Drogo and Daenerys sat side by side atop the towering sterncastle of the Dragon Gallant, higher than any and seeing farther than all.
Today the Stormborn was dressed with uncommon splendor. A net of crystal set with diamonds bound back her silver waterfall of hair; on her feet were pale-blue Qartheen slippers; her gown was a woman's dress of ivory brocade shot with gold, its hems edged in Myrish lace-silk. When she lowered her arms, the long sleeves brushed the deck boards.
She was but fifteen. These were a grown woman's clothes, not a girl's—of that she was certain. But she needed this vesture of authority. She was going home.
All who go forth into the world wish, on returning, to show they have prospered. Daenerys felt the same.
Even if home held only enemies, she would wear the poise of a queen.
Compared to his wife, Drogo was simply clad: the usual black riding breeches and a painted leather vest.
The warship flew before the wind, swift as a hawk. Its prow flung up mountains of spray. Ahead, the sea darkened from blue to black; the Narrow Sea drew tighter as great islands rose one after another to hem it in.
Bending at the waist between the two thrones of solid gold, their guide Captain Kollensa made his report. "Your Grace, Your Majesty—once we pass Tideshead, we reach the western end of our voyage: Valyria's far outpost, Dragonstone."
At that, Daenerys's heart surged. She pushed up by the arm of her chair, eager for the first sight of the place strange and familiar that haunted her dreams—her birthplace.
Drogo understood his wife's mood. He laid a hand along her spine and said gently, "Moon of my life, I have kept half my promise. Know that my love for you is wider and deeper than the summer sea."
Dany turned, cupped his face, and kissed his brow. "Thank you, my sun-and-stars," she whispered.
Women are changeable creatures. The wise ones—after their willful hours—know how to hide their hearts and mask their tempers.
The bitterness of the confinement he had imposed seemed, in that moment, sweetened.
But not enough. In her fifteen years Daenerys had tasted sour, bitter, and hot in plenty, and precious little of sweet. She wanted sweeter yet—sweet enough to touch that chair of iron forged from heroes' swords.
A century before the Doom of Valyria, Dragonstone had come to the Freehold.
The great Valyrian house Targaryen took the island and built a castle there. Thus Dragonstone became Valyria's westernmost holding.
It was said the castle's towers had been shaped by Valyrian sorcerers, the rock melted and worked so they reared like great dragons, grim and fearsome—hence the island's name.
After the Doom, Aegon the Conqueror made his plans there to bring Westeros to heel. When the wars of conquest neared their end, they raised King's Landing as the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, and Dragonstone became the seat of the heir—Prince of Dragonstone.
During the Usurper's War the castle served as the last refuge of House Targaryen. Rhaella Targaryen and Viserys Targaryen fled there before King's Landing fell.
In a savage storm, Rhaella gave birth to Daenerys Targaryen—and died of it.
Since Robert's men meant to invest Dragonstone and scour it of Targaryen issue, the last two of the royal line fled to Braavos with the aid of Ser Willem Darry.
In Braavos, Dany had known a child's joys. In dreams she still saw the great oaken beams carved with beasts' faces, the lemon tree before the door, the house with the red-lacquered portal—her home in Braavos.
Oh, that old Ser Willem might come stumping out upon his cane, his voice hoarse and kind to greet her from play.
"Little princess, you're back. Come to me, my lady. You are home now. Safe."
His wrinkled hand would reach for her, soft as old leather, and she would seize it, and hold it, and kiss it—her heart's one wish.
But the vision always left her aching. She could never catch the wrinkled hand.
That kindly, massive old man had died long ago.
"Ser Willem… I am going home—another home. Thank you," Daenerys murmured, lips barely moving, while silent tears had already wet her cheeks.
Thick smoke rolled up to stain the morning sky a dingy gray.
Moved, Drogo rose too and set his hands to the rail, his face grown solemn.
Dragonstone was as the traders told it: an island of stone where almost all was rock; its houses, keeps, and towers made of black fused stone seared by dragonflame. Most buildings were wrought in the shapes of dragons; a few took the forms of other dread beasts—manticores, hell-hounds with three heads, and the like.
From every claw-shaped watchtower crowning those draconic piles, great fires burned.
Heat shimmered upward, spearing the cold air. Beyond, the gargoyles and stone dragons along the walls were blurred, as if seen through a curtain woven of tears.
To Drogo's eye the monstrous shapes seemed to shiver and stir—as if about to rouse to life.
Dead things, all the same. After a moment, the Khal turned his gaze to Dragonstone's harbor. It was crowded—scores of great ships lay moored.
Foremost among them was a leviathan of five hundred oars, a rare size indeed, flying the skull-and-bones of a pirate.
At the name of such ships few could err. Lyseni Captain Kollensa knew it at once. His face went through stormy changes—excitement, resentment, and most of all a deep melancholy. "Valyria," he breathed. "That is Valyria—the ship of the sly robber, Salladhor Saan."
Drogo wondered at the captain's disordered feeling, but it was no time for questions.
Drogo knew the man by repute: a Lyseni who smuggled, traded, lent at usury—and pirated besides, styling himself "Prince of the Narrow Sea."
In this world, a pirate with gold and power was a "prince." That was the truth of things.
As they drew nearer and Kollensa pointed out the ships, the pirate king himself stood revealed.
Salladhor Saan, a small mustache on his lip, smiled broadly upon his deck. His costume was gaudy and strange: a shining coat woven of silver thread with sleeves so long they brushed the planks, and buttons carved of emerald in the shapes of little monkeys.
On his fine pale curls he wore a fan-shaped green cap, adorned with peacock feathers.
Yet it was not Valyria that held Drogo's eye, but a nondescript little black galley with a dingy gray sail stamped with an onion.
Upon its deck stood a plain, slight man, brown of hair and eye, with a beard shot through with gray. A leather glove covered his left hand.
From all he knew of the great game—and that onion snapping in the wind—Drogo guessed who he must be: the famed Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth.
The man hailed them. "I am Davos Seaworth, Admiral of King Stannis's Narrow Sea fleet. By His Grace's command, we welcome the great Khal Drogo from afar."
They had not come to bandy courtesies. At Drogo's nod, Aggo bellowed back, "Is your master for war or for yield? Speak plain!"
Davos started. These horse-lords were blunt as blades; they meant no acceptance of Stannis's open hand.
Biting back his anger, he called, "His Grace would treat with Khal Drogo—to join in common cause!"
Drogo laughed coldly. "If it is parley, why does Stannis not come himself? Does the Lord of Dragonstone hold himself above Drogo?"
The Onion Knight's face changed. "King, not lord," he corrected harshly. "His Grace is not upon Dragonstone. He has charged me to speak for him."
"You are a smuggler. By what right do you bargain with me? The true hand upon your helm is elsewhere."
Secure in overwhelming strength, Drogo had no mind to humor him. He raised his hand, fingers pressed together as a blade, and pointed to the highest, greatest of the dragon-towers—to the claw-shaped brazier upon its crown.
There a figure stood. Distance hid the face, but at the throat a strange red light burned like a gem.
-.
-
-
-
-
🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
📢 Fire and Blood! 📢
This epic has 200+ chapters ahead on Patreon! 🐲🔥
Rule Westeros long before others catch up.
🛑 Also available:
Star Wars: The Rise of MandaloreCyberpunk: The RelentlessCyberpunk: Lucy Adopted Me and I Got a SystemMy Cyberpunk 2077 SimulatorMy Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the DreadfortThe Rebirth of Harry PotterStar Wars: Relics of the PastR18: Reincarnated in Her World
🔗 www.patreon.com/c/MrMagnus👤 SrMagnus🐦 https://x.com/SrMagnusBook
⚠️ The throne favors the strongest support!