Robert’s Second Chance: Dance of Dragons Rewritten

Aethan

The scent of the Blood Wyrm, Aethan knew, the thought echoing through his mind as if it were his own.

Of course, he himself had no idea what Caraxes smelled like. But between his two riders, the Blood Wyrm had spent many of his seventy years living on Dragonstone, and The Cannibal knew him well.

Raised in the dragon pit, Caraxes was a bit too large to serve as suitable prey when Prince Aemon first brought him to Dragonstone, and the Cannibal, like all predators, focused his attentions on the easier prey that was available. A decision he came to regret when Caraxes aged. The Blood Wyrm liked to fancy himself a fearsome beast because he burned a few human ships, but the Cannibal knew the truth. Caraxes had nearly all his meals fed to him and only hunted on occasion.

He still will not be easy prey, Aethan thought. He's smaller than Silverwing, but not by much, and Daemon is a far more experienced rider. A combat veteran.

But his thoughts did not bring with them even a whisper of fear. For Aethan was now a combat veteran as well. A combat veteran who'd flown into battle against three dragons, burned enemy ships, and laid waste to an army of Knights of the Vale. A combat veteran who'd soon have a scar from the arrow he took to the shoulder.

But although each victory gave him confidence, he would fly into battle with or without it. If killing Daemon cost him his life, Aethan would gladly pay it. I fight to avenge my mother. I fight for my faction. For my King.

And once again, we have the advantage of darkness.

Looking over his shoulder, he caught a glimmer of Tessarion's cobalt scales in the light of the half-moon. The darkness did not shelter her quite so well as it sheltered the Cannibal, and she did not have half so much experience flying at night. Prince Daeron was an excellent dragon rider, but Tessarion was very young and she typically only flew during the day.

Fortunately, they had a plan. One they made while waiting for the cover of darkness, when the Iron Born would be deep in their cups in celebration of their victory.

"I pray there may be a few men of House Farman left alive in the dungeons," Daeron lamented whilst they spoke on the collection of rocks that served as an ocean island. "If only we'd caught the trail a few hours earlier, we might have saved them. They were a loyal House. An old House. They didn't deserve this."

"We shall avenge them, my prince," Aethan said consolingly. There was little else he could say. He knew almost nothing about House Farman and could not offer any words of comfort.

Daeron grimaced. "Yes, we shall avenge them," he spat. "When Daemon and Rhaenyra are finally dead. And when we burn every last one of those fucking treasonous squids."

Starting now.

Aethan watched, a good distance away and clear out of sight as Daeron shouted "Dracarys!" and set the first of the Greyjoy longships ablaze. Empty, Aethan judged, from the lack of screams. Between going ashore on Fair Isle and commandeering the Farman vessels, the Iron Born had stretched themselves thin. Making it all the harder for them to fight back when Daeron moved on to the second longship.

The moon was half full, and Tessarion's color was vibrant, so the Iron Born aboard the ships could somewhat see her as they cried out "Enemy Dragon" and ran for their bows and spears. Aethan's heart pounded in his ears as he watched their foes fire the deadly weapons. Tessarion was young, and the spears and arrows might actually be enough to kill her.

This is a horrible plan! It should be me setting the ships ablaze. The Cannibal is larger; he can set multiple ships afire at once. And his scales are harder than steel. Those spears serve as no more threat than a splinter…

But to his relief, the spears found their way only into the sea. The Iron Born left to guard the ships were more than half-drunk, and the darkness and Tessarion's own nimbleness made her a difficult target even to a sober man. Soon, every one of the Iron Born ships was ablaze, even the massive war galley that lead the pack of longships. The air stunk of smoke and charred flesh as the burning vessels disappeared beneath the waves.

And it was here that Daeron made his first mistake.

They agreed that the Farman vessels needed to be burned. A terrible waste of resources, but there was little choice. They could not take the ships on their own, and the Lannister fleet could not risk leaving Lannisport unguarded before the Arbor reinforcements arrived. Better to burn them than leave them in the hands of their enemy. But when Daeron saw the crimson, gold, and azure banners that had not yet been removed, he hesitated, instinct telling him they were loyalist ships. And by the time he collected himself and started to give the order, it was too late.

Tessarion screamed and breathed a stream of fire as a ten-foot spear imbedded itself in her tail, piercing straight through to the other side while she thrashed. It was only the chains binding Daeron to the saddle that kept him from being flung into the sea.

Shit! Aethan swore, tapping the Cannibal to give him the signal to come to Tessarion's aid. A dragons' tail was not mere decoration; it served to help guide her movements and keep her balanced in the air. She would not move half so well with it injured. Daeron needed help, or the next spear might find its way somewhere more vital, for him or Tessarion. 

But to Aethan's horror, the Cannibal would not respond to his command.

If he dies while I sat idly by and did nothing to save him…

However, he needn't have worried. The Cannibal began to growl low and deep in his chest, and a single thought echoed through Aethan's mind.

Wait.

Caraxes

His rider was drunk.

Caraxes only understood the human concept because it so often happened. At least with Daemon. His rider loved the foul-smelling human drink, and more than once, Daemon had come to see him whilst reeking of it.

Sometimes, Daemon would stagger drunkenly into the Pit with another human by his side. Occasionally, it would be a man or a group of men that Daemon wanted to intimidate. Sometimes it was a human Caraxes was meant to eat to 'make an example of him'. Sometimes, it was a female human, wrapping herself around Daemon like the tentacles of an octopus. Daemon and the female human would mate, then sometimes climb on his back so they could fly somewhere else and continue mating while Caraxes enjoyed the fresh air outside of the Pit. 

Other times, Daemon would come to him alone. In the Pit. In Essos. On Dragonstone. Wherever they happened to be sleeping for the night. Daemon would be so drunk could barely stand, gripping Caraxes' side for support while he lowered himself to the ground and rested his head against the dragon's flank. Caraxes hated these nights. Not because he dreaded seeing his rider, but because his rider was in pain that he was trying to heal by making his head so dizzy he could scarcely think.

Those nights, Daemon would talk to him in High Valyrian, sharing problems and fears that Caraxes could not properly understand. But he knew his rider was distressed, and he didn't like it, so he did all he could to provide comfort.

And sometimes, the drink made him angry, like it did in the Stepstones. Vengeful. Desperate for the other humans to taste his wrath. A wrath Caraxes was happy to deliver on his behalf, even if he had no earthly idea why Daemon was angry.

But today, Daemon's emotions confused him. His beloved rider had been in a horrible state for weeks. Pain like nothing Caraxes had felt from him before. Impotent rage with nothing to vent it upon, burning a hole in Daemon's chest. A thirst for vengeance so powerful that Caraxes could taste it in his mouth. But beneath it all, despair. A black abyss where Daemon's passionate heart once lived.

"Even if we should triumph," Daemon confessed to Caraxes one day, out of earshot of other humans. "Even if we should burn the usurper and his kin alive, all is lost. Viserys. Baela. My other children surely to follow, if they have not already. All that is left to us is vengeance. The Hightowers do not deserve to live happily whilst they left us to suffer the cost of their greed and selfishness. But once that justice is served, I am not certain the throne alone is reason enough to continue on. For what is life worth when nothing else is left?"  

The thought of the death of yet another rider made Caraxes roar with grief, memories of losing Aemon tearing open a wound in his heart that had never properly healed.

I must save him…

He'd hoped today would pull Daemon back from that abyss. He felt his rider's overwhelming joy at their victory. Satisfaction far greater than what he usually felt at his triumphs. A victory he sorely needed after suffering defeat after defeat. And for a moment, Caraxes felt his rider begin to hope again. Only the faintest flicker, but the tiniest spark would serve.

You are a Targaryen. I have chosen you as my rider because your ferocity matches my own. Your fearlessness matches my own. You will not abandon the battle until it is won or until you are dead.

He did wish that Daemon chose a different method than drunkenness to celebrate his victory. Especially not drunkenness to this degree. Daemon was inside of the castle, asleep in some strange bed, his belly so full of wine that (if experience had taught Caraxes anything) he would wake up tomorrow violently ill with a pounding head clouded by fog.

He wished it especially now, because the ships with the black and gold flags were burning off the coast of the island.

Daemon's ships, Caraxes realized as another one burst into cobalt flames. Amongst the smoke and burning flesh came the scent of a dragon Caraxes remembered well.

You! Caraxes narrowed his eyes as he caught a glimpse of Tessarion in the moonlight. The dragon who killed Stormcloud. Who stole Daemon's offspring! Who chose to flee rather than fight!

Caraxes knew it was folly to fly into battle without his rider. His leg hurt horribly from Syrax's bite; even patched, the flesh was torn to the bone and he could not bear weight on it. His wings were scarcely better. Daemon sewed the holes torn by the arrows, but they still ached, and he could not fly half so well as he always did.

But that dragon stole Daemon's offspring, Caraxes snarled. And now she attacks Daemon's ships. His island. 

It would give Daemon great joy if Caraxes brought him that dragon's mangled corpse.

You shall not escape me this time, Caraxes decided, spreading his wings to take to the skies. Daemon thirsts for vengeance. And he shall have it. It may be the only way I can save him.

Roaring ferociously, Caraxes beat his damaged wings as hard as he could, gliding towards the blue dragon. The injured blue dragon, he realized, smelling her blood. With a spear in her tail, she could no longer pivot so quickly. She could no longer evade him. He was almost there. Almost within striking distance…

He caught the other scent too late. Far too late.

Long and lithe, Caraxes twisted around, clamping his jaws around the Cannibal's neck and raking him with his claws. All for naught. The massive black beast was far larger than Caraxes, and he bit clean through his wing bone with a mighty snap, severing it from his body. Caraxes tasted blood and felt his teeth tear at The Cannibal's neck, but his grip on the beast was not enough to save him from plummeting towards the sharp rocks that jutted out of the sea below.

No! he thought as he fell, his rider's face dancing before his eyes. No! He needs me! But his remaining wing could not keep him airborne.

In desperation, Caraxes breathed a jet of fire into the air and heard the sound of a human screaming in pain, but it did not slow his descent. Nothing did. Not until one sharp stone pierced through his chest like a lance, rupturing his heart.

Daemon…he thought as the last traces of light faded from his eyes, the world growing dark as the fire within his chest slowly extinguished. Daemon…he needs me…

Aethan

"Leave it to us, my prince," Lady Johanna Lannister assured Daeron as the maester loomed over Aethan, examining his burned flesh. They made it to the safety of Casterly Rock, and the night sky was just beginning to lighten into the dawn. "I assure you, he is in good hands."

He shot a pleading look at Daeron, hoping the young prince would understand. I care not if we barely know each other. You are the closest thing I have to a friend in this castle. Please do not leave my side…

Aethan wouldn't admit he was terrified, but he was. Not of the pain, as monstrous as it was. Caraxes' dying jet of fire had heated Aethan's armor until it seared the flesh beneath it. Thankfully, the beast was too far away to melt the armor completely, but Aethan's arm was severely burned from shoulder to wrist, even cauterizing the arrow wound that had not fully healed.

But as fiercely as the burn hurt, what terrified Aethan was the bowls overflowing with writhing maggots, one of which the maester picked up.

"Maggots eat dead flesh," the maester explained as he stepped in closer. "Only dead flesh. It will be far less painful and more effective to allow them to clear off the burnt skin. Then, once their work is done, I can clean and treat the wound properly. Your chances of making a full recovery without infection are drastically increased."

Although Aethan logically understood what the maester was telling him, it was near impossible to keep his panic at bay. He'd seen dead corpses littering the streets of Fleabottom. Flies would lay their eggs in the rotting flesh, and in the summer heat, the corpses would wriggle with live worms. The thought of maggots eating his flesh made him want to scream like a frightened child.

I want my mother…The brief, childish thought quickly flickered through his mind as the maester applied the maggots to his wounds. But his mother was dead and he was a man grown. He'd have to grit his teeth and face this injury the way a man would.

Especially since the war was not yet won.

Thankfully, Daeron seemed to understand that his presence would give Aethan some comfort, because he took a seat at his bedside while the maggots did their work.

"Thank you, Lady Johanna, but we need to discuss our war strategy, and there is little time to waste." Smiling kindly, he added, "And talking might serve as a distraction for him."

Worms are eating my flesh. There is no distraction great enough.

"Of course, my prince," Johanna agreed. "I understand the situation is dire, but truly, both of you are welcome to stay here longer than two days. You need time to heal, and your dragons as well…"

Aethan forced himself to smile, a difficult feat when he felt the tiny picking sensations on his burnt skin.

"I can say confidently that the Cannibal will be fine, Lady Johanna," Aethan assured her. "Caraxes left some bites and scratches, and my friend is in a good bit of discomfort, but he's had far worse. It was a clean ambush. His wings are fine, and none of his injuries are severe enough to limit his mobility." Aethan chuckled. "He was more annoyed that he couldn't eat Caraxes' corpse. If the crabs and seagulls have not picked it clean, he might go back to eat the rest of it when it's time for us to return to Fair Isle."

"Tessarion is faring a bit worse with her tail injury," Daeron added. "But we've cleaned and splinted it. She'll be a little less nimble than she usually is, but that shouldn't be too great a problem." He beamed. "Not now that Syrax is the only dragon left on their side."

But Daemon still lives, Aethan grit his teeth as the maggots picked at his skin.

Even with his arm in searing pain, he'd seen that his father had not been on Caraxes' back when he fell. The dragon must have acted to protect the island on his own. But as badly as Aethan wanted to burn Faircastle as he had burned Driftmark, he could not. Not when there might be loyal hostages inside.

Not only that, but the Iron Born on the island had begun to rouse, grabbing bows and arrows to pepper the sky. Tessarion was injured. The Cannibal was injured. Aethan was injured. Continuing the fight was too dangerous. Instead, they burned every last ship and dingy they could see, leaving the Iron Born stranded, and abandoned Fair Isle to flee to the safety of Casterly Rock.

"Fair Isle will be reclaimed," Lady Johanna promised them, her eyes blazing with anger. The Farmans were vassals to House Lannister. "A few distant Farman cousins are serving in our army. Once this war is won, my Lord husband will evaluate their lineage to determine who among them was closest to the main line. There is no need to raze the castle. Arbor ships are already en route to us, and as soon as it is safe to do so, I will dispatch some of our own men to clear out what is left of the Greyjoys. If Daemon is alive, he will be chained and taken prisoner to await the King's justice."

It was too much to hope that Aethan himself would be allowed to deliver that justice. But the gods themselves could not stop Aethan from being there to witness his execution.

Whether I kill him or not, I have played my role in his downfall, mother, Aethan silently thought. I've killed Caraxes. His greatest source of power.

It wasn't enough. Wasn't enough by half. Killing Baela. Killing Caraxes. Burning Daemon's armies and leaving him powerless. A man hunted. They were pale substitutes for what he truly wanted.

I want to claim his life myself. I want to wrap my hands around his throat and watch as the light goes out in his eyes. I want to spit on his corpse and curse him to the hottest of the Seven Hells.

He wanted to be the last thing Daemon saw before he died. The son he abandoned.

And Aethan would not rest until he had.

Keeping his eyes on the maester and not his own arm, Aethan asked, "After you've cleaned it, will I be able to fly?"

The maester hesitated but nodded slowly. "Ideally, I would advise you to rest until it is at least partially healed…"

"But I am a dragon rider in the middle of a war against the Iron Born," Aethan finished. "Their navy could divide itself and raid a hundred villages at once, and they have a dragon to aide them. We need to use every resource at our disposal, and the Cannibal is too valuable a resource to sit idle whilst I heal."

The maester nodded. "I shall do my best to ensure the wound will not pain you too greatly while you fly, and I will teach you how to clean it and reapply the medicinal paste regularly," he said instead. "You will scar rather severely, and your mobility in that arm, especially with the shoulder injury, may be somewhat restricted. Possibly for the rest of your life. But I do not believe it will prevent you from flying your dragon. Not if your right hand is the dominant one." 

"It is," he agreed, wincing as one of the maggots tugged free a particularly tender patch of skin.

"Very well then," Lady Johanna agreed. "Two days time." Smiling at Daeron, she added, "My prince, I'm sure you would like to see to your young nephew? Dawn is breaking, and the young prince is always rouses with the roosters."

Daeron brightened, looking at Aethan to see if he would fare well on his own before answering.

I'll be fine now, he thought. It's not as frightening as it was now that it's underway.

"Thank you, Lady Johanna, that would be lovely," Daeron agreed, getting to his feet. "How is Prince Jaehaerys? His parents have missed him terribly."

She nodded consolingly. "He's missed them as well, but I daresay he's become quite close with my son, Loreon. It is my hope they will remain friendly as they age. And young Shrykos is absolutely lovely. Quite fond of the goats raised in Lannisport. The little prince is growing far more confident on dragonback, though of course they haven't flown far yet. She is always so gentle with him."

Daeron followed her out the door, and without him as a distraction, Aethan felt the prickle of every little maggot as it writhed against his wound, picking dead flesh with its tiny mouth.

I can endure this, he told himself as his stomach rolled. I can endure this, because my father will soon endure far worse. The maggots will not merely cleanse the dead flesh from his wounds; they will burrow into his dead muscle and make their home in his still organs.

And perhaps at last, the flames that licked at Aethan's heart would cool.

Two Days Later

Daemon

It took them long enough to get here, Daemon thought as the dingy rowed closer to the war galley where the Red Kraken awaited him. We have been doing nothing on that island whilst our enemy schemes.

After only two days, the feeling of dependence was still foreign to him. With Caraxes, Daemon could travel anywhere in the world he wished to travel, whenever he felt the desire. There was no need to wait for slow moving horses or ships; his dragon could have him there in a matter of hours. It never mattered if Viserys tried to banish him. If his grandmother tried to marry him off to that bronze bitch from the Vale. If he gambled and drank away all of the money in his purse. None of it ever truly mattered. Caraxes, far more than any castle where he'd lived, was his home. His home and his freedom all in one.

No longer. Caraxes was dead, and whatever was left of Daemon's heart had died with him.

My children. My place in history as Prince Consort to Rhaenyra. My family's castle…my family legacy. The Hightowers have stolen it all, and now they've taken my dragon as well. Leaving me a tree without roots. 

Daemon would not deny his moment of weakness when he saw Caraxes' body impaled upon the sharp rocks. His loyal friend must have tried to protect the island when it was set upon by the Greens. Fought, like a dragon would, whilst Daemon was drunk and passed out in bed with some whore he'd found in the village.

We should have died together, my friend, Daemon had lamented when he fell to his knees in the sand, screaming and grabbing Dark Sister's pommel, drawing her from her sheath. We should have fallen from the sky together, dragon and rider.

Tossing the sheath aside, Daemon pressed the tip of Dark Sister to his chest, piercing the skin directly over his heart.

It's over. They've won. Now go and rejoin those you've lost. Rejoin Viserys, and Baela, and Caraxes. Rejoin father and mother. My grandparents. All the ancestors that came before. They are waiting for you in the skies above Old Valyria. Go to them, he thought, tears streaming down his cheeks.

And what reason was there not to do it? What was he now, a Targaryen with no dragon? An aging warrior who was not half as strong or swift as he once was? A single man against a near-united Seven Kingdoms with so many war dragons under its yoke?

Be done with it. Drive the sword into your heart. You can still die on your own terms. By Valyrian steel.

"No." The single word, spoken aloud, vibrated through his chest.

No.

I was prepared to die in the Stepstones, he reminded himself. Prepared to die by some Triarchy corsair's blade. I knew they would likely kill me. But I did not lay down on the sand and offer them my throat. I was prepared to die swinging my sword and spilling as much of my enemy's blood as I could possibly spill. And if I am to die now, then I shall die the same way.

"I am the blood of the dragon," he told himself, speaking aloud in High Valyrian. "The blood of the conqueror. The blood of the conciliator. The blood of Old Valyria. And the dragon does not yield."

And so he got up off his knees, sheathed his sword, and waited until Dalton Greyjoy realized his men did not meet back up with him like they were supposed to, arriving swiftly to retrieve them.

"The ships are gone," Daemon said to the Red Kraken as he climbed up the ladder onto the deck. "But the Farman gold is more than enough to build twice what you lost. The rest of their treasures will fetch a fair price as well."

But Dalton merely folded his arms and glared at Daemon. "Losing your dragon is far more troubling than losing those ships," Dalton said bluntly. "We are down to only one. One, against their…" He frowned. "Remind me. How many do they have?"

"It doesn't matter, because I intend to claim a second dragon," Daemon said. "Rhaenyra will continue to aid you in our conquest of the western coast, exactly as planned. As will I, after a brief detour to Dragonstone."

Beneath the dragonmount was a wealth of eggs. Daemon did not have the time to wait for one of them to hatch, but there were a few hatchlings who were potentially old enough to ride. And then there were the wild dragons that had not been claimed in the Sowing. Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost. Either one of them would be serviceable as a war dragon, and then he and Rhaenyra would still have a chance.

A chance to reclaim the throne and live as King and Queen, siring more babes. Or, failing that, a chance to use our dragons to burn the rest of the realm to ash before the Hightowers eventually kill us.  

"Dragonstone?" Dalton scoffed. "You expect me to sail you to Dragonstone? Even for the fiercest sailor in the sea, what you ask is impossible. We would need to get past the Lannisters, the Arbor, and whatever is waiting for us on the eastern coast. This conquest of the western coast can take months or even years. A detour to Dragonstone…"

"I don't intend for you to take me there by ship," Daemon corrected. "Just to the mainland. I can travel alone, on horseback, and…"

"You're mad," Dalton whispered. "I believe you've gone mad. You'll be found and killed before you make it halfway across the Westerlands. There are faster and cleaner ways to end your life then…"

"And what use do you have for me otherwise?" Daemon spat. "Rhaenyra cannot take me; you need Syrax here to enact our plans. I am of no use to you as a sailor. I AM of use as a warrior, but not so much so that my absence will make a difference. But with a second dragon, our chances of victory rise drastically. There are two full grown dragons on Dragonstone just waiting to be claimed. Sheepstealer is large enough and powerful enough to be a threat to any one of the Green's dragons, including Vhagar. It is a risk I must take."

"You'll be caught…"

"Not if I travel alone, on horseback, and hide my hair beneath a cloak," Daemon reasoned. "They will not be looking for a lone traveler, and they certainly will not be looking for me on the land. And if one or two men stumble across me whilst I ride, I can easily kill them. So I repeat, Lord Greyjoy, take me to the mainland."

Dalton studied him quietly for a moment…but ultimately shrugged.

"I suppose you are useless as you are now," he conceded. "And it's no skin off my ass if you wish to die."

Larys

"Lady Elenda, you look positively wonderful," Alicent praised, greeting Lady Baratheon as her carriage entered the courtyard. "And to travel such a long way in your condition!"

Her 'condition' was heavily pregnant with her fifth child, which was why the young Lady Cassandra was originally meant to travel on her own (accompanied by escorts, of course) to meet her betrothed when he returned to the city.

Though Larys supposed he could understand her concern. After Prince Lucerys's death at Storm's End, Lady Elenda might well be worried that Storm's End would be next to be razed after Oldtown. Which was likely why she had brought not only Cassandra but all the Four Storms with her when she traveled to King's Landing by ship with the rest of the Baratheon host, a sizeable retinue of soldiers to supplement the remaining Hightower army that had not left with Prince Daeron. 

He watched silently as Alicent and Helaena did their queenly duties of welcoming the Baratheon women, along with Aemond's bride-to-be, Abby Tully. It did not escape Larys's notice that Floris, Ellyn, and Maris were all eyeing Abby a bit waspishly.

I suppose that's understandable, Larys reasoned. Prince Aemond had offered to wed one of the Baratheon girls in exchange for Borros's assistance, but Borros insisted no such union was needed. The girls, undoubtedly, felt cheated out of the chance to marry a handsome, dragon riding prince. The rider of Vhagar, no less.

Yet another curious thing about Borros Baratheon, Larys mused. Of course, from the Targaryen's perspective, it was a smart militant move, leaving Aemond available to marry into another powerful House. But that didn't explain why Borros had suggested it, depriving his own House of that glory to help the Targaryens win the war.

Loyalty, I understand, but to be so devoid of self-interest is bizarre.

Larys could admit his own bias. Prior to Borros's arrival, he was poised to be the King's most valuable asset. His spy network made him a wealth of information. A valuable advisor. But Borros's keen military knowledge and recruitment capabilities outshone Larys like a midday sun outshines a candle.

He would not deny his pettiness. He wished to see Lord Borros fall from grace as quickly as he had risen to it. And perhaps his family will be the key to his undoing.

Cassandra, however, seemed content enough about her impending marriage. Aethan may be a bastard at the moment, but the King had promised to legitimize him for his service in the war. A handsome, silver-haired, dragon-riding Targaryen. Cassandra would be one step closer to the royal family, and there was a chance that her children (who would have strong Valyrian blood) might marry into the royal bloodline one day.

Aethan should be equally pleased, Larys thought as he studied her. A beautiful girl, she had the Baratheon coloring but Valyrian looks. The daughter of a Lord Paramount. Far greater a prize than a common street rat deserved, even if he was now a wealthy dragon seed.

The greatest mystery yet. How it is he managed to go from street rat to dragon rider. Despite Borros Baratheon's dismissals, Larys's spy network was certain that Aethan had still been in the city after the Velaryon blockade had been enacted.

Which means someone took great pains to smuggle him out of the city so that he might be in the right place at the right time to claim the Cannibal.

Borros certainly had the resources. As for why he had done it? Larys could only assume it was because he had a spy on Dragonstone who had informed him of what was to come. But if Borros had access to a spy in Rhaenyra's midst, he had not informed the King about it. Tangling the mystery even further.

But now with Borros's family in the castle, I may finally extract some answers, he thought, smiling politely as he walked into the courtyard to join the rest of the welcoming party.

Four Hours Later

The Queen did not know she was being watched.

In her royal chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, spying upon her was, regrettably, impossible, but Lady Cassandra Baratheon (like her mother and sisters) was given a suite near her father's apartments. A suite which made it far easier for a skilled spy to do his work, hidden within a secret passageway with a conveniently-placed peephole in the wall. And fortunately, to help Cassandra in settling in, Queen Helaena and Abby Tully had chosen to have tea with her there.

Interesting that the Queen is wearing her riding clothes still, Larys noted. She wore them more or less constantly now. She road Dreamfyre daily as a deterrent, but even after her ride was over, she would never change back into a day dress or evening gown. As if she knew she may need to mount her dragon at a moment's notice.

"Tis a shame we had to come by ship; I was hoping to visit the land Father will be gifting to Aethan and I after we are wed," Cassandra said, smiling beautifully. "Originally, he intended to gift us a manse, but mother said he has ordered construction for a castle instead. Rather close to the Dornish Marches, but that won't be a concern with Aethan's dragon to guard it. Father says it is to be called 'Summerhall'. Isn't that lovely?"

The other women agreed it was, and Cassandra took sip of her tea before continuing. "Of course, construction for a castle will take time, so it is more like than not that Aethan and I will be living here for a time after we are wed, as he is one of the King's dragon riders. It only makes sense for the Cannibal to remain in King's Landing until it is time for us to move into our new home."

Abby brightened, smiling at Cassandra beautifully. "That is wonderful to hear!" she declared. "Aemond has told me that he and I shall remain in the Red Keep after we are wed as well. That will allow us time to become friends! Perhaps even have children at the same time."

Larys narrowed his eyes as he studied the women's reactions. It was not difficult to read the meaning behind Cassandra's smile. She clearly wished for her own children to have marriage prospects within the royal bloodline. Perhaps marrying them to Abby and Aemond's children would give her that competitive edge she wanted; strengthening the Valyrian blood for future generations.

Helaena's reaction, however, was far more telling. As soon as Abby said 'children', the Queen subtly rested her hand against her lower belly, far too fleeting for the other women to catch.

Could she be with child? he wondered. Aegon had declared that the two of them intended to try for a fourth babe.

"It would be a delight for my babes to spend their first year or so here, rather than Storm's End," Cassandra agreed. "The capital is absolutely beautiful."

Helaena smiled, then teasingly added, "And if His Grace's plan for an improved sewage system is a success, it shall soon smell beautiful as well."

Cassandra laughed. "I had not planned to speak of that…"

"It's far better here in the castle than elsewhere in the city," Abby assured her. "The Queen Mother has ordered so many lovely rose gardens to be planted around the castle."

The conversation became dull for a while, but Larys forced himself to listen nonetheless, lest he miss something important. And in time, his patience bore fruit.

"The company here shall be far more pleasant than at Storm's End," Cassandra continued. "My sisters…well, they've been rather envious since father announced I was to wed a soon-to-be Targaryen dragon lord and made Lady of Summerhall. He hasn't arranged marriages for them yet."

No comment was made about their clear envy of Abby as well, but Larys could tell Lady Tully had noticed it, as evidenced by her knowing smile.

"I'm certain Lord Borros intends to find prosperous matches for them," Helaena suggested sweetly. "He is such a wonderful man. Wise. Loyal. I can't imagine he would make poor matches for your sisters."

And there it was. Cassandra frowned ever so slightly, her brow furrowing.

Abby caught it as well, and she cocked her head. "Surely, you will be pleased when your father returns?" she said. "His Grace has named Lord Borros as Master of War. I imagine he'll be living here for a time as well."

"Perhaps," Cassandra agreed, stirring her tea absently. "I hope the Crown will have no need for a Master of War after the conflict with the Blacks is resolved, but I suppose there will always be dustups in the future…"

Larys frowned. She does not look pleased at all to be living in the same castle as her father. Reluctance to be a newlywed living so close under her father's watchful eye?

Abby must have seen it too, because she pressed her, and Cassandra sighed.

"Perhaps it's just the war, but my father…" She bit her lip. "Well…he's been acting so strangely since this all began."

Larys shifted, paying rapt attention.

"Strangely?" Helaena probed. "I've had a few talks with him. He seems kind. Brusquely pragmatic, but kind."

'Brusquely pragmatic' is a rather tactful way to call him crass.

"Perhaps I'm mistaken. We've only been able to communicate by letter, and there's only so much you can write on a scroll meant to be carried by raven," Cassandra conceded. "But he was always such a doting father with my sisters and I. Spoiled us a bit, I daresay. But ever since the war began, it was as if we don't exist."

Her eyes flashed with sadness, and she shifted in her seat. "Before he left for King's Landing, Father even called Ellyn by my name."

Helaena offered her a kind smile. "Sometimes, when emotions run high and men are distracted, they can be forgetful. Mine own father once addressed my mother by his late wife's name whilst he was distracted and tired."

Cassandra shrugged. "Perhaps. I suppose that would also explain why earlier that day, he forgot Floris's name altogether. He called her Florence."

Such an odd thing for a doting father to do…

"It must have been distraction," Abby reassured her. "Lord Borros knew a war was surely looming, what with Rhaenyra's attempt to recruit him to her side. And then with Prince Lucerys's tragic accident…"

"Hmm," Cassandra hummed. "I suppose he was up all that night, making plans in his study."

Helaena nodded encouragingly. "Lord Borros was surely anxious about what was to come. He is very well read on the arts of war, after all. His militant prowess is remarkable."

That statement caused Cassandra to frown. "I didn't think my father to be much of a reader," she confessed. "I can't recall ever seeing him at study prior to Prince Lucerys's visit. Referred to books as a waste of time. At times, I wondered if he even could…" She stopped herself, straightening. "He preferred leaving matters of study to the maester."

Larys blinked, frowning. Prior to Borros's arrival in King's Landing, Lary had heard a great deal of rumors about the Baratheon Lord. That he was an illiterate, short-tempered blowhard with more balls than brains. A man easily offended and prone to acting out on his emotions. And yet the Borros that Larys had come to know was nothing of the sort. Crass and loud, yes, but he was keenly intelligent and clearly had no difficulty reading and writing. He advised Aegon to take the strategic approach, reining in his anger and reminding him to think of long-term victory rather than short-term satisfaction. A man with a strong military mind, rather than a man with a thirst for blood. 

But Cassandra's memories of Borros seemed more consistent with the rumors Larys heard.

Perhaps this is not Borros at all, but an imposter? Larys shook his head, dismissing the possibility. Aemond had seen Borros at Storm's End; surely he would remember if it was not the same person. He had access to the Baratheon wealth, and he'd come with a household guard of knights from the Stormlands.

Then there must be a reason why he's behaving so strangely, he decided. This calm, rational Master of War persona must be a playact for some long game he's playing…

But what could that game be? He did not wish to be Hand of the King; Borros was eager to give the pin back to Otto Hightower. It wasn't a need to see his blood on the throne, not when he'd married Cassandra so far away from the line of succession instead of marrying her to Aemond. Nor was it wealth. When Aegon got the Velaryon gold, Borros seemed half asleep when the King was deciding how to spend it, clearly disinterested.

But it's something, Larys knew. He wants something. He's planning something. And I shall uncover what it is. When he returns to King's Landing, it will not be a welcome feast awaiting him. It will be a hangman's noose.