Persuasion

Tidepool Island, Spiceport

Late into the night, inside the tavern called Mermaid.

The door was pushed open, and cold wind rushed in. Several people near the entrance cursed as they pulled their coats tighter.

Daemon Targaryen stood in the doorway, dressed in black robes, his silver hair tied back with a few loose strands falling along his cheeks. His violet eyes swept over the noisy hall before finally settling on the darkest corner.

Laenor Velaryon sat sideways in his chair, his silver hair gleaming faintly in the dim light. He

Beside him sat a young sailor bronzed by the sun, broad-shouldered. The two were pressed close together, their heads nearly touching as they spoke in low voices.

Laenor's hand rested on the other man's sturdy forearm.

Daemon crossed the hall, ignoring the curious and wary looks cast his way.

He sat down in the empty chair at Laenor's table.

At the sight of him, Laenor's smile froze.

"Prince Daemon." Laenor sounded somewhat nervous. "What a surprise."

"So late, in a place like this."

"Nights on Tidepool Island have their own flavor." Daemon's lips curved into a faintly mocking smile as his gaze fixed on the young sailor beside him.

"I hope I haven't interrupted anything important."

The sailor—the Flower Snake's Sailmaster—rose in a panic and knocked over a drink at the edge of the table. "Lord Laenor, I should go check the rigging. It is storm season, after all..."

Laenor did not look at him, merely saying softly, "Go."

As if granted a pardon, the sailor slipped away.

Now only the two of them remained.

Daemon picked up the jug of wine before Laenor, poured himself a little, took a sip, and frowned.

"Tidepool Island's fine wine is still so... distinctive."

Laenor stared at him. "Get to the point."

"For Rhaenyra? Or for your children?"

"A world of three..." Daemon cut him off.

"Is far too crowded."

"Don't you think so, Laenor?"

Laenor's heart sank, and his hand quietly moved toward his waist.

"So you want me to step aside?"

"Like your first Vale wife?"

"A hunting accident?"

Daemon chuckled softly, bracing a hand against the table as he leaned forward to look at him. "That would solve the problem, but it would also cause trouble."

"Laenor, I did not come here to become a kinslayer..."

Laenor stared at him intently. "Then what do you want?"

"A better solution." Daemon's voice was coaxing. "Better for you, for Rhaenyra, and for Tidepool Island."

"You can have the freedom you truly desire."

"Not the constrained freedom of being Laenor Velaryon, heir to Tidepool Island, Rhaenyra's lawful husband."

"But true, unfettered freedom. To use the name you like, to be with the person you choose, with no duties and no condemnation."

He paused. "Rhaenyra will receive the unblemished reputation she needs, the status of a lawful widow, and a child she can openly acknowledge, one who can inherit the Targaryen name."

"To strengthen her claim."

"Tidepool Island will mourn its brave heir, gone too soon, then continue supporting its princess daughter-in-law and grandchildren."

"A tragedy, but also... a new beginning."

"The price is," Laenor said after a moment of silence, "that Laenor Velaryon disappears from this world."

"In exchange, someone else gets another world in which to live truly free." Daemon leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed.

Laenor fell silent.

Before his eyes rose Rhaenyra's beautiful, worried face; the children's brown hair and brown eyes; his father Corlys's expectant gaze; and the complicated look in his mother Rhaenys's eyes, disappointed yet understanding.

His heart was being pulled apart.

On one side lay heavy responsibility and expectations he could never fulfill.

On the other lay tempting release, freedom, and a life where he would no longer need to pretend.

"Why should I trust you?" Laenor finally asked.

Daemon's smile deepened. He took a roll of parchment from his robes and pushed it across the table.

"This is my residence in Pentos, blank but already signed and sealed."

Laenor did not touch the documents. "What if I refuse?"

"Then you remain Tidepool Island's heir, Rhaenyra's husband, and the nominal father of three brown-haired boys."

Daemon spread his hands. "Until one day—perhaps a genuine accident, or perhaps a moment when someone can no longer endure it..."

"Who knows? But by then, the choice will no longer be yours."

"You're threatening me."

"Daemon, you should know, this is Tidepool Island."

"I'm giving you a choice," Daemon corrected. "One path: leave with dignity, and everyone is happy."

"The other: stay in this gilded cage and wait for the blade to fall, whenever it may be."

Laenor stared at Daemon. After a long while, he realized this madman truly was capable of such things.

"I need time to think."

"Of course." Daemon rose to his feet. "The moon over Tidepool Island is very round. Perfect for thinking."

He turned and left, vanishing into the darkness beyond the door.

Meanwhile, Above Gods Eye Lake

Under the same night sky, a thousand miles away above Gods Eye Lake, there was another kind of cold.

The wind was like countless icy blades from the Land of Always Winter, howling as it sliced at his skin and tried to burrow into his marrow.

Aemond Targaryen pressed himself tightly against the rough, rock-like scales behind Vhagar's neck.

He used no harness. Though the leather straps could bind a rider firmly to a dragon's back and keep him from being flung off during violent maneuvers—

He had refused that safeguard.

A harness meant security, but it also meant slower reactions. It meant that in an aerial battle, his dear uncle might leap down upon him with...

Dark Sister, a gift for his beloved nephew...

He chose the older, more dangerous method of riding: clamping his legs with all his strength around the natural hollow at the base of the dragon's neck, his fingers digging into the gaps between her scales.

His body was nearly parallel to Vhagar's broad back as he fought the raging airflow.

The cold cut to the bone. Wind poured into his ears, collar, and sleeves, carrying away his body heat.

His cheeks had gone numb from the freezing wind, and every breath brought a burning pain deep in his lungs.

Yet his violet eye remained as sharp as ever beneath the pale moonlight and biting gale, fixed firmly on the world below.

Moonlight spilled down, barely outlining a vast, deep expanse of black water glimmering with an eerie chill—Gods Eye Lake.

Gods Eye Lake: legend held that it was a place blessed by the old gods and the children of the forest, as well as the widest lake in Westeros.

Vhagar clearly did not like this place.

She was accustomed to open skies, where she could freely stretch the enormous wings that could blot out the heavens.

But here, the lake was tightly hemmed in by steep, jagged mountain ranges on both sides, forming a long, deep blue rift.

To her massive body, the rift was far too cramped, like being stuffed into a tunnel.

She swung her head irritably, the muscles in her thick neck rolling beneath her scales as a dissatisfied growl rumbled from deep in her throat.

"Quiet, Vhagar. Look carefully at this place," Aemond growled in ancient Valyrian.

Daemon's Coraxes—the Blood Wyrm—was far smaller than Vhagar, barely a third her size.

But he was younger, more agile, more ferocious, and better suited to fighting within such confined space.

In this long stretch of sky, tightly constrained by mountain walls on both sides—

Vhagar's unmatched size had instead become a burden.

She could not launch those despairing charges, could not crush her enemy beneath her massive body. Every turn, climb, and dive was checked by the rock walls on either side.

And Coraxes had used the fog that day—his speed and agility—to strike from the mist, from high above, plunging down to bite Vhagar's neck and refusing to let go.

In the end, it was not only the dragons that became entangled and fell toward the black lake below, but also the Targaryens' absolute rule over the Seven Kingdoms.