The Dragontower rose like a great-winged beast ready to take flight.
As the tallest structure on Dragonstone, it had stood watch over the island for more than four centuries. And without question, it would stand for many centuries more.
Compared to half a year ago, the island—once home to the combined population of three lands—had grown quiet.
Where cooking smoke had once risen everywhere, now only a handful of thin trails remained.
The population had dropped from seventy or eighty thousand to fewer than thirty thousand.
Of their two hundred warships, fifty had been sold to Braavos, and Davos had sailed away with nearly a hundred more two months prior.
Even the harbor felt deserted.
Inside the Dragontower, Rhaella often sat for an entire day staring out across the calm sea.
Her violet eyes seemed to search beyond the endless waters, reaching toward distant Gohor thousands of leagues away.
Her heart held only one concern—her son.
In her hands she held a sealed letter, marked with a golden rose of wax.
At that moment, a thin noblewoman entered. Elia, widow of Rhaella's eldest son Rhaegar, often came to keep her company.
"Mother," Elia called softly.
Rhaella turned, and Elia noticed the queen mother's pale complexion.
"I believe Viserys is doing well. Perhaps soon we will all move to Gohor," Elia said gently.
Rhaella nodded faintly.
"He's been gone for more than half a year, yet hasn't written me a single letter. I must rely on Ser Davos's reports," Rhaella complained lightly.
Elia gave a helpless smile. It was indeed negligence on Viserys's part, but neither woman blamed him.
Settling and rebuilding in a wild, half-ruined land was no easy task. Handling everything there was already an achievement; small oversights were understandable.
Meanwhile, Rhaella had not spent the half-year waiting idly.
She had been in constant correspondence with Sunspear and Highgarden.
Arianne, daughter of Doran Martell, and Margaery, daughter of Mace Tyrell, were prospects she had hoped to secure for her son.
But neither house responded favorably.
Mace claimed Margaery was still too young and that the timing was not right.
Doran not only refused to consider Arianne, but hinted at wanting Elia returned to Dorne.
After ten letters to Dorne and as many to Highgarden, Rhaella's efforts still yielded nothing.
Meanwhile, Ser Gerold—captain of the Kingsguard—had written to his own kin, asking them to persuade the Citadel to restore Dragonstone's maesters to good standing.
But every letter sank without a trace.
The Targaryens had fallen so far that no one wished to deal with them anymore.
Except Robert.
Every few weeks he bellowed about attacking Dragonstone and slaying the last dragon.
Robert's rule rested on the "Stag–Eagle–Wolf–Fish" alliance, bolstered by marriage to the Lannisters.
As long as these five houses remained united, neither the Reach nor Dorne could move against him.
"Your Grace, a letter from King's Landing."
It was Rhaella's steward, Lamy, who called from outside.
"Lady Elia," Lamy added respectfully when he entered.
He had not always been loyal to the Targaryens.
Before Viserys left, he had told Rhaella that Lamy was free to go if he wished.
Had this been before the two naval victories, Lemmy might indeed have left.
But after the Battle of Broken Ships Bay, he could no longer "wash himself clean."
If he returned home now, he would be dragged to King's Landing for questioning—perhaps even bring ruin upon his family.
Now he could only pray for Viserys's success and plan to follow him on the eastern continent.
After departing for Gohor, Viserys left the intelligence network of King's Landing in Rhaella's hands. Through Varys's remnants, she watched the capital closely.
At the mention of a letter from King's Landing, Rhaella quickly hid her worry, and Elia's expression grew grave.
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a brief but neatly written message: The Usurper intends to attack Dragonstone.
Rhaella frowned, then crushed the parchment in her palm.
"Send for Ser Gerold and Ser Willem. At once!"
...
King's Landing. The Red Keep.
The skulls of dragons that once lined the throne room—Targaryen symbols of power—had all been moved to the dungeons.
In their place hung banners of a golden-crowned stag and a crimson lion.
The hall was crowded.
Ned Stark, Brynden Tully, Jon Arryn, and other great lords had arrived with their bannermen.
They were all discussing one matter: The Targaryens had fled east and were evacuating the people and supplies of Dragonstone, Claw Isle, and Driftmark.
They had even sold part of their fleet, while the remainder had sailed away from Dragonstone's harbor.
The island now held fewer than thirty thousand people—and barely five thousand soldiers.
It was the perfect time to attack.
And they had confirmed that Targaryen family members still remained on the island.
If not now, when?
Robert had summoned Eddard from the North two months earlier, planning to seize this opportunity and take Dragonstone.
"If the news is true, we might capture the Targaryens themselves—avenge Lyanna!" Brynden Tully said to Ned.
Ned remained silent.
He only wanted to know where Lyanna truly was.
Whether she lived or died—he only wished to see her one last time.
He cared little for the Targaryens.
He was not a man driven by war.
More importantly, he believed the Targaryens—a lonely widow and children—posed little threat.
Lyanna, meanwhile, had vanished entirely.
Robert, too, believed she was dead... or rather hoped she was dead.
If she lived, he would be in a difficult position—Viserys could accuse Rhaegar and Lyanna of mutual affection, complicating Robert's legitimacy.
In Maegor's Holdfast, Robert and Cersei were preparing to meet the gathered lords.
"How are you feeling lately?" Robert asked clumsily, glancing at Cersei's swelling belly.
It would be his first trueborn son. He was excited.
"I'm well," Cersei replied with a forced smile.
When she first met Robert, she had been satisfied. Newly crowned, he was tall, handsome, full of vigor.
She was certain the child was Robert's— If only he did not whisper Lyanna's name when lying with her.
Still, Cersei held onto a sliver of hope. Perhaps, like many women, she was driven by pride—convinced she could someday win Robert's heart.
When Robert's armor was fastened, he shifted uncomfortably.
"Loosen it! Idiot!" he snapped at his blond-haired squire, who flinched.
Cersei quickly intervened. "Your Grace, he's serving you for the first time. The lords await."
Robert's squire was her cousin, Lancel.
Perhaps out of familial concern, she defended him.
Robert, newly wed and easily swayed by his queen, let her take his arm and led her out of Maegor's Holdfast.
Lancel scratched his hand in confusion as they left.
Two weeks earlier he had practiced endlessly with someone almost identical to Robert's size.
Had the king already grown fatter?
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