Chapter 20 — Dragonstone
As long as it tasted good, Drogon ate it.
Piece after piece, he swallowed everything he could find — the future apex predator of the world reduced, for a moment, to an overeager little omnivore raiding a nobleman's pantry.
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An hour later, he crossed the Narrow Sea, flying north along the shoreline.
If his memory was correct, Dragonstone should lie somewhere in that direction.
But before long the coastline vanished beneath rising tides, swallowed by seawater, forming what looked like a new stretch of ocean.
The sea had widened — yet still no sign of Dragonstone.
With the geography uncertain, Drogon continued northward along his original course.
Twenty minutes later, an enormous island appeared on the horizon.
His heart stirred — finally.
He dove toward it… only to discover that though the island was large, it lacked any proper settlements — much less a castle.
Not Dragonstone. And who knew what island it was?
He rose higher, scanning every corner of the sea.
No other land in sight.
So he turned and continued north.
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Ten more minutes — and still nothing.
He had flown the wrong direction.
With growing irritation, Drogon angled his wings sharply and sped east, out into deeper waters.
If he still couldn't find Dragonstone, there was nothing for it but to circle the entire region.
Five minutes later — at last — he spotted a small black island crowned by a towering fortress, and ships cutting across the waters nearby.
A relieved thrill surged through him.
Dragonstone.
Stannis Baratheon — the defeated King — would almost certainly have retreated here to lick his wounds after losing at King's Landing.
As Drogon approached, the iconic silhouette became unmistakable:
A fortress shaped like a great winged dragon, its walls folded like massive stony pinions, a long raised causeway stretching from the beach straight into the main keep.
Warships — at least thirty — lay anchored in various states of disrepair around the island.
Hovering high above Dragonstone, Drogon did not descend.
He didn't know where in the castle the war room lay — the chamber with the great map-table shaped like Westeros.
He only remembered that it sat very high, with a balcony jutting out into the wind.
Waiting until nightfall would make searching easier — but it was barely mid-morning. He couldn't loiter here for half a day.
And there was another danger.
Melisandre.
The Red Priestess — who once birthed a shadow assassin to kill Renly, who used leech-magic to curse three false kings, who later resurrected Jon Snow.
Drogon had no wish to cross paths with her.
Her magic reminded him far too much of Qarth's sorcery for comfort.
So he studied the island from the air, identifying several tall structures that could be the war room.
Then he made a choice.
He folded his wings and dropped like an arrow.
Only when he reached the castle walls did he brake hard and land lightly upon a narrow rain-swept balcony.
At once, the smell of flatbread hit his nose.
Wrong place.
He listened — servants were bustling inside.
Peeking through a window confirmed it: the kitchens, busy preparing a meal.
He lifted off again.
The second building — also wrong.
Flapping higher, he veered toward a tower shaped somewhat like a belfry.
He skimmed past a narrow window — and in that split second, he thought he saw eyes staring back at him.
Had he imagined it?
He crept back to the window edge, listening.
Nothing.
He slowly extended his head inside.
And immediately —
"Ah—!"
A high-pitched scream nearly sent him tumbling.
A little girl stood right in front of him, frozen in shock, the book in her hands falling to the floor.
Her small mouth hung open — plump and startled — and she would have been adorable, if not for the patch of gray, scale-like skin covering the left side of her face.
Drogon recognized her instantly.
Princess Shireen Baratheon.
A gentle child who loved books, yet doomed to one of the cruellest fates in the saga — sacrificed by her own father in the name of the Lord of Light.
His eyes dropped to the fallen book:
The Conquest of Westeros by Aegon the Conqueror.
The memories hit him hard — Shireen teaching Davos to read, and her terrified cries in the fire as she begged her father not to do it.
She had simply been born into the wrong family.
Her small room was dark and damp — suffocatingly bleak — evidence enough of how she lived.
Seeing that Drogon hadn't fled, Shireen cautiously pushed open the window.
Only then could she view him fully — black scales gleaming like polished obsidian, wings half-unfurled like a crimson cloak, and a brown backpack larger than his body strapped around his slender neck.
"You… you're a dragon?" she whispered, trembling with curiosity rather than fear.
Drogon hesitated for a moment… then gave a small nod.
"You can understand me?"
Shireen gasped in delight when she saw him nod again.
Once she began, the questions tumbled out of her all at once:
"Were you born from an egg? Why did you come here? And that backpack— it's huge! Isn't it heavy?"
Drogon: "…"
Clearly he could understand but not speak.
Realizing he couldn't answer, Shireen simply kept going, her excitement overriding shyness:
"You really do look like Balerion the Black Dread! He was the biggest and longest-living dragon in history — I read it in my books!"
She quickly held up the cover for him to see, then flipped the pages open to show him the illustrations of the legendary dragon.
When she mentioned the backpack, Drogon suddenly remembered the three dates he had saved earlier to snack on.
They would be perfect to cheer up the little girl.
He slipped a tiny claw into the leather pouch, fished out the dates, and held them toward her.
"These… are for me?"
Shireen stared at the ruby-colored fruits, wide-eyed.
When he nodded again, she carefully plucked one and placed it into her mouth.
The instant sweetness bloomed across her tongue — she closed her eyes, savoring it as though it were the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.
Watching her pure, innocent joy — contrasted with the dark, cramped room she had been shut away in — Drogon couldn't help feeling something twist in his chest.
She was a princess… yet lived no better than Daenerys had in her darkest days.
Two girls of royal blood, both tossed aside by the world.
Drogon's gaze lingered on the gray, scale-like scar along her left cheek.
If Jorah's greyscale had been cured later by Samwell Tarly, then Shireen's could be cured too — if she lived long enough for it.
But Samwell was probably still at the Wall, playing cat-and-mouse with the White Walkers.
Oldtown was far in the future.
Until then, Shireen had to survive — which meant making sure Stannis never burned her.
There was only one hope:
Ser Davos Seaworth — the Onion Knight.
If he wasn't imprisoned yet, he would be soon… but he would live longer than Stannis. Drogon was certain of that.
Shireen licked her lips after finishing her first date.
Her eyes flicked to the remaining two in Drogon's claw — but she didn't reach for them.
"I just need one. You should keep the others for yourself."
The reluctance in her voice made Drogon huff in silent amusement.
He nudged the fruit forward again.
Only then did she shyly take a second one.
While eating, she couldn't help glancing at the oversized backpack again.
"What do you keep in there? It's so big! Isn't it heavy?"
Her tone wasn't greedy — only curious.
To her, the strangest thing wasn't that he was a dragon, but that he wore a backpack larger than himself.
Drogon tilted his head, slipped the straps off, and set the pack on the windowsill — inviting her to look inside for herself.
Her curiosity bloomed like a lantern in the dark.
To her — who had known nothing but isolation — the visit of a dragon wasn't terrifying.
It felt like a miracle.