The night on Dragonstone had never been so clamorous.
Rhaenyra stood on a hill not far from the castle, the sea wind whipping her silver hair into disarray.
Not far away, the castle resounded with the roar of slaughter.
The Velaryon army was killing the surrendered Velaryon troops.
And she stood here, able to do nothing.
She only thought of her father.
Viserys was dead.
The father who had lifted her onto the Iron Throne as a child, who had let her sit on his lap and play—was dead.
The Greens said she had poisoned him.
The Faith and the Citadel tacitly accepted it. Half of Westeros believed it.
She had not even seen her father one last time, yet they claimed she had conspired with Orwyle to murder the king.
Utterly shameless.
They should feel ashamed.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes.
In her dreams were Jacaerys, Joffrey, and her father.
Her father stood in a room, just as when she was a child, wearing that white night robe, his hair graying, arms open to her.
She rushed forward—only to grasp at nothing.
Then she woke.
And found herself in tears again.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Heavy. Slow.
Rhaenyra did not turn.
Corlys Velaryon stood behind her.
This old man, who had once commanded the greatest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms, whose power had reached the heavens, now stooped with a bent back.
"Driftmark…"
He paused for a long time.
"…is gone as well."
Gone.
The word was as light as a sigh.
Rhaenyra turned.
She had never seen Corlys like this.
The Sea Snake, who had once dared to point at Viserys in the Small Council and curse him, now had lips trembling violently.
"Aemond, that beast…"
"He burned the harbor, burned the shipyards… burned two hundred years of Velaryon legacy."
"Forty thousand people."
"The forty thousand I left on the island were driven like cattle to Dragon's Roost."
With each word, his shoulders sank lower.
"Those who refused to surrender, refused to relocate, moved too slowly, or were simply implicated…"
"He ordered them executed."
"There were old men, women, children…"
"Thousands."
"That bastard…"
He did not finish.
Because even if he did, Driftmark would not return.
Rhaenyra reached out, trying to steady him.
But Corlys suddenly bent forward.
A mouthful of dark red blood sprayed onto the black volcanic rock.
"My lord!"
Corlys waved his hand, shaking off the panicked attendants.
He wiped the blood from his lips with his sleeve and slowly straightened.
"I spent sixty years turning Driftmark into the most prosperous land in the Seven Kingdoms."
"That wretch destroyed it in a single month—left it barren."
Rhaenyra grasped his hand.
The old man's hand was large-knuckled, mottled with age spots.
"My lord," she said, her voice carrying a promise.
"Driftmark still stands."
"You still stand. The fleet still stands. The people still stand."
"Everything can be rebuilt."
But Corlys shook his head.
This time, the Velaryon House had been crippled to the bone by Aemond.
...
The great hall of Dragonstone.
More than three hundred corpses lay spread across the black stone floor, each clad in armor bearing the Velaryon seahorse.
Blood ran like a river.
The hem of Rhaenyra's gown swept across the steps, catching a streak of still-wet blood. She did not look down.
"Who was the commander?"
An old Velaryon knight lifted his head, his right hand resting on his sword, his left holding a broken helmet.
"They had no commander, Your Grace."
His throat bobbed.
"After Aemond took High Tide, he seized the families of all Velaryon soldiers and sent them to Dragon's Roost."
"For every day these men held out, Aemond would release thirty of their kin."
"But if any man surrendered…"
He paused.
"For every one who yielded, a hundred of their kin were executed."
The hall fell silent as a grave.
No one dared breathe.
Rhaenyra said nothing.
"So none of them surrendered," the old knight said.
"One group fell, the next stepped forward. That group fell, and the next took their place."
His gaze swept over the cold corpses.
"They held for five days."
"In those five days, they killed more than eight hundred of us."
"Including twelve knights, a lord's heir…"
His voice broke.
"…and my son."
Soft sobs rose through the hall.
The Velaryon soldiers who had walked into Dragonstone alive now looked upon the corpses of their kin—looked upon the sword wounds where family had slain family.
"We still have kin imprisoned at Dragon's Roost," the old knight said, lifting his head. "Your Grace…"
He did not finish.
But Rhaenyra understood.
She was silent for a long time.
Then she spoke, making her vow.
"I swear to you."
"Aemond Targaryen—and the Greens—will pay for this."
She spoke each word clearly.
"For every one of my kin who died, for every one of yours."
"If the Seven do not grant me life to see that day—"
"Then let my sons, or my sons' sons, generation after generation, hunt them down to the end."
"A blood debt must be repaid in blood."
The old knight looked at her.
After a long moment, he dropped to one knee.
"I have only this life left."
"Your Grace may take it whenever she wishes."
The clash of armor rang out like a tide across the stone floor.
One after another, the Velaryon soldiers knelt.
Corlys remained standing where he was.
Rhaenys walked to his side and gently took his hand.
The old princess said nothing, only standing quietly beside him.
...
In the corner of the hall, a single heavily wounded prisoner slowly opened his eyes.
His armor had been stripped away, leaving only a torn, blood-soaked shirt.
Rhaenyra walked toward him.
"What is your name?"
The young man lifted his gaze.
"Veldrick."
"Veldrick Velaryon."
Corlys turned his head.
He remembered the young man.
Two years ago, in the hall of High Tide, he had personally touched his sword to this distant kinsman's shoulder and knighted him.
"Veldrick?" he said, striding forward.
Veldrick lowered his head.
"I am sorry, Lord Corlys."
"I did not wish for this either."
No one in the hall spoke.
After a long silence, Veldrick raised his head again.
He looked at Corlys, at Rhaenyra, at the silent nobles and knights.
"I do not ask to live."
"For my family, I obeyed his orders. I killed many of our own."
"I deserve to die."
He continued bitterly.
"That prince said this is the price Velaryon pays for daring to covet the Targaryens."
Corlys swayed.
Rhaenys stepped forward to steady him.
Tears streamed from the old man's eyes.
It was all because of his swelling ambition.
Because he had sought to make House Velaryon a second dragonlord house.
He reached out, trying to help Veldrick to his feet.
"Live."
"Live—and come with me to take it back."
Veldrick grasped the old lord's hand.
Then he smiled.
"Lord Corlys."
"My family is still in their hands."
"If my surrender is discovered…"
He glanced at the cold corpses of the other surrendered soldiers.
"Then I will truly have failed them."
"They will all be executed."
"What meaning is there in my living, then?"
Corlys did not answer.
No one could answer.
Veldrick drew the dagger at his waist.
He looked at them all.
"May Your Grace, may you, my lord, win this war."
"Avenge us."
The dagger drove straight into his throat.
Blood sprayed.
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