A Widow

The night over Tidepool Island was torn apart by the smoke and flames rising in the direction of Spiceport.

The tavern called the Mermaid, where Laenor Velaryon had loved to spend his time, had now become a crackling, charred skeleton.

The fire burned with unnatural ferocity. By the time Tidepool Island's fire brigade arrived, the wooden structure had already collapsed.

Only the stone foundation and a few charred beams still stubbornly burned, giving off their last waves of heat and black smoke.

The bodies inside and outside the tavern were carried out one by one and laid on the harbor's open stone ground, covered with rough burlap.

The stench of burning flesh, the smell of meat, and the scent of wood ash mingled into a nauseating odor.

Most of the dead were unrecognizable, curled up like charred shrimp.

One body had been placed apart from the others on a door that had been brought over.

It was somewhat taller than the rest, but just as curled and charred, its skin cracked to reveal the carbonized muscles beneath.

Its facial features were completely unrecognizable, its eye sockets two black hollows.

Yet on the charred, curled fingers of what could just barely be made out as its left hand, a ring glinted faintly in the torchlight.

It was a ring made of Valyrian steel, with a distinctive design unlike an ordinary band. It had been carved into the shape of a miniature seahorse entwined around an anchor, with tiny sapphires set in the seahorse's eyes.

It was the ring of the House Velaryon heir, given to Laenor on his sixteenth Name Day.

Laenor had almost never taken it off.

Corlys Velaryon stood before the charred corpse.

The legendary sailor, the Lord of the Tides, looked as if his spine had been pulled out.

His body trembled uncontrollably.

His face, weathered by the sea wind and etched with countless creases, was now fixed on the ring with dead eyes of gray-blue, before slowly shifting to the face that could no longer be recognized.

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Less than half a year ago, he had closed his daughter Laena's eyes with his own hands.

Now his only son, the one who would carry on House Velaryon's bloodline and name, had become a lump of charcoal lying on a door.

"La...enor..." Corlys finally managed to speak, his voice dry and hoarse, broken beyond recognition.

For all he had experienced, he still couldn't bear the pain of his own bloodline dying out.

The scepter slipped from his other hand.

"Clang."

The metal head struck the stone ground, its sound sharp and sudden.

Then came a heavier thud.

Corlys's tall, upright frame toppled straight backward, crashing heavily to the ground. His eyes were tightly shut, and the last trace of color had drained from his face.

"Corlys!" Rhaenys Targaryen cried out.

She rushed to her husband and knelt on the cold stone, her trembling hand checking his breath before pressing against the side of his neck. "Maester! Fetch a maester!"

The crowd stirred in alarm.

Servants and maesters hurried forward and, in a flurry of activity, lifted the unconscious Sea Snake and rushed him to High Tide.

Rhaenys didn't follow right away.

She slowly rose to her feet, her gaze falling once more on the charred corpse and the glaring ring.

Her back remained straight, but a terrifying storm churned in her blue eyes, so like her husband's: unbearable grief, and fury forcibly suppressed but on the verge of erupting.

Grief-stricken, she turned to the captain of the harbor guards in charge of the investigation and said coldly, "Explain. What happened?"

The captain's Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to report. "My lady..."

"According to the survivors and nearby witnesses, Lord Laenor was drinking at the Mermaid as usual tonight, in the company of a young sailor named Harwin, someone he'd recently... grown close to."

"But later, another captain who'd once had a relationship with Lord Laenor, a man named Marcos, barged in with several others. They exchanged words, which quickly turned into a brawl..."

He swallowed. "That Marcos... supposedly held a grudge because Lord Laenor had recently ignored him and turned his attention to Harwin."

"During the brawl, he drew a dagger... and stabbed Lord Laenor in the chest."

"Then... then they poured strong liquor from the tavern around and set it on fire. They escaped through the back door in the confusion. Someone at the harbor saw them board a fast ship and head toward the Stepstones..."

"The fire spread too quickly. Hardly anyone inside got out..."

"Marcos..." Rhaenys repeated the name, her eyes hard. "What's his background? Who is he connected to?"

"He... he's a minor captain active in the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. He has no fixed allegiance. He cares about money, not people."

"He used to visit Tidepool Island often, and he and Lord Laenor... had a relationship for a while."

"Many people in the tavern can testify. They'd argued before, and Marcos had threatened to take revenge..."

The captain lowered his head. "The scene was chaotic, but we found the murder weapon. It was a Rhysian-style dagger, and there was blood on it."

"Marcos and his men fled in such a hurry that they left some personal belongings behind."

Everything sounded reasonable. A crime of passion driven by jealousy, with the killer fleeing in a panic after setting the place on fire. There was motive, witnesses, and physical evidence.

Too reasonable.

Rhaenys slowly moved her gaze over the members of House Velaryon gathered around her.

Her eyes paused on one man: Corlys's younger brother, Vaemond Velaryon.

This brother, who had always resented Corlys for tying the succession to three "brown-haired boys," wore a grief-stricken expression, but beneath it lay an unmistakable loathing.

Then Rhaenys's gaze swept over Rhaenyra Targaryen nearby.

And when she saw Daemon Targaryen standing at her side, his hand resting on his sword hilt, the suspicion in her heart sank deep into place.

Rhaenyra was covering her mouth, her face pale and her body swaying slightly.

The wound of her eldest son Jacaerys losing an eye half a year ago had yet to heal, and now her husband in name had died horribly in a fire.

Even beneath her dark dress, the swell of her belly was already obvious.

Daemon, by contrast, watched everything in silence, his face expressionless.

Just then, Vaemond spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but everyone nearby could hear it. It carried all the resentment and accusation he could no longer suppress:

"Do you see? This is the consequence!"

He pointed at the three boys standing behind Rhaenyra, all wearing sorrowful expressions: Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.

Their brown hair and brown eyes were completely unlike the silver hair, purple eyes, or blue eyes of the Velaryons and Targaryens.

"My brother Corlys was wise all his life, but he was a fool in this matter!" Vaemond's voice rose with emotion.

"For the sake of some so-called political alliance, he tolerated those three... those children without a drop of Velaryon blood bearing my family's name as heirs!"

"Now look! Laenor is dead! The only trueborn son of House Velaryon, its true blood, is dead!"

He looked around at the family members and vassals, trying to stir them up. "Are we really going to hand our noble seahorse banner to these... these brown-haired boys from who knows where?"

"Are the rights to inherit Tidepool Island, the Velaryon fleet, and the honor and wealth we've built over generations all going to fall into the hands of bastards?"

Some members of the extended family and some vassals lowered their heads, their expressions varied.

Vaemond's words struck at the doubts and unease that had long lingered in many hearts.

Rhaenys turned and shouted, "Vaemond! Enough! This is not the time to talk about this!"

Her voice still held an unquestionable authority, but a suppressed tremor could be heard beneath it.

Vaemond was dissatisfied, but he shut his mouth. He had only been venting years of resentment.

He had no desire to take the place of his brother, whom he respected.

But he would never tolerate bastards inheriting House Velaryon and usurping everything that belonged to it.

Rhaenys quickly looked over Rhaenyra and Daemon again.

Daemon met her gaze calmly.

The serpent of suspicion in Rhaenys's heart was hissing wildly.

Then she stopped looking at anyone, turned away, and tossed the guard captain an order: "Keep investigating. Find Marcos, and everyone on his ship. Pursue them to the ends of the earth!"

"I want him alive or dead—bring me a body either way!"

Then Rhaenys straightened her back and strode toward High Tide to see her unconscious husband.

In Rhaenyra's room at High Tide.

The moment the door closed, Rhaenyra's pent-up anger and fear erupted.

She spun around and grabbed the front of Daemon's tunic with both hands, squeezing so hard she nearly tore the expensive fabric.

"You did it! Didn't you?!" Her purple eyes were bloodshot.

"Daemon! Tell me! Laenor... was it you?!"

Daemon let her clutch him, his expression unchanged as he looked down at her face, pale and flushed with emotion and pregnancy.

"Yes." He calmly uttered a single word.

Rhaenyra was struck as if by lightning. Her hands instantly went limp, and she staggered backward before leaning against the cold stone wall.

The anger in her eyes quickly gave way to panic and disbelief. "You... you really... how could you..."

"But," Daemon stepped closer to her, "Laenor isn't dead."

Rhaenyra raised her head, her pupils contracting.

"The charred corpse," Daemon said leisurely, "belonged to an unfortunate sailor about the same size as Laenor."

"My men changed him into Laenor's clothes beforehand and put that ring on him..."

He spread his hands. "The real Laenor Velaryon should be on a ship bound for Pentos by now."

"With a new identity I prepared for him, and enough gold to spend for the rest of his life."

"He'll be with the person he truly loves. No responsibilities, no titles, no marriage duties he has to fulfill."

He reached out and gently wiped away a tear sliding down Rhaenyra's cheek, his fingertips cold.

"See, Rhaenyra? I gave you what you wanted, and I gave him his freedom."

"A decent, clean exit."

"No charge of murdering your husband, no one to condemn you. You're a widow in the eyes of the law, and our children can be born openly and inherit the Targaryen name."

Daemon smiled faintly, the expression chilling in the firelight.

"As for Rhaenys's suspicions... let her suspect."

"I'll explain everything to them in time. Don't worry."

"By the time they find out, their resentment won't matter. The deed will be done, and Laenor's identity will have disappeared from the world."

He lowered his head and leaned close to Rhaenyra's ear, his breath brushing her neck.

"This is how you solve a problem: cleanly, decisively, and with everyone happy."

He paused, then said softly:

"Except for the scapegoat who was burned to a crisp, and the dozens of other unfortunate souls who died alongside him in the tavern."

Rhaenyra was ice-cold as she stared blankly at the man before her.

Should she feel relieved?

Laenor was still alive. She wouldn't have to bear the guilt of having her husband killed.

Daemon's hand slid to her belly and rested gently on the slight curve.

"Our child," he said in a voice more solemn than ever before. "They'll have the purest blood of the dragon, and be born at the most suitable time. He'll be called Aegon..."

"Now, weep, my queen." Daemon stepped back, his expression returning to calm. "There's still plenty of acting to do out there. A grieving widow, remember?"