Night fell upon Driftmark Island, torn apart by thick smoke and fire rising toward the Spice Harbor.
The tavern known as the Mermaid, once Laenor Velaryon's favored haunt, had been reduced to a crackling, blackened skeleton.
Only the stone foundation and a few half-collapsed beams still burned stubbornly, releasing their final waves of heat and choking black smoke.
Bodies were carried out one by one from inside and around the tavern, laid upon the bare stone of the harbor, roughly covered with coarse cloth.
The stench of burning flesh mingled with wood ash, forming a nauseating, suffocating air.
On a charred, twisted finger—barely recognizable as a left hand—a ring glinted faintly in the torchlight.
It was a ring of Valyrian steel, uniquely crafted—not a simple band, but shaped into a miniature seahorse coiled around an anchor, its eyes set with tiny sapphires.
The heirloom ring of House Velaryon.
A gift given to Laenor on his sixteenth nameday.
He never removed it.
The body before them trembled uncontrollably.
The man whose face had been carved by countless sea winds stared at the ring with gray-blue eyes, then slowly lifted his gaze to the face that was no longer recognizable.
His lips trembled, but no sound came.
Less than half a year ago, he had closed his daughter Laena's eyes with his own hands.
Now his only son—heir to the Velaryon blood and name—lay before him as a burned corpse atop a door plank.
Even Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, could not endure the pain of losing his own flesh and blood.
The scepter slipped from his hand.
"Corlys!" Rhaenys Targaryen cried.
She rushed to his side, knelt on the cold stone, and held his shaking body against her, her hands clutching his neck.
"Maester! Call the maester!"
Chaos erupted.
Servants and retainers hurried forward, lifting the unconscious Sea Snake and rushing him toward High Tide.
Rhaenys did not follow immediately.
She rose slowly, her gaze once more falling upon the burned corpse—and the gleaming ring.
Her back remained straight, but in her gray-blue eyes burned a terrible storm: grief and fury forcibly restrained, on the brink of eruption.
She turned to the captain of the harbor guard leading the investigation and said coldly:
"Explain everything. Clearly. What happened?"
The captain swallowed.
"Another captain… one with prior dealings with Lord Laenor. His name is Marcos.
He entered the tavern with several men. Words were exchanged. It escalated quickly into violence."
He hesitated.
"They say Lord Laenor had recently ignored him and favored House Hightower instead. Marcos bore resentment."
"And then… they poured spirits throughout the tavern, set it ablaze, and fled through the rear during the chaos.
Witnesses in the port saw them board a clipper heading toward the Stepstones."
"The fire spread too fast. Few escaped."
Rhaenys repeated the name softly, her eyes sharp as blades.
"Background. Who is he tied to?"
"He's a minor captain, active around the Stepstones and disputed lands. No fixed allegiance. He follows coin, not banners.
He once traveled to Tidelands with Lord Laenor."
The captain lowered his head.
"The scene was chaotic, but the murder weapon was found—a Lysene-style dagger, bloodstained."
Everything fit too neatly.
Motive. Witnesses. Weapon.
Too neat.
Rhaenyra covered her mouth, her face pale, her body swaying.
Her eldest son Jacaerys had barely recovered from losing an eye half a year ago—and now her husband had perished in fire.
At that moment, Vaemond Velaryon's voice rang out—low, but sharp enough for all to hear, heavy with long-suppressed accusation.
He pointed toward the three boys standing behind Rhaenyra—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.
Their brown hair and brown eyes stood in stark contrast to the silver hair and violet or sea-blue eyes of House Velaryon and Targaryen.
"My brother Corlys was wise—yet blind in this matter!" Vaemond shouted.
"For the sake of so-called political alliances, he tolerated these three—
Children without a drop of Velaryon blood, yet bearing our name!"
"And now look! Laenor is dead!
The only legitimate son of House Velaryon—true blood—is gone!"
"Will Driftmark, the Velaryon fleet, and the wealth and honor built over generations fall into the hands of bastards?"
Silence followed.
Some relatives and vassals lowered their heads, conflicted.
Vaemond had voiced doubts long held by many.
Though Rhaenys' voice retained its authority, a tremor lay beneath it.
Vaemond fell silent—but his stance was clear.
Bastards would never inherit Velaryon legacy.
Inside Rhaenyra's chambers — High Tide
Rhaenyra stormed past Daemon and turned back abruptly.
Daemon met her gaze calmly.
The viper of suspicion coiled violently in Rhaenys' heart.
Rhaenyra seized Daemon by the chest, nearly tearing the fine fabric.
"You did this. Didn't you?!"
Her violet eyes burned red.
"Daemon! Tell me! Laenor—was it you?!"
Daemon did not resist.
"Yes."
The word fell like thunder.
Rhaenyra staggered back against the cold stone wall, her grip loosening.
Panic and disbelief flooded her face.
"You… you actually—how could you—"
"But," Daemon stepped closer, lowering his voice,
"Laenor is not dead."
Her pupils shrank.
"That burned body," Daemon said slowly,
"was an unfortunate sailor of similar build."
"My man dressed him in Laenor's clothes… and placed the ring."
He spread his hands.
"The real Laenor Velaryon should already be aboard a ship bound for Pentos.
With a new identity—and enough gold to last a lifetime."
"I gave you what you wanted," he said softly.
"And I gave him freedom."
"No accusation of murdering your husband.
You are a lawful widow.
Our children will be born legitimate—and bear the name Targaryen."
"I will explain everything to them one day.
By then, it will be impossible to undo."
He leaned close, his breath brushing her ear.
"Except for the man who turned to ash…
and the others who happened to be in the tavern."
Rhaenyra stood frozen, staring at him.
Should she feel relief?
Laenor lived.
She bore no sin of kinslaying.
Daemon's hand slid to her belly, resting gently against its faint curve.