The Widow

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

The tavern called the Mermaid—Laenor Velaryon's favorite haunt in life—had already become a crackling, charred skeleton.

The fire raged 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 roof beams turned to charcoal pillars still stubbornly burned, belching out their last waves of heat and black smoke.

Bodies from inside and outside the tavern were carried out one by one, laid out on the open stone ground of the harbor, covered in coarse linen.

The stench of scorched flesh, cooked meat, and wood ash mingled into a nauseating odor.

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

One body in particular was set apart on a door plank brought over for the purpose.

It was slightly larger than the others, but equally curled and charred, its skin cracked to reveal carbonized muscle beneath.

Facial features were completely indistinguishable; the eye sockets were two black pits.

Yet on one finger of a blackened, curled hand that could barely be identified as a left one, a ring glinted faintly in the torchlight.

It was a ring forged of Valyrian steel, unique in design—not an ordinary band, but carved into the shape of a tiny seahorse coiled around an anchor, the seahorse's eye set with a small sapphire.

This was the heir's ring of House Velaryon, given to his only son Laenor on his sixteenth Name Day.

Laenor almost never took it off.

Corlys Velaryon stood before that charred corpse.

The legendary mariner, the Lord of the Tides, seemed to have had his spine ripped out.

His body trembled with an uncontrollable shudder.

His face, etched with countless grooves by sea winds, was now frozen. His gray-blue eyes stared fixedly at the ring, then slowly shifted 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 personally closed his daughter Laena's eyes.

Now his only son, the continuation of House Velaryon's bloodline and name, had become a lump of charcoal lying on a door plank.

"La...enor..." Corlys finally forced out a sound, hoarse, cracked, broken beyond measure.

No matter how much he had experienced, he could not accept the pain of his own bloodline dying out.

The scepter slipped from his other hand.

Clang.

The sound of metal striking stone was crisp and abrupt.

Then came a duller thud.

Corlys's tall, straight body toppled backward and slammed heavily onto the ground. His eyes were shut tight, the last trace of color drained from his face.

"Corlys!" Rhaenys Targaryen cried out.

She rushed to her husband's side, knelt on the cold stone ground, and with trembling fingers felt for his breath, then pressed against his neck. "Maester! Call the Maester, now!"

A stir ran through the crowd.

Servants and the Maester hurried forward, lifting the unconscious Sea Snake with much effort and rushing him toward High Tide.

Rhaenys did not follow immediately.

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

Her back remained straight, but in her blue eyes—so like her husband's—a terrifying storm now churned: the deepest grief, and a fury barely restrained, on the verge of eruption.

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

The captain's Adam's apple bobbed as he reported with difficulty: "My lady...

"According to survivors and nearby witnesses, Lord Laenor was drinking as usual at the Mermaid tonight, together with a young sailor named Harwin, whom he had recently... grown close to.

"But later, another captain who had also been involved with Lord Laenor before—a man named Marcos—came in with several men. An argument broke out, which quickly turned into a brawl..."

He swallowed. "That Marcos... it's said he'd been nursing a grudge because Lord Laenor had recently spurned him in favor of Harwin.

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

"Then... then they splashed the tavern's strong liquor around, set it on fire, and fled through the back door in the chaos. Some people at the harbor saw them board a fast ship heading toward the Stepstones..."

"The fire spread too fast. Few inside made it out..."

"Marcos..." Rhaenys repeated the name, her eyes venomous. "Background? Any connections?"

"He's... a small-time captain active around the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. No fixed allegiance—he works for whoever pays, no loyalties.

"He used to frequent Tidepool Island often and did have... a period with Lord Laenor.

"Many in the tavern can testify they'd quarreled before, and Marcos had threatened revenge..."

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

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

Everything sounded reasonable. A love-triangle murder born of jealousy, the culprit fleeing in panic after setting the fire. Motive, witnesses, physical evidence—all present.

Too reasonable.

Rhaenys's gaze moved slowly, sweeping across the Velaryon family members gathered around.

Her eyes lingered on one man for a moment: Corlys's brother, Vaemond Velaryon.

This younger brother, who had always resented his elder for tying the succession to three "brown-haired boys," now wore grief on his face, but beneath it, barely concealed disgust.

And when Rhaenys's gaze brushed past Rhaenyra Targaryen not far away—

And Daemon Targaryen, standing at her side with his hand on his sword hilt—the suspicion in her heart sank its roots deep.

Rhaenyra was covering her mouth, pale-faced, her body swaying slightly.

Her eldest son, Jacaerys, had not yet healed from losing an eye half a year ago, and now her nominal husband had died horribly in flames.

Her belly, even hidden beneath a dark gown, was already visibly rounded.

Daemon stood expressionless, quietly watching everything before him.

Vaemond's voice rang out then, not loud, but clear enough for all around to hear, carrying pent-up fury and accusation he could no longer suppress:

"See? This is the consequence!"

He pointed at the three boys standing behind Rhaenyra, their faces equally sorrowful—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey.

Their brown hair, brown eyes, utterly unlike the silver hair and violet or blue eyes of Velaryon and Targaryen.

"My brother Corlys—wise all his life, but blind in this!" Vaemond grew agitated.

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

"And now! Laenor is dead! The only trueborn son of House Velaryon, the real bloodline, is dead!"

He swept his gaze over the assembled family and bannermen, trying to stir sympathy: "Are we to hand our noble seahorse banner over to these... these brown-haired boys of unknown origin?"

"The inheritance of Tidepool Island, the Velaryon fleet, the honor and wealth our house has built for generations—all to fall into the hands of bastards?"

Some collateral members and bannermen lowered their heads, their expressions varied.

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

Rhaenys turned her head and snapped, "Vaemond! Enough! This is not the time for this!"

Her voice still carried unyielding authority, but if one listened closely, a suppressed tremor could be heard.

Vaemond, though dissatisfied, shut his mouth. He had only been venting years of resentment.

He had no designs on the position his revered brother held.

But he would never tolerate bastards inheriting Velaryon, usurping everything Velaryon had built.

Rhaenyra quickly swept her gaze over Rhaenyra and Daemon.

Daemon met her eyes calmly.

The serpent of suspicion in Rhaenys's heart hissed wildly.

Then, without looking at anyone else, she turned and threw a curt order to the Guard captain: "Keep investigating. That Marcos, and everyone on his ship—chase them to the end!"

"Alive, I want to see them! Dead, I want the bodies!"

Then, in her grief, she straightened her back and strode quickly toward High Tide, to see her unconscious husband.

Inside Rhaenyra's chambers in High Tide.

The door had barely closed when the fury and fear Rhaenyra had bottled up exploded.

She spun around, grabbing Daemon by the front of his tunic with such force she nearly tore the expensive fabric.

"You did this! Didn't you?!" Her violet eyes were bloodshot.

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

Daemon let her hold him, his face expressionless, just looking down at her face, pale yet flushed from agitation and pregnancy.

"Yes," he said calmly, one word.

Rhaenyra looked as if struck by lightning. The strength in her grip on his tunic drained instantly. She staggered back a step, leaning against the cold stone wall.

The anger in her eyes was swiftly replaced by panic and disbelief. "You... you really... how could you..."

"But," Daemon stepped forward, closing the distance, "Laenor isn't dead."

Rhaenyra lifted her head, her pupils contracting.

"That charred corpse," Daemon said slowly, "was an unlucky sailor about the same build as Laenor."

"My men dressed him in Laenor's clothes beforehand, put on the ring..."

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 last him a lifetime."

"He'll be with someone he truly loves. No responsibilities, no titles, no marital duties to fulfill."

He reached out, gently wiping away the tears sliding down Rhaenyra's face, his fingertips cold.

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

"A dignified, clean exit."

"No crime of killing your husband, no condemnation. You're a lawful widow now. Our children can be born legitimately and inherit the Targaryen name."

Daemon smiled faintly, a smile that chilled the blood in the firelight.

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

"Later, I'll explain it to them, rest assured."

"By the time they find out, it won't matter if they're bitter—the deed is done. The identity of Laenor has vanished from this world."

He leaned down, close to Rhaenyra's ear, his breath brushing against her neck:

"This is how you solve a problem. Clean, neat, everyone happy."

He paused, then said softly:

"Except for the charred corpse that took his place, and the few dozen unlucky souls in the tavern who burned with him."

Rhaenyra went cold all over, staring blankly at the man before her.

Should she feel grateful?

Laenor was alive. She didn't have to bear the sin of killing her husband.

Daemon's hand slid to her belly, pressing gently against the slight curve.

"Our children," he murmured, with a gravity she'd never heard from him, "they will have the purest true dragon blood. Born at the perfect time. He will be called Aegon..."

"Now, weep, my queen." Daemon stepped back, his face regaining its composure. "There are still many scenes to play. The grieving widow, remember?"