The dragons were growing impatient with the fussy greeting formalities. The black dragon flapped its wings, eager to soar into the sky, though even among them there was a pecking order.
Balerion was the first to flick his tail. After receiving that domineering warning, the white dragon Viserion had no choice but to take off, flapping his milky-white wings as he circled above the area where Gendry and Daenerys stood.
The overbearing Balerion claimed the best spot for himself. He spread his black wings and beat them lazily over Gendry's head, the edges brushing across Gendry's face. The black dragon awkwardly planted one foot on his head and the other on his shoulder.
No one dared step on the head of a man in power, except a dragon.
Though Balerion looked only about the size of a black-and-red foal, he was like Valyrian steel, light and hard. His weight was nothing to Gendry.
"All right, Balerion, you go fly too." Gendry grabbed the black dragon's claw. Balerion let out an unhappy screech, then spread his wings as well, beating the cold, clear air.
"And you too, Vhagar." Daenerys smiled and stroked the green dragon's horn.
Vhagar, the green dragon slightly smaller than the black one, reluctantly left the shaggy mane of the white lion and shrieked as she flew into the sky.
The three dragons circled and danced together overhead, like three revolving rings. The air filled with the smell of sulfur and fire.
The lords, knights, and squires stared wide-eyed, looking again and again at the dragon flock until they were certain these were three wild, vigorous dragons, utterly unlike the Last Dragon.
"Dragons, my gods."
"How is this possible? The first Baratheon to possess and ride a dragon?"
"It's a miracle…"
None of those present shouted or lost their manners, but their minds had gone blank, stunned again and again. The dragons' wild dance had truly opened their eyes today.
Daenerys bringing a little dragon with her was not so strange. But they had also seen "Storm" Gendry command two dragons with ease. The black dragon and the white dragon obeyed Storm's orders, and dragons only attached themselves to and trusted their own masters.
The answer was obvious. Gendry the Breaker was a new Dragonrider, a new Dragonlord.
House Baratheon had several times enjoyed the honor of marriage ties with House Targaryen. Orys was rumored to be the bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror, and two Baratheons had been half-siblings to the Conciliator. The only person even remotely connected to dragonriding was "the Uncrowned Queen" Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of the Dragon Prince and the great beauty Jocelyn Baratheon.
But the stags had never produced a Dragonrider the way House Velaryon of the seahorse had. Gendry had accomplished it, which made House Baratheon the third Dragonlord house after Targaryen and Velaryon. Not counting the bastard dragonriders from the Dance of the Dragons.
"What are their names, Prince and Princess?" young Ser Donnel Swann asked, his voice trembling.
Humans had an instinctive fear of violence, and dragons were both a miracle and an unreasonable force of violence.
"The black dragon is Balerion, the green dragon is Vhagar, and the white dragon is Viserion," Daenerys said with a smile. "They belong to Gendry and me."
Donnel Swann, Rolland Storm, and the others had already heard the dragons' names just now. They simply wanted to hear them again. These were grand names, and the Dragonriders meant to revive the glory of the Black Dread.
Donnel looked at Gendry, who seemed perfectly calm, and Ser Donnel Swann suddenly regretted that his father, Lord Gerion, had shut himself away.
Dragons, Valyrian steel weapons, an empire across the sea. No Baratheon had ever brought such glory as "Storm" Gendry. His father had been far too cautious.
Gendry introduced to Daenerys, one by one, some of the lords who had come to welcome them, the finest men of the Stormlands, the Vale, and Crackclaw Point. Every lord and soldier who had witnessed the dragon flock stood respectfully, convinced from the bottom of their hearts. There were also some knights led by Bronze Yohn, who had gone to welcome other honored guests.
"Lord Selwyn Tarth of Tarth, a good man, and currently my Master of Whisperers."
"Prince, Tarth stands at your command," Selwyn said with a bow. The man had always been known for his gentle, refined manner.
"Ser Harold Hardyng of the Vale, one of my squires. Ser Guyard Morrigen of the Stormlands, one of my squires."
"Harold stands at your command," said Harold, bowing. He looked much like Great Lord Jon in his youth, a tall, sturdy young man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a hooked nose.
"Guyard stands at your command."
"Lord Jack Crabb of Crackclaw Point, currently working with Lord Roose Bolton to clear the Kingsroad and other areas of Remnant."
"Lord Bryce Caron of Nightsong. One of his ancestors was a famous minstrel and singer. Ser Rolland Storm of Nightsong, brave and fearless."
"Nightsong stands at your command." Ser Roland immediately puffed out his chest. Being praised felt good, especially when the praise came from the strongest warrior of the age.
Daenerys, silver-haired and purple-eyed, thanked them one by one and used the chance to remember their faces.
"Ser Donnel Swann of Stonehelm, heir to House Swann."
"Lord Benedar Belmore of Strongsong." Benedar was very fat, with a pear-shaped belly, round shoulders, and a fleshy chin sprouting countless short bristles of pale yellow and gray, but he was also a good man.
"Stonehelm stands at your command," Ser Donnel said, bending the knee. "My father is on his way here so that he will not miss the coronation."
"Your father, Lord Gerion, has been claiming illness and staying home, refusing to join either side, while your brother serves as a white knight in King's Landing," Lord Bryce pointed out sharply. House Caron and House Swann both claimed to be the oldest lords of the Marches, so a little verbal sparring was only natural.
"My father is old, Lord. He is past forty and often ill. He has long been unfit to ride the battlefield," Donnel said at once, making his loyalty clear.
Gendry looked at Donnel. House Swann was a great house of the Marches, yet it had chosen sides as cautiously as a chameleon. Still, there was no need to dwell on it. After all, everyone wanted to follow the victor.
"Lord Harwood Fell of Felwood," Gendry introduced. "He is a kind man."
"Felwood stands at your command. King Robert won every war he fought, and Prince Storm is even more fearless than King Robert," Lord Harwood boasted. This man would die during the Snowlands Relief while trying to save a cart driver and his horse. His grandfather had died by Robert's hand at Summerhall, yet House Fell had still become Robert's supporters and admired King Robert's valor.
"Ser Justyn Massey."
...
"Lord of Sharp Point…"
...
"I am grateful for your lords' loyalty and the light of chivalry, but I think we will be more comfortable inside the command tent," Daenerys said with a smile.
Even though the lords had never met this Princess of a fallen kingdom before, they had long praised her inhuman beauty and royal bearing. And besides, she had dragons.
In the camp on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush, the silk tents of lords and knights stood in rows, like blooming mushrooms. Apart from those tents, there was also an area set aside as a prisoner-of-war camp.
The army's camp had grown lively as well. Spearmen, swordsmen, armored soldiers, all moved in good order.
"Bronze Yohn" was an old-fashioned commander, and the knights of the Stormlands also knew that Storm had always demanded strict discipline.
The soldiers used every means to show their allegiance. The golden quartered arms were embroidered on the right breast of soldiers and servants, flew from gold-threaded pennants decorating longspears and wooden spears, and appeared on the shields set outside the tents.
"Two black and white swans fighting, that is House Swann. A black crow in flight on a grass-green field belongs to House Morrigen. And there is House Caron's nightingale banner, House Estermont's green sea turtle, and more..." Daenerys felt a little proud. Aside from the most brilliant golden sigil, she was also counting the banners of the other lords and knights.
Heraldry and etiquette were essential lessons in the life of every noble child.
A warm atmosphere filled the great tent as the lords gathered inside Gendry's quarters. Gendry's tent was large but not luxurious. At the entrance stood his warhammer and a massive oak-and-steel shield.
Gendry sat behind the desk, with Daenerys seated beside him, while the lords sat on folding camp chairs. A large Myrish carpet covered the floor, and the dragons occupied that space.
"Smash Casterly Rock to pieces, and we'll be eating in the lions' hall," Rolland Storm said grandly. His face had been ruined by measles, but his courage was famous throughout the Stormlands.
"That's right. We have dragons, and dragons never stop growing. Killing Tywin and Balon will be nothing," Ser Donnel Swann said with enthusiasm. He had put caution aside and now trusted Gendry with almost fanatical conviction.
"Exactly." The plump Benedar Belmore nodded again and again.
Most knights were simple men. They admired warriors and thought little beyond that. All they had to do was follow their commander and charge. Few of them were truly sharp.
Yet those were exactly the kind of knights Gendry found easiest to command, like a hunter setting his hounds loose. There were few great generals, and far more men who served as useful tools.
Daenerys watched the lords and knights shouting with excitement. She listened, and she observed.
This was the battlefield of a woman at court: offering warmth to retainers, then safeguarding her husband's cause through gifts, rewards, and marriage alliances.
"Balon may already be dead," Gendry thought, then tossed a piece of meat to the little dragon. Balerion sprang forward and seized the prey with the speed of a cobra.
"Boom!" The smell of flame and sulfur filled the air. Balerion burned the meat through before eating it. Dragons were like humans in this alone: they only ate cooked meat.
"I hear I suddenly have a great many brothers and sisters?" Gendry asked.
"There are many, but according to Great Lord Stannis's judgment, they are all impostors. Some even dyed their hair black and their eyes blue. Lord Stannis rewarded them with a whipping, and there have been far fewer of them lately," Ser Guyard Morrigen said quietly.
"They saw King's Landing fall and came looking for their share of the excitement," Selwyn Tarth said helplessly.
...
At the docks of Duskendale, ships from Gulltown moved in and out of the harbor.
Because King's Landing's port had not fully recovered, the docks at Maidenpool and Duskendale had become busy once again. The steel hammer banner of House Rykker flew over the harbor of Duskendale, though the golden quartered banner still flew highest.
"Princess." "Great Lord Robert." "Lord Grafton." Lord Yohn Royce had been waiting at the docks of Duskendale with a group of men for quite some time, and at last the guests he wished to meet had arrived. Lord Yohn wore a cloak over bronze armor, making him stand out clearly in the crowd.
House Grafton's fleet had brought Mya Baratheon, Great Lord Robert Arryn of the Eyrie, Lord Grafton, and the others here. Behind them followed a group of knights in blue cloaks.
"Thank you for your trouble, Lord Yohn." Mya quickly curtsied. Although she had suddenly become a Princess among the great and powerful, she was still uneasy about her abrupt rise in status. Once, people like these had seemed impossibly far beyond her reach.
"Will I get to see the young man who took me flying at the Eyrie last time? No one at the Eyrie ever made me fly like that," Great Lord Robert Arryn asked eagerly. He still seemed a little restless, but he was better than before.
"You will, Great Lord. But you must call him king now."
"And my brother? ... Prince Gendry," Mya asked.
"His Highness should have returned by now," Lord Yohn said. "But he is not in the Red Keep of King's Landing. He is in the camp on the south bank. Prince Gendry has instructed that you may live directly in the Red Keep. Your uncle, Great Lord Stannis, is there as well."
"Good." Mya nodded. She was nervous, but when she saw the golden banner flying high, courage suddenly rose in her again.
The stag stood above all, looking down upon everything. She had the blood of the stag in her veins. She should be brave, and work for the glory of Storm.
"Lord Yohn." The handsome young Ser Mychel Redford also bowed to Yohn. He wore a white cloak embroidered with a red castle on a white field with a red border, the sigil of House Redfort.
"Lucky boy, but you must remember your place," Bronze Yohn said softly to Ser Mychel. As a second son's second son, securing such a good marriage connection was already a blessing.
In truth, Yohn admired him quite a bit, but the fine sword had already found its owner. It seemed he would have to find another match for his daughter.
Bronze Yohn thought it over again and again. Perhaps House Stark would be a good choice.
"I will remember your teaching," Mychel, the youngest son of Redfort, replied. He was one of the best young swordsmen in the Vale, and exceptionally brave.
"Lord Yohn, why have you not greeted me?" Lyn Corbray asked lazily, his rust-colored hair falling around his face, Lady Forlorn at his waist.
"Then I wish you good cheer as well," Lord Yohn said, looking at Lyn. Among the old-fashioned lords of the Vale, the cynical Lyn seemed very dissolute, but he was also one of the Vale's finest swordsmen.
"Haha, of course I'm in good cheer. Prince Storm gave me a handsome reward, enough to keep me comfortable. But I can't spend all my time protecting Princess Mya and Great Lord Robert. I still mean to go fight the lions. My lady needs to drink blood."
"There will be chances," Yohn said with a faint smile. "Everyone wants a taste of lion blood."
Golden war banners flew as Mya and Robert Arryn boarded the wheelhouse, while the other knights rode alongside to protect them.
...
On the Roseroad of the Reach, green banners with golden roses bloomed in the wind. A great wheelhouse carved along the sides with a hundred tangled roses rolled forward, flanked by Tyrell soldiers in green cloaks.
The convoy accompanying the army also carried a great deal of food.
Lady Alerie Hightower was on the upper level of the rose wheelhouse, while the lower level held only Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother, Lady Olenna.
"The great wheelhouse is gaudy enough already, and your foolish mother still insisted we gild the roses. She and your father really are a perfect pair. Of course gilding looks pretty, but is this not simply showing off?" Lady Olenna complained.
"My mother only wants glory for House Tyrell," Margaery said with a smile. She wore a green velvet gown and looked utterly charming.
"Glory does not come only from gold. It also comes from swords and fire," Olenna said worriedly.
"Are you afraid of winter, and of other people's envy?" Margaery asked, her large eyes bright and lovely.
"Roses cannot survive too harsh a winter, child." Olenna looked at the clever granddaughter she had raised from childhood.
"If Storm and his ministers are right, a ten-year Long Winter will surely mean famine and war on a scale we have never seen. The Reach is wealthy, yes, but we cannot feed so many hungry mouths. The Riverlands have been smashed to pieces, and the northern barbarians have fallen into chaos. If those starving ghosts turn their eyes toward Highgarden and the Reach, what do you think will happen?"
"War," Margaery said gravely. "The lords will join forces to plunder us and demand our grain."
"Exactly. The Reach may be wealthy, but its open fields have no natural defenses. In the past, we fought the ironborn, the Storm Kings, and the Dornishmen for many reasons, and grain was among the greatest. The ironborn and Dornishmen are paupers, and the Stormlands are not much better. They have more woods than farmland." Olenna fell into old memories. "Grain and gold are precious beyond measure, but only force can protect them."
"In war, I see no one now who can match Storm. He is a demon on the battlefield. Your brothers are excellent, but they lack that almost divine spark of a great commander, and in single combat they cannot defeat Gendry either. Randyll is our strongest fighter, and we both restrain and appease him, but who can truly say what is in Randyll's heart? Then there is Mathis Rowan. The Riverlands will soon be in the hands of that fool Edmure, and the Vale is ruled by a child. For more than ten years, it will revolve around the Iron Throne. We cannot withstand being divided up by the Five Kingdoms," Lady Olenna said softly.
"I understand." Margaery nodded, then looked at her grandmother. "I will become the Queen's closest companion at court. I will bring peace and joy to Highgarden, and I will speak for Highgarden."
Bitterness rose in Olenna's heart. Men depended on power, and women depended on men. That was the world they lived in.
"But you must not have anything with the king. I will not have my sweetling become a lowly Paramour at court. Besides, if that Targaryen girl has inherited her ancestors' fiery temper, life at court will be torment for you. If you cannot bear it, we will return to warm Highgarden." Olenna looked at her granddaughter. She was far too sensible, yet she had been born into such troubled times. She was destined not to become a warm rose, but a winter rose.
"I can bear it," Margaery said firmly.
"But if the king..." Margaery hesitated.
"I think, I think he should not be as mad as Robert. When we meet, I will offer him a warning or two," the Queen of Thorns said. "If he wants to kiss our rose, even as king, he cannot give us a gift precious enough."
The Queen of Thorns rubbed her aching temples. How was she supposed to handle this? She might keep her granddaughter in line, but could she keep the king in line too?
"But why do you trust Storm's Long Winter?" Margaery asked, puzzled.
"Grandmother is old, but my eyes have not failed me. High summer is not eternal summer. A Long Winter is bound to follow. Besides, look at Storm's rise over these past few years. He has moved through the fields of power and war without losing a single battle. I trust his predictions."
***
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