The bow of the Velaryon flagship, the Sea Serpent, split through the black, churning waves of the Narrow Sea. Salty gusts of wind swept across the deck, tugging at silver braids and fluttering banners, carrying the scent of brine and storm.
Corlys Velaryon stood at the prow, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrowing as they stared across the restless waters toward King's Landing. The sea mirrored his mood, dark, turbulent, and unpredictable, much like the wrath simmering inside him.
Disappointment.
Total, unmitigated disappointment.
His cousin, King Viserys I, the ruler of Westeros, the supposed scion of dragons and steel, was a coward.
A "Dragon King" of unknown origin had risen in the East, assembling a fleet the likes of which Westeros had never seen. An army of the undead formed a ghastly navy, and the so-called Dragon King had even cut off Prince Daemon Targaryen's arm during a direct confrontation. One of Westeros's most celebrated Targaryen dragons had been defeated, humiliated before the eyes of the world.
And yet, Viserys's reaction?
"Restraint."
"Do not provoke."
Corlys clenched his fists so tightly that the knuckles gleamed white. He could almost taste the bitterness, like rust scraping between his teeth.
The arrival of Braavos' delegation should have been the perfect opportunity. The combined might of the Velaryon fleet, Targaryen dragons, and the vast wealth and discipline of Braavos could crush the fledgling New Valyrian Empire before it even had the chance to take root.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters would have been subdued, their trade routes secured under Velaryon control, and the title of Dragon King would remain uncontested. Victory should have been absolute.
And yet, Viserys had chosen inaction.
He would rather cower in the Red Keep, meticulously adjusting a miniature model of Valyria City, than face the fire burning at Westeros's doorstep.
Madness.
Corlys spat in the wind.
"Sir," a captain approached, bowing deeply, "our course has been set. Full speed to the Stepstone Islands."
Corlys did not turn. His gaze was distant, focused on one thought: Daemon.
That unruly, arrogant younger brother who truly carried the blood of dragons in his veins. Viserys may have been weak, but Daemon was unstoppable. The loss of his arm had ignited every spark of fury and pride in him.
Corlys's imagination roared with visions of fire and conquest. Three adult dragons of House Velaryon, Daemon and his loyal bloodworm Korakshu, the combined might of the purple-sailed fleet of Braavos… all converging on the horizon.
He let his fists unclench, a cold smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
When the dust settled, the victors would not need the approval of cowards.
"Pass the order," he said, his voice low but brimming with authority. "Full speed ahead."
The Sea Serpent sounded her horn, a dull, commanding note that vibrated through the salt-heavy air. The massive ship cut a precise arc through the waves, heading toward Bloodstone Island with unstoppable purpose.
---
Meanwhile, in the Red Keep, the study was heavy with tension. The air was suffocating, as though the walls themselves pressed down upon the king. Viserys I stood before his miniature Valyrian city, surrounded by models of ivory towers, bridges, and palaces, every detail painstakingly carved and placed.
The departure of the Braavos fleet weighed on him like a stone pressing on his chest. He paced anxiously, each step sending vibrations of unease through the room. His trembling hand reached out to adjust a spire, but it wobbled, then toppled, clattering to the ground with a sharp, resonant "pah."
The sound made his heart skip.
He froze.
Valerian.
The name burned like a poisoned thorn in his mind. The empire of the east was growing faster than he could control. The Stepstones, occupied by the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, should have been under the restraint of Velaryon influence. He should have been able to manipulate their positions, secure their allegiance—but Corlys had been refused.
His plan, his precious control of the seas, threatened by fools and rebels.
And Daemon… that impertinent younger brother had ridden into battle atop a dragon without permission! His bitter victory had soared the reputation of the Velaryon family and left Viserys's authority in tatters.
To make matters worse, Corlys had secretly promised Laena's hand in marriage to the Sea King of Braavos. Without consulting him. Without even the courtesy of informing him.
His blood boiled. His sense of absolute authority had been trampled.
"What do they take me for? A figurehead?" he hissed through clenched teeth.
Rage seared his mind, forcing him to swing his hands violently across the miniature city, toppling spires, bridges, and towers. Ivory and obsidian shards flew like deadly snow across the study. His chest heaved violently, each breath a battle against his own fury.
No. He could not allow himself to be lost in this. He forced a slow, deliberate breath, trying to regain control.
He thought of Allison, carrying his child. He thought of Rhaenyra, little Aegon, and the unborn child, the new generation of Targaryens.
As long as they survived, as long as they lived and rode dragons like Vermithor and Silverwing, the power of House Targaryen would endure, and the treacherous Velaryons would never again challenge the throne.
A slow, icy calm returned to him. His eyes hardened, the faint quiver in his hands fading.
Collis, he thought. You have chosen deception. Expect no further support from me.
He bent down, but did not pick up the shattered spires. Instead, he stared at the miniature city, the only world he could control completely.
---
Outside, the Braavos delegation finally arrived in King's Landing. Their ship docked with a faint creak and groan of timber. The leader, Trio Nenaris, stepped onto the pier, instantly assaulted by the foul stench of fish, waste, and decay. He flinched, bringing a perfumed silk handkerchief to his face to mask the smell.
"Gods be upon you," muttered his deputy, his tone laced with disbelief, "is this truly the capital of the Seven Kingdoms? It's worse than the filthiest backwater in Braavos."
Trio adjusted the handkerchief and drew a deep, steadying breath, scanning the ragged crowd with undisguised contempt.
Soon, Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, arrived with a small contingent of guards to greet them. His formal smile was fixed, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and unreadable—like a frozen lake.
"Welcome to King's Landing, guests from Braavos," he intoned evenly.
The delegation followed Otto through the chaotic streets, passing dirt, rags, and desperate faces, toward the imposing Red Keep atop the hill. Their whispers betrayed confidence, even condescension.
"I bet King Viserys is losing sleep over the Dragon King in the east," one deputy muttered.
"More than just sleeplessness," another replied. "Prince Daemon's hand was cut off. Three dragons fled in panic. The Targaryens were humiliated before all of Westeros."
"Precisely," Trio Nenaris said, lowering his voice, a sly smile curling his lips. "We are here to help him resolve his problems. Of course, he must be willing to pay the price."
The deputy chuckled knowingly.
Yes, Trio thought. The myth of Targaryen invincibility is broken. They need us.
He looked up at the looming Red Keep, anticipation burning in his chest. Every step brought them closer to cementing Braavos's power and influence over Westeros. Every strategy, every word spoken to the king, had been rehearsed to perfection.
They had come to save the Targaryens—or so the king would have to believe.
---