At that moment, a soft sound of applause echoed through the hall.
Queen Rhaenyra's eyes lit up. "Then Volantis can spare a hand to help us?"
Mysaria's smile froze for a moment, but she quickly changed her expression. "Your Grace, the Volantenes... mentioned terms."
"What terms?"
"They asked us to send dragons to help their fleet defeat the Braavosi fleet. Only then can they send troops to aid us."
The applause abruptly stopped.
Corlys's brow furrowed into a knot—he knew well how powerful the city-state with the world's largest fleet was. Even if they allied with Volantis, their fleet would only be two-thirds the size of Braavos's.
"Heh, we still owe them 1.25 million gold dragons," Daemon suddenly spoke, his voice dripping with mockery. "Then that 1.25 million gold dragons won't need to be repaid. Those Braavosi aren't going to lend us any more anyway."
Rhaenyra glared at him, but Daemon shrugged, clearly feeling justified. From the moment of their secret alliance with Volantis, Braavos had already been an enemy. As for the Iron Bank—if you owe a debt, you must repay it? That was just a rule for mortals. The Targaryens could do whatever they wanted. Those bloodsuckers could only squeeze common people. He was not afraid of provoking Braavos. Having dragons was everything.
Mysaria coughed lightly and continued. "One more thing. Dorne has allowed the Green combined fleet to dock in their ports for resupply. Soon the combined fleet will sail north and fight us."
This time, there were no cheers in the battered, leaky hall.
Rhaenyra rose from her seat, the wind stirring her silver hair, her expression very puzzled. "Dorne? Hasn't Dorne always remained neutral?!"
No one could answer her question.
Finally, Daemon spoke, his voice very calm, as if stating a trivial matter. "Perhaps it's Tyrosh... and the Triarchy."
Rhaenyra was stunned, then slowly sank back into her chair, her face weary.
Dorne had always had good relations with the Triarchy; both sides intermarried, traded, and regarded each other as foreign allies. Now that the Blacks and Volantis had carved up the Triarchy, Dorne would naturally be hostile. Though Dorne was not directly participating in the war, allowing the Green fleet to dock for supplies was already a veiled stance.
"Where is Braavos?" Corlys suddenly asked. "Do they know about this?"
Mysaria shook her head. "Not yet. But I suspect... I suspect Braavos may have allied with the Greens against us."
Complete silence fell over the hall.
If Braavos truly allied with the Greens, the Velaryon fleet would face annihilation. The vast Braavosi fleet would press from the north, and the Green combined fleet from the south. Under attack from both sides, even if Lord Corlys were the greatest naval commander in the Seven Kingdoms today, victory would be impossible. Even if the Volantene fleet joined, they could not win.
Rhaenyra looked at Corlys—the once-spirited old man's face was grey.
"The Iron Fleet," Daemon suddenly spoke.
All looked at him.
Daemon toyed with a dagger in his hand, a dangerous smile on his face.
"Send someone to contact Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken. Tell him that if he joins us, when the war ends, Queen Rhaenyra will reward him with the Westerlands. He will become Lord of the Westerlands."
"What?!" "Your Grace!" "How can that be?!"
The hall erupted.
The Iron Fleet? The ironborn? Those reavers, those murderers, those pirates who never followed any rules? After the war, reward them with the Westerlands?
Daemon let them argue for a while before speaking lazily.
"The Lannisters have betrayed us and fully sided with the Greens. What's wrong with rewarding them with foreign lands?"
The noise gradually subsided.
"Though the ironborn are detestable, they are the finest sea warriors," Daemon continued. "If the Iron Fleet attacks the combined fleet from behind during the decisive naval battle, I believe we will win. I don't think the Greens can offer such a chip."
Corlys was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Prince Daemon is right. The ironborn are unruly; they only recognize their own interests. The title of Lord of the Westerlands and its lands are enough to tempt Dalton."
Rhaenyra did not speak immediately.
She thought of Jacaerys, Joffrey, the Velaryons slaughtered by Aemond, the scorched earth of High Tide, and the charred corpses scattered across the castle after the bloody battle of Dragonstone.
"Little Aegon and little Viserys..." she murmured.
Daemon looked at her; a flicker of worry passed through his eyes, but he quickly suppressed it. "If you don't want them to follow the fate of Jacaerys's three brothers... we must win, at any cost."
At the mention of Jacaerys's name, Sara's eyes darkened as she stood by the door. If Jacaerys were alive, with Rhaenyra's preference for her firstborn, her child would surely be the rightful heir. But now Jacaerys was dead, so miserably, his skull sent by Aemond as a trophy. Her child was just a bastard without a father.
Rhaenyra finally nodded. "Very well. Send someone to contact the Iron Fleet."
A smile appeared on Daemon's face; he looked at Rhaenyra, a flicker of relief in his eyes. Rhaenyra had finally understood that in this war, there was neither mercy nor concession—only you and me.
Rhaenyra's eyes fell on Sara by the door, the young woman holding a child.
Sara lowered her head; her expression could not be seen clearly, but her slightly trembling shoulders betrayed her.
"Sara," Rhaenyra suddenly spoke.
Sara looked at the queen, a hint of panic in her eyes.
"Come here."
Sara's steps were light.
"What is your child's name?" Rhaenyra asked.
Sara shook her head, her voice very soft. "I haven't chosen a name yet... he is only a few months old..."
Rhaenyra was silent for a moment, then slowly said, "Just call him Jacaerys. In memory of my firstborn."
Sara suddenly looked up, her eyes full of disbelief.
Jacaerys. The name of Rhaenyra's beloved eldest son, the former heir of the Blacks, the child Rhaenyra had once been prepared to place on the Iron Throne. This name symbolized Rhaenyra's recognition.
"Can he... can he truly be called that?" Sara's voice trembled.
Rhaenyra nodded, then looked at Corlys. "He will become the rightful heir of House Velaryon. He is my grandson, with the right to ride a dragon."
Corlys was silent. He understood what Rhaenyra meant. This was compensation—compensation for House Velaryon, compensation for the Velaryons. Rhaenys was dead, High Tide was destroyed, and more than thirty thousand people had been forcibly relocated by Aemond.
Corlys silently agreed.
Sara knelt with the child in her arms, tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you, Your Grace! I swear by my life that I will never betray you, that I will fight for you to the end!"
Rhaenyra looked at her with complicated eyes.
She knew that Sara had deliberately slowed when pursuing the enemy, causing Silverwing and the wounded Vermithor to fail to join the battle in time. But now she needed Sara; she needed Silverwing; she needed a dragonrider mother who would never be separated from Vermithor.
"Rise," Rhaenyra said. "Take good care of little Jacaerys. Make him a worthy Velaryon."
Sara rose and stepped aside, a wave of hope burning in her eyes.
Daemon watched the scene, saying nothing.
He was somewhat displeased with Rhaenyra's decision, but he endured it. Now that House Velaryon was half destroyed, if he did not win over old Corlys, he was somewhat worried that Corlys might surrender to the Greens for the sake of his house. As for Sara—having Silverwing and controlling Vermithor—he needed to win her over too.