A gray sea fog blanketed Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra stood by the window of the dragon fortress that Aemond had destroyed by half. Over the past few days, more than a hundred charred corpses had been personally arranged by her for proper burial.
She let out a sigh inwardly. These had all been soldiers, servants, and handmaidens loyal to her.
But that bastard Aemond had burned them all to death...
She hated her former friend, now Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, for giving birth to such a monster.
If she could return to her youth, she would want to strangle that close friend with her own hands.
Or stop her father from marrying her.
Perhaps then none of this would have happened.
"Your Grace."
Mysaria's voice sounded from behind her.
The Black faction's mistress of whispers wore a plain white robe, her face carrying the expression Rhaenyra had grown familiar with over the years.
There was bad news, and there was good news. Most of the time, there was more bad than good.
"Have them wait in the hall," Rhaenyra said without turning around. "Tell Daemon. Tell Corlys. Tell everyone."
Mysaria hesitated for a moment. "Lady Saera is outside as well. She wishes to see you."
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened against the windowsill.
Jacaerys's child.
Her eldest son. The boy she had once loved most dearly, the one upon whom she had placed all her hopes, the boy she had intended to inherit the Iron Throne.
Now only a skull remained, returned by Aemond.
Yet there was still a bastard child she had never once seen.
"Let her attend the meeting as well," Rhaenyra finally said as she turned around with a sigh.
...
The hall was one of the oldest chambers on Dragonstone. Legend claimed that Aegon the Conqueror had once discussed plans for conquering Westeros there with his siblings and wives.
Now that enormous stone table was covered with maps.
Small banners representing the various factions had been planted across it.
The Greens occupied most of the map. The Blacks' banners were sparse and scattered. Only the Vale and the Riverlands still remained.
Daemon stood beside the head of the stone table, idly playing with Dark Sister.
His Caraxes had suffered some injuries during the battle at Rook's Rest, but that did little to diminish the Blood Wyrm's ferocity.
What truly irritated Daemon was something else.
He had arrived too late.
If he had arrived even a quarter hour earlier, perhaps Rhaenys would not have died.
Corlys sat on the other side of the stone table. The man once known as the richest "Sea Snake" in the Seven Kingdoms now resembled a stone statue.
A few days earlier, when he learned of his wife's death, he had coughed up blood on the spot.
The bleeding had stopped, but he seemed to have aged ten years overnight. Those eyes that had once struck fear into enemies during naval battles now held nothing but hollow gray emptiness.
Saera stood by the doorway. She did not dare sit down.
Dragonstone's bannermen stood in small groups throughout the hall—the representative of House Celtigar, the old man from House Bar Emmon, and several knights from House Cargyll.
At most, they could scrape together a thousand elite troops.
This was the last foundation directly under Queen Rhaenyra's command.
Mysaria entered last. Behind her followed two servants carrying wooden chests.
"Your Grace." Mysaria bowed to Rhaenyra. "Prince. Lord Corlys."
Rhaenyra sat down at the head seat and waved a hand.
"Speak. Which news first?"
Mysaria took a deep breath. After serving as mistress of whispers for so many years, she had long learned to report bad news before good news. But today's news was mixed. She had to choose her words carefully.
"The Hightower host is nearing Bitterbridge."
The hall fell silent for a moment.
Lord Corlys lifted his head and stared at her.
"How many men?"
Mysaria paused for a moment. "Twenty-six thousand men."
"Twenty-six thousand?!" a young knight from House Cargyll blurted out. "We can't even gather a tenth of that!"
"They are all armored elites," Mysaria added.
"More than two thousand of them are knights and heavy cavalry combined."
"Lord Ormund Hightower personally leads the host, while Prince Daeron Targaryen travels with Tessarion."
"Daeron..." Rhaenyra repeated the name softly. Alicent Hightower's youngest son, only thirteen years old this year.
"There is one more matter." Mysaria's voice dropped even lower. "House Tyrell has been forced to provide three thousand men."
"Lady Margaery Rowan and her ten-month-old son, Lord Lyonel Tyrell, are now being carried along with the Hightower host on the road toward King's Landing."
This time, even Daemon frowned.
"Margaery Rowan..." Daemon repeated the name. "I remember her."
"At the tourney at Harrenhal years ago, she was still a pretty young noble girl, following her father to watch the matches."
"She married that short-lived fool from House Tyrell?"
"Yes, Prince," Mysaria nodded. "Lord Lyonel's father died last year. Lady Margaery now rules Highgarden as regent."
"When the Hightower host surrounded Highgarden, House Florent took the opportunity to stir trouble as well. She had no choice but to submit."
"House Florent..." Corlys let out a cold laugh. "A pack of fools forever dreaming of replacing the Tyrells."
Daemon shot Corlys a glance. And are you any different?
Rhaenyra rubbed her temples. Her head had begun to ache again.
Ever since receiving the skulls of Jacaerys and Joffrey, the headaches had never truly stopped. The maesters said her emotions had become too unstable. Her calming draughts had gone from once every five days to once every two, yet even that could not suppress the pain.
"And us?" Rhaenyra asked. "How many men can we gather?"
No one answered.
In the end, the representative of House Celtigar forced himself to speak.
"Your Grace, the bannermen of Dragonstone, mobilized to their fullest, can provide at most one thousand men. But Driftmark now..."
He did not continue, but everyone knew what he meant.
Driftmark had been burned by Aemond. Its ports, farmlands, and wells had all been destroyed. More than thirty thousand Velaryon subjects had been forcibly relocated to Dragon's Roost.
Corlys tapped his fingers lightly against the stone table, his voice hollow.
"The Velaryon fleet still has eight thousand men, but they are sailors. They cannot fight on land."
Eight thousand sailors against twenty-six thousand elite Reach troops.
Corlys would have to be mad to send sailors into a land battle.
House Hightower had ruled Oldtown for over a thousand years. Their armies were well-equipped and highly disciplined, among the wealthiest and strongest forces in the Seven Kingdoms second only to the House Lannister.
The atmosphere in the hall was so oppressive it felt as though water might drip from the air itself.
Mysaria gave a light cough.
"However, Your Grace, there is some good news."
Everyone lifted their heads to look at her.
A faint smile appeared on Mysaria's face. On her perpetually gloomy features, it looked especially abrupt.
"The fleet of Lys was completely defeated by the fleet of Volantis not long ago in the Merling Strait."
"What?" Corlys straightened in his seat immediately.
"It is absolutely true, my lord," Mysaria said as she pulled a rolled parchment from her sleeve. "This is a secret letter that arrived from Volantis this morning."
"The Disputed Lands have entirely fallen into Volantene hands. Myr has been occupied, and the island of Lys has been completely surrounded."
"The Triarchy is nearly finished."
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