Chapter 49 — The Mermaid King's Wife, the Power of the Dragon
The Five Fingers of the Vale stretched like the grasping hand of an ancient giant into the cold, grey sea. Jagged cliffs and sharp reefs tore through the surf, and the cries of gulls echoed against the stone. The tide was red that day, lapping at the shore where wooden stakes stood like teeth, impaled upon them the broken corpses of Sistermen pirates.
Daemon Targaryen rode along the shore, his cloak snapping in the wind, his eyes scanning the desolation. The air smelled of blood and salt.
The coastline bore old scars — carvings of seven-pointed stars and runic axes cut deep into the stone, remnants of the Andals' first landing upon Westeros. The Five Fingers were a land of rock and ruin, treacherous to sailors and merciless to fools. Any army foolish enough to land here would find itself mired in narrow valleys, its advance choked by rivers, hills, and stone.
It was no wonder the Vale had never been easily taken. Even Aegon the Conqueror had found it troublesome, and only the wisdom of Sharra Arryn had spared her people from dragonfire.
But now, those same cliffs were littered with the wreckage of pirate longships. On the distant horizon, the Valyrian fleet flew its seahorse banners, silver against the sea's dull green.
Meleys, the Red Queen, fed on the corpses of the fallen pirates, her crimson wings spread wide as her fire sizzled against the tide. Nearby, Caraxes tore apart another burnt husk, while old Vhagar slept on a sunlit hill, her belly rising and falling like a mountain breathing.
Vaemond Velaryon stood at Daemon's side, the sea wind whipping through his silver hair. He looked every inch his brother's kin — tall, proud, and handsome. "Princess Rhaenys burned their fleet near Old Anchor," he said, voice firm. "The survivors fled inland, some toward the hills, others back to the Sisters. The Vale sings her praises already."
Rhaenys herself approached then, her silvered armor gleaming, her face half-shadowed by her helm. "We've crushed their fleets and broken their strongholds," she said. "What remains are scraps hiding in caves and crags. The land will devour them soon enough."
Daemon's lips curled. "If that were true, they'd already be dead. Pirates breed like rats. You burn one nest, two more appear."
"The sea," Rhaenys said lightly, "is never empty."
He gave her a cool look. He knew well enough what she meant. The Velaryons had long profited from the presence of pirates. So long as chaos lingered along the Vale's coasts, their fleets remained indispensable.
Daemon turned to his father. "Father, once we've finished here, I'll not have it said the royal fleet retreated while thieves still breathe. We'll burn every nest, every cave."
Baelon frowned. "If we linger too long, winter will close the passes. The Vale will freeze before the pirates do."
Daemon smirked. "Then we'll feed them to the snow."
That night, the soldiers of the Vale and the Velaryon sailors made camp upon a high bluff overlooking the sea. The air was sharp with salt and smoke. Fires flickered across the encampment, and the restless whispers of the men mingled with the sound of crashing waves.
Alys Rivers sat alone by a fire, her dark eyes reflecting the flames. When Daemon approached, she did not rise.
"Did your flames show you where they hide?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. The sea is too loud here. The Andals burned the weirwoods long ago, and without their roots, I see little but waves and darkness."
Then her gaze sharpened. "But I saw her. A crowned mermaid, watching me from beneath the surf."
Daemon frowned. "A crowned mermaid? From House Manderly, perhaps?"
Alys's expression darkened. "No. She is the Witch of Witch Island — Terra Uller, the Merling King's Wife."
Daemon had heard the name. Witch Island was a barren rock near the Fingers, smaller than Pebbleton or Nippleton, yet its reputation far outstripped its size. The Ullers of Witch Island were said to be touched by sorcery, men and women alike born with saltwater in their veins and whispers in their blood.
In the Age of Heroes, their ancestor, Ursella Uller, had wed Robert Royce II, the last High King of the First Men, and through witchcraft had cursed the Andal invaders. The tales said that when she fell in battle, her head screamed for three days before it drowned beneath the waves.
Now, this Terra Uller claimed the same title her foremothers bore — the Merling King's Wife.
"If she has power," Daemon murmured, "perhaps she can help us find the pirates."
Alys looked at him warily. "Or perhaps she will drown you in the attempt."
He smiled. "Then she'll find me a difficult man to drown."
---
At dawn, Daemon mounted Caraxes. He told Baelon he was going to patrol the coast — but instead, he flew east, across the grey-green waves, toward Witch Island.
The isle was bleak and windswept, its cliffs rising sheer from the sea. Upon a high hill stood a castle of black stone, its towers half-swallowed by ivy. Beneath it, an ancient weirwood stretched its pale branches to the sky, its red leaves whispering in the wind.
Caraxes landed with a hiss of steam and salt, the earth trembling beneath his talons.
A woman stood waiting at the castle gates, her gown the color of the deep sea, her neck adorned with a gemstone that shimmered like a drop of frozen sky.
"Prince Daemon," she said, bowing her head. "Welcome to the house of the Merling King's Wife."
Daemon dismounted, his curiosity piqued. "You knew I was coming?"
Terra Uller smiled, her voice soft as foam. "Your witch was peering into the flames last night. Fire may be her domain, but salt and sea belong to me. I saw her long before she saw me."
Inside, the castle was eerily silent. Its halls were swept clean, its hearths lit, but Daemon saw only a handful of servants — three young knights, an old maid, and a cook. The meal laid before him was fine enough: lamprey pie, roast lamb, and sweet cider.
"You live well for one so far from the mainland," Daemon remarked.
"The sea provides," Terra said. "Half a moon ago, a ship from Pentos struck the reefs. I merely gathered what the sea offered."
"And the crew?"
"They feed the crabs now."
Daemon laughed. "You're honest, at least."
When the plates were cleared, he said, "Help me find the pirates, and I'll see you rewarded."
Terra leaned forward, her eyes gleaming like the gemstone at her throat. "The Sistermen are nothing. I can give you something far greater, Prince — strength beyond steel or fire."
Daemon's brow arched. "And what price do you ask?"
"One only. Take me with you to King's Landing. Let me serve at your side, as Ursella served her king."
Daemon hesitated. "My father disapproves of witchcraft."
"Yet you keep Alys Rivers." Her fingers brushed his wrist, light as sea spray. "She drinks from rivers. I drink from the tide. Tell me, which do you think runs deeper?"
Her words stirred something fierce and curious within him.
"How would you make me stronger?" he asked.
Terra smiled. "By waking the Dragon that sleeps inside you."
---
At her bidding, Daemon followed her down to the shore. The tide crashed against the rocks as Terra drew strange symbols in the sand and chanted words that seemed to twist the air. She handed him a cup filled with a dark green liquid that shimmered like molten emerald.
"Drink," she commanded.
Daemon did. Fire burned down his throat, spreading through his chest like molten steel. His vision blurred — and then, suddenly, he was no longer himself.
He was Caraxes.
He saw the sea through the dragon's eyes, felt the strength of his wings, the furnace of his heart. He could taste salt and blood and smoke.
Then he was himself again, gasping.
Terra's voice was calm. "Not a shapeshifter — not yet. But you are closer to your dragon now than any Targaryen alive. Feel it, Prince. The blood of Valyria remembers."
Daemon's heart thundered. He felt light, powerful — alive in a way he never had before.
He looked toward the sky, where Caraxes shrieked and spread his crimson wings.
"I am the Dragon," he whispered.
Terra's smile deepened, secret and knowing. "Yes," she murmured. "And soon, the world will remember it too."
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