A Dragon's Song

Chaos

Naerys sat by the window, her plum-colored dress adorned with gold pace, shimmering faintly in the firelight. A breeze from the open window stirred the ends of her silver hair, gently lifting the strands as she stared into the night sky. The room was quiet, the only sound the crackling of the hearth behind her, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Aemond stormed into the chamber, his boots heavy on the stone floor. Naerys looked up from where she sat by the window, her expression calm but her stomach already tightening with dread. She could tell from his face that something had happened.

"Spicetown burns," Aemond said, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. He was pacing now, each step measured and deliberate. "The Triarchy's forces landed on Driftmark and sent fire ships into the harbor. They set ablaze every ship that dared meet them. Spicetown has been reduced to ash."

Naerys turned to him, her gaze steady, though she could already feel her pulse quickening. Aemond's anger was palpable, simmering just beneath the surface of his carefully composed exterior. His hands flexed, the tension visible even in his posture.

"The Myrish and Tyroshi troops battered at the doors of High Tide itself," he continued his jaw tight. "But then... Vermithor, Silverwing, Sheepstealer, Vermax, and Seasmoke descended on them."

Aemond's voice took on a bitter edge as he said the names of the dragons, his frustration mounting. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his anger barely contained. "The men of the Triarchy, all those cowards, their courage deserted them the moment they appeared. They fled like rats before the Blacks' dragons."

Naerys felt a knot forming in her stomach. Aemond had spoken of victory, but there was no triumph in his tone now. His frustration was evident, his anger that their allies had been crushed by the Blacks' dragons.

He finally stopped pacing, his eye-locking onto hers, the gleam in it dark and dangerous. "But Jacaerys... he's dead." There was satisfaction in his voice, a twisted pleasure at the thought of his nephew falling from the sky. "The Blacks lost their prince at least the bastard is dead."

Naerys's breath caught in her throat, a sickening feeling settling deep in her chest. Jacaerys... gone. The reality of it hit her harder than she had expected. He had been her nephew, her blood, despite the war that had turned them against each other. The memory of his letter, the last plea for peace, flashed in her mind. She had burned it, letting it turn to ash like the hope it once carried.

Her hands trembled, and she clenched them into fists, trying to keep her composure. But the gut-wrenching sadness that followed Jacaerys's death couldn't be ignored. Despite everything—the war, the betrayal—he had been family.

Aemond mistook her silence for agreement, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A victory," he said, though the bitterness remained. "Even with their dragons, even with Vermithor, Jacaerys is dead."

"A victory?" Naerys's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of her disbelief. She swallowed the rising bile in her throat. "How can you call this a victory? Spicetown burns, and our allies are crushed by those dragons. Do you think they won't retaliate?"

Aemond's smirk faded, replaced by a cold, hardened expression. "You think I don't know that?" he snapped, his frustration bubbling over. "I know what's coming. But Jacaerys is dead, and with him goes the Blacks' hope. They will falter now. This is only the beginning."

Naerys looked at him, her eyes searching his face for some semblance of reason. "And what of us?" she asked softly, her voice trembling. "What of King's Landing when their dragons descend on us? Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke... you think they'll stop at Driftmark?"