Its wings were tattered, its talons torn. But it bore the seal of Driftmark—and the bloodstained scrap tied to its leg left no doubt.
A fleet had attacked Spicetown. Velaryon banners had burned.
In the Queen's solar, the news landed like a blade.
"Fifty ships," Lord Corlys said, his voice like gravel. "Coated black. No sigil but smoke on their sails. They struck at low tide—cowards' timing. Slaughtered fisherfolk, set the dock ablaze, and vanished before dawn."
Daemon stared down at the map, his fingers curling around the hilt of Dark Sister. "The Triarchy doesn't strike without coin. Someone paid them."
"Otto is in Essos," Viserra said coldly. "gold washed through Essosi hands."
"So Aegon and Aleanys will be in Essos," added Rhaella. She stood at the window, her eyes fixed on the burning horizon.
Viserra's jaw tightened. "Otto dares to let pirates butcher children in Velaryon waters."
"Then let us show him what kings and queens truly are," Daemon growled. "Caraxes is ready. So am I."
By nightfall, the dragons rose.
Caraxes, with his serpent scream, turned the sky to crimson. Tessarion followed, golden and radiant. Seasmoke rose from the sea cliffs like a ghost, and Silverwing, Viserra and Tessarion, beat her wings with fury.
Baelon stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the skies with clenched fists. His training tunic was damp with sweat, his wooden sword snapped in two at his feet.
"Soon," said Maenora beside him. "Soon we fly."
He looked at her. "Do you think she'll send us?"
Maenora didn't answer. Instead, she turned to the firelight glowing in the Queen's solar. "Not yet. But the realm is burning. She will."
At sea, flames bloomed like flowers.
Viserra did not ride into the battle herself—not yet—but her vengeance came on wings.
Daemon and Corlys led the counter-assault. The Queen's fleet swept east from Driftmark, catching the black-sailed raiders near Blackcrown. The dragons struck from above.
Ships split. Sails tore. Men screamed as dragonfire turned sea to steam.
By morning, nothing but cinders remained.
In the aftermath, survivors were taken—cutthroats from Lys and Myr, speaking in tongues and coughing soot. One of them bore a ring stamped with the flame of Hightower.
A message was carved into his chest with a hot blade: "Bend the knee or burn."
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At King's Landing, Viserra held court with ash in her hair.
The throne room was quieter now. The bells of war had driven many lords to their keeps, and many more into indecision. But the Black Council remained.
