The camp by the ford had grown quieter in the passing week. The corpses had been buried in the wet earth, the wounds bound with thin linen, and what remained of Beric's men were slowly stitching themselves back into something that resembled an army. The air was heavy still, thick with the scent of pine and old blood.
By the fire, Thoros of Myr sat cross-legged, the wine-skin resting between his knees. The flames painted his ruddy, weathered face in flickering orange and deep shadow, his red robes stained with the dust of travel and the rust of old battles. Beside him, Beric Dondarrion leaned back against a rock, his one good eye looking around the camp.
"We cannot pretend, not anymore," Thoros muttered, his voice a low rumble. "That boy carries the blood of dragons, Beric. And if half the things I'm seeing in my flames are true, then his path leads not to be some travelling knight, but to a crown. A crown forged in fire and blood."
Beric's lips twitched, though not in mockery. "I understood that the first time I saw him, that's the reason I knelt to him, for a boy of 15 rushing to fight for men he didn't even knew. But the road to crown is a dangerous thing. And the realm is full of men and women who'd sooner bleed than bend the knee to a dragon's son." His gaze shifted toward the edge of the firelight, where Jon—no, Aemon Targaryen—sat alone. Ghost, the white direwolf curled at his side, and the boy was sharpening the valyrian sword Dark Sister of all things. His face was lost in melancholy, yet even that seemed younger than the weight in his eyes.
Thoros sighed, lifting the wineskin. "Aye. But crowns do not wait for men to want them. Sometimes you have to thrust your sword to get it." He drank deep. Beric said nothing, only let the fire reflect in his remaining good eye.
The night wore on. The men scattered about the camp were each lost in his own thoughts. Some whispered of the boy prince and the Mountain's fall. Others spoke of debts, of vows, of what it meant to kneel to a Targaryen when the Stag still sat the Iron Throne.
Jon's mind wandered elsewhere, not on their petty politics but on history itself. He remembered maester Luwin's teachings in Winterfell's library—of old houses and of vows older than Iron throne. Houses like Velaryon and Celtigar, whose ships had sailed for dragons for centuries. Houses like Tarly, Rykker, who had bent the knee to dragons yet gained little but ash for their loyalty. He thought of what loyalty had cost them, of what reward had been denied them, and how different men might be swayed if promises were kept, if honor was returned with honor. For the first time he was weighing the realm itself on a balance.
By early dawn, a soldier returned. His horse staggered into camp, mud-splashed and lathered with sweat. The rider dropped to his knees before Aemon and Beric, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep. "News from the south, your grace, my lord," he said. "From the city."
The man swallowed, his words trembling. "Lord Eddard Stark…has been imprisoned, named traitor to the crown. And… Renly Baratheon, too, marked usurper and seized in turn." A silence fell over the camp, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
His uncle—his father in all but name—was in chains, branded a traitor. He remembered this path. He'd been told how it had ended. A block of wood. His own sword swung down. The realm unraveling into war. He clenched his jaw, forcing the memory back. This life would not follow the same path.
"What of the North?" Beric asked, his voice rough.
The soldier nodded quickly. "Ravens fly in rave. Word is Robb Stark has called his banners. Men gather at Winterfell, and more ride south to meet him."
He knew of his brothers victories, the glory, the betrayals, the red wedding hall at the Twins dripping with blood. His heart clenched, the weight of memory threatening to crush him.
This time, he thought. This time will be different.
He stared into the flames that morning, silent while Thoros and Beric spoke in murmurs of strategy, of movements, of what path a dragon prince might take. He barely heard them. His thoughts were of saving Eddard Stark, and of mending the broken realm. When the sun rose higher, Jon finally lifted his head. His voice was steady, certain. "I've made my decision."
The fire crackled. Beric and Thoros looked at him, waiting. Even Ghost stirred, his ears pricking. And hearing the plan, they only nodded.
Far across the Narrow Sea, a ship called Balerion slid into Astapor's harbor. The docks were a chaos of noise, heavy with the cries of slave masters herding their wares. Daenerys Targaryen stood at the prow, her silver hair lifting in the hot breeze. Behind her stretched the ragged remains of her khalasar, thinned by hunger and desert crossings, yet still bound to her by a fragile thread of loyalty.
Jorah Mormont loomed at her shoulder, heavy with sweat, his voice low and insistent. "Buy them, Khaleesi. The Unsullied will make you strong, strong enough to take back what is yours. Westeros will not follow a girl with only horsemen at her back. But they will fear eunuch spears."
Her stomach turned at his words. "Slaves," she whispered. "To buy men like cattle… my brother dreamed of thrones, only he would've have dirtied his hands with such chains."
Jorah's jaw tightened. "Viserys dreamed of crown and throne, nothing more. You must rule. And to rule, you need soldiers."
Daenerys looked away, down to the streets of Astapor where thin children were whipped from doorways, where women walked with collars about their throats. Her blood boiled, but she said nothing.
Then she felt it. A gaze upon her.
Two figures stood apart from the crowd of slave merchants. One was a middle aged man, younger then Ser Jorah with a straight back and red beard neatly trimmed. His clothes were plain, but there was steel in his gaze. At his side stood a boy, lean and sharp-eyed, with hair blue as the sea, and his eyes were a deeper shade of purple, making them look blue. He stared at her with awe and nor fear.
The boy stepped forward, the crowd parting as if it had been waiting for him all along. He stopped at the edge of the quay, bowed his head—not in servitude, but in greeting. His words were soft, yet they carried across to Jorah standing behind her, cutting the noise of the dock.
"You have a kingdom to claim, aunt. And traitors to deal with."
She froze, her breath caught in her chest. Jorah stiffened behind her, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. The khalasar muttered in confusion, glancing between the blue-haired boy and their khaleesi. For the first time after losing her son who was stillborn, Daenerys felt the ground shift beneath her.