Now only Nettles remained in the hall.
The dark, thin girl was still prostrate on the ground, her forehead pressed against the cold floor tiles.
"You're called Nettles?" Rhaenyra asked.
The girl nodded to the ground, not daring to raise her head.
"Lift your head when you speak to me."
Nettles slowly straightened her body, but her eyes remained fixed on the floor, not daring to meet the gaze of the person upon the throne.
"How are the Sheepstealer's wounds?" Rhaenyra asked.
"They… they're healing." Nettles's voice was as small as a mosquito's. "The wound on its wing has scabbed over, but its flying is still… still a bit unsteady. It needs time. It needs meat…"
"Are you willing to continue riding a dragon for me?" Rhaenyra asked directly.
Nettles suddenly raised her head, those large brown eyes filled with fear.
"I… I don't want to kill people."
"Sheepstealer is my friend. I cared for him for four years—fed him, talked with him—only then did he let me ride him."
"But I don't want to use him to kill people…"
"A dragon is not your pet, child," Daemon said, frowning.
Tears rolled down Nettles's face, cutting two tracks through the grime.
"I hate killing people."
"Because they are the enemy," Daemon said coldly. "Little girl, that is war."
Nettles's shoulders began to tremble violently. She bit her lip, but the tears would not stop flowing.
Rhaenyra looked at the child, and something soft in her heart was stirred.
"Child, do you think this is a game of make-believe?" Daemon's voice carried impatience.
He walked toward Nettles, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.
"Dragons are our companions—but they are also the most powerful weapons."
"You tamed a dragon, and now you say you don't want it anymore?"
"Do you know how many people dream of becoming a dragonrider?"
"Do you know how precious your chance is?"
Corlys let out a sigh.
Rhaenyra watched in silence. She wanted to see how this girl would respond.
Daemon stopped in front of Nettles, his tall figure completely enveloping the girl.
Nettles shrank into herself in fright, yet she still stubbornly kept her face raised. Tears streamed down without ceasing, but she did not beg for mercy.
In those brown eyes, besides fear, there was something else—something stubborn.
It was the pure sincerity that belongs to a child.
"Are you willing to fight for Rhaenyra?" Daemon suddenly asked in a different way.
"Not for the realm, not for justice—only for her. Are you willing?"
Nettles's lips trembled. She looked at Daemon, then secretly glanced at Rhaenyra on the throne.
"We will not make you slaughter the innocent," Daemon continued, his tone softening somewhat. "But some battles must be fought."
"If you are unwilling, say it now, and we will let you go."
He paused, staring into Nettles's eyes. "Are you willing?"
A long silence followed. The candlelight crackled, and from far away came the sound of waves striking the shore.
Nettles lowered her head and stared at her filthy feet for a long, long time.
"I am willing to fight for justice," she said softly, her voice trembling a little, but her words were clear enough to be heard.
"But… but I will never ride a dragon to slaughter innocent people. I swear it by the Seven, and I swear it to you, my lord."
"If you make me do such a thing, I would rather… rather jump from a dragon's back."
Daemon stared at her for a long time, so long that Nettles began trembling again.
But in the end, he released the hilt of his sword, and a smile touched the corner of his mouth as he looked at the girl with appreciation.
"Remember your oath," he said. Then he turned and walked back to Rhaenyra's side, giving orders to the guards.
"Take her away. Arrange quarters for her, find her a pair of shoes that fit, and some clean clothes."
"From this day forth, she is my adopted daughter and is to receive the treatment due to that station."
Nettles was led away, and as she left, she glanced back once.
The doors closed again.
Only three people remained in the hall—Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Corlys.
At that moment, Corlys drew a roll of parchment from his robes.
"This arrived this afternoon," he said, handing the letter to Rhaenyra. "From King's Landing. The messenger said it was written by Queen Alicent's own hand."
Rhaenyra took the parchment.
She broke the wax seal and unfolded it.
It was Alicent's handwriting, neat and delicate.
The letter was not long.
First came the formal courtesies, and then it went straight to the matter at hand, blunt to the point of cruelty:
…The arson and dragon theft at the Dragonpit have been fully investigated. It was orchestrated by Jacaerys Velaryon, with financial and intelligence support provided by Corlys Velaryon.
This act constitutes treason and violates the laws of House Targaryen and the realm.
If you are willing to acknowledge this fact and agree to the following terms, we will restore peace:
First, surrender Corlys Velaryon and send him to King's Landing to stand trial before the throne.
Second, you yourself are to go to King's Landing and, before the Iron Throne, swear fealty in person to Aegon Targaryen.
Third, the children born to you and Daemon may receive Tyrosh as their fief, bearing the title of Prince of Tyrosh, with Tyrosh to be governed autonomously by you…
Fourth, …
Rhaenyra did not finish reading.
The parchment crumpled into a ball in her hand, and then she began tearing it apart, tearing with such force.
"Treason?" Her voice squeezed out through clenched teeth, low and dangerous. "My son is dead—two sons!"
"Jacaerys was cut in half at the waist, and Joffrey was torn to pieces!"
"Lucerys nearly burned to death! And now she tells me I am the one committing treason?!"
She threw down the shredded paper.
"I yielded! I gave up the Iron Throne! I even…" She choked, her chest heaving violently. "I wanted to buy peace with a marriage alliance. I did not want this realm divided either!"
She rose to her feet and let out a roar.
"I retreated, step by step, step by step—from Dragonstone, from Driftmark, all the way to Tyrosh!"
"What more do they want? Must I now lay my head upon the block?!"
"And hand you over as well?!"
Corlys stood silently, his face looking especially old in the candlelight.
The Sea Snake's sharpness was still there, but the corners of his eyes were already lined with wrinkles, and his white hair was like snow.
"No!" Hatred was written across Rhaenyra's face, and at last tears rolled from her eyes—not tears of grief, but burning tears of rage.
"No, this time I will not yield. Alicent wants peace? Very well."
"I will send every one of her children before her and kill them one by one."
"I will make her taste this feeling—this feeling of having her heart torn to pieces bit by bit!"
"I will make Alicent kneel before the Iron Throne and beg me for mercy!"
Her roar echoed through the hall.
Daemon watched her quietly. He neither stopped her nor joined in.
He knew Rhaenyra needed to vent, needed to shout out all the repression, pain, and anger of these past months.
Daemon and Corlys exchanged looks. They could only wait until she had finished shouting before speaking of serious matters.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Rhaenyra calmed down again.
Only after she had completely settled did Corlys slowly speak. "Rhaenyra, this is not the time to act on impulse."
"Desertions have already begun in the Velaryon fleet."
Rhaenyra turned her head to look at him. "What?"
"The rumors have spread through the army." Corlys's face looked especially grave in the candlelight.
"When Driftmark fell, most of the families of the soldiers we left on the island—their wives, children, and parents—were captured."
"Aemond has made it known that if their husbands and sons continue fighting for the Blacks, those family members will be implicated in treason as well."
"Forced labor, or exile to the Wall."
He paused, and his voice grew even heavier. "I can only suppress it for a while."
"Last night, more than fifty men slipped away in small boats."
"If this goes on, we will not even need a battle—the whole fleet will fall apart on its own."
"Without a fleet, even if we still have dragons, we cannot return to Westeros."
Rhaenyra felt a wave of dizziness.
She suddenly realized that although she sat upon this splendid throne and seemed to be the ruler of a city, in truth her position was precarious in the extreme.
The Tyroshi nobles were outwardly obedient, the morale of the Velaryon fleet was wavering and could collapse at any moment, and the Greens in King's Landing were watching like tigers, intent on putting her to death.
And she, aside from a few dragons and eight thousand troops, had almost nothing at all.
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