94

Chapter 94: Interlude: Fyre IIINotes:

If you remember, I was composing a song about the Dragonseeds when I realised I had nothing on Erik, which resulted in his forgettability becoming his most memorable trait.

This was the particular verse about him that sparked the whole no-presence thing.

-Alice

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"Rhaena and Shaera,

Victim and murderer,

Erik and Haegon,

Forgotten and healer."

-Third verse in song 'The Dragonseeds'

114 AC, Arbor

If one were to ask for a list of the most beautiful parts of Westeros, the Arbor would probably rank quite high on that list. Warm and sunny beaches, with beautiful yellow sand and turquoise waters teeming with colourful fish. Verdant greenery covering much of the island, lush vineyards sitting alongside strong oak trees. Fields of bountiful golden wheat and shimmering blue lakes.

Ryamsport was the crown jewel of the already beautiful island, with charming buildings of timber and plaster, capped with sloped roofs and fired clay shingles. The streets were cobbled, and canals had been carved into the lands, reaching up to the farms and vineyards and forestries further inland.

Ryamsport bore a grand harbour, largest outside of the cities of the mainland. And it was here the Redwyne Fleet was berthed. Two hundred of the finest warships of the line, with easily five times as many support ships, many of which were themselves old and mothballed warships sold to merchants in peacetime, but kept in a condition that enabled easy restoration to full service and operation.

They all burned, one beautiful night.

Ryamsport was now a sea of fire and blood, great plumes of smoke rising sluggishly up into the night sky, illuminated by the moonlight of the last full moon of the Year 114 After Conquest.

At the stroke of midnight, blue flames had torched every single vessel in the harbour. The dragon flying multiple strafing runs in quick succession, burning dozens of vessels with each pass. By the fifth salvo of dragonfire, much of the fleet was already aflame, flames jumping from one vessel to another. Igniting stocks of flammable turpentine, sailcloth, ropes and riggings, and more besides.

Some of the fire had inadvertently spread onto the town itself, but it wasn't like Erik had time to despair.

Rhaenyra's orders were clear.

The Greens were not to have a single naval force left for their campaign.

Erik wasn't well read into Operation Towerfall, but his lack of presence often meant that people forgot he was in the room with them, and would discuss secrets in front of him.

Operation Towerfall had three main courses of action.

Plan A involved an overwhelming preemptive strike on Oldtown, using the full muster of House Targaryen's dragons, to force a quick surrender and end the war before it even began. Given Aerion's treachery, that plan, obviously, was now out of the window.

Plan B was yet another overwhelming preemptive strike on Oldtown, under the Ironborn. While it was true that the Gold Fleet was currently somewhere in Naeros at the moment, and the Ironborn had largely put away their raiding and reaving in favour of trade and exploration, most lords of the Iron Islands still had a warship or ten lying around. Combined with the newly-formed Mormont Fleet at Sea Dragon Point, that should have been more than enough naval power to overwhelm the Oldtown Fleet and take the city. Erik wasn't sure why Rhaenyra had vetoed this plan, but suffice to say, it wasn't happening.

Lastly, Plan C was a more conventional campaign with the Legions taking point, entailing the typical pitched battles and sieges between both the Black and the Green host. But for this plan, they needed to shape the Green approach, making them blunder right into prepared grounds and dismantling them piecemeal. This was the plan House Targaryen was currently on.

And for this, the Greens were to have no navy at their disposal.

Erik was no great general or admiral, but he understood that seas and rivers gave hosts a lot more flexibility and mobility than what horses and roads could do.

The Mander Canal was fairly narrow and easily defensible, but it would be near impossible to patrol the entire Summer Sea to the south of Dorne. With sufficient ships, the Greens could send an army around Dorne and hit King's Landing in the back.

That would not do. The Greens could not be allowed to gain such an advantage. It was imperative that they be forced to march up the Roseroad, right into Legion fortified positions.

So while Lady Mayin Blacktyde and the Mormont Fleet torched the Lannister fleet at anchor, Erik and Grey Ghost were to torch the Redwyne fleet.

Sending Grey Ghost into one last dive, Erik burnt the last remaining ships, before ascending into the sky with his mount.

He turned an eye to look upon the island that he had been fostered at for the past seven years. He thought of stern Lord Paxton, steady Ser Harvey, kind Lady Bethany Redwyne, sweet Heather Redwyne and lovely Holly Redwyne, whom Erik would confess to having nursed a crush upon for quite some time. The Redwyne's had become as close as kin to Erik, and he really regretted having to wound their House so.

"Nothing personal." Erik mumbled to himself, as he spurred Grey Ghost on. "But I don't want Rhaenyra to murder me."

And on that note, he flew off into the night sky, leaving behind him a burning town and a shattered fleet.

———

114 AC, Highgarden,

"Rhaena,

Code Black.

The glass candles have been compromised by some sorceress, making any communication by them unreliable. Aerion has stolen all of our dragons, and Rhaegar and the Oldtown crowd are dead.

Baela is dead as well, slain by Aerion.

Such a crippling of our glass candle network could not have been done without inside help, and Aerion doesn't have the sorcerous skill to perform such sabotage. He doesn't even have the brains to conceive of such a heist.

Avada Kadava, authorisation code: Simurgh-Lausanne-Switzerland. You know what to do.

Rhaenyra"

Well, shit.

Dark wings, dark words indeed.

The raven from the Red Keep had brought truly dire news. Rhaena had refused to believe the words on the paper for five solid minutes, just staring into space in sheer shock.

But there was no possibility of forgery. The letter was genuine. Rhaenyra's sorcery had permeated the ink, making them glow as though they were written in incandescent lava.

Baela was dead.

It felt like someone had taken a butcher's knife to Rhaena's chest and cleaved her heart in two.

Warmth pooled in Rhaena's eyes as her vision blurred from unshed tears, but a twist of her will, and her tears immediately halted. There would be time to cry later.

First and foremost, Rhaena had to avenge her twin and fallen siblings.

Shaera was easy to find. It was a rare moment that she spent more than a minute out of Rhaena's sight.

Lady Tyrell was beautiful. Fourteen years old, puberty had been kind to her. Her figure had filled in rather well, with dainty curves and a slender waist. Her blond hair was long and flowing, tumbling down in a wave of golden curls. Her eyes were glittering sapphires, shining in her lovely face. Even the golden fetters which bound her did nothing to detract from her beauty.

Of Prince Daemon's entire progeny, Shaera Fyre was indisputably the fairest of them all.

Lady Tyrell sat in her personal quarters, an airy and cozy room high in the towers of Highgarden. She was knitting, weaving a long scarf out of green and gold yarn.

"Leave us." Rhaena ordered, as she entered the room, the two servants chaperoning Shaera in Rhaena's absence bowing before filing out of the room.

"What is it, dear sister?" Shaera asked, turning to face Rhaena.

Gritting her teeth, Rhaena raised her right hand and spoke a command.

"Avada Kadava, Shaera." She ordered. "Authorisation code: Simurgh-Lausanne-Switzerland."

Almost immediately, the gold bangle around Rhaena's right wrist lit up with glowing red runes, as the password was accepted by the artefact.

A heartbeat later, identical magical glyphs, inlaid onto the underside of the golden manacles binding Shaera shone crimson as the shackles came to life, obeying the commands of the remote Rhaena held.

Only for the light to gutter out just as suddenly as they shone. The leash faded into dormancy, leaving Shaera completely unmarred and unharmed.

"What?" Rhaena barely had time to get out, before Shaera burst into a deep belly laughter.

High and sweet, the sound was reminiscent to a bird's elegant trilling, Shaera Tyrell wiping the tears out of her eyes.

"Oh, you should have seen the look on your face." Shaera laughed. "It was priceless."

Why didn't the leash work? Why was Shaera still alive?

Questions for another time.

Rhaena immediately drew her dagger and lunged at Shaera, intending on slitting her sister's throat.

"Crucio, Rhaena." Shaera laughed.

Rhaena collapsed to the floor screaming. Convulsing as incandescent pain lanced through her body from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It felt like she'd been strapped to a table and the torturer was unleashing his full arsenal on her.

It felt like an eternity before than pain stopped, and Rhaena was able to recompose herself, tremblingly leaning on a chair for support, tears in her eyes and voice hoarse from the screaming.

Gasping, Rhaena immediately lashed out with sorcery.

"Imperio, Rhaena, do not cast any magic."

The spell immediately unwove, magic sliding through her fingers like sand.

It was like her sorcery was as a mountain, unmovable by force of men. Oh, she could still feel it, pumping through her veins beneath her skin, pulsing with every beat of her heart. But she couldn't make the power move.

There were three steps to any spell: Will, formula and execution.

Rhaena had both the will and the formula, but it was like there was some ironclad barrier preventing her from taking that final step. Preventing her from executing the spell.

"Imperio, Rhaena, freeze."

It felt like she'd turned into stone. Rhaena couldn't move, now matter how much she fought it. Not her limbs, not her tongue or mouth. Nothing. Her body had turned against her, holding her in place in sheer defiance of her will. She was trapped, like a fly in amber. She couldn't even breathe, her chest unable to rise or fall, inhale or exhale. Only her eyes remained free, moving this way and that in alarm. And there was just this feeling. This horrible burning and constricting feeling around her neck, like someone had collared and leashed her like a dog.

Fear bloomed like a poisonous flower in her heart, as all of Rhaena's agency was stripped away from her with three words, her own magic turning against her and imprisoning her in her own body.

The leash which Rhaena had been using to restrain Shaera had been turned against her.

"Ah, Rhaenyra, your hubris is truly the gift that keeps on giving." Shaera gloatingly laughed. "Bindings and contracts are my forte, did you truly think that you could have bound me so?"

Shaera paused, then flicked a wrist at Rhaena.

Rhaena felt her jaw loosen, as Shaera returned her ability to speak.

"What did you do? How in the world did you slip the leash?!" Rhaena demanded. "I ransacked your memories every week, and never let you spend more than five minutes out of my sight! How did you escape your bonds?!"

"A lie that." Shaera giggled. "You did, in fact, leave me alone for more than five minutes."

Rhaena frantically searched her memories, trying to divine any point in time when she did so and coming up short.

"Daenys would not have made such a mistake." Shaera tittered. "She would have watched my husband fuck me, uncaring of the lack of privacy."

"Oh, oh gods." Rhaena paled, as she realised her grave error.

Whenever Lucas Tyrell had visited his wife's bed, Rhaena had given the couple their privacy, unwilling to witness her sister engaging in bedsports with her husband. She'd leave Lucas and Shaera alone for the night, only resuming her overseeing duty the next morning.

"But, but I ransacked your memories at infrequent intervals." Rhaena protested. "Even if you had spent your time alone plotting an escape, you would have told me your plans to escape at a later time."

"You ransacked my memories, yes." Shaera agreed with a nod. "But you didn't ransack Lucas'."

And just like that, everything clicked.

"You stored your memories in your husband's mind." Rhaena gasped in realisation. "You somehow slipped your binds enough to cast a little bit, and used that freedom to implant your memories into Lucas' mind. You gave him all of your incriminating memories, including the memory of yourself creating that spell, such that even if I checked your memories, you could honestly swear that you didn't remember plotting an escape."

"Memory magic is my other speciality." Shaera agreed. "It was an elegant little spell. My husband neither knew nor understood just what I was storing in his brain. At the end of each session of sex, I would kiss my husband, depositing all of my memories into his mind. And at the start of the next, he would kiss me, and the spell would automatically trigger, returning my memories back to me."

Seven Hells Below and Everburning, but Shaera was cunning. Rhaena had believed her sister neutered, no longer a threat thanks to the leash, but Shaera's determination and drive to succeed was second to none.

To think that even with mind control, she could not only her bindings but subvert her leash, turning it against her very own jailer.

"You would have made an amazing politician, had you been an honest person." Rhaena admitted, voice tinted with no small amount of admiration and jealousy.

"I have no interest in lesser offices." Shaera rebuffed. "It is my destiny to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and no one, not you, not Rhaenyra, not all the fucking gods in this accursed universe, can stand between me and the Iron Throne!"

"Good luck with that." Rhaena snarled, baring teeth threateningly. "Aerion has stolen Lady, and without your dragon, you are but a defenceless little girl.

"You will die, painfully and mercilessly." Rhaena promised. "You will curse and rue the day you decided to stand against Rhaenyra, traitor."

"We'll see about that" Shaera shrugged dismissively. "Give my regards to Baela."

———

"Avada Kadava, Rhaena." Shaera ordered. "Authorisation code: Simurgh-Lausanne-Switzerland."

At her words, red runes flared around Rhaena's neck, the leash activated.

A heartbeat later, the circle broke, shattering immediately. There was a heartbeat of horror, before a second magic circle blazed around her sister's neck. Lighting up like a bonfire in the night sky.

Rhaena Fyre was dead before she even hit the ground.

Reaching down to her sister's corpse, Shaera retrieved the golden bangle Rhaena used to compel her, sending her sorcery out in thin strands to poke around in the artefact.

Satisfied that she had control over the artefact, Shaera withdrew into herself, delving into her soul and finding the shackles that chained it.

There were two leashes.

A larger and more obvious one, which could compel her absolute obedience and torture her with sorcerously induced pain if she disobeyed.

A smaller and more discreet one, hiding beneath the larger one like a barnacle hiding beneath the prow of a boat. And it's one and only activation condition was the removal of the first, triggering instant death.

It was not impossible to break the first, but the second most definitely was. It was too ironclad and too secure for Shaera to crack open. Simplicity was strength in the field of bindings, and this one was a simple as they came.

Shaera would not be able to remove the noose from her neck, but there was more than one way to skin a cat.

Ignoring the second one, Shaera delved even deeper into the intricate code of the first binding.

There were three individuals with administrative privileges. Three people whom had the authority and ability to trigger the bindings and activate the leash. The first and greatest of the three, with the widest-reaching authority, was Rhaenyra. The Dragonqueen had unrestricted access to all three levels of the binding.

Imperio. Level One. Mind control.

Crucio. Level Two. Sorcerously induced pain.

Avada Kadava. Level Three. Deletion of the first binding, triggering the second, and causing instant death.

The next two administrator accounts had equal access, being able to access up to Level Two freely. Level Three could only be triggered with a specific passcode, 'Simurgh-Lausanne-Switzerland' in Shaera's case.

Daenys held the second account. The third was more nebulous, with the account being bound to the gold bangle Shaera now held in her hands.

The bangle was a transmitter, and the golden fetters Shaera was bound with were the receiver. Whomever wore the bangle had administrator privileges over the wearer of the fetters.

Using the receiver alone, Shaera had been able to corrupt the system from within, turning it against Rhaena. And now that she had the transmitter, she could acquire true freedom.

The original leash only had two administrator accounts; Rhaenyra and Daenys. The third account was added later, and it was quite clearly a bit of a rush job. Tacked on hastily with far less precision or thought. Daenys must have slipped up somewhere in her haste to bind Shaera.

It was the metaphysical equivalent of building a new hidden passageway leading into a vault, but forgetting to lock the door behind oneself.

Bindings and glamours were Shaera's forte, so it was child's play to enter through this backdoor and access the leash.

A twist of will, and all three administrative accounts were deleted. In their place, a new administrator took their place; Shaera herself.

Opening her eyes, Shaera let out a sigh, and flicked her wrist.

Golden chains clattered to the floor, landing beside the corpse of her sister.

Shaera Tyrell smiled, and breathed in her first breath of freedom.

She was still bound, yes. But instead of Rhaenyra, Shaera held her own leash now. And that was a compromise she was willing to live with.

Stretching herself, both physically and magically, Shaera relished the feeling of liberation. Seven Gods, but it had been so long since she was herself again. Free of prying overseers and hovering nannies. Free to move around and cast as she pleased. Free of the burden of having to act like a prim and proper good girl for the rest of the world to see.

Walking over to the glass candle on the table beside her, Shaera lit it, and a hologram of her dear partner Alys Rivers appeared.

"It is done." Alys said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yes. I am free once more." Shaera agreed. "What news do you have for me."

"Rhaenyra has somehow found out about the compromising of her glass candle network. Daenys has cut me off from every candle within King's Landing, and Rhaenys is now in hot pursuit of Aerion and the dragon flock."

"Such a move was not unexpected, though definitely sooner than anticipated." Shaera nodded. "And what of Oldtown?"

"Your uncle and siblings are all dead. Dragged through the streets and executed before a jeering mob. Naerys is the only survivor. The dragons are in Green custody."

"Good. That means that Rhaenyra will not have a single dragon at her disposal. Meleys is busy chasing Aerion, and cannot help in the war effort. And gods take mercy on any fool whom attempts to claim either Sheepstealer or the Cannibal." Shaera said approvingly.

"Not quite." Alys Rivers denied, shaking her head.

"What?"

"Grey Ghost has torched the Redwyne Fleet at anchor." Alys reported. "I forgot about that particular Dragonseed, and forgot to sabotage his glass candle beforehand. Rhaenyra got to him before I did."

"Erik." Shaera growled. "He is truly a most unpleasant grain of sand that jams up the most intricate of machinery."

"What shall we do?"

"The plan hasn't changed. I shall handle my forgotten brother. You deal with the lords as discussed."

"As you wish. Good hunting."

The hologram winked out.

Well, that was annoying. Rhaenyra could not be allowed to have even a single dragon at her disposal, if this war was to be a success. 

Her mount Lady was gone. Kept far away from Highgarden as a precaution against Shaera's inevitable escape. She was with Aerion now, in Pentos, if the reports were to be believed.

But there was another dragon right outside Highgarden. And Shaera possessed the tools she needed to claim it.

Rummaging around Rhaena's personal possessions, Shaera smirked as she found what she was looking for. A single dragon horn the size of her forearm, banded with red gold and black iron, glyphs inlaid into the sides, proclaiming it's function.

Putting her mouth to the banded blowhole, Shaera blew into the horn.

Immediately, energy rippled through Shaera's frame. Where the energy coursing through her veins from most dragon horns felt invigorating and refreshing, this one was decidedly not so. Shaera screamed as she felt her soul stretch, felt that invisible bond linking her to Lady, far far away, stretch and stretch and stretch.

Magic came down, and the bond was cut. Cleanly and coldly, with utmost precision and efficiency, but excruciating nonetheless.

Gasping, Shaera rose back to her feet. Her bond with her dragon Severed by the horn.

"Ah, Rhaenyra, your paranoid truly is the gift that keeps on giving." Shaera grinned, as she flopped onto a chair, letting the pain subside.

After Shaera's… hostile takeover of House Tyrell, most of the Reach had to swallow the bitter pill that a bastard in open defiance of her patron was now Lady of the Reach. Lady had been Shaera's sole saving grace, for the dragon made such an arrangement merely unpalatable instead of horrifying.

As such, Rhaenyra had allowed Shaera to retain possession of Lady, albeit at a distance. Otherwise Shaera had no illusions that her already paltry eligibility as a bride would vanish like smoke, and near the entire Reach would start aiming to remove and replace her with a more pliable replacement. They already were, of course. But without Lady, it would be as the difference between enduring a rainstorm and enduring a hurricane. One she could survive, the other, much more dubious.

Of course, despite all that, Rhaenyra—being the ever-paranoid soul that she was—had given Rhaena the tool she needed to forcefully sever Shaera's bond with her dragon. Just in case.

A tool that Shaera now turned against her.

Laughing to herself, Shaera left her quarters and subtly instructed her loyalists in the castle to execute a purge on the rest of Rhaena's staff. Two hundred Legionaries from the Second Legion, with twice that number in support staff and servants for the Lady Tyrell. They were there both to defend Shaera from the blades of assassins, and if necessary, put her down themselves.

Even as the bloodbath began, Shaera walked calmly through the halls, and towards a specific field outside the castle.

Singing softly in High Valyrian, to soothe the savage beast, the Lady Tyrell calmly approached Rhaena's dragon Daybreak.

———

114 AC, Skies above Shield Islands,

With the destruction of the Redwyne Fleet, there were only a handful of Green naval forces left.

The Lannister Fleet was gone, torched by the Ironborn and Mormont Fleet. While it was true that Lannisport had instituted stricter security to prevent a repeat event, after the fleet was torched the first time during the War of Four Directions, the city was filled with loyalists to the exiled twins Jason and Tymund Lannister.

The two boys, now high-ranking commanders in the Sixth Legion, had no love lost between them and their usurper sister, and were more than happy to outline the weaknesses in Lannisport's defence for the amphibious Ironborn assault.

Oldtown was too well defended though, so Erik couldn't torch the Oldtown Fleet. But the Shield Islands on the other hand…

More ships, and less defences. The perfect target for him.

Erik was just considering the best angle to attack from, when Grey Ghost suddenly banked with a screech, narrowly dodging a stream of blue fire.

"What in tarna—" Erik paused midsentence, staring in disbelief as three large shapes rose from the clouds beneath him.

Dragons.

Urrax, Quicksilver the Second.

Syrax, the Yellow Beast.

Tessarion, the Blue Queen.

The mounts of Haegon, Maegelle and Daella respectively.

No longer, it would seem. For they were each ridden by adult men now.

Blood boiling with anger, Erik finally realised just why House Hightower had ordered his siblings executed instead of imprisoned as hostages.

"Hands of my siblings' dragons!" Erik roared, moving into an attack run.

Syrax unleashed a brilliant burst of yellow flame, but Erik and Grey Ghost barrel rolled to the side, dodging the attack by a hairsbreadth.

Circling to the left, Erik skimmed the clouds, throwing up a great wave of water vapour in his wake. Fireballs came, blowing great holes into the slipstream, but none of them coming close.

Tessarion reared up, unleashing a continuous stream of fire, the torrent of flames slicing through the sky as it chased Grey Ghost.

Forcing himself to keep his cool, Erik continued on his flight path, ascending gracefully even as he circled the three dragonriders. The streak of dragonfire was but yards away from Grey Ghost's tail when it suddenly stopped.

Unsurprising. Erik had deliberately manoeuvred his dragon such that Urrax was between him and Tessarion, forcing the rider of the Blue Queen to abort his attack lest he char his comrade.

Now that he'd gotten two of the enemy dragons in a single line, Erik went on the offensive.

Wheeling Grey Ghost around in a hairpin turn, Erik charged at the Greens, his mount unleashing blue flame of its own. The three dragons scattered, dodging the streak of fire.

Syrax and Urrax immediately wheeled around, pincering Grey Ghost in between them. Both unleashed dragonfire, as he'd baited them into doing.

Putting on a rapid burst of acceleration, Grey Ghost shot upwards with incredible speed. The two streams of fire crashed into one another, colliding to form a larger sphere of fire that did nothing but block Tessarion from moving to attack.

Erik shot past the Blue Queen, moving too quick to attack. He shot high into the sky, rapidly leaving the range of the three Green dragons. He was moving too fast to change direction now, shooting into the sky with heedless speed and zero control.

Or so they thought.

Whirling around into an Immelmann turn, Erik and Grey Ghost U-turned almost instantly, with none of their speed lost. Gravity boosting their descent, the sole Black dragonrider moved to attack Urrax. The larger dragon dodged the bite, but it did not dodge the claws.

Jet-black dragonbone claws slashed deep gashes into the silver dragon's wing membranes, causing Urrax to start spiralling downwards in a tailspin, wailing in surprise and pain. The dragon would heal, but it was out of the fight for now.

One down, two to go.

The other two dragonriders were more careful now, sticking close to each other to prevent Erik from using one as a shield against the other. Wrong move.

The two dragons chased after Erik, and he let them, for a bit. As soon as they'd put on enough speed that chasing direction was too difficult, Erik immediately airbraked Grey Ghost. Wings snapping taut as the horned head atop the long neck reared over 90 degrees backwards, his mount shot upwards and back, letting the two chasing dragons shoot past him.

As soon as they were through, Erik returned Grey Ghost back to normal position, such that now he was the chaser instead of the chased.

"Pugachev's cobra, baby!" Erik whooped. "Really need to thank Baela for teaching me that move."

The two dragons split to avoid Grey Ghost's fire, one turning to the left, as the other banked to the right. The other dragonriders were inexperienced fliers, clearly being fresh to the skies.

They still moved like they were on land. Heads facing the sky, and feet facing the ground. Turning their mounts like they were horses instead of dragons.

Leaving themselves wide open to…

Swooping to attack Tessarion, Grey Ghost unleashed azure flames. The Blue Queen shrugged off the flames. The rider did not, charred corpse slumping over in the saddle.

Two down. One to go.

Syrax swooped in, unleashing yellow flame at Erik, but he spun Grey Ghost by 90 degrees even as he begun a turn, such that the sky was now to his left and the sea was towards his right, 'up' being the horizon. Dragonfire washing harmlessly off his mount's armoured underbelly instead of chargrilling his vulnerable and distinctly not fireproof self.

"Now that's how you properly turn!" Erik shouted, as he reoriented himself, bringing Grey Ghost's claws to bear on the unarmed topside of Syrax.

The aerial dogfight was over. Grey Ghost had Syrax at its mercy. At such close range, there was no escape for the Yellow Beast or her rider. Erik had won.

Or so he thought, for an instant before Grey Ghost's talons would have eviscerated the rider of Syrax, a streak of dragonfire nearly reduced Erik to ash. Had Grey Ghost not immediately aborted the attack, there wouldn't have been enough left of Erik to warrant a coffin.

"The fuck?" Erik demanded, only for his eyes to go wide at the sight.

A fourth dragon rose out of the clouds.

Sunflower yellow and white, smaller than Urrax, Syrax and Tessarion, but larger than Grey Ghost. The dragon's name was Daybreak, and she was the mount of Rhaena Fyre.

For one brief instant, Erik thought that it was his elder sister, come to help him reclaim the three dragons in the name of the Blacks. But as he pulled up alongside Daybreak, his stomach fell, as a great and terrible horror descended upon Erik. For though a young girl rode Daybreak, she was not Rhaena.

Sapphire eyes alight with wicked glee, blonde hair rippling in the wind, Shaera Tyrell rammed Daybreak into the side of Grey Ghost, the larger dragon easily sending Erik's mount into a tailspin.

Erik was able to regain control, but he'd lost too much speed and altitude in the descent.

Cussing, he immediately made Grey Ghost bank to the right, narrowly dodging Daybreak's claws, the larger dragon diving past the two of them so closely that the slipstream blew his cap off his head.

Whirling Grey Ghost around, Erik unleashed dragonfire at the other dragon, but Daybreak blocked the attack. Impacting the sea, Daybreak kicked its legs and wings off of the water, using the recoil to launch itself back into the air, Grey Ghost's flames being doused by the large plume of salt and spray kicked up by the other dragon.

Steam billowed out in a great cloud, Erik gasping as he rapidly shielding against the scalding spray.

The spell barely snapped into place for a second before fireballs fell from above, Shaera using Erik's magic to track him through the cloud of steam.

Grey Ghost screeched, zigzagging left and right as fireballs fell like rain.

Just as Erik though he'd escaped, Syrax swooped in from overhead, dragonfire carving a wall of fire into the sea in front of him.

Grey Ghost immediately dove into the sea, diving beneath the wall of flames before shooting back into the sky, Erik gasping and spitting out boiling water. Eyes swollen shut in pain, his clothing reduced to shreds from the sheer whiplash of impacting the water, his body cut to ribbons and salt turning those wounds a horrible stinging and burning red.

Unbidden, Grey Ghost immediately began to fly away. Blending itself into the spray and sky and vanishing like it's namesake. Putting on the speed to evade the Green dragons.

It took three hours for Erik to finally regenerate enough to retake control.

———

114 AC, Oldtown,

Shaera delicately sipped chamomile tea, deliberately keeping her expression neutral and detached, despite the dozens of blades currently being pointed at her.

"Why do you darken our doorstep, Shaera?" Otto Hightower growled from across the table. "As far as I am concerned, you are only slightly less a blight on Westeros than Rhaenyra is."

"Oh how rude." Shaera scoffed in faux scandalousness. "Is that any way to talk to a guest here to make amends?"

"What amends can you make?" Otto demanded. "After your stunt with House Tyrell—"

"Now, now. Let us not harp on the past." Lady Tyrell tittered. "Let us let bygones be bygones, and focus instead on the future."

"There can be no forgiveness."

"I expect none." Shaera languidly shrugged. "I only ask that our relationship be reset back to zero. Tabula rasa. A blank slate, with nothing bad to stain it and nothing good to polish it."

"And why should I grant such a thing? After all you have done?"

Otto Hightower leaned forwards.

"Give me one good reason why I should not have you killed right now, take your dragon, and send your head back to Highgarden in a box."

"Only one? How generous." Shaera tittered. "I have several."

Otto did not reply, but shifted his body in a way that conveyed she had his attention.

"First and foremost, I'm the reason why Aerion decided to steal the dragons on the eve of war." Shaera revealed. "I was the one whom bought his loyalty and convinced him to stab Rhaenyra in the back."

"And why should I reward you for such a deed? You did not bargain with us beforehand, and we are not the Lannisters. We shall not be paying you for this boon."

"Ah, but what happens after you've won?" Shaera riposted. "Aerion controls the lion's share of the dragons, and he won't be returning them, most certainly not to you."

Why would he? When King Aerion the Ultimate saw the Greens as an obstacle to his dream of seeing himself on the Iron Throne.

"I alone can compel his obedience, and wrest the dragon flock away from him." Shaera pressed on. "And without the dragons to compel the obedience of the lords and ladies of Westeros, Aegon's rule will end before it has even begun."

"What strings do you have on your brother? There seems to be little love lost between you and him." Otto demanded.

"He's a mad dog. And Rhaenyra has a leash on him." Shaera replied, savouring the irony. "Once Rhaenyra— and Daenys—dies, I can wrest control over this leash, and call the rest of my siblings to heel. Aerion included."

"You promise nothing concrete, for all that you've talked a great deal." Otto rebuffed. "I am no fool to take your words at face value."

"Then it is a good thing I have brought much goods to bargain with." Shaera smiled back.

She took a long sip of her tea, before speaking.

"House Tyrell will be declaring for the Greens. That ought to sway all of the neutral and moderate Reach lords onto your side. An additional fifteen to twenty thousand men, once mustered. That ought to double the size of your host. Triple, if given time to gather in sufficient numbers."

"We already number at twenty-five thousand men. And Cerelle Lannister has pledged another thirty thousand to the cause. You overestimate your importance."

"Ah, but I'm the very reason why Cerelle is in power. Ever since the ceasefire, where both you and Rhaenyra withdrew from the Westerlands, I've been quietly propping her up." Shaera smirked.

Well strictly speaking, it was House Strong whom did much of the heavy lifting, given Shaera's incarceration, but that was just splitting hairs. She was the one whom gave direction on how to advise Cerelle, allowing Lady Lannister to ruthlessly play her vassals against one another, weakening them even as her House Lannister grew ever-stronger.

"Which segues into my next reason: The Stormlands will turn Green."

"You claim the successes of others as your own. It was my daughter whom negotiated the betrothal between Aemond and Cassandra Baratheon." Otto bristled.

"With Lord Boremund, whom is currently on his deathbed. Cassandra is still a toddler, leaving her mother Elenda Caron as regent." Shaera replied, taking another sip of her tea. "And dear Elenda is a woman Rhaenyra owns body and soul. Without my intervention, once Boremund croaks, the Stormlands will turn Black."

Elenda Caron loathed her husband Borros. Infidelity, drunken abuses, violence and martial rape… the list went on and on. But she'd been ordered to wed the most eligible bachelor in the Stormlands by her father, and thus had no escape. Rhaenyra's murder of Borros was more than enough to buy Elenda's loyalty thrice over.

"And what of it? Boremund rules, as long as he lives. I've sent the best physicians from the Citadel to attend to him, using these new 'surgical' techniques demonstrated by Rhaegar and Daenys during the fire in Flea Bottom. They expect Lord Boremund to have at least a year left to live. And without her dragons, we can kill Rhaenyra within half of that."

Shaera said nothing, but pulled out a sheaf of documents and slapped it onto the table. She sipped her tea, calmly and delicately, as Otto read them, eyebrows shooting ever higher as he went further down the papers.

"Is this true?" He finally asked.

"Yes." Shaera smirked. "Rhaenyra has been really naughty, hasn't she?"

Elenda's father Royce Caron was nominally a Black, but he was also the single most anti-Dornish lord in Westeros. He despised the desert kingdom, and vehemently opposed the idea of building the Stepstones bridges, preferring to keep the Dornish weak.

In fact, he was one of the loudest voices advocating that Dorne be left to starve after the War of Four Directions, claiming that 'the only good Dornishman is a dead Dornishman'.

A voice that Rhaenyra silenced, a couple of months after the full announcement of the Stepstones bridges, robbing the anti-Dornish movement of their loudest and most powerful figure.

Rhaegar had possessed the boar that gored Royce Caron to death, and Shaera's late brother was ever meticulous and thorough. He'd left a paper trail detailing his handiwork for Mysaria. A paper trail Alys Rivers had acquired, once Shaera had given the older sorceress the layouts and back doors in the Red Keep's wards.

Otto Hightower had fallen into a silence that pretended it was contemplative, but was in truth stunned.

Despite everything, Elenda loved her father, and would not take his death lying down. And neither would much of the Stormlands. The Black faction was no single monolith, but united under its banner a whole series of different factions and viewpoints. In the wake of the ruinous War of Four Directions, there was a severe and pronounced anti-Dornish faction in the Stormlands, particularly in the Marchers, ironically Rhaenyra's most stable bloc of allies.

Even General Dondarrion was not above such xenophobic rhetoric, but the man knew that duty came before personal opinion, and would swallow his words if ordered to do so from above.

Royce Caron had been a respected and well-liked figure amongst the Stormlords, and if it publicly came out that Rhaenyra had murdered him, it would be a scandal that would split the Stormlands in twain.

"Do you have more?" Otto asked. "Evidence of Rhaenyra's wrongdoing?"

"Oh I have more. Much more." Shaera grinned. "Enough blackmail to ruin Rhaenyra's reputation in most of the remaining kingdoms. None of the rest will affect the upcoming war to any meaningful degree, but suffice to say that they'll prove instrumental in securing the Realm after Rhaenyra's deposing.

"She will not die a martyr." The Dragonseed declared. "The Blacks will gutter out as a party after her downfall. History will remember her only as a grasping usurper."

"Then I welcome you in war, Lady Tyrell."

Notes:

RIP Rhaena.

I believe I once said that Viserra was the first of many Dragonseeds to die. Well, I wasn't kidding. It's Game of Thrones, guys. Anyone can die.