The Archon's Palace, Tyrosh.
Only Nettles remained in the hall.
The thin, dark girl remained prostrate on the ground, her forehead pressed against the cold floor tiles.
"Your name is Nettles?" Rhaenyra asked.
The girl nodded silently, not daring to look up.
"Look at me when you speak."
Nettles slowly straightened her back, but her eyes remained fixed on the floor.
"How is Sheepstealer's condition?"
"He is... healing," Nettles whispered, her voice barely audible.
"The wounds on his wings have scabbed, but his flight is still... unstable. He needs time. He needs meat..."
"Are you willing to continue riding for me?" Rhaenyra asked bluntly.
Nettles jerked her head up, her large brown eyes wide with terror.
"I... I don't want to kill people. Sheepstealer is my friend. I've cared for him for four years. I fed him, talked to him... that's why he lets me ride. But I don't want to use him to kill..."
"A dragon is not a pet, child," Daemon interrupted, his brow furrowed with impatience.
Tears rolled down Nettles's face, carving tracks through the soot.
"I hate killing."
"They are enemies," Daemon said coldly.
"That is the nature of war, little girl."
Nettles's shoulders began to shake violently.
She bit her lip, but the sobbing would not stop.
Rhaenyra watched the girl, and for a moment, a soft, maternal pang touched her heart.
"Do you think this is a game?"
Daemon's voice grew harsh. He walked toward her, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.
"A dragon is a partner, but it is also the ultimate weapon. You tamed one, and now you say you don't want it? Do you know how many people dream of being a Dragonrider? Do you know how precious this chance is?"
Daemon stopped in front of Nettles, his tall shadow completely enveloping her.
The girl curled into a ball, yet she stubbornly tilted her face up, weeping but refusing to beg for mercy.
In those brown eyes, alongside the fear, was a spark of pure, unyielding resolve.
"Are you willing to fight for Rhaenyra?" Daemon asked, changing his tone.
"Not for a Kingdom, or for justice, just for her. Are you?"
Nettles trembled, looking at Daemon and then stealing a glance at Rhaenyra.
"We won't ask you to slaughter the innocent," Daemon said, his voice softening slightly.
"But some battles must be fought. If you are unwilling, say it now, and we will let you go." He leaned in, staring into her eyes.
"Are you?"
A long silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the candles and the distant rhythm of the waves.
Nettles stared at her dirty feet for a long time.
"I am willing to fight for justice," she said quietly, her voice shaky but clear.
"But... I swear to the Seven, and I swear to you, I will never ride a dragon to slaughter the innocent. If you make me do that, I would rather... I would rather jump from the dragon's back."
Daemon stared at her for a long time, so long that Nettles began to shake again.
Finally, he released his grip on his sword hilt and offered a small, appreciative smile.
"Remember your oath," he said. He turned to the guards.
"Take her away. Find her a room, some boots that fit, and clean clothes. From this day on, she is my ward, and shall be treated as such."
As Nettles was led away, she stole one last look back before the doors closed.
Only three remained: Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Corlys Velaryon.
Corlys pulled a scroll of parchment from his tunic.
"This arrived this afternoon," he said, handing it to Rhaenyra.
"From King's Landing. The messenger says it is the Queen Mother's own hand."
Rhaenyra broke the wax seal. Alicent Hightower's handwriting was neat and elegant.
The letter was brief and brutally direct:
"The arson and theft at the Dragonpit have been investigated. It was orchestrated by Jacaerys Velaryon with the financial and intelligence support of Corlys Velaryon. This act constitutes high treason against House Targaryen and the laws of the Realm.
If you acknowledge this fact and agree to the following terms, we shall restore the peace:
1. Surrender Corlys Velaryon to King's Landing for trial.
2. You shall come to King's Landing and personally swear fealty to Aegon Targaryen.
3. Your children by Daemon shall receive Tyrosh as a fief; you shall rule as Prince of Tyrosh in autonomy..."
Rhaenyra didn't finish reading. She crumpled the parchment and began to tear it with a frantic energy.
"Treason?" her voice hissed through clenched teeth.
"My sons are dead! Two sons! Jacaerys was beheaded! Joffrey was torn apart! Lucerys was nearly burned alive! And now she tells me I am the traitor?!"
She threw the scraps of paper to the floor.
"I yielded! I gave up the Throne! I wanted peace through marriage! I didn't want to split this Kingdom!"
She stood up, her voice rising to a roar.
"I retreated step by step! From Dragonstone, to Driftmark, to Tyrosh! What more do they want? Do they want my head on the block too?! Do they want me to hand you over, Corlys?!"
Corlys stood silent, appearing far older in the candlelight.
The Sea Snake still had his edge, but his face was a map of wrinkles and his hair as white as sea foam.
"No!" Rhaenyra's face twisted with hate.
The tears that fell were no longer for grief, but for rage.
"I will not retreat. Alicent wants peace? Fine. I will send her every one of her children, slaughtered one by one. I will make her taste this, the feeling of a heart being torn to pieces! I will make her kneel before the Iron Throne and beg for my mercy!"
Her screams echoed in the empty hall.
Daemon watched her, neither stopping nor joining her, knowing she needed to purge the months of suppressed agony.
When she finally grew quiet, Corlys spoke slowly.
"Rhaenyra, now is not the time for emotion. There are already deserters among the Velaryon fleet."
"What?"
"Rumors are spreading," Corlys said gravely.
"When Driftmark fell, the families of our sailors, wives, children, parents, were captured. Aemond has sent word: if their husbands or sons continue to fight for the Blacks, their families will be treated as traitors. Sent to labor camps, or the Wall."
He paused. "I can only hold them for so long. Last night, fifty more men slipped away on small boats. If this continues, the fleet will dissolve before the first battle. And without a fleet, even with dragons, we cannot return to Westeros."
Rhaenyra felt a wave of vertigo.
She realized that while she sat on a gilded throne as the "Queen of Tyrosh," her position was a house of cards.
The Tyroshi nobles were only compliant for now, her fleet was crumbling, and the Greens were closing the noose.
She had a few dragons, eight thousand men, and almost nothing else.
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