Bonus - 100 Stones
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Driftmark, The Training Yard.
The yard lay on the western side of High Tide, its back to the cliffs, the ceaseless crash of waves echoing below.
Laenor Velaryon wore a plain leather jerkin, his silver hair tied back in a tail.
A blunted practice longsword in his hand turned aside the increasingly frantic cuts of his second son, Lucerys.
He looked more like a man fulfilling an unwelco duty than a ntor eager to teach.
"Steady your wrist," Laenor said, knocking Lucerys's blade aside with casual ease.
"In training, don't let your mind wander, boy."
Lucerys Velaryon clenched his teeth. He was thinner than he had been half a moon ago, throwing every ounce of strength into each swing.
Since that night, he had changed, silent, almost self-lacerating in practice.
"Yes."
The word scraped through his teeth as he attacked again, wilder than before.
Off to the side, Jacaerys Velaryon sat quietly on a cushioned chair.
Though the sea wind off Driftmark was sharp, his face was paler than the drifting mist.
A snow-white bandage glared where his left eye had been; his remaining right eye tracked his brother's every move, his fingers knotting the blanket across his lap.
He should have been out there, the eldest son, the example to his brothers, leading them in the drills that shaped knights and future lords.
Not sitting here. Crippled by pain. Useless. Watching his brother flail in guilt-driven fury.
The loss of an eye was a grief he could hardly bear.
He knew Lucerys had not ant it. The stupid, impulsive boy had been baited by Aemond.
Yet understanding brought no comfort when night fell, and the ache of the missing eye sent him twisting across his sheets, the milk of the poppy barely dulling the tornt.
In the dark, cold resentnt still seeped through.
It was Aemond; everything began with Aemond.
And Lucerys had drawn that cursed dagger…
Jacaerys closed his right eye, breathed, and fought to steady the surge inside. He could not bla Little Luke, at least not openly.
They were brothers; they had to stand together against the Greens. All his hate needed a clearer, more deserving target.
"Enough, Lucerys." Laenor once more caught the ragged assault, frowning.
"Rest. You're burning your strength; you'll be spent in minutes."
Lucerys's chest heaved; sweat streaked his face. Ignoring the command, he snarled and lunged again.
Laenor's eyes held weary patience. He sidestepped, flicked his practice blade, and tapped Lucerys's wrist with exacting precision.
Crack!
The wooden sword spun away. Lucerys stumbled back, cradling his wrist. He stood gasping, glaring at the ground, shoulders trembling.
Little Joffrey hugged his own small practice sword and watched from the edge, glancing nervously between his brothers.
Laenor sighed. He retrieved the fallen blade and offered it hilt-first.
"Anger is a mount, ride it, don't let it ride you."
Lucerys took the sword without eting the eyes of the man who was father in na only, nor those of his brother. He trudged toward the water barrel.
A short distance away, two figures watched in silence.
Rhaenyra Targaryen wore deep-black riding leathers, her posture proud.
A subtle swell at her middle was deftly hidden by the cut of her coat.
Daemon stood beside her, his voice low.
"It has to be soon."
"Our child cannot co into the world a bastard."
Rhaenyra turned her face to him. "I want it too, Daemon. But Laenor, "
She hesitated. "He is my husband, the father my sons bear in na. Driftmark needs that na, and Lord Corlys and Aunt Rhaenys need it."
"Na?" Daemon scoffed, biting.
"A husband who prefers n? A man who cannot even climb into his own wife's bed? Rhaenyra, when did House Targaryen ever need such hollow masks to rule? Power, dragons, blood, those are the roots!"
His gaze burned on her belly.
"That child carries the purest Targaryen blood. He should enter the world with every right, not cloaked in House Velaryon."
Rhaenyra was silent for a mont, the sea wind tugging at her silver hair.
"Corlys will not agree," she said slowly.
"We must keep the marriage in sight. At least in sight. And the Faith… the lords…"
"To hell with the Faith and the lords!" Daemon snapped, rare impatience flaring. His fingers tightened on her arm.
"We can find a way for Laenor to step aside willingly. He cares nothing for this, Rhaenyra. What he wants are his captains, his wine, his friends. We give him freedom, he gives us legitimacy, fair trade."
Rhaenyra did not pull away; she t his gaze, her violet eyes depthless.
"And then? Would you place our child above Jace? Above Lucerys?"
Daemon's face tightened. "I have loved your sons as my own. Rhaenyra, do you doubt ?"
She closed her fingers over his.
"I don't. Listen, perhaps we need not choose one or the other."
Her eyes slid to Laenor, then returned to Daemon. She spoke words that made his pupils contract.
"Perhaps we can find a path where the three of us… Make life work. Nothing else matters. You, , Laenor. The child may be Targaryen or Velaryon in na, so long as we three are of one mind. Laenor will not object; he has never cared for such things. And Corlys and Rhaenys will not protest, they know their son is no sire of children."
Daemon froze. He stared as if she'd spun a jest too absurd to bear.
"Three?"
"Make life work?" he echoed, incredulous.
"Rhaenyra, do you hear yourself? My blood, my heir, growing under another man's banner beneath my own roof?"
He wrenched free, stepping back. The habitual mockery on his face was replaced by a thunderous scowl.
"I am Daemon Targaryen, King of the Narrow Sea! I can steal a throne and cut down anyone who gainsays . I would stand against the world for you, but ask to live in a cozy triad with you and your ta husband?"
A short, sharp laugh escaped him.
"That would be the gravest insult yet, Rhaenyra. I'd sooner feed my unborn child to a dragon than swallow such… farce!"
The vehence stung her.
"What would you have do, drive Laenor to his death this instant? Turn Driftmark against us? Let the Seven Kingdoms na Rhaenyra not only the mother of bastards but husband-slayer as well? We would lose more than we gain!"
"I have a way," Daemon growled, leaning close. His eyes were dark with intent.
"Bear the child. Leave the rest to ."
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