Seen from the sea, Storms End looks like a black fist thrust from the depths of the earth, pointing straight to the sky.
It is a structure that does not belong to this age.
Its walls are absurdly thick—forty feet at their thickest, and eighty feet on the side facing the sea, with a layer of sand and rubble sandwiched between two layers of stone, so tightly packed that not even a breath of wind can penetrate it.
The surface of the walls is a smooth curve, without corners or seams, as if a single piece of rock had been molded into its current shape by the raw strength of a giant.
It has stood on the cliff top for eight thousand years, enduring countless storms, the erosion of the sea, and sieges by enemy armies, yet it has never been breached.
Ancient spells are woven into the stone of the walls—spells carved by the last of the builders before the Andals invaded, said to be able to ward off magic, dragonfire, and all mortal force.
The fleet arrived in the afternoon.
Sunlight spilled through the gaps in the clouds, illuminating the beach beside the port.
Seen from the sea, the castle is more breathtaking than any legend.
It sits hunched on the cliff top like a clenched fist striking at the sky.
The walls are a solid, rounded curve, with grey-black stones tightly interlocked; it is said that not even a gust of wind can pass through them.
The side facing the sea rises straight up one hundred and fifty feet from the water, with waves crashing into foam at the base and seabirds circling the mid-section of the wall like tiny white specks.
Rhaenyra stood at the bow, holding Aegon in her arms, looking up at the giant tower.
The afternoon sunlight shone through the clouds, dyeing the walls a pale gold, but the top of the tower remained shrouded in shadow, like an iron helm that was never removed.
“So high,” Aegon said.
“So thick,” Rhaenyra said.
Both of them thought of King’s Landing.
As the capital of Westeros, it had been built up over a century by House Targaryen since Aegon the Conqueror’s conquest, making it grander than any other castle in Westeros.
But Storms End was different.
It was far older than King’s Landing, so old that legend claimed spells were woven into its walls, built by the last Storm King in the Age of Dawn, using the sweat and blood of giants, the Children of the Forest, and men.
The fleet turned into the port.
The harbor was small, embraced by an artificial breakwater, with a lighthouse at its end, the embers of its light still smoking.
Several ships were already docked in the port today—
A green turtle ship belonging to House Estermont of Greenstone, a silver-sailed ship of House Tarth of Evenfall Hall, two merchant ships with the golden stag on black of House Baratheon, and several small fishing boats.
But what made everyone stop was not these ships.
It was the giant dragon lying on the nearby beach.
Everyone could see the giant dragon.
It lay on the sand like a sleeping hill.
Its deep green scales shimmered with a dull luster in the sunlight, each one like an ancient shield.
If its wings were fully spread, they would be enough to cover half the ship.
Its breathing was slow and heavy, each exhale blowing up a small whirlwind on the sand.
Vhagar.
The largest dragon currently alive.
One of the three founding dragons of House Targaryen still in existence.
It had carried Queen Visenya into battle, flown beside the Black Dread Balerion, and witnessed the entire Conquest.
After Visenya died, it waited for twenty-nine years before Prince Baelon—Viserys’s father, the “Prince of Spring”—came.
After Baelon died, it waited another four years for a twelve-year-old girl.
Laena Velaryon.
Tyland Lannister stood at the bow, clutching a map, staring at the behemoth on the beach, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Vhagar,” he said, his voice dry.
“It is at Storms End.”
The Cargyle brothers simultaneously placed their hands on their sword hilts, then realized that swords were meaningless against that dragon and released them.
Alec whispered: “Lady Laena arrived first.” Ilic added: “Much faster than us.”
The two looked at each other, both seeing the same thought in the other’s eyes: If Vhagar was here, then Syrax and Sunfyre—
But their worries were clearly unnecessary, as a dragon’s roar came from the sky.
Syrax dove from the clouds, its golden scales like a flowing river of molten gold in the sunlight.
It did not land in the port, but flew directly toward Vhagar on the beach.
Their riders, Rhaenyra and Laena, were close friends, so naturally they spent plenty of time together; dragons restrained by their riders would not naturally erupt into a dragon fight.
Sunfyre followed behind and to the side, its body not even as large as Vhagar’s mouth, but its golden scales shone blindingly in the sun, showing no fear.
The deep green dragon on the beach raised its head.
Its eyes were amber, almost transparent in the sunlight.
It watched Syrax and Sunfyre approach but did not rise, did not spread its wings, only let out a low rumble—the sound was like distant thunder, making the wooden planks on the ship tremble slightly.
After all, as the Mother of All Dragons, if one were to truly count, Syrax and Sunfyre were merely its children and grandchildren.
Syrax circled above Vhagar once, then landed beside it, folded its wings, and crouched.
Sunfyre landed beside Syrax, its golden eyes fixed on Vhagar, the tip of its tail tapping the sand lightly.
Three dragons, three colors, three sizes, lined up on the beach of Storms End.
No one on the ship spoke.
Galwin Hightower poked his head out of the cabin, saw the scene on the beach, and pulled it back in.
Floris covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide.
Larys Strong stood by the railing with his cane, his grey eyes moving between the three dragons, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
Rhaenyra stood on the deck holding Aegon, looking at Vhagar on the beach, her expression complex.
She certainly knew Laena.
They had grown up together on Dragonstone, chased and played in the courtyards of Driftmark, and shared maiden secrets in the shadow of Syrax and Vhagar outside King’s Landing.
Later, due to their fathers, it was inevitable they would separate, but the two still exchanged letters often and arranged to visit.
“Cousin Laena is here,” Rhaenyra said, her voice very soft.
Aegon poked his head out from her arms, looking at the deep green giant dragon on the beach—Vhagar. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
He had seen portraits of it, read history about it, but seeing it in reality still made him feel a sense of suffocation.
It was one of the oldest living creatures, having witnessed the coronation of Aegon the Conqueror, the tyranny of Maegor, and the long peace of Jaehaerys.
It now belonged to Laena Velaryon—a seventeen-year-old girl, the eldest daughter of Lord Corlys Velaryon, the “Sea Snake,” and Princess Rhaenys, “The Queen Who Never Was.”
The system vibrated slightly deep in Aegon’s consciousness, but no prompt popped up.
It was just there, quietly monitoring Vhagar’s bio-energy field.
By the time the fleet docked, the gates of Storms End had already opened.
Lord Borros Baratheon stood on the pier, behind him the lords of the Stormlands.
He looked sturdier than he had two years ago during the hunt in the Kingswood, his shoulders as broad as a city gate, his black beard neatly trimmed, his blue eyes carrying the signature sharpness of House Baratheon.
His wife, Elena Caron, stood near him, her lower abdomen slightly raised—she was five months pregnant.
But standing beside Borros, closest to him, was not Elena.
That spot was left for someone else.
She was half a head taller than Rhaenyra, her silver-gold hair inherited from her father braided behind her shoulders, her face beautiful and graceful, and the deep purple eyes inherited from her mother held a composure rare in House Targaryen.
She wore a gorgeous sea-blue gown, with a silver seahorse brooch pinned to the collar, the sigil of the Velaryons, her face showing a maturity that did not belong to her age.
She stood there, back straight, chin slightly raised, her posture like her dragon—quiet, massive, and impossible to ignore.
Yet, her relaxed posture also made it seem as if the giant dragon on the beach had nothing to do with her.
This was Laena Velaryon.
Two women—a thirteen-year-old princess, heir to the Iron Throne; a seventeen-year-old noble lady, rider of the largest existing dragon—looked at each other for a moment across the stone path of the pier.
Then Rhaenyra smiled.
Laena smiled too.
The smile was faint and fleeting, but Aegon caught it.
His heart skipped a beat, and he thought of the “Velaryon Proposal” that his father Viserys and Lyonel Strong had mentioned at the Small Council—Rhaenyra marrying Laenor, and Aegon marrying Laena.
At the time, he felt this was a long way off.
Now Laena was standing right in front of him, alive, riding Vhagar, seventeen years old, fourteen years older than him, but…
He extinguished that thought in his mind, not wanting to think about it.
First, help Rhaenyra ruin the suitor selection.
Rhaenyra had already stepped onto the pier.
She wore a black and red riding outfit today, her long hair braided in the style of Queen Visenya in her youth.
She was not holding Aegon in her arms today—Aegon was walking on his own, holding one of her hands.
As Rhaenyra officially stepped off the ship, Laena was the first to walk forward.
She did not bow, nor did she offer pleasantries; she simply opened her arms, just as she had years ago on Dragonstone.
“Rhaenyra.”
Rhaenyra shifted Aegon to one side and stepped forward to embrace her.
They were similar in height, their shoulders level, their embrace like two young she-dragons testing each other.
“You’ve lost weight,” Rhaenyra said.
“You’ve grown taller,” Laena said.
Both of them laughed aloud at the same time.
Borros Baratheon stepped forward to bow to Rhaenyra.
His movements were standard, but his voice was so booming that it made the eardrums of those nearby vibrate: “Your Highness!
Storm’s End welcomes you!
And the little Prince as well!”
He looked at Aegon, his gaze lingering on the boy for a moment.
“Two years ago in the Kingswood, hearing from a squire about how Your Highness rode upon the back of a white hart—I have never forgotten it.”
Aegon poked his head out from behind Rhaenyra and gave him a smile.
The corner of Borros’s mouth twitched, as if recalling the morning that had left him jaw-dropped, then he quickly returned to his normal state and turned to the crowd behind him.
“Your Highness, we have prepared a welcoming banquet for you and the Prince.
The lords of the Stormlands have all arrived and are waiting for you and the Prince to take your seats.”
He paused, and as her uncle, he also glanced at Laena.
“Laena arrived this morning; she said she wanted to see you.”
Rhaenyra nodded and looked at Laena.
Laena was staring at Aegon, her gaze holding something strange—not curiosity, not scrutiny, but more like a confirmation.
“Is this the child?” she asked Rhaenyra, her voice very soft.
“The one who hatched Sunfyre in three days and rode a white hart at one year old?”
Rhaenyra tightened her arms.
“He is Aegon.
If you had come to King’s Landing a few times these past years, you wouldn’t be so unfamiliar with him.”
Laena crouched down to look Aegon in the eye.
Her deep purple eyes were bright, like polished amethysts.
She looked at him for a long time, then reached out and gently touched his cheek.
“But if I had been fortunate enough to stay in King’s Landing, wouldn’t you be calling me Mother now, and wouldn’t this little one cease to exist?” Laena pinched Aegon’s little cheek and turned back to joke with Rhaenyra.
After all, when the “Sea Snake” Corlys Velaryon returned to King’s Landing and broke with Viserys again, a major reason was that he had proposed that the then twelve-year-old Laena marry the recently widowed Viserys to ease tensions between the two houses.
However, after Viserys righteously rejected him, he turned around and married Alicent, effectively snapping and burning the ladder Corlys had extended.
“That wouldn’t be fortunate, that would be a great misfortune…” Rhaenyra muttered, watching Laena “torture” her little Aegon, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly.
However, Laena didn’t mind and continued to “ravage” Aegon’s little cheeks.
“My name is Laena,” she said.
“I am your sister’s cousin, and I am your cousin too.” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Aegon looked at her without speaking.
He knew who she was.
Laena Velaryon, rider of Vhagar, eldest daughter of the “Sea Snake” Corlys Velaryon, and the future second wife of Daemon Targaryen.
In the original work, she was betrothed at this time to the spendthrift son of the Sealord of Braavos, but not long after that Sealord died, his fortune was quickly squandered by his prodigal son.
With no excuse to break off the betrothal, Lord Corlys could only keep postponing the wedding and had to keep supporting his daughter’s fiancé.
It wasn’t until five years later, in 115 AC, that Daemon Targaryen’s first wife, Rhea Royce, died “accidentally.”
Daemon passed by Driftmark, deliberately provoked the Sealord’s son, and easily slaughtered him in a duel.
Shortly after, the 22-year-old Laena married Daemon, who was 12 years her senior.
The two understood that Viserys and the others would not be happy about their marriage, so they rode their dragons across the Narrow Sea to travel through the Free Cities.
During that journey, she became pregnant with twin daughters, and in 116 AC, they stopped in Pentos, where their twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, were born.
Viserys reconciled with Daemon due to the birth of his nieces, and Daemon and Laena returned to the Seven Kingdoms to live on Driftmark.
But on the third day of 120 AC, a year known in history as the “Red Spring,” Laena went into labor again, only to give birth to a deformed baby boy who died prematurely.
Because her brother Laenor died unexpectedly, a grieving and weak Laena contracted childbed fever.
Daemon brought the skilled Maester Gerardys from Dragonstone, but even he could do nothing, and she passed away three days later.
Before she died, she attempted to get out of bed to ride Vhagar one last time, but she was too weak and collapsed on the stairs, falling into an eternal sleep.
But now, it was only 110 AC, ten years earlier.
At this moment, she was alive, healthy, young, standing before him, her fingers warmly pressed against his face.
“Hello,” Aegon said.
Laena smiled, and that smile lit up her entire face.
“He is truly cute,” she said to Rhaenyra.
“Much cuter than Uncle Vaemond’s messenger described.”
Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow.
“How did Vaemond’s messenger describe him?”
“He said: ‘That little Prince of the royal house, his gaze looks at people like an old lord, he speaks of great truths like an old maester, and he lies on the dragon’s back like an old knight.'”
Laena stood up, mimicking Vaemond’s imitation of his messenger, the exaggerated tone of the original message vivid and lifelike.
“He also said: ‘His Majesty the King has sired a monster.'”
Rhaenyra frowned.
“He is not a monster.”
“I know.” Laena glanced at Sunfyre on the beach.
“When Uncle Vaemond told us this, his tone was proud.
He rarely praises anyone, especially, after Father left King’s Landing twice, anyone of House Targaryen.”
Aegon listened from within Rhaenyra’s arms, a complex emotion welling up in his heart.
Vaemond Velaryon, the younger brother of Corlys Velaryon, was with Daemon Targaryen, at this moment thousands of miles away on the Stepstones, besieged by the Triarchy and the Dornish, waiting for reinforcements from the Iron Throne.
Their families were here, on the beach of Storm’s End, speaking well of them.
“Let us go,” Borros’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“The banquet is prepared.
Specialties of the Stormlands—roast boar, dark beer, and wine shipped from The Arbor.
Your Highness, you will surely love it.”
He turned to lead the way, his stride vigorous.
Lady Elena Caron followed behind her husband, nodding slightly as she passed Rhaenyra.
Her belly was already quite prominent, but her gait remained steady.
The nobles of the Stormlands followed behind, arranged by rank.
At the very front were the heirs to several comital houses—some Aegon had seen during the hunt in the Kingswood, others were unfamiliar faces.
Most of their gazes fell upon Rhaenyra, but soon shifted to Aegon, then to Sunfyre on the beach, and finally returned to Aegon.
The deeds of the three-year-old Prince riding a white hart two years ago had long since spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and now he was here in person.
Aegon lay on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, feeling the weight of those gazes, and suddenly realized one thing: this visit to Storm’s End was nominally for Rhaenyra to “choose a husband,” but in reality, the lords of the Stormlands were probably more interested in seeing him, the “Prince favored by the white hart.”
He looked up at Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra seemed to have realized this too, tightening her arm and whispering, “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Aegon said.
“I’m just wondering if the person Sister is to choose might be among these people.”
Rhaenyra glared at him.
“If you say that again, I will throw you to Sunfyre.”
Sunfyre sneezed on the beach, as if in response.
Laena walked beside Rhaenyra, heard the conversation between the siblings, and smiled.
“Your brother is smarter than you think,” she said to Rhaenyra.
“I know,” Rhaenyra sighed.
“That is the problem.”
They walked side by side into the gates of Storm’s End.
The shadows of the walls covered them, cool, dark, and carrying the damp scent peculiar to stone.
The hall was on the ground floor of the tower, vast enough to hold thousands.
Long tables were already set, silver utensils glittered in the candlelight, and the aroma of roast meat filled the air.
Borros sat at the head of the table, Elena at his right hand, and Laena at his left.
Rhaenyra was seated next to Laena, with Aegon on her lap.
The banquet began, though this time Sunfyre could only lie on the beach outside the castle, along with Vhagar and Syrax; the three dragons were like three silent hills in the twilight—
Of course, compared to Syrax, Sunfyre looked more like a small hillock, but compared to Vhagar, it was practically a small mound of dirt.