Now only Nettles remained in the corridor.
The thin, dark-haired girl still knelt on the cold stone, her brow pressed to the floor. She had not moved since the doors closed behind Sara. She barely seemed to breathe.
«Your name is Nettles?» Rhaenyra asked.
The girl nodded. Her face remained buried.
«Raise your head. Speak to me.»
Slowly, Nettles straightened. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on the grout between the tiles, on anything but the throne and the woman who sat it.
«How fares Sheepstealer's wound?» Rhaenyra asked.
«H-healing.» Nettles's voice was thin as a gnat's. «The tear in his wing has scabbed over, but his flight is… still uncertain. It will take time. He needs meat. Much meat…»
«Will you continue to ride for me?» Rhaenyra asked. Direct. Unflinching.
Nettles's head snapped up. Her wide brown eyes were full of fear—not the fear of a conspirator caught, but the fear of a child who had been asked to do something terrible.
«I… I do not want to kill,» she whispered.
«Sheepstealer is my friend. I tended him four years. I fed him, I spoke to him, and he let me ride him. But I do not want to use him to murder—»
«A dragon is not a pet, child.» Daemon's brow was furrowed. «It is a weapon.»
Tears spilled down Nettles's cheeks, cutting clean tracks through the grime on her face. «I hate killing,» she said.
«Because they are enemies,» Daemon said. Flat. Hard. «Girl. This is war.»
Nettles's shoulders began to shake. She bit her lip, but the tears would not stop.
Rhaenyra watched the child, and something in her chest softened.
«Do you think this is a game of house?» Daemon's voice was impatient now.
He stepped toward Nettles. His hand rested on Dark Sister's hilt.
«A dragon is a partner. A dragon is the greatest weapon in the world. You have tamed one—and now you say you do not wish to use it?»
«Do you know how many men would kill to be a dragonrider?»
«Do you know how rare your gift is?»
Corlys sighed. The sound was old and tired.
Rhaenyra watched in silence, waiting to see what the girl would do.
Daemon stopped before Nettles. His tall form loomed over her, blocking the candlelight, casting her entirely in shadow.
Nettles curled in on herself, trembling. But she did not look away. Did not beg. Did not grovel.
In those brown eyes, beneath the fear, something stubborn flickered.
She is a child, Rhaenyra thought. A child with a child's heart.
But a dragon does not choose the faint of heart.
Daemon spoke again. His voice had changed.
«Will you fight for Rhaenyra?» he asked.
«Not for a kingdom. Not for a cause. For her. Will you?»
Nettles's lips trembled. She looked at Daemon, then at Rhaenyra on the throne.
«We will not ask you to slaughter the innocent,» Daemon said. His voice was softer now. «But there are battles that must be fought.»
«If you cannot—say so now. We will release you.»
He paused. Held her gaze.
«Can you?»
Long silence. The candles crackled. Distantly, the sound of waves breaking against the harbor wall.
Nettles looked down at her bare, dirty feet. At the floor. At nothing.
When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.
«I will fight for what is right.»
A pause. Her voice firmed, though it still shook.
«But I will never ride Sheepstealer to slaughter the innocent. I swear it by the Seven. I swear it to you, my lords.»
«If you bid me do that, I would rather… I would rather throw myself from his back.»
Daemon looked at her for a long, long moment.
Nettles began to tremble again.
Then, slowly, Daemon's hand released Dark Sister's hilt. His lips curved—not quite a smile, but something near it.
«Remember that oath,» he said.
He turned and walked back toward Rhaenyra. Over his shoulder, he spoke to the guards.
«Take her. Find her a place. Find her a pair of shoes that fit, and clean clothes.»
«From this day, she is my sworn ward. She will be treated accordingly.»
The guards led Nettles away. At the door, she looked back—once, quickly, a child's glance—and then she was gone.
The doors closed.
Only three remained.
Rhaenyra. Daemon. Corlys.
The Sea Snake stirred. From within his robes, he produced a scroll of parchment.
«This came this afternoon,» he said. He held it out to Rhaenyra. «From King's Landing. The messenger said it was written by the Queen Dowager's own hand.»
Rhaenyra took the scroll.
She broke the wax seal. Unfurled the parchment.
Alicent's handwriting was neat, precise—the script of a woman who had spent her life in prayer and correspondence.
The letter was not long.
Formal greetings first. Then straight to the point. Blunt almost to the point of cruelty.
"…The matter of the dragonpit fire has been investigated. It was planned by Jacaerys Velaryon, with the financial and intelligence support of Corlys Velaryon.
This act is deemed an act of treason, in violation of the laws of House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms.
If you will acknowledge this fact and agree to the following terms, we may yet restore the peace:
1. Deliver Corlys Velaryon to King's Landing to stand trial before the Iron Throne.
2. Come to King's Landing yourself, and swear fealty to Aegon Targaryen before the Iron Throne.
3. The children born of you and Daemon may be granted Pentos as their seat. They shall be styled Princes of Pentos, and the city shall be held in your name…
4. …"
Rhaenyra did not finish.
The parchment crumpled in her fist. Then she began to tear it—savagely, methodically, rending it into strips, into scraps, into confetti.
«Treason? » Her voice came through clenched teeth. Low. Dangerous.
«My son is dead. Two of my sons!»
«Jacaerys—cut in half! Joffrey—torn apart!»
«Lucerys—burned alive! And now she speaks of treason?!»
She flung the torn paper into the air. It fluttered down like snow, like ash.
«I yielded! I yielded the Iron Throne! I offered terms—I offered marriage—I offered peace! I did not want to tear this realm apart!»
She was on her feet now, screaming.
«I have retreated, step by step, step by step! From Dragonstone to Driftmark to Pentos!»
«What more do they want? My head on a spike? My children's blood in a cup?»
«Would you have me delivered to them, Corlys? Bound and gagged, a gift for the greens?»
Corlys stood silent. In the candlelight, his face looked old. Ancient. The Sea Snake's sharpness was still there, but the skin around his eyes was webbed with wrinkles, his hair white as sea-foam.
«No,» Rhaenyra snarled. Tears finally spilled down her cheeks—not grief, but fury. Hot, righteous, blinding fury.
«No. I will not retreat again. Alicent wants peace?»
«Good. »
«I will send all her children to her. One by one. I will kill them before her eyes.»
«I will make her taste what I have tasted. I will make her feel her heart being torn from her chest!»
«I will make Alicent Hightower kneel before the Iron Throne and beg me for mercy!»
Her scream echoed through the hall.
Daemon watched her. Silent. Still. He did not interrupt. Did not agree. Did not disagree.
He knew: Rhaenyra needed this. Needed to spew the poison, the pain, the rage that had been building for months. Only when it was out could she think clearly again.
He glanced at Corlys. The old man met his eyes and gave the slightest nod.
Let her rage. Then we speak of what must be done.
Minutes passed.
Rhaenyra's breath slowed. The wild light in her eyes dimmed—not to extinction, but to a low, steady burn. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse, but controlled.
«What else?»
Corlys waited a moment longer—to be sure she was finished—before he spoke.
«There is more,» he said. «The fleet.»
Rhaenyra's eyes sharpened.
«Desertions,» Corlys said. His face was grave. «When Driftmark fell, most of our sailors' families were taken captive. Wives. Children. Parents. All in green hands.»
«Aemond has proclaimed: any man who continues to fight for the blacks will have his family attainted for treason. Sent to the Wall. Sent to the mines. Sold.»
He paused. Swallowed.
«I have held them so far. Barely. But last night, more than fifty men slipped away in longboats.»
«If this continues, we will have no fleet to fight with. And without the fleet, even dragons cannot carry us back to Westeros.»
Rhaenyra felt the floor shift beneath her.
She sat on a throne of gold and mother-of-pearl. The Pentoshi nobility bowed and scraped and called her queen. The Volantenes watched her with hungry eyes, waiting to see if she would break.
Her fleet was crumbling.
Her dragons were wounded, scattered, or fled.
And in King's Landing, Alicent Hightower sat in the Red Keep, writing letters full of poison and piety, offering her mercy.
I have nothing, Rhaenyra thought. Nothing but dragonfire and desperation.
Is that enough?
It must be.
It will be.