On the other side of the narrow sea, west of Pentos.
The city, conquered scarce a fortnight past, yet reeked of smoke and blood.
The Velaryon fleet held the harbor; black-cloaked patrols walked the streets. The Pentoshi host—already surrendered—was gathered in the great square, being drilled by black officers.
Within the former king's citadel, the air was heavier than without.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat the throne.
She wore a long gown of black silk. In her arms she held her youngest—Viserys, a year old. Three-year-old Aegon stood at the throne's foot, his small fingers clutching his mother's skirts.
Both children felt the wrongness in the air. Their small faces were pinched, fearful. Neither dared make a sound.
Below the dais stood five.
Prince Daemon Targaryen. Silent. His eyes fixed upon Rhaenyra.
Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake. His face was stone.
Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was. She stood beside her husband.
Mysaria, the Mistress of Whisperers. She knelt at the foot of the steps, her head bowed low.
And a fifth man—a messenger, fresh from Dragonstone, his cloak still wet with seawater. He knelt beside Mysaria and, trembling, repeated the news brought by Ser Robert Quince.
"…The heads of Prince Jacaerys and Prince Joffrey hang from the battlements of the Red Keep.
Prince Lucerys fell into the sea and is lost. His life—or death—unknown.
The greens proclaim the three princes crept into the dragonpit, set Dragonkeepers aflame, and were themselves slain in the attempt."
The messenger pressed his brow to the stone. Dared not lift it.
Silence. Dead and absolute.
Rhaenyra did not move upon the throne.
Viserys, in her arms, felt the stiffness of his mother's body. He squirmed. Whimpered.
Little Aegon looked up at her. «Mama…»
Rhaenyra did not answer.
Her eyes stared straight ahead. Unfocused. Seeing nothing.
Her face was fine porcelain. Still. Frozen.
A second.
Ten seconds.
A minute.
Daemon looked at his wife—lost, adrift—and moved first. He took a step forward. Meant to speak. To comfort her.
«AHHHHH!»
A scream tore from the throne. It was not a sound a woman should make.
Rhaenyra rose so swiftly the babe in her arms startled and began to wail. She did not comfort him. She set him upon the throne, seized her own hair in both hands, and pulled. Tore at it.
«NO. NO. NO. NO. NO—!»
She shrieked. Tears burst forth like a dyke broken.
She stumbled down the steps. Caught her skirts. Nearly fell.
Daemon caught her. She shoved him away.
«MY SONS! MY CHILDREN!» Her voice broke. She whirled on Mysaria, still kneeling, and her eyes held a madman's hate.
«YOU! You devised it! You put Jacaerys up to this—this thievery! YOU KILLED THEM!»
She lunged.
Daemon seized her from behind. «Rhaenyra! Control yourself!»
«LET ME GO!»
«I'll KILL HER! I'll tear her apart! Rend her limb from limb!»
Rhaenyra thrashed in Daemon's arms. Her hands clawed at the air, reaching for Mysaria's throat.
«She murdered my sons! Three! THREE!»
Mysaria did not flinch. Did not flee. Did not defend herself.
She only bowed her head and let Rhaenyra's fury crash over her.
Corlys and Rhaenys stood silent. The two old ones seemed to have aged years in the span of a breath.
Rhaenys's lips trembled. Tears coursed down her cheeks, silent as rain.
Corlys shut his eyes. His weathered face cracked.
Jacaerys. Lucerys. Joffrey.
Their grandsons. Not of his blood—but theirsin every way that mattered. For more than ten years, they had called him grandsire.
Now two were dead. One lost.
«Daemon, let me GO!» Rhaenyra still screamed. Mad. Beyond reason. «You will not let me avenge them?!»
«You would stay my hand from avenging my own sons?!»
«I mean to kill her now, and you would stop me—!»
«I would stop you from being stupid,» Daemon snarled. He seized her shoulders. Forced her to look at him.
«Listen to me! We are at war with the greens!»
«Mysaria is one of your most loyal bannermen!»
«Would you cut off your own hand?»
«SHE KILLED MY SONS!»
«A plan you set her to!»
Daemon roared back. His own eyes were red-rimmed, wild.
«You gave the command! Now, when it goes wrong, you would lay all the blame at Mysaria's feet?!»
«Is that how a queen rules?!»
Rhaenyra went still.
Then, the grief and rage crested again, higher than before.
She beat her fists against Daemon's chest. Felt nothing. Cared for nothing.
«Then what would you have me do?! My sons are dead! Dead! I want vengeance! I am going back to Westeros!»
«I will fly to King's Landing! I will burn those greens to ash!»
«I will feed Aemond to Syrax myself! I will—»
«Mama… WAAAAAH!»
Little Aegon—not yet three—watched from the throne. Watched his gentle mother become this screaming, clawing thing.
On the throne, Viserys—forgotten, abandoned—wailed with him.
The cries of two small boys pierced Rhaenyra's madness like knives.
She stopped.
Turned.
Looked at the throne.
Her two youngest. Her only sons, now. Both weeping. Aegon looked at her with fear in his eyes—fear of this monstrous, shrieking woman who wore his mother's face.
Rhaenyra's lips trembled.
She pushed Daemon away. Stumbled back to the throne. Gathered Viserys into her arms. Drew little Aegon close.
She held them. Buried her face in their soft silver-gold hair. Her shoulders shook.
In the hall, there was only the sound of a mother's muffled sobs, and her children's weeping.
A long while passed.
Rhaenyra raised her head.
Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. But the mad, wild thing had receded. In its place: cold. Bottomless and still.
She looked at Mysaria. Her voice was hoarse.
«This is my doing.»
Mysaria looked up, startled.
«I set you to this. I spoke the words myself.»
She closed her eyes. Opened them.
«I do not blame you. Rise.»
Mysaria rose. Bowed deeply. Said nothing.
Rhaenyra handed the children to serving women, who bore them swiftly to the sept. Then she sat the throne once more.
She looked at the four below the dais. Suppressed the hate still burning in her chest.
Spoke, calm and level.
«Now?»
«What do we do?»
Corlys spoke first. His voice was steady—an admiral's voice, measuring wind and tide.
«First: secure Pentos.»
«The resistance in this city is not yet broken.»
«If the yard catches fire while we are at sea, we are lost.»
Rhaenyra nodded. «Go on.»
«At the same time: send ravens to every house of the blacks in Westeros.»
«Tell them the greens have usurped the throne. That His Grace Viserys is their captive—drugged, delirious.»
«That the king was forced to name a new heir while in a stupor.»
He paused. His voice grew colder.
«Tell them you—Princess Rhaenyra—accepted this. For the sake of peace. For the unity of the House. You set aside your claim.»
«But.»
«The greens have broken faith. They have not only stolen the throne. They have murderedyour three sons. The grandsons of Viserys himself.»
«This is an offense beyond pardon. You will suffer it no longer.»
Daemon cut in.
«Such words take time to spread.»
«The greens will not give us time. If Aemond dared a blow this bold, he will take Driftmark and Dragonstone before we can draw breath.»
Corlys's face darkened.
Driftmark.
House Velaryon's seat for a hundred years. Not only the castle—the port, the shipyards, the families of ten thousand sailors and marines. If Driftmark fell to the greens…
«Our fleet,» Corlys said, his voice dry as ash. «Most of their families dwell on Driftmark. If the greens hold their wives, their children…»
«Our sailors' loyalty will waver,» Rhaenys finished.
«We must send someone back. At once.»
Daemon's hand found his sword hilt.
«Rhaenys and I. We fly for Westeros on dragonback.»
«I have fought Vhagar before. I can fight her again.»
«But we do not know if the greens have taken Driftmark—or Dragonstone—already.»
At that moment, a guard's voice rang out from without.
«An envoy from Braavos craves audience!»
All turned.
Rhaenyra wiped her face with the back of her hand. Drew several long, steadying breaths. Forced calm upon her features.
She would not show weakness before strangers. Least of all before Braavos.
«Admit him.»
The doors opened.
A man entered: middle years, dark blue samite, a silver chain at his throat. He had the look of Braavos—high cheekbones, thin lips, a nose like a hawk's beak. His eyes were sharp and quick.
Behind him came two guards—water dancers, and of the finest quality, by their stance.
The envoy stopped before the dais. Offered a shallow bow. No more.
«Your Grace, Princess Rhaenyra.» His accent was Braavosi, smooth as oil. «I am Marco Fregos. His Excellency the Sealord commands me to treat with you… on certain matters.»
Rhaenyra sat the throne. Her face was still.
«Speak, Excellency.»
Marco raised his head. His gaze passed over the others in the hall, then settled once more upon Rhaenyra.
«First: Braavos wishes to express its concern regarding the recent… disturbances in Westeros. The succession. The… violence.»
A pause. Then, a shift.
«But our greater concern lies here, in the east.»
«Your Grace. Does your alliance with Volantis—this joint conquest of Pentos—mean that the black faction intends to support Volantis in its ambition to restore the Valyrian Freehold?»
Daemon stepped forward. Planted himself between Rhaenyra and the envoy. Smiled.
«Excellency. Our alliance with Volantis is temporary. We share a common foe—the Triarchy. Nothing more.»
«Temporary?» Marco smiled. It did not reach his eyes.
«Prince Daemon. The archons who sit behind the Black Wall—their ambitions are known to every child in Essos.»
«They desire more. They desire the entirety of Old Valyria's dominions.»
«That is Volantis's affair.» Daemon shrugged. «We want Pentos. What claims they press against you—we take no part.»
«That is our concession. And our final word.»
Marco regarded him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
«Prince. You may not know Braavos well.»
«We are a mercantile republic. We love peace. But we love freedom more.»
«We will not suffer any power to threaten Braavos's independence. Her safety.»
His tone hardened.
«If the blacks continue to ally with Volantis—to expand upon the eastern continent—Braavos will be compelled to act.»
«Act?» Daemon lifted an eyebrow. «What act? Send your fleet against Pentos?»
«Sail for Dragonstone? Excellency—I must remind you. We have dragons. Many dragons.»
«Dragons fly. Ships sail,» Marco replied, unruffled.
«The Braavosi fleet may not slay dragons. But we can blockade. We can starve you. Paralyze your trade. And…»
A pause. Meaningful.
«We hear you have… difficulties. In Westeros. Internal dissensions?»
«Perhaps we may find common cause with your… adversaries.»
The temperature in the hall fell to freezing.
Daemon's smile vanished. He stepped closer—close enough to smell the envoy's perfume.
«You may try,» he said. His voice was low. It cut like a blade.
«You may test whether the walls of Braavos are thicker than dragonflame.»
Marco did not retreat.
«Do you threaten Braavos, Prince?»
«I state a fact,» said Daemon.
«If Braavos chooses to stand with our enemies, you are our enemies.»
«And we do not show mercy to our enemies.»
They stared at each other. The air between them crackled.
After a long silence, Marco looked away.
He stepped back. Addressed the throne.
«Your Grace. Braavos does not wish to be an enemy of the blacks.»
«We wish only to ensure that the balance of the east remains… balanced.»
«If you will swear that your occupation of Pentos is final—that you will not expand eastward, nor take part in Volantis's military adventures…»
«Then Braavos will consider recognizing your rule over Pentos.»
At last, Rhaenyra spoke.
«I require time to consider this.»
«Of course.» Marco bowed. «But I would counsel you not to delay overlong.»
«His Excellency's patience… is not infinite.»
He turned and departed, his guards falling in behind him.