The Archon's Palace, Tyrosh.
Night fell over Tyrosh. The gilded doors of the banquet hall groaned as they were pulled shut, the last of the local nobility having finally left.
The heavy thud of the doors echoed through the chamber.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat upon a throne crafted by Tyroshi hands, a high-backed seat encrusted with mother-of-pearl and gold, carved with motifs of crashing waves and merchant galleys.
It was once the seat of the Archon; now, it belonged to her.
Candlelight flickered across her silver-gold hair. She closed her eyes.
The sycophantic praise still hummed in her ears: Queen. Queen of Tyrosh. Ruler of the City.
Such seductive titles; such sweet poison.
"You did the right thing," Daemon's voice came from her side, filled with certainty.
Rhaenyra let out a weary sigh.
"Did I? I refused a Kingdom, Daemon. A Kingdom that was handed to me on a platter."
"The Tyroshi nobles wanted to snare you with that crown," Corlys Velaryon added as he approached.
"The moment you accept the title of Queen of Tyrosh, the Lords in the Seven Kingdoms who still support you would abandon you. In the eyes of the Andals and the Faith, you would become a foreign Queen. Taking the Iron Throne after that would be an impossible task."
Rhaenyra understood this, of course. But understanding and accepting were two different things.
She opened her eyes, her violet gaze fixing on her husband.
"How long will the tax-farming system keep them quiet?"
"Long enough, provided your rule remains firm," Daemon replied.
"Tyrosh's nobility cares for arithmetic. Give them autonomy and take only a portion of the revenue, and they'll see the trade-off is worth it. Besides, without us, the Volantenes would have occupied them. Their terms would have been far worse, total annexation and vassalage."
"Now? They rule as they did before, but with more autonomy, and only their Archon has changed. More importantly, we have dragons. As long as dragonriders are stationed here, they will not revolt. Dragons teach loyalty."
At the mention of "dragons," Rhaenyra thought of her eldest son, the somber, headstrong Jacaerys.
Behind her back, he had sought out those with thin dragonblood and taught them to ride.
She had only learned of their existence today, and they had already lost at Dragonstone.
A crushing, bitter defeat.
"Are they here?" Rhaenyra asked.
"They have been waiting in the antechamber," Lucerys's voice answered.
Rhaenyra stood and looked at her second son.
Lucerys Velaryon stood at the edge of the candlelight, half his face hidden in shadow.
Even so, she could clearly see the newly healed skin on his left side, a terrifying, raw pink that stretched from his face down to his back, vanishing into his collar.
It was the mark of dragonfire, a permanent reminder of his escape from Morghul.
Seeing his mother's gaze, Lucerys forced a small smile.
"Luke," Rhaenyra's voice softened.
"Bring them in."
The doors opened again, and two figures were led inside. The contrast between them was striking.
Sara wore a coarse but clean linen dress, her abdomen showing a prominent swell; she was visibly pregnant.
Nettles was the opposite. Twelve years old, perhaps younger, with dark hair, brown eyes, and skin tanned to a deep bronze by years in the sun.
"Look up," Rhaenyra commanded.
Sara obeyed. Her eyes held a mixture of tension, expectation, and pride.
She carried Jacaerys's child, the blood of the dragon.
Nettles hesitated for a long time, only raising her face after a guard gave her a light nudge.
"What happened at Dragonstone?" Rhaenyra asked.
"I want details. Every detail."
Sara began to recount the dragon battle. The hall fell into a heavy, oppressive silence.
Daemon's expression grew dangerously dark.
He knew exactly how severe Vermithor's injuries were; he had inspected the "Bronze Fury" upon its arrival.
The dragon had followed its mate, Silverwing, to Tyrosh, but it was riderless and badly mauled.
It would take years for the dragon to recover, and its combat effectiveness was severely compromised.
And Vermithor was the only adult dragon capable of facing Vhagar head-on.
Daemon felt a surge of regret.
If only he and Rhaenys had flown back to reinforce Dragonstone, they might have killed Aemond and Vhagar then and there.
Sara looked at the silent council, her hand guarding her womb.
"Lord Jacaerys promised that when the child was born, he would give him a name. A Targaryen name."
Silence reigned for several seconds.
Corlys cleared his throat and stepped forward, his cane thumping against the floor.
"Rhaenyra, this child, boy or girl, is Jacaerys's only blood. House Velaryon is willing to take him in. When he comes of age, you can legitimize him..."
"Lord Corlys," Daemon interrupted with undisguised mockery, "you really aren't picky, are you? Anyone with a drop of dragonblood, and you try to pull them into Driftmark? Now you won't even let a bastard go?"
The Sea Snake's face flushed, veins bulging on the hand gripping his cane.
"Prince Daemon, watch your tongue! Jacaerys was my grandson. Regardless of who the mother is, this child carries the blood of my grandson!"
"Regardless of who the father was, he can only ever be a bastard," Daemon said, emphasizing every word.
Sara lowered her head, her silver-gold hair masking the flash of hatred in her eyes.
Rhaenyra, meanwhile, was thinking of the deceased Jacaerys, her firstborn.
'What had he wanted? Had he trained these bastards to form a dragonrider corps loyal only to him?'
"Raise your head," Rhaenyra said to Sara.
Sara looked up, her hatred replaced by pleading.
"My Queen, I beg of you..."
"This child," Rhaenyra said after a long, deliberate pause, "will not bear the name Targaryen. Nor will he bear the name Velaryon."
Sara's lips trembled; tears pooled in her eyes.
"However," Rhaenyra continued, "if you serve the Blacks, if you serve me, and perform enough deeds of merit, I will grant him a new surname. He will be a nobleman."
"And... can he ride a dragon?" Sara asked in a wavering voice.
Daemon scoffed. "Bastards have no right to ride dragons. That is Targaryen tradition."
He gave her a cold look.
"Jacaerys made a grave error, but since he is dead and the mistake is already cast in stone, I will not pursue it further. But when you die, the dragons will be reclaimed."
The light in Sara's eyes died completely.
The unborn child was destined to live in the shadows.
"Leave us," Rhaenyra said.
Sara offered a stiff curtsy and turned to exit the hall.
At the door, she brushed past a massive figure, Hugh Hammer, the leader of the Dragonseed guard who stood sentinel.
Hugh watched Sara's retreating, his eyes burning with a dark intensity.
He knew this woman held the secret to taming dragons.
The doors closed, and Sara's footsteps faded into the distance.
-----
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