A black raven landed gracefully on the mottled windowsill of the stone fortress. Its feathers glistened under the dim light of the setting sun, dark as ink and sharp as a dagger's edge. Tied to its leg was a rolled parchment sealed with the royal emblem of King's Landing.
Daemon Targaryen snatched the scroll from the raven, tearing the wax seal with a snap. The block of crimson seal shattered, scattering across the rough stone floor in tiny fragments. His violet eyes flickered with suppressed irritation as he unrolled the parchment.
The letter was from his brother, King Viserys—or perhaps, more accurately, a mix of command, plea, and manipulation. It demanded that he refrain from involving himself in the escalating war in Essos. It spoke of the honor of the Targaryen family, the sanctity of dragons, the importance of bloodlines, and—most galling—Viserys' concern about the growing power of the Velaryon family.
"Collis…" Daemon whispered the name of Damian Thorne under his breath, a hint of cold mockery curling his lips. To coerce him? To manipulate him? To use him as a pawn in some chess game only his brother understood?
He crushed the parchment in his palm, hearing the crackle of the expensive paper. Every fiber of his being hated the thought of being anyone's pawn. No matter whose chessboard it was. Slowly, deliberately, he balled the letter into his arms and let it fall to the floor.
A sudden series of heavy footsteps echoed outside, followed by a familiar, expectant voice.
"Daemon! The emissary from Braavos has arrived! We must talk!"
It was Damian Thorne.
Daemon's face hardened into a mask of sullen calm. He adjusted the black collar of his tunic, the hilt of Dark Sister, his Valyrian steel sword, glinting in the dim candlelight. With deliberate slowness, he pushed the heavy door open.
Standing before him was Damian's face, flushed slightly with excitement, his dark eyes sharp with anticipation. Behind him, the harbor of the Stepstone Islands showed two pitch-black warships, their sails colored in Braavos' signature deep purple. The ships swayed gently in the breeze, ropes creaking against the masts.
Knights, exiled nobles, and second sons who had pledged themselves to Prince Daemon peeked curiously from their hiding places along the cliffs and fortress walls. Whispers rippled through the small crowd.
"Braavosi? Here?" one muttered. "In this godforsaken place?"
"Look at that sail! That's the Iron Bank logo. Could the prince owe them money?" another ventured.
"Quiet!" a soldier hissed. "Or do you want to be the first to feed the fish?"
Everyone knew, without being told, who truly ruled these rocky islands. Daemon Targaryen owned this place, and all who dwelled there obeyed him, or they did not dwell there long.
Inside the fortress, the atmosphere was thick and heavy, much different from the outside's curious murmurs. The walls were rough-hewn stone, smelling faintly of salt, sweat, and cheap ale. Animal skins and torn blankets covered the floor. The place was simple and crude—far from the gilded halls of King's Landing—but for Daemon, it was his throne, his lair, his command center.
The Braavosi envoy, Trio Nennaris, stepped forward. His silk tunic, finely tailored, stood in stark contrast to the rough stone surroundings. He glanced around with a hint of disdain, noting water stains on the walls and the rough animal skins scattered across the floor, before quickly masking it with a practiced, polite smile.
His mission was clear: gain allies for the Iron Bank and acquire those fire-breathing dragons. The more humble the setting, the more convinced he was that the other side was desperate—and desperation could be leveraged.
"Prince Daemon, Lord Corliss," Trio said with a bow that would have seemed natural in a royal court, "I come on behalf of the Sea King of Braavos and the Iron Bank. We wish to speak of mutual benefit and security."
Daemon slouched in the main stone chair, one leg propped lazily on the armrest. His posture was languid, but every muscle beneath the black tunic was coiled with danger, like a panther ready to strike. He said nothing, merely sizing the envoy up with deep, calculating violet eyes.
Damian Thorne, however, could not hide his enthusiasm. He stepped forward, laughter in his voice, the tension of anticipation spilling over.
"Lord Nennaris! Your arrival is like the first ray of sun after a storm! Please, take a seat. We have plenty of time."
Trio's gaze finally settled on Daemon. He knew that the key to this negotiation was not Damian's fire or wealth—it was the Targaryen prince. Everything else was secondary. Clearing his throat, he discarded formalities and began with blunt honesty.
"Your Highness, I doubt you have heard of the deeds of the 'new Dragon King' in the east. Volantis has fallen, and the Free Cities tremble under his shadow. Braavos values freedom and will not allow a new Valyrian Empire to rise unchecked at our doorstep."
His voice grew deliberate, emphasizing each point.
"For this, Braavos offers the full might of our navy. Our ships are the strongest afloat, our sailors the most skilled. We will lend both to your cause."
Damian interjected, his pride and confidence evident. "And the Velaryon fleet," he said, a grin curling on his lips, "my Sea Serpent will taste the blood of this new enemy, mark my words."
Trio nodded approvingly, understanding that this was not mere bravado—it was a statement of intent. He continued with his pitch, revealing the last and most tempting offer.
"Not only will we provide the navy," he said, "but we've brought specially crafted weapons: giant crossbows capable of piercing the toughest dragon scales. Three hundred are ready, more will follow."
Daemon's eyes twitched ever so slightly. Weapons that could threaten dragons? Damn the Braavosi, he thought, they were truly ambitious.
Trio's final bait followed. "War requires funds. The Three Kingdoms of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh will supply gold for your campaign. Rivers of it will flow to the Stepstones if you will unleash your dragons and bring the so-called Dragon King down from the heavens."
The fortress fell silent. Only the ceaseless waves crashing against the rocks outside broke the quiet. Every man held his breath, waiting for Daemon's reply.
For a long time, there was no sound. Then, slowly, Daemon lowered his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His violet eyes gleamed in the dim light, a dangerous fire dancing in their depths.
"Gold, fleet, crossbows…" he murmured, a playful smile touching his lips. "Sounds like a good deal."
Trio's heart leapt. "So, Your Highness means…"
"I promise you," Daemon said softly, but his words struck like a thunderclap across a still lake, sending ripples through the room.
Relief and joy swept across Trio's face. He bowed deeply, struggling to contain his excitement. Damian's fists clenched, slamming onto the table with a satisfying thud.
"Excellent!" Damian shouted. "Daemon, I knew you wouldn't fail us. House Velaryon will stand with you! My son, my wife, and our dragon will all fight by your side!"
Trio rose and bowed once more, carefully phrasing his words. "Your Highness's decision will save Essos. Braavos will always remember your wisdom and friendship."
Daemon observed the two men before him, their smiles bright and hopeful. They were fools, and yet, necessary. Their eyes sparkled, but beneath them lay nothing but ambition and greed.
And Daemon's mind whirled with his own plans. Revenge.
If all went according to his design, he would seize the fleet of Velaryon, the gold of Braavos, and his dragons—and strike at the so-called Dragon King with all the fury of a Targaryen scorned. The world would see that Daemon, heir to the blood of Old Valyria, was the only true Dragon King.
If things went wrong… then let Braavos, Velaryon, and the kingdoms that thought to use him as a tool feel the wrath of the Eastern Dragon firsthand.
Every thought, every plan, every gleam of fire in his mind burned silently, known only to him.
The Iron Bank, the Sea Serpent, the Three Kingdoms—they would all play their part in Daemon's design. But the fire that would consume the Dragon King of the East, and perhaps the entire world, would be his alone to control.
And in that quiet, stone-walled fortress, with the waves pounding against the cliffs and the wind carrying the scent of salt and blood, Daemon Targaryen smiled.
For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.
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