CHAPTER 89 — Soul of the Dragon,
Kingdom of the Narrow Sea
The sun blazed high over Dragonstone, turning the volcanic ridges into shadowed teeth against the bright sky as the dragons descended one by one.
Caraxes came first—lean, blood-red, serpentine—screeching as he coiled into a tight spiral above the Dragonmont. Daemon Targaryen leaned low over the saddle, his black mantle snapping in the wind like a banner of war.
Dreamfyre followed, sapphire wings glittering as Gael guided her down with surprising grace. Behind them, the ancient Vermithor dropped from the clouds in a thunderous glide, bronze scales shimmering like beaten metal, Silverwing close behind like a streak of moonlit steel.
Meleys landed last, the scarlet queen settling with the calm dignity of a creature who feared no rival—not even Vermithor.
Their arrival cast a patchwork of shadows across the marble platform where nobles of Westeros had gathered. Many trembled. A few fell to their knees. Even those of proud heritage—Royces of the Vale, Hightowers of Oldtown, Lannisters of Casterly Rock—could not help but feel small beneath the wings of dragons.
At the center stood the High Septon, holding aloft a crystal orb. Sunlight refracted into ribbons of color that danced over Viserys Targaryen and his wife, Princess Aemma Arryn.
"By the will of the Gods and the judgment of the Grand Council," the Septon intoned, "Prince Viserys of House Targaryen is hereby named Prince of Dragonstone, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. And Princess Aemma is named Princess of Dragonstone."
Little Rhaenyra, only four, clung to her mother's skirts. Her silver-gold hair danced in the wind as she stared at the dragons with wide, bright eyes. Aemma rested a protective hand on the girl's head, her other hand drifting to her swelling belly. Another child—though she had suffered too many miscarriages for comfort.
The dragons roared as one, save Meleys, who only lifted her head in quiet assessment. Even wild dragons—Cannibal, Grey Ghost, and Sheepstealer—answered with distant calls from the crags.
The assembled nobles erupted in cheers, though not all shared the joy.
House Lannister, House Hightower, and House Arryn smiled, basking in victory.
House Stark, Greyjoy, and Baratheon stood more stiffly—their earlier support for Princess Rhaenys now a burden they would need years to untangle.
King Jaehaerys, white-haired and wan with age, managed a thin smile. His long reign of peace had cost him strength he no longer possessed.
Viserys stepped forward, drawing the Valyrian steel blade Blackfyre with a bold flourish.
"I shall not fail the realm," he declared. "The night grows long in the North. Famine spreads in the Vale and Riverlands. And across the Narrow Sea, threats gather. With dragons, ships, and unity, we shall see Westeros safely through the coming storms."
Jaehaerys's voice followed, frail but resolute. "The Sea Snake is welcomed back to the Small Council as Master of Ships. The realm needs the Velaryon fleet."
The words were meant to soothe the wounded pride of Lord Corlys Velaryon—who had risked his gold, influence, and ambition in Rhaenys's failed bid for the throne. His fleet was unmatched. His temper, too. And though he had returned to Driftmark after the Council's defeat, his ships remained the lifeblood of Westeros's trade.
Before Viserys could continue, Caraxes stiffened, neck arching as he released a deep, resonant shriek. Dreamfyre hissed. Vermithor stamped, wings half-spread.
The air trembled.
A shadow vast as a castle wall swept across the platform.
Vhagar.
The ancient she-dragon—eldest of all living dragons, last of Aegon the Conqueror's great trio—descended like a falling star. Her wings stirred the sea into whitecaps. Her breath steamed the air. Nobles cried out, dozens throwing themselves flat as tents tore loose and horses reared in terror.
The High Septon dropped his crystal crown. Lannister knights fell from their saddles. Even seasoned warriors trembled.
Daemon rose in Caraxes's saddle. His eyes narrowed as he watched Vhagar circle, looming like a stormcloud.
For a heartbeat, her molten-gold eyes locked with his.
Daemon felt something—ancient as the Doom, vast as the sea—press against the edges of his mind. Not control. Never that. But a brush, as if the dragon were testing the weight of his will.
Visions crashed into him:
Ash blowing across the Eyrie during Aerea's cursed return.
Knights burning beneath her fire in the Reach.
Plankytown, smoking ruins under her shadow.
The Dornish deserts at night, glowing red from her breath.
A lifetime of carnage pressed down on him, crushing in its enormity.
Daemon gritted his teeth.
I am Daemon Targaryen.
I bend my knee to no beast.
Vhagar let out a roar that cracked the sky—and whatever fragile connection had brushed Daemon's mind shattered. His vision blurred. Caraxes snarled beneath him, feeling his rider's pain.
Vhagar gave the gathering one last contemptuous sweep… then turned and flew out across the Narrow Sea, vanishing beyond the horizon.
Grand Maester Runciter forced a smile. "A blessing, Your Grace. A sign of respect from the oldest of dragons."
Jaehaerys did not share his optimism. "Where has she gone? A dragon of her size, roaming free… this cannot continue."
Captain Delaine of the Dragonkeepers bowed, sweating. "Your Grace, we've searched the coasts and islands, but her new lair remains unknown."
Daemon stepped forward, recovering his composure.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice low but firm, "our spies report sightings of Vhagar near the Stepstones, Lys, and Tyrosh. The Triarchy grows bold. Too bold. They may have murdered Prince Baelon. They seize our islands disguised as pirates. If they secure the Narrow Sea, Westeros will choke."
Jaehaerys winced. "War… again? How many more must die?"
Viserys frowned. "Without the Velaryon fleet, how can we face the Triarchy and Dorne?"
Princess Rhaenys approached, her expression unreadable.
"My husband will sail," she said quietly. "We have lost much—but we are Velaryons. We do not abandon the sea."
Daemon inclined his head. "With the Velaryon fleet, the Crownlands, and dragonfire, the Stepstones will fall."
But he wasn't finished.
He looked to Gavin Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands. The man's grin was vicious.
"The Iron Fleet sails," Greyjoy growled. "Let the Triarchy learn who are the true pirates of the Narrow Sea."
The Ironborn lords roared in approval, banging axes against shields.
Soon, lords of the Sisters offered their ships.
Then ambitious second sons from half a dozen noble houses pledged themselves to Daemon.
Knights, sellswords, and wanderers crowded him, kneeling to swear service.
Finally, Daemon turned to Ellard Stark, who stood silent as a carved direwolf.
"The North freezes," Daemon said. "Your granaries empty. Your warriors hungry. Come south. Earn glory, gold, and land. Let Winter Wolves march in winter."
Ellard Stark hesitated only a moment before bowing his head.
"The North will answer the call."
One by one, forces rallied—not to Viserys, not to Jaehaerys—
…but to Daemon Targaryen.
And as the wind whipped across Dragonstone's heights, Daemon felt it:
The realm beginning to tilt.
Power shifting beneath their feet.
When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost gentle.
"In the Stepstones, I will carve a new order. A kingdom shaped not by councils or compromise, but by fire and blood."
Caraxes roared behind him.
And the Narrow Sea trembled.
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