Pentos
The harbor stirred awake with the day. Ships groaned at their moorings as ropes tightened, sails unfurled, and dockhands shouted across the water. Gulls screamed overhead, darting between the masts.
On the street beyond the piers, a few barefoot children chased a ball of knotted rags. Their careless laughter cut through the morning noise. The ball slipped from their hands and rolled across the cobbles until it came to rest at the feet of a cloaked figure.
It was a woman, standing still, her hood drawn low. Grey fabric wrapped her slender frame, its hem brushing to the boots. When one of the children ran to fetch the ball, she bent down and picked it up. Her hand, pale against the coarse cloth, held it out gently.
The child hesitated. Then, as the woman lifted her head, a shaft of sunlight touched her face. Beneath the shadow of her hood appeared a young woman's features, finely cut, too perfect for the docks of Pentos. Silky black hair slipped free of the hood, catching the light like raven's wings. Her lips curved into a warm smile.
"Here," she said softly.
The boy took the ball, staring up at her with wide eyes. A flush rose to his cheeks. He stammered, "Th–thank you, lady," and scurried back to his friends. They burst into giggles, glancing over their shoulders as they ran.
From behind the woman came a voice, low and respectful.
"Lady Thalara… the ship is ready."
She turned slightly. A tall man stood behind her, cloaked with the same grey, except a sword at his side and a faint outline of armor beneath the folds.
"Good," she said, voice smooth but melodic. "Let us not keep the winds waiting."
They walked together toward the harbor. Among the merchant vessels and fishing boats, a modest ship waited. Its sails patched, its crew ordinary in every way. The men aboard straightened at her approach. They bowed their heads as she stepped onto the gangplank.
"My lady," one murmured.
She returned with a faint nod. The ropes were cast off; the ship began to drift from the quay, oars dipping in unison before the wind caught the sails.
Below deck, the cloaked woman entered a small cabin, and closed the door behind her. The sounds of the harbor faded to a soft murmur. For a moment, she stood still in the half-light. Then she drew back her hood.
The grey cloak slid from her shoulders, revealing the deep red of her gown beneath, rich and flowing. The dress fit her firmly, tracing the proud lines of her form without excess. Around her neck rested a ruby the size of two thumbs, shining like a captured heart against her pale white skin.
She moved to the small round window, where light danced over the waves. The sea stretched wide and endless before her, glittering beneath the morning sun.
Her lips curved again, this time slower, deeper.
"West," she whispered, touching the ruby. "To the land where the fire has awakened."
The North.
A vast sea of white stretched below; a wilderness of snow-laden pines, frozen rivers, and long valleys. The air was razor-cold, sharp enough to sting through Aegon's skin, and every breath felt like a gulp of ice.
Dreamfyre's wings beat steadily, each stroke rolling through the air. Aegon sat in his saddle, wrapped in his black and blue armor. His silver-gold hair whipped in the wind while his gloved hands held the reins firmly.
He'd left Castle Cerwyn hours ago, and the land below had grown wilder with every passing league.
Somewhere beyond that endless white, his destination waited.
Then…he saw it.
A dark smudge on the horizon. Stone walls rising from the snow. Towers. Smoke curling faintly from within.
Aegon blinked against the wind, then leaned forward.
"…Winterfell."
The word left his mouth like a breath long held.
He had seen it before, of course, on a screen, years and a lifetime ago. He remembered the sound of wind howling over the battlements, the sight of a lone direwolf banner snapping in the cold. But this… this was real. The towers weren't images; the snow wasn't a digital haze. It was stone and history, wind and cold, something that existed in the world beneath him.
He let out a laugh, quiet but unrestrained.
"Fuck… I finally made it."
Dreamfyre rumbled beneath him, her body rolling slightly as if sharing his mood. Aegon reached forward, his palm resting against the base of her neck, feeling the living strength under the smooth scales.
"Let's go, girl," he murmured, a grin flickering at the corner of his lips. "Time to make our first impression."
Dreamfyre's wings tightened, her muscles coiling in readiness. The wind screamed past as she dove lower, slicing through the cold northern sky, toward the ancient seat of the Starks.
"Hah!" Brandon let out a long sigh, slumping forward on the bench. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet chamber, drawing a sharp look from the old maester standing near the hearth.
Maester Tolbrand paused in his reading, one brow lifting above his squinted eyes. "If the young wolf has energy to sigh so loudly, perhaps he might use it to listen instead," he said, voice dry.
Brandon straightened a little, muttering something under his breath. Beside him, his younger brother Elric bit back a grin, shoulders shaking.
Tolbrand shut the leather-bound tome with a snap. "The history of House Stark," he said, tapping the cover, "will not carve itself into your heads through air and daydreams. Pay heed… or I shall have you copy every page before supper."
Neither boy answered. The maester stared at them for a heartbeat, then sighed. "Gods be good. My bladder is older than both of you combined. Do not move." With that, he shuffled toward the door, his robes swaying behind him.
The instant the latch clicked, Elric turned in his seat, grinning wide. "You nearly fell asleep again."
Brandon shot him a glare. "Shut up."
"You did! Your head was drooping like a dying raven."
"And you were staring at the window like a lost pup."
Elric snickered. "At least I'm awake."
Brandon made a face, leaning back in his chair. "I'd rather be asleep than listen to Tolbrand drone about Bran the Builder again."
They both sighed in unison.
After a pause, Elric spoke, his tone quieter. "Do you think the prince's really coming?"
Brandon exhaled through his nose. "Uncle said he would. But if he doesn't arrive in a few more days, he'll send a letter to the king himself."
Elric's eyes widened. "He's that serious?"
Brandon shrugged. "Aye. He says it's discourteous to summon the North's lord to prepare for a royal visit that never happens." His lips twisted into a half-smile. "Maybe the king's lost his wits… sending a boy of your age all the way up here."
Elric ignored the sarcasm, frowned. "He's not just any boy. They say he's a pyromancer. And he rides a dragon!"
Brandon chuckled under his breath. "You've no idea how hard it is to travel, little brother. Even with wings. Snow, wind, cold... If the prince's smart, he's turned back already."
Elric disagreed, he made a face as he spoke. "You're just jealous you don't have a dragon."
Brandon smirked. "Maybe."
Their usual bicker came easy, warm in the drafty room. But then…
A deep, distant sound rolled through the air.
Rrrraaaaaaahhhhh!
The brothers froze.
"Did you… "
Another roar, louder this time, shaking the panes. Then shouts… men yelling outside, the rush of feet in the corridors.
"What was that?" Elric whispered in shock.
They looked at each other, eyes wide, then bolted for the door.
Out in the courtyard, chaos had erupted. Guards were shouting, pointing toward the sky. The wind carried their voices in fragments,
"... dragon! A dragon!"
Brandon and Elric stopped dead, their hearts thudding.
Above them, a shadow swept across the yard. Vast, winged, blotting out the pale sun.
They craned their necks, breath caught.
A massive blue dragon flew slowly in the air.
It circled above Winterfell, under the northern light, her wings vast as the Great Hall's roof. Each beat of her wings sent gusts spiraling through the yard. Her roar thundered through the valley, echoing off the stone walls.
All around, people poured out; maids clutching aprons, stable boys frozen mid-step, guards gaping upward with open mouths. The yard was a sea of faces turned skyward.
Footsteps thundered from the hall. Lord Rickon Stark strode out, cloak snapping in the wind, followed by his brother Bennard and a line of retainers. Both men stopped in the yard, eyes fixed on the sky, awe and disbelief mixing on their faces.
From the balcony above, Lady Gilliane stood beside Lady Margaret, their hands clutching the railing. Behind them, their maids hovered, whispering prayers, pale-faced.
The dragon circled once more, her roar splitting the air like the cry of a storm. Snow swirled in its wake.
Elric swallowed hard. "Bran… that's him, isn't it?"
Brandon nodded slowly, voice barely a breath. "Aye… Prince Aegon."
High above, Aegon could see them. Tiny figures gathering in the courtyard, faces lifted to the sky. The crowd spread like ripples across the snow. Among them, near the center, a cluster stood out, better dressed, guarded, composed even in the chaos.
The Starks.
He couldn't help the small grin that tugged at his lips.
"There you are."
His breath came in thin wisps, caught by the freezing wind. The long journey, the biting cold, the endless white… all of it was worth this moment.
He patted Dreamfyre's neck, her scales warm under his glove. "Ready?"
A low rumble answered him in his mind.
~Yes.
"Good." Aegon stood slowly, the wind tugging at his cloak. The cold burned his cheeks; his heart hammered in his chest. Below, Winterfell's gray towers and snow-capped roofs waited like something pulled from memory.
Dreamfyre beat her wings once, twice, then held position above the courtyard, the air shuddering under her power. Aegon crouched near the edge of the saddle, eyes narrowing against the wind. The spell model [Featherfall] flared to life in his mind.
"Let's give them something to remember."
And he jumped.
The rush of air hit him like a wave, icy needles against his skin. The world tilted, blurred, streaked with snow and wind. He felt the brief lurch of gravity clutch at him, then the spell bloomed. A wave of air spread across his body, wrapping him in weightless calm.
"Gods!" someone screamed from below. "He's falling!"
Brandon jerked his head, eyes wider. The boy, the prince, was dropping from the sky. The maids shrieked, guards stumbled backward, hands rising in panic.
Then, as if the world itself had blinked…
Flames burst open around the falling figure, radiant and alive. Wings of fire, larger than the boy's body, spread wide, like living embers. Then they flapped, like a bird, n-no… like a divine bird. The fall eased into grace, like a being from forgotten legend, gliding toward the earth.
"H-he's f-flying…" Elric stammered beside him, his voice barely more than a breath.
The crowd fell silent. Every eye fixed on the figure drifting down through the falling snow.
Within a heartbeat, the prince, with fiery wings sprouting from his back, touched the ground. A rush of heat rolled through the courtyard as his boots struck the stone with a muted thud. The fiery wings gave a single, slow beat, then vanished in a soft flicker, leaving no smoke.
Silence held the yard.
The only sound was the wind, and the heavy rhythm of the dragon's wings as it descended behind him, its vast body filling the courtyard and shadowing the wall beyond. Dust fell from the ancient wall, which groaned under its immense flank.
The boy stood there, silver-gold hair catching the light, his black-and-blue armor gleaming faintly with frost. His gaze swept across the crowd, calm, measured… with a slight pride. When his lilac eyes found the lord at the center of it all, a faint, knowing smile came on his handsome face.
"Lord Stark," he said evenly, his voice carrying clear across the yard.
Rickon Stark blinked, as if waking from a spell. His throat bobbed; he took a step forward, words struggling to form.
"Pyro… P-Prince Aegon"
***
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