Dragonstone.
The salt wind swept across the castle’s long bridge.
Rhaenyra shivered but steadied herself, one hand on her swollen belly, the other on her maid’s arm.
She looked toward Driftmark.
Two dark shapes were racing toward the castle.
“Your Grace, the wind is too strong.
Perhaps you should…” The maid’s voice was tight with worry.
Rhaenyra shook her head.
“I will not sit this out.
I will not wait for Daemon to bring me the result.”
This is the duty of a ruler, she told herself.
Caraxes’s webbed hind claws slapped the churning sea.
The Blood Wyrm shrieked, his long body climbing the cliff face to settle on the long bridge.
The Red Queen had arrived a little earlier, circling Dragonstone once before landing on the bridge’s far side.
Both dragonriders dismounted.
Rhaenys, windblown and dust-streaked, hurried over and took Rhaenyra’s arm.
The older princess shot the maid a sharp look.
Rhaenyra stopped her.
“Don’t.
I asked her to bring me out here.”
She turned to Daemon, who was walking toward them with his head down.
“Why didn’t you tell me at once?”
“You need rest, my love.” Daemon’s hands twisted together.
“I am pregnant, not dead.” Rhaenyra shifted closer to him, still leaning on Rhaenys and the maid.
“A new dragonlord house has risen.
We cannot simply destroy them.
You know what that means.”
“House Targaryen is no longer the world’s only dragonlords.”
Daemon nodded to the maid and took his wife’s arm, settling her weight against him naturally.
“And they have Vermithor and Silverwing,” Rhaenyra went on, looking into his eyes.
“Two old dragons who very likely gained something in the Valyrian ruins that we do not understand.”
“How do you know that?”
Daemon stopped.
The letter had said nothing about the Valyrian ruins.
“Even if Lancel Valezeth commands some mysterious power, he could not have summoned adult dragons without the ruins’ help.
If magic alone worked, we would never have kept our monopoly this long.”
“What are you thinking, Rhaenyra?” Rhaenys asked.
Rhaenyra looked at them both.
“Can Meleys and Caraxes guarantee the kill against Vermithor and Silverwing?
And House Valezeth’s fleet?”
Rhaenys shook her head.
“We cannot be sure those two old dragons came out of the ruins unchanged.
If it comes to a fight, we can probably kill Silverwing.
But Meleys and Caraxes might die as well.”
“We cannot afford to lose.” Daemon’s voice was flat.
“So I plan to negotiate.”
“You want to win them over?”
Rhaenyra stared at him, incredulous.
“Essos cannot stomach a dragonlord house with adult dragons.” Daemon walked his wife slowly toward the castle.
“Volantis will tear itself apart.
The cities that assassinated dragonlords during the Century of Blood will panic.
Schemers and warmongers will reach for their swords.
The Free Cities will bleed each other until the edge is gone.”
Rhaenys picked up the thread.
“Essos is too large and too fractured.
And time is on our side.
The young dragons will eventually take to the sky.
Vhagar will return to full strength in a few years.”
At the name Vhagar, all three faces twisted.
“What terms can you offer them?” Rhaenyra studied Daemon’s face.
Rhaenys added quietly, “Terms to stand with us.
Daemon, my granddaughter is already betrothed to my grandson.
You have no marriage left to offer.”
Daemon said, “Neither does the Hightower in King’s Landing.
His daughter married that fool of a son.” He let out a short laugh.
“I trust my brother.
Our king will bring us the best terms.” He pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead.
“I will bring you dragons and an army.
Trust me.”
King’s Landing.
After Aegon I united the Six Kingdoms, the great city rose.
Half a million souls were said to live within its walls.
The king’s red fortress stood atop Aegon’s High Hill, its towers stern and solemn.
It was said that Maegor the Cruel had slaughtered every builder when the Red Keep was finished, to ensure its secrets never left those walls.
The Red Keep.
The members of Viserys’s small council sat in uneasy silence, watching Queen Alicent Hightower’s puzzled face.
None of them knew why they had been summoned so urgently.
The Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, read his daughter’s expression and understood at once.
The king had not even told his own queen what was happening.
The master of ships, Ser Tyland Lannister, and the master of laws, Lord Jasper Wylde, traded a look and decided to say nothing.
The master of whisperers, Lord Larys Strong, and the master of coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, stared at the weighted orbs before them that marked their offices.
Neither moved.
“Where are Grand Maester Mellos and Ser Criston?” Otto finally broke the silence.
“Here, Lord Hand.” Grand Maester Mellos shuffled to his seat, struggling under a stack of heavy books.
Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, followed King Viserys I into the chamber.
His white cloak and white armor were immaculate.
As the king’s sworn shield, the seven white knights of the Kingsguard were meant to be warriors of great skill and spotless honor, or so the realm believed.
Criston Cole, born low but blessed with a fine sword arm and a finer face, had taken command after the death of Ser Harrold Westerling.
The safety of the entire castle now fell to him.
The king’s face still carried a trace of hesitation.
But he took his seat and set the royal orb into its slot.
“My lords, the realm faces a crisis.
I must call upon your wisdom.”
“We are yours to command, Your Grace.” The councilors rose as one, bowed, and sat again.
“Grand Maester, explain the situation.”
Mellos nodded and produced a letter.
“My lords, word has come from Dragonstone.
The Black Wall noble Lancel Valezeth of Volantis and his brother Valar Valezeth have tamed Vermithor and Silverwing in the ruins of Valyria, using magic and other means.
It is said they have also recovered more than one dragon egg.”
“Impossible!” Otto shot to his feet.
He had never lost his composure like that.
The chamber went still.
Every face was stunned.
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