"It is so much easier to be obvious or stupid than to be ingenious or effective."
— 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—a 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—gold, 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—three 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—half 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—my uncle, I—I 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—she needs you at Dragonstone, at once."
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—or 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—
There was no time to dwell on it now.
"Mount up," Daemon ordered, glancing skyward where Caraxes stirred. "We leave at once."
✥✥✥
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—dragon and dragonrider alike—regarded 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—something 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—the lord of Driftmark—absent. Baela—her stepdaughter, her ward, a dragonrider—absent. 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—not 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.