Driftmark, Spicetown.
The night had grown deep. Inside the tavern called The Mermaid, the air was thick with noise and drink.
The door was pushed open, and a blast of cold wind swept in. Several patrons near the entrance cursed and pulled their cloaks tighter.
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood in the doorway, clad in a black cloak. His silver hair was tied back, a few loose strands falling along his cheeks. His violet eyes swept over the raucous common hall before settling on the darkest corner.
Laenor Velaryon sat there sideways at a table, his silver hair catching a faint gleam in the dim light. Beside him was a young sailor tanned to a bronze hue, broad-shouldered. The two sat very close, their heads nearly touching as they spoke in low voices.
Laenor's hand rested on the man's solid forearm.
Daemon crossed the hall, indifferent to the curious or wary looks cast his way. He took the empty chair at Laenor's table.
At the sight of him, Laenor's smile froze.
"Prince Daemon," Laenor said, a trace of tension in his voice. "This is… unexpected."
"So late, in a place like this."
"The nights on Driftmark have their own flavor," Daemon replied, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half-smile that was not quite a smile. His gaze lingered on the young sailor beside Laenor. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything important."
The sailor—the boatswain of the Sea Snake—scrambled to his feet in a panic, knocking over a cup of wine at the edge of the table. "Lord Laenor, I should go check the rigging. Storm season, after all…"
Laenor did not look at him. He only said softly, "Go."
The sailor looked as if he had been granted a pardon and slipped out at once.
Only the two of them remained.
Daemon took the jug of wine from Laenor's table and poured himself a little. He took a sip, then frowned.
"Driftmark's finest," he said. "Still so… distinctive."
Laenor stared at him. "Speak plainly."
"For Rhaenyra?" he asked. "Or for your child?"
"A world for three…" Daemon cut him off.
"It's far too crowded."
"Don't you think so, Laenor?"
Laenor's heart sank. His hand shifted quietly toward his waist.
"So you want me to step aside?" he asked.
"Like your first lady of the Vale?"
"A hunting accident?"
Daemon let out a soft laugh. He braced one hand on the table and leaned forward, looking straight at him. "That would solve the problem—but it would also bring trouble."
"Laenor, I'm not here to be a kinslayer…"
Laenor locked eyes with him. "Then what do you want?"
"A better solution," Daemon said, his voice low and coaxing. "One that's better for you, for Rhaenyra, and for Driftmark."
"You could have the freedom you truly desire."
"Not this life of restraint—as Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, Rhaenyra's lawful husband."
"True freedom—unfettered, without chains," Daemon continued. "Living under a name you choose, with the person you choose. No duties. No censure."
He paused, then went on, "Rhaenyra will gain the unblemished reputation she needs—a lawful widow's status, and a child she can openly acknowledge, one who may inherit the Targaryen name."
"It will secure her claim."
"Driftmark will mourn an heir taken young and brave, and then continue to support its princess daughter-by-law and her grandson."
"A tragedy," he said softly, "but also… a new beginning."
"The price," Laenor said after a long silence, "is that Laenor Velaryon vanishes from this world."
"In exchange," Daemon leaned back in his chair, posture languid, "someone else gains another world—one where he can live truly free."
Laenor fell silent.
Before his eyes rose Rhaenyra's beautiful yet anxious face; the children with brown hair and brown eyes; his father Corlys's expectant gaze; his mother Rhaenys's disappointed yet understanding, complicated look.
His heart was torn.
On one side lay crushing responsibility, expectations he could never answer.
On the other lay a tempting release—freedom, a life that no longer required pretense.
"Why should I trust you?" Laenor finally asked.
Daemon's smile deepened. He drew a rolled sheet of parchment from within his cloak and slid it across the table.
"My residence in Pentos," he said. "Blank, but already signed and sealed."
Laenor did not touch it. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you remain the heir to Driftmark, Rhaenyra's husband, the nominal father of three brown-haired boys."
Daemon spread his hands. "Until one day—perhaps a genuine accident, or a moment someone can no longer endure…"
"Who can say?" he added lightly. "But by then, the choice will no longer be yours."
"You are threatening me."
"Daemon, you should remember—this is Driftmark."
"I am offering you a choice," Daemon corrected. "One path: leave with dignity, and everyone is satisfied."
"The other: remain in this gilded cage, waiting for the headsman's blade to fall at some unknown hour."
Laenor stared at him for a long while. He knew this madman was truly capable of such deeds.
"I need time to consider," he said at last.
"Of course." Daemon rose to his feet. "The moon over Driftmark is full—well suited for reflection."
He turned and left, vanishing into the night beyond the door.
...
At the same time, above the Gods Eye—
Under the same night sky, a thousand leagues away, the air above the Gods Eye held a different kind of cold.
The wind howled like countless ice-blades from the Lands of Always Winter, slicing at flesh, striving to burrow into the marrow.
Aemond Targaryen pressed himself close against the rough, rock-like scales at the back of Vhagar's neck.
He did not use a saddle strap. That leather harness could bind a rider firmly to a dragon's back, preventing him from being thrown off during violent maneuvers.
But he refused such protection.
A secure saddle meant dulled reactions. It meant that in an aerial clash, his dear uncle could leap down upon him—
Dark Sister gifted to a beloved nephew…
He chose an older, far more dangerous way to ride. He relied on the strength of his legs, clamping them tight around the natural hollow at the base of the dragon's neck, his fingers digging into the gaps between the scales.
His body lay almost parallel to Vhagar's broad back, fighting the savage airflow.
The cold cut to the bone. Wind poured into his ears, his collar, his sleeves, carrying away his body heat.
His cheeks were numbed by the freezing gale, and every breath brought a burning pain deep in his lungs.
Yet his violet eyes remained as sharp as ever beneath the absolute moonlight and the biting wind, locked firmly on what lay below.
Moonlight spilled down, barely outlining a vast, deep expanse of black water gleaming with an eerie cold sheen—the Gods Eye.
The Gods Eye. Legends claimed it was a place favored by the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest, and it was also the largest lake in all Westeros.
Vhagar clearly disliked this place.
She was accustomed to open skies, where she could fully spread her colossal wings that could blot out the heavens.
Here, however, the lake was tightly pressed between steep, jagged mountain ranges on both sides, forming a long, deep blue rift.
For her massive body, this rift was far too cramped, like being forced into a tunnel.
She swung her head in irritation, thick neck muscles rolling beneath her scales as a dissatisfied roar rumbled from deep in her throat.
"Silence, Vhagar. Look carefully," Aemond Targaryen growled in High Valyrian.
Daemon's Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm—was far smaller than Vhagar, barely a third of her size.
But he was younger, more agile, more vicious, and far better suited to fighting in such confined space.
In this narrow stretch of sky tightly bound by mountain walls on both sides, Vhagar's unmatched size instead became a burden.
She could not unleash a despairing charge. She could not crush her foe with sheer mass. Every turn, climb, and dive was constrained by the rock faces hemming her in.
Caraxes, by contrast, used the night's mist, his speed and agility. From the fog, from above, he struck downward in an ambush—clamping his jaws around Vhagar's neck and refusing to let go.
In the end, what spiraled down toward the pitch-black waters was not only a pair of dragons—but the Targaryens' absolute dominion over the Seven Kingdoms.
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