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The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a fiery glow over the sprawling city of Pentos. The assembled Pentoshi nobles stand in a mixture of awe and fear as Daemon and Laena take their places at the edge of the grand plaza. The air is thick with anticipation, every breath heavy with the promise of what is to come.

Daemon's eyes glint with fierce pride as he mounts Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. The dragon's crimson scales shimmer in the dying light, his serpentine body coiling with latent ferocity. Caraxes' roar splits the air, a sound so powerful it reverberates through the stone walls of the city, sending shivers down the spines of those gathered.

Laena, her great mane of silver ringlets that falling downpast her waist hair flowing like molten moonlight, approaches Vhagar with a grace that belies the dragon's immense size. Vhagar, ancient and formidable, towers over the plaza, her scales a deep bronze that seems to drink in the sunlight. The air around her crackles with palpable tension, a testament to her might. Laena's eyes meet Daemon's for a brief moment, a silent exchange of confidence and understanding passing between them.

As both dragons take to the sky, the crowd gasps, their collective breath stolen by the sheer majesty of the sight. Caraxes moves with sinuous elegance, his movements a deadly dance in the heavens. Vhagar's flight is a study in power, each beat of her massive wings creating gusts of wind that threaten to topple the onlookers.

Daemon and Laena direct their dragons in a breathtaking display of aerial prowess. Caraxes weaves intricate patterns through the sky, his flames scorching the air in brilliant arcs of red. Vhagar responds with her own torrents of fire, the flames cutting through the twilight with an intensity that leaves afterimages in the eyes of the stunned spectators.

The Pentoshi nobles, normally composed and self-assured, are now visibly trembling. The raw power on display is unlike anything they have ever witnessed, a stark reminder of the dragons' dominance. Murmurs of fear and awe ripple through the crowd, the realization of their vulnerability dawning upon them.

Daemon and Laena, high above, feel the shift in the crowd's demeanor. There is a thrill in demonstrating such power, a heady mix of exhilaration and control. Daemon's grin is wolfish as he guides Caraxes in a final, sweeping dive, landing with a ground-shaking impact. Laena follows suit, Vhagar's landing marked by a resounding thud that echoes through the plaza.

As the dust settles, the dragons stand as imposing sentinels behind their riders. Daemon dismounts with a flourish, his eyes blazing with triumphant light. Laena follows, her expression serene but her eyes reflecting fierce pride. The Pentoshi audience, now utterly cowed, can do nothing but bow their heads in deference to the dragonlords before them.

In the evening, Daervon walks into the grand hall with his youngest sister, Rhaena, her arm looping with his. They are to dine with Reggio Haratis, the Prince of Pentos.

"I don't know why I always have to be the peacemaker," Rhaena teases, a playful glint in her eyes. "Maybe you and Baela should try not picking fights for once."

Daervon chuckles, "But where's the fun in that? Besides, you bring such a calming presence, little sister."

As the two siblings join the dining room, they greet their parents and the royal Pentoshi family.

"How are you doing, sister?" Daervon asks with a hint of sarcasm.

Baela huffs, clearly still upset from their earlier altercation. "I'm doing well, brother. Thank you for asking," she says with a forced politeness.

Daervon's eyes narrow. "Oh, wait. I just realized I don't care."

Baela glares at him. "Now you're being rude."

Daervon smirks. "You being happy really isn't a big priority of mine, since you stomped on the flowers I sent you."

"Because they were hideous!" Baela snaps.

"They weren't hideous! You were just being mean because it was me who sent them!" Daervon retorts.

"I stomped on them because you weren't the one who delivered them to me. If you wish for forgiveness, you must do it yourself," Baela counters, her voice softening slightly.

Daervon sighs, his bravado faltering. "Alright, Baela. I apologize. I should have delivered them myself. I just wanted to make amends."

Baela's expression softens. "I accept your apology, brother. Just try harder next time."

As the meals are served, the two royal families begin to feast. Laughter and giggles echo through the table with small talk here and there.

"The lamb hearts are excellent," Prince Reggio comments once the main courses are over. The servants are taking away the empty dishes and serving the dessert.

"We are fortunate in our cook, Your Excellence. There's a plum-cake yet to be served, which will have us fighting over the crumbs," Laena says with a smile.

"Then before we come to blows... a toast to Aegon the Conqueror, your exalted forebear, who joined our cause against Volantis in the Century of Blood. On the great dragon Balerion, he flew to our aid in Lys and burned a fleet of enemy ships, thus turning the tide," Prince Reggio toasts, holding his wine goblet up.

Daemon stands, raising his goblet. "Aegon the Conqueror."

"To Aegon," all the nobles echo, raising their glasses. They all drink in honor of the former legend of the Targaryen dynasty.

"This brings me to some business. A proposal I wish to make in the spirit of honoring our storied alliance," Prince Reggio begins.

"If your aim is to marry one of our daughters, Your Excellence, you might have said so and spared us the history lesson," Lady Laena interjects with a smirk.

"What?" Baela exclaims in disapproval and shock.

"I would not count myself so deserving, my lady Laena," Prince Reggio chuckles, much to Baela's relief.

All around the table chuckle at the exchange.

"I wish to offer you a permanent residence here in Pentos. This manse I would gift to you outright, along with its farms and lands, the vineyard and the wood. The tenants would pay their tributes annually to their new Targaryen lord. You would have your freedom of the city and the harbor, as befits your royal station," Prince Reggio explains.

"Continue," Daemon prompts, intrigued.

"Lys and its allies rise again. The Triarchy has made common cause with Qoren Martell of Dorne. At any moment, they may turn their sights north. Your family has dragons. Four now, mayhaps five in the future." Prince Reggio glances at Laena, who gently and affectionately strokes her pregnant stomach. "My aim is to protect Pentos from the lustful eye of the Triarchy. Aid Pentos in this, as Aegon once did... and my gratitude will fill your cup and overflow it."

"Your Excellence, we are travelers. We've already extended our visit here," Laena begins to refuse, but Daemon grabs her hand.

"It's a most generous offer. And one we will certainly entertain," Daemon informs the Prince of Pentos, his gaze firm. Lady Laena slowly takes her hand off with a look of disapproval but says nothing further.

After tucking Rhaena into bed, Laena quietly makes her way to Deavon's bedchambers. She finds the boy still awake, his eyes wide and restless. Gently, she tucks him in, pulling the sheets snugly around him. Leaning down, she places a tender kiss on his forehead. She notices the dark circles under her son's eyes, her voice filled with concern. "Oh, you do not look well."

"I am fine, Mother," Deavon replies, trying to hide his tiredness behind a smile. He hates to bring any concerns to his mother in her condition. But Laena sees right through her son's lie.

"You know, you have always been one of my most sensitive children. Always aware of what others need. Always trying to be helpful or offering a jest to lighten the mood. You so rarely put yourself first," Laena says, stroking the boy's hair with a gentle hand. "I am proud of your sensitivity. But living to please others? I imagine it can be wearying at times. Painful, perhaps. So, I do not blame you for putting on armor lately. But you must be careful that the armor does not rust and set so that you might never be able to take it off."

"It's just the recurring dream that haunts me at night, Mother. Nothing much to worry about," Deavon admits, his voice trembling slightly.

Laena sighs, giving up the argument for now. She starts singing a High Valyrian lullaby softly, her voice a soothing balm as she gently strokes his hair, lulling her son into a peaceful sleep.