Boom!
A torrent of orange-tinged Dragonfire erupted across the battlefield, spewing from the jaws of a pale silver dragon. Flames swept over the Triarchy pirates, engulfing them in a merciless inferno.
"Ahhh…"
Their agonized screams echoed through the night as they writhed on the ground, desperately clawing at the unrelenting flames. There was no escape. Above them, the silver dragon hovered—slow, deliberate—raining fire with ruthless precision.
"Father, steer the ship out to sea!" A familiar voice cut through the chaos, and Corlys Velaryon froze, his curved blade halting mid-swing.
For a moment, his heart stopped, the blood pounding in his ears. He looked up, disbelief flooding his senses.
It couldn't be.
The dragon in the sky wasn't Meleys, the scarlet beast he knew—it was a light silver dragon, its wings marred by blood-crusted scabs. And on its back, a figure he had thought lost forever: a young man with cropped silver hair and sun-darkened skin. The face—so painfully familiar—hit Corlys like a tidal wave.
"Laenor…"
His voice trembled. His eldest son, long believed dead in the Dornish war a decade ago, was there, alive and astride Seasmoke, the dragon he had once ridden into battle.
Corlys's hands shook. He rubbed his eyes, bloodshot from the fight, as if trying to dispel an illusion. But it wasn't a dream. It was real.
"He's still riding Seasmoke..." His voice cracked, thick with emotion. Tears welled in his eyes. The son he had mourned for ten long years was alive, soaring above him as he had done all those years ago—commanding his dragon, leading the charge.
"Dracarys!" Laenor's voice rang out, his face alight with a fierce smile as he shouted the command. Tears blurred his vision, but he pressed on.
Roar!
Seasmoke responded, unleashing another searing wave of fire, carving a path through the pirates surrounding the Sea Snake.
Corlys wiped the tears from his face, his heart swelling with newfound strength. His voice thundered across the deck. "Follow me! My son has come to our aid on his dragon!"
The words "my son" electrified the sailors. Exhausted and battle-weary, their spirits surged at the sight of the familiar silver dragon. With renewed energy, they fought back, breaking through the pirate siege with newfound hope.
As soon as the Sea Snake broke free into open water, the fleet swiftly reorganized and launched a counterattack.
"Dracarys! Dracarys!" Laenor's battle cry echoed across the waves, a decade of unspoken shouts unleashed all at once. His voice rang with a raw intensity, as if making up for the lost years.
Seasmoke stayed close, obedient to every command, releasing wave after wave of Dragonfire as if it would never run dry.
...
On the mountaintop,
Rhaenys ran to Meleys, gripping the rope ladder in preparation to mount, when a powerful roar split the sky, laden with an inexplicable familiarity.
"Seasmoke?"
She froze, her breath catching. Quickly, she looked up at the night sky. There, circling above, was the pale silver dragon, rescuing Corlys from the ship he had been trapped on.
Rhaenys's almond-shaped eyes widened in disbelief. When she saw the rider—his familiar figure unmistakable—tears welled in her eyes. "Laenor…"
The name slipped from her lips, and she instantly covered her mouth, afraid her voice would break under the weight of her emotions.
Unlike Corlys, who had made peace with the loss, Rhaenys had always held on to a sliver of hope that her son was alive. And now, against all odds, Laenor was here—alive and well, riding the dragon he had bonded with since childhood. Joy trembled through her body.
Roar…
Meleys growled softly, sensing her emotions, tilting its head to nudge her arm as if to remind her of the battle. It was ready to fight.
Overcome with emotion, Rhaenys collapsed against Meleys's scarlet wings, choking back sobs. "My child is back," she whispered, tears flowing freely.
Roar…
Meleys blinked its large, warm eyes, then extended his long tail, wrapping it gently around her in a gesture of comfort.
"He's back," Rhaenys repeated, her tears slowly turning into laughter. She rested her forehead against the dragon's body, taking in the moment before regaining her composure. "We have work to do too, old girl."
Meleys crouched low, already prepared for battle.
Moments later, the empty night sky was alive with the sounds of battle—fierce fighting and desperate cries mingling with the roars of dragons.
Roar!
Roar!
A scarlet dragon and a pale silver one flew together, their majestic forms cutting through the sea breeze, their combined Dragonfire spilling across the battlefield. The war had spread from the Isle of Flies to the open sea, and still, it pushed onward.
The banner of House Velaryon—its blue seahorse flapping proudly in the wind—stood tall, a symbol of strength and defiance.
But the fate of the Triarchy pirates remained unchanged. They were engulfed in flames, burning on land and sea.
...
The next day, at noon.
Several dragons soared over the mouth of the Rhoyne, their shadows sweeping across the waters before landing atop the Black Wall of Volantis.
At the Magister's Palace, Baelon, impeccably dressed, led his foster sisters, Baela and Rhaena, each at his side. The three young people stood at the entrance, excitement lighting up their faces.
"Grandmother!"
Rhaena, always the sharpest-eyed, waved enthusiastically. In the courtyard, silver-haired figures moved about, a familiar sight to the siblings.
Rhaenys, still brimming with energy despite the long night of battle, approached with a radiant smile. "Rhaena, my children," she called warmly, her arms open as she walked alongside Daemon and Corlys.
Baelon, being the youngest, only noticed the familiar faces of his relatives. But Baela and Rhaena—both older and more observant—stood frozen in shock, their gazes fixed on the man accompanying their elders.
He was handsome, with a striking resemblance to their mother, Laena, but his skin was roughened and darkened by the sun, and his hair was cropped short. He dressed simply, in stark contrast to the richly adorned surroundings.
The sisters stared, momentarily speechless.
"Look who it is, children," Rhaenys beamed, gathering her three grandchildren into a warm embrace.
The man stepped forward, his expression both wistful and awkward. "Baela, Rhaena, how are you?" he asked softly.
"Laenor!"
Baela's exclamation broke the tension as she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him.
Rhaena's eyes reddened, her voice trembling. "Uncle…"
"It's me," Laenor chuckled, quickly accepting the embrace of his nieces, his deep, magnetic voice unmistakable.
Baelon stood rooted, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You're Ser Laenor?" he asked, his composure slipping. It was hard to reconcile the long-lost figure from family tales with the man now standing before him.
Laenor smiled, glancing at his mother before turning to Baelon. "That's right, Prince. I last saw you when you were just a baby."
"Yes, Ser," Baelon replied, gathering himself as he extended his hand to guide them inside. "Please, come in. It's a shame my father isn't here—he would have been overjoyed to see you."
"Rhaegar isn't here?" Rhaenys asked, puzzled. She had sent word the previous night about the council, and with the speed of the black dragon, he should have arrived by now.
Baelon hesitated, then offered an apologetic smile. "Perhaps something came up. He may have stayed behind at The Axe."
Corlys stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the courtyard. "And what of Prince Maekar? We should greet the host of this house properly," he said, puffing out his chest proudly, his hand resting on his son's shoulder. There was a certain satisfaction in the Sea Snake's stance—his son had returned, and he wanted the world to know.
"Maekar had something come up as well," Baelon admitted, clearly uncomfortable. "But please, let's go inside."
Baela and Rhaena exchanged glances, sensing the tension, and quickly moved to help change the subject as they all made their way into the palace.
...
Slaver's Bay, Meereen — The Great Pyramid.
Roar…
The Cannibal loomed before the Great Pyramid, its massive, terrifying head level with the peak of the tower. Its eerie green pupils glowed with a dark, unsettling light. Hundreds of Unsullied stood surrounding the creature, their spears trembling in their hands, their fear palpable.
Roar!
Above, a young silver-grey dragon hovered in the air, its dark vertical pupils surveying the soldiers on the city walls. Occasionally, it flapped its wings, sending gusts of wind that rippled across the silent city. The once-noisy streets of Meereen had fallen into an uneasy hush. Only the roars of the two dragons echoed across Slaver's Bay.
...
Inside the Great Pyramid's main hall.
Rhaegar lounged on the throne, lazily removing his black robe as he reclined, eyes half-closed. He listened idly as his third son, Maekar, sat at the foot of the throne, carefully reading aloud from a letter.
"At midnight yesterday, pirates from the Isle of Tears attacked the camp..." Maekar's childlike voice echoed in the cavernous hall.
Below them, the Wise Masters, Good Masters, and Great Masters of Slaver's Bay gathered, huddled in fearful silence. Every now and then, one of them would glance upward nervously, terrified of drawing attention, as if the dragons outside might burst into the hall at any moment.
Father and son, relaxed and at ease, seemed perfectly at home in the imposing pyramid, despite the tension that gripped everyone around them.
"Okay, that's it," Maekar said, folding the letter with a satisfied nod, his voice still carrying the innocence of youth.
"Hmm," Rhaegar responded, resting his hand lazily on the arm of the throne, his expression calm and unreadable. The letter recounted the fierce battle from the previous night and the astonishing news of Laenor's return on Seasmoke.
"Aren't you going to say anything, Father?" Maekar asked, his sapphire-blue eyes filled with an unspoken sadness. His aunt and uncle had been reunited, but his own brother was gone.
"This is good news," Rhaegar replied with a faint, emotionless smile. "If Laenor is still alive, then nothing in this world is impossible."
Maekar's eyes sparkled thoughtfully as he nodded, trusting his father's words completely.
Rhaegar reached over, gently ruffling Maekar's hair, his gaze softening with a mix of relief and nostalgia. If Baelon, the eldest, was to inherit the throne but met with misfortune, Maekar would be prepared to assist his brother. His youngest son would need to learn the ways of kingship and become an able advisor.
As their conversation trailed off, the soft sound of footsteps echoed from outside the hall.
"My apologies for not welcoming you sooner, Your Grace of the Iron Throne," a woman's voice chimed in.
Irina entered, her stride brisk and her smile wide. She greeted Rhaegar with the confidence and charm so characteristic of those from the Lands of the Long Summer. There was a certain wildness and warmth in her manner that set her apart from the rest.
"Cut the crap and get to the point," Rhaegar's voice cut through the room with icy precision, his gaze unflinching. "You claim to have found traces of the wild dragon. Where?"
"In the Great Grass Sea, stretching all the way to Sothoryos," Irina replied earnestly, her tone unwavering.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What color is the dragon?" he demanded. If not for the message hinting at its discovery, there would have been no reason for him to travel to Slaver's Bay. But if this information was true, it would pave the way for avenging his second son—and eliminating a lurking threat.
"White," Irina said confidently, then added, "maybe pale or grey. It has one blind eye."
At this, Rhaegar straightened in his seat, his skepticism fading just enough. There was a 70 or 80 percent chance she was telling the truth.
"Father," Maekar, standing nearby, tugged at the hem of his trousers, his young eyes filled with caution. Both knew this meeting wasn't solely about tracking a wild dragon.
Rhaegar gave a slight nod, signaling that he understood. Regaining his composure, he responded, "That's still not enough. I need the exact location." Sothoryos was vast, and finding a wild dragon was like searching for a needle in a haystack.
"Perhaps near the Axe and the Basilisk Isles," Irina suggested seriously. "There's war in the Basilisk Isles right now, so the Axe seems the likelier location."
Rhaegar considered this, weighing the credibility of her words. With Slaver's Bay positioned across the sea from Sothoryos and informants scattered across the region, her analysis seemed well-founded.
After a pause, Rhaegar spoke bluntly, "Your information has some value. Now, tell me why you really summoned me here." He knew there was always more to such discussions—especially when something was being asked of him.
Irina's expression brightened slightly, sensing an opening. "Even if you refuse the marriage proposal, the Iron Throne and Slaver's Bay can still forge a strong alliance for mutual defense," she said with a serious tone.
"Strong?" Rhaegar scoffed, shaking his head with a mocking smile. "Slaver's Bay has been fractured into three parts. Trust and loyalty? Hardly."
Unfazed, Irina pressed on. "You're attacking the Basilisk Isles, the last refuge of the Triarchy pirates. They'll fight to the death, dragging your kingdom into a drawn-out war."
"Braavos and Pentos have already declared a truce," Rhaegar replied coldly, his eyes flashing with a dangerous glint. "We can afford to wait."
"An alliance with Slaver's Bay would end the war much sooner," Irina argued, her posture straightening as she emphasized her point. "With our fleet, the Triarchy pirates would be driven to seek shelter."
"But I don't need an alliance," Rhaegar said, his tone flat and immovable. "Slaver's Bay once knelt to the Freehold Empire, and just a few years ago, it surrendered to me and raised my banner."
He paused, letting his words sink in before delivering his final blow. "If you truly seek the Iron Throne's support, then kneel and pledge your allegiance."
He didn't need Slaver's Bay to be particularly useful, but if Irina wanted to secure her place, it would be on his terms. A woman ruling over Slaver's Bay could make things... complicated.
Irina blinked, momentarily stunned. "You want me to be your advisor?" she asked, disbelief creeping into her voice.
"Or my subject," Rhaegar replied without hesitation.
He rose to his full height and drew his ancestral sword, Blackfyre, slamming it into the stone floor with a ringing thud.
Suddenly—
Roar…
The palace shook as a massive dragon's head smashed into the walls of the Great Pyramid. Glass shattered, spraying the air as the unmistakable stench of ash and fire filled the hall.
Irina turned her head slowly, dread creeping up her spine as she met the gaze of the beast outside—its gleaming green pupils staring back at her, cold and malevolent, like the eyes of an ancient evil.
Eerie. Cunning. Cruel.
(Word count: 2,475)