"A certain amount of fear is necessary for control."
―Baron 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—should I seek to act in accordance with my own judgment rather than yours—my 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—pride 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—considered 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—one eye bright with knowing, the other a hollow void of polished sapphire—that 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—low 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.
"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.
✥✥✥
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—longships 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—lords and freeborn alike—who 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—survivors from all eight islands—preferring 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—endless, 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.