"The forms of treachery are always triangular, three-sided affairs that move through innocence toward the strongest point."

―Muad'Dib

…

The room smelled of blood and sweat and fear.

Though a fire roared in the hearth, its warmth was feeble against the chill that seeped into the ancient stones of Dragonstone's walls. Shadows leapt and writhed on faded tapestries as the midwives bustled about, their faces pale, drawn, and anxious.

Rhaenyra Targaryen lay in the great bed, her silver hair matted to her brow, darkened with sweat. Her face twisted in anguish as another contraction seized her, and the sound she made was half-snarl, half-moan—a feral cry of fury as much as pain.

"More milk of the poppy," one of the midwives urged, holding a small vial aloft.

"No," Rhaenyra spat, her voice sharp despite the pain. "I need my wits."

The midwives exchanged nervous glances but obeyed. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, but her eyes burned with an intensity that made even the most seasoned of them avert their gaze. Her sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon, stood near the foot of the bed, their faces pale and pinched. Jace, taller and leaner now at sixteen, clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white. Luke, a step behind him, looked as if he might faint, his dark eyes wide with fear.

"Come closer," Rhaenyra commanded, waving them forward. "There is no time to waste."

Jace moved first, his steps stiff, deliberate—like a soldier marching onto a battlefield he did not yet understand. Luke followed, more hesitant, his every movement tinged with uncertainty. Rhaenyra's lips curled into what might have been a smile, had the pain not twisted her features so cruelly.

"You are my strength," she said, her voice fierce despite its fragility. Her hand shot out and gripped Jace's wrist with startling strength. "Do you hear me, my son? You are my strength now."

Jace nodded, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing as he found his voice. "Yes, Mother."

Her gaze shifted to Luke, softer now, though no less intense. "And you, my sweet boy. You must stand tall. The realm will need us all."

Luke's lip quivered, but he nodded.

Rhaenyra's face twisted again as another wave of pain hit her, and the midwives sprang into action. Jace and Luke glanced at each other, but neither moved to leave. When the contraction passed, Rhaenyra's voice returned, hoarse but commanding.

"Your grandsire is dead," she said, the words cutting through the heavy air like a blade.

Luke's brows furrowed. "Viserys?" he whispered.

Rhaenyra nodded, her expression hard despite the sheen of pain. "The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne." Her voice was filled with venom, and her grip on Jace's wrist tightened. "They've crowned Aegon king."

Luke's eyes darted to Jace, his face pale as milk. "Aegon?" he whispered. "He's king?"

Jace's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. "What is to be done about it?" he asked, his tone firming in anger.

"Nothing," Rhaenyra spat. "Nothing yet."

Confusion, understanding, the grudging acceptance. Jace nodded, though his fists remained clenched. "Where is Daemon?" he asked after a pause.

"I don't know," Rhaenyra hissed, her voice breaking. "Gone. Gone to madness. Gone to plot his war."

"...Leave Daemon to me." Jace's tone was steel-sharp as he turned toward the door, his hand nudging Luke's shoulder in passing.

"Jace—Jacaerys!" Rhaenyra's voice rose, and the young prince paused by the threshold, glancing back.

Rhaenyra's eyes closed briefly, as if even this conversation had drained her. "Whatever claim remains to me," she said, "you are its heir. No sword is to be drawn, no word spoken, save by my command."

Jace inclined his head, his voice tight but resolute. "Yes, Mother."

And with that, he was gone, his boots echoing down the cold stone corridor.

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"Darklyn, what strength does Dragonstone boast? Give me numbers!"

Steffon straightened, his chainmail clinking softly. "Thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Enough to hold the island against a fleet, my prince."

Daemon drummed his fingers on the table, his nails clicking against the wood like the ticking of some infernal clock. "Good. Double the patrols along the cliffs and shorelines. The greens are snakes, and snakes do not bite from the front. The dragonkeepers will join these patrols. They know the island better than any."

Darklyn bowed, "It will be done."

"Now," Daemon continued, turning his attention to Lord Bartimos. "What of our allies? The Velaryons? What tidings have we?"

Celtigar's lips thinned. "I had received word yesterday that Rhaenys and young Baela took wing to King's Landing, possibly a few hours after King Viserys was proclaimed dead. They have not returned."

Daemon's jaw tightened, and his fingers stopped their infernal drumming. "And Corlys?"

"His ship was seen sailing the same way not long after. While no betrayal is evident, the timing is… odd and one cannot help but question their loyalties."

A snarl twisted Daemon's lips. "They've gone to the greens," he said coldly. "Or worse, to hedge their bets." His voice was sharp enough to cleave stone. "Rhaenys' pride blinds her to duty. And Baela…" He paused, the fire in his eyes dimming briefly. "She's a child. Corlys, however, should know better."

Gerardys, the maester, interjected gently. "It is not yet certain they mean to betray us, my prince. Their intentions may yet be true."

Daemon waved him off impatiently. "Intentions matter little when blades are drawn. And what of the Vale? Has Lady Jeyne declared? Surely, she was also made aware of this plotting to steal Rhaenyra's throne by her betrothed."

Celtigar's tone was cautious. "No word has come from the Eyrie, but she has always been cautious. The Lady of the Vale keeps her own counsel, my prince. If she leans toward the greens, she will not declare it outright. But her ties to Aemond are telling."

Daemon's laugh was bitter. "The greens offer her chains wrapped in silk and she sells her integrity without thought. She'd be a fool to trust them. But the Vale has ever been wary of dragons. We cannot count on her."

Simon Staunton grunted in agreement. "Neither can we trust the Lannisters. They will side with their kin. Tyland Lannister is Otto's creature. The Westerlands will follow."

Daemon leaned heavily on the table, his hands spread wide over the map of Westeros craved into the table. "The Riverlands will be our cornerstone. If we hold the Trident, we divide the realm in two. Stark and Baratheon must follow. The wolves are oathkeepers; they will come. Borros Baratheon, however, must be reminded of his father's vows."He straightened, his gaze panning to fix on Ser Celtigar. "Ravens are to fly to Massey, Staunton, and Bar Emmon. Call our banners. And one to Riverrun. We must have House Tully. I will fly there myself if I must."

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"You will do no such thing."

Daemon turned to face Jace as he entered the room.

"My mother has decreed no action be taken while she is abed," the boy continued. Daemon continued to stare at him for a long moment before responding.

"It's good you are here, young prince. You are needed to patrol the skies on Vermax."

"Did you not hear what I said?"

Another pause. Annoyance.

"...The ravens, Lord Bartimos," Daemon said in the end. Celtigar nodded in response before leaving to comply.

Without waiting to dismiss the council, the angered prince marches out of the chamber, nudging Jacerys along ahead of him. "Come with me, boy. I'll show you the true meaning of loyalty."

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The sun rose over the Vale with an ethereal light, its pale rays dancing upon the snow-capped peaks that shielded the Eyrie from the tumultuous world below. Within its airy halls, the morning promised serenity, a balm to those who dwelled in this fortress above the clouds. Yet for Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Vale, serenity was a fragile fiction, fraying rapidly as she sat across from Jessamyn Redfort, her secret and only confidante in matters of the heart.

The breakfast table, adorned with the simple but hearty fare of the Vale, seemed an ill match for the strained silence that hung between them. Jessamyn poked at her plate of oatcakes and honey, her brow furrowed, her appetite diminished by more than the thin mountain air.

"You've barely eaten," Jeyne observed, her voice calm though her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.

"Neither have you," Jessamyn countered tightly. "Do you expect me to sit here, idle, knowing you'll soon be bound to him?"

Jeyne sighed, her gaze drifting to the open window, where the world beyond seemed distant and cold. "You've made your feelings clear."

Jessamyn leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Have I? Let me be clearer. Aemond Targaryen is no ordinary man, Jeyne. He's a prince whose ambitions are whispered of in every corner of the realm. How can you sit here and prepare for this… this marriage to such a man without a trace of dread? You're stepping into a game where men like him play for blood."

Jeyne's lips curved into a faint, humourless smile as she reached for her goblet of watered wine. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I agreed to this lightly?"

"Agreed?" Jessamyn scoffed. "He knew about us—somehow he knew—and now he's forcing you to submit."

Jeyne's gaze sharpened. "He's offered to turn a blind eye, provided we are discrete. A compromise, Jessamyn. Do you think every noble lord or lady of Westeros weds for love?"

Jessamyn's anger faltered, her voice tinged with desperation. "And you believe him? You trust a man like him? Aemond of the fearsome dragon and reputation alike? Does it not trouble you that he wields ruthlessness as easily as his sword? That he comes with a dragon older than our mountains and ambitions that could crack them? Do you even know what he truly wants from you—beyond this marriage, this alliance?"

Jeyne sighed, setting her knife aside. "He's a prince, Jessamyn. He wants what all men of his station want—power. He sees me, and the Vale, as means to advance his ambition—that bank of his, most likely. Pieces on his board."

Jessamyn's hands stilled, her voice sharpening. "And you're content to be a piece? To give yourself over? Gods, Jeyne, have you even looked at him? He's—"

"Mysterious? Terrifying?" Jeyne interrupted, her tone steady but tinged with weariness. "Yes, I've looked at him. I've also looked at his dragon. That, Jessamyn, is the choice laid before me: a marriage to a prince of great renown, wagons of gold to enrich the Vale, and the greatest dragon of them all—or nothing."

Before Jessamyn could reply, footsteps echoed down the hall. A knock followed, and the door creaked open to admit Maester Vardis, his grey robes and chain glinting faintly in the morning light. He carried a sealed parchment, the red wax bearing the unmistakable imprint of the Targaryen sigil.

"A raven, my lady," Vardis said gravely as he presented the letter to Jeyne.

Jeyne took the parchment, her face betraying nothing as she broke the seal. Her eyes scanned the contents swiftly, her expression unchanging until she reached the final lines. A shadow passed over her face, and she lowered the letter with a steadying breath.

"What is it?" Jessamyn asked sharply.

Jeyne did not answer immediately. Instead, she handed the letter to Jessamyn, who read it in silence. As the words sank in, Jessamyn's features twisted in disbelief. "The King is dead," she whispered. "And this… this tale of Viserys naming Aegon as his heir—it reeks of foul play!"

Jeyne leaned back in her chair, her fingers laced tightly together. "Viserys's death was inevitable," she said, exhaling sharply. "The timing, perhaps, was not. That foul prince—played me like a fiddle." She sighed again, rubbing her temples. "Yet, that doesn't end things, does it? The bastard has played his hand, and I must decide how to play mine."

Jessamyn set the letter down, her gaze filled with something close to despair. "You cannot mean to accept this. To support this… usurpation!"

"And what would you have me do?" Jeyne asked, arching a brow. "Raise my banners? Defy the Greens when they make it so painfully foolish to do so?"

Jessamyn hesitated, her indignation faltering in the face of Jeyne's logic. "You would align with usurpers?"

"I would align with stability," Jeyne said. "And do not mistake my acceptance for approval. Aemond's ambition may be distasteful, but it is undeniable. The Greens have offered me a deal I cannot refuse, even after realizing their deceit. Defying them and supporting Rhaenyra would achieve nothing of value for the Vale."

Jessamyn's shoulders sagged, and she looked away, her fingers knotting in her lap. "And what of you?" she asked softly. "What of your happiness?"

Jeyne allowed a brief silence to pass before replying. "Happiness is a luxury I have rarely afforded myself, Jessamyn. My duty lies with my people, not with my heart." She rose from her seat, her movements deliberate as she turned to Maester Vardis. "Prepare a reply to Prince Aemond. Inform him that the Vale acknowledges King Viserys's will and pledges to honour it. I shall proceed with the arrangements for our union."