"Those new hangers-on of yours?" Mysaria took a sip of her tea and continued.
"The bastards Princess Saera left behind."
"Silver hair, purple eyes—what a standard Targaryen look, is it not?"
Jacaerys's right eye narrowed slightly. "They have Targaryen blood."
"My mother and Prince Daemon have accepted them."
"The prince accepts them because they are useful," Mysaria said with a light laugh. "As for your mother, Rhaenyra, she rewards you with them…"
She set down her cup.
"So you bring these bastards about everywhere—are you showing them off?"
"Or trying to prove something, little Jace?"
Jacaerys's fist clenched beneath the table.
This woman seemed able to see through his thoughts; every conversation felt as though she were flaying him alive.
"I have something I need your help with." He skipped over the matter, his right eye fixed straight on her. "Something important."
Mysaria leaned back in her chair, her manner easy.
"It is written on your face. The killing intent is thick enough to choke on."
Jacaerys suppressed his killing intent as he spoke.
"Aemond is betrothed to Helaena…"
"I want you to help me kill Aemond."
The air in the room froze.
The faint ease in Mysaria's smile vanished. She stared at Jacaerys for a long while.
"Say that again?"
"Aemond Targaryen." Jacaerys enunciated each word, each syllable forced out through clenched teeth. "I want him dead!"
Mysaria did not answer. Then she shook her head.
"I cannot do it."
"Why?" Jacaerys rose to his feet. "You are the Black faction's master of whisperers!"
"You have been building your network in King's Landing for more than a decade! You must still have men."
"I once did," Mysaria cut him off. "Do you know what Aemond has done in King's Landing?"
Jacaerys shook his head, puzzled, to show that he did not.
"He has raised a flock of little birds."
"Those street children running wild in the streets—on the surface they beg or steal, but in truth they memorize faces and listen to what is said."
Mysaria let out a breath.
"He has also established informers within the Red Keep."
"They do not seize people. They only observe. They only record."
"And once word reaches him, his executioner guards descend like sharks that have scented blood."
"The intelligence network I built in King's Landing over more than ten years—he used half a year to destroy most of it."
"The men I have left are those I ordered to lie low."
"And now you would have me use these precious men to carry out a suicide mission?"
Jacaerys stood before the table, his chest heaving violently. He slammed his fist down upon it.
"And Helaena?"
"Kill her. If she dies… Aemond will suffer."
"Then he will go mad, lose his reason, and in that way he will make mistakes."
"Little Jace." Mysaria looked at the frenzied youth.
She rose, walked around the table, and stopped before him.
This woman, who was ever composed and even somewhat cynical, now bore on her face a gravity Jacaerys had never seen before—almost… pity.
"Look at me," she said.
"Look into my eyes, and then say again that you want me to murder Helaena Targaryen."
"You would have me kill a princess who has never harmed anyone?"
"Only to make Aemond suffer?"
Jacaerys's right eye shifted aside for a moment.
But soon hatred rekindled in his pupil, and he growled low, "She is of the Greens!"
"Her house is usurping my mother's throne!"
"So you would punish her?" Mysaria countered.
"With her blood, avenge deeds she never committed?"
"Little Jace, do you hate Helaena, or do you hate that you cannot have her?"
The words were like a dagger, striking true into Jacaerys's wound.
Mysaria sighed.
She returned to the wooden cabinet in the corner, opened a drawer, and took out a small vial of deep violet liquid.
"Essence of sweet-sleep flower," she said, setting the vial upon the table. "It is to calm you."
"Drink a little. You need to be calm."
"I do not!"
"You do." Mysaria's voice suddenly hardened. "For now you are like a mad dog that cannot be leashed, snapping at whoever stands before it."
Jacaerys stared at her, his fist clenched so tightly it cracked.
At last, he seized the vial, pulled out the wooden stopper, and swallowed a small mouthful.
The liquid slid down his throat, sweet with a trace of bitterness, bringing with it a cool chill.
When his breathing steadied somewhat, Mysaria continued: "Listen. Even if I were mad enough to stake all my remaining men and attempt an assassination in the Red Keep, what are the chances of success?"
"And even if it succeeded, what would follow?"
Mysaria counted upon her fingers.
"First, the Greens would go mad. You would be driving them into open war."
"Second, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would turn wholly to the Greens. To murder an innocent princess is moral suicide."
"Third, how would your mother look upon you? You would be plotting kinslaying—would she forgive you?"
She looked at Jacaerys's gradually paling face. "More importantly, do you think the Greens lack the means to do the same?"
"They have more coin and more men."
"The reason they have not yet sent assassins to kill your mother, to kill Daemon, to kill you—is not mercy, but disdain for such means."
"It is also because the bottom line between both sides has not yet been broken."
"Once we cross it, the war will no longer be a civil struggle for succession, but a slaughter meant to wipe out whole bloodlines."
Jacaerys sank into the chair. The numbness brought by the essence of sweet-sleep flower spread through his limbs.
Leaning back, he muttered, "Then… there is nothing we can do?"
"We can only wait here?"
"And watch them win?"
"Who says you can do nothing?" Mysaria interlaced her fingers upon the table.
"There is one thing you can do—and only you can do it."
Jacaerys raised his head and looked at her.
"Your dragon," Mysaria said.
"Vermax. And Lucerys's Arrax, Joffrey's Tyraxes."
"Three young dragons, now confined within the Dragonpit of King's Landing."
"But not all who guard them are hounds of the Greens."
Jacaerys's right eye widened, and he leaned forward. "You mean—"
"There are men of ours in the Dragonpit." A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved at the corner of Mysaria's mouth.
A fierce light flared in Jacaerys's lone eye. "When do we act? How do we contact them?"
"Not now," Mysaria cut him off.
At once, Jacaerys seemed to sink again.
Seeing the flash of disappointment in his eyes, she softened slightly. "Patience, little Jace."
"You must wait—wait for your enemy to show a flaw, wait until every condition favors you. When that time comes…"
She did not finish, but Jacaerys understood.
He nodded.
"I can wait."
"But I need assurance that when the time comes, I can reclaim what is mine."
"Vermax is my dragon. He knows my blood."
"So long as I can draw near to him…"
"You will reclaim him," Mysaria said, her tone shifting. "But for now, I hear…"
"That you are training those Targaryen bastards' descendants upon the island?"
Jacaerys's body stiffened slightly.
"How do you know?"
"Little Jace," Mysaria smiled. "I am the master of whisperers."
"On this island, I know how many holes even the rats have dug."
"You have men train those bastards, and you think I would not notice?"
Jacaerys was silent for a long while.
"The Black faction needs more men."
"Those bastards have Targaryen blood, and are born close to the house."
"They will become the most loyal guard at my mother's side."
"Only guards?" Mysaria stared at him.
Jacaerys met her gaze and answered, "Only guards."
"Very well. Go back and rest, child."
Mysaria no longer looked at Jacaerys, lowering her head to attend to her own affairs.
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