Balerion hopped restlessly along Gendry's forearm, black wings fluttering as he chirped impatiently. The young dragon's appetite was nothing short of astonishing. Each day, he devoured several times his own body weight in meat, and even that barely seemed to satisfy him.
Dragons, it seemed, were creatures that grew strong by consuming excess.
The little dragon had already begun breathing fire. Thin streams of reddish-black flame occasionally escaped his mouth, scorching the air. The color of the dragonflame matched his scales perfectly—dark, ominous, and tinged with blood.
"Truly the most peculiar species in the world," Gendry murmured, watching the dragon with unconcealed affection. "A creature born of magic itself."
Perhaps it was blood that connected them.
Balerion's scales were pitch black, while his eyes, horns, and dorsal spines glowed a deep crimson. Even as a hatchling, he carried an aura of quiet menace.
"It won't be long," Gendry continued, turning to Maester Qyburn. "Two or three years at most before he can be ridden."
"If his growth continues at this pace," Qyburn replied thoughtfully, "then the rumors must be true. Balerion has been reborn."
He adjusted his chain as he spoke.
"Dragons differ greatly in growth rate and ultimate size. They grow for most of their lives and only slow when approaching old age. It is generally believed that fierce male dragons grow the fastest—and the largest. Judging by his temperament, Balerion possesses those traits."
"Which is exactly why I need Dragonstone," Gendry said calmly. "It is a dragon's home."
There were two reasons Gendry was confident his dragon would surpass all others.
First, the red comet had appeared earlier than in recorded history, an omen long associated with dragons and war.
Second, Gendry intended to claim Dragonstone itself. Volcanoes and extreme heat were ideal for dragon growth. Daenerys's black dragon had reached a wingspan of twelve feet in just two or three years while wandering across the Narrow Sea. With proper conditions, Balerion would grow even faster.
"Have all the letters been sent?" Gendry asked.
"There were two types of envelopes," Qyburn replied. "One contained the late King's will. The other carried your proclamation."
"Yes."
"Everything is prepared, Your Highness," Qyburn said. "Three hundred raven-messengers were dispatched—from the Arbor all the way to the Wall. Even accounting for storms, falcons, and arrows, at least two hundred should reach their destinations."
"Two hundred maesters will carry the late King's will into keeps, solar chambers, and bedchambers. They will read it aloud to their Lords."
Qyburn paused briefly.
"The outcome may not be ideal. Some letters will be burned. Others will be met with silence."
"That doesn't matter," Gendry said flatly. "Power is power. Once they see what I can do, the fence-sitters will know who the true King is."
"And Moros's men?" Gendry asked.
"As ordered," Qyburn replied. "Moros knows the coastline like the lines on his palm. One fleet has sailed north with Jon Snow, passing Tarth, Dragonstone, Gulltown, the Fingers, the Three Sisters, and finally White Harbor."
"Another fleet has gone south with Ser Barristan, passing Cape Wrath and the Broken Arm, along the Sea of Dorne, all the way to the Arbor."
"Each fleet carries sealed chests of letters—two for every port, manor, and fishing village. They are to be nailed to the doors of septs and inns. Any who can read may do so. If not, the Kingsguard will read the proclamations aloud."
"Talented men are difficult to find," Gendry said quietly. "And the wars to come will be fought at sea as much as on land."
The Onion Knight had been his first choice—but having alternatives was still valuable.
Salladhor Saan of Lys. Moros of Myr. Davos of Dragonstone.
These men understood tides, oars, and wind better than most Lords understood swords.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Did the Old Knight insist on going himself?" Gendry asked.
"He volunteered," Qyburn replied. "He said it was his duty, and that his old face still carried weight."
Jon Snow and Barristan Selmy each led one mission. The influence of House Stark and the prestige of the Old Knight were powerful tools.
"Let him go," Gendry said. "I've already stolen Stannis's work."
Stannis Baratheon had been too slow.
Isolated on Dragonstone, information reached him late. His power base was limited, and gathering banners took time. With so few men, he dared not act decisively.
"But we are different," Qyburn said.
"Indeed," Gendry replied. "Once I raise my banner, the Seven Kingdoms must submit. I must win."
He had many advantages: the late King's acknowledged son, Daenerys's kin by marriage, a dragonrider, a liberator of slaves, and a slayer of Khals.
But in the end, victory would depend on politics and war.
"Sending Jon north is clever," Qyburn observed. "It may cool some hot northern heads."
"Perhaps," Gendry said. "Everyone should think more clearly."
"Robert is dead. Eddard Stark is imprisoned. Joffrey sits the throne," Qyburn continued. "The realm is in chaos. The North worries me most."
"The North is run by children," Gendry said bluntly. "Eddard is in King's Landing. Catelyn is at the Eyrie. Only Robb Stark remains."
"If Eddard Stark meets misfortune," Qyburn warned, "the consequences will be severe."
Robb Stark becoming King would have support. Two dead Starks in King's Landing would ignite fury.
"I hope Jon can still reach Robb."
"You are still referred to as 'heir' in the proclamation," Qyburn noted. "The bankers and guilds of Myr and Tyrosh hope you will be crowned soon."
"I will be crowned," Gendry said. "But first, I must carve out Westeros."
Tarth – Evenfall Hall
Tarth lay north of Shipbreaker Bay, separated from the mainland by a narrow strait. Its sigil bore a golden sun and silver crescent moon, quartered against rose and azure.
Jon Snow arrived by ship—uneasy, burdened, resolute.
Selwyn Tarth received him in a quiet cellar.
As Selwyn read the letter, his face paled.
"This… this is King Robert's will?"
"It is," Jon said.
"Has Lord Gendry been crowned?"
"No. He intends to deal with the traitors first."
"There is no royal seal," Selwyn said. "And Joffrey has already been crowned."
"The King died suddenly," Jon replied. "The will was witnessed by my father and Ser Barristan."
Selwyn exhaled slowly.
"How many troops does Gendry command?"
Jon answered without hesitation.
Selwyn gasped.
After Jon departed, Selwyn spoke with his maester.
"This is the fourth demand for allegiance," Selwyn said wearily. "I am old. I want peace."
"You have no choice," the maester said.
Four kings.
Four dances.
Finally, Selwyn sighed.
"I will hedge my bets."
Brienne would go to Renly.
The army would wait.
"When the victor is clear," Selwyn said quietly, "House Tarth will stand with him."
Yet still, his thoughts lingered on the boy across the Narrow Sea—
The dragonrider.
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