116 AC.
It was February, and the climate in Tyrosh was already sweltering. The high sun beat down on the sparkling sea, reflecting a dazzling array of colors.
A tall tower of white stone, like frost and snow, rose high above the luxurious manors of the city-state. Corlys Velaryon stood before a massive window, looking out over his new domain. "I hear it is winter in Westeros," he said lightly. "One must wear several thick layers just to go outside."
He was dressed in fine green silks, his tall figure ramrod straight, his eyes shining with a compelling light. His resolute face was slightly tanned, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in a subtle, self-satisfied smile. All of it betrayed a vanity that yearned for affirmation. He had, after all, conquered a Free City.
"Instead of the clothes of commoners, you should be more concerned with your children's marriages," said Rhaenys, also clad in green, her tone weary. "A month has passed since Aemon's fifteenth nameday."
The news of the betrothal ceremony on Dragonstone had long since spread across the Narrow Sea.
"That boy should have taken the initiative to seek out Laena if he had any sense," Corlys frowned.
Rhaenys snorted. "If he did come to you, I'm afraid you'd be the one to refuse him."
"Do you think I would fear a mere boy?" Corlys raised his chin arrogantly.
Rhaenys simply rolled her eyes, not wanting to engage.
"We are secure now," Corlys said, approaching his wife. "There is no crisis to worry about. You need not trouble yourself."
"No danger?" Rhaenys turned and looked directly into her husband's eyes.
"Our family controls half the royal fleet and possesses dragons. Any fool who dares to offend us will be crushed." Corlys's face was a mask of pride. These were the assets that made him fearless.
Rhaenys was speechless. She wisely didn't point out that the king's own daughter and nephew now commanded the other half of the royal fleet and possessed a matching number of dragons. That would only provoke her husband's rebellious spirit.
"Why, Corlys?" Rhaenys asked, knowing her husband was walking a tightrope. "What is this for? Wealth? Power? Self-respect?"
"Justice!" Corlys interrupted her.
Rhaenys was startled, then looked away helplessly. *That old argument again.*
Corlys placed his hands on her shoulders. "No matter what anyone says, you should be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I have never worn a crown, and the Seven Kingdoms would not have me," Rhaenys cut in sharply.
"You deserve a crown," Corlys insisted, "and I can correct their narrow-minded mistake." Rhaenyra, a mere girl, was named heir. Why couldn't his wife have ascended the Iron Throne? It was all because of Viserys, that ungrateful man who stole what was rightfully his wife's throne.
"Corlys, be silent," Rhaenys said, her feelings complicated. She placed her fingertips on her husband's lips. "I have long since stopped thinking of such things." Deep down, she felt only weariness. She had a family, a life of her own. Compared to the thorny Iron Throne, she cared far more for the safety of her children, and this war had dragged them all into dangerous waters, filling her with unease.
Corlys obediently fell silent, but his eyes never left her, and his hands held her tightly.
"Laenor's betrothal is approaching," Rhaenys said after a moment, steering the conversation back to safer ground. "Have the King and the Prince Regent been invited?"
"They won't come," Corlys stated with certainty.
"We must extend the courtesy regardless. We have already missed the Regent's two banquets; let it not be said that we lack decorum," Rhaenys guided.
Corlys pondered for a moment. "Very well." It would be a good opportunity to gauge the royal family's attitude. In his heart, he still wished to press his wife's claim, but with her refusal, he had settled for the title of Archon of Tyrosh. Nominally, he was still a vassal of the Iron Throne.
**King's Landing. The Council Chambers.**
One table, one chair, one window, one man. Aemon leaned back, his eyes closed, gently rocking in his seat. He was now the Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm. His uncle had become a hands-off manager, leaving him to work like a beast of burden.
*Rejected!* His Highness thought. *No one can make me work overtime, not even the Seven Gods.*
"Let them fight," he murmured, a smile touching his lips as he recalled the latest intelligence. "The more chaotic, the better." Three thousand Valemen stood ready, and a new fleet of thirty warships was nearing completion. With a single command, they could sail from Gulltown.
*Creek!*
The door opened, and a figure slipped inside. Aemon opened his eyes and glanced over, unimpressed. "What are you doing?"
The newcomer was Rhaenyra, moving with an exaggerated stealth. "Shh!" she whispered, glaring at him warningly. "I intercepted a letter. Take a look."
Aemon held out his hand. The letter was addressed to her father and contained a plea for aid.
"It's from Lord Cameron Tarth," Rhaenyra explained, propping herself up on the table. "He says the Dornish have entered the war and the former Archon of Tyrosh is preparing a counterattack."
Aemon scanned it for a few seconds. "Your father ignored it, didn't he?"
"Yes," Rhaenyra admitted. "Lord Cameron was one of the main supporters who helped the Sea Serpent capture Tyrosh." The Stormlands had few ships, but Tarth had many, and Corlys had used the island as a springboard for his surprise attack.
"Lord Cameron asked Storm's End for help and got nothing, so now he's looking to switch allegiances," Aemon joked.
"He can't withstand the pressure," Rhaenyra said seriously. Tarth was a rich island far from the mainland, a frequent target for pirates. Storm's End should have sent aid.
"What's changed?" Aemon wondered aloud.
"With Dorne joining the war, the fighting in the Disputed Lands is growing more dangerous," Rhaenyra said cautiously. This war was spiraling, covering not just the Stepstones but the lands of the Triarchy as well.
"The Dornish aren't so frightening," Aemon shook his head with confidence. "At sea, they're no better than a barrel of rotten fish."
Rhaenyra listened intently. Since their betrothal, they spent much more time together. As Regent, Aemon had taken a great deal of pressure off her father. For the past three months, Viserys had concerned himself only with protecting the smallfolk from the winter cold and filling vacancies for the Commander of the City Watch and the Kingsguard. He had not troubled himself with great matters of state, and his life was far more leisurely. He smiled more often.
"The key is the Sea Serpent," Aemon said, pinching his chin. "That old fox is so patient. Why has he made no move?"
"By the way, Alicent wishes to see you," Rhaenyra suddenly remembered.
"What about?"
"What do you think?" Rhaenyra gave him a pointed look. Someone had kept Otto Hightower detained for months under the pretense that the Vale was snowed in. He was truly petty.
"Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it," Aemon snorted.
Rhaenyra said nothing, but she suppressed a smile. To her, Otto was a shameless flatterer. She would be happy if he were dead.
"Let's go, then. We'll meet with Alicent and discuss the Disputed Lands," Aemon said, pushing his chair back and standing. At fifteen, he was already six-foot-two, his lean figure full of youthful vitality. His handsome face and noble bearing, combined with violet eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual smile, made him appear quite kind. But he and his uncle had one thing in common: they were both shameless and ruthless. In short, full of wicked intentions.
**The Broken Arm of Dorne.**
In the straits between Dorne and the Stepstones, a naval battle was raging.
"Scorpions, ready!" On the decks of ten warships, sallow-skinned Dornishmen moved with practiced efficiency. Three of the ships were equipped with the complex war machines.
*Swish! Swish!* Steel-tipped bolts the size of spears flew through the air like heavy artillery.
*WHOOSH—*
A blast of wind swept over the waves as a huge monster glided across the sea, a scarlet, serpentine wyrm.
"Hiiisss... Gah..." Caraxes shrieked, easily dodging the clumsy scorpion bolts as he flew over the fleet. Pillars of scarlet fire rained down from the sky, indiscriminately blasting the ships below.
"Tell your master to retreat," Daemon, clad in black armor, shouted from the dragon's back, "or else prepare to die!"
Caraxes was a terrifying opponent, coiling through the air like a snake, spewing an absolute torrent of dragonflame. The fire was relentless, seeming to pour from his jaws without end.
"Draw bows!" the Dornish commander yelled, his men stubbornly aiming their arrows at the scarlet dragon.
"Stay out of the Disputed Lands, and tell Prince **Qoren** to mind his own affairs!" Daemon roared from on high.
The next moment, a rain of arrows flew upward. Caraxes rose vertically, exposing his flexible underbelly to block the volley. The shafts shattered harmlessly against his scarlet scales.
"Stubborn fools," Daemon sneered. The Dornish were like flies, drawn to the scent of turmoil in the Seven Kingdoms. This fleet was sailing to aid the former Archon of Tyrosh, with the goal of raiding the coasts of the Stormlands. Daemon was here to stop them.
"Hiiisss... Gah..." Caraxes sensed his rider's impatience. He opened his huge scarlet wings and dove, twisting his snake-like neck from side to side, bathing the sea in a wide arc of fire. In moments, all ten warships were ablaze.
"Run!"
"Dive!"
The Dornish sailors leaped into the sea like beached fish. A final gout of scarlet flame erupted, and two unlucky souls were incinerated in an instant. Daemon watched without expression as the last ship sank beneath the waves. The Sea Serpent had Tyrosh. He, in turn, planned to help the Rogare family seize power in Lys. But first, he would collect some interest.
For example, the Stepstones. By weakening the former Archon's forces, he would force a decisive battle with the Sea Serpent. Then, Daemon could retake the islands for himself, using them as a base to capture Lys. He would no longer be ridiculed as a king without a kingdom.
Daemon laughed at himself and pulled on the saddle ropes. Caraxes, in tune with his thoughts, beat his mighty wings and flew straight into the clouds, leaving nothing for the Dornish but a scarlet shadow disappearing into the sky.
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