Baelon prided himself on strategy. In the life he dimly remembered before this one, he had spent countless hours on games of conquest and diplomacy. They were only memories now, half-faded and dreamlike, yet the instincts remained. The basics of negotiations and alliances came to him with an ease that surprised even himself.
"An enemy's enemy is a friend. Valyria is ashes, but Volantis still desires what we desire. I imagine they will be pleased to see us coming."
Confidence swelled as he spoke. Rising from his seat, Baelon crossed to the great map spread across the council table. His finger came down upon the southeastern edge of Essos, upon the Black Wall and the coiling tiger sigils of ancient Volantis.
"The distance is great, yes, and we have no quarrel with them. That is precisely why allying with them serves us. When one strikes an enemy, it is wise to seek a partner far away. They are the ideal choice."
He turned slightly, his silver hair catching the lantern light. "And time is not our enemy. We have dragons. Send a messenger on dragonback. The envoy will reach Volantis and return before our fleet even leaves the Stepstones behind."
The boldness of the proposal echoed through the hall. Viserys, who had grown timid with age, stared at his nephew as though seeing him for the first time.
"An alliance afar, a strike near," the king murmured. "Good. It is good."
Rhaenys reacted even faster. Her eyes shone with sudden fire and she nearly struck the table in approval.
"It is a strong plan. Since their defeat by the Triarchy, the Tiger and Elephant Parties have done what they never do. They are united, and they are raising troops at a scale unseen in a century. They long to reclaim the Disputed Lands."
She gestured to the map, her tone sharp with certainty. "Even were this not a time of war, Volantis has ever desired dominion over Myr and Lys. If we send an envoy of sufficient stature, the Volantenes will listen. They hunger for redemption."
Rhaenys had traveled half the Free Cities in her youth; she knew the currents of Essosi politics better than most lords of Westeros. Without hesitation, she offered herself for the task. Meleys, the Red Queen, was the swiftest of the dragons, and her own title as the Queen Who Never Was would command respect even across the Narrow Sea.
She looked to Baelon then.
"If I fly to Volantis, my father will lead the Crownlands host. You take the fleet from Harrenhal and strike for the heart of the Triarchy."
Baelon's eyes narrowed with a quiet flame. "Our first target is Tyrosh. Then Myr. I will turn every league of land around those cities into blackened ash, and grind their defenders to dust. Let fear return to them. Let them never think of rising again."
The words left him in a voice like cold iron. Even the torches on the wall seemed to flicker.
Viserys stared, stunned. For years he had assumed his brother's son would resemble him, gentle and yielding. But there, in Baelon's poise and in the terrible calm of his vow, the king glimpsed Daemon as he had once been: a blade drawn and quivering, eager to cut.
"Good," Rhaenys said with satisfaction. "That is the steel a Targaryen should carry."
She turned pointedly to Viserys.
A flush crept across the king's face, half shame and half wounded pride.
"Perhaps I should try to claim another dragon," he muttered, almost too quietly to hear.
Once, Viserys the Young King had been bold. He had flown Balerion the Black Dread in his youth, and for a brief time possessed a fire as bright as any Targaryen's. But the years on the Iron Throne had smothered that flame. With Balerion's death the last embers seemed to fade.
Watching Baelon now, the memories stirred. He thought of Daemon standing before the lords assembled at Harrenhal during the Great Council, Dark Sister in hand, swearing he would carve down any man who denied him his right.
Baelon's voice pulled him back.
"Uncle, Dragonstone is close. If you wish to try, you should try. Whether it is a hatchling or a grown dragon, Tyraxes and I will not let harm come to you."
The boy spoke not with arrogance but with solemn promise.
Rhaenys placed a reassuring hand on the table. "And I will guard you as well. Meleys fears nothing."
Rhaenyra, who had been silent too long, suddenly burst forward. "And me. Syrax may be young, but she is fierce. I will protect Father too."
She wished desperately for him to claim a dragon again. Perhaps that would harden him, or at least stop him from treating her as a fragile ornament.
Viserys cut her a sharp look. "I know what you are thinking. You are not going to war. You will continue your progress through the Reach and find a husband worthy of you."
For Rhaenys and Baelon he held gratitude. For Rhaenyra, only stubborn insistence. She was Aemma's last child. He would not risk her.
"There is nothing for you here," he said. "Go."
Rhaenyra left without another word. When the door closed behind her, the king released a breath and turned back to Rhaenys and Baelon.
The two exchanged a quiet look. "Leave it be," Rhaenys murmured. "We have war to plan."
For the remainder of the day they worked through maps, scouts' reports, and the tides of the Narrow Sea. At last they reached their decision.
The Crownlands host would sail to the Stepstones to join House Velaryon's forces and push back the Triarchy's advance. Baelon would lead the troops drawn from Harrenhal and Crackclaw Point, riding with Seasmoke and Tyraxes as their vanguard, and strike first at Tyrosh's walls.
Viserys objected, but neither Rhaenys nor Baelon yielded. Only by carving the Triarchy to the bone could they secure the Iron Throne for years to come.
That same afternoon, Rhaenys mounted Meleys and rose into the sky, a streak of crimson wings bound for Volantis.
Baelon took command of his fleet and set sail for war.
Whether Volantis joined them or not, Tyrosh would drown in flame.
Only Lord Corlys, fevered and bedridden, and King Viserys, queasy from the sea, remained behind at High Tide.
Aboard the flagship, Laenor Velaryon sat propped on cushions, still nursing the wounds he had taken in the Stepstones. When he learned that the campaign's entire command now lay in the hands of his six-year-old cousin, his first instinct was disbelief.
Not because he doubted the plan. If anything, Baelon's strategy was precisely what he would have chosen. But a child of six, sailing to war and riding into danger?
"Are you saying you do not trust me, cousin?" Baelon asked lightly. "Fair enough. Then let us test it. Let us see which of us is stronger."
Laenor blinked. "You would duel me?"
"Not with blades." Baelon lifted his eyes toward the distant clouds. "With dragons."
Of course. Baelon had no intention of fighting on foot. His strength was Tyraxes, and the dragon's fire was worth more than ten thousand men.
Laenor hesitated only a moment. "Very well."
He had seen Tyraxes before: a young dragon, younger even than Seasmoke, yet growing at a pace that seemed unnatural. Still, youth did not always grant strength. A dragon of six years might know half its commands at best.
Laenor intended to hold back. He would not shame the boy nor place him in harm's way. He wished only for Baelon to understand war, its weight and its price.
To teach him. To keep him safe.
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A/N:The war begins here. If you think you know what comes next, you don't. BUT It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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