission of the Martells in the face of future challenges.

    In exchange for their valuable support against the Essosi, Aemond offered several important concessions. While the blockade of the Stepstones remained in place¡ªa measure undoubtedly welcomed by the more martial lords of the realm¡ªhe took pains to ensure that the flow of trade from Dorne would no longer be hindered. Dorne, long isolated in its mercantile pursuits, would now find itself drawn into the broader web of Westeros''s commerce, an arrangement which, under the guidance of the Merchant Guild, promised mutual benefit. The diplomatic ramifications of this decision were not lost on Aemond; he knew well that, with Dorne secured, he would have both a staunch ally and a valuable source of resources at his disposal.

    With Dorne firmly in hand, Aemond returned to the Eyrie, where his thoughts turned to the increasingly precarious situation regarding Braavos and its growing trade with the Ibbenese peoples to the East¡ªA skillful diversion out of Westeros''s growing sphere of influence.

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    Recognizing that a timely intervention was required if the Crown''s interests were to be safeguarded, Aemond set in motion an equally tactful response. At his orders, a great fleet was gathered at Gulltown, where contracted Volantene, Ghiscari, and even Qartheen privateers were organized and prepared for their task. This fleet, he determined, would patrol the waters northeast of Braavos, harrying the ships traversing these newly established sea lanes and targeting vulnerable vessels in the region.

    At the same time, Aemond made certain that the dragons, those fearsome instruments of power, were stationed to best advantage. Vhagar and Vermithor, the two of the most formidable, were relocated to the Eyrie, where they would spearhead the campaign in the Shivering Sea. Meanwhile, Dragonstone became the base of operations for Sheepstealer, Silverwing, and Grey Ghost¡ªwhose riders were tasked with patrolling the length of the Narrow Sea. Tessarion and Seasmoke would remain at the Stepstones to enforce the blockade there.

    With his forces in place, Aemond turned to his allies among the great houses¡ªVelaryon, Redwyne, Hightower, Lannister, and Arryn¡ªwho were instructed to besiege the territorial waters bordering what remained of the crown''s enemies. It was, indeed, a most amusing spectacle that the Free Cities¡ªPentos, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh¡ªno longer found their cities free. Perhaps at Prince Aemond''s demands, or simply in a show of goodwill, Prince Qoren Martell dispatched ships from his own fleet to assist in this effort.

    The consequences were swift and, for some, utterly devastating. Tyrosh, suffering the effects of hosting the defeated Essosi armada, capitulated within two fortnights, its grain stores emptied. Lys, too, surrendered three weeks after. Myr and Pentos, in a desperate attempt to stave off the same fate, turned to overland trade, but it was clear that their situation was growing increasingly precarious. Only Braavos, with its immense wealth and robust alternative sea lanes, held out¡ªthough even it could not ignore the growing pressure from Westeros.

    In the months that followed, the aftermath of Westeros''s victory was felt throughout the realm. A number of the Essosi prisoners of war taken at the Battle of Rook''s Rest, and subsequently the Battle of the Steps, were sent north to the Wall, and west to the Iron Isles. There, they would serve sentences imposed upon them by the crown, their lives forever bound in service to the realm. The rest would be sent to labor for some time in the construction of new mines, ports, and roads funded by the immense wealth of the Dragon''s Bank and the Merchant Guild. This influx of labor, though perhaps not without its difficulties, proved to be a boon particularly for the North, whose prosperity surged under the fruits of their toil.

    And so it was that Prince Aemond, with his astute leadership, was credited not only with numerous military victories but with a remarkable transformation of the realm. His name was now synonymous with progress¡ªan era of prosperity, trade, and unparalleled strength, the effects of which would be felt for generations to come.