The next day.
King's Landing, the Red Keep.
Caw, caw, caw...
A dense flock of ravens took flight, black wings cutting through the pale morning sky. One by one, they soared from the Red Keep, carrying messages to every castle across the vast land of Westeros.
In the distance, dragons began to stir. Emerging from their Dragonpits, they took to the air, their powerful wings casting shadows over Blackwater Bay as they set off on their journeys.
At the Mud Gate, the bustling docks had fallen eerily silent. The usual flow of goods and trade came to a halt, and the sailors of the royal fleet, their faces grim, loaded cargo onto ships bound for The Gullet. The air was thick with the tension of what had been lost.
The death of a young Prince had shaken the realm to its core.
Not since 101 AC, when the valiant Baelon Targaryen succumbed to his sudden illness, had an heir fallen. But this—this was more than the loss of an heir. A precious dragon rider was gone.
...
Red Keep.
Alicent, her face etched with sorrow, gently supported her husband as they approached the door to his daughter's chambers.
Knock, knock.
"Rhaenyra," Viserys called out, his breath labored, "my child, are you all right?"
Rhaenyra had returned the night before and had locked herself inside ever since, refusing to eat, drink, or even bathe.
Viserys understood the weight of such loss—he had buried too many of his own children before they were old enough to understand the world.
"I'm fine, Father," came the reply.
Rhaenyra's voice was unsettlingly calm. Inside, she still wore yesterday's clothes, stained and disheveled, her appearance as bleak as her tone.
Viserys felt his heart sink. "Aemon... he was just a boy. But this storm will pass."
He had been a good child, perhaps the dearest of all his grandchildren. Aemon loved nothing more than listening to the Old King's stories, recited over and over, and poring through history books at his side. By the Seven, Viserys thought bitterly, he shouldn't have had to suffer like this.
Rhaenyra glanced briefly at her father, then turned back to the fireplace, quietly polishing her sword—The Realm's Delight. The rhythmic sound of steel on cloth filled the air.
No one could feel the weight of it more than her. Aemon had been the one she sent out. A decision she had made. The child she had loved and lost.
"Rhaegar has already set out," Viserys said softly, limping forward, his hand outstretched to take hers.
"I know." Rhaenyra sidestepped, avoiding his touch. With a fluid motion, she slid the sword back into its sheath and murmured, "It will be all right."
Viserys' hand froze mid-air, the pity in his eyes unmistakable. She wasn't all right. She was anything but.
"Rhaenyra, you should eat something. And bathe," Alicent spoke up, her voice colder than intended, but she could not suppress the words. She had watched this scene unfold, and though her heart ached, her own children were alive and safe. She hadn't suffered the same devastation.
"Yes, you're right," Rhaenyra replied, biting her lip as if holding something back. She turned abruptly toward the door. "I still have children. I need to check on Visenya and Aegor."
She couldn't stay a moment longer—if she did, the tears would come.
Bang!
The door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating like a blow to Viserys' heart.
Viserys stood motionless, distraught, his hand still outstretched as if trying to reach her. Alicent stepped closer, watching him with a mix of emotions, gently resting her hand on his arm, trying to steady his uneven breathing.
...
Driftmark, Hull.
Boom.
A massive jet-black dragon soared over the island, followed closely by a large green one and a pale blue. Below, the harbor was filled with ships bearing the blue seahorse banners, their decks packed tightly together.
Corlys Velaryon strolled through the bustling port, his eyes scanning the fleet. His heart felt heavy.
"Corlys, come!" Rhaenys called out.
Dressed in black dragonrider's leathers, she strode toward him, pulling off her gloves as she approached a wooden shelf. Corlys turned, surprised by her presence.
"You should be in King's Landing, keeping the Queen company," he remarked.
"I went," Rhaenys said, a hint of emotion in her voice as she leaned against the shelf. "But not every woman needs comforting. The cruelty of fate is plain for all to see."
"Then it is especially cruel to you and me," Corlys sighed, his weariness seeping into his words. He, too, felt the sting of loss deeply. His son and daughter were long gone, neither taken by natural causes, and he, now an old man with white hair, was left to mourn them both.
"But you and I have done nothing wrong," Rhaenys's eyes flashed with anger. "Last night, there was a fire at Storm's End. Lady Elenda, along with Maris, Floris, and hundreds of others... none survived."
Her voice trembled as she spoke of her mother's ancestral home, now reduced to ash. Storm's End, a place that once held so many memories, was gone—consumed by flames.
Corlys frowned but said nothing. Aemon's treatment at Storm's End would enrage anyone, and though Lady Maris had deserved punishment for her actions, the destruction of Storm's End seemed too far-reaching.
"That's too much," he muttered, then asked, "Are there any direct heirs left in House Baratheon?"
He recalled there was a daughter married into another house—the third of the four Storms.
"Do you think anyone burning with that kind of rage would leave behind an heir?" Rhaenys said bitterly, her voice tight with anger. "The King has decreed that House Baratheon will be stripped of its titles, and that a Prince's Palace will be built on the ruins of Storm's End, in memory of his son."
"He means to replace the Lords of the Realm?" Corlys's face turned pale. The very idea chilled him.
The power structure of Westeros had remained unchanged for centuries, not since the Conqueror unified the Six Kingdoms. Even then, Aegon the Conqueror had retained the feudal lords, only replacing kings with lords. The thought of directly abolishing a noble house, incorporating its lands into the Crownlands—it would be a seismic shift.
Loyalty to a lord was one thing; loyalty to a king, another entirely. The erasure of House Baratheon and the construction of a palace on Storm's End's ruins would send shockwaves through the noble houses of Westeros.
Rhaenys's voice was filled with sadness. "Dalton Greyjoy was foolish enough to pull the trigger, becoming the unfortunate example."
Everyone knew Lady Maris's arrogance had led to this, yet none dared speak of it openly.
"Power is like the sea," Corlys said, his tone somber. "Its waves are ever-changing. We should stay clear of this. It's better to prepare for the next war."
"Yes... another war," Rhaenys echoed, shaking her head with a hollow laugh. There was no humor in it. Her son had died on the battlefield at Rainwood, and her daughter had perished on the battlefield of childbirth. It seemed as though their entire lives had been spent waging wars of one kind or another.
"Come on, Rhaenys," Corlys said softly, his worry clear as he reached out to stroke her face. "Our children are gone, but we still have to keep going."
"You're right," Rhaenys sighed, leaning into his touch. For a moment, they stood there, finding solace in each other's presence—the only comfort they had left as an old, battle-worn couple.
...
Narrow Sea, Tarth Island.
A lush, vibrant island nestled near Shipbreaker Bay, just across the sea from Storm's End. Known as the Sapphire Isle, its coastline shimmered with azure waters, giving the place a serene, almost dreamlike quality.
In the early morning, the pier was already bustling with life. Fishermen and fishmongers were hard at work, selling their fresh catch to eager buyers. The air was filled with the sounds of voices bartering, the scent of salt and sea heavy in the breeze.
"Bastard, give me a big fish!" a tall man called out mockingly as he approached one of the stalls, his voice dripping with humor.
Laughter rippled through the nearby crowd as they watched, but the fishmonger remained unfazed.
"Coming, just a moment," he replied, his tone kind and steady. He took the jibe in stride, as if used to such remarks.
With practiced hands, the fishmonger quickly gutted a large fish, scales glistening in the morning light. His knife flashed as he cleaned the fish with skill and precision, then wiped the blade on his apron. Tying the fish by the mouth with string, he handed it to the tall man.
"Six copper stars, please," he said with a chuckle, running his hand over the silver stubble on his chin.
The tall man, momentarily fascinated by the fishmonger's swift knife work, couldn't help but exclaim, "Your knife is fast—doesn't suit a bastard."
With a grin, he dropped a handful of copper stars onto the cutting board and hurried away with his prize, the crowd dispersing as the morning routine continued.
The fishmonger, his silver-blond hair and dark skin setting him apart, returned to his work. Despite his striking appearance, no one knew the truth of his parentage—he bore the name Storm, the surname given to bastards of the Stormlands, and no one ever questioned it.
Nearby, a conversation caught his ear.
"Did you hear? A Prince riding a dragon died!" one man said, his voice low but urgent.
"Is that true?" another asked, clearly skeptical.
"Of course it's true. They even pulled the dragon's wing from the sea."
The fishmonger paused, his hands slowing as he leaned in to eavesdrop. The quayside was calm, but the idle chatter had taken a darker turn.
"I also heard a dragon fell on the island—right in the courtyard of the Lord's castle," someone added, fueling the growing rumors.
"My cousin's a herdsman. He said they delivered goats to the castle this morning—must be feeding the beast," another voice chimed in.
The story spiraled further, with someone suggesting the Lord himself planned to tame the dragon and take to the skies.
The fishmonger, his interest waning, shook his head. It was all too far-fetched. Disappointed by the exaggerations, he returned to chopping the fish with steady hands.
He couldn't sell the fish heads—those were saved for his wife and children, a humble meal after a long day at the docks.
Roar!
A pale silver dragon suddenly soared into the sky from a hidden corner of the island, its screech piercing the serene blue heavens.
"Dragon!" someone at the wharf shouted, and in an instant, the crowd gathered, eyes wide with awe.
In a place like this, far from the grandeur of King's Landing or Driftmark, the sight of a dragon was rare, something many would never witness in their entire lives.
Roar!
Seasmoke let out another cry, but its flight was unsteady, one wing still badly injured. The dragon faltered in the air, its massive form struggling against the sky.
All eyes were fixed on the dragon, mesmerized by its presence. No one noticed when the fishmonger quietly slipped away.
...
Sapphire Beach.
Seasmoke screamed as it flapped its uncoordinated wings, the injury making its movements clumsy. It descended in a series of shaky falls until it finally crashed into the soft sand, sending a cloud of gravel and dust into the air.
The dragon lay there for a long moment, struggling to rise. Eventually, it rolled over, pushing itself out of the sand and shaking its massive body free of debris.
Roar...
The cry was weaker now, filled with pain. Seasmoke's amber eyes scanned the forest on the far side of the beach. It seemed drawn toward it, as though knowing it needed to find shelter and heal its wounds.
Then, something familiar caught its eye.
A figure appeared from the trees, someone both known and strange.
Roar!?
Seasmoke tensed, crouching low, its amber pupils widening in suspicion. The dragon prepared to strike, muscles coiled, nostrils flaring.
The figure stopped, frozen in place, staring at the dragon in disbelief.
One second... two seconds...
For several long moments, the man and the dragon stared at each other, neither moving. The air itself seemed to still, the world holding its breath.
Roar...
Seasmoke blinked first, its tense form relaxing. Slowly, it crouched down, no longer threatened.
Tap, tap...
Hesitant, the figure removed a fish-stained apron and took slow, deliberate steps toward the dragon, his eyes fixed on the familiar light silver scales. The smell of the dragon—strong and earthy—filled his nostrils, flooding him with memories.
In that instant, Laenor's eyes widened, and he gasped, "Seasmoke!"
As soon as the words left his lips, something deep within him stirred. Ignoring everything else, he rushed toward the dragon, arms outstretched.
It all came rushing back.
Betrayed by someone he loved, stabbed in the back, cast into the ocean, and washed ashore on Tarth. From nothing, he had built a new life, becoming a humble fishmonger. But now, with the sight of Seasmoke, the memories returned with vivid clarity.
He remembered it all.
Roar!
Seasmoke's pupils brightened at the sound of that familiar voice. The dragon let out a joyous cry and lunged forward, closing the distance between them.
"You found me, Seasmoke!" Laenor cried, tearsstreaming down his face. He threw himself at the dragon's feet, rubbing its rough jaw, feeling the familiar warmth beneath his palms. The texture was just as he remembered—like the stones he had once used to sharpen his sword.
Roar!
Seasmoke released a long, triumphant cry, its body collapsing onto the sand, enveloping its long-lost rider in its protective shadow.
In that moment, a roar of pure joy echoed across the island.
No one knew that the unremarkable fishmonger from Tarth had just become a noble dragon rider once more.
(Word count: 2,318)