Dragonstone—ancestral seat of House Targaryen—stood like a jagged shadow upon the sea, a fortress carved from black volcanic stone and shaped in the likeness of dragons. To many, it was simply a castle on an isolated island. To history, it was the final refuge of a fallen empire, the place where the blood of old Valyria smoldered after the Doom.
Long before dragons ruled Westeros, Valyria had been the mightiest civilization in the known world. Their steel was unmatched, their magic unrivaled, and their fleets sailed across continents. The famed Valyrian steel blades desired by the Seven Kingdoms and beyond were but remnants of a power lost to ash.
Yet among the great Dragonlord families, one woman—Daenys, later known as Daenys the Dreamer—foretold Valyria's downfall. Her father, Aenar, believed her visions and uprooted his entire house, escaping the peninsula and resettling on Dragonstone. Their retreat was mocked as cowardice by others, but when the Doom reduced Valyria to fire and ruin, only their bloodline survived among forty great houses.
A century later, Aegon the Conqueror launched his invasion of Westeros from this very island. In the era of Targaryen power, Dragonstone brimmed with dragons—both tamed and wild. Even in its decline, after Robert Baratheon seized the throne and gifted the island to his brother Stannis, the architecture still spoke of ancient glory. Beneath the island's perpetual fog, enormous stone dragons loomed, half-hidden and half-alive, as though waiting to breathe fire again.
Tonight, Dragonstone held not dragons, but war.
A vast fleet crowded the harbor, masts rising like spears in a silent formation. Banners of the Stormlands snapped in the cold sea wind, pledging loyalty to Stannis Baratheon. Men moved along the decks preparing for battle while the air echoed with clanking chains and shouts from deck officers.
Davos Seaworth—the Onion Knight—stood alone, staring across the fleet. The sight humbled him. Once, he had been a smuggler scraping for survival; now he commanded men in service to a king.
"Father."
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. Davos turned to see Marcus, his third son, flushed with excitement. The gods had blessed him with seven sons, strong and capable. The eldest four already served in Stannis's navy.
"Father," Marcus repeated eagerly, "I just came from the Fury."
Davos smiled. "How is she?"
"Much larger than our Black Pearl." Marcus's eyes gleamed with awe. "A true warship."
The Fury was Stannis's flagship—once the vessel that secured Dragonstone during Robert's Rebellion, and later the one that crushed Balon Greyjoy's uprising. Stannis believed it would carry him to victory yet again.
Marcus now served aboard it as Master of Oars—an honor that made Davos proud, though pride mixed with fear. War took sons as easily as it made them men.
"With a fleet like this," Marcus said, sweeping his gaze across the harbor, "even a storm can't stop us."
Davos chuckled softly—but his smile faltered.
A storm.
A memory struck him: during Robert's Rebellion, the Targaryen fleet—stronger than Stannis's force now—had been destroyed while anchored in port. Not by sword or fire... but by a storm. That loss allowed Stannis to seize the island in the first place.
Could history repeat itself?
Could the Lannisters call upon storms?
No... only Stannis carried the blood of the Storm Kings. But traps came in many forms, and Davos knew better than most that arrogance invited disaster.
Unease gnawed at him.
He resolved to speak to Lord Imry Florent, the fleet's commander and Stannis's brother-in-law. Imry would likely dismiss advice from a former smuggler—but Davos would try. For Stannis, he would swallow insult and mockery alike.
---
Far from the sea, on the Kingsroad, another force marched toward King's Landing.
A white direwolf padded ahead of an army, its shoulder reaching the height of a grown man's waist. Ghost—the silent shadow of Jon Snow—lifted his snout to the wind, searching for unseen prey or danger. Behind him, thousands of infantrymen advanced like wolves in the night, unseen and unanticipated.
This was the army Jon had taken from Harrenhal.
They were still three to four days from King's Landing. Their pace could have been faster if not for the siege equipment slowed by oxen and muddy roads. Jon had hoped to strike the city alongside Stannis; the ravens he received suggested that Stannis was still preparing, leaving a narrow window to coordinate assaults.
Ser Dondarrion approached, bowing slightly in deference—something he never would have done weeks earlier.
"Jon, we are nearing Sow's Horn. House Hogg's lands lie ahead. The men are exhausted—over two hundred have fallen behind. We should rest until morning."
Dondarrion's tone carried respect, earned through blood. Jon had seized Harrenhal with ruthless precision, imprisoning Roose Bolton without hesitation and swearing vengeance for Eddard Stark before all the Northern lords, indifferent to his own life.
He had proven himself not merely bold, but dangerous.
Jon nodded. "Very well. Let the men rest. But send scouts and silence anyone who tries to leave. I ride on ahead—with only cavalry."
"Where will you go?" Dondarrion asked.
"Rosby."
The knight blinked in confusion. Rosby required a detour. The Kingsroad ran straight to King's Landing—why waste time?
"Rosby's lord, Gyles, can barely walk," Dondarrion said. "He poses no threat. The city is what matters."
Jon's expression hardened.
"Tommen and Myrcella might be there."
The realization struck like thunder.
Of course—Joffrey and Cersei could not abandon the capital. But Tommen and Myrcella, symbols of Baratheon legitimacy, could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. Rosby, being close but hidden, was one of the few options remaining—especially with Stannis blockading the coast.
Dondarrion stared at Jon anew, suddenly aware of how dangerous his foresight made him.
Such a man must be a friend, he thought. Never an enemy.
Within the hour, Jon rode out with Tormien, Harken, and four hundred cavalry, Ghost leading them silently beneath the stars.
Tommen and Myrcella were not merely hostages—they were insurance. Capturing them might not help breach the city walls, but their existence shaped the future.
Jon's goal was not only to take King's Landing.
He needed to dismantle the fragile alliance between House Lannister and House Tyrell—the so-called Lion-Flower Alliance. Even if the Tyrells cared only for queenship, the Lannisters needed a king to offer in exchange.
And if Jon eliminated Joffrey but controlled Tommen, he controlled the future.
He was not just fighting a war—he was shaping a kingdom.
This battle was not merely for a crown.
It was to determine who would rule after the smoke cleared.
And Jon intended to be the one holding every piece when the game ended.
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