Bonus - 100 Stones
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Driftmark, Spice Harbor.
The long night had deepened inside the tavern called The Mermaid.
The door swung open; cold wind poured in, and the men near the entrance cursed as they pulled their coats tighter.
Daemon Targaryen stood in the doorway, cloaked in black, his silver hair tied back with a few loose strands brushing his cheeks.
His violet eyes swept the noisy common room and settled on the darkest corner.
Laenor Velaryon sat sideways, his silver hair glinting faintly in the dim light.
Beside him lounged a sun-bronzed young sailor with broad shoulders; the two were pressed close, heads almost touching as they spoke low.
Laenor's hand rested on the sailor's solid forearm.
Daemon crossed the floor, ignoring the curious or wary stares. He took the empty chair opposite Laenor.
Laenor's smile froze when he saw who had come.
"Prince Daemon," Laenor said, uneasy.
"This is unexpected. So late, in a place like this."
"Nights on Driftmark have their own flavor," Daemon replied, his mouth curving in something not quite a smile, his gaze fixed on the young sailor.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything urgent."
The sailor, Qarl Correy, a boatswain of the Serpent, scrambled up, knocking over his cup.
"My lord Laenor, I should check the cables. Storm season and all…"
Laenor didn't look at him. "Go."
The sailor fled as if pardoned.
Only the two of them remained.
Daemon took the wine jug from Laenor's table, poured a little, sipped, and grimaced.
"Driftmark's finest, still as… unique as ever."
Laenor stared. "Say it. Is this for Rhaenyra? Or for your children?"
"A world of three," Daemon cut in smoothly.
"It is simply too crowded. Don't you think so, Laenor?"
Laenor's heart sank; his hand stole toward the dagger at his belt.
"So you want me to step aside? Like your first Lady of the Vale? A hunting accident?"
Daemon chuckled softly, leaning forward on the table.
"That would solve things and cause trouble. Laenor, I'm not here to become a kinslayer…"
Laenor's eyes bored into his.
"Then what do you want?"
"A better arrangement," Daemon coaxed.
"Better for you, for Rhaenyra, for Driftmark. You could have the freedom you truly crave. Not shackled as Laenor Velaryon, Heir to Driftmark, Rhaenyra's lawful husband."
He lowered his voice. "Real, unfettered freedom. The name you choose, the person you choose, no duties, no whispers."
He paused to let the words sink in.
"Rhaenyra gains the clean reputation she needs: a legal widow, a child who can openly bear the Targaryen name. Securing her claim. Driftmark will mourn its brave, early-lost heir, then stand by its princess-daughter and grandsons. A tragedy, but also… a beginning."
"The price," Laenor said after a silence, "is that Laenor Velaryon vanishes from the world."
"In exchange, someone else lives, truly free." Daemon lounged back.
Laenor said nothing.
Before him rose Rhaenyra's beautiful, anxious face, his brown-haired boys, his father Corlys's expectant gaze, his mother Rhaenys's disappointed yet understanding eyes. His heart pulled.
On one side: heavy duty, hopes he could never fulfill. On the other hand, tempting release, freedom, a life without pretense.
"Why should I trust you?" Laenor asked at last.
Daemon's smile widened; he drew a parchment from his coat and slid it across.
"My house in Pentos, blank but signed and sealed. Enough gold to live like a King in Essos."
Laenor didn't touch it. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you remain heir to Driftmark, Rhaenyra's husband, the nominal father of three brown-haired boys." Daemon spread his hands.
"Until, one day, perhaps a real accident, or a moment when someone's patience snaps… Who can say? But then the choice won't be yours."
"You're threatening me. Daemon, remember, this is Driftmark."
"I'm offering you a choice," Daemon corrected.
"One road: leave with honor, everyone content. The other: stay in this gilded cage and wait for a blade that may fall at any moment."
Laenor studied Daemon for a long moment; he knew the Rogue Prince could do it.
"I need time."
"Of course." Daemon rose.
"The Driftmark moon is full, perfect for thinking."
He turned and vanished into the night beyond the door.
Meanwhile, above the Gods Eye.
Under the same sky, a thousand leagues away above the Gods Eye, the cold was of another kind.
Wind, like countless ice-knives from the Land of Always Winter, howled, slicing skin, hunting for bone.
Aemond Targaryen pressed flat against Vhagar's neck, her scales rough as stone.
He wore no saddle chains. The straps would keep a rider fast, yet he spurned that safety.
Chains meant sluggishness.
Chains meant that if his beloved uncle leaped from the sky with Dark Sister in hand, Aemond would be trapped.
He chose the older, deadlier way: thighs clamped into the hollow at the base of the dragon's neck, fingers hooked between scales.
Body nearly parallel to Vhagar's broad back, he fought the furious wind.
The cold bit deep. Wind poured into his ears, collar, and sleeves, stealing heat.
His cheeks numbed; every breath burned like fire.
His violet eyes, sharpened by moonlight and biting wind, stayed fixed below.
Moonlight spilled, sketching a vast, black, eerily gleaming sheet, the Gods Eye.
The Gods Eye, said to be blessed by the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest, was the widest lake in Westeros.
Vhagar plainly hated it.
She loved the open sky where her wings could blot out the heavens.
Here, the sheer peaks and the mist squeezed the lake into a narrow, blue chasm. To her bulk, the space felt cramped.
She tossed her head, thick muscles rolling beneath scales, a growl rising in her throat.
"Quiet, Vhagar, look sharp," Aemond growled in High Valyrian.
He was running the simulation in his mind. The battle that would come.
Daemon's Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, was scarcely a third of Vhagar's size.
Yet he was younger, quicker, fiercer, built for tight turning in such cramped space.
In this air-walled canyon, Vhagar's unmatched size became a burden.
No room for the crushing charge, no way to ram; every turn, climb, or dive struck invisible barriers of air currents or mist.
Caraxes, cloaked in mist, would strike from above or below, fast and unseen, latching onto Vhagar's neck and holding.
In the history Aemond knew, what plunged toward the black water was not only two dragons, but the Targaryen grip on the Seven Kingdoms itself.
'I will not fight him here, Aemond decided. Not over the water. Not in the mist.'
He pulled on the reins.
Vhagar banked, her massive wings catching the updraft, and soared higher, into the clear, cold starlight where no shadows could hide a red dragon.
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