The winds over the Narrow Sea howled as Vhagar carved through the sky, her massive wings stirring the air like the tides themselves.
Seated on the saddle with his father, Rhaegar kept his gaze ahead, his eyes fixed on the looming silhouette in the distance—Dragonstone.
Even after years of seeing it, the sight of it never failed to steal his breath.
He had been three years old when he had first laid eyes on it, small enough that his legs swung uselessly from the saddle as he clung to his father's cloak.
The journey he remembered had been brief, Vhagar's wings carrying them across the water effortlessly, but he remembered the moment they descended toward the monstrous castle that sat upon the blackened cliffs.
It had felt surreal.
This was no ordinary keep. No ordinary castle.
It was a remnant of a lost empire, a fortress born of Dragonfire and Valyrian sorcery, shaped into something that would perhaps never be replicated again.
The Red Keep was vast, its towers high, and its halls grand. Yet it failed to inspire the same majesty as when he saw the Draconic Castle.
Dragonstone felt alive.
The black stone that made up its walls did not gleam like polished marble, nor did it invite the eye as a king's hall might. It absorbed the light instead, drinking in the sun's glow and casting shadows deep enough to feel endless.
Its towers loomed like dragons, their stone jaws frozen mid-roar, their spines twisting into the sky.
Its gates loomed, carved with scaled wings and snarling faces, as if the fortress itself was watching all who approached.
And when he had seen it for the first time, as a child who had once read of it in books, Rhaegar had felt small in a way he never had before.
This was a wonder made manifest.
Power given form.
His father had spoken of it lightly, guiding him through its halls with ease, but Rhaegar had been too awestruck to listen.
This had been the castle of conquerors.
Where the conquest had begun.
This had been the place where a single man had decided the fate of an entire continent.
He had always found the castle beautiful.
Not in the way the Reach lords spoke of their gardens. Not in the way courtly lords and ladies fawned over golden halls and jeweled thrones.
No, Dragonstone was beautiful because it endured.
Because it was a fortress that did not care for time, war, or the ambitions of men.
And it would now serve their needs.
Vhagar descended, her shadow stretching across the courtyard, scattering the few retainers below.
As she landed with a thunderous impact, Rhaegar unbuckled himself from the saddle and dismounted, feeling the solid ground beneath his feet once more.
Baelon landed beside him, stretching slightly as he took in their surroundings. "You always look thoughtful when we come here."
Rhaegar cast him a glance. "Dragonstone invites thought."
Baelon huffed a laugh. "That it does."
The air smelled of salt, stone, and something ancient, something that had clung to these halls long before their ancestors had set foot on Westerosi soil.
And now, it was his turn to shape what would come next.
Without another word, they strode through the halls, their boots echoing against the cold floors.
And soon, they reached the heart of their true purpose here.
Dragonstone had something that Kingslanding did not.
Privacy.
There were no meddlesome courtiers, no whispering nobles lurking in hallways, no one eager to spy on what did not concern them.
That made it the perfect place to house what they could not afford to lose.
The old forge beneath the castle had been unused for years, its fires cold, its tools rusting.
And now it burned once more.
It had once been used for crafting weapons, armor—tools of war.
Now?
It crafted something far more valuable.
The compasses, the key to their venture, were being made in absolute secrecy.
There were no dozens of blacksmiths, no grand halls filled with the sound of hammers.
Only a handpicked team, each person entrusted with only a fraction of the process, ensuring that no single craftsman understood the full picture.
At the center of it all stood Ser Ryon Velaryon, a man of iron discipline, sworn not to Driftmark, but to House Targaryen itself.
He was not a lord. Not a man of politics.
He was a soldier.
And that was why Rhaegar trusted him
Ryon bowed the moment they entered. "Prince Baelon. Prince Rhaegar."
Baelon offered a nod. "Ser Ryon. Anything we should know?"
Ryon stood straight. "Production continues as planned, my prince. We have twelve completed devices, with another twenty to follow in the month," he said. "No outsider knows of their existence. No leaks, no suspicions."
Rhaegar stepped forward, lifting one of the small brass instruments from the table.
The metal was smooth beneath his fingers, the needle inside balanced so finely that the slightest motion sent it swaying—before it settled.
North.
Always north.
He tested another. And another.
All steady. All precise.
"Good," he murmured.
Baelon nodded pleased.
Leaving the forge, the weight of the castle pressed around them once more.
Baelon walked beside him, silent for a moment before saying, "Aemon has given his blessing, you know."
Rhaegar exhaled softly. "So I've been told. It makes me happy that Uncle trusts our project."
His uncle had signaled his full support for their venture. He had even provided many materials from Dragonstone's stores, and brokered a deal with the Baratheons for materials needed for the ships, ensuring their work would not be slowed.
Aemon, the dutiful, the ever-loyal.
Aemon, who did not yet know what fate had in store for him.
Rhaegar clenched his jaw.
His uncle would support this company because it strengthened their house.
Rhaegar wanted wanted him alive.
It wasn't just about shifting the future anymore. It wasn't just about maneuvering the game.
Though I suppose it never was just that. He thought to himself.
Aemon was a good man in a world that did not often allow men like him to thrive.
And if Rhaegar had even the slightest chance to change the path laid for his Uncle ahead?
He would take it.
As they walked the corridors, Rhaegar let his gaze roam over the castle once more.
Baelon studied him. "You admire this place."
Rhaegar nodded. "I do."
Rhaegar smiled. "It is quieter here."
Baelon chuckled. "That it is."
They walked toward the outer walls, where the sea roared below. The wind whipped at their cloaks, carrying the scent of salt and stone.
Rhaegar let his thoughts wander.
Let the lords whisper. Let the Free Cities watch.
By the time they realized what had been set into motion…
The sea would already belong to me.
Baelon clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come. We still have work to do."
Rhaegar looked to the sea one last time before following his Father.