A subtle resonance hummed through the blood of the dragonlords.
In ordinary times, the bond remained dormant, yet when kin took to the sky upon their mounts, thoughts and intentions passed between riders like whispers on the wind.
Old Valyria accepted this as simple nature; none sought to dissect the mechanism.
Raegon paid the mystery little mind.
Mastering what lay within his own hands was task enough.
Balerion wheeled his massive head, forging the path south while Raegor matched his wingbeats close behind.
Below on the churning water, Admiral Spyro watched the departing behemoths with wide, reverent eyes.
His deckhands scrambled across the blood-slick timbers, binding captured Volantenes into long iron chains.
The two dragons had broken three-quarters of the southern fleet in the span of a single turn of the glass.
The few surviving scout ships, their crews paralyzed by the slaughter, dropped their iron anchors the moment Braavosi galleys closed the distance.
The engagement had ended before Daemon Velaryon’s fleet even formed its battle line.
Across the channel, the surface was choked with shattered hulls and burning timbers.
The two-hundred-oared Waterside Widow was slowly sinking into the deep, its charred ribs hissing as salt water met hot iron.
Greasy black smoke rolled across the sea, catching the dying crimson rays of the setting sun.
“Is this the true strength of dragons?”
Rhaegar Velaryon stood near the cliff edge of the Dragonmont, his violet eyes alight with fierce excitement.
Never in his studies had he imagined witnessing an armada shattered with such effortless finality.
The histories spoke of three hundred dragons setting the Mother Rhoyne boiling during the Rhoynish Wars, sending the grand war-galleys of Prince Garin to the bottom alongside hundreds of thousands of brave warriors.
Seeing the reality of that power made the beatings in the Honeywine feel like a stroke of fortune.
No mystery in the world held greater allure.
“That was the power that brought every kingdom west of the Bone Mountains to its knees,” Rhaenys said, gazing out over the water.
She wore a long Valyrian gown of dark silk embroidered with scarlet flames, crafted from fabric treated to shed the constant soot of the mountain.
Silver combs pinned her pale curls, framing a face touched by pride.
“I must compose a new cycle of verse,” she murmured, a soft smile gracing her lips.
“Ten songs, at least, to herald the return of our line.”
“You would do better to prepare your bridal gown, sister,” Visenya said with a low, rich laugh.
“Aegon will return from this campaign with glory worthy of a dragonlord’s wedding.”
“As will you,” Rhaenys teased back, her lilac eyes dancing.
“Or do you intend to wait a few more years?
A fledgling boy is not easily plucked, even if our little brother grows taller by the moon.”
Visenya arched a single silver brow.
Rhaenys laughed openly.
“To think our unbending Visenya has a softer side.”
The laughter faded, leaving a quiet gravity between them.
“You should weigh it well,” Rhaenys added, her voice dropping.
“Raegon is still young.
The ways of men and maidens are only just finding him in his sleep.
It will be years before he is ripe for the bridal bed.”
“That matters little,” Visenya said, her gaze steady on the horizon.
“The blood of the dragon has remained pure for thousands of years. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
The boy carries rare, impossible power in his veins.
Keeping that legacy whole is our shared duty.”
“Then I wish you fair winds in Gogossos,” Rhaenys said, knowing the two intended to fly south once the straits were cleared.
“I will prepare the songs for your return.
What shall it be?
A saga of wild adventure, a knightly lay of the lady and her squire, or a scandalous romance?”
A mischievous grin crossed the younger sister’s lips.
“Perhaps something suitably wicked…”
Visenya slipped an arm around Rhaenys’s waist, silencing her with a pointed squeeze.
“Lady Rhaenys,” Rhaegar spoke up, stepping forward with scholarly solemnity.
“By classical metrics, an expedition to the Isle of Tears does not conform to the structure of an amorous ballad.
As for scandalous verse, the market for a tale concerning a lady of five-and-twenty and a youth of twelve namedays is remarkably narrow, meaning—”
“Quiet, cousin Rhaegar,” Rhaenys cut in, shooting him an amused glare.
“Gather your travel chest,” Visenya instructed, turning her back on the sea.
“You ride with me to Tyrosh.”
“Do we not wait for Lord Raegon to return?” Rhaegar asked.
“When the moon reaches its height, the fleet off Tyrosh will learn what true fire tastes like,” Visenya said with cool certainty.
“From there, Aegon and Raegon will fly directly to the Disputed Lands to support the Storm King’s landing.
There is no need to wait here.
We meet them in the harbor of Tyrosh.”
While the three on the slopes prepared for their journey, the rookery of the Stone Drum was alive with manic energy.
Maester Garwyn leaned far over the parapet of the Raven Tower, his gray robes flapping in the wind as he barked orders to his scribes.
“Did you record the flight lines?
Did you note the flame’s reach?” Garwyn shouted, his face flushed with triumph.
“The true nature of dragon warfare!
The first complete record in over a hundred years!
We are the witnesses of history!”
The maester threw his arms wide toward the south, laughing into the gale.
“Let the old fools in the Citadel rot in their towers!
They called Dragonstone a barren rock, refusing to send their brightest novices.
Now the truth belongs to us!”
He seized Assistant Maester Gremenson by the woolen collar, shaking him with wild glee.
“To us!
Do you hear me?”
“Shall we prepare a copy for Oldtown, Maester?” a younger scribe asked, clutching his inkpot.
“To Oldtown?
Never!” Garwyn snapped, wrinkles of indignation tightening around his eyes.
I will not have those arrogant windbags take our labor to polish their dull histories!”
The scribe pulled his chin into his collar, retreating into the shadows.
Gremenson remained silent, his gaze fixed on the southern clouds.
When he completed his studies, his ambition had been to author the definitive treatise on the sorceries of Old Valyria.
Though denied a seat on Driftmark, he had accepted his post on the island with quiet patience.
Unlike Garwyn, who held only traditional brass and iron links, Gremenson had kept vigil before the obsidian glass candle in the Citadel vaults, winning the rare Valyrian steel link that marked a scholar of the higher mysteries.
That study had exposed him to matters the common maesters never touched.
He knew of the secret correspondences between the archmaesters and the high clergy of the Faith.
He knew of the hidden vaults containing fragments of forbidden ritual parchment.
He knew of the quiet, continuous collection of noble genealogies and private castle records flowing into Oldtown’s archives.
A sudden shiver ran down Gremenson’s spine.
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he followed the elder maester back down the stone stair.
The moon climbed steadily toward the center of the night sky.
Though age and colossal size had stripped Raegor and Balerion of the nimble quickness of their youth, the steady sweep of their wings swallowed leagues of open sea with ease.
A voyage that required days of fair wind for the swiftest galley passed beneath them in hours.
The psychic link between rider and mount sustained Raegon, filling his chest with a warm, steady vitality that kept the coastal frost at bay.
“Raegon,” Aegon’s voice resonated through their shared bond.
“You lead the strike.”
Raegon smiled behind his leather mask.
Raegor’s radiant gold scales were far more striking against the black night than Balerion’s dark bulk, carrying a terror that shattered morale before the fire even fell.
“Let us show the First Daughter our teeth,” Raegon replied.
Through the dragon’s shared sight, the island fortress of Tyrosh rose from the dark water.
The Archon’s palace sat atop the highest crag, surrounded by stone terraces and sprawling theaters, though the lamps of the city were dark and shuttered.
Within the inner bay, sheltered by four great sea towers, lay the battered Tyroshi fleet.
They had repelled an assault earlier that morning, trading three vessels to sink seven Volantene galleys, yet remained trapped within their own harbor.
Across the headland, the remnants of the Lysene exiles sat ruined, having lost nine ships to a midnight fireship raid.
Outside the harbor, the Volantene blockade lay sprawled across the roadstead, entirely unconcerned with defense.
At the center of their line sat the three-hundred-oared Tiger of Selhorys, her decks blazing with torchlight.
A victory feast was in full swing.
Captains and commanders gathered along the upper deck, drinking sweet vintages shipped from Ryk-Lacron.
The vice-admiral reclined against silk cushions, savoring a goblet of Myrish red while mentally tallying the chests of gold bribes secured from the local merchants.
A sudden flash of brilliant light caught the edge of his eye.
Gold?
Before his wine-dulled mind could form the question, a radiance bright as the rising sun tore through the velvet darkness.
“Valar dracarys!”
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