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 There were few comforts to be found in the Fisher Prince's manse. Daemon looked around the grey room as he pushed the thin blankets from him, listening to the rain assault the walls from the outside, water droplets seeping in under the windows and dripping onto the windowsill. The Prince turned onto his side, staring at the empty space on the bed. Outside, the storm was picking up, the wind howling violently, and Daemon could hear the roar of the waves. 

 While he longed for her warmth beside him, he could never imagine Rhaenyra in such a place. 

 The Fisher Prince would find no luck in hosting the Princess of Dragonstone. The amenities of Dragonstone paled in comparison to what she had grown up with in King's Landing, for while they made the fortress a home as best they could it would never be the Red Keep, and the manse was seldom better than their stables. Daemon had seen far more of the Known World than his wife, but the price for that had been cheap straw beds, war camps, and empty pockets, certainly nothing that would appeal to the Ladies of the court. Although, Daemon was sure that Rhaenyra would protest at the thought of Aerys spending a day like that too; the future King would himself only know luxury, like his grandfather before him.

 Daemon tried not to think about the platter that Viserys would surely be served for his breakfast as fermented herrings and slightly stale bread were brought to his bedchamber, with only a cup of watered down ale to wash it down with. 

 He had only managed a few mouthfuls, the pungent, sour odour turning his stomach, when the door opened and Corlys plodded inside. "The magisters are here," he said gruffly, crossing the room to join Daemon at the little wooden table. 

"You do not sound as enthused as I would have hoped," Daemon sighed. 

"There are not as many of them as I would have hoped," replied Corlys. 

"Why does that matter?" Daemon asked.

"The fewer of them they are, the harder they shall be to convince," Corlys grunted. "None of them shall want to sail with me, certainly not to war."

"I thought you said there shall be no war?"

"They shall never believe that," Corlys said gruffly. "They do not want war, they do not need it, they care for little more than the fish and seals that surround their islands."

"So, how shall you convince them to sail with you?" Daemon inquired, pushing the plate away from him as he raised his cup to his lips. 

"If I knew, I would be doing it," sighed Corlys, shaking his head. Daemon chuckled. he placed the now empty cup onto the table and sighed, pushing his hair from his face. 

"They do know that even their isle of cold shit will be beggared if they cannot trade with Braavos, do they not?" he grunted. "And they cannot trade with Braavos if the Braavosi traders are butchered." 

"I have told them that," Corlys replied. "They care little for the lives of the Braavosi, or for the Pentoshi either, and even less for us in Westeros."

"Splendid," Daemon drawled, shaking his head. "How many are there?"

"Maybe half a dozen," said Corlys. "The other two Princes are here, too, whatever for I could not say, fucking wheat is unlikely to help us." Daemon nodded, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 

"Mayhaps the Prince of the Streets shall be more use," he muttered. Corlys shook his head.

"I do not need men," he said gruffly. "I need ships." 

"So, tell them that," Daemon replied. Corlys' brow furrowed. "We can get men, there are plenty of them on Driftmark who would serve you, but you said it yourself, there are not enough shipwrights in Hull to rebuild your fleet fast enough."

"So?"

"The Lorathi can make warships. Offer to pay them for their ships, then they do not need to send their men to die for foreigners' wars, and you can have your blockade," Daemon said. 

Corlys shook his head, "they shall never agree to it. They make mayhaps five warships a year."

"Then they shall have plenty of time to spare," Daemon said drily. Corlys frowned. "What else can we do?" Daemon pressed. "Convince them to take up arms and fight, or ought we leave with nothing at all?" Corlys groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "The Triarchy are getting their warships from Dorne, you need to get yours from somewhere, and I doubt Lord Redwyne would be eager to aid us given he is kin to Viserys' Hightower wife."

"Mayhaps your brother could be some use to us," sighed Corlys, leaning back in his chair as he tapped his fingers against the table.

"How so?" Daemon inquired, frowning. 

"He owes me," Corlys grunted.

Daemon scoffed, "he had just humiliated you when we first sailed to the Stepstones. Making amends is not what Viserys and his Council of leeches do."

"When did you sail?" huffed Corlys. Daemon narrowed his eyes at him.

"We must be subservient to the King," he said. "The King cannot be beholden to us." Corlys grunted.

"Well, he fucking is," he spat. "Where would his Realm be without my fleet? The dragons of my House? He is fortunate that I am willing to stomach the humiliation he doles out - that Rhaenys is after these many cruel years."

"Are you to plot war against your King, Lord Corlys?" Daemon asked drily. Corlys scoffed. "Might I remind you who his heir is?" 

"Might I remind you who she was supposed to marry?" snarled Corlys, slamming his fist against the table.

"You cannot blame Viserys for Laenor's demise," Daemon said softly. 

"He made no apology for the matter," hissed Corlys.

"He attended the funeral, what more was he to do?"

"More than that," growled Corlys, hitting the table again. Daemon watched as his cup rolled onto the floor. "He insulted Laena, and then he married the girl to you whilst Rhaenys grieved."

"And you? Did you not grieve yourself?"

"Viserys took my legacy from me, mine and Rhaenys'," Corlys puffed. "And you aided him. And now you shall sow from the loss of my House once more."

"What do I have to gain from the fall of the Stepstones?" Daemon scoffed. 

"You know that that is not what I was referring to," Corlys snarled.

"Your anger with me shall not make you a King," Daemon said, "nor shall resenting Viserys earn Rhaenys a crown. Go to him if you wish it, but I shall not accompany you there, I am more inclined to agree with your previous assessment that his Council shall only involve themselves if they are allowed to take the Stepstones for their own to rule."

"Indeed," Corlys replied, shaking his head. "But what else is there to do? The Triarchy will certainly have learned of us being here by now, they will be preparing for a battle, and I do not have the ships to rival them."

"I cannot disagree," Daemon said. "So let us hope you can charm the Lorathi."

"Charm will not work on them, no more than coin," sighed Corlys. 

"Try offering them fish," Daemon drawled. "Spare them some men to slay a whale."

"I am sure they will only take it as an insult. They are not fond of foreigners."

"Try your luck with the Lorathi," Daemon said lowly, "and if that fails, we should return to Pentos." Corlys raised an eyebrow. "The Pentoshi might not be able to supply us with an army without angering Braavos, but they do have shipwrights who could build you warships, if you were to find men to fill them."

"Do you think that the Pentoshi magisters would agree to it?"

"If you pay them well enough I am sure they shall agree to anything," Daemon said drily. 

"Let us get this over with, then," sighed Corlys, pushing himself up from the table. "With luck, they shall allow us to stay another night, I would not like to sail in these conditions." 

"Mayhaps your nephew shall earn us some fishermen?" Daemon chuckled. Corlys rolled his eyes. Daemon sighed as he, too, rose to his feet, pulling his undershirt from his shoulders as he crossed the room to rummage through his sack for a tunic. 

____________

 The sound of gulls squawking almost drowned out the roars of the waves as Rhaenyra dug through the sand. She could feel it creeping between the rings on her fingers, scratching her, but she did not stop until she pulled out a spiralling, orange shell. "Here, sweetling," Rhaenyra said, offering it to Aerys. The boy eagerly took the shell from her, holding it up as if inspecting it. Rhaenyra adjusted the rings on her fingers as she looked out at the sea. The blue-grey waves were violently crashing onto the shore. Maester Gerardys had told her it would only be the tail end of a storm across the Narrow Sea, but Rhaenyra feared that the bleak weather would soon torment them, too. 

 Rhaenyra turned her head at the sound of her father's chuckles. While the Princess of Dragonstone had laid her cloak on the sand to sit on, the King remained standing with one hand clutching onto his cane for support. Aegon was some distance down the beach, pretending to ride his toy horse, that was more of a horse's head on a long wooden stick than an actual horse, while Helaena had been spooked by the loud roars of the waves and had taken to sitting on the rocks behind her father, looking for crabs. Viserys had seemingly no interest in any of his children, instead watching the gulls as they flew away, one of them with a fish in its beak.

 "Daor," Rhaenyra said, as she turned back to Aerys, as the boy tried to stick the shell in his mouth. "No, no." Aerys frowned, clinging to the shell with all of his might as Rhaenyra tried to pry it from his fist. "Keligon," Rhaenyra told him. "Stop that." Aerys chuckled, refusing to let the shell free from his grasp. "Here, sweet boy," Rhaenyra said, trying to divert the young Prince's attention with one of his toy dragons, but Aerys did not tear his eyes from the shell. 

"Not so far, Aegon!" Viserys called, frowning as he saw the boy trying to wade through the waves. Aegon turned his head, scowling at his father as another wave roared, smashing into him. Aegon let out a cry as he fell to the ground, throwing his horse into the air, and it landed in the sand somewhere behind him. "Be careful!" Viserys shouted.

"SHUT UP!" cried Aegon, scrunching up his face as he turned red, tears pooling in his eyes. Viserys shook his head. Aegon's shouting was enough to spook Aerys, who jumped, frowning as he looked over in Aegon's direction, and dropping the shell in the process. Rhaenyra quickly retrieved it and slipped it under the cloak.

"It is okay, precious boy," Rhaenyra said, lifting Aerys onto her lap as the boy began to whimper softly. Aerys buried his face in her neck, one hand clinging to her collar and the other tugging on her hair. "No, no," Rhaenyra winced, trying to pull his hand away from her. Aerys whined, pulling harder. "No, stop that, little one," Rhaenyra said. She tried moving her head, but that only made it hurt more. Rhaenyra huffed as she forced his fingers apart, before pushing her hair over her shoulders and down her back. 

"Ah," Aerys protested. 

"No, no," Rhaenyra told him. He pouted. "Should we go to the sea, lovely?" Aerys cocked his head curiously. "Come along." Rhaenyra stood, still holding the boy in her arms as she walked towards the sea. Aerys turned his head to look at the water as another large wave reeled towards the shore, smacking into the sand and spraying water droplets far enough to splash Rhaenyra's legs. 

"Be careful with him," Viserys called after her. Rhaenyra pursed her lips, seeing no reason why he would tell her how to care for her own son. "He is still so small."

"He is fine," the Princess replied, stroking Aerys' hair with one hand as she stepped back slightly. "Look there," she whispered, pointing to the dark shape in the sky towards Driftmark, which she was certain would be Meleys. "Zaldrīzes."

"Za - la," Aerys babbled, his lips moving slowly. 

"Yes, yes," Rhaenyra praised him. "Zal - drī - zes. Zal - drī - zes."

"La - la," Aerys muttered. Another bird flew over the beach, and the boy shivered as it squawked, clinging tighter to Rhaenyra. 

"How about something easier, my love?" Rhaenyra asked. "Ma - ma. Ma - ma." Rhaenyra moved her mouth slowly, but Aerys just buried his face in her neck.

"He looks tired!" Viserys shouted. 

"The bird scared him," Rhaenyra called back. Viserys chuckled. 

"Ma - ma," Rhaenyra said again. Aerys just stared at her. "Mu - ña? Mu - ña?" Aerys turned his head, looking over her shoulder at Viserys on the sand as the King hobbled closer to Helaena, who was watching a crab scurry between two of the large rocks that surrounded the caves. 

"Are you not hungry?" Viserys called, his hair blowing into his face in the wind. 

"No," Rhaenyra replied, equally as loudly. "We only just broke our fast before leaving." 

"We hardly ate anything," retorted Viserys, "and you least of all. I am sure my Aerys has had enough of the beach." He turned his head at the sound of Helaena's giggles as the crab scurried across her foot. "Are you hungry, Ser Harrold?" Viserys asked, turning to the Lord Commander, who was in one of the caves with Ser Lorent. 

"Uh... mayhaps a little, your Grace," Ser Harrold replied. Ser Lorent chuckled. 

"Fine," Rhaenyra sighed. "Let us go back to the castle." The Princess smoothed circles around Aerys' back as she carried him across the beach towards where she had left her cloak.

"Come along, Aegon!" Viserys shouted, before he heaved over, coughing and spluttering. Rhaenyra reached for his arm, but he batted her away. "I am fine," he hissed, shaking his head as Aegon skipped towards them. "Ah, good," Viserys said.

"Ah ya!" Aegon cried, whacking his father in the side with the wooden horse. Viserys grunted, clinging to his cane with both hands as he doubled over.

"Your Grace!" Ser Harrold called as he rushed towards them. Aegon giggled, hitting the Lord Commander's arm as he reached for the King. 

"Aegon, stop that," Rhaenyra snapped. 

"No," Aegon protested, hitting the Lord Commander again. 

"Aegon, if you do not stop that, it will be taken from you," Rhaenyra spat. Aegon glowered at her. He moved to strike her as well, but Ser Harrold grabbed the stick before Aegon could lower it. 

"Give it back," puffed the Prince, scowling at the Lord Commander. "Now! Give it back now!" 

"No, Aegon," sighed Viserys, shaking his head. Rhaenyra looked up as she heard Syrax cry out from the hills above them, the yellow she-dragon landing just above the rocky wall. 

"Dragon!" Helaena cried excitedly. 

"Let go," insisted Aegon, still fighting with Ser Harrold over the wooden horse. 

"You struck the King, and now you try to strike the Princess, Prince Aegon," the Lord Commander said gravely. "I cannot allow it."

"What?" asked Viserys, frowning. He glanced to Rhaenyra, who nodded. Viserys groaned. "Give the toy to Ser Harrold, Aegon."

"No!" Aegon protested. 

"Now, Aegon," Viserys snapped.

"But it is mine, Pa," Aegon objected. Viserys glared at him. Aegon groaned as he released his hold on the horse. 

"Very good," Ser Harrold said, tucking it under his arm. Aegon's expression only darkened further. 

"Are you alright?" Rhaenyra asked softly, turning to Viserys as Aegon and Ser Harrold walked towards the cave. 

"I am fine," Viserys said, waving a hand dismissively. "Although, I would not say no to some wine." Rhaenyra nodded. 

"Your Grace?" Ser Harrold questioned, looking over his shoulder. 

"Yes, yes, we are coming," Viserys replied, hobbling towards the cave and its passage that led up to the castle. Rhaenyra collected her cloak before following him, hearing Aegon's whines echo through as he tried to retrieve his wooden horse. As Aerys clapped his hands, Rhaenyra heard giggling behind her. 

"Come on, Helaena," she called, realising that her father had not, "we are leaving now."

"Oh no," Helaena said sadly, but she sped across the sand towards them. 

"Did you not bring shoes?" Rhaenyra asked, noticing her bare feet. 

"Oh," Helaena murmured. She looked around for a moment, before she hurried out of the cave again. 

"Rhaenyra?" Viserys called. The Princess of Dragonstone turned to Ser Lorent.

"Wait for her," she told him, "and ensure she brings her shoes this time."

"Yes, Princess," replied Ser Lorent, nodding. Rhaenyra smiled at him, before she hurried to catch up with her father. 

"I think I am in the mood for strawberry tarts," the King said, "what of you?"

"Tarts sound fine," Rhaenyra sighed. Viserys nodded, although Rhaenyra could tell that his smile was forced. 

 Once she returned to the castle, Rhaenyra changed into a dress that was not riddled with sand before joining her father in Aegon's Garden. Viserys was on a bench ahead of a bush with bright red roses growing from it. Aegon and Helaena were around the corner with their maid, close enough that Rhaenyra could hear their bickering, while she kept Aerys on her lap. She kissed the top of his head as servants brought them a jug of wine and a small tray of tarts, eight topped with strawberries and another eight topped with blueberries. "These look nice," Viserys said, smiling at the tray as he poured the wine into a goblet. "Have you - ah - have you heard from Daemon yet?" he asked, offering Rhaenyra the jug, but she shook her head.

"No," she replied. She had received a small number of letters that morning, mostly well-wishes for her name-day that had not arrived on time, but Daemon's seal was not amongst them. 

"I hope he realises how much trouble he has caused everyone," said Viserys, shaking his head. "Although, knowing him, he would enjoy that." 

"Daemon will not be gone for longer than he has to be," Rhaenyra said stiffly. Viserys scoffed.

"He will be gone for as long as he wishes, and no less."

"Daemon enjoys life at sea almost as little as you would," Rhaenyra retorted. "He shall want to return to his own bed."

"Another man might," sighed Viserys, "but Daemon... he does not plant roots as most do. He could disappear in the night and see no purpose to return for years."

"That might have been true while his brother was shipping him off to the Vale," Rhaenyra said, "but now he has a family on Dragonstone, a son from whom he will not want to be parted. There is little men long for more than a son, you yourself should know that." Viserys frowned. "You must recall the damage the Triarchy did when the Crabfeeder ruled the isles," Rhaenyra told him. "I attended your council meetings, I recall how Lord Corlys' men were burned, their ships destroyed and their goods stolen, and if any tried to fight, they were given slow, torturous deaths, eaten by crabs." 

"The threat of the Triarchy pirates is not being understated," Viserys said. "But they did not have the right to treat with the Braavosi Sealord without my leave. Across Essos, it will be assumed that Daemon represents me, our House, and the Crown, which he does not."

"The Triarchy shall not be satisfied with only taking the Stepstones this time," Rhaenyra said. "They shall want vengeance."

"I am sure they shall," sighed Viserys. Rhaenyra shook her head at him.

"Meaning, that they shall want Lord Corlys and Daemon's heads," she said stiffly. "Lord Corlys, quite rightly given the circumstances, cannot risk defeat." Viserys frowned. "Nor do I wish to lose the life of my son's father because you will cower from war with the Free Cities," Rhaenyra sniffed. Viserys narrowed his eyes at her. 

"It is not I that cowers," huffed Viserys, "the Council -"

"You are the King," Rhaenyra interjected. "You are supposed to rule them, not allow them to rule you. I had hoped you had realised that after Otto." 

"I cannot just dismiss the words of my council for my own pride," he scoffed, waving his hand. "War is costly. They have the right to be concerned."

"And if it is not paid for now, our subjects will later pay with their lives if they wish to trade across the Narrow Sea," Rhaenyra said. "Surely the gold is worth it." 

"Mayhaps it is," sighed Viserys, "but we could only have considered that if Daemon or Lord Corlys had come to us first. Now, we are faced with reacting to whatever mess they have created for us without any input of our own."

"Mayhaps Lord Corlys and his fleet shall be able to deal with this without any aid necessary," Rhaenyra suggested, sipping her wine. 

"If he did not need aid, he would not have needed Daemon," Viserys said drily, shaking his head. Rhaenrya frowned as they heard Helaena crying from behind the bushes, but Viserys did not react, biting into a tart. "You truly should come back to King's Landing," he said. "Our cooks are much better than here." 

"I have no issue with the food here," Rhaenyra replied. She took Aerys' stuffed dragon from him and waved it in his face as he began to whimper, Helaena's cries growing louder as Aegon laughed. Aerys grabbed onto the dragon's wing, tugging on it as Rhaenyra continued to wave it. "And Aerys is very happy with his warmed goat milk," she added. Viserys chuckled.

"Our honey is sweeter," he said. "And so is the wine."

"It is the same wine," Rhaenyra told him. "We had a shipment from the Arbor, the same as you." Viserys shook his head.

"It is not stored well, then."

"Would you prefer something else?" the Princess asked. Viserys shook his head.

"No, no, this is fine," he replied. 

"Mayhaps you are just homesick?" Rhaenyra shrugged. Viserys chuckled, and shook his head. 

"Do you never miss it?" he questioned.

"No," Rhaenyra replied. Viserys frowned. 

"It is your home," he insisted. "It is not the same without you." 

"Dragonstone is my home, and that of my family," Rhaenyra replied. "King's Landing has not been my home since my mother died. You said it yourself, I spent the many years after you remarried alone there, until I am Queen there is nothing there for me." Viserys drained his goblet. 

"I had hoped you would be less angry now," he sighed. "I did not wish for your marriage to isolate you further. You should have stayed in King's Landing."

"And you should have married Lady Laena Velaryon," Rhaenyra huffed. "Instead you married the daughter of a second son." Viserys shook his head again as he poured himself another goblet of wine. "I do not see why we must revisit this every time we meet," Rhaenyra continued. "I am a woman-grown, I am as capable of making decisions for myself as you are." Viserys hummed. "Why do you like the Keep so much anyway? It has always been filled with scheming men who care only about using you - or us - to advance their own standing and seek power." 

"There are also those that are loyal to us," replied Viserys. "And there is more to the Red Keep than just the politicking." Rhaenyra stared at him in disbelief. "It is warm and lively. It is filled with good food and exotic art. It - well, it is home, it has everything I could wish for there - everything other than you, that is, and our Aerys." Viserys smiled, patting the boy's head none too gently, causing the little Prince to whimper. "I have spent most of my life there," Viserys continued. "I would not want to be anywhere else."

"I, for one, am happier on Dragonstone," Rhaenyra replied. "Why did you never come here yourself when you were Prince of Dragonstone?"

"I saw no reason to," Viserys replied. "I was content in King's Landing. This castle, it is a fortress, ancient and historic mayhaps, but not some place I am eager to live in. It is surrounded only by hillsides and fishermen, I would miss the city, and it smells awful. Besides, the castle's maester was not much use, an excellent scholar mayhaps but he knew little of the healing arts, and Alysanne suffered for it, I do not doubt. Aemma was pregnant, and I would sooner her be in the hands of Mellos." 

"But you spend so much of your days reading your tomes of Old Valyria," Rhaenyra said, "there are so many more books here, in the halls of our ancestors." 

"Yes, and so close to the volcano," Viserys added uncomfortably. 

"Valyria herself was built at the face of a volcano, was it not?"

"Until it erupted," huffed Viserys.

"Our ancestors built Dragonstone here for a reason."

"Yes, you are right," said the King. "I am sure they would have assumed the volcano to be another source of power, or of their magic, as those in Valyria. But the blood mages burned with the Doom, and now it sits too close to us all, a looming reminder of what it could do to us."

"Or a constant reminder of the power we once had, and could see again," Rhaenyra sniffed. "This very castle was forged with Valyrian magic, it is one of the last standing testaments to their work." 

"I suppose it is," Viserys chuckled. "But I have no wish to return to the days of the Freehold, and you should not either. Septon Barth always said that there were spells used to contain the Fourteen Flames, and that they faltered, and so they erupted. I do hope that the same cannot be said for Dragonstone." 

"Yes," Rhaenyra sighed. She brushed her hair from her face as the wind blew. Viserys sipped his wine as Aegon ran around the corner, clutching a small ball in his hand. His maid soon followed, the woman carrying Helaena, whose face was still red and her cheeks tear-stained. 

"The children wish to return to the castle, your Grace," the maid said. Viserys waved a hand dismissively. 

"Yes, yes," he said, reaching for another tart. The maid nodded her head before continuing past them, Aegon already some distance ahead. 

"Why have you never seen Valyria?" Rhaenyra questioned. 

"Valyria is gone," Viserys chuckled.

"She is a ruin, but there is still something where she once stood," shrugged Rhaenyra. "If you spend so much time reading about it, why not see it for yourself?" 

"No, no," Viserys replied, shaking his head. "Whatever is left is not Valyria anymore. Besides, Jaehaerys outlawed it decades before I was born." 

"Jaehaerys is dead," Rhaenyra said. "You can do as you wish now."

"Well, I do not wish to go there," chuckled Viserys. "I would wish for some pie, however, preferably chicken but I would accept pigeon." Rhaenyra sighed. 

"You wish to return to the castle, I suppose?" she questioned. 

"Indeed," Viserys replied, rising to his feet. 

____________

 Daemon could barely hear the wind over the sound of Caraxes' whistling, but he could feel it as his hair was blown into his face and it cooled the sweat that dripped down his forehead. The dragon's red tail dragged through the rolling waves that surrounded the Bay of Pentos, where onlookers gathered to cheer for them. Caraxes huffed, uninterested in their applause, shooting flames from his mouth in irritation as they grew louder and louder as the dragon and his rider flew closer, although that only earned him further gasps of awe and praise. Daemon patted the base of his neck, but it was not enough to soothe the dragon, who huffed again, smoke rising from his nostrils. 

 The Blood Wyrm's mood did not recover by the time that Daemon had him land upon the beach. The dragon hissed disapprovingly even as the congregation on the beach fled in terror, racing back towards the city. Daemon chuckled. Caraxes puffed, shaking his head. "Lykirī," Daemon whispered. "Ivestragī zirȳ sagon." Caraxes whistled lowly, as if displeased that his rider was not on his side. 

 The Prince could not blame his dragon for his restlessness. The Blood Wyrm had certainly not enjoyed their stay in Lorath, and while Pentos was more pleasant, it was far from the dragonmont, and the Pentoshi crowds were far from the company of Syrax and her rider. Daemon shared in his loneliness. The longer he had been away, the more he found himself longing for Dragonstone, for his daily routine in the training yard and breakfasts on the balcony, for his bedchamber that was filled with the sounds of his son's laughter and his little hatchling, for his own bed and its feather pillows, covered in the floral scent of Rhaenyra's perfumes, for the heat of Rhaenyra beside him, the softness of her skin, the softness of her lips, the taste of the sweet brandy she drank in her mouth and the feeling of her nimble fingers touching him. 

 Caraxes roared as Daemon unbuckled the straps around his waist, sliding down the dragon's wing onto the beach. He walked with one hand on Dark Sister's pommel, marching across the beach without so much as a glance at the crowds that were ducking behind the piles of driftwood on the sand and straining from the docks to get a better look at him. Daemon had barely made it halfway up the beach when Caraxes took off again. The Prince looked over his shoulder as Caraxes dived under the water, only returning when he had what was either a particularly long, white fish or a small collection of them in his maw, evident by the bits sticking out from either side of his mouth. Daemon chuckled to himself as he continued up the beach, to where he had left a white horse tied to a tree with thick rope. 

 The horse galloped Daemon into the city, its hooves clattering against the paving stones as the wind hit his back. He had forgone his riding leathers for a tunic as red as blood, the sleeves dark grey and embroidered with leaves, the material so dark that his skin appeared to have an otherworldly glow. The horse slowed as they turned a corner and Daemon found himself behind a palanquin carried by four guards with bright feathers sticking out of their helms. Daemon's horse huffed, and Daemon rolled his eyes, unimpressed by the slow speed of the guards' footsteps. 

 While the ivory palanquin continued through the streets towards the manses of the wealthiest in the city, Daemon's horse trotted him to the bazaars, teeming with crowds of the Pentoshi and other traders and patrons. Daemon dismounted his horse, and tied its reins around a nearby tree. 

 As the Prince descended the stone steps to the bazaars, he was swarmed by vendors trying to sell him goods and food from their trays or wheelbarrows, one particularly eager girl practically assaulting him with a wheel of cheese until he swatted it out of her hands. One of the boys laughed at her, still shaking his turnips at Daemon, while the girl struggled not to cry. 

 "I do not know what about you they find so exciting," drawled a familiar voice. 

 Daemon pushed through the swarm of vendors, knocking aside a portly man who tried to hold onto his elbow, showcasing a tray of knives with leather handles, to come face to face with Corlys. The Lord of the Tides wore his hair tied up with golden silk, the same shade as the golden sleeves of his otherwise black tunic. 

 "I have always had a certain effect on people," Daemon said drily. "They gravitate to me." Corlys scoffed. "This is not Westeros," Daemon shrugged. "The dragons are like myths to them, as if a chimera has walked through their streets, or a giant spider from beyond the Wall." Corlys rolled his eyes. 

"So, what you are saying," he said slowly, "is that they do not know who you are and find the only notable thing about you to be your dragon?" Daemon laughed. 

"They know my name is Targaryen, and they know I shall have deep pockets, that is all that shall concern them," he said. 

"You are not wrong," Corlys sighed. "The traders took one look at my rings and instantly everything I was offered was thrice as costly." Daemon laughed again. 

"Have you eaten?" he asked. Corlys shrugged. "Well, I am going to find myself a pie." Daemon heard Corlys chuckle as he marched through the stalls of fish, exotic fruits, and aged wines until he found a bakery of sorts, mostly filled with cakes and other sweet treats, but with a small assortment of pies and, strangely, pickled fish on a shelf behind him. 

 Daemon next saw Corlys after he had eaten two pork pies and purchased rolls of pale gold and rose silk to take back to Dragonstone with him to have fashioned into a new gown for Rhaenyra. The Lord of the Tides was in discussion with a vendor selling foreign spices when Daemon noticed him, although the Prince was more interested in a nearby stall that sold foreign wines, including Myrish firewine and brandies from Tyrosh that he knew Rhaenyra was fond of. Although far from his own tastes, Daemon accepted the cup the vendor offered him to sample it, the sweet smell of the pears reminding Daemon of his wife before it even touched his lips. 

 "Since when do you drink that shit?" snorted Corlys.

"It is not for me," Daemon replied, dropping the empty cup onto the counter and snapping his fingers for three bottles of the stuff, along with his own bottles of firewine. "It is to take back to Dragonstone."

Corlys chortled, "worried you will be barred from the Princess' bedroom?"

"Do not project your issues onto me," Daemon scoffed. Corlys snorted again. 

"I am not trying to buy my way home," he drawled. "Not that I need to, seeing as High Tide is my castle." 

"You say that as if anyone else wants your pile of rocks," Daemon retorted, "my lord." Daemon took his bottles of wine from the vendor and slammed a couple of Pentos' bronze coins onto the counter for him. 

"Firewine?" Corlys hummed, inspecting the other bottle under Daemon's arm. 

"That one is mine," Daemon replied. Corlys chuckled. "Where is your loathsome nephew?" 

"Last I heard, he was still abed," Corlys said drily. "Given how much he was drinking last night, I cannot say I am surprised."

"He was only drinking the weak wine of the Pentoshi, was he not?" Daemon chuckled. "How does he manage at any of your feasts?" 

"Not well," Corlys replied stiffly. Daemon snorted. 

"And you wish to leave all your lands to him?"

"My lands shall go to my daughter," Corlys growled, leading the way through the crowd of patrons and past stalls that sold boots of the finest leather, and rather erotic nightgowns and belts that were little more than a single chain of silver. "He shall simply... live there," Corlys continued, "rather like you and your wife." 

"My son shall be King," Daemon shrugged. "Whatever title I hold is little concern of mine." Corlys rolled his eyes. "Besides," Daemon said, adjusting his hold on the many bottles under his arm, "if that were the case then the girl could have wed who she wished. Vaemond and his son shall know the importance the match in regards to your succession, and if they have any wits about them then they shall use it to their advantage."

"They are both a pair of half-wits compared to Rhaenys and I," Corlys said gruffly, shaking his head. 

"Mayhaps, if you are fortunate, they shall predecease you?"

"I would not claim to wish for it, but nor will I grumble if the Stranger comes for them," muttered Corlys. "I would say the same for Viserys' Hightower brood, but I fear it would only give you ideas." Daemon chuckled darkly. "Tell me, honestly, man to man," Corlys whispered, leaning his head close to Daemon's so he could not be overheard, "how many Lords do you expect to honour their oaths once Viserys is gone and his son is a man-grown?"

"Every one of them that breathes," Daemon hissed, "those who will not shall soon be cold in their graves." 

"The Hightowers are an old, rich House," Corlys murmured. "They shall have an army, and if the Tyrells align with them -"

"Do you not recall what my ancestors did to their predecessors, House Gardener?" Daemon drawled. "The Tyrells were only granted Highgarden because they pledged their fealty after Aegon burned his Reachmen foes, and I do not intend to allow them to forget it." 

"Have you ever wondered why they swore to Rhaenyra when they did not Rhaenys?" 

"A King commanded them to," Daemon said. "It is not much to ponder about." 

"But what about when that King dies?" inquired Corlys. "Surely you must have given it some thought? They say that the Great Council ruled twenty to one in Viserys' favour. How many of them shall be willing to change their course?"

"How many of them shall still be alive?" Daemon asked.

"You cannot kill them all," laughed Corlys.

"I will not need to. The Great Council was seventeen years ago, many of those Lords were already in hoar," Daemon replied. "Besides, they are all greener than my babe, they shall not long for a war with dragons." 

"And if Viserys' son is to claim a dragon of his own?" Corlys quizzed. "You should pray the Gods send you a daughter to wed to the boy, that w-"

"Never," Daemon hissed. "My line shall not be tainted by that of Ser Hightower's. You should be grateful I am even considering sullying it with that of your loathsome nephew's. The Conquerors gave the Realm one choice; kneel or die. Rhaenyra shall do the same."

"It is the Princess' succession I care about, not yours," Corlys huffed. 

"Who do you think is going to convince her to agree to it?" Daemon asked. "Do you think you shall be Viserys' favoured pick after everything?"

"There is no one in the Realm more suitable," Corlys grumbled. "She would be a fool not to see it." 

"What of your heiress?" Daemon asked, stepping back so the Lord's breath was not hitting his face any longer. "Do you not worry your nephew shall take the power from her once you are in your watery grave?" 

"Laena has Vhagar," Corlys replied with a wry smile. "I am sure she shall manage to keep him in line somehow." Daemon laughed. 

"You should have gone with the second son, if you ask me."

"Well, I did not," Corlys said stiffly.

"No," Daemon sighed. "But a second son cannot claim to be heir whilst his brother lives, and what would Vaemond have to contest if Laena's titles would fall to his grandson anyway?"

"Vaemond cares not for legacy," Corlys hissed, stepping closer to him again. "He wants glory, but he does not want to have to earn it. He would gladly rob his own blood just to call himself 'Lord of the Tides' even if he only sits the Driftwood Throne for a year. He would be a fool to usurp his own heir, however, even if he would want to."

"So, you are accepting that Vaemond will consider his son the Lord?" Daemon asked. 

"He can consider what he wishes, the truth shall remain clear," sniffed Corlys. 

"Mayhaps Vhagar can make a meal of him too," Daemon chortled. Corlys rolled his eyes. "Unless Caraxes gets there first, before taking a trip to Oldtown." 

"Burning the Hightower shall not earn you fealty," Corlys said, shaking his head.

"No, no," Daemon agreed. "But burning a Hightower might rid my son of contest."

"I am sure you have a specific knight in mind."

"How could I not?" Daemon drawled. Corlys shook his head again. "There shall have to be changes elsewhere, of course." Corlys cocked an eyebrow. "King's Landing, for a start. Do you never wish for your old seat on the Council?" 

"I have better things to do than clear up your brother's messes," Corlys puffed.

"Evidently," Daemon said drily, gesturing to the stalls of antique tapestries around them. 

"You wish to rid the Capital of that Lannister fool?"

"I wish to rid the Capital of the lot of them," Daemon replied. "Of course, I cannot do anything about the maester, we are saddled with him until he dies, but Strong, Lannister, and Beesbury worked too closely with Ser Hightower for my liking, and this Wylde seems no better, just scheming to get advantageous marriages for his too many children." Corlys snorted. 

"How do you intend to achieve giving him a whole new Council?" he inquired. Before Daemon could reply, they heard the sound of a cackle through the crowd as smoke rose from amongst them. Daemon glanced at the Lord for a moment, before pushing his way through the other patrons.

 Daemon clenched his jaw as his eyes fell upon the tall woman, her hair as dark as night and her skin as white as snow, whom Daemon had met during his last visit. This time, she had covered her dress in a thick cape of white fur, although Daemon could still see the green fabric underneath. The woman cackled again. The smile on her face appeared forced as she held her hands up to the flames in the pit ahead of her stall. "You -" she pointed a long, bony finger at a woman in the crowd. The woman turned her head to look at her, narrowing her eyes. "Do you wish to know your death?" The woman shook her head and scurried away with a small boy in tow. The dark haired woman laughed coldly again. 

"What the hell is this?" asked Corlys lowly, a crease forming in his brow. 

"Mummer's tricks," Daemon sniffed. "Posing as witchcraft." 

"Pentos has had sorceresses before," Corlys muttered. 

"Only if rumours are to be believed," Daemon replied. "Do you consider any commoner capable of such talents?"

"I would rather not consider it at all," Corlys said stiffly, shaking his head.

"I see grief in you, my Lady," the woman said, walking further away from her stall to clutch onto the hand of a lowborn woman, who gasped at her touch. "Was it a daughter?" the woman asked, cocking her head. "No... a son - " the common woman shifted uncomfortably "- two sons. I am sorry."

"Yes," whispered the lowborn woman sombrely.

"They are in the flames," whispered the woman. Daemon scoffed. Corlys frowned at him.

"What?" Daemon questioned. "You do not truly believe her, do you? That she can see dead people?" Corlys grunted. Daemon laughed at him. They watched as the woman picked on another patron, this one a wealthy young man, likely the son of a magister, in velvet garments with a short moustache. 

"They are going to kill you," she told him. The man's eyes doubled in size. The woman nodded solemnly. 

"What?" the man asked. "Who?" The woman turned back to her stall. "Who is?" The young man pushed away from his guards to approach her, a frown on his lips. The woman held out a small vial of blue liquid. 

"This shall protect you," she told him, her voice soft and sultry. The man reached for it, but the woman closed her fist. "It is from the Summer Isles, very rare," she added. "And very costly." Daemon rolled his eyes. He pushed through the crowd towards where he had left his horse, hearing Corlys' footsteps behind him. 

 The guards stepped aside as Daemon approached the palatial home of the Prince of Pentos. Once inside its walls, he took his saddle bag and swung it over his shoulder before dismounting. As he did, a manservant hurried towards him, whom Daemon allowed to take hold of the reins, while a second servant held open the door, bowing his head as the Prince passed him. 

 Daemon ascended the many flights of steps that led to the floor where his borrowed rooms were situated. Although Reggio's palatial home was vast, even its greatest of chambers looked more similar to the size of those at Riverrun than anything Daemon was accustomed to on Dragonstone. Most of the bedchamber was taken up by the grand bed, easily capable of fitting four men, which had been covered in far too many feather pillows, so Daemon had thrown many of them onto the floor. The sheets were a light green colour that reminded Daemon of his seasickness, made of soft, expensive silk, and the posters of the bed were made of a firm but pale wood, certainly not as costly as those Daemon was used to. The room was decorated with a collection of spiky plants, from which grew colourful flowers, some pink, others yellow, and one with dark purple petals upon the balcony. Torches hung from every corner of the room, although none of them were lit in broad daylight, and the fireplace was cold, the wood around it engraved with markings of the Pentoshi towers and large boats. 

 Daemon dropped his bag onto the bed with a thump. He took out the bottles, which he placed on a bookshelf in the corner of the room, before rolling up the silk and slipping it inside the sack that he travelled with. Then, he swatted the bag from the bed and onto one of the square cushions on the floor, each placed ahead of the fire in place of chairs, and walked back out of the door in search of Reggio's servants. 

 The Prince followed the manservants, who walked with buckets of water, each of them clad in plain clothes of brown, out onto the balcony and through a second, red-orange door to the washroom. 

 The washroom was no smaller than the bedchamber. The floor was covered in tiles of brown and grey, while the walls were tiles of vibrant blues and oranges, some of them decorated with the image of two women with golden hair, one with a crown of pink fish, the other in a dress that looked like a sack, likely to represent the maid of the sea and the maid of the fields. Most of the room was taken up by the vast bath, which was more of a marble pool than a tub, deep enough for a smaller man than Daemon to stand in and still be mostly submerged, and easily enough room for two or three to sit in. Daemon kept out of the way as the servants filled it with water, using long prongs to drop lit coals into each of the buckets before they poured. 

 Once the servants were done, they bowed their heads and dismissed themselves, leaving Daemon to strip off and sink into the warm waters, letting his eyes fall closed as he basked in the heated steam. 

 Daemon's evening attire consisted of a pair of pale brown breeches tucked into black boots, and a dark red tunic covered by an ornate coat of gold and black, its golden buttons the size of medallions. He tied his hair back with a strip of black silk, and he wore his silver ring engraved with the Targaryen sigil on the smallest finger of his right hand.

 When he descended the steps, he found that Reggio's guests had congregated in the courtyard. Outside, colourful lanterns hung from the walls, illuminating the square as dusk settled upon them, and servants in garments of white and purple carried silver trays, on which sat cups of pale wine, bowls of buttered snails, and boiled goose eggs. Most of the magisters were dressed not dissimilar to Daemon, in elaborate clothing of pale gold, dark blue, and dark purple, while less affluent guests were clad in orange or yellow tunics over pale undershirts. Daemon noticed a couple of Braavosi magisters in rich, velvet garments, the men with purple stripes in their forked beards while their wives wore their hair in large curled braids stuck to the side of their heads. 

 "My Prince," a serving girl murmured, bowing her head as she moved her tray to her other hand, narrowly avoiding Daemon's elbow. Daemon waved a hand dismissively, his eyes scanning the contents of her tray but finding no interest in her snails. He snapped his fingers for the lanky man behind her, whose tray contained cups of wine.

"My Prince." The young man also bowed his head as he approached, looking at Daemon with something akin to awe and intrigue in his wide, brown eyes as Daemon took a cup of the pitiful Pentoshi wine. Daemon turned his head as he heard Reggio's laughter across the courtyard, where he was surrounded by other Pentoshi magisters and their sons, although Reggio's own wife and children remained absent. "Do - um - do you require anything else?" the servant asked. 

"That will be all," Daemon replied. 

"Yes, my Prince," the man said, nodding his head. Daemon watched him walk away for a moment, before his attention was drawn to a familiar whistle. 

 The Prince looked up as the leathery flap of Caraxes' heavy wings beat above them, the Blood Wyrm circling the Pentoshi Prince's palatial home, much to the awe of Reggio and his guests. Daemon watched as they gasped and cheered, much like the commonfolk at the docks. 

 "You would think they were all children," came an irritated huff from behind Daemon. 

 As Daemon turned his head, he found himself faced with the turquoise form of Daemion Velaryon, one hand on his hip and the other holding a bronze cup of what smelt like cider. 

 "Yes," Daemon sighed. "It is rather undignified." 

Daemion snorted, "certainly. You would not see such behaviour in Westeros, certainly not from highborn men." 

"Dragons have not tried to make Pentos their home since before the Doom," Daemon shrugged. "They have less reasons to fear us, less reasons to want us gone." 

"Westeros will never accept us Valyrians," sighed Daemion, shaking his head. "At least in Essos we are recognised as we deserve." 

"In Westeros we are the blood of Kings," Daemon sniffed. "I care little for the respect of the grandsons of farmers and Andals." Daemion swallowed and nodded his agreement. Daemon's eyes flickered back to the Blood Wyrm as Caraxes let out a cry, his long tail snapping through the air like a whip as the dragon made his descent, landing just outside the Prince's walls. Daemon smirked as he saw Daemion flinch at Caraxes' roar. "Where is your uncle?" Daemon asked him.

"I could not say," Daemion replied, raising his cup to his lips. Daemon followed his gaze to where Reggio was laughing again, but he looked away when he caught sight of the magisters staring back at them. "Do you suppose that they shall agree to it, then?" Daemion questioned, his voice low. "They seem to swoon over you worse than a maiden." Daemon snorted. "It is no jest, just look at them." Daemion shook his head as he watched Reggio puff his chest out as he pointed to Caraxes. 

"They would be fools not to, this close to Myr and Tyrosh," Daemon said. 

"They would be fools not to with a dragon here," huffed Daemion, smirking. 

"The dragon will leave, even they know that," Daemon replied. "Myr and Tyrosh shall not." 

"I suppose," shrugged Daemion, sipping from his cup again. Daemon turned his head as two servants opened the doors and the sound of the music from the Entrance Hall carried through the manse and out to the courtyard. "Aha, there he is." Daemion pointed across the courtyard to where they could now see Corlys stepping away from a small man with long, brown hair tied in three places, a bright blue beard, and heavy hoops hanging from his ears. The Lord of the Tides was dressed again in black and gold, the seahorse of his House upon his breast, and he wore golden rings on every finger to match the three golden chains around his neck. "Do you know who that is?" Daemion asked, pointing to the blue-bearded man.

"Not at all," Daemon replied. "Although, based on his earrings, I would assume he is one of the magisters."

"That is what I thought," said Daemion, nodding. "But why bother with that one? The others look like they have more gold." 

"Mayhaps he has an interest in ships?" Daemon suggested. He drained his cup and snapped his fingers for another. A serving girl with long, brown hair hurried towards him, offering the contents of her tray. As Daemon took one, Daemion reached over to take a second of his own. 

"Nuncle," called Daemion, stepping away from the Targaryen Prince to approach the Lord of the Tides. Corlys stroked his beard as he nodded to him, Daemion speeding up as Reggio and an aged man with trimmed, white hair and a forked beard stepped away from their group towards the Lord. Corlys side-stepped them, instead heading towards a servant and his tray of eggs. 

"Prince Daemon," said Reggio cheerily, smiling as he strode towards Daemon. 

"Prince Reggio," Daemon returned, nodding his head as he raised his cup to his lips.

"Do you plan on remaining in Pentos for long?" inquired the white haired magister. "I am sure your presence shall be a remarkable deterrent for the Triarchy."

"I have told him as such, Thrussio," chuckled Reggio. 

"I must return to Westeros and Dragonstone once our business is concluded," Daemon replied. "But, if you wish to keep the Triarchy at bay, I suggest allying yourself with Lord Velaryon over there." Daemon jerked his head in Corlys' direction.

"Would you?" questioned Thrussio, surprised. "I, for one, would choose dragons over seahorses any day." 

"I would not blame you for such," Daemon replied, "but you shall find far more seahorses in the Narrow Sea than dragons." 

"But that is what makes you so special," Thrussio declared, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Daemon raised an eyebrow. Thrussio and Reggio chuckled, Thrussio clapping as they heard Caraxes whistling beyond the walls. Daemon forced a smile as Corlys and Daemion marched towards them, tailed by a serving girl with messy black hair. 

"Greetings, my Lord," Reggio said, slapping Corlys' shoulder. 

"Hullo," Corlys replied lowly, raising his own cup to his lips. "Wonderful evening. Just look at this place." Corlys grinned as he gestured around the courtyard. Daemon could see Daemion biting his lip in hopes of stifling a laugh. 

"Thank you, my Lord," said Reggio, puffing his chest out proudly. "We spared no expense." Thrussio laughed cheerily, taking a buttered snail from the serving girl's tray. "Are you hungry, my Lord, Prince Daemon?"

"I am," piped up Daemion. 

"Indeed," agreed Corlys, glaring at his nephew.

"Good, good," Reggio said. "Come along." Daemon drained his cup, placing it on the serving girl's tray as he followed Reggio into the Entrance Hall, where a pair of fiddlers were playing, each of them in large, blue hats, from which hung two colourful feathers, one pink and one green. 

 Reggio's Great Hall was a circular room. Two torches were lit in front of every pillar, and candles adorned the long, wooden table in the centre, upon the stone flooring. The table was covered in a golden tablecloth, and the plates were silver. Reggio himself sat at the head of the table, with Thrussio to his right and Daemon to his left. The Prince of Pentos drank from a bejewelled chalice, whilst his guests were given bronze cups. It was Corlys who sat on Daemon's left, the Lord of the Tides immediately filling his cup with Pentoshi wine.

 As other magisters and noble guests filled the hall, servants with thick collars around their necks in simple garments hurried out from the kitchens. The table was soon filled with silver platters, upon which sat chickens cooked whole, each served with roasted carrots and sliced limes, pigeon breasts laying on a bed of asparagus, capon hearts paired with chopped melons and blackberries, pheasants, some still with their feathers, and soft pears, lamb legs on black rice, beef ribs smothered in a thick, greasy sauce, its colour somewhere between red and brown, served with corn and sticky cherries, beef steaks with tomatoes and summer greens, blood sausages, and pies of mutton and cinnamon. There were also bowls of pomegranates, roasted papaya, potatoes cooked in garlic and apricot, and goats cheese cut into little cubes, and jugs of Pentoshi wine, Tyroshi brandy, and what Daemon presumed to be mead. 

 "Why are they dressed like that?" Daemion asked, his brow creased as he nodded to the servants, who were relighting some of the candles at the end of the table.

"They are free bond servants," Corlys said gruffly. "Not slaves in name, perhaps, but they are not truly free." 

"I had thought slavery was not allowed here," Daemion whispered.

"It is not," Corlys replied, equally as quietly, so much so that Daemon could barely hear him, "which is why they are not called slaves." Daemion shook his head. "Braavos would be angered if they said otherwise." Daemion shifted uncomfortably as one of the collared servants filled his cup with wine. Daemon reached for the potatoes, ignoring the woman as she poured wine into his own cup. "Pass me those pigeons, would you not?" Corlys asked him. Daemon hummed as he obliged, offering the Lord the tray before reaching for the chicken. 

"Aha," Reggio chuckled, clapping as a lutenist in a blue tunic practically skipped into the room in pointed shoes. 

 The lutenist was not the only form of entertainment that evening, for before the desserts were served, a pair of singers in scarlet dresses with low necklines and short skirts, the sort that would sooner be welcome in a brothel than in the Red Keep, and what Daemon assumed to be at least a dozen dancers in loose, white gowns of silk that fell from their pale shoulders and left little to the imagination, each wearing their hair in neatly coiled braids and brandishing white fans, skipped into the hall, some of them giggling to one another. 

 "This is the sort of hospitality I could get used to," drawled Daemion, smirking as he raised his cup to his lips. His eyes followed one of the dancers with long, golden hair, who moved her hips seductively in time with the music that was still playing. 

"Do you intend to remain in Pentos?" Daemon asked drily. 

"I may," chuckled Daemion. Corlys glowered at him. 

"Keep your eyes on your dinner," he hissed. 

"But I am watching the show," Daemion puffed, pouting like a child. Corlys swatted his arm. Daemion winced, his own hand raising to cover the spot as he shifted in his chair, staring down at his pie angrily as if it had threatened him. Daemon stabbed the last of his own pie with his fork, raising it to his mouth as more servants, half with collars and half without, brought out the desserts. 

 Daemon helped himself to the cream cakes as the music stopped. He clapped politely along with the rest of the table as the two fiddlers joined the room, soon playing a jaunty melody that had the dancers skipping around the hall. Some of Reggio's guests also rose from the table, walking hand in hand to dance around the hall. "There is Hilaggio," Corlys muttered, leaning over Daemon to point to a mousy haired man in a black tunic with many heavy golden chains around his neck. "He owns the largest shipyard in the city," Corlys continued. "If we need to convince anyone, it shall be him." 

"What else do you know about him?" Daemon inquired. 

"Very little," sighed Corlys. "He comes from an old family, although they are not known seafarers, but wealthy, one would imagine, and in Pentos, wealth speaks."

"Is that his wife?" Daemon asked, pointing to the redheaded woman beside him. 

"No," Corlys replied gruffly. "His wife is Tyroshi. That is likely one of his sisters."

"Mayhaps she is both?" piped up Daemion. Corlys shook his head at him. 

"Do not say that to him," he snarled. Daemion rolled his eyes. "If you are going to sulk like a child, then you can remain here," huffed Corlys. "I do not need you embarrassing me." Daemion glowered at him. Daemon let his fork fall to his plate as Corlys rose from the table, and he watched the Lord of the Tides cross the room towards the Pentoshi magister.

 Daemon, meanwhile, sauntered to the corner of the room, where Reggio was pouring pale amber wine into his chalice from a glass jug. 

 "Aha, Prince Daemon," the Pentoshi greeted him cheerily. The chalice was far deeper than any of the cups, and as a result of his many drinks his face was reddened and his eyes appeared glassy and dazed. "You uh - are you enjoying the feast?"

"This is a feast?" Daemon inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Well... it - it - maybe not," sighed Reggio. He chuckled stiffly as he raised his chalice to his lips. 

"Are your magisters properly drunk yet?" Daemon laughed, rubbing his hands together. "Lord Velaryon and I are eager to speak with them." Reggio laughed, wine sloshing from his chalice, but soon it turned into hiccups and he tapped his chest. 

"Yes, yes, yes," he said, nodding up and down with every word. "To our - our - our alliance." He raised his chalice into the air, spilling wine out onto the floor, before he drank from it. "We must - uh - we must - must defeat the grasping, lustful Triarchy before they set their sights upon us."

"And do you think that your magisters shall agree with that?" Daemon questioned. Reggio hummed. 

"Yes," he replied, after a pause. "We have no - no greater foe at present than that of the Three Whores."

"We have that in common, it would seem," Daemon sighed. "If only Braavos agreed with us."

"F - fuck Braavovos," slurred Reggio, scowling. He drank from his chalice again, before joining in the polite clap that carried throughout the hall as the fiddler's melody came to a close. It was the lutenist that began again, the singers serenading in Pentos' bastard tongue, and the dancers began to weave in between the nobles as they spun, waving raising their arms above their heads as the moved with the music, their fans closed but twirling in their hands. Daemon was unsurprised to see Daemion trailing after a woman with silvery-grey hair, the golden bangles on her wrists rattling together as she danced. "The Sealord - Sealord of Braavos is a blithering fool," hissed Reggio, shaking his head. 

"I will not disagree," Daemon drawled. He pushed his hair from his face as his eyes scanned the hall, eventually finding Corlys and Hilaggio in the opposite corner, their heads close together. As Daemon again looked for Daemion in the crowd of dancers, he instead found his attention drawn to a tall woman with raven-black hair and eerily pale skin. She wore the same gown as the other dancers, but the bracelets on her wrists were leather, not gold, and instead of slippers she wore fur boots. Daemon supposed that he should not have been surprised, Tyanna of Pentos, too, had once been a dancer.

"Wine?" Reggio offered. He pushed the jug into Daemon's elbow. The Prince heard the liquid splashing inside, but it was not full enough to stain his clothes. Daemon accepted it from him, but with no cup to pour it into he could do little more than staring at the pale yellow liquid. "I bet - bet they do not dance like this in West - Westeros," laughed Reggio. "Your - your Faith is too - too prudish for that."

"It is not just the Faith, but half the Lords too," Daemon replied. 

"Do they not like women?" laughed Reggio. 

"They like them well enough, where their wives cannot see them," Daemon said drily. Reggio chortled. "How well can your shipwrights work? You do not have much of a fleet."

"Only because it would - would an - anger Braavos," puffed Reggio grumpily. "We make ships well."

"And quickly?"

"Only the shipwrights could tell you that," replied Reggio. "But I am sure - sure your Lord shall ha - ha - have his fleet before the Triarchy move to attack." 

"Let us hope so," Daemon drawled. As a servant walked past, Daemon dropped the jug onto their tray to be taken away, but Reggio did not seem to notice. 

"To - to - to all - alliances," declared Reggio, raising his chalice. As he brought it to his lips, half of its contents missed his mouth and dripped down his chin to his tunic, but he seemed not to notice. Daemon nodded at him, before turning back to look at where Corlys and Hilaggio were, only to find that they were gone. Daemon frowned, his eyes scanning the hall as the dancing guests spun each other around, while Reggio's dancers were now circling the lutenist, waving their fans across their faces. Daemion was now dancing with a woman with reddish-brown hair in a pale blue gown with large diamonds hanging from her earrings. 

 When Reggio clicked his fingers for another jug of wine, Daemon returned to the table, leaving the Pentoshi Prince to turn to a nearby magister, loudly conversing about the sweetness of the grapes. He sighed as he reached for another cup of the weak Pentoshi wine, struggling to understand how it had gotten Reggio in such a state. 

 Daemon was not sure how much time had passed before Corlys and Hilaggio returned to the hall, but many of the guests had already left for the evening, and Reggio was now passed out in the corner, wine staining his beard. Daemon had lost sight of Daemion, which he saw as no great loss, and he reached for the last of the cream cakes on the tray beside him as Corlys marched towards the table. "Evening," Daemon said gruffly. "How was the shipwright?"

"He is no shipwright," grunted Corlys. "He owns the shipyards, but he knows little of ships."

"Whatever he is, did he agree to your terms?" Daemon asked. 

"He might," Corlys sighed, reaching over Daemon to pour himself a cup of wine. He drained it in two gulps, as the fiddlers shuffled out of the hall, leaving the lutenist alone. "He wishes to meet with you first."

"I am no seafarer," Daemon muttered.

"But you are a Targaryen," Corlys replied stiffly. Daemon smirked. 

"That matters here?"

"It would seem so," sighed Corlys. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before slamming the cup onto the table. 

"Did he mention what he wanted from me?" Daemon asked, standing up. Corlys shook his head. "This cannot be good," Daemon grumbled. Corlys chuckled. 

 As Daemon walked towards the floor, he realised that Hilaggio had been watching them as he stuck sour cherries into his mouth. Corlys nodded to him, before gesturing for Daemon to follow him out of the hall. 

 When they reached the courtyard, Daemon found that, in their absence, Caraxes had flown over the wall and now rested his head upon one of the rocks as he wrapped his tail around himself. The dragon whistled as he heard Daemon and Corlys' footsteps, opening one eye, but closing it again when he saw them. 

"Look at that."

 Daemon turned around at the sign of Hilaggio's voice, finding the Pentoshi was staring at Caraxes in awe.

 "It looks so much bigger here," Hilaggio continued, his eyes wide as he rubbed his hands together. "How can any creature be this big? Can you imagine - imagine owning a horse of this size?" Hilaggio laughed to himself as he descended the steps, approaching Daemon and Corlys with a smile on his face. "So, you are the Targaryen Prince?" Hilaggio asked.

"And you are the owner of the shipyards?" Daemon returned. 

"Indeed," replied Hilaggio, nodding.

"I assume you know the threat of the Triarchy as it stands," Daemon said. "It would only grow fiercer with the aid of Dorne." 

"The lust and deviance of the Three Daughters is known well," agreed Hilaggio, nodding. "But building warships is costly, and I do not possess the gold of the Martells." 

"You will be paid accordingly, Lord Corlys shall see to that," Daemon replied. 

"The Three Whores will want to tear the Stepstones apart," Hilaggio said. "If you want to maintain your shipping lanes, and to impose your tolls, I shall require more than gold." 

"What do you think your ships are worth?" Daemon sighed. "We are not taking your men to steer them, no Pentoshi blood shall be spilled." Corlys nodded his agreement. 

"I know you went to Braavos," Hilaggio drawled, raising an eyebrow. "If you met with the Braavosi and have returned here, then they must have sent you away. Who else will you turn to? Surely no one in Westeros if you are this far from home already. If you want to win your battle, then you shall need me, and I shall not be paid away like some whore, I am a magister of Pentos." Corlys frowned. 

"It is true enough that our intentions were with Braavos, but our fondness for Reggio does not extend to the Braavosi Sealord. Nevertheless, that does not mean that there are none interested in allying themselves with the Stepstones, and that of my dragon," Daemon lied. Hilaggio's face fell. "The Pentoshi coast is closer to the Stepstones and more accessible to the Velaryon fleet, but if your shipyards are incapable, that does not affect us. I am the blood of Old Valyria after all, there are many of the Old Blood who will seek to align themselves with us." Hilaggio frowned. 

"You shall find none as fine as the work of the Pentoshi," he huffed.

"Is that why you have lost so many wars to Braavos?" drawled Daemon. Hilaggio glowered at him. "If not gold, what is your price, magister?" Hilaggio inhaled sharply through his nose as he raised himself to his full height.

"There will be the exchange of gold, of course," he puffed. "I must pay my shipwrights somehow." Corlys raised an eyebrow. "But that will not suffice. The Three Whores are allied with Dorne now, and they are lecherous. Pentos shares its border with Myr, and we are a short voyage from Tyrosh. If the Three Whores come grasping for us, we shall need protection - your protection."

"Dorne has no true ambition for the Stepstones," Daemon said gruffly. "Martell will want only to fight Lord Velaryon and myself without invading Westeros. Once we humiliate the Three Whores again, the Dornish shall retreat and leave the Triarchy beggared once more." 

"Be that as it may, the Triarchy shall grow fearless while Dorne remains behind them," replied Hilaggio. "If they do continue to maintain their arms, they may look to Pentos as their next target, as Braavos has weakened us so in recent years." 

"I assure you, magister, the Three Whores shall never command the strength for you to fear them so," Daemon drawled. "But, if the day does come that they move against Pentos, the ashes of their ships shall fall beneath the tide." Hilaggio laughed, rubbing his hands together. 

"Good, good," he said. "I should like to see them burn." Corlys nodded, smiling at the magister. "And the tolls?"

"The tolls?" Corlys repeated stiffly.

"I may have little experience when it comes to travel, Lord Velaryon, but business I know well - and do well, I might add," replied Hilaggio. "Your tolls have already risen this year, and I am sure you shall need to make up for whatever you lose in your endeavour to fight the Three Whores, be it the gold for your fleet, or the ships they manage to burn, and so you shall raise the tolls again, shall you not?"

"Which way will the wind blow come winter?" scoffed Corlys. "At present, I could not say what we shall do once the Triarchy has been bested again, who knows when that might be?"

"You know I speak true, my Lord," said Hilaggio. "You shall want to reimburse yourself for these costs, and to do so you shall raise the tolls again. I am not going to just give you your gold back once you have taken my ships."

"You wish for Pentos to avoid my tolls?" huffed Corlys, raising an eyebrow.

"No Pentoshi flags shall fly in the Stepstones," shrugged Hilaggio. "It means little to me how much coin you take from Prince Reggio. I wish only for my own men to cross without issue."

"None are permitted free passage, not even mine own," puffed Corlys. 

"Then charge my men no more than yours," said Hilaggio. "You shall know whom they are." Daemon glanced to Corlys, who looked unhappy. 

"Yes," he said reluctantly. "That is - that could be arranged."

"You shall have your fleet, Lord Velaryon," Hilaggio declared. "I only hope you can find men capable of sailing them."

"We shall," Corlys said gruffly. 

"Would you wish to meet the shipwrights?" 

"Indeed," Corlys replied. 

"Come to my manse on the morrow," Hilaggio told him. "Prince Reggio's men shall know where to take you. We can go there together, and you can inform them what it is that you want." 

"Very well," muttered Corlys. 

"Do you wish to join us also, my Prince?" Hilaggio offered. "We have some fresh saltwater herrings we could break our fast with."

"No, I have other business to return to in Westeros," Daemon replied. Hilaggio nodded, and reached for Daemon's arm as he walked passed. It took everything in Daemon not to push the man aside, but instead he pulled himself away, marching ahead of the magister and into the manse before he could get offended by the Prince's dismissal. 

 There were few occupants in the Great Hall when Daemon returned. The musicians and the dancers had left, and the few remaining servants were standing idly in the corners, ignored by the few nobles that spoke in hushed tones to one another. Reggio was where Daemon had last seen him, slumped in the corner of the room, a half-empty cup of wine in his hand and droplets running from his beard to his tunic. Daemon approached him with his hands clasped behind his back. He cleared his throat, staring down at the Pentoshi Prince, but Reggio made no move to wake. Daemon coughed again, louder this time, but still Reggio made no signs of hearing him. Daemon looked over his shoulder, and finding no one looking at him, he smacked his boot into the Prince's side. 

 Reggio heaved as his eyes snapped open, staring dazedly up at the Targaryen Prince, a small frown on his face. 

 "Are you alright?" Daemon asked, feigned concern in his voice. 

"Oh - ah - ye - yes," Reggio spluttered. "Of course I am." Daemon nodded. Reggio forced a chuckle as he hurriedly threw himself to his feet, reaching for the wall behind him to stabilise himself as his knees immediately began to wobble. 

"Hilaggio has agreed to commit the services of his shipyard to Lord Corlys' fleet," Daemon told him.

"G - good," replied Reggio, nodding. "The Three - Three Whor - Whores shall stand never a chan - chance when we - if we - for we are divide - united - we are united - allied - they shall fear us as allies." 

"Indeed," Daemon said drily. Daemon glanced over his shoulder again, and upon finding there was still nobody in earshot, he leaned closer to the Pentoshi. "On that other matter we discussed," he said, his voice little more than a whisper, "on the standing of our merchant friend." Reggio's brow furrowed. "You said you would permit me into your dungeons."

"Ah, yes," Reggio replied, nodding again. "Uh... now?"

"Yes," Daemon told him. "I have business to return to in Westeros." 

"I see," sighed Reggio. He placed his cup on the table as they passed it, his chalice forgotten on the floor, and led the way out of the hall. 

 The Pentoshi dungeons were kept beneath the western watchtower. With nothing to light the way, Reggio's guard carried a torch above their heads as they descended the serpentine stairs that winded beneath the ground and to the cells, Daemon walking with one hand on Dark Sister and the other carrying an empty sack. The Pentoshi dungeons reminded Daemon of the black cells of the Red Keep, but he would guess them to be even further underground, whereas the rooms so deep in King's Landing's dungeons were used for torture. These prisoners, at least, had beds to sleep in and chamber pots, which the prisoners were not permitted in the black cells. The cells were accompanied by a revolting aroma that Daemon could not place the source of, but it made his stomach churn and Reggio was visibly gagging. "I - ah - I seldom go - visit - here," he said.

"No, my Prince," agreed the guard, through gritted teeth.

"I can see why," Daemon said drily. 

 Daemon commanded Reggio and his guard to remain at the foot of the stairs, but he took the torch from them as he proceeded along the narrow walkway, his broad shoulders struggling not to bump into the sludge that ran down the damp walls. He could feel the dark eyes of the prisoners staring at him with a mixture of confusion and fear as he passed their cells, some hiding in the corners, others approaching the bars to get a better look at him, but Daemon paid them no heed.

 The Targaryen Prince continued to the end of the path and turned right. In these cells, there were no prisoners to crawl fearfully towards the bars, instead Daemon found their silent remains, some freshly dead, others having been decaying for some time. The foul stench of death was thick and stifling, grasping at the back of Daemon's throat as if the Stranger was pulling on him too. He had thought he had grown accustomed to it after so many bloody battles, but the dark, damp dungeon only exacerbated the odour. He shook his head as he stepped into one of the cells, where four prisoners were once kept, but now their skeletal remains lay upon the floor in a pile. It must have been a pitiful way to go, Daemon thought, locked down there for who knows how many years, never seeing the sun. He hung the torch upon the wall, but instantly regretted it as it gave him a clearer view of the scene.

 As Daemon approached the first skeleton, he inhaled sharply through his teeth. He considered it for a moment, one hand reaching out to hold the top of its flat skull. After steeling himself, Daemon pulled Dark Sister from her sheath and sliced through the skeleton's neck with one swoop, until he was just holding the skull in his hand. Daemon forced it into his sack with little care, slashing Dark Sister's blade through a second bone and collecting a second skull, which he placed alongside the first. Then, he walked away. 

 "Did - ah - di - did you find wha - what you were looking for?" Reggio asked, leaning against the wall to keep himself upright.

"No," Daemon lied. "He was wrong. He is not here." The guard shook his head. 

"Oh dear," sighed Reggio. 

"Shall we?" Daemon asked, returning the torch to the guard so he could lead them back out. 

 Daemon had little interest in remaining in Pentos. Once they returned to the main building, Daemon bid farewell to Reggio and clambered upstairs to his rooms. Hurriedly, he threw all of his belongings into his luggage sack, which he swung over his shoulder and carried it downstairs and out of the Prince's palatial home. 

 Caraxes let out a hiss as Daemon shoved the sack into the saddle bag. "Lykirī," Daemon told him softly. Caraxes huffed, smoke rising from his nostrils as he raised his head, his neck rising until he was almost the same height as the manse, whilst he was still laying down. "Iksi jāre," Daemon said, smoothing his hand over the scales below the dragon's saddle. "Back to Dragonstone." Caraxes whistled excitedly. Daemon chuckled. He patted the dragon's side before clambering into the saddle. 

 The Blood Wyrm wasted no time in taking off, flapping his wings as he soared higher and higher into the sky, screeching as they flew over the city in the pale moonlight. 

 The Prince was half-asleep when the draconic shape of Dragonstone castle grew visible in the distance, and Daemon almost could not believe what he was looking at. Although little more than a rock upon the hill in the distance, the sight of the circling smoke that rose from the volcano behind it was enough to lift Caraxes' spirits, which had been growing darker due to the strong winds and cool splash of the sea below. "We are almost there," Daemon told him, patting his scales comfortingly. "Naejot." Caraxes puffed indignantly, as if to insist that he did not need to be told such, but Daemon was speaking more to himself than to the dragon. "We will be back soon." Caraxes urged himself forward, his wings beating violently to increase his speed. 

 Daemon could not tear his eyes away from the castle as the dragon grew ever closer to the island. He could hear the growl of Vermithor somewhere in the distance, likely hunting somewhere, which Caraxes answered with a screech. The dragon flew higher and higher, over the island, his scales glimmering in the glow of the moon. "Embrot," Daemon commanded. "Down." Caraxes puffed, smoke rising from his nostrils as he dived downward, gliding through the air until his talons dragged through the ground and he landed upon the rocky hillside beyond the castle walls. "Sȳz zaldrīzes," Daemon praised him, patting the dragon. Caraxes let out a deep whistle, his head tilting slightly as his eyes scanned the horizon. A blue hue was seeping into the sky as dawn neared, but the sun still remained out of sight. Daemon smoothed the scales above his saddle before he dismounted, sliding down the dragon's wing and onto the ground. He took the sack out of the saddle bag, the weight of the bottles pushing on his shoulders as he walked towards the castle.

 The Prince walked in a dream-like state through Dragonstone, his legs moving themselves as if in a trance. He did not acknowledge the guards, not the ones outside the curtain walls or the ones who stood at the doors to Sea Dragon Tower. If they said anything, Daemon did not hear them, he did not even realise that they were there until he was half-way up the stairs. He walked with tunnel vision, only able to see the steps that separated him from the doors to the top floor. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, his shoulder aching as the heavy sack pulled him down with his every step. Still, the Prince did not stop, his pace quickening as he drew closer to the door. 

 Sleep tugged on Daemon's eyes as he navigated the corridors, the first signs of sunlight illuminating the sky he saw through the circular windows. He had had to remove the sack, now carrying it in both arms, which slowed him somewhat, but it did not matter to him now, not when he could see the door to his chambers at the end of the narrow corridor. 

 He may as well have been dreaming as he stepped into the bedchamber, the sight before him one he had imagined so many times, so much so it hardly felt real. The fire was dying in the fireplace, its orange glow barely bright enough to light the coals, but still its heat was impossible to ignore given how cold the rest of the room was. The cold wind blew in from the sea, sweeping over the balcony and in to the bedchamber, blowing the curtains that hung around the bed. Daemon only needed to tilt his head to see where Rhaenyra lay in their bed, her silver-gold hair framing her face like a crown. 

 As Daemon stepped closer to the bed, he could feel the door closing behind him. The wind blew his hair into his face and he could feel gooseflesh running down his neck and arms, but the chill was nothing compared to that of life in Lorath. Daemon pulled the curtains back slightly, allowing him to better see Rhaenyra's face, the slight flush to her cheeks, the draw of her nostrils as she inhaled softly, before his eyes turned to the cushion beside her - his cushion - and the silver hair upon it. Aerys slept with a small pout on his full lips, his little fists clinging to a stuffed dragon, big and floppy, yellow in colour, one that Daemon had gifted him for his name-day. His hair was longer than it had been when Daemon had left, and judging on where his feet lay under the covers, he was taller too. There was a dark stain on one of the dragon's wings, and what looked like saliva on its head. 

 Once Daemon realised he had been staring for what could be considered to be an unsettling amount of time, he turned away from the bed. Daemon padded across the room as quietly as he could, before dropping the sack onto the chaise. He hastily unbuckled it, pulling out the bottles of firewine and lining them up on the table. He reached in for the brandy next, but as he put them down, they clinked against each other, prompting a cry from Aerys. Daemon winced. He moved his hand to reach for one of the bottles, but his movements were too rough, and he knocked another onto the floor with a thud. As he retrieved it, pleased to find that it had not smashed, he could hear whispering from the bed beside him; Rhaenyra, too, had woken. Daemon froze.

 For a moment, he did not want to turn around. He had thought of his return to her for many nights and many dawns, of her smiling when she received him, of her hands on him, of his hands on her, but never had he imagined them in such a state, him groggy and unrested, her woken from her slumber at his clumsiness. He considered slipping away, bathing and redressing himself before dawn, to greet her properly over breakfast, but as he heard her softly talking to their son, he knew that he could not wait any longer. Daemon placed the bottles onto the table as delicately as he could as he strained to listen to her, but her voice was too quiet for him to make out the words. 

 Daemon made quick work of unbuckling his belt and laying Dark Sister upon the chaise. His boots were the next to go, which he hurriedly unlaced and placed beside the table. Then, he padded towards the bed. 

 The Prince could not help but smile as he locked eyes with Rhaenyra. The Princess of Dragonstone was now sitting upright in the bed, the covers pooled around her waist. She was thinner than Daemon recalled her being, the bones in her cheeks sharper, and there was a faint purple hue under her eyes that suggested she had not been getting enough sleep. Aerys was sitting between her legs, his toy dragon now abandoned against the cushions, although the boy did not remain seated for long once his dark purple eyes caught sight of Daemon. Aerys pushed away from his mother, toddling on shaky legs towards his father across the bed. About half way down, he tumbled, but while both of his parents reached for him, Aerys continued to crawl until he was close enough to be scooped into Daemon's arms. Daemon could feel his heart swelling in his chest and he pressed kisses to the boy's temple. He had feared that their time apart was long enough that the small boy would have forgotten what he looked like, but instead Aerys clung to him, cooing happily against Daemon's neck.

 "Aerys!" Rhaenyra squealed. At first, Daemon thought she was protesting that the boy had left her, but then she threw herself from the bed, clapping at him eagerly. "He - he has never done that before," Rhaenyra said, answering the puzzled expression on Daemon's face. "He is still crawling everywhere."  Daemon stroked his son's hair gently. Aerys babbled nonsensically against him again.

"He is a smart one," Daemon said affectionately. Rhaenyra nodded.

"Will you give him to me?" she asked.

"I only just got to hold him," Daemon chuckled. "You have had him for weeks." Rhaenyra shrugged.  Daemon sighed dramatically, but deposited the young Prince into her arms nonetheless. He watched them for a moment, as Rhaenyra murmured praise against his hair, tapping his nose gently, as Daemon reached out to pat the boy's head. He was larger than he had been, and Rhaenyra seemed to struggle to hold his weight comfortably now, although that was not enough for her to stop. Daemon watched her adjust her hold on him, smoothing circles around the boy's back as he let out a displeased whine.

 Suddenly, Daemon was kissing her.

 He did not notice himself closing the gap between them, drawn to her as if by some otherworldly force, but soon his lips were on hers, his hand cradling the side of her face as his tongue chased the mint that coated her own, likely from those teas she had been drinking. He could smell the floral scent of those perfumes she liked, and for a moment he wondered if he was assaulting her with the stench of dragon, before he was distracted by her thumb tracing the shape of his chin. 

 "What time is it?" she whispered against his lips, drawing back slightly.

"I could not say," he replied.

"Alright," Rhaenyra hummed. Daemon smiled, his nose bumping against hers slightly as he slid their lips together again. 

 Daemon smoothed his thumb across her cheekbone as she leaned into the kiss. She was warm, although not as warm as him, and he could feel her flushing under his touch. She chased him hungrily, deepening the kiss, and soon one of her hands was in his hair. He leaned into the feel of her fingers, nipping at her bottom lip as he felt her tongue flickering against his. Rhaenyra tugged on his hair hard enough that it pulled on his scalp, but Daemon offered no complaints. His own hands roamed down Rhaenyra's form to hold her hips, pulling her closer to him. 

 Both their chests were heaving when they drew apart. Rhaenyra's cheeks flushed beet red as she released her hold on Daemon, her hand instead brushing her own hair out of her face. Daemon patted Aerys' head as the boy pulled on Rhaenyra's shoulder, eager for attention it would seem, but he kept his other hand where it was, until Rhaenyra pushed him away.

 "We did not know to expect you tonight," she sniffed, her chest still rising and falling quickly. 

"I did not know either," Daemon admitted. 

"I could not have known," Rhaenyra continued, "because you did not write. You never wrote." Rhaenyra smacked her hand against Daemon's chest, which made Aerys flinch. "Weeks you have been away, and I heard seldom a word from you." 

"I did write, from Pentos," Daemon countered. 

"Once!" Rhaenyra flared. 

Daemon sighed, "it seemed futile to send letters when I did not know where I would be when they would be returned. It takes more than a raven to get word across the Narrow Sea, as I am sure you know."

"You could have put that in the letters," Rhaenyra huffed. Daemon frowned. "You could have sent me something! All you had to do was tell me not to reply! Then I would know you were still alive, at the very least." Daemon scoffed.

"You did not truly think that some Braavosi twat would kill Caraxes and I?" he quizzed. 

"I did not know what to think," Rhaenyra replied. "All I knew was I knew nothing." 

"You knew I was there to treat for a fleet," Daemon objected, "and you knew that the Martells are only involved in this to come for my head. It was important." 

"You missed my name-day," Rhaenyra puffed. 

"We knew that was likely to happen when I left," Daemon replied.

"You did not even write then," Rhaenyra snapped. 

"It would never have reached you in time." 

"I received many letters over the sennight before and after my name-day and every single one I hoped was from you," Rhaenyra said, "but they were not. None of them were." 

"The Braavosi would not help us, we had to look elsewhere," Daemon told her. "In truth I did not know where I was going, but I thought of you -" he reached to take her hand in his, squeezing it tightly "- every single day." 

"Did - did you miss us?" Rhaenyra asked, cocking her head. 

"Must you ask?" Daemon inquired, his brow furrowed. Rhaenyra nodded. "Most terribly so," Daemon replied. "I should not wish to be parted from you again, either of you." Daemon stroked Aerys' head gently, while the boy stared up at him with big eyes. Daemon smiled down at him. Aerys yawned.

"He needs to sleep," Rhaenyra said, carrying him towards the door. As she passed the chaise, she paused, before doubling back and walking towards the fireplace. Daemon watched her approach the mantel, picking up something that he could not see. "A rider came for you," she said, holding out a small scroll. Daemon cocked an eyebrow as he accepted it, and frowned, his thumb stroking over the broken seal.

"Do you make a habit of reading my letters?" he asked.

"No," Rhaenyra replied stiffly. "But, since they sent a rider and not a raven, I assumed it was urgent. Why does that bother you so? What secrets are you keeping from me?"

"If I answered that, my love, I would not be good at keeping secrets," Daemon said with a wink. Rhaenyra shook her head at him. 

"You were not good at keeping secrets in King's Landing," Rhaenyra drawled. Daemon frowned. "If you were, Otto could not have been bringing them to the Council chamber. If you were, my father would not have known about your whores."

Daemon scoffed, "those were not secrets worth keeping." 

"So what are you hiding from me?" Rhaenyra asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Nothing worth knowing," Daemon shrugged. His eyes flew across the page, hurriedly reading Ser Eden's scrawl. "You read this?"

"Yes," Rhaenyra whispered, rubbing circles around Aerys' back. Daemon shook his head miserably, leaning over her to throw the letter into the fireplace. Rhaenyra's brow furrowed as she watched him. "What are you to do about it?" she asked. Daemon sighed. He knew that he should write back to Ser Eden, but every muscle in his body ached and he could not think of hunching over a piece of parchment at present.

"I shall write back to him this afternoon," Daemon replied. "We should find out who else was present and who, if any, agreed with Hightower's treason. The sooner we know our enemies, the better." 

"Yes," Rhaenyra said again. She looked towards the balcony as they heard the cry of one of the dragons, likely Silverwing, Daemon mused, and as she did the Prince stepped forward, his hand cupping the side of her face as he brought their lips together again. Rhaenyra let out a squeak of surprise, but she did not push him away as his tongue flicked against the seam of her lips, seeking access. Again, his hands found her waist, pulling her towards him. This kiss was slower than the last but no less burning, as Daemon basked in the feeling of her soft lips against his, his hands tracing her sides to commit her to memory. One of Rhaenyra's hands reached for his collar, her thumb stroking along the scars of his neck. Daemon hummed against her, his mouth trailing down to press kisses against the skin of her throat. "I - I need to take him," Rhaenyra objected, tugging on Daemon's hair again, but this time with the intention of pulling him away. 

"Alright," Daemon muttered, his voice a little raspy. "I shall await your return, my beloved." He stepped backwards to sit on the bed, reaching down to remove his socks. 

"I will call the maids," Rhaenyra told him. Daemon cocked an eyebrow. "To prepare the bath for you."

"It can wait," Daemon replied, waving a hand dismissively. 

"No, it cannot," Rhaenyra retorted. Daemon chuckled. 

"Very well then," he sighed, throwing his socks onto the floor. As the door closed behind Rhaenyra, he lay back on the bed, staring up at the red canopy that hung over it. 

 Suddenly, he heard the sound of sloshing water as the door to the washroom was thrown open and the maids hurried inside. Daemon blinked rapidly. He must have dozed off without realising it. The fire was crackling loudly, puffing smoke into the room, so one of the maids must have lit it as the other carried the buckets into the bedchamber. Daemon could hear them speaking in hushed tones to one another, but he could not make out what they were saying. He supposed it would be little of importance. Daemon looked through the gap in the curtains at the door, but there was still no sign of Rhaenyra's return. He wondered if she had fallen asleep in Aerys' room, she had certainly looked tired enough.

 Daemon's back ached as he rose from the bed, once he had heard the scurrying of footsteps as the maids excused themselves, but he did his best to ignore it as he shed his clothes and dragged himself into the washroom. 

 He lathered himself with soap with little care, rubbing his arms red as the faint metallic scent of the lye, barely covered by the rose it was infused with, filled the room. Before long, he was content with his arms, he moved onto scrubbing his legs, dousing his skin in the hot water once he was done. Daemon cupped his hands, and once they filled with liquid he splashed his face with it. He leaned back against the tub, feeling the droplets run down his face and neck as hot steam filled the room, flushing his cheeks and ears pink. Daemon let his eyes fall closed, fighting to maintain consciousness as he felt sleep tugging at him, the aches in his back and shoulders slipping away as the water washed over him. Daemon only opened his eyes when he heard footsteps. "Was the smell so bad that I cannot tempt you to join me?" he drawled, finding Rhaenyra watching him from the doorway. She had tied a violet robe around herself and was leaning against the door frame. "The water is still warm," he added.

"And filthy, I do not doubt," Rhaenyra replied. "Did you bathe in Braavos, or were you just expected to jump in the canal?" Daemon chuckled. 

"The hospitality in Braavos was far from gracious, but it was not as bad as you seem to think," he said. "Are you just going to watch me?" 

"I might," Rhaenyra shrugged. 

"Very well," Daemon said, leaning his head back against the side of the tub, slipping further beneath the water. 

"You are back," Rhaenyra said. Daemon raised an eyebrow as he felt her eyes scanning over him, first his face and then down to his neck and the scars across his shoulder. 

"Indeed," Daemon muttered. 

"Did Lord Corlys find what he wanted?" Rhaenyra inquired, wringing her hands together. 

"Yes," Daemon replied. "Mayhaps not where he expected, but a shipyard has been commissioned for him, he shall have twice as many ships as he would otherwise. Should be more than enough to fortify the islands." 

"The shipyards of Braavos serve Corlys?"

"Pentos," Daemon grunted. Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. "Not Braavos." She nodded.

"You do not serve Corlys," she said.

"No, I do not," Daemon agreed. "And I thank all the Gods for it. He is too self-important, I do not know how the men in his service do not tell him where to put it." 

"So, if Corlys returns to the Stepstones, you need not go with him," Rhaenyra said stiffly. "You cannot go with him. I - I need you here, need you with me until the babe arrives and - and the children shall need you after. You cannot go away again whilst we worry you will never return."

"I am loath to leave you, any of you," Daemon replied. "But some pirates on a rock shall not be the death of Caraxes or me, you should know that. Although, I am sure you remember what the Triarchy inflicted when they first took the isles, they cannot be allowed to do so again." 

"You do not need to do Corlys' bidding whenever he wishes it," Rhaenyra continued. "He has other dragons to send to war, it does not have to be you." Daemon snorted.

"Rhaenys and Laena are women, without a day of battle experience between them," he chuckled drily. "Corlys would never send his daughter to battle, especially not now his son is dead and he shall need an heir from her, and I doubt Rhaenys could ever be convinced to go."

"House Velaryon controls the Stepstones, it is not your fight," Rhaenyra sniffed. "But the Dornish shall be more than eager to slay you, and they have slain dragons before."

"Neither Corlys nor myself are eager to send dragons to war, let me tell you that," Daemon murmured. Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. "We might have been before, but the devastation and damages is a great toll on whoever shall have to rebuild, and that should be Corlys. But, if it comes to it, then Caraxes and I must go. We cannot let good men, our men, men who might one day fight in your name instead of Corlys' to die." 

"The Stepstones is hardly worth the life of a Targaryen Prince," Rhaenyra retorted. 

"I would agree," Daemon replied. "Which is why I am telling you that they shall not be the death of me."

"You cannot ensure that, not in war," hissed Rhaenyra. "When you go to fight for Corlys, I do not know if you are to return." Daemon sighed. He grabbed onto the side of the tub, pulling himself up so that he was on his knees, his eyes tracing the shape of Rhaenyra's face for a moment. 

"Listen to me, Rhaenyra," he said. "We cannot permit the Three Whores, and their alliance with Dorne, to expand on their power, they must be stopped by any means necessary, but I do not fight under Velaryon banners any more than Caraxes  could fly under them. Everything that I do - everything -" he smacked his hand against the side of the tub "- now, ten years from now, every day since I first returned from that miserable place, I do for you, for our boy, for our House and for its standing. Do not assume that you have become an afterthought to me simply because I am not with you."

"I would sooner you here, alive," Rhaenyra sniffed, "I am sure Aerys would agree." 

"As would I," Daemon insisted. 

"You are a Targaryen Prince, father to the future King," Rhaenyra huffed.

"That I am."

"The Dornish shall not be foolish enough to launch an assault on Westerosi soil, not when it went so poorly for them in the past," Rhaenyra said, "and I doubt these savage pirates capable of it. House Targaryen should not be seen to be involved in this. I see not why you care so."

"Dragonstone is an island, my beloved, the same as Driftmark," Daemon shrugged. "The Stepstones hold the only shipping lanes across the Narrow Sea, for our economy to succeed, we shall need our traders not to be butchered and left for dead, their goods taken as plunder, as do the other isles Westeros, and the port cities, Gulltown, Oldtown, even King's Landing need their merchants and traders to keep filling their coffers with coin."

"Since when do you care so much about trade?" Rhaenyra inquired. 

"I care," Daemon puffed, "about not letting some pirates beggar us. You know as well as I do that it would reflect poorly upon Viserys, on our House, if such a thing were to happen." Rhaenyra pursed her lips. Daemon rose to his feet, water dripping from his hair and down his back as he clambered over the side of the tub. He reached for the linen sheet that had been left for him on the nearby shelf, feeling Rhaenyra's eyes on him as he walked. "Our Kingdom has not expanded since the days of the Conqueror," Daemon said lowly, turning to walk towards Rhaenyra. The Princess scoffed. 

"My father shall not agree to take the Stepstones by force," she said. 

"I am not speaking with him," Daemon said, cupping Rhaenyra's face to force her eyes to meet his. "And, one day, it shall no longer be his decision." Daemon watched Rhaenyra's brow crease, biting on her lower lip as thoughts raced through her mind. "We will need those shipping lanes." Rhaenyra hummed. Daemon side-stepped her into the bedchamber, crossing the room to the dresser. 

"I do not like what you are suggesting," she told him. Rhaenyra followed him across the room, leaning against the chaise as Daemon ran over his hair with the linen sheet, before he let it fall away to pull on a clean pair of breeches. "Who knows what condition those shipping lanes shall be in when my father dies?" she pondered. "Neither can we know what state the alliance of the Triarchy shall be in." Daemon laughed darkly.

"That is true enough," he replied. "But it is worth considering."

"The Stepstones are too close to Tyrosh," Rhaenyra sniffed. "The Free Cities will feel threatened by us if we took them by force."

"Which is a shame, since they are simply delighted by Corlys' presence there," Daemon scoffed. Rhaenyra scowled. "What do you want from me?" Daemon chuckled. "If we do not take it, another shall. No one is going to like it, but who is to say that they have a choice?" 

"You seem to have given this a lot of thought," Rhaenyra sighed. Daemon shrugged. He ran a hand through his wet hair, kicking the linen sheet from his path. "This - this is heavy," Rhaenyra grunted, as Daemon pulled open the curtains to the bed. Daemon looked over his shoulder, and his heart leapt to his throat as he saw Rhaenrya unfastening the ties to his sack.

"Put that down," he demanded coldly, stepping away from the bed towards her. Rhaenyra frowned, a puzzled look in her eye as she dropped it back onto the chaise. 

"I only wished to help you unpack," she replied. "What is it you have in there? Clothes and books, is it not?" Daemon forced a smile. 

"Are you hoping to sneak a look at your gifts?" he asked, although his mind was on the less savoury souvenirs he had brought back from Pentos. 

"You missed my name-day," Rhaenyra said pointedly. 

"A necessary sacrifice," Daemon shrugged, stepping closer to her again. Rhaenyra cocked her head at him. "I shall make it up to you," the Prince said, reaching for her hand. His thumb brushed over the pulse at her wrist as their fingers interlocked, and he watched as a smile curved on her lips, one of her hands reaching for his shoulder. 

"I should hope so," she told him. Daemon barely gave her time to breathe before his lips were on hers. 

 It was a rough and fervent clash of bodies, her nails biting into his skin whilst his hands roamed her form to hold onto her waist. Daemon could feel his blood racing through his temples, throbbing desperately, their shared blood and their shared longing coursing through him. He let one of his hands grasp onto the back of her neck, desperate for the feeling of her skin against his, ignoring the pain that jolted across his lower lip as she nipped it, the metallic taste of his blood rushing into each of their mouths. 

 Rhaenyra's hand slipped down to his chest, her nails dragging across the pale skin all the while, as if eager to mark him, a strange pattern of her own choosing, one to rival that that his battles had given him. Daemon could feel the heat radiating from her body as she clung to him eagerly, her other hand tugging on his sodden locks, their noses bumping together as she moaned her passion into his mouth, unfazed by the blood that continued to leak from his lip. Daemon did not care for it either. 

 "Gods, Rhaenyra," Daemon cursed, throwing his head back as they finally drew apart. His chest was heaving in tandem with hers, and her eyes were darkened with lust, never leaving his reddened mouth as his hands fought with the ties of her robe. "Seven Hells." Daemon's voice was rougher than it usually was, sending gooseflesh down Rhaenyra's neck as her robe was soon discarded. 

"Daemon," she returned, massaging his scalp where it must have been sore from her assault. Daemon shivered as her hand then slipped down the back of his neck, stopping along his collarbone. 

"Fuck," Daemon hissed. Then, his lips were on hers again. 

 Daemon did not know when he last desired a woman so, if at all. He was utterly consumed by it, all prior feeling exhaustion and aching forgotten at the press of her against him, their bodies moving as one as they fought hurriedly to remove one another's garments, him close to tearing her nightgown while she was less than gentle with the ties of his breeches. 

 Rhaenyra was breathing in broken gasps, her heart racing as her hands returned to press against Daemon's firm chest. Her hot breath hit his skin as her lips followed her hands, kissing each inch of his heated skin until she had trailed across his chest and down his stomach. Daemon groaned. Rhaenyra's movements were soft and slow as she reached the top of his thighs, her fingers hooking under the material of his breeches, which she pushed down until they were hanging below his knees. Still, her lips ghosted over his pelvic bone, her nails scraping over his abdomen as she slipped to her knees. On another occasion, Daemon might have basked in the sensuality of it as she worshipped him, but at present he could not ignore his throbbing need for her. 

 As Rhaenyra's hand finally wrapped around his hardened cock, Daemon pulled her backwards, and spun them around so that he could push her onto the bed. Her grip became a little too hard as she gasped in shock, making Daemon grunt, but then her hand left his cock to hold onto his hip as she slotted their mouths together in another searing kiss. 

 "I have missed you," she whispered, when again they were forced to break apart to draw breath. "Missed this, so much." 

"The Gods are cruel," Daemon said gruffly, pushing her nightgown from her arms so she could kick it away. He bowed his head, lowering his mouth to kiss along the soft skin of her right breast, before dragging his tongue over her nipple. Rhaenyra shivered. Daemon smirked against her skin. He brought his hand to cup her left breast, listening to her moan beneath him as he massaged the sensitive flesh. He licked a stripe across her, from one nipple to the next, while his other hand descended upon her stomach, still as flat as before, although he knew soon it would grow.

"Daemon," Rhaenyra gasped, her hand curling around his cock again, the tip leaking desperately. Gooseflesh raced down Daemon's back. He leaned over her, licking up the column of her throat as she let out a breathless moan beneath him, a sound which went straight to her cock. "Please," Rhaenyra whispered, rolling her hips against his. Daemon almost let out a sigh of relief, feeling that he would soon spend in her hand if this did not progress swiftly. 

 Daemon's eyes met her as his hand trailed between them, his fingers, long and deliberate, reached between her legs. Rhaenyra's eyes were darkened with lust. She rolled her hips to meet his movements, small gasps escaping her kiss-swollen lips, unable to hide her fervent need from him. She desired him as much as he did her, and that only spurred Daemon on more, sliding two fingers into the wet heat of her body, his lips chasing the sweat that rolled down her neck and to the groove of her collarbone, sucking on the skin gently as her fingers threaded through his hair. 

 "Please," Rhaenyra whined again. Daemon leaned somehow closer to her, their chests pressed against one another, feeling the warmth of her, burning with a longing as heated as their dragon's blood, smiling as she moaned out his name as his fingers increased the pace of their exploration of her. As Rhaenyra groaned out his name again, Daemon could focus only on the twitching of his cock, the throbbing desire that coursed southward through his body and threatened to end their night already.

"Gods," he cursed, lowering his forehead to rest on her shoulder. Rhaenyra giggled faintly. Daemon batted her hand away, taking himself in hand, firmly gripping the base so as not to allow for any humiliation as he shifted her legs further apart. 

"Seven Hells," Rhaenyra groaned, throwing her head back. Daemon inhaled sharply, summoning all the self-restraint that he had left at the sight of her before him, utterly bare and inhibited, her muscles relaxed and her face the look of pure pleasure while his own jaw tensed, his shoulders clenching as he fought with the powerful urge to just let go at the mere sight of her, like he was some teenager who had never before been inside a woman. 

"Fuck me," he grunted under his breath. Judging by Rhaenyra's chuckle, he was still loud enough for her to hear. 

"Yes," she agreed. Daemon held onto her leg with one hand as he lined himself up with her, his cock lubricating itself with its dripping need, his skin red and angry. 

 Rhaenyra cried out as he rolled his hips, thrusting himself inside her and burying himself to the hilt without pause. He could see in her face the moment his cockhead assaulted the nerves inside her, as the dam broke and the waves of pleasure poured over her, his wife shaking beneath him as she clung desperately to his shoulder. Daemon covered her lips with his own, swallowing her moans and gasps as her legs tightened around him. 

 Daemon let out shaking, ragged breaths as her quivering ceased and she had recovered enough for him to move. His thrusts were short, powerful, and deliberate, slipping back little before spearing inside of her again. "Gods," he hissed, his hand rising up her leg to grip onto the flesh of her thigh. Rhaenyra mewled at his touch. "You are always so tight. Fuck. So good. Too good." Rhaenyra hummed her agreement.

"Too good," she whispered, nodding. Daemon grunted as he nodded too, his other hand reaching for her knee. "You do not deserve it," Rhaenyra added. Daemon chuckled. 

"Who could?" he groaned, leaning forward to pepper kisses over the top of her breasts. Rhaenyra moaned. 

"Yes," she gasped, her body shaking with the force of his thrusts, one hand still in his hair, the other grasping onto the bedsheets beneath her. "Yes, yes, yes," she panted, as Daemon's rhythm became more frantic and more desperate, less precise than he was before, but it appeared that his wantonness was just as effective. "Need you," Rhaenyra whispered. Daemon groaned. He would have thrown his head back had she not tightened her hold on him, and he could not help but wonder if it was deliberate. 

"Seven Fucking Hells," Daemon cursed. His hand moved up to cup Rhaenyra's face, forcing their eyes to meet again, their noses almost touching as he stared into her hungry eyes. Rhaenyra whined. Daemon growled as he captured her lips between his own again, his hips now feral in his assault of her, his wife panting and whining beneath him as her nerves were hit with his every thrust, each seemingly impossibly deep and, due to his frenzy, unpredictably so.

 All Daemon could hear was the heavy, lewd sounds of skin against skin that filled the bedchamber as their hips rolled together. "My wife," he bit out, his hand gripping onto her thigh tightly once more. Rhaenyra gasped, nodding her head wordlessly as he snapped his hips once more, pushing himself inside until their hips were together. 

 Daemon did not know what he said when his control slipped from his grasp and he felt himself give out, his eyes heavy and his heart pounding in his ears as pleasure seared through his cock, and his cock flooded his wife. A slew of words half-common and half-Valyrian that made no true sense fell from his lips as he continued to roll his hips until Rhaenyra was shaking under him again, too sensitive for him to continue. She shuddered as he slipped free of her, his thumb ghosting over the red marks he had left on her thigh while he kissed against her neck. She leaned forward, bringing their lips together in a lazy kiss, their chests heaving in tandem as they heard the cold wind blow outside. "My wife," Daemon purred again, but his words were layered with less possessiveness and more affection as he stroked her hair, rolling over to lay beside her. Rhaenyra groaned.

"Must you have had your finish inside me?" she whispered, a slight crease to her brow. Daemon could not fight back the laugh that fell from his mouth. 

"Does it matter? You are already with child."

"But now I am to have to clean myself before bed," she huffed disapprovingly, her words chased by a yawn as if to prove her point. Daemon reached over the bed to retrieve the linen sheet, still damp from his bath, although she offered no further complaints as she hurriedly wiped her inner thighs.

 The couple said nothing more as they put their clothes back to sorts, Rhaenyra not bothering to attempt to tie the back of her nightgown before getting back into bed, while Daemon put out the candles that had been lit for them after lacing up his breeches, before slipping in beside her. He felt her weight shift as she turned, her head soon against his chest and an arm wrapped around his middle. Daemon could feel Rhaenyra smiling against his skin as the first signs of dawn crept into their bedchamber, punctuated by a cry of gulls. Daemon's eyes flickered from the canopy above them to the gap in the curtains as his head hit the cushion, and even as he felt himself slipping into slumber, he could not help but think about the bones in his sack, and how they would have to be transported to Driftmark before Corlys' return if they were to be of any use to him. He would get one of the Gold Cloaks to do it, he thought to himself, one that he trusted. He sighed and wrapped an arm around Rhaenyra's shoulders as he let himself sleep.