The grey sea mist shrouded Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the window of Dragonstone castle, half-destroyed by Aemond. Over the past few days, she had prepared more than a hundred charred bodies for proper burial. She sighed inwardly—these people had been soldiers, servants, handmaidens loyal to her. But all had been burned alive by that bastard Aemond...
She hated her former friend, now Queen Mother Alicent, for giving birth to such a monster. If she could go back to her youth, she would have liked to strangle that girl with her own hands. Or not let her father marry her. Perhaps none of this would have happened.
"Your Grace."
Mysaria's voice came from behind. The mistress of whisperers wore a simple white robe, her expression familiar to Rhaenyra. There was bad news, but also good news—and often there was more bad news than good.
"Have them wait in the hall," Rhaenyra said without turning around. "Tell Daemon, tell Corlys, tell everyone."
Mysaria hesitated. "Lady Sara is also outside. She wishes to see you now."
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened on the windowsill.
Jacaerys's child. Her eldest son, the son she had once loved most, the boy on whom she had placed great hopes and prepared to inherit the Iron Throne. Now only a skull remained, sent by Aemond—but there was a bastard child she had never seen.
"Let her come to the council as well," Rhaenyra finally turned and sighed.
---
The hall was one of the oldest on Dragonstone. Legend said that Aegon the Conqueror had once lived here with his brother, sister, and wife, discussing plans to conquer Westeros. Today, the great stone table was covered with maps, and the maps were filled with small banners representing each faction. The Greens held the majority; the Blacks' banners were sparse. Only the Vale and the Riverlands remained.
Daemon Targaryen stood at the head of the stone table, playing with Dark Sister. His Caraxes had been slightly wounded at the battle of Rook's Rest, but it did not diminish the Blood Wyrm's ferocity. What truly irritated Daemon was that he had been late. If he had come a quarter-hour earlier, Rhaenys might not have died.
Corlys Velaryon sat at the other side of the stone table. The Sea Snake, once the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, now seemed like a stone statue. Days ago, when he learned of his wife's death, he had immediately vomited blood. Now the bleeding had stopped, but he appeared ten years older, and the eyes that had once struck fear into enemies at sea were now merely empty grey.
Sara stood by the door, not daring to sit.
The vassals of Dragonstone stood in twos and threes throughout the hall—representatives of House Celtigar, the old man of House Bar Emmon, and several knights of House Kael. They could at most muster an elite force of a thousand men—the last family foundation of Queen Rhaenyra.
Mysaria entered last, followed by two servants carrying wooden boxes.
"Your Grace," Mysaria saluted Rhaenyra. "Your Grace, my lords."
Rhaenyra sat in the high seat and waved her hand. "Speak. What news first?"
Mysaria drew a deep breath. She had been mistress of whisperers for many years and had long learned to report bad news before good, but today's news was mixed, and she needed to choose her words carefully.
"The Hightower army is nearly at the Bitterbridge."
Silence fell over the hall for a while.
Lord Corlys raised his head and stared at her. "How many men?"
Mysaria paused. "Twenty-six thousand."
"Twenty-six thousand?!" A young knight of House Kael burst out. "We cannot muster even a fraction of that!"
"They are all armored elites," Mysaria added. "Among them are more than two thousand knights and heavy cavalry. Commanded by Lord Monstead Hightower himself, with Prince Daeron accompanied by Tessarion."
Rhaenyra spoke the name—the youngest son of Alicent Hightower, only thirteen years old this year.
"One more thing," Mysaria's voice dropped. "House Tyrell was forced to send three thousand men. Lady Maggie and her ten-month-old son, Lord Leonor, are now also being escorted by the Hightower army to King's Landing."
This time even Daemon frowned.
"Maggie Rowan..." Daemon spoke the name. "I remember her. At the Harrenhal tourney, she was still a beautiful noble girl, come to watch the matches with her father. She married the short-lived ghost of House Tyrell?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Mysaria nodded. "Lord Leonor's father died last year, and now Highgarden is under Lady Maggie's regency. When the Hightower army surrounded Highgarden, House Florent also took the opportunity to attack. She had no choice but to surrender."
"Florent..." Corlys said contemptuously. "A pack of fools who always want to replace Tyrell."
Daemon glanced at Corlys. Look who's talking?
Rhaenyra rubbed her temples. Her headache had not improved since she received the skulls of Jacaerys and Joffrey. The maester said her mood swings were too severe; the dose of tranquilizer had been increased from once every five days to once every two days, but she still could not suppress it.
"What of us?" Rhaenyra asked. "How many men can we muster together?"
No one answered.
Finally, the representative of House Celtigar steeled himself and spoke. "Your Grace, we vassals of Dragonstone, mobilizing with all our might, can send up to a thousand men. But now High Tide..."
He did not continue, but all knew what he meant to say. High Tide had been burned by Aemond—the harbor, farmlands, and wells destroyed, and more than thirty thousand Velaryons forcibly relocated to Moonspire.
Corlys's fingers tapped the stone table, his voice somewhat hollow. "The Velaryon fleet still has eight thousand men, but they are sailors and cannot fight on land."
Eight thousand sailors against twenty-six thousand Reach elites. Lord Corlys would not send sailors to fight on land unless he was mad.
House Hightower had ruled Oldtown for thousands of years; their army was well-equipped and well-trained, the second wealthiest vassal of the Seven Kingdoms after the Lannisters.
The atmosphere in the hall was so oppressive it seemed to drip water.
Mysaria coughed lightly. "However, Your Grace, there is some good news."
All looked at her.
A smile appeared on Mysaria's face—especially striking on her perpetually grim features. "The Lysene fleet was recently completely defeated by the Volantene fleet in the Mermaid's Strait."
"What?" Lord Corlys straightened.
"Quite right, my lord," Mysaria drew a roll of parchment from her sleeve. "This is a secret letter from Volantis this morning. The Disputed Lands have entirely fallen into Volantis's hands. Myr is occupied, and the island of Lys is completely surrounded. The Triarchy is nearly finished."
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