Rhaenys was momentarily stunned, her face showing disappointment as she sighed, "Let's discuss this inside the tent."
She didn't believe any strategy could turn the tide of the battle.
She merely assumed the kingdom's reinforcements would be delayed a bit longer.
Rhaegar understood his aunt's thoughts, and since there were too many eyes around, he refrained from explaining further.
On the way, Rhaenys spoke about the defeat.
Tyland and his forces were surrounded by the pirate fleet of the Three Daughters, suffering heavy casualties.
The Sea Snake led reinforcements but was instead dragged into the chaos.
The enemy had set up hundreds of scorpion ballistae on both their ships and the shore, limiting Meraxes and Sea Smoke's ability to unleash their full strength.
During the battle, the Sea Snake was surrounded and severely wounded.
He now lay unconscious in his tent, burning with fever.
Upon entering the makeshift war council tent, all the regional commanders were already gathered inside.
Among them were Vaemond, his arm in a sling, and Ser Criston, now clad in ordinary armor.
Ser Laenor and Prince Aegon were absent.
The two were patrolling on dragonback to guard against a potential ambush from the Three Daughters.
As soon as the commanding presence of Rhaegar stepped into the tent, the gathered commanders all rose to their feet, their eyes fixed on him.
With the Sea Snake gravely injured and Tyland captured, the army's morale had long since crumbled. They desperately needed a leader of sufficient stature to take command.
"Prince… Your Grace…"
The commanders greeted him, their expressions varied.
"Given the urgency of our situation, there's no need for formalities," Rhaegar said.
These were all familiar faces, and he had no patience for meaningless courtesies. His gaze swept across the gathered men.
Thud—
Criston walked briskly forward, then suddenly dropped to his knees.
Under Rhaegar's icy stare, he spoke in despair, "Your Grace, my sins are beyond forgiveness. I am no longer worthy of wearing the white cloak."
"At least you understand that."
Rhaegar's voice was cold. "My father entrusted you with the command of the royal forces. You were a soldier, a commander of the Kingsguard, yet you knowingly broke the law, leading to the deaths of thousands of soldiers."
"I will surrender myself upon returning to King's Landing. I will confess my crimes and accept my punishment."
Criston's voice was hoarse as he lowered his head in defeat.
His crime was not just a mistake.
He had also dishonored the white cloak he once wore with pride.
He had lost the honor and dignity of a Kingsguard.
"See to it that you do."
Rhaegar walked past him, heading toward the war table.
Rhaenys followed her nephew's stride, casting a cold, disdainful glance at Criston.
A Kingsguard who could not uphold his vows was indeed unworthy of the silver-white armor.
Stopping at the table, Rhaegar did not take a seat but instead spoke directly, "Lords, in this war for the Stepstones, we have fallen into a disadvantageous position. We must rally our forces."
"What do you propose, Prince?"
A solemn middle-aged man spoke up. His breastplate bore the sigil of House Redwyne— a deep purple grape cluster on a blue field.
House Redwyne commanded the most powerful fleet in the Reach.
Throughout Westeros, only House Velaryon and House Celtigar could rival their naval strength.
Rhaegar held this man in high regard. "Given the current situation, I have devised a strategy, and I will personally oversee its execution."
"What strategy?"
Ser Spike Redwyne asked, curiosity in his tone.
"It is not yet time to reveal the details."
Rhaegar evaded the question, explaining, "Its success depends on patience and allowing events to unfold naturally."
"Then what would you have us do? We can't just sit around and wait."
Spike frowned, pressing for answers.
Rhaegar paused for a moment before saying, "I need bait."
At his words, the gathered men exchanged glances.
Finally, Lord Bartimos Celtigar spoke. "Your Grace, what kind of bait?"
House Celtigar was one of House Targaryen's oldest allies, second only to House Velaryon in loyalty.
From the very start of the Stepstones War, Bartimos had brought his forces to aid them.
"If it is bait," Rhaegar said, "then it must be something expendable."
"Uh…"
Bartimos hesitated, reluctant to respond.
At this stage of the war, every house had already suffered significant losses.
Whoever played the role of bait would likely see their entire fleet decimated.
Kneeling on the ground, Criston suddenly raised his head and shouted, "I'll do it! I'll be the bait!"
Rhaegar turned to look at him, saying nothing.
"Let me go, Your Grace."
Criston trembled, his voice filled with desperation. "I do not wish to be hanged or sent to the Wall. Let me atone for my sins and die on the battlefield in service to the realm!"
He still clung to the honor of the Kingsguard.
He did not want to die in disgrace—only death in battle could befit a knight's end.
Rhaegar studied him in silence, his mind weighing the decision.
Bartimos' green eyes gleamed as he leaned close to Rhaegar's ear and whispered, "Your Grace, why not give Ser Criston this chance?"
Having a man willing to die as bait was preferable to selecting someone else from among them.
Rhaegar cast Bartimos a glance, then let out a cold laugh. "Fine. The task is yours, Criston."
With that, the meeting was nearly concluded.
Rhaegar spoke no further and instead listened to the gathered lords' assessments of the war.
This battle for the Stepstones had been nothing short of a brutal struggle, leaving all their nerves frayed.
…
Meanwhile, in King's Landing, within the Red Keep…
Inside the grand hall of the throne room, the ministers of the Privy Council were all present.
Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, wearing a golden crown.
"Ser Sethel Dayne of Starfall, envoy of the Prince of Dorne."
The great doors swung open as a Kingsguard knight announced the visitor's identity.
A tall young man with black hair and tanned skin, clad in a yellow robe, entered the hall.
He was the envoy from Dorne.
Originally, Rhaegar was supposed to receive him, but now Viserys had decided to handle the matter personally.
Standing at Viserys's side, Lyonel spoke in a deep, commanding voice: "You stand before His Majesty, King Viserys I of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
This was the formal preamble reserved for the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Sethel Dayne was momentarily startled by the grandiose titles, his solemn expression wavering slightly.
Stepping into the center of the hall, he looked toward Viserys and bowed. "Prince Qoren Martell sends his sincere greetings to Your Majesty, King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Insolence! Before the King, you should kneel and pay proper homage!"
Lyonel's face darkened, his voice thunderous with reprimand.
Sethel narrowed his eyes slightly, his posture stiffening. "Dornishmen do not kneel."
"Outrageous!"
Lyonel bellowed, ready to press the matter further.
Viserys, however, raised a hand to calm him, then addressed the envoy. "Envoy of Dorne, what is the purpose of your visit?"
Lyonel shot Sethel a glance but held his tongue.
His intent had been to impose authority, to humble the Dornish envoy.
He also harbored deep-seated resentment.
For a hundred years, the Targaryen dynasty and Dorne had clashed in wars that shook Westeros.
Many noble lords had perished at the hands of the Dornish.
This was especially true for the noble houses of the Reach and the Stormlands.
As the Hand of the King, Lyonel naturally bore no goodwill toward the Dornish.
Hearing Viserys's question, Sethel composed himself and spoke solemnly: "Prince Qoren is weary of war. He wishes to seek peace through diplomacy."
"Oh? And now Qoren understands the value of peace, after repeatedly supporting the Three Daughters in their invasions of the Stepstones?"
Viserys's expression darkened as he demanded an answer.
In the last war over the Stepstones, Qoren had led forces to resist Daemon and Corlys's alliance.
Though he did not personally take the field this time, Dornish soldiers had once again appeared on the battlefield.
Now, in the midst of the war, Qoren suddenly sought peace.
It seemed as if he held the Targaryen dynasty in little regard.
Perhaps he had ulterior motives.
Sethel replied, "Your Majesty, war only brings suffering to both sides. Prince Qoren is sincere in his intentions; otherwise, I would not have risked coming here."
At present, relations between the Targaryen dynasty and Dorne were strained to the breaking point.
Any Dornishman entering the Crownlands risked hostility from the local populace, possibly even violence.
News of this envoy's arrival had been deliberately kept quiet.
Otherwise, numerous vassals would have already called for his execution.
Upon hearing Sethel's words, Viserys pressed further. "The Iron Throne has always sought peace. Has Qoren decided to withdraw his forces?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Prince Qoren is inclined to do so."
Sethel confirmed this without hesitation before continuing, "However, Your Majesty, in order to ensure lasting peace, the Prince has one request."
"Peace was proposed by Dorne. What right do you have to make demands of His Majesty, seated upon the Iron Throne?"
Lyonel stepped forward in opposition, his words sharp.
To him, Dorne's plea for peace was nothing but deception.
If His Majesty agreed too easily, the Dornish would undoubtedly take advantage of the situation and propose unreasonable terms.
And indeed, Lyonel knew Viserys well.
After a brief exchange between Lyonel and Sethel, Viserys cut in, his patience waning. "What does Qoren want?"
To Viserys, given the unfavorable state of the war, securing peace under reasonable terms was not out of the question.
Sethel cast a triumphant glance at Lyonel before speaking. "Prince Qoren has been widowed for many years and wishes to wed a Targaryen princess, thus sealing a marriage alliance between our realms."
"Absolutely not!"
The words had barely left Sethel's mouth before a voice rang out in fierce opposition.
Viserys turned his head and saw Rhaenyra, her expression icy.
The hall was not occupied solely by the King's Council.
Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Jeyne were also present.
Each of them held high status—the Princess of Dragonstone, the Queen, and the Lady of the Eyrie.
They were fully entitled to attend the reception of the Dornish envoy.
Alicent, too, looked displeased, absentmindedly picking at her fingers.
Sethel, unfazed by the reprimand, studied Rhaenyra and then bowed. "Might I assume this silver-haired lady is the Princess?"
"Yes."
Dressed in elegant black robes, Rhaenyra spoke with pride. "I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, eldest daughter of King Viserys I, Princess of Dragonstone. I represent the Crown in rejecting Dorne's marriage proposal."
Sethel furrowed his brow slightly before turning to Viserys. "Your Majesty, can your daughter make decisions on behalf of the Crown?"
Viserys did not answer immediately but instead met Rhaenyra's determined gaze.
He had promised her that he would not interfere in her marriage.
After a brief hesitation, he carefully chose his words. "She is my daughter, and I respect her wishes. She will not be forced into any marriage alliance."
No matter what, he would not use Rhaenyra as a bargaining chip.
He remembered his promise to her.
And he also understood his eldest son's feelings.
If he were to marry Rhaenyra off, Rhaegar would be furious upon his return to King's Landing.
Sethel pondered Viserys's words, sensing the underlying message.
Cautiously, he asked, "Your Majesty, if I recall correctly, you have two daughters?"
"Viserys!"
This time, it was Alicent's turn to get emotional, exclaiming in surprise.
Another daughter—it was, of course, her daughter.
"Calm yourself, Alicent!"
Seeing his wife's anxious expression, Viserys reassured her with his usual good-natured patience.
(End of chapter)