The Narrow Sea, aboard the Balerion. Amid the blare of horns and the cries of sailors, the warship cut through the morning mist.
The ship's iridescent sails were painted with a three-headed red dragon and a crowned, warhammer-bearing stag in full charge. Fine escort ships flanked her on both sides, crewed by brave sailors, and the Onion Knight's skill at sea was second to none.
"Whoosh, whoosh."
The sea breeze blew past as Gendry and Daenerys stood shoulder to shoulder on the deck, looking out over the sea, blue and clear as polished glass. Seabirds wheeled overhead, flying fish broke the surface, and dragons circled above the ship.
Gendry wore a black studded vest and black breeches, with a golden cloak over his shoulders. At his sword belt hung the black sword Orphan-Maker and a dagger. The broad Tiger's Roar, Storm's Edge, and the double-curved Dragonbone bow had all been put away.
For close combat, a slender sword was more flexible. Besides, with his strength, he had already reached a balance of hardness and softness, able to make the light feel heavy, and he also had the Firekeeper's ring to command flame.
Daenerys Targaryen wore a purple velvet gown and a cloak made from the pelt of Heraq the white lion, which made her look like a fluffy little bear. The gentle sea wind brushed through her hair, and Daenerys's silver-gold locks swept across Gendry's face, tickling him.
Gendry saw the trumpet-shaped mouth of the river, where the water rushed endlessly into the sea, day and night. On the south bank of King's Landing were dense woods and army tents. On the north bank stood the Red Keep, like a crimson beast, with golden war banners glaring down over the river mouth.
Daenerys looked at the unfamiliar sights and pointed toward the Red Keep. "That is the Red Keep, King's Landing."
Gendry nodded. He knew King's Landing all too well. "King's Landing is a great city of five hundred thousand people, the largest city in Westeros. It stinks, and it is crowded with people. Life is much better up on the three hills."
This fleet would land at the camp on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush, rather than sailing straight into King's Landing. Gendry had already informed Great Lord Stannis and the other senior ministers of the news under his new name, Gendry T. B. Breaker.
"The cities elsewhere are much smaller, like White Harbor and Gulltown," Daenerys said. She had been diligently learning about Westeros, but seeing it with her own eyes was still different from reading about it in books. There was a feeling that only came from truly being there.
"Only Oldtown of House Hightower in The Reach can compare with King's Landing in scale. The North has only one city, White Harbor, the mouth of The North," said the tall, slender Dacey Mormont. "Other than that, there are the winter towns where people shelter from the cold."
Why was Hightower so wealthy? The Lord of the High Tower controlled a vast stretch of fertile land at the mouth of The Reach, and held Oldtown, the ancient second-largest city, all by themselves. Those things meant taxes and population.
"The Vale has Gulltown, the prettiest city and harbor. Other territories have harbors too, such as our House Royce," Robar said.
The harbor of House Royce's Runestone lands was not as good as Gulltown, but its terrain was complete, with plains, docks, valleys, and forests all together. That was why they had always held the place of the second-ranked lords in the Vale.
"Princess, the Stormlands have no cities, only the medium-sized trading town of Weeping Town. Tarth and Estermont Island serve as sea waystations and safe harbors, but neither developed into a city," Brienne of Tarth said.
She had a pair of innocent, beautiful eyes, the finest feature of her whole body. The Maiden of Tarth wore blue armor and looked like a blue giant. Among those present, only the Iron Knight John Strong and Gendry were taller than her.
Gendry thought for a moment. In the Stormlands, the place most suited to becoming a city was still Weeping Town of House Whitehead.
But because relations between the Stormlands and Dorne were tense, the place had developed slowly. In truth, that was the nature of the Stormlands. They were direct and straightforward. They were like warriors, sailors, archers, and seamen, but they were not much good at management or intrigue.
"I know that place. It is called Weeping Town because after the Young Dragon was murdered in Dorne, his body was first brought there and remained there for three days." Daenerys looked at the girl from Tarth.
"If she keeps studying, my house will have a female maester," Gendry said with a laugh. In truth, he also loved reading, but his martial exploits made people forget that easily.
There was no contradiction between having a tiger in one's heart and stopping to smell the roses, just as a king ought to be a blend of lion and fox.
"Then I'll have to swallow candles and books as well."
Daenerys Targaryen continued taking in her surroundings with her violet eyes, a touch of emotion in her gaze. "From Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and later to Qohor, Volantis, and Lys, I drifted without a home. I never put down roots anywhere, until Pentos. Now I have come home."
"I am different from you, Daenerys. When I was young, I always lived in King's Landing. At first in a tavern, then later at a smithy," Gendry said, taking Daenerys's hand.
"Back then, I saw King Robert from a distance a few times at tournaments. Once, at the Great Sept of Baelor, the Gold Cloaks pushed us aside so he could pass. Another time, he had just returned from a hunt, and I was playing near the Mud Gate. He was so drunk he nearly knocked me over with his horse."
"What if the two of you had recognized each other back then?" Daenerys asked curiously.
"There was no chance of that. Not being recognized was a stroke of luck." Gendry shook his head. If not for the value he still had, he would surely have been killed sooner or later once discovered.
The Lannisters had sent men to murder a group of bastards. The older the child, the greater the threat. Edric Storm, born of a noblewoman, had been fostered at Storm's End, while Mya Stone was a girl. He had been hidden right under the enemy's eyes.
"Do you miss them?" Daenerys turned and asked him. Robert Baratheon, and Gendry's mother, a woman whose name he did not know.
"How should I put it? A young man comes of age when he defeats his father in his own mind, surpasses him, and destroys him," Gendry replied. "As for my mother, she died when I was very small. I miss her dearly."
King Robert had always craved joy and laughter. He himself had been a child who never grew up, and he did not know how to raise children. Even before Joffrey and the others were exposed for what they were, his love had been absent.
"I am the same. I miss my mother, Queen Rhaella," Daenerys said, stroking Gendry's long, strong hand. There was a broken beauty to this wounded man. His handsome, fearless face rarely showed such vulnerability.
Neither of them had much impression of their fathers. Daenerys knew the cruel truth of her father, but she had always missed her mother. When she was little, Viserys often complained that Daenerys had killed their mother, and he had never forgiven his sister.
Everyone fell silent. As a young, legendary man who had risen from nothing, people often overlooked that Storm Gendry was still a youth. They noticed only the undefeated warrior descended from the heavens, the man who had left corpses strewn wherever he passed. Only the tenderness he sometimes revealed made him seem like a fragile mortal rather than a god.
Ser Barristan watched Gendry and Daenerys. He alone had witnessed the storms of power in King's Landing again and again. He had seen those brilliant young kings. He had trusted them and hoped they would achieve great things. Yet the Mad King and Robert had been born noble, and in the end, they had turned the realm into a tangled mess.
These two young people made hope kindle again in Ser Barristan's heart. Perhaps only those who had suffered could become true kings. "I will guard the true kings, and die for them," Ser Barristan thought.
"The past is gone. Look to the future," Gendry said to Daenerys.
"I know." Daenerys nodded. The past was the past. There was no need to be too harsh in chasing old sins. In Westeros, everyone was kin to everyone else. Digging endlessly into the past would only turn one into a tyrant.
The only thing they needed to do was learn from it. When the blood of Targaryen and Baratheon joined once more, when the stag and the dragon were wedded again, when Ours is the Fury and Fire and Blood sounded together once more, there would be a new dynasty, a new house, and a new age.
A small swell rose over the sea, and the crew began preparing to land the ship. The knights and attendants also made ready.
Gendry looked out at the vast land. The coastline was almost before them, and the camp on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush was nearly reached. As for the Red Keep across the river, that patch of red looked so much like the color of blood. In the past, others had reached for the crown and the throne. Now he was the one who would take the crown.
"Well done, lad."
As the golden war banner snapped in the wind, Gendry seemed, in a daze, to remember his blood-soaked father Robert, that fat drunkard and lecher who had once baffled him, raising a cup to him from the clouds.
Gendry remembered many people. The failures of the Mad King Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen, father and son. The failures of Rickard and Brandon Stark, father and son.
The failure of the new dynasty's Hand, Great Lord Jon Arryn. The failure of his father, King Robert Baratheon. The failure of the Hand, Lord Eddard. The failure of the ambitious Great Lord Renly. The failures of Great Lord Tywin Lannister and Great Lord Hoster Tully. The failures of Littlefinger Petyr and the Spider Varys. The failures of Drogo and Khal Zekko. The failure of the Volantis commander Malaquo. The failures of the Magisters of the Three Daughters and the slave masters of Slaver's Bay.
Some of these people had passively refused the river of power, while others had eagerly stepped into it. But to keep winning was harder than anything.
Some players were mad. Some were superstitious. Some valued honor. Some drowned themselves in wine and lust. Some were greedy. Some were wild. Some were hard. Some were vicious. Some were fragile. Some were rough. Some neglected to discipline their children and the people around them.
But in the game of power, there was no doubt that they were all losers.
The words of House Baratheon were Ours is the Fury. Ours is the Fury was a fine phrase, though it overlapped with the Field of Fire. Taken literally, it meant that we are fury, we are the storm. The blood of the storm must fear nothing and overcome everything. The storm could be reckless and stubborn, but it could never be weak.
"I have gone forward all this way, and won all this way. I deceive, I lure, I kill, I conquer. I exist to touch the highest peak of power, the supreme power that can be shared with no one, to defeat the Long Night and destroy my enemies. The Known World, its countless people, all rest upon my shoulders."
"My fury is true fury. My power is true power." Gendry gripped the hilt of Orphan-Maker, and no hesitation remained.
I am the storm. I am fury. I am victory. I am power.
Gendry stepped off the ship arm in arm with the fluffy Daenerys. The lords of the Stormlands, the Vale, Crackclaw Point, and other lands were waiting for them in the camp.
The assembled lords bent the knee in greeting. "Good morning, Prince Gendry. Princess Daenerys."
"Good morning, my lords."
The dragons' cries suddenly shattered the morning sea mist, and the horses in the camp began to panic.
The dragons rode the long wind toward them, like flowing flames above the tents, black, white, and green.
The dragons circled down. The green dragon burrowed into Daenerys's lion pelt, while the white dragon and black dragon landed on Gendry's shoulders, one on each side, looking down at the great and lesser lords with eyes like fire and molten gold.
Selwyn Tarth and Harrold Hardyng, as members of the inner circle who knew the truth best, remained calm. The other lords, however, stared in stunned confusion.
"It's a dragon."
"It's a dragon!" A timid lord collapsed onto the ground.
Even more lords stretched their necks at once, eager to glimpse the miracle in the sky. A miracle that had vanished from Westeros for more than a hundred and fifty years.
After a moment, the lords' terror turned into wild joy. This time, it was not only a true dragon returning home. Real dragons had returned as well.
Looking at those eager, enthusiastic faces, Daenerys once again thought of her brother Viserys's face, gaunt, withered, and filled with longing for the crown. His obsession had driven him mad.
Viserys had told her countless times that across the Narrow Sea, in the lands of the sunset, there was a place of rolling green hills, flowered plains, and deep rushing rivers. There were black stone towers rising high among magnificent gray-blue peaks, and armored warriors carrying bright banners to the battlefield. The Dothraki called it Rhaesh Andahli, meaning the Land of the Andals. In the Free Cities, people called it Westeros and the Sunset Kingdoms. This was "our land," and it should belong to us forever. No one could steal from the true dragon. The true dragon never forgot.
"Brother, Viserys Targaryen, Daenerys has returned," Daenerys thought. "But not as the restorer you hoped for, bringing blood, blades, and fire. True dragons are not afraid of fire. True dragons should fly free. I have my own path, and I will bring peace and prosperity in my own way."
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