Chapter 79 — Tears of Lys, Seasmoke
The moment Daemon Targaryen learned Prince Baelon had died from poison, he ordered the Kingsguard and the Gold Cloaks to seal every gate of King's Landing. Blackwater Bay, the docks, and the marketplaces fell under martial law. Dozens were arrested—sailors from Lys, merchants from Tyrosh and Myr, Dornish travelers, and several quietly influential brokers whose presence in the capital had always been questionable. Some were dragged into dungeons; others vanished after interrogation in the Red Keep's black cells.
In the lowest vault of the Red Keep, Archmaester Yalar—frail and barely able to hold a blade—supervised the dissection of Baelon's corpse. The task itself fell to Maester Lunettel, recently transferred from Oldtown, with Maester Michiel of Dragonstone assisting.
Outside the heavy iron doors, Daemon waited with Viserys, Princess Gael, several Silent Sisters, and Saera Targaryen—the king's wayward daughter once sent to the Silent Sisters, later escaped, and now returned under strained circumstances.
Saera's voice trembled with regret.
"When the King forced me into the Silent Sisters, Baelon was the only one who tried to help me flee across the Narrow Sea. I refused… I was foolish then."
Her eyes lowered.
"In Lys and Volantis, I lived among the brothels. I saw poison used like coin."
Daemon watched her carefully—her grief felt real, but her past in Lys inevitably cast a shadow.
By nightfall, Lunettel emerged with Yalar and Michiel. Their solemn expressions told the truth even before they spoke.
Daemon stepped forward. "How did my father die?"
Lunettel bowed his head.
"My prince… Prince Baelon did not die of illness. The organs show clear signs of Tears of Lys."
Even the flickering torches seemed to dim. Tears of Lys—one of the deadliest poisons in all Essos.
Viserys's breath shook.
"Who would dare? Lys? The Triarchy? Dornish assassins?"
Daemon placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Do not be blinded by rage. Tears of Lys may come from Lys, but anyone could wield it—the Faceless Men, pirates, sellswords, even ambitious lords of Westeros. Many Maesters keep Tears of Lys for 'study.'"
Viserys hesitated.
"You suspect Maesters? Archmaester Yalar?"
Daemon frowned.
"No. Yalar delivered all three of Gael's sons safely and treated her faithfully. And Maester Michiel has served me for years. But Lunettel… he is new, and I will not trust him yet."
Still, Lunettel's work had been precise, unflinching—he seemed a Maester of skill, if nothing else.
As the brothers left the vault, Viserys murmured, "Vhagar has vanished since Father's death. If only I had a dragon—I would burn Lys to ashes."
Daemon sighed inwardly. No dragonrider in history had successfully claimed a second dragon. Viserys had once ridden Balerion—but the Black Dread had been ancient, and died soon after.
"You need not avenge him," Daemon said. "I will."
"Against whom, when we don't know the killer?"
Daemon's voice was cold.
"The Three Daughters and Dorne have long sought our ruin. Innocent or not, they will answer for this."
Viserys frowned. "But we are weakened—only your Caraxes and Gael's Morning remain battle-ready. Grandfather is too old to ride Vermithor. Grandmother's Silverwing has no rider."
Daemon's lips curved, a dangerous expression.
"Dragons decide battlefields—not numbers. And our enemies have none. But there is one threat greater than Dorne or the Triarchy…
Corlys Velaryon."
The Sea Snake had always championed the rights of his wife, Princess Rhaenys—the "Queen Who Never Was."
---
Driftmark — High Tide
Corlys Velaryon stood with Rhaenys on the balcony overlooking the sea.
"Vhagar vanished across the waves," he mused. "If she comes to Driftmark, imagine what that would mean for our House."
Rhaenys shot him a warning glare.
"Do not speak such folly. Baelon is scarcely cold, and my grandsire still lives. Speak of queenship now, and people will whisper we plotted murder."
Corlys stiffened, just long enough for Rhaenys to notice.
"Tell me, husband," she murmured, "did you send assassins? Are the rumors in Spice Town true?"
Corlys narrowed his eyes.
"Rumors are forged by men who fear Velaryon power."
Before Rhaenys could press further, shouts rose from the distant shore—
"Dragon! A dragon is coming!"
Meleys was known to all on Driftmark, but the creature circling overhead was smaller, sleeker, silver-grey… unmistakably Seasmoke of Dragonstone.
Rhaenys mounted Meleys instantly, crimson wings lifting them skyward.
On the beach below, young Laenor Velaryon was playing—rather intimately— with Joffrey Lonmouth. When the crowds scattered, Joffrey panicked.
"Laenor, run!"
"Run from a dragon?" Laenor scoffed. "I have Valyrian blood. Mother must be near."
But when the silver dragon swept low, Laenor froze in awe.
Those scales—those eyes—this was not Meleys.
Seasmoke landed before him, exhaling a gust of warm air. Laenor staggered back—until the dragon bent its neck, lowering itself to the sands.
An invitation.
Moments later, Rhaenys descended with Meleys and stared in disbelief.
Laenor sat astride Seasmoke's neck, face glowing with exhilaration.
"Mother—it chose me. Seasmoke chose me!"
Rhaenys's heart pounded.
"Incredible… Dragons almost never choose their riders. Not like this."
At High Tide, Corlys nearly burst with pride.
"Our House Velaryon has birthed its first true dragonrider in generations!"
He turned to Rhaenys. "This is a sign. The gods favor us. With allies and banners united, you could claim—"
"Stop," Rhaenys cut him off. "You would bypass our daughter, Laena, and crown Laenor? My husband, check your ambition."
Laena, wide-eyed, whispered,
"Why do I not have a dragon?"
Corlys placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You will. In time."
---
Across Westeros and Essos
Baelon's murder sparked chaos across the kingdoms.
Braavos, the Iron Bank, and the House of Black and White issued stern statements denying involvement.
"No Faceless Man was in Westeros at the time," the Sea Lord swore.
Pentos sent a letter pledging cooperation—and subtly pointing at Lys and Tyrosh, claiming that Lyseni alchemists and presumed Faceless Men had sailed west shortly before Baelon's death.
Within the Triarchy, the dovish Archons declared the assassination nothing but a ploy by rival cities to renew war with Westeros.
But the fire had already been lit.
Daemon sharpened Dark Sister and studied maps of the Stepstones.
"We march for vengeance," he declared.
"And whether guilty or innocent, Dorne and the Three Daughters will burn."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 30+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics