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Ser Barristan Selmy, once the stalwart of the Kingsguard who had served two kings across the turbulent tides of Westerosi history, had now cast aside the White Cloak he had worn for decades. In doing so, he also severed ties with the past he had clung to for most of his life.
In many ways, one could say that the first half of his life had been a failure, at least when it came to his service to the Iron Throne. Though his post was one of great honor, he had ultimately fallen short of what it demanded.
As a Kingsguard sworn to protect King Aerys Targaryen, he had failed to defend his king in his final hour. He had not stood by Aerys in battle, had not drawn his sword to the last—Aerys had died with a blade thrust through his back by a traitor's hand.
He had also failed to protect the last of the Targaryen children. Though it was true he had not been in King's Landing when the city fell, he had never been able to shake the belief that this failure still rested squarely on his shoulders.
Even during his years serving Robert Baratheon, he had felt unworthy of the White Cloak. He knew all too well how Robert had met his end. Barristan had been present during that fateful hunt, riding beside the king himself.
"What truly led him to shed the White Cloak for good and finally put the past behind him, however, was the disgraceful betrayal of Westeros' laws by the Lannisters, mother and son alike, who acted without shame or regard for justice."
In the throne room on that grim day, he had been the only one to stand at the side of Lord Eddard Stark. He had not doubted the legitimacy of the royal decree, not for a moment. Yet when the queen, with a twisted smile on her face, tore apart the royal will as though it were a mere scrap of parchment and not a document bearing the weight of an entire dynasty, he realized how naïve he had been.
From that point on, everything unfolded as though it had been predestined. The remaining Kingsguard, the very same knights who had once served Robert Baratheon with seeming loyalty, knelt without hesitation before a boy with golden hair seated upon the Iron Throne.
As for Barristan, his time within the Red Keep, the place where he had spent most of his life, was drawing to a quiet end.
He remembered standing in that vast hall, watching the boy draped in lion-embroidered finery lounging on the throne with a golden crown perched crookedly upon his head. When the child ordered him to remove the white cloak he had come to view as a mark of shame, Barristan felt something break free within him. At long last, he was liberated.
No one dared to mistreat him. He had served the royal house faithfully for decades. Besides, he was already an old man, seen by most as having no future ahead of him. Though even now, Ser Barristan's skill with the blade remained formidable enough to slit a dozen throats with ease.
The name "Selmy" had once been a name of renown. His family welcomed his return, yet the former captain of the Kingsguard declined. He had another purpose now, a new path to follow.
And so, after enduring countless trials, he now bore a new name—Arstan. Arstan Whitebeard. He had returned to serve beneath the banner of the black dragon on red, though the world was no longer the one he had once known.
At this moment, he was aboard a ship bound for Astapor. Beside him stood the last living heir of House Targaryen—the Mother of Dragons.
"How big do you think dragons can grow?"
The young queen's voice, imbued with a soft magnetism all her own, carried her question to the followers around her.
It was not a question directed at Ser Barristan alone. There were others aboard the ship. Ser Jorah Mormont, the exiled knight once cast out by Eddard Stark's own hand, now walked in her shadow as well.
Yet Barristan, drawing from a warrior's instinct, couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he harbored toward the older knight. The way Mormont looked at Daenerys—there was something wrong in his gaze.
It was not adoration, not truly. It resembled something else entirely, more akin to a predator's fascination with its prey. Though he felt that was an inappropriate comparison, the feeling remained.
Daenerys' question was met with a swift response from the exiled knight. His voice lightened with delight as he replied.
"Your Grace, dragons never cease to grow. It is said that the greatest of them all, your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror's mount—the dread beast known as Balerion the Black Dread—had wings vast enough to shadow half of King's Landing."
When the queen's violet eyes turned toward him, drawn by his words, Ser Jorah felt a flash of satisfaction. He opened his mouth to speak further.
But at that very moment, the three dragons curled beside Daenerys stirred.
The first to react was the black and red dragon, already the size of two grown men. His name was Drogon. Until now, he had been dozing peacefully at his mother's feet, having eaten his fill. Yet suddenly, as though awakened by an invisible force, his eyes flew open and his massive head rose.
His brothers—green-scaled Rhaegal and pale cream-colored Viserion—lifted their slender, serpentine necks in unison, their movements taut with tension as if facing a great enemy.
A low, guttural growl rumbled from Drogon's throat, sharp enough to draw every eye on deck.
With a beautiful frown on her face, the young queen reached out her hand to stroke the dragon's spine. She had no idea what had caused such agitation in her children, but she wanted to calm them first.
Yet the moment her hand brushed against the scales along Drogon's back, they lifted and flared, each one standing on edge. In a blink, the dragon opened his jaws and unleashed a furious roar—directed not outward, but toward his own mother.
Dragons may not speak the language of men, but this sudden and extremely abnormal behavior still made Daenerys realize that something... was threatening her children.
How could this be? Dragons were the mightiest creatures in the known world. They feared no beast born of this earth. Even now, though still young, they held more power than their size suggested.
Then what could cause such fear? Daenerys couldn't figure it out. The very next instant, all three dragons leapt into the air, their wings catching the wind as they surged toward the port side of the ship.
"Drogon!"
Daenerys called out, but the black dragon paid his mother no heed. As if loosed from a taut bowstring, he shot forward at terrifying speed, darting toward the source of his unease.
Its two siblings followed suit, reacting in exactly the same way. They flew in tight formation behind their elder brother, drawn by the same ominous instinct, their wings slicing through the air in pursuit of whatever was stirring this dread in their blood.
"Your Grace, something is wrong. Whatever it is, it's made the dragons afraid. It must be something serious." Ser Barristan said gravely.
The old knight, though aged and weary, suddenly stood tall, straight as a spear. His hand clenched tightly around the staff he now carried in place of a sword. Even without a blade, Ser Barristan Selmy remained true to the name that had once inspired armies.
Jorah Mormont, too, sensed that something was amiss. But he was in no mood to let the old man seize the moment before the queen. His hand moved quickly to his hip, drawing his sword with a sharp metallic ring. With a smirk on his lips, he sneered,
"Old man, take care of yourself. When trouble comes, don't go dropping that stick of yours in fear."
But before his words had even finished echoing across the deck, a roar rose over the sea and rang in everyone's ears. It came so suddenly, so loudly, that it drowned out everything that followed. The knight's rebuttal, the queen's impending command, and Jorah's continued mockery were all silenced at once, swallowed by that terrible cry.
Daenerys never took her eyes off her children. She had been watching them closely from the moment they took flight, and she saw it all—the way they had been flying left, and how, the moment they heard that massive roar, all three veered sharply upward, wings straining as they soared into the sky.
Today was not a good day at sea. Then again, it never truly was. The dense clouds blanketing the sky obscured Daenerys's view, cloaking the heavens in heavy gray. But in the next breath, the source of the roar burst forth.
A vast silhouette, clad in shimmering blue and gold, broke through the clouds like a god descending. It dove headlong toward the trio of dragons with exhilarating momentum, unleashing a series of sharp, excited bellows that reverberated across sky and sea alike. Every soul aboard the ships below was struck speechless.
Upon the back of the dragon, Clay shook his head with helpless resignation. Just as he had expected, the combative nature of dragons truly was embedded deep within their flesh and blood. After all the effort he had spent tracking Daenerys and her entourage across the sea, Gaelithox could no longer restrain itself.
It had sensed the presence of its kind long before they came into sight, and had been relentlessly bombarding Clay with the same message: I want to challenge them.
Gaelithox gave no thought to how grossly unfair this was, given the disparity in size and power. Clay wasn't even sure if he should call it bullying, or perhaps more accurately, dragon-bullying. But the moment he gave his dragon permission, Gaelithox didn't waste a single second—it dove straight toward the unsuspecting targets below.
Its dragon's wings beat fiercely as it descended, angling itself to slow the fall. Any faster and it would have plunged headlong into the sea. Violent gusts of wind whipped around its wings, rushing toward the three much smaller dragons who now hovered in its path.
"By the Seven, what in the world is this?" Ser Barristan gasped.
His snow-white beard trembled. The old knight, who had served House Targaryen for decades and spent countless hours in silence, gazing at the skeletal remains of the giant dragon suspended in the throne room, now could not believe his own eyes.
What was he witnessing? A massive, blue-gold dragon locked in what appeared to be... battle? With the queen's three dragons?
What in the gods' names was happening? Before him, dragons, creatures that had vanished from Westeros for over a hundred years, now numbered four.
He had barely come to terms with the existence of the three young dragons born of Daenerys's magic. But this colossal beast, emerging from the heavens like a myth reborn, completely shattered the limits of his understanding.
What Ser Barristan thought, Clay had no way of knowing. In fact, he still had no idea who else was even aboard the ship. His attention was fully occupied with a much more pressing concern—trying not to get flung off into the wind.
Gaelithox, meanwhile, was enjoying itself far too much.
Once the guy realized that its fellow dragons were significantly smaller than him, the desire to fight quickly faded, replaced by a different emotion entirely. Clay wasn't sure what to call it, but in his eyes, it looked like pure, unfiltered teasing!
In both speed and strength, Gaelithox completely outclassed Daenerys's three children. But Clay could clearly feel that there was no murderous intent in his dragon's heart.
With a casual flick of its long tail, Gaelithox struck the "aggressive" Drogon, the strongest of the three. The blow sent the black dragon spiraling through the air, twisting mid-flight before beginning a shaky descent toward the sea.
Fortunately, Gaelithox had held back. Drogon quickly recovered, shaking off the hit with a furious growl. His wings beat powerfully once more, stopping his fall, and his eyes flared with frustration as he let out a deafening roar and charged at Gaelithox again.
Before he could even reach his target, a stream of dragonfire burst from his jaws. But it was still too weak. Against Gaelithox's thick scales, the flame barely left a mark.
Gaelithox turned and shot a glare at the stubborn young dragon, and Clay immediately received another thought, pushed into his mind with simmering heat:
Master, I want to breathe fire on it.
There was irritation in the message, the unmistakable stirrings of anger. Dragons were proud creatures, and it was not in their nature to hold back when being attacked by one of their own.
Clay's hands were clenched tightly around the spines on Gaelithox's back, leaving him no way to free one and rub his forehead. This beast was getting far too into it, and that was a problem. If those three little ones actually pushed Gaelithox too far, and the dragon decided to open his jaws—one gulp per dragonlet, and they'd all be done for.
"Stop messing around. You breathe fire now, and what—turn them into roasted dragon hatchlings? Just aim for the sea. Scare them a little if you have to."
Clay quickly gave the command, and at the same time, shifted a few fingers into the Axii Sign, trying to calm the dragon, who was acting more like an irritable old man than a majestic beast.
After all, dragons were creatures born of magic and fire. And surprisingly, the Axii Sign, usually unreliable against such immense targets, worked unusually well in this case. Clay heard a low, guttural roar of displeasure in response.
Gaelithox spread its wings wide in defiance, sending out a gust of turbulent wind that knocked the three smaller dragons off balance. The dragon held a mouthful of blazing flame, ready to be released, but it had no target in sight. Then its glowing eyes landed on the warships, now sitting motionless atop the sea below.
At least this guy hadn't completely lost its mind. It still remembered that its master had come for that ship. With that moment of clarity, Gaelithox finally unleashed a beam of dragonfire, blazing through the sky and searing downward toward the sea near the warship.
As the flame struck the ocean, the immense heat produced an effect much like an underwater explosion. Water erupted upward in a towering spray, drenching everyone on board. Their stunned expressions were now matched by soaked clothes and dripping hair.
Having released its fury, Gaelithox radiated a peculiar emotional feedback. Clay, still connected to his dragon, sensed a distinct feeling coming from it—something akin to Ahh, that felt good. His lips twitched faintly at the sensation.
He wasn't sure whether all dragons were like this, but why was his dragon this way? Clay absolutely refused to believe it had anything to do with him. Gaelithox must have picked up this behavior while staying on Longsister Island.
With a deafening roar, Gaelithox turned to the three still-eager young dragons, its message unmistakably clear: Do you submit or not?
Clay had no idea what kind of exchange just passed between them, but fortunately, the three young dragons weren't completely devoid of reason. They understood that the massive blue-gold beast before them bore no true malice. If it had wanted to, they'd have been torn apart long ago.
The black dragon, Drogon, let out a reluctant roar in protest at the much larger Gaelithox, then finally turned back, leading its two brothers to return to the side of their mother. Though in truth, Drogon hadn't realized that his mother was completely stupefied.
Daenerys's grip on reason had already been battered by Gaelithox sudden appearance. When her eyes caught sight of the lone figure astride the dragon's back, her mind simply shut down. She stood frozen in place, utterly dumbfounded.
At this moment, one thought alone echoed through the young queen's mind: Is it possible? Can someone else actually ride a dragon?
Barristan Selmy, seasoned and worldly as he was, was the first to recover from the shock. With effort, he tore his gaze away from the massive shape of Gaelithox, now circling the warship with slow and deliberate motions, his thoughts racing in all directions.
He forced himself to accept the unbelievable truth now unfolding before him. And beyond acceptance, he forced his mind to continue working.
He had seen the rider on the dragon's back. More importantly, in that rider, he saw both hope—and danger.
If this dragon and its master chose to align themselves beneath the banner of the red dragon on black, then the realm would bear witness to a momentous shift. Two dragonriders—it meant more than just power. If this new rider was a man, then the question of Targaryen succession would be answered once and for all.
From this distance, Barristan could not make out the face of the figure atop the dragon. Yet he had a feeling—an instinct honed through a lifetime of service and battle—that this was a powerful man.
And where hope rose, peril followed. The old knight knew full well that aside from the Wall, Daenerys was the last known Targaryen in the world. By all rights, the Targaryen claim to the throne belonged to her and her alone.
However, Westeros, scarred by the memories of the Dance of the Dragons, still upheld the principle that male heirs took precedence over females. It was a truth too deeply ingrained to ignore. The realm wanted a king. A queen, no matter how noble or strong, would always provoke doubt.
After circling for a while longer, the blue-and-gold dragon finally began to descend, lowering its altitude with practiced ease. It rested its claws on the edge of the ship, though this time it had learned its lesson and was careful not to put its full weight on the hull.
"Easy now, Gaelithox. Let us speak with Her Majesty properly."
Clay smiled and patted the dragon's back gently.
Amidst a sea of wide-eyed onlookers, he dismounted. The moment he stepped off the dragon, his eyes immediately found her, a silver-haired woman in a simple robe standing beside an elderly man with a white beard.
Daenerys stared at him, as if trying to burn his image into her memory. Her eyes brimmed with disbelief, as though she might swallow the very air between them. Clay offered her a calm, knowing smile.
"Surprised, Daenerys Targaryen?"
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[Chapter End's]
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