Chapter 71 — Knives in the Dark, Shadows on the Throne
The great hall of Sunspear simmered beneath the coastal heat, torches guttering as if struggling to breathe the Dornish air. Craghas Drahar—Craghas the Crabfeeder—stood at the center of it all, his scabbed face twisted in a grotesque smile. Beside him, Prince Qoren Martell watched with thinly veiled disdain, while his son, Prince Enrik, lounged on a carved wooden seat, fingers tapping impatiently.
Craghas spread a map across the table, its surface littered with wine stains and grains of sand.
"Braavos," he rasped, tapping the far northwest, "owes its origin to escaped Valyrian slaves. They remember the lash, the fire, the chains. They remember dragons hunting their ancestors. Do you imagine they would greet House Targaryen's growing power with joy? The Iron Throne grows bold. Too bold."
Prince Enrik snorted. "You think the Sea Lord will bend the knee to the Triarchy?
Braavos hates slavery, and your cities thrive upon it."
Craghas's lips peeled back in a corpse-like grin.
"You misunderstand. I do not need their friendship. Only their fear."
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"I once met Princess Saera Targaryen in a Lys brothel. King Jaehaerys's wild, runaway daughter. She told me a tale the Dragonkeepers once hid: three dragon eggs stolen by a lover and sold to a Sea Lord of Braavos. A theft that nearly birthed a war—until the Sea Lord whispered the name of the Faceless Men."
Prince Enrik sneered. "Saera is a whore, and her words worth no more than the coins thrown at her feet."
"Even whores speak truth when it stings," Craghas replied coldly. "Saera has since fled to Volantis, where she runs a brothel by the Black Walls. Our envoys confirm it."
Prince Qoren folded his hands.
"The Triarchs of Volantis, then?"
"Divided," Craghas said. "Always. Two Tigers, one Elephant this year. They argue, but all fear dragonfire."
"Fear alone cannot win you allies," Prince Qoren murmured.
Craghas straightened.
"Perhaps not. But secrets can. I have found something in Volantis—a weapon tied to King Jaehaerys himself. A weakness no king can bear."
Prince Enrik lifted a brow. "What weapon?"
Craghas chuckled.
"Patience. Once Braavos leans to our side, all will be revealed."
Qoren's jaw tightened.
"If Braavos refuses your fantasies, we must prepare for reality. We cannot meet dragons in open war. Assassination is the wiser path."
Craghas nodded enthusiastically.
"The Lysene alchemists have provided poisons unmatched anywhere—Strangler, Tears of Lys, basilisk blood, manticore venom. Enough to kill a dozen dragonriders."
"And the Faceless Men?" Enrik asked.
Craghas's grin widened.
"If the price is paid, even a dragon may fall."
---
The Dream
On Brokenheart Island, Daemon slept lightly, Caraxes curled like a coiled ember outside the command tents. In sleep, a vision seized him.
A dragon screamed—wounded, its wing torn by a poisoned shaft.
From below rose a swarm: lizards, serpents, faceless beasts, shadows with knives for teeth. Silver-haired mermaids with empty eyes dragged at the dying dragon, pulling it beneath a black sea.
Daemon awoke choking on cold sweat.
Aly Rivers glided to his side, dark hair spilling across her shoulders like ink. Terra, the silent witch of Lys, stepped beside her, arms crossed.
Aly pressed a cool cloth to his brow.
"Dreamer Daemon… another Green Dream?"
Daemon swallowed.
"The dragon fell. But I do not know which dragon. Or if it was even a dragon at all."
Terra's voice was low, clipped.
"This dream concerns a person, not a beast. A Targaryen is in danger."
Daemon's gut tightened.
"Baelon…"
---
A Warning Unheeded
He crossed camp and entered Prince Baelon's tent. Baelon was laughing, grease on his fingers, drinking Myrish firewine over roasted trout.
"Daemon," he said cheerfully, "share a bite."
Daemon did not smile.
"Father… you must leave. Return to King's Landing. Grandfather's health is failing."
Baelon waved him off.
"The war is nearly won. When the Stepstones are ours, we will return together."
Daemon's voice dropped to a whisper.
"I dreamed of death. Yours."
Baelon barked a laugh.
"My son, I know you dream true on occasion, but if I fled every time the gods whispered of danger, I would never sit a saddle again."
At that moment, Raven Greyjoy, the Windborn bastard sworn to Daemon, stepped inside.
"Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon—Ser Otto Hightower arrives. He bears the King's command."
Otto entered with a weary bow.
"His Grace summons you both to King's Landing. At once."
---
The Summons
They gathered in the Sea Snake's tent, where Princess Rhaenys cleaned dragon gore from her gauntlets while the Red Queen feasted outside.
Daemon spoke first.
"The King commands us home. A truce is being negotiated."
Corlys Velaryon frowned deeply.
"We are on the cusp of victory. Why yield now?"
"Because King Jaehaerys has reasons," Otto said quietly. "Grave ones."
Reluctantly, Corlys gave command of the fleet to his brother Vaemond and prepared for departure.
The dragons—Caraxes, Vhagar, and Meleys—took wing and flew toward King's Landing.
---
The Iron Throne's Burden
King Jaehaerys sat stiffly upon the Iron Throne when they arrived, though his hands trembled and his face seemed carved from candlewax. Alicent Hightower stood dutifully at his side, eyes lowered.
Jaehaerys's voice shook.
"It is time to end the war."
Baelon stared.
"The Sea Lord and Pentos wish to mediate? They were our allies."
Daemon scoffed.
"Allies of convenience. They saw dragons burning islands, and now fear they may be next."
The Sea Snake growled.
"Cowards, the lot of them."
Jaehaerys gestured weakly for Alicent to hand him several letters.
"My daughter Saera," he said quietly, "has been kidnapped in Volantis."
Silence fell.
Daemon frowned.
"A Triarch's doing?"
"Worse," Jaehaerys whispered. "Craghas claims her. He threatens to kill her unless we agree to terms."
Rhaenys stiffened.
"Saera fled years ago. She made her choices."
Jaehaerys's eyes dampened.
"Alysanne… my queen… bade me bring Saera home before I join her in the gods' embrace. She is the last daughter I have left."
He sagged in the throne.
"I will not risk her life. Not for islands. Not for pride. There will be a truce."
Even Corlys Velaryon fell silent.
Daemon alone muttered:
"Then knives are already drawn in the dark."
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