The night over Driftmark was torn apart by thick smoke and firelight rising from the direction of Spicetown.
The tavern called "The Mermaid", a place Laenor Velaryon had loved to frequent in life, had now been reduced to a crackling, charred skeleton.
The fire had been unnaturally fierce. By the time Driftmark's fire brigades arrived, the wooden structure had already collapsed.
Only the stone foundation remained, along with a few beams burned into charcoal pillars, still stubbornly aflame, breathing out their final waves of heat and black smoke.
Bodies from inside and outside the tavern were carried out one by one and laid upon the open stone ground of the harbor, covered with coarse sackcloth.
The stench of scorching, roasted flesh, and wood ash mixed together into a nauseating reek.
Most of the dead were no longer recognizable, their bodies curled and blackened like charred shrimp.
One corpse, however, had been placed apart, laid upon a door plank brought over for the purpose.
It was slightly taller than the others, yet just as curled and burned black, its skin split open to reveal the carbonized muscle beneath.
The facial features were completely unrecognizable; the eye sockets had become two pitch-black hollows.
And yet, on what could barely still be identified as the left hand—its fingers burned black and curled—a ring reflected a faint, cold gleam in the torchlight.
It was a ring forged of Valyrian steel, unique in design. Not a simple band, but carved into the shape of a miniature seahorse coiled around a ship's anchor, the seahorse's eyes set with tiny sapphires.
This was the ring of the Velaryon heir, given on Laenor's sixteenth nameday, when he was formally named.
Laenor had almost never removed it.
Corlys stood before the charred corpse.
The legendary seafarer, the Lord of the Tides, looked as though his spine had been torn from him.
His body trembled uncontrollably.
The face that the sea winds had carved with countless lines now seemed ashen. His gray-blue eyes stared fixedly at the ring, then slowly lifted to the face that could no longer be identified.
His lips trembled, yet no sound emerged.
Less than half a year ago, he had personally closed the eyes of his daughter, Laena.
Now, his only son—the continuation of House Velaryon's bloodline and name—had become nothing more than a piece of charcoal lying on a door plank.
"Lae… nor…" Corlys finally forced out the sound, dry and hoarse, shattered beyond any proper tone.
No matter how much he had endured in his life, he could not accept the pain of seeing his own bloodline wiped away.
The scepter slipped from his other hand.
Clang.
The sound of the metal head striking stone was sharp and abrupt.
Immediately after came a heavier, duller "thud."
Corlys's tall, upright body toppled straight backward, crashing hard onto the ground. His eyes closed tightly, and the last trace of color drained from his face.
"Corlys!" Rhaenys cried out in alarm.
She rushed to her husband's side and dropped to her knees on the cold stone ground. With trembling hands, she checked his breath, then pressed her fingers to the side of his neck. "Maester! Get the maester—now!"
The crowd stirred in agitation.
Attendants and maesters hurried forward. In a flurry of hands, they lifted the unconscious Sea Snake and rushed him toward High Tide.
Rhaenys did not follow at once.
She rose slowly to her feet, her gaze falling once more upon the charred corpse—and the glaring ring.
Her back remained straight, but in the blue eyes she shared with her husband, a terrifying storm churned: grief at its absolute extreme, and a rage forcibly restrained, yet already on the brink of eruption.
Grief-stricken, she turned toward the captain of the harbor guard responsible for the investigation and said coldly, "Explain it clearly. What exactly happened."
The captain swallowed, his report coming out with difficulty. "My lady…
"According to the survivors and nearby witnesses, Lord Laenor was drinking at the Mermaid as usual tonight, together with a young sailor named Havor, someone he had recently grown… close to."
"Later, however, another captain who had previously been involved with Lord Laenor—one called Marcos—burst in with several men. An argument broke out, which quickly escalated into a brawl…"
He swallowed again. "That Marcos… is said to have borne a long-standing grudge because Lord Laenor had recently neglected him and turned to Havor."
"During the fight, he drew a dagger… and stabbed Lord Laenor in the chest."
"Then… then they splashed strong liquor from the tavern around and set it alight. Taking advantage of the chaos, they fled through the back door. People at the harbor saw them board a fast ship and head toward the Stepstones…"
"The fire spread too quickly. Very few of those inside managed to escape…"
"Marcos…" Rhaenys repeated the name, her eyes sharp and ruthless. "His background? Who does he have ties to?"
"He—he's a minor captain active around the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. He has no fixed loyalty; he follows coin, not men."
"He did indeed frequent Driftmark in the past and had… a period of involvement with Lord Laenor."
"Many in the tavern can testify. They had quarreled before, and Marcos had openly threatened revenge…"
The captain lowered his head. "The scene was chaotic, but the murder weapon was recovered—a Lyseni-style dagger, with blood on it."
"Marcos's group fled in great haste and left behind some personal items."
Everything sounded reasonable. A crime of passion born of jealousy; the killer setting fire and fleeing in panic. Motive, witnesses, physical evidence.
Too reasonable.
Rhaenys's gaze shifted slowly, sweeping over the gathered members of House Velaryon.
Her eyes lingered for a brief moment on one man—Corlys's brother, Vaemond Velaryon.
This younger brother, who had long been dissatisfied with his elder binding the inheritance to those three "brown-haired boys," now wore an expression of grief as well—but beneath that grief lurked a revulsion he could scarcely conceal.
And when Rhaenys's gaze swept past Rhaenyra not far away—and then to Daemon, standing at her side with one hand resting on his sword hilt—the suspicion in her heart sank deep and took root.
Rhaenyra was covering her mouth, her face pale, her body swaying slightly.
The trauma of her eldest son Jacaerys losing an eye half a year ago had not yet faded, and now her nominal husband had died a horrific death in the flames.
Her lower abdomen, even beneath the concealment of a dark gown, already showed a noticeable swell.
Daemon, meanwhile, remained expressionless, silently observing everything before him.
At that moment, Vaemond's voice rang out—not loud, yet clear enough for everyone around to hear, carrying a resentment and accusation he could no longer suppress: "Do you see it? This is the consequence!"
He pointed toward the three boys standing behind Rhaenyra, their faces equally stricken with grief—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.
Their brown hair and brown eyes stood in stark contrast to the silver hair and purple or blue eyes of House Velaryon and House Targaryen.
"My brother Corlys—wise all his life—was muddled in this matter!" Vaemond grew agitated.
"For the sake of so-called political alliances, he tolerated those three… those children without a single drop of Velaryon blood, bearing the name of my house's heir!"
"And now look! Laenor is dead! The only legitimate son of House Velaryon—the true bloodline—is dead!"
He swept his gaze across the gathered family members and bannermen, seeking to stir them. "Are we to hand our noble seahorse banner, in the future, to these… these brown-haired boys who came from who knows where?"
"The inheritance of Driftmark, the Velaryon fleet, the honor and wealth our house has built over generations—all of it to fall into the hands of bastards?"
Some of the cadet branches and sworn men lowered their heads, their expressions varied.
Vaemond's words had struck a nerve—touching doubts and unease that had long lingered in many hearts.
Rhaenys turned her head and barked sharply, "Vaemond! Enough! This is not the time for this!"
Her voice still carried unquestionable authority, yet beneath it, if one listened closely, there was a suppressed tremor.
Vaemond was dissatisfied, but he closed his mouth all the same. What he had just done was merely an outburst of resentment accumulated over many years.
Toward the position held by his respected elder brother, he harbored no ambition whatsoever.
But he would never tolerate bastards inheriting Velaryon, usurping everything that belonged to House Velaryon.
Rhaenys then swiftly swept her gaze over Rhaenyra and Daemon.
Daemon met her eyes calmly.
Within Rhaenys's heart, the venomous serpent of suspicion was hissing madly.
Next, she looked at no one else. Turning away, she threw a single order to the captain of the guard: "Continue the investigation. That Marcos—and everyone aboard his ship—hunt them down to the end."
"Alive, I want to see the man. Dead, I want to see the body!"
Then, straightening her back despite her grief, she strode quickly toward High Tide, to see her unconscious husband.
...
High Tide, within Rhaenyra's chambers.
The moment the door closed, the fury and fear Rhaenyra had been holding back erupted.
She spun around violently, both hands clutching the front of Daemon's tunic, with such force that it nearly tore the costly fabric.
"You did this! Didn't you?!" Her violet eyes were filled with bloodshot veins.
"Daemon! Tell me! Laenor… was it you?!"
Daemon allowed her to seize him. His expression barely changed as he lowered his head, looking at her face—unnaturally pale yet flushed from agitation and pregnancy.
"Yes." He spoke a single word, calm and unadorned.
Rhaenyra was struck as if by lightning. The hands gripping his clothing instantly lost their strength. She staggered back a step and leaned against the cold stone wall.
The fury in her eyes was swiftly replaced by panic and disbelief. "You… you really… how could you…"
"But," Daemon stepped forward, closing the distance between them, "Laenor is not dead."
Rhaenyra lifted her head, her pupils constricting sharply.
"That charred corpse," Daemon said unhurriedly, "was an unlucky sailor whose build happened to be close to Laenor's."
"My men changed him into Laenor's clothes ahead of time and put that ring on him…"
He spread his hands lightly. "The real Laenor Velaryon should now already be aboard a ship bound for Pentos."
"With the new identity I prepared for him, and enough gold for him to squander for the rest of his life."
"He will be with the person he truly loves. No responsibilities, no titles, no marriage obligations he must fulfill."
He reached out and gently wiped away the tear sliding down Rhaenyra's face, his fingertips cold.
"You see, Rhaenyra, I gave you what you wanted, and I gave him freedom."
"A decent, clean exit."
"No charge of murdering your husband, no public condemnation. You become a lawful widow; our children can be born openly and inherit the Targaryen name."
Daemon smiled faintly, a smile that looked chilling in the firelight.
"As for Rhaenys's suspicions… let her suspect."
"In time, I will explain it to them. Rest assured."
"By the time they learn the truth, resentment will be useless. The matter will already be settled. The identity of Laenor will have vanished from this world."
He lowered his head, leaning close to Rhaenyra's ear, his breath brushing the side of her neck.
"This is how problems are solved—clean, decisive, and pleasing to all."
He paused, then added softly: "Except for the substitute who became charcoal, and the several dozen other unlucky souls in the tavern who served as collateral."
Rhaenyra felt ice-cold all over, staring blankly at the man before her.
Should she feel relieved?
Laenor was still alive. She would not have to bear the guilt of killing her husband.
Daemon's hand slid to her abdomen, resting gently on the faintly rounded curve.
"Our children," he said quietly, with a gravity he had never shown before, "will possess the purest blood of the true dragon. They will be born at the most fitting time. He will be called Aegon…"
"Now, cry," Daemon stepped back, his face returning to calm. "My queen. There is still much theater to perform outside. The grieving widow—remember?"
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