The afternoon before the storm arrived, the sky was tinged with a heavy leaden yellow.
The air was thick with heavy moisture.
The sea was uncommonly calm, without even a hint of breeze.
Ser Willem Darry stood at the bow of the flagship Aegon, taking a deep breath.
“It is today, a storm is coming.”
He whispered to Arthur Dayne beside him, his tone devoid of excitement and instead filled with solemnity.
Before his voice faded, a purplish-black wall of clouds suddenly rose in the southeast, swallowing the entire skyline.
The wind arrived first, shrieking and tearing apart the surface of the sea.
Immediately afterwards, sheets of lightning split the sea and dark clouds apart, and thunder exploded right against the crests of the waves.
Finally came the rain; it did not fall in drops, but felt as if the entire ocean had been lifted into the air and then violently slammed down.
On the sea less than fifty nautical miles southwest of Dragonstone, The Stormlands fleet was struggling to adjust its formation.
On the deck of the command ship fury, Stannis Baratheon pursed his lips tightly, his fingers digging desperately into the ship’s rail.
His lean face, illuminated by the bluish-white light of the lightning, looked like a stone statue.
“Advance at full speed.”
His voice was almost inaudible amidst the roar of the storm, “We must take advantage of the storm’s cover to head straight for Dragonstone.”
His adjutant, a knight from House Estermont, was completely drained of color in his face, “My lord, the wind and waves are too great!
Should we…”
“Execute your orders.”
Stannis interrupted him, not a shred of wavering in his grey eyes.
He likewise loathed this raid, considering it lacking in honor, but this was the command of the king, who was also his brother Robert.
Moreover, if he could take advantage of the storm to uproot House Targaryen’s last stronghold in one fell swoop, then he, Stannis, would firmly establish his footing in the kingdom, and would no longer have to live forever in the shadow and disgust of his older brother.
However, the scale of this storm quickly exceeded all categories of “cover” or “exploitation”.
When that pitch-black wall of clouds connecting sea and sky truly approached, it made human ships appear so insignificant.
When the first wave of gigantic surges struck, the fury was violently lifted, standing almost vertically, and then fiercely slammed back down into the trough of the wave.
The sailors on deck were tossed away like beans, swallowed by the sea before they even had time to emit their final screams.
The keel of the ship emitted a teeth-setting squeaking sound.
One after another, The Stormlands fleet disintegrated before the mighty forces of nature.
The masts were snapped as easily as matchsticks, the hulls were swallowed by the heavy seawater, or they crashed into each other in the violent giant waves, turning into fragments.
Stannis’s fury managed to hold on thanks to its relatively sturdy hull and excellent sailors, but the mainmast was snapped off, and a large amount of water flooded into the cabin.
He himself held desperately onto a mooring post as the freezing seawater poured into his mouth and nose.
“Quickly veer, retreat.”
He finally roared out the order to retreat, his voice filled with bitterness.
The fleet he had painstakingly assembled, the capital he relied upon to achieve merits, was completely wiped out before he even caught a glimpse of the enemy.
He did not know if he could still go back to see that king who had never looked favorably upon him.
Robert’s roar and those eyes full of disgust almost materialized before his eyes, making him feel a chill even greater than the storm before him.
Meanwhile, the Lannister fleet attempting to flank from further west also met with a catastrophic disaster.
The overwhelming gale and gigantic waves mercilessly tore apart the banner of the roaring lion, dragging the warships into the abyss.
A few battered ships escaped the core of the storm, but they had completely lost their combat capability.
Dragonstone itself was also suffering from the erosion of the storm.
The howling wind, carrying torrential rain, frantically pounded against the castle built of black stone on the cliff.
Several old fishing boats moored in the port were smashed against the shore by the huge waves.
But in several pre-selected hidden bays, the situation was vastly different.
The warships, secured multiple times by giant cables and iron anchors, rose and fell with the waves while maintaining the integrity of their hulls.
Except for a few sailors remaining on board, the rest of the people were arranged into caves and the castle.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere was likewise stretched to the absolute limit.
Queen Rhaella’s childbirth was not going smoothly; outside the bedroom door, Viserys leaned his back against the cold stone wall, listening to the intermittent groans coming from inside, as well as the anxious words of the midwife and the maester.
The shrieking of the storm outside the window and the struggle of life inside the room intertwined.
Rhaenys was frightened, hugging Viserys’s leg tightly and burying her little face.
Ashara stood to the side, gently stroking Rhaenys’s hair with one hand, while her gaze was anxiously cast toward the bedroom door.
Time became blurred and lengthy amidst the clamor of the storm.
Suddenly, a clear cry of an infant pierced through the roar of the storm, entering Viserys’s ears clearly.
That sound seemed to contain a strange vitality.
“It is a princess, Your Grace, the child is very healthy.
But the Queen…
the Stranger has taken her.
Too much blood loss, we could do nothing.”
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment.
What was bound to come had come after all.
He pushed open the bedroom door and walked in.
Queen Rhaella lay quietly on the blood-stained sheets, her face like pale marble, yet carrying a trace of a release-like calmness.
In her arms, she held a small infant wrapped in soft fur.
The girl opened a pair of violet eyes, looking blankly at this unfamiliar world, with sparse silvery-white downy hair on top of her head.
Viserys stepped forward, lifting this newborn younger sister, Daenerys Targaryen, from Queen Rhaella’s already cold arms.
The future Dragonmother was still tiny now; since I am here, in the future she will still live safely and carefree under my protection.
The storm gradually subsided before dawn the next day, leaving behind a scene of devastation on the sea.
Floating planks, tattered canvas, and many swollen floating corpses.
One could see how tragic the invading fleet’s fate was.
The Queen’s passing weighed on everyone’s hearts like a stone, but they had no time to grieve.
A funeral, simple to the point of being hasty, was held on the cliff bank behind the castle; members of House Targaryen always believed in cremation.
People used the dry wood and old canvas they found to build a high pyre bed, placing Queen Rhaella upon it after washing her body and changing her into decent attire, letting her head face west, looking toward the direction of Westeros.
Viserys personally ignited the pyre, the orange-red flames instantly engulfing that frail figure, and the sea breeze swept the ashes toward the sea.
Knights such as Arthur, Jon, and Willem knelt on one knee, lowering their heads in silent mourning.
Ashara, holding Rhaenys who was stunned by this scene, stood by Viserys’s side, while Daenerys slept soundly in the wet nurse’s arms.
As soon as the funeral ended, the order was given.
“Board the ships.”
His voice was not loud, yet it overrode the sound of the waves.
There were no more words.
More than two thousand followers orderly boarded their respective ships, set sail, and headed toward Essos.