Across the Narrow Sea, Tyrosh.
This city, conquered only half a month ago, was still filled with the smell of gunpowder and blood.
The Velaryon fleet controlled the harbor, while soldiers of the Blacks patrolled the streets.
The Tyroshi army that had already surrendered was gathered in the square, where officers of the Black faction were drilling them.
Inside the former Archon's fortress, however, the atmosphere was even more oppressive than outside.
Upon the throne sat Rhaenyra Targaryen.
She wore a long black dress and held her youngest son, Viserys, who had just turned one year old.
Three-year-old Aegon stood beside the throne, his small hand tightly gripping the hem of his mother's skirt.
Both children sensed that something was wrong with the atmosphere. Their little faces were drawn tight, and neither dared make a sound.
Below the steps stood five people.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, silent at this moment, watching Rhaenyra.
Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, his face completely expressionless.
Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, Corlys's wife, standing beside her husband.
Mysaria, the Mistress of Whisperers, kneeling beneath the steps with her head bowed deeply.
And the fifth person—a messenger who had just arrived by swift ship from Dragonstone, his body soaked with seawater.
Kneeling beside Mysaria, he trembled as he repeated once more the message sent by Ser Robb.
"…The head of Prince Jacaerys and the head of Prince Joffrey have been hung upon the outer walls of the Red Keep."
"Prince Lucerys fell into the sea and is missing—his life or death unknown."
"The Greens have declared that the three princes infiltrated the Dragonpit to steal dragons and set fires, and were slain on the spot."
After speaking the final sentence, the messenger pressed his forehead to the ground and dared not raise his head again.
Deathly silence filled the hall.
Rhaenyra sat upon the throne without moving.
The little Viserys in her arms seemed to sense the stiffness of his mother's body. Uneasy, he squirmed and let out a faint whimper.
Little Aegon looked up at his mother and whispered softly, "Mother…"
Rhaenyra did not react.
Her eyes stared straight ahead, yet there was no focus in her pupils. They gazed forward emptily.
Her face was like a piece of delicate porcelain—utterly motionless.
A few seconds.
More than ten seconds.
One minute.
Daemon watched Rhaenyra and realized something was wrong. He was the first to move.
He stepped forward, intending to say something—to comfort his wife.
"Ah!!!"
A scream burst from the throne, so shrill it scarcely sounded human.
Rhaenyra suddenly sprang to her feet. Startled by her abrupt movement, Viserys in her arms began to wail loudly.
Ignoring everything, she set the child upon the throne and seized her own hair with both hands, tearing at it like a madwoman.
"No, no, no, no, no, no—!!!"
She screamed as tears surged forth like a flood bursting through a dam.
Staggering down the steps, she caught her foot in the hem of her dress and nearly fell.
Daemon rushed forward to steady her, but she shoved him away violently.
"My son!! My children!!!" Rhaenyra's voice had already broken as she turned toward the kneeling Mysaria, her eyes erupting with frenzied hatred.
"It was you! You arranged it! You were the one who sent Jacaerys to reclaim the dragons! You killed them!!!"
She lunged at Mysaria.
From behind, Daemon seized her in a tight hold. "Rhaenyra! Calm yourself!"
"Let go of me!"
"I'm going to kill her! I'm going to tear her apart! Rip her into pieces!!"
Rhaenyra struggled madly in Daemon's arms, her hands reaching toward Mysaria, her nails clawing at the air.
"She killed my sons! Three of them! Three!!!"
Mysaria knelt there without dodging, and without offering any defense.
She merely kept her head lowered, letting Rhaenyra's curses and hatred batter down upon her like rain.
The silent Corlys and Rhaenys stood where they were, and it seemed as though the backs of the two elders had suddenly bent with age.
Rhaenys's lips trembled, and tears slipped down soundlessly.
Corlys closed his eyes, and cracks appeared in that resolute face.
Jacaerys. Lucerys. Joffrey.
Their grandsons.
Though not of their own blood, they were children who had called them grandfather and grandmother for more than ten years.
Now, two were confirmed dead, and one was missing.
"Daemon, let go of me!!!" Rhaenyra was still screaming, having completely lost her reason. "You won't let me take revenge?!"
"You won't let me avenge my sons?!"
"I'm going to kill her now, and you still mean to stop me?!!"
"I'm stopping you from doing something foolish!" Daemon forcefully turned Rhaenyra around, gripping her shoulders with both hands and forcing her to look at him.
"Listen to me! We are already at war with the Greens!"
"Mysaria is one of your staunchest supporters!"
"Are you going to cut off one of your own arms?!"
"She killed my sons!!!"
"It was you who told Mysaria to carry out this plan!"
Daemon roared back, his eyes red.
"You agreed to it all! Now that something has gone wrong, you want to shove all the blame onto Mysaria?!"
"Is that what a ruler ought to do?!"
Rhaenyra was stunned silent by his roar.
But in the very next moment, even fiercer grief and rage drowned her.
She pounded desperately against Daemon's chest.
"Then what am I supposed to do?! My sons are dead! Dead!! I want revenge! I'm going back to Westeros!"
"I'll mount Syrax and burn those Greens to ashes!"
"I'll tear Aemond apart! I will!!"
"Mother… waaah!!!" Beside the throne, little Aegon, not yet three years old, was terrified as he looked at the mother who was usually so gentle.
On the throne, Viserys, who had been cast aside there, also burst into loud sobs, crying together with Aegon.
The cries of the two children were like knives, stabbing into Rhaenyra's frenzied mind.
She stopped all movement and turned her head toward the throne.
Her two little sons—her only sons left—were crying their hearts out.
Little Aegon's eyes, when he looked at Rhaenyra, were filled with fear—fear of this mother, now mad and twisted.
Rhaenyra's lips began to tremble.
She pushed Daemon away, staggered back to the throne, picked up Viserys, and then pulled little Aegon into her embrace.
She held them tightly, burying her face in the children's fine silver hair, her shoulders shaking violently.
Only the mother's suppressed sobs and the children's gradually quieting cries remained in the hall.
After a long while, Rhaenyra raised her head.
Tear streaks covered her face, and her eyes were red and swollen, but the frantic hysteria had faded, replaced by a coldness as deep as an abyss.
She looked toward Mysaria, her voice hoarse.
"It was my fault."
Mysaria raised her head and looked at her in surprise.
"I was the one who had you arrange this plan. I personally agreed to it."
She closed her eyes, then opened them again.
"So I do not blame you. Rise."
Mysaria silently stood up and bowed deeply.
Rhaenyra handed the children in her arms to the maids who had hurried in, instructing them to take the children to the rear hall to rest.
Then she sat back upon the throne and looked at the four people below the steps. Suppressing the hatred in her heart, she asked calmly: "Now?"
"What should we do?"
Corlys was the first to speak calmly.
"The first priority is to completely secure Tyrosh."
"The resistance forces within the city have not yet been entirely eliminated."
"If the rear ignites, we will be unable to do anything."
Rhaenyra nodded. "Continue."
"At the same time, send letters to all the houses of the Blacks in Westeros," Corlys continued.
"Tell them that the Greens have already carried out a coup and seized power. His Majesty Viserys I has been controlled and poisoned by the Greens and is no longer of sound mind."
"The king, in a state of confusion, was misled into changing the heir."
"And you, Princess Rhaenyra, for the sake of peace in the realm and the unity of the family, chose to yield. That was why you agreed to relinquish the succession to the throne."
He paused, his voice turning colder.
"But now, the Greens have gone too far."
"They have not only usurped the throne, but also murdered your three sons—the three true grandsons of His Majesty Viserys."
"This is an unforgivable crime. Therefore, you will not endure any longer."
Daemon interjected.
"This kind of message will take time to spread."
"The problem is, the Greens will not give us time."
"If Aemond dared to take such ruthless action, he will certainly seize the moment before we can react and move first to take Driftmark and Dragonstone."
Corlys's expression darkened.
Driftmark.
The foundation the Velaryon house had built over hundreds of years.
Upon that island were not only their castle, harbor, and shipyards, but also the families of tens of thousands of naval soldiers. If Driftmark were to fall into the hands of the Greens…
"Our navy," Corlys said, his voice somewhat dry, "most of the soldiers have their families on Driftmark. If the Greens use their families as leverage…"
"Morale in the army will begin to collapse," Rhaenys added.
"We must immediately send forces back to reinforce."
Daemon pressed his hand against the hilt of Dark Sister as he spoke.
"Rhaenys and I will ride back on our dragons."
"The two of us working together—we can fight Vhagar."
"But what I do not know is whether the Greens have already taken Driftmark and Dragonstone."
Just then, a guard's voice sounded from outside the door.
"A messenger from Braavos seeks an audience!"
Everyone turned their heads at once.
Rhaenyra quickly wiped the tear stains from her face with the back of her hand, took several deep breaths, and forced her expression back into calm.
She could not show a collapsed appearance before outsiders—especially these Braavosi.
"Let him enter."
The door opened.
A middle-aged man walked in, dressed in a long robe of dark blue brocade, a silver chain hanging at his neck.
He had the typical face of a Braavosi: high cheekbones, thin lips, a hooked nose, and eyes sharp with calculation.
Behind him followed two guards—water dancers. Those who could be called water dancers were all high-level swordsmen of Braavos.
The envoy stopped before the steps and bowed slightly, though there was not much respect in the gesture.
"Honored Princess Rhaenyra," his voice carried a Braavosi accent.
"I am Marco Frego, sent by order of the Sealord, to discuss certain matters with you."
Rhaenyra sat upon the throne, her face composed.
"Please speak, Lord Marco."
Marco raised his head. His gaze swept over the others in the hall before returning to Rhaenyra's face.
"First, allow me to express Braavos's concern regarding the recent… situation in Westeros."
"We have heard some disturbing news regarding the succession to the throne… and certain violent events."
He paused, then changed the direction of his words.
"But what concerns us even more is the situation on the eastern continent."
"Your Highness, you have allied with Volantis and captured Tyrosh. Does this mean the Blacks intend to participate in Volantis's ambition to rebuild the Valyrian Empire?"
Daemon stepped forward, placing himself between Rhaenyra and Marco. Smiling slightly, he said, "Lord Marco, our cooperation with Volantis is merely temporary. We share a common enemy—the Triarchy."
"That is all."
"Temporary cooperation?" Marco smiled as well.
"Prince Daemon, the ambitions of the archons sitting behind the Black Walls of Volantis are known across all Essos."
"They want more than this. What they seek is the entire territory of ancient Valyria."
"That is Volantis's affair," Daemon said with a shrug.
"We only want Tyrosh. As for their grievances with you, we will not involve ourselves in them."
"This is the greatest concession we can make."
Marco stared at him for several seconds, then slowly shook his head.
"Prince, you may not understand Braavos very well."
"We are a mercantile free city. We love peace, but we love freedom even more."
"We will not allow any power to threaten Braavos's independence and security."
His tone began to harden.
"If the Blacks continue their alliance with Volantis and keep expanding on the eastern continent, then Braavos will have no choice but to take action."
"Action?" Daemon arched a brow. "What action?"
"Send your fleet to Tyrosh?"
"Or to Dragonstone? Lord Marco, I must remind you—we have dragons. Many dragons."
"Dragons may fly, but ships do not."
Marco replied with a calm expression.
"Braavos's navy may not be able to defeat giant dragons, but we can blockade the sea lanes, strike your supply lines, and bring your trade to a complete standstill. And besides…"
He paused meaningfully.
"We have heard that you have certain… troubles in Westeros. Certain internal conflicts?"
"Perhaps we may find some allies in common."
The atmosphere in the hall abruptly dropped to freezing.
The smile disappeared from Daemon's face.
He stepped forward until he was nearly face-to-face with Marco, his voice pressed very low.
"You may try."
"You may see then whether the walls of your Braavos are thicker, or the heat of dragonfire is greater."
Marco did not step back.
"Are you threatening to attack Braavos, Prince?"
"I am stating a fact," Daemon said.
"If Braavos chooses to stand with our enemies, then you are enemies."
"And toward enemies, I have never shown mercy."
The two men stared at one another, as though sparks were bursting between them.
After a long while, Marco was the first to look away.
He stepped back, then looked once more toward Rhaenyra on the throne.
"Your Highness, Braavos has no wish to become an enemy of the Blacks."
"We only wish to ensure that the balance of the eastern continent is not broken."
"If you can guarantee that, after occupying Tyrosh, you will not continue expanding eastward and will not participate in any military action by Volantis…"
"Then Braavos can consider recognizing your rule over Tyrosh."
Rhaenyra finally spoke.
"I need time to consider it."
"Of course." Marco bowed.
"But please do not take too long."
"The Sealord's patience… is limited."
Then he turned and left the hall with his guards.
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