Night fell over Tyrosh. In the banquet hall, the gilded doors slowly closed as the last Tyroshi noble departed.
The heavy doors shut with a dull thud.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat upon the throne crafted by the Tyroshi.
The chair was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold. Its tall back was carved with waves and trading ships.
It had once been the seat of the Archon of Tyrosh. Now it belonged to her.
Candlelight flickered through her silver-gold hair. She closed her eyes. The flattery from moments before still buzzed in her ears—Queen, Queen of Tyrosh, ruler of the Tyroshi city-state. What a tempting title. What a sweet poison.
"You did the right thing."
Daemon's voice came from beside her, carrying firm approval.
"I did the right thing?" Rhaenyra sighed helplessly.
"I turned down a kingdom, Daemon."
"A kingdom already laid before me."
"It was those Tyroshi nobles trying to slip a crown over your head," Corlys said as he walked forward.
"The moment you accept the title of Queen of Tyrosh, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms who still support you will abandon you."
"In the eyes of those Andals who follow the Seven, you would have become the queen of foreigners. After that, claiming the Iron Throne would become far more difficult."
Rhaenyra understood this, of course.
But understanding and accepting were two different things.
She opened her eyes, her violet gaze fixed on her husband, Daemon.
"How long can the tax-farming system hold them steady?"
"Long enough—so long as your rule remains firm."
"The nobles of Tyrosh—grant them autonomy and take only part of the taxes. They can do the sums. They know it is worth the bargain."
"Besides, without us, it would be the Volantenes who occupy them."
"When that time comes, their terms will only be worse."
"They would be completely swallowed and turned into vassals."
"And now? They still rule as they did before and have even gained greater autonomy—only the Archon above them has changed to you."
"Besides, we have dragons."
"So long as dragonriders are stationed in this city, they will not rebel."
"Dragons can teach them loyalty."
At the word dragons, Rhaenyra thought of her eldest son, the brooding and stubborn Jacaerys. Behind her back, he had found those bastards with thin traces of dragon's blood and taught them how to ride dragons.
She had only heard of their existence for the first time today, yet they had already lost on Dragonstone—and lost disastrously.
"Have they arrived?" Rhaenyra asked.
"They have been waiting in the side hall the entire time," came Lucerys's voice.
Rhaenyra rose and looked at her second son.
Lucerys Velaryon stood at the edge of the candlelight, half his face hidden in shadow.
Even so, she could clearly see that the newly grown skin on the left side of his face still showed a horrifying pink hue, like the flesh of a fruit with its skin peeled away. It stretched from his face down to his back before disappearing beneath his collar.
That was the mark left by dragonfire.
When Lucerys saw his mother watching him, he forced a smile.
"Luke," Rhaenyra's voice softened, "bring them in."
Lucerys nodded.
When the doors opened again, two people were brought inside.
The contrast between them was startling.
Saera wore a coarse but clean linen dress. Her belly was already clearly swollen—at least five or six months pregnant.
Nettles was the complete opposite. Twelve years old, perhaps younger, with black hair and brown eyes. Her skin was a deep brown from years beneath the sun.
"Raise your head," Rhaenyra said.
Saera obeyed. In her eyes there was nervousness, expectation—and pride.
She carried Jacaerys's child—the blood of a dragonseed.
Nettles hesitated for a long time. Only after a guard gave her a light push did she slowly raise her face.
Rhaenyra asked, "What happened on Dragonstone?"
"I want the details—every single detail."
Saera began to recount that dragon battle.
The hall fell into heavy silence.
Daemon's face darkened to a frightening degree. He knew very well how severe Vermithor's injuries were. That morning he had personally seen the Bronze Fury, Vermithor.
At the very least it would take years to recover. For now, its combat strength was greatly diminished.
And the Bronze Fury, Vermithor, was the only adult giant dragon capable of confronting Vhagar head-on.
According to Saera's account, although Vhagar had also been wounded, it was clearly still capable of continuing the fight.
A wave of regret rose in Daemon's heart.
If at that time he and Rhaenys had both flown back to Dragonstone on their dragons, perhaps they could have slain Aemond and Vhagar.
Saera looked at the silent crowd, one hand protecting her belly, and said, "Lord Jacaerys promised that when the child is born, he will give it a surname."
"The surname Targaryen."
The hall was quiet for several seconds.
Corlys cleared his throat and stepped forward. His staff tapped lightly against the floor.
"Rhaenyra, this child—boy or girl—is Jacaerys's only blood. House Velaryon is willing to accept it."
"When the child grows up, you may legitimize—"
"Lord Corlys," Daemon interrupted, his tone dripping with undisguised mockery, "you truly are not choosy."
"As long as there's a bit of dragon's blood, you gather them all to Driftmark? Now you will not even spare bastards?"
The Sea Snake's face flushed red, the veins on the hand gripping his staff bulging.
"Prince Daemon, mind your words!"
"Jacaerys is my grandson. No matter who the mother is, that child carries my grandson's blood!"
"No matter who his father is, he can only be a bastard," Daemon said, enunciating each word.
Saera lowered her head. Her silver-gold hair fell forward, covering her face, while a flash of hatred passed through her eyes.
Rhaenyra thought again of the dead Jacaerys, her first child.
What had he wanted?
Had he trained those bastards to ride dragons in order to create a corps of dragonriders that would obey only him?
"Raise your head," Rhaenyra said to Saera.
Saera lifted her head again. The hatred in her eyes had turned into pleading.
"My lady, please…"
"This child," Rhaenyra said after careful thought, "will bear neither the name Targaryen nor the name Velaryon."
Saera's lips trembled, tears gathering in her eyes.
"But," Rhaenyra continued, "if you render service—service to the Blacks, service to me—and earn enough merit, I will grant him a new surname. He will become a noble."
"Then… can he ride a dragon?" Saera asked in a trembling voice.
Daemon let out a mocking laugh. "Bastards have no right to ride dragons. That is Targaryen tradition."
He gave her a cold look. "Jacaerys has already committed a grave mistake. But he is dead now, and the deed is done. I will not pursue the matter further."
"When you die, the dragons will also be taken from you."
The light in Saera's eyes went out completely. The child not yet born was destined to live in the shadows.
"You may go," Rhaenyra said.
Saera performed a stiff curtsy and turned to leave the hall.
At the doorway, she brushed past a tall figure. It was Hugh "the Hammer," commander of the bastard guard. Hugh watched Saera's retreating back, his gaze fervent.
He knew that this woman possessed the secret of taming dragons.
The doors closed. Saera's footsteps gradually faded into the distance.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---