“That is the extent of it.”
Rhaegar Velaryon’s voice rang clear and measured within Aegon’s solar.
Unlike Visenya’s quarters, which were dominated by dark iron, practice weapons, and ancient treatises on tactics, or Rhaenys’s sunlit chambers draped in Lysene rugs, Myrish crystal sconces, and sweet Eastern perfumes, Aegon’s room was austere.
Stacks of parchment, grain tallies, and port ledgers crowded every available table, leaving just enough room for the four siblings and the newly arrived scholar.
Having slipped away from Aethan in the yard, Raegon had escorted Rhaegar straight up the tower stairs.
“It seems our Braavosi friend has been polishing the truth,” Rhaenys remarked from behind Aegon’s desk.
Her fingers toyed with a delicate clockwork nightingale sent from Yi Ti, its enameled wings and head shifting to produce a sweet, mechanical whistle with each turn of the key.
Aegon rested his chin upon his laced fingers, his lilac eyes comparing Rhaegar’s testimony against the dispatches presented by Darchu.
For House Targaryen, the timing of intervention mattered far more than the intervention itself.
When Volantis raised its banners under the pretext of restoring the Freehold, Dragonstone’s refusal to answer the call of the Black Wall had already signaled their stance.
Neutrality was merely opposition in disguise.
Darchu had noticeably overstated the strength of the anti-Volantene alliance.
Rhaegar’s account, shaped by his examinations in military history at Oldtown, was far more sober.
Lys remained firmly under the grip of the Volantene fleet.
Admiral Lysander had crushed the uprising of the Lysene exiles, pressing his advantage to seize control of the Stepstones.
Further north, the mercenary army of Braavos had suffered a bloody rout along the banks of the Little Rhoyne at the hands of the Tiger cloak heavy cavalry, checked only when relief columns from Norvos and Qohor secured the river crossings.
With the northern front stabilized following the unrest in Qohor, Volantis was pressing the land war once more.
Realizing the momentum had shifted in their favor, the Triarchs moved seven full legions toward Dagger Lake, preparing to squeeze the trade corridors of Norvos and Qohor while launching an offensive against Tyrosh to close the Narrow Sea.
The forty-seven war galleys sailing north under Lysander were the hammer meant to seal that trap.
Both factions lived by the sea and traded in vast wealth.
Yet Volantis held thousands of years of imperial infrastructure behind its walls.
Even as its outlying plantations suffered neglect, the First Daughter of Valyria commanded the largest fleet west of the Bone Mountains.
If Lysander choked the southern approaches to the Narrow Sea, the purple sails of Braavos would be locked behind their stony titan, leaving the Secret City to starve in isolation without a single siege engine touching its canals.
Braavos had to break the encirclement before winter set in.
To counter the Faceless Men, Volantis had retained red priests from the grand temple alongside shadowbinders and sorcerers brought from the ruins of Gogossos.
These practitioners had unraveled the glamours used by the guild of assassins, putting an abrupt end to the quiet deaths within the Black Wall.
“He told as much truth as a merchant ever does,” Aegon said with a slow nod, his gaze tracing the red-inked troop positions marked upon his leather map of the Rhoyne.
“Visenya, look at this.”
He looked up, only to catch himself with a dry, quiet chuckle.
Visenya sat upon the edge of the low couch.
Raegon had drifted off during the accounting of troop numbers and was now resting his silver head across her lap, fast asleep.
The faint rhythm of his breathing was the only sound in the room.
Visenya did not shift her posture, her hand resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder.
You have no need of my counsel to see the path.”
She paused, her dark lilac eyes meeting her brother’s.
“The war has reached its balance.
When our wings take the sky, it must break the scales entirely.
Only then do we command the price of our aid.”
“Take him to his bed,” Aegon said softly, rubbing his temples.
“My mattress is too stiff for his neck.
I will summon the council to draft our terms.”
He turned to the silver-haired youth standing near the door.
“You have done well, cousin.”
“I am called Rhaegar, my lord,” the youth replied, offering a stiff bow.
“Rest, Rhaegar.
Visenya will see to your lodging.”
Visenya rose, scooping Raegon into her arms without waking him, and gestured for Rhaegar to follow.
Despite his resolve, Rhaegar felt his chest tighten as he stepped behind her.
The rumors surrounding the eldest daughter of Dragonstone spoke of a cold, ruthless creature who favored dark sorcery and bloodied steel.
“Tell me, young scholar,” Visenya said quietly as they descended the torchlit stair, her voice carrying a dry edge.
“Does a seeker of truth truly tremble before tales of dark sorcery?”
Raegon stirred on her shoulder, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he caught the tail of her question.
Dark sorcery?
Raegon woke completely, his eyes widening in alarm.
Rhaegar, what did you say to her?
“You misunderstand, my lady,” Rhaegar replied steadily, keeping his pace behind them.
“The priests of Norvos claim you bathe in the blood of maidens; the Volantenes claim you feed prisoners to dragons; the merchants of Pentos whisper that you practice dark rites to preserve your youth.”
Raegon held his breath.
Visenya kept walking, her expression unchanged as she carried Raegon past the heavy bronze archway.
“Yet what I witnessed in Norvos told a different tale,” Rhaegar continued.
“I saw the burned ruins of the hidden cults.
The bearded priests gave thanks that your dragon purged the rot that threatened their bells, while those who profited from the secret rites called you a demon.
Volantis courts your favor; Pentos trembles before your speed and decisive justice.”
Raegon let out a quiet breath of relief.
“You have a smooth tongue for a boy of books,” Visenya murmured, a faint trace of amusement touching her brow.
“Keep such flattery for the high tables.
I tolerate your presence for Raegon’s sake, but my patience has its limits.”
“Rhaegar will share my quarters,” Raegon said quickly, opening the latch.
“The loft above the bed is clear.”
“Very well,” Visenya nodded, turning to head back toward the Great Hall.
Raegon caught the faint rustle of her cloak as she walked away, noting the subtle softening in her step.
Even Visenya appreciated a scholar who measured actions rather than courtly songs.
“You nearly gave me heart failure,” Raegon muttered, pulling Rhaegar into the room and closing the heavy oak door.
“Take the loft.
Aethan left a purse of ten silver seahorses on the table for your stay.”
“The loft suits me,” Rhaegar said, pocketing the purse without ceremony.
“Of course it does,” Raegon laughed, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
“All my private ledgers and ritual scrolls are stored up there.
I know why you chose it.”
“Seeing such power with my own eyes made it impossible to look away,” Rhaegar admitted honestly.
“Sit, then.” Raegon collapsed onto his velvet bed, propping his head against a pillow.
“You mentioned a second matter earlier.
We are alone.
Speak.”
Rhaegar’s expression hardened.
“A galley from the Smoking Sea has crossed into the Summer Sea.”
Raegon sat upright.
“The Smoking Sea?”
“The Smoking Sea,” Rhaegar repeated, his tone dropping to a grim whisper.
“Volantis attempted to suppress the reports, but too many captains witnessed it.
A multi-decked galley of unmistakable Valyrian craft sailed out from the boiling mists.
Volantis dispatched eleven warships to intercept and board the vessel.
Only one returned.”
Raegon’s mismatched eyes narrowed.
“The crew of that surviving ship were raving mad,” Rhaegar continued.
“They screamed of shapes moving beneath the water and turned on one another with bare teeth.
Witnesses saw thick, pulsing growths and chitin breaking through their skin.
The port commanders were forced to sink the vessel with flaming catapults.”
Rhaegar leaned forward, his violet eyes fixed on Raegon.
“The ghost ship from the Doom drifts across the open water.
Its current course points south, toward the Isle of Tears.”
Toward Gogossos.