A grey sea mist shrouded Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by a window of the dragon fortress, its ancient stones half-destroyed by Aemond's raid.
Over the past few days, she had personally overseen the burial of over a hundred charred corpses, the remains of soldiers, servants, and handmaids who had been unfailingly loyal to her.
She sighed inwardly. These people had all been burned alive by that bastard Aemond.
A bitter hatred swelled within her toward her former friend, Dowager Queen Alicent, for having given birth to such a monster.
If she could return to her youth, she would have strangled her "best friend" with her own hands, or stopped her father from ever taking her to wife.
Perhaps then, none of this tragedy would have unfolded.
"Your Grace."
Mysaria's voice sounded behind her.
The Mistress of Whisperers for the Blacks was dressed in a simple white robe, her face wearing an expression Rhaenyra had grown all too familiar with over the years: bad news was coming, and it would undoubtedly overshadow whatever good news accompanied it.
"Let them wait in the hall," Rhaenyra said without turning around.
"Tell Daemon, tell Corlys, and tell the others."
Mysaria hesitated for a moment.
"Miss Sara is also outside; she requests an audience with you now."
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened against the cold stone windowsill. Jacaerys's child.
Her eldest son, her pride, the boy upon whom she had placed all her hopes of inheriting the Iron Throne... now all that remained of him was a skull sent back by Aemond.
And yet, there remained a bastard child she had never even seen.
"Let her join the meeting as well," Rhaenyra said, finally turning around with a weary sigh.
The Great Hall was one of the oldest chambers on Dragonstone.
Legend held that Aegon the Conqueror had once stood here with his sister-wives to plan the conquest of Westeros.
Today, the massive painted table was covered with a map, bristling with carved markers representing the warring factions.
The Green banners occupied the vast majority of the board; the Black banners were scattered and thin, holding strong only in the Vale and the Riverlands.
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood at the head of the stone table, idly toying with the hilt of Dark Sister.
His dragon, Caraxes, had been injured during the Battle of Rook's Rest, though the wound did little to diminish the Blood Wyrm's innate ferocity.
What truly agitated Daemon was a darker truth: he had been late. If he had arrived but a quarter-hour earlier, Rhaenys might not have died.
Corlys Velaryon sat on the opposite side of the table.
The Sea Snake, once the wealthiest and most formidable man in the Seven Kingdoms, now sat as rigid as a stone statue.
Days ago, upon learning of his wife's death, he had spat blood on the spot. The bleeding had stopped, but he appeared to have aged ten years in a single night.
His eyes, which had once struck terror into the hearts of his enemies on the high seas, were now a hollow, haunted grey.
Sara stood quietly by the heavy oak doors, not daring to sit.
The vassals of Dragonstone were gathered in small groups across the hall, representatives of House Celtigar, the aging lord of House Bar Emmon, and a handful of knights from House Cargyll.
Together, they could muster perhaps a thousand elite troops: the absolute final reserves belonging directly to Queen Rhaenyra.
"Your Grace," Mysaria bowed to Rhaenyra, then to the Prince Consort and the Lord of the Tides.
Rhaenyra took her seat at the head of the table and waved a hand dismissively.
"Speak. What is the news?"
Mysaria took a deep breath. In her years as the Mistress of Whisperers, she had learned to report the bad news before the good.
Today's tidings, however, were a tangled web, requiring careful phrasing.
"The Hightower army is nearing Bitterbridge."
Silence fell heavily over the hall. Lord Corlys raised his head, staring blankly at her.
"How many?"
Mysaria paused. "Twenty-six thousand men."
"Twenty-six thousand?!" a young knight of House Cargyll blurted out in dismay.
"We can scarcely muster a fraction of that number!"
"They are armored elites," Mysaria clarified.
"Among them are over two thousand knights and heavy cavalry. Lord Ormund Hightower is leading the host personally, with Prince Daeron and his dragon, Tessarion, accompanying them."
"Daeron..." Rhaenyra murmured the name.
Alicent's youngest son. Only thirteen years old.
"There is one more thing." Mysaria's voice dropped lower.
"House Tyrell was forced to provide three thousand men. Lady Margaery and her ten-month-old son, Lord Lyonel, are currently being held by the Hightower army as hostages while they march toward King's Landing."
This time, even Daemon frowned.
"Margaery Tyrell..." Daemon repeated the name thoughtfully.
"I remember her. At the tourney at Harrenhal years ago, she was a beautiful young noblewoman following her father. She married that short-lived fool of House Tyrell?"
"Yes, Prince Consort," Mysaria nodded.
"Lord Lyonel's father died last year, and Highgarden is currently under the regency of Lady Margaery. When the Hightower army surrounded them, House Florent took the opportunity to strike at their rear. She had no choice but to yield."
"House Florent..." Corlys sneered, his voice raspy.
"A pack of leeches forever trying to supplant the Tyrells."
Daemon shot a sideways glance at Corlys.
'Are the Velaryons any different?' he thought coldly.
Rhaenyra rubbed her temples; her head was beginning to throb again.
Ever since she received the skulls of Jacaerys and Joffrey, the agonizing headaches had never ceased.
The Maesters claimed it was due to emotional instability, increasing her sedative dosage from once every five days to once every two, but the tinctures brought no relief.
"And us?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice tight.
"How many can we muster?"
No one answered. Finally, the representative of House Celtigar spoke up with trepidation.
"Your Grace, the vassals of Dragonstone, even with full mobilization, can muster a thousand men at most. But High Tide is currently..."
He didn't finish the thought, but everyone in the hall knew exactly what he meant.
Aemond and Vhagar had incinerated High Tide.
The ports, farmlands, and wells were destroyed, and over thirty thousand Velaryon subjects had been forcibly relocated to Dragonstone as refugees.
Corlys's fingers tapped rhythmically against the stone table, his voice hollow.
"The Velaryon fleet still has eight thousand men, but they are sailors; they cannot fight a pitched battle on land."
Eight thousand sailors against twenty-six thousand Reach elites.
Lord Corlys would have to be mad to march sailors into an open land battle.
House Hightower had ruled Oldtown for thousands of years; their army was exceptionally well-equipped and highly trained, funded by the wealthiest city in the realm, second only to the Lannisters in sheer gold.
The atmosphere in the great chamber grew so oppressive that it felt as though the very air was weeping.
Mysaria gently cleared her throat.
"However, Your Grace, there is some good news."
Every eye lifted to her. A trace of a smile appeared on Mysaria's usually somber face, looking strangely out of place amidst the gloom.
"The Lysene fleet was utterly defeated by the Volantene armada recently in the Mermaid's Straits."
"What?" Lord Corlys sat up straight, a spark of life returning to his grey eyes.
"It is certain, My Lord," Mysaria said, pulling a tightly rolled parchment from her white sleeve.
"This is a secret dispatch from Volantis that arrived this morning. The Disputed Lands have all fallen to Volantis. Myr has been occupied, and Lys is surrounded by sea and land. The Triarchy is finished."
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