King's Landing.
A suffocating stillness clung to the royal study like a damp shroud. Even the faint crackling of the brazier seemed hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the tension coiled within the room. On the large carved table, a single parchment lay unfurled—its edges crisp, its elegant handwriting deceptively calm.
But every word upon it pierced Viserys Targaryen's skull like icy needles.
He read the letter for the third time, hoping—praying—that he had misunderstood it. But no matter how he parsed it, the brutality remained unchanged.
It was the reply from Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone.
Cold. Sharp. Indifferent.
A reply that could be summarized into one merciless sentence:
Daemon's life or death is none of my concern.
Viserys closed his eyes, massaging his temples as a familiar pounding surged behind his brow. He had predicted that Rhea would not offer compassion, yet a part of him—some foolish, naïve part—had hoped for a less humiliating dismissal.
But this response… this was worse than anger. It was worse than outrage.
It was mockery—pure and unhidden.
A message that essentially said:
"Do not trouble me with the Targaryens' mess."
Viserys exhaled slowly, the breath trembling with frustration. On the table rested a small Valyrian stone-carved model of a dragon—Khorakshyu, its wings spread in mid-flight. He seized it, his fingers tightening until his knuckles blanched.
Daemon, Daemon… always you. Always another disaster at your heels.
He could still hear Daemon's drunken voice from years ago echoing in his memory. That day, Daemon, intoxicated and furious, had publicly insulted the nobles of the Vale. He'd pointed in their faces and roared:
"Bronze Bitch! Even sheep in the Vale are more pleasing than your women!"
One moment. One sentence.
And Daemon had offended an entire region.
From that day, Daemon never again saw Rhea Royce. He indulged himself in the brothels and taverns of King's Landing, while she remained at Runestone, upholding honor alone.
And now, Daemon was a prisoner—disgraced, humiliated, being transported back like a criminal—yet Viserys, as his king and brother, had felt it his duty to inform Daemon's lawful wife.
Her reply had been nothing less than a slap across his face.
He opened his eyes and set the stone dragon down with a sharp thud.
"Daemon… why must you always make everything harder?"
---
At Sea — The Volantis Escort Fleet
On the flagship, shadows from a burning glass candle twisted like serpents across the cabin walls. Its eerie flame flickered in hues no natural fire possessed, casting Daemon Targaryen's sharp features in an unnatural glow.
He sat motionless, staring into the dancing light as though attempting to read his fate within it.
But there was nothing.
No vision.
No whisper.
Only a formless, suffocating dark.
The ship rose and fell with the sea, its rhythm steady yet mocking. Each sway reminded him of where he was.
A prisoner.
A prince returning to King's Landing not as a warrior, not as a hero, but as cargo. A commodity for ransom.
He clenched his jaw.
"Return for what?" he whispered to the darkness.
"To be paraded before the court? To see Viserys look at me with yet another layer of disappointment? To give Otto Hightower the satisfaction of seeing me disgraced?"
His lips curled in a bitter smile.
Daemon Targaryen would rather die on the Stepstones, sword in hand, than suffer this insult. This shame.
Bloodworm was not with him.
The connection between dragon and rider—his birthright—had been severed by a force he could not comprehend. He felt hollow, incomplete. Like a beast declawed and defanged.
He wasn't just chained in body.
He was chained in soul.
For the first time in years, Daemon felt something unfamiliar gnaw at his chest.
Fear.
Not fear of death—but fear of irrelevance.
Fear of being caged forever in his brother's shadow.
---
The Adjacent Cabin — Storms of the Heart
In the next cabin, the air felt just as heavy.
Rhaenys Targaryen stood beside a narrow window, watching the rolling blue of the ocean. Her expression was calm, but beneath that stillness lay an ocean of worry.
Her daughter, Laena Velaryon, paced restlessly across the small cabin. Her sword clinked faintly with each agitated step.
"Mother…" Laena's voice cracked slightly, "Father… he'll be alright, won't he?"
Rhaenys didn't look away from the waves. Her voice was gentle, yet distant.
"Your father is the Sea Snake. No storm has ever claimed him."
But even as she spoke, she knew her reassurances rang hollow.
Corlys Velaryon—conqueror of nine voyages, the richest man in Westeros, the lord who carved an island with nothing but determination—was now rotting in the Black Stone Prison of Volantis.
And Volantis had not even bothered to send him with the fleet.
As though his value was less than that of Daemon—an insult so sharp it drew blood.
Laena stopped pacing and balled her fist, punching the wall hard enough to sting.
"I'm useless," she spat. "I rode Vhagar—the mightiest dragon alive after Balerion—and still I was torn from the sky like a fool!"
She gritted her teeth, fury and humiliation burning her cheeks.
"We never even saw the attack! Not a flicker, not a shadow! What kind of enemy can do that?"
Rhaenys finally turned, her dark eyes resting on her daughter.
"Laena," she asked softly, "how far are you willing to go for our family?"
The question settled over the cabin like a challenge.
Laena froze.
Her heart hammered.
For she knew—Rhaenys was not asking about courage.
She was asking about sacrifice.
---
Volantis — The Black Stone Prison
Far away, in a cell carved from ancient black stone, Corlys Velaryon jolted upright. His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving.
Cold sweat drenched his tattered clothes, clinging to his skin like ice.
Another nightmare.
No—worse than a nightmare.
A vision so vivid it felt carved into his soul.
He saw Laena—his fierce, beautiful daughter—bleeding out in childbirth.
Saw Vhagar's roar of anguish echo across the sky.
He saw Laenor, his bright, gentle son, butchered in the streets like a stray dog.
He saw the whispers, the laughs, the pointing fingers at Rhaenyra's sons—boys who bore the Velaryon name but not its blood.
Worst of all—
He saw Rhaenys, standing at the docks of Driftmark, watching as two boys he had fathered in secret stepped ashore.
Her expression… it was not anger.
Not heartbreak.
It was hatred.
Cold, absolute hatred.
The kind that destroys dynasties.
Corlys pressed his palms into his face, rubbing hard as if he could erase the visions.
"Seven hells…" he muttered, voice shaking. "What curse is this?"
This wasn't a warning.
It wasn't prophecy.
It was punishment.
A curse laid upon him by the sea he had conquered—by the many enemies he had crushed in pursuit of his legacy.
For the first time in decades, Corlys Velaryon felt fragile.
Human.
Terrified.
---
The Curse of the Sea Snake
He rose shakily and walked to the barred window—if the slit in the stone could be called a window at all. It offered only darkness and the distant crashing of waves.
He had faced storms that shattered fleets.
He had navigated waters no Westerosi dared speak of.
Yet nothing—nothing—had struck fear into him like these visions.
They felt real.
Too real.
As if they were not glimpses of possible futures, but reflections of fates already written.
Laena dead.
Laenor murdered.
His grandchildren scorned.
His wife's trust shattered beyond repair.
Corlys leaned against the cold stone, trying to steady his breath.
If the gods wished to punish him, they could have taken his life.
Instead, they aimed for something far crueler.
They aimed for his family.
The legacy he had spent his entire life building now seemed poised to collapse from within—toppled not by his enemies, but by the consequences of his own choices.
He sank onto the stone slab again, trembling.
These dreams…
They were not omens.
They were judgments.
"What have I done…?"
For the first time, the Sea Snake felt that his greatest voyages had not been across oceans—
But into ruin.