Driftmark — Spicetown
The night was already deep at the tavern known as the Mermaid.
The door burst open, cold air flooding inside. Several men near the entrance cursed and pulled their cloaks tighter.
Daemon Targaryen stood in the doorway, clad in a black cloak. His silver hair was tied back, a few loose strands falling across his cheeks. His violet eyes swept over the noisy hall before settling on the darkest corner.
A hand rested briefly on a strong forearm.
Daemon pulled out an empty chair and sat at Laenor Velaryon's table.
The smile on Laenor's face froze when he saw who it was.
"Prince Daemon," Laenor said, a trace of tension in his voice.
"This is… unexpected."
"So late," he added. "And in a place like this."
"The night air of Driftmark has a flavor all its own," Daemon replied lightly, the corner of his mouth curling as his gaze flicked toward the young sailor beside Laenor.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
Laenor didn't look at him. He only murmured, "Go."
The sailor slipped away as if pardoned.
Only the two of them remained.
Daemon took the wine jug from Laenor's table, poured himself a cup, took a sip—and frowned.
"Driftmark wine is still… distinctive."
"Say what you came to say," Laenor said flatly.
"For Rhaenyra?"
"Or for your children?"
"The world of three," Daemon interrupted.
"Too crowded, wouldn't you agree, Laenor?"
Laenor's heart tightened. His hand slid quietly toward his waist.
"A hunting accident?" he asked coldly.
Daemon smiled.
"A better plan."
"One that's better for you, for Rhaenyra—and for Driftmark."
"You gain the freedom you truly desire."
"Not the gilded bondage of Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark and lawful husband to the princess."
"Real freedom. A chosen name. A chosen companion. No duties. No scrutiny."
"Driftmark will mourn heirs lost young and bravely at sea, and then continue to support its widowed princess and her sons."
"A tragedy," Daemon said softly,
"but also… a beginning."
"The price?" Laenor asked after a long pause.
"Laenor Velaryon disappears from the world."
On the other side lay a life of temptation—freedom, release, and no need to hide.
"Why should I believe you?" Laenor finally asked.
Daemon's smile deepened. He produced a rolled parchment and slid it across the table.
Laenor didn't touch it.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you remain the heir to Driftmark," Daemon said calmly,
"Rhaenyra's husband, and the nominal father of three brown-haired boys."
Daemon spread his hands.
"Until one day it truly becomes an accident… or until you can no longer endure it."
"Who knows?"
"But the choice will no longer be yours."
"I am giving you a choice," Daemon corrected.
"One path—leave with dignity. Everyone is satisfied."
"The other—remain in your gilded cage, waiting for the sword to fall."
Laenor looked at him for a long time.
He knew this madman was entirely capable of it.
"I need time to think."
"Of course," Daemon said as he rose.
"The moon over Driftmark is especially full tonight—perfect for reflection."
He turned and vanished into the night beyond the door.
Above the Gods Eye
Aemond Targaryen clung to the ridged scales at the base of Vhagar's neck.
The saddle straps were tight—too tight. A slow response meant one thing in the air:
his dear uncle could throw him off.
Moonlight barely outlined the vast, deep, ominous black waters of the Gods Eye below.
Vhagar did not like this place.
She was born for open skies, for spreading her immense wings until they blotted out the sun.
Here, the lake was hemmed in by steep, jagged mountains, forming a narrow, dark chasm.
For her massive body, the valley was a cage—like forcing a titan into a tunnel.
But he was younger. More agile. More vicious. Better suited to fight in confined air.
In this long, narrow stretch of sky, walled in by stone—
Vhagar's unmatched size became a burden.
In the end, what fell into the black waters was not only dragons…
but the absolute power of House Targaryen over the Seven Kingdoms.