Chapter 7: Sea Snake Corlys
That evening, the Red Keep blazed with gold and crimson. The feast for Princess Rhaenyra's birth filled the halls with laughter, harp strings, and the scent of roasted boar. The great banners of House Targaryen hung high, dragons coiled in endless flame.
At the high table, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne sat like aged statues of Valyrian marble — dignified, regal, and quietly fading. Beside them fluttered young Laena and Laenor, their laughter echoing through the vaulted chamber.
Daemon, resplendent in black and red silk, drifted through the crowd with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Every gesture, every step, was deliberate. Feasts were battlefields too, he thought. Only the weapons were smiles and words instead of swords.
At a corner table sat Gael, shy and pale as moonlight, twisting her braid as she watched the dancers. Daemon approached her with that familiar, teasing half-smile.
"Grandfather and Grandmother wish me to marry soon," he said quietly. "They'll tell you the same before long. Why not follow Old Valyria's ways, Gael? Marry me, and we'll keep our blood pure — and our fates our own."
Her fingers paused mid-twirl. "You're insufferable, Daemon," she whispered — but her cheeks flushed.
He only smiled. A spark of innocence in this nest of dragons.
Across the hall, Queen Alysanne had commanded a performance — songs of Florian and Jonquil, the Bear and the Maiden Fair, and a dozen other tales of doomed romance. Daemon found them dull, yet useful. Songs softened hearts; hearts could be shaped.
Gael sighed dreamily. "I love Joey's voice. His songs are sweet, sad, beautiful—"
"Lies sung to children," Daemon said. "Men bleed for the truth. Not for ballads."
Before she could answer, a tiny whirlwind in a crystal gown appeared — four-year-old Laena Velaryon, her seahorse sigil glittering across her chest.
"I like singers," she announced proudly. "Mother says we don't have any at home. I like lemon cakes too!"
Daemon lifted her easily onto his knee. "There's more fun in the Red Keep than lemon cakes, little lady. The Dragonpit, the Kingswood… even the hidden tunnels below the castle. Stay long enough, and I'll show you all of them."
Laena giggled, then frowned. "But you don't have a dragon. You can't show me the skies like Mother does."
A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Not yet," he said softly. "But soon."
The great doors of the hall swung open with a rush of cold air and murmurs — the Sea Snake had arrived.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, strode in clad in sea-blue silk and silver. A man carved from salt and storms, beard flecked with white, eyes sharp as a harpoon's edge. His wife, Princess Rhaenys, followed with calm grace — beauty hardened by disappointment.
In his hands, Corlys bore a gift: a three-headed dragon sculpted from garnet, black gold, and green onyx. A gesture of honor that dripped with meaning.
King Jaehaerys rose, smiling faintly. "Lord Corlys, it gladdens me to welcome you home. We are honored by your presence."
Corlys's smile was the kind one gives before drawing a knife. "I had to come, Your Grace. After all, every new Targaryen born seems to push my wife and children further from the line of succession."
The air grew still. Even the harps faltered.
Jaehaerys's tone cooled. "There is no injustice, my lord. Rhaenys is my beloved granddaughter."
Corlys's gaze hardened. "Beloved, perhaps. But not respected. When her father died, she should have inherited Dragonstone — and yet you granted it to Prince Baelon. If you had honored primogeniture, Rhaenys would be Princess of Dragonstone. Heir to the Iron Throne."
Rhaenys's hand found her husband's wrist. "Enough. It's my fault for not being born a man."
Alysanne's sigh was weary, familiar. "Lord Corlys, please. You know I've ever favored Rhaenys. Let's not reopen old wounds. The King and Council would have you return to court as Master of Ships."
Corlys hesitated — pride warring with practicality. "The seas call me home, Your Grace. My duty is to my family."
Jaehaerys's voice sharpened. "Then bring them here. Rhaenys and your children will be welcome in the Red Keep. But if you refuse the post, I will find another — perhaps from Oldtown or the Arbor."
For a moment, the Sea Snake's jaw tightened. But before he could speak, Daemon rose from his chair, his voice carrying across the hall like cold steel.
"Lord Corlys," he said, "when you return to Driftmark, take Lady Jocelyn with you. She's spent years here pleading your case, while you hide behind storms and salt spray."
The hall fell silent. Daemon continued, his tone calm but cutting.
"You cry of inheritance, yet you retreat from the throne's shadow. Your children grow distant from the Iron Throne, the Dragonpit, and the Red Keep. Keep them on Driftmark, and they'll be sailors, captains, navigators… but never dragons."
A stunned hush. Even Barth's quill stilled.
Corlys's eyes blazed — the look of a man who had weathered tempests and never bent. But then Rhaenys whispered something, soft as surf on stone.
The Sea Snake exhaled, then bowed stiffly. "Your Majesty, I will resume my duties as Master of Ships. My wife and children shall remain in King's Landing, close to their kin."
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall.
Jaehaerys rose slowly, laying a trembling hand on Daemon's shoulder. "You've grown, my boy. Go to the Dragonpit. Choose your dragon. Sixteen is old enough to claim the sky."
Daemon bowed, concealing the satisfaction that burned in his chest.
The Sea Snake bends. The court shifts. And the first dragon awaits.
He looked up at the blazing chandeliers — a thousand candles flickering like dragonfire.
The seeds of power are taking root. Soon, they will burn.
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