Rhaenyra Targaryen

On the one hand, she and Laenor would be visiting their eldest son's 'hidden forge' which likely was just a stretch of forgotten tunnels that he renovated. Oh, as she snorted, it was likely in no way so mundane. If her son had a locale he called his hidden forge, it was like as not as absurd and fantastic as anything else he does. There were some points of pride, to have a child that has strode forth from the age of heroes, and yet there was akso a mildly uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he should try for somewhat tamer adventures.

She scrunched her nose. Was this feeling responsibility? She did not like it. She wanted to be wild and free and truth be told? She was jealous of Mavon and what he got up to. She had never done anything like them, and that was a shame. But, as her husband, along with her lover and sworn shield Harwin Strong, and her followed her son along the twisted paths of Dragonstone's tunnels. Or rather, as things shifted ever so slightly, she was not sure they were on Dragonstone any more. "Mavon, my too clever for his own good child, you do remember that my father wanted you to stay on Dragonstone and out of mischief for the next two or three years, correct?"

Now, her elder loves paused, even as her son nodded. "We are still technically in the region considered part of Dragonstone mother."

She narrowed her eyes. "Technically you say. I seem to notice, dear child of mine, that you like to use that word when trying to get away with things. And while you may be a man mostly..." She paused, as there was a fish outside of the tunnel, one that was glowing. Oh, and they could see through part of the tunnel, as if it was the clearest glass. "Mavon. Where, exactly, are we in relation to the castle."

It was not a question as all the eyes were on him, and as he seemed to be somewhat... embarrassed at the fact that she was slowly tapping her foot on the ground as she waited for an answer. "Not very far? Only five miles south and three east? I needed to draw on the same volcanic system as home, even if I did want to build at enough depth to not be noticed, as well as for security."

Now, that prompted a question from dear Laenor. "And how deep was deep enough for that exactly." Mostly because she was trying to drill a hole into her son's thick skull with her eyes. Not to mention the red glow outside and the pleasant warmth seeping into the tunnel. "Because as your Jormungandr suggests, well, there may be risks down here as well if we cannot see the light from the noon day sun."

Oh yes, a most excellent point, even as Mavon turned, an eyebrow raised. "Only about four thousand feet down. I'm not crazy enough to go into the abyssal depths, or worse the trenches." On the one hand, joy, there were things that he was willing NOT to fight. On the other hand...

"We are half a mile beneath the surface of the sea. How exactly are you doing any smith work down here?"

His only response was to gesture, and indeed, as they stood on a platform, there was a sprawling complex, but most importantly? It was lit with the glow of lava, constant eruptions of ash and steam driving massive wheels and machinery. It was a vision of the seven hells, as primal elemental forces swirled and rippled, arcs of lightning dashing between towers, gouts of molten rock arching between nets placed between arches. Vast hammers of water pressure pounded away, doing something, as the platform started to shift and move, as they descended, carried into a realm of arcane industry.

Dalton Greyjoy

Now, as he sat on the seastone chair, his closest lords around him, there was only one thing that the Red Kraken was able to say, as he looked straight ahead. "Well. That fucking happened."

His men, reaving shits all nodded slowly. None of the Drowned Men or the Storm Touched were in the hall though, as really, he didn't need the headaches. Really, it had been one of THOSE months, the sort that spawned headaches and frustration like nothing else. True, they had a haul of so much wealth that if they were honest souls, they would admit to not being entirely sure what to do with it all. Even with the mad magical bastard forcing them to give up a tenth of the plunder to the king... frankly, they had too much treasure.

The thing a lot of the idiots tend to forget is that you couldn't eat gold or silver or any of the fancy and valuable trade goods. Sure, some of the spices would make existing food taste better, or different at least, but you actually needed some food to use them with, or you could starve even when stuffing whole bags of them down your gullet. But there was a problem. By now, everyone knew that they had returned to the home isles with the goods instead of selling them off for things that were actually useful. And that meant that eyes would be drawn towards them and the usual ports would be fucking them to move all the crap.

Reaving, as it turned out, was just a touch more involved than sailing somewhere, gutting some soft greenlander men and carrying off some pretty cunts for salt-wives. And some of the boys for thralls. And now, it was if they were cursed with riches, as he rubbed his temples. "So. We are all in agreement. If the Greenlands start fighting each other after their dragon king dies, we stay out of it. That or we sign up with the Blacks."

Now, Blacktyde scowled. "He is the fucking Storm God made flesh, we should be trying to!"

Now, there was one clear thing there. "So, you want to get all nice and close up with someone who fights dragons with their bare hands? Who can rip open holes in the oceans of the living and into the realms of the dead? I won't stop you if you want to." Eyes were widening. "But here is the thing. I like a good hard fight as much or more than the next man. If I thought I could kill him? I'd drive Nightfall into his heart. Thing is though, I don't much fancy my chances in a fight, nor that of my fleet."

He waved a hand. "Why, we even have of-fucking-ical permission from the dragon lords, to raid and harass Dornish ships." He narrowed his eyes. "Let that sink in for a moment. Fucker on his sword throne doesn't know the first thing about our gods, but since we can all agree that his grandson is the Storm God walking?" Nods of agreement, as well as thoughtful muttering. "Well then, we obviously hold him in high respect and reverence as one of our gods, and so he may as well make use of that."

Now, the contempt in his tone may be a little thick, heads and beards shaking, some spitting on his floor. "Still, lets not correct him till we can get all we can out of this. Idiot is willing to pay well, lets see if we can wring some of the Westlands other sheep out of him!"

Otto Hightower

Not for the first time, he cursed Mavon Velaryon, that absurd and monstrous child that trampled on so many of his plans and introduced doubt and chaos. Before, all he had to worry about was that monstrous strength and martial skill that placed him beyond any other in the realm at the tender age of ten. And now, he openly used sorcery to unleash a sudden storm of Iron Born in distant harbours, even as he revealed the monstrous sea dragon he was bonded to. It was a storm of polarizing absurdities that should have destroyed much of the Blacks Credibility.

It was not. No, Rhaenyra's only trueborn child (comparting him to his half siblings only made the differences stand out more) had instead somehow managed to draw even more support for all that he was to be confined to Dragonstone for the next two years. Why wouldn't he, when it was revealed that he could empower others with some small fragment of the unnatural might he possessed, and if he was willing to grant these curses to the ironborn of all people, then surely, some of the fools spoke, he would be more than willing to grant them to allies, to those willing to support his mother.

And the worst thing about trying to discreetly solve the issue? He had been seen drinking the Tears of Lys by the keg because he said it had a lovely flavor. And he was soon seen mixing in other poisons, because of course he could drink some of the most potent poisons known to him like others could drink ale! Now he had to try and remove, somehow, someone that wrestled dragons for fun and drank poison for the flavor so that Ageon could take the throne.

Deep breathes. Perhaps it would be time to see how much the Faceless Men would charge for this, as they were always said to dislike sorcerers.