Dario felt sweat cling to him like a second skin, soaking through linen already stiff with salt.
The air along the Volantene port hung thick with shouts and orders, heavy with rot and brine and the tang of suffering that never truly washed away.
The Black Walls loomed in the distance, watching him with silent mockery, while nearer, the docks groaned under the weight of ships and men alike.
He bent his back again, hauling another crate across familiar warped planks of wood, each one creaking with his every step.
His muscles screamed in protest. His throat as parched as the Red Waste. Still, he ignored them.
Stopping meant a dockmaster's glare. Stopping meant docked wages. And the man hiring him…that fat, perfumed bastard with rings on every finger, would not tolerate such sloth.
That…was the life of a dockworker in Volantis.
"Just one more ship," Dario muttered under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm that trembled despite his will. "Just one more."
The words sounded hollow even as he said them. Still, he worked. As he always did.
His children were growing fast. Too fast. Shoes wore thin in weeks, tunics split at the seams. Food vanished quicker than coins ever arrived.
He needed this wage, not for comfort, nor for ease, but simply so they could live without hunger gnawing at their bellies come nightfall.
Brrroooom!
A horn blew across the harbour.
Low and long.
Dario narrowed his eyes. That was not the proud call of a merchant ship, arriving laden with riches.
No, it sounded like some wounded beast?
Dario straightened, heart stuttering. Around him, other dockworkers paused, heads lifting in unison.
"Is that it?" Someone nearby asked, voice rough. "The grain ship?"
Dario pressed his lips as he heard them, remembering those rumours he had heard about in the past few weeks.
Dario did not understand what possessed the Khalasars to rush over here in a hurry, yet here they were on the verge of pillaging all that were unfortunate enough to grace their sight.
Nevertheless, grain had been sent from Dragon's Bay ease shortages and allow cities like Volantis to put up a fighting chance against the Dothraki.
Aid, they called it.
Dario barely bit back a scoff.
Politics wrapped in sacks of wheat.
Still, he would not refuse such a thing. After all, he was benefitting from whatever slipped past the fingers of the pompous f*cks that lorded over him.
Just one ship. Just one unloading, and then he could go home.
Unfortunately, his hopes were met with an eerie tension. The vessel emerging through the haze made his stomach twist.
It was no merchant vessel.
No. That was a corpse, rotting and wounded.
Its hull was scarred and blackened, its timbers splintered. One sail hung in tatters, flapping weakly like a torn banner of surrender.
Dark stains streaked the deck, too dark, too uneven to be pitch alone.
As the ship drifted closer, the truth revealed itself.
Blood.
It coated the planks in drying sheets, pooling in the grooves where feet should have tread.
Limbs, arms, a leg, something that might once have been a hand, lay scattered across the deck like discarded cargo.
The smell hit next, thick and choking, and several men nearby gagged or turned away.
The ship came alone.
No escort. No sister vessels. Just silence behind it, stretching empty across the sea.
Dario felt dread coil tighter with every creak of wood as the vessel scraped against the dock. The gangplank slammed down, and the few souls still aboard surged forward in a panicked rush.
"Lys!" One man screamed, voice breaking. "Lys has raided the fleet!"
Another stumbled onto the dock, face pale beneath streaks of blood. "They burned the escorts. Slaughtered them!"
Chaos erupted. Dockmasters shouted. Guards shoved through the crowd. Workers scattered as though plague had been unleashed among them.
Dario stood frozen.
His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting deep into his palms. He didn't notice the pain at first.
Only when warmth trickled down his fingers did he look, breath hitching as blood dripped from his hands, splattering onto the pale stone beneath his feet.
He should have been relieved.
With the ship in such ruin, there would be no cargo to unload. No sacks of grain. No hours of backbreaking labour left to steal what little strength remained in him.
But relief never came.
He knew what Lys attacking Volantene ships meant.
War.
Not skirmishes. Not threats hurled across council tables. War between the Free Cities, with fleets burning and trade strangled in its cradle. And war always fell heaviest on men like him.
Dockworkers. Bakers. Children.
He had heard rumours before, murmurs of tension with Dragon's Bay, of tariffs and closed ports, but he had dismissed them.
Dario felt little need to worry. The most that would occur was some conflicts regarding trade.
After all, would Volantis wage war with a power half a continent away?
Absurd.
Almost as absurd as Volantis and Lys turning on one another.
He almost laughed at the thought. One day, allies. The next, knives drawn, throats bare. Such was the way of cities fat on gold and pride.
Dario slowly loosened his fists. Blood continued to drip, each drop striking stone with a patter like gentle summer rain.
Same sound. Same warmth.
But entirely different nonetheless.
There was nothing Dario could do.
Nothing but hope.
Hope that this would remain small.
Hope that the ships would keep coming.
Hope that his children would not feel hunger sharpen into famine.
Alas, in this uncaring world, hope was often the first thing to break.
***
The fleet cut through the open sea like a drifting fortress.
Dozens of hulls advanced in loose formation, their oars shipped and sails bellied full by a steady wind from the east.
On the foremost sails was painted a figure both reverent and obscene: a naked woman arched in languid invitation.
Some showed her crowned with roses, others with a mirror in hand. To the Lyseni, she was the Lady of Love, smiling upon desire, indulgence, and conquest alike.
At the helm of the leading vessel, Sharako Lohar lowered her Myrish scope as the last smears of smoke from the burning wreckage faded into the haze behind them.
She cut a striking figure, even among the gaudy excess of Lys. Tall and broad-shouldered, despite her birth.
Her hair, a pale brown and tightly braided, was pulled back from a sharp, expressive face.
"Tsk." She clicked her tongue, gaze still fixed on the empty sea. "The gall of these Volantene bastards, trading with our enemy." She turned sharply to the man beside her. "Have you loaded the grain?"
"Yes, Captain."
Qarro nodded, satisfaction plain on his weathered face.
Below them, the ship's holds were packed tight, sacks of grain stacked to the beams, wedged between barrels and braced with timber to keep them from shifting in heavy seas.
Still, Qarro did not look completely at ease.
"Captain, a word?"
Sharako arched a brow. "Go on, Qarro."
"I…" His eyes flicked toward the surrounding ships, then back to her. "I just want to know why we're doing this. We've already antagonised Dragon's Bay. Now we're making enemies of Volantis as well." His jaw tightened. "Are those magisters' heads filled with sand?"
"It matters little what we think," Sharako replied, lips pressing into a thin line. "Those greedy fools speak, and then we do."
She rested her hands on the rail, knuckles whitening. "Volantis must deal with the Dothraki. That means they need food. Dragon's Bay feeds them if they bend, and screws us in the process." A breath escaped her. "Thanks to those silver-haired twats across the continent, raiding Volantene ships was inevitable. We can't simply sit and wait for death."
The sea whispered around them, waves slapping against the hull, ropes creaking softly in the rigging.
"But will this not escalate?" Qarro asked quietly. "Tyrosh and Myr suffered most in the last war. They already hold us in poor regard." He hesitated. "We should have accepted Dragon's Bay's offer. We need not fear the Dothraki, and if Myr alone bore our wrath, the waters would not be so volatile."
Sharako said nothing at first.
Despite Dragon's Bay's proposal and the malice it veiled, the Lyseni magisters had chosen pride over prudence.
They believed starving Volantis would force its hand, leaving it weak before the horse-lords and ripe for Lys to dominate the Summer Sea.
And for the magisters, dominance over the Summer Sea meant wealth. Endless wealth.
Sharako turned back toward the horizon. The raided ships were long gone now, swallowed by distance and smoke alike.
A faint unease coiled in her gut.
Had they accepted Dragon's Bay's terms, Essos might have shattered cleanly, city against city, faction against faction. Instead, they had refused…
Sharako tightened her grip on the rail as the fleet pressed onward, the painted goddess on the sails smiling serenely toward an uncertain future.
Then—
A scream tore through the deck, wrenching them from thought and argument alike.
A crewman came running, boots slipping on the planks, his face drained of colour and slick with sweat.
"What is it?" Sharako growled, irritation flaring at the sight of the fool barrelling toward her.
"C–Captain!" The man bent double, gulping air. "The sacks! Th-they're filled with sand. Not grain. We've been fooled." His voice cracked. "Those Dragon's Bay bastards fooled us."
For a heartbeat, Sharako did not move. Her typically solemn face cracked, revealing a sliver of panic.
She knew exactly what this meant.
'We've antagonised Volantis,' she thought bleakly. 'Over sacks of sand.'
An enmity bought for nothing…nothing but the blood they had spilt.
And Volantis was not some petty port or squabbling city.
It was Old Volantis, the eldest and greatest of the Free Cities, swollen with men, coin, and pride alike.
They could throw more soldiers into the sea than Lys had whores to count them.
Worse still, if word were sent, Volantis would never believe the truth.
To the Volantenes, it would sound like mockery, Lysene raiders stealing their food, then claiming the holds were filled with sand. A lie piled upon theft.
Sharako clenched her fists and turned her gaze to the sea enfolding her fleet.
It lay calm and glassy, the waves rolling gently and forgiving, as though nothing in the world had gone amiss.
Yet beneath that placid surface lingered the promise of war.
***
Back at the Red Keep, Alicent and her children took their supper in a silence thick enough to choke on.
The meal was laid in a small private dining chamber, tucked behind the Queen's solar rather than the cavernous Great Hall.
Pale candles burned low along the walls, their flames trembling in the draft that slipped in through the narrow arched windows.
Alicent sat at the head of the table. She wore an immaculate green velvet trimmed in gold thread.
To her right sat Aegon, sprawled rather than seated, one boot hooked carelessly around the leg of his chair.
He picked at his food without appetite, more interested in the wine than the roast laid before him.
Across from him sat Aemond, rigid as a drawn blade. The black mask covering the right half of his face was fashioned of lacquered leather.
Beside Aegon sat Cassandra Baratheon.
She was young, still soft in the face, with dark hair braided simply down her back, her pretty features untouched by the weariness that already marked the rest of them.
She wore black and gold, holding her posture carefully, as though afraid to take up too much space.
Silver clinked softly as Alicent set down her utensils. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, then lifted her gaze.
"Cassandra," she said gently, "how have you adjusted to the Keep?"
The girl straightened at once, folding her hands in her lap.
"I am doing well, Your Grace." A shy smile flickered across her lips. "It is all thanks to Prince Aegon. He has done much to take care of me."
Alicent said nothing as Cassandra's eyes drifted toward Aegon, bright with gratitude and affection that had not yet learned caution.
"Well," Alicent replied at last, a sense of probing in her words to follow, "you must take care and give Us a grandchild. I am certain His Grace would be pleased."
Her smile held, but did not reach her eyes, which slid instead to the empty seat at her side.
'Is he so disgusted by me,' she wondered bitterly, 'that he cannot even condescend to share a meal?'
She did not know when everything had begun to fracture.
Two of her children had vanished into Essos.
Her husband had grown distant and brittle.
Her eldest son looked upon his marriage as a chain.
Aemond had lost an eye and with it, something gentler.
Even Daeron had been sent away, tucked neatly out of her sight.
And now, before her, sat this girl, so painfully familiar it made Alicent's stomach twist.
Every time she looked at Cassandra, she saw herself: offered up to secure alliances, married young, cast into a pit of vipers with nothing but duty for a shield.
Mercy, however, was a fragile thing.
And Alicent Hightower could not afford fragility.
When Cassandra's gaze dropped at the mention of children, when her fingers tightened around her cup, Alicent's patience snapped.
"Aegon."
She stood abruptly. Her chair shrieked against the stone floor.
"Yes, mother?" Aegon drawled, lifting his eyes at last. His tone was careless, bordering on insolent.
"Have you not been bedding Cassandra?" Alicent asked, teeth clenched.
Aegon set down his cutlery with exaggerated care and leaned back, lips curling into a mocking smile.
"She," he said, gesturing lazily at Cassandra, "is a child."
He scoffed. "I see no point in bedding her when half the whores of King's Landing are eager to crawl into my bed. If you truly want a grandchild, you could pick any one of my bastards and be done with it."
"Mother is right," Aemond cut in and shook his head. "You are the firstborn son of the King. It is your duty, your honour, to sire a legitimate heir."
His remaining eye burned as he spat the word.
"One son, two sons, three sons, will it matter?" Aegon spread his hands in mock helplessness. "Leave it to our dear sister Rhaenyra to flood the realm with Targaryens. Why should we bear the burden?"
The room seemed to tighten around them.
Alicent looked at Cassandra, silent now, pale, her shoulders drawn inward, and felt something ugly surge in her chest.
"As your mother," Alicent said sharply, "and as your Queen, you will sire a son with the utmost importance. Cassandra has flowered and is your lawfully wedded wife. She is suitable. Your so-called 'care' does nothing but stain her reputation."
Aegon pressed his lips together. He looked at Cassandra, then back at Alicent.
He chose silence.
Alicent exhaled slowly and, mastering herself, offered Cassandra a small, reassuring smile. The girl returned it hesitantly, relief flickering across her face.
Seeing this, Alicent sat back down, smoothing her skirts as though nothing had occurred.
Yet as the candles burned lower, her gaze hardened.
If Aegon would not act, then she would. Even if he hated her for it.
***
At Dragonstone, Rhaenyra stood beside the Painted Table, her gaze fixed beyond the open balcony doors, where the sea hurled itself endlessly against the black cliffs below.
To and fro.
To and fro.
The waves rose and broke with tireless violence, white foam shattering against stone only to be dragged back again.
Relentless. Unforgiving.
It felt almost fitting.
Across the table stood her husband and her uncle, Daemon Targaryen.
The Rogue Prince leaned forward, both hands braced against the carved map of Westeros, pale fingers splayed over familiar coastlines.
His silver hair fell loose about his shoulders, stirred by the salt wind, but his eyes were hard, fixed not on the sea, but on the realm beneath his hands.
"I hear that dumb oaf at Storm's End is hedging his bets," Daemon said at last, voice laced with contempt. "Marrying off a daughter to that despot half-brother of yours."
Rhaenyra drew her eyes from the horizon.
"Hedging his bets?" She replied coolly. "His father swore to me. Borros will not break an oath unless he wishes to carry a lifetime of infamy."
Daemon scoffed softly, rolling his eyes, but did not answer.
She caught the gesture and sighed, turning fully toward him now.
"There is little need for worry. Their faction is a nuisance at best. I have the North, the Vale, and the Crownlands. The Velaryons are my kin by marriage."
At the mention of House Velaryon, her voice faltered.
Laenor had passed away, and whilst she hoped it was but an accident…a glance at the indolent man near her quelled her naïve thoughts immediately.
Alas, she was not the only person with a decent head on their shoulder.
The death of Laenor had shattered what goodwill remained between her and Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake's pride had been wounded, and wounded pride festered.
Yet what choice did he truly have?
Corlys could not support the Greens.
After all, her sons still bore the Velaryon name, regardless of blood. Daemon's daughters by Laena carried Velaryon blood in truth.
With both Laena and Laenor gone, they were the future of Driftmark, whether Corlys liked it or not.
Rhaenyra straightened, schooling her expression. "I do not believe your suspicions are warranted. Try as they might, overturning the realm in their favour is no small feat. We have more men. More dragons. And my father will never change his mind. I am his heir."
Daemon exhaled through his nose.
He pushed away from the table and began to circle it slowly, boots echoing against stone.
When he reached her, he slipped behind her, arms settling loosely around her shoulders, his chin brushing near her temple. His warmth was sharp against the cold sea air.
"More dragons?" he murmured, breath ghosting against her ear. "Need I remind you, Rhaenyra, that your runaway half-siblings command dragons. Three strong enough to bring either court faction to its knees."
She stilled.
"And what would you suggest I do?" She asked, lifting a brow.
Daemon's arms tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I've heard tales of their escapades in Essos. Truly worthy of the Targaryen name, no amount of Hightower rot could ever change that. But…" He paused, eyes darkening. "Your younger brother Baelon is a threat. I suggest we deal with him while he remains beyond the realm."
Rhaenyra turned sharply within his grasp.
"You want me to slay my own kin?" Her eyes widened in disbelief. "By the gods, I will not partake in such things, Daemon. Those two are among the few decent souls who share my blood, especially sweet Helaena. I will not harm either of them."
"Come now," Daemon pressed, voice smooth, coaxing. "A small accident. Nothing more. With Baelon removed, Helaena could wed Jacaerys. We gain legitimacy, fracture the Greens, and secure an adult dragon. Dreamfyre."
That was enough.
Rhaenyra shook off his embrace and rose from her seat in one sharp motion, skirts snapping like banners in a storm. She turned to face him, standing tall, eyes blazing.
Violet against violet.
"I will not hear of this again," she said, teeth clenched. "Alicent is Alicent. Her sins are her own. Her children are not her. Elsewise, those two would never have fled."
Her hands curled into fists.
"Had they remained," she continued, voice tight, "do you truly think we would be sitting here with such advantage?"
If Baelon and Helaena had fully committed to the Greens, they would command three adult dragons.
Combined with Vhagar, her claim would teeter on the brink. Lords would waver. Borros Baratheon would completely fall in line. Others would follow.
She knew this.
And still—
"For better or worse," Rhaenyra finished quietly, "they are my siblings. They have never done me harm. For that alone, I will not allow you to touch them."
Daemon did not answer.
He stood unmoving, gaze distant.
As Rhaenyra watched him, a chill crept into her chest.
A sense of foreboding.
'He would not,' she told herself. 'He had no influence in Essos…it would simply not be possible for him to harm them.'
He would never act without her. He could not.
Surely… he was not so impulsive nor so foolish.
Surely.