Daemon turned to Corlys.
«And Volantis?» he asked. «Did Eluza Vhassar not promise us an army?»
«A promise is only a promise,» Corlys said with a bitter smile. «Volantis has taken Myr. That is all.»
«Lys remains free. For now.»
«And more importantly—Driftmark is lost. Dragonstone is all but lost. Our footholds in Westeros are gone.»
He looked at Rhaenyra. His voice was earnest, the voice of an old man who had seen too much to lie.
«We need a victory. Even a small one.»
«We must prove to the realm that the blacks are not finished. That you, Rhaenyra, still have a hope of return.»
«Else we will not need the greens to defeat us. We will crumble from within.»
Rhaenyra looked at her husband.
«Daemon. What do you counsel?»
The prince was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was measured, deliberate.
«Two paths.»
«The first: strike now. Gather every man, every dragon, every ship. Sail for King's Landing at once.»
«Aemond's dragons are wounded. The greens' hold on Driftmark is fresh, unstable. We take them by surprise—retake Dragonstone, retake Driftmark, then fall upon the capital before they can muster.»
«The odds?» Corlys asked.
«Even,» Daemon said. He turned to face them fully. «We have four dragons fit for battle: Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys, and Silverwing—if her rider can be trusted to fight.»
«The greens have Vhagar wounded, Sunfyre maimed. Only Dreamfyre remains untouched—and perhaps a few hatchlings, if they dare to fly them.»
«We have the numbers in the sky.»
«But they have the advantage of the throne. Of perceived legitimacy.»
He paused. «We could leave one or two dragons here, in Pentos. Let the bastards hold the city in our absence. Vermithor can continue to heal. The dragons we take—three, four—will still outmatch what the greens can field.»
Rhaenyra and Corlys exchanged glances.
It is possible, Rhaenyra thought. Risky. Desperate. But possible.
«And the second path?» she asked.
«Wait,» Daemon said. His voice was calm. «Turn our backs on Westeros. Pivot east entirely.»
«Use Pentos as a base. Ally fully with Volantis. Take Lys. Take Myr. Rebuild Valyria.»
«In ten years, twenty, we raise a new host. A new fleet. A new army. And then—»
«And then my sons' deaths mean nothing,» Rhaenyra cut him off. Her voice was a blade. «Jacaerys. Joffrey. Their blood, wasted.»
«Every man who died for the blacks—wasted.»
She walked to the window. Stood beside Daemon, looking out at the Pentoshi night.
«I cannot bear it, Daemon. I cannot accept that my children's lives bought me a queen's crown in a foreign city.»
«I want to go home. I want the Iron Throne. I want the greens to pay.»
Daemon looked at her. Said nothing.
The hall was silent again.
Then Corlys laughed.
It was not a bitter laugh, nor a mocking one. It was the laugh of a man who had just seen a path where before there was only fog.
Daemon frowned. Rhaenyra turned.
The Sea Snake leaned on his cane, his weathered face half in shadow, half in candlelight. When he spoke, his voice was calm—the voice of an old admiral plotting a course through a storm.
«There is a third way,» he said.
All eyes were on him.
«We can take back Driftmark and Dragonstone—and more besides.»
«Speak plainly,» Daemon said. His eyes had narrowed.
«What does Aemond need most just now?» Corlys asked. «Time. Time for Vhagar to heal. Time for Sunfyre to mend. The greens are on the defensive. They hold King's Landing, but they dare not strike out. Not yet.»
«And what do we need most? A victory. Something to rally our banners, to steady our fleet, to remind the realm that we are not yet beaten.»
He paused. His cane tapped once against the stone floor.
«So we do not strike King's Landing.»
«Instead, we strike here.»
Daemon's eyes kindled. «Storm's End,» he said.
«Borros Baratheon,» Corlys nodded. «He is your man, Rhaenyra. He swore for you at the Great Council. His father swore for your mother. The Stormlands have ever been black.»
«Now, with Driftmark and Dragonstone fallen, they may waver. They may fear.»
«But if we land at Storm's End in force—if we join our strength to Borros Baratheon's—the whole of the Stormlands rises with us.»
Rhaenyra listened. Nodded.
Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. He was Rhaenys's cousin; his house had stood with her mother at the Great Council. Blood and oath bound him to their cause.
«Storm's End is a day's sail from King's Landing,» Daemon said, his mind already racing ahead. «The greens cannot stop us—their dragons are wounded, their fleet scattered. Once we hold Storm's End, the whole Stormlands becomes our base.»
«Then we send ravens. To the Vale. To the Riverlands. To the North.»
«We remind them. We pressure them. We promise them.»
Rhaenyra asked, «Will they answer?»
Daemon considered. His eyes glittered with calculation. When he smiled, it was the smile of a predator.
«If we stand at Storm's End with Borros Baratheon at our side—yes.»
«The North, the Vale, the Riverlands—they were yours before. Your mother was an Arryn, Rhaenyra. Lady Jeyne of the Vale is your own cousin. Her knights are the finest in the Seven Kingdoms, and they will ride for you.»
«The Riverlands are divided, aye. Half the lords support us, half the greens. But they wait. They watch. They will not move until they see which way the wind blows.»
«And the North…» Daemon paused. «Cregan Stark is a pragmatist. If we show him we can win, he will march.»
Hope—real, solid hope—kindled in Rhaenyra's chest for the first time in months.
«Storm's End as our base,» she said. «We surround King's Landing by sea and land. We starve them.»
«A victory,» Corlys agreed. «A landing at Storm's End is a victory. From there, we build.»
«The green armies in the Reach and the Westerlands cannot reach us without crossing the Stormlands. And if they try, we bleed them in the mountains, in the passes, in the hills that every Stormlander knows by heart.»
«When the armies of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands gather—when they march south—we strike from Storm's End. King's Landing becomes a cage.»
Rhaenyra asked, «And Pentos?»
«If we strip the fleet, if we take most of our strength, will the Pentoshi rise?»
«Leave Lucerys here,» Daemon said at once. «And little Aegon. Viserys as well. Leave a garrison—two thousand men, no more. And leave the two bastard riders. Sara. Nettles.»
«The Pentoshi will not rise. They know what dragonfire means. They are merchants, not fools.»
Rhaenyra was silent.
She thought of Jacaerys. Of Lucerys, scarred and grim. Of Joffrey, torn apart by a mob she would never see.
I cannot hide here forever, she thought. I cannot sit on this gilded throne, listening to flatterers, while my enemies grow strong.
I want to go home.
I want the Iron Throne.
I want—
She straightened. Wiped the last traces of tears from her face. When she spoke, her voice was the voice of a queen.
«Summon the commanders.»
«Tomorrow, I want a full plan.»
She looked at Corlys. «Send someone to Storm's End. The fastest ship, the most reliable man. Borros Baratheon must know we are coming.»
Corlys nodded. «I will see to it myself.»
«Send riders to the Vale, to the Riverlands, to the North,» Rhaenyra continued. «With my own hand, written in my own blood if need be. Tell them: the blacks gather at Storm's End. Tell them: when this war is done, I will remember who stood with me.»
Finally, she looked at Daemon.
«You will go north yourself?»
Daemon nodded. «I will. Cregan Stark will hear our case from my own lips.»
«And the riverlords—those who once bent the knee to my father, who remember what it meant to defy a dragon—they will see me. They will see that we are not finished.»
«When they see hope, they will fight.»