The fire crackled softly in Lord Darry's solar, casting long shadows across the oaken walls. The air was mixed with the scent of wax and old parchment, and the silence was broken only by the steady breaths of three men. Ser Barristan Selmy sat in a carved chair, his frame still tall despite the years that had etched their lines upon him. He rested his hands upon his knees, listening, every word spoken about his prince.
Raymun Darry stood before him, still in same dress from the journey, mud streaking his boots, his eyes alight with conviction. The young knight spoke quickly, yet with care, recounting what he had seen.
"I rode with Beric Dondarrion's men," Raymun said, his voice steady. "We were asked by the Eddard Stark, aye, but truth be told I sought another purpose. I wanted justice. Justice for Prince Rhaegar, whose children were butchered by Gregor Clegane, justice for Elia of Dorne, and for the innocents of King's Landing who burned beneath Tywin's treachery. I thought to find it with my own sword. Yet when the Mountain fell upon us, I learned how small I was. My blade could not touch him. It should have been my grave, but it was not mine to give. The prince—"
Raymun's voice faltered, and he drew in a breath as if steadying himself before he said the words. "—the prince saved me."
Barristan's jaw tightened. He offered no words, only the smallest of nods, urging him to go on.
Raymun did. He spoke of Thoros and Beric, how they had now gone to the lords who once held banners for the crown, urging caution and testing loyalty. "The prince thought it unwise to bare his truth to Westeros too soon," He explained. "It was not the place and he had plans of his own. Greater plans."
Raymun then gestured toward the soldier seated quietly by the fireplace, one of Beric's men. "We were given a duty. Each of us was sent to spread word of the Mountain's fall, that it was Rhaegar's son who slew him, that justice had been done in the name of the realm. We were asked to act like storytellers, though none but we knew the face of the king we served."
Barristan leaned back slightly, his pale blue eyes narrowing, shifting through the words which have been his long habit His hand moved to his chin, rubbing the stubble that had grown since his dismissal from court. "And this prince," he said at last, his voice low. "Tell me, Ser Raymun… what manner of man is he?"
Raymun hesitated. He had not spent much time at the boy's side, not enough to claim deep knowledge. Yet the image was burned into him, the prince's red eyes, him pulling Gregor's head with spine attached as if the gods themselves had lent him their hand and his melancholic and soft demeanour.
"I cannot speak as though I knew his every thought," Raymun admitted. "But I know this: he came to save men who were strangers to him, and he bled for us without hesitation. He bore himself not as some lordling clinging to birthright, but as one who believes his duty lies with those beneath him. That, ser, speaks more to his character than any crown could."
The room fell silent. Barristan's gaze lingered on the fire, the flames reflected in eyes that had seen too much. He thought of Jaehaerys II, of Aerys, of Robert, of Joffrey. So many kings, so many crowns and each one weighing heavier upon his soul.
"Do you know where he is now?" Barristan asked at last, his voice sharper than before.
Raymun's lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze flicked toward the soldier by the fire, then back to Barristan. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. After giving us our tasks, the prince rode on. He said he had duty of his own. He told us nothing more."
Barristan's eyes closed for a moment, his breath heavy. When he opened them, there was something new within them—hope and unyielding faith.
Across the narrow sea from there, the island of Driftmark stirred with restless expectation. Four days had passed since Lord Monford Velaryon had sent his summons, and now the courtyards of High Tide teemed with the banners of the Narrow Sea's great houses.
House Celtigar of Claw Isle came with their red crab snapping upon banners. House Bar Emmon of Sharp Point unfurled their blazon is a leaping blue swordfish on fretty silver. House Sunglass of Sweetport Sound bore the seven golden seven-pointed stars in a ring on white, and House Massey of Stonedance ,their blazon their arms with a triple spiral, red, green and blue, on white. Their lords and men filled the chambers, their voices rising in questions, complaints, and suspicions.
In Monford's solar, the situation grew tense with impatience of lords unused to being kept waiting. Lord Adrian Celtigar, white of beard and sharp of tongue, was the first to burst.
"Lord Velaryon," Celtigar snapped, his narrow eyes flashing. "You drag us here on a whim while the realm tears itself apart. Stannis Baratheon has called his fleet to war, to Dragonstone, where true men should stand. Yet you would have us idle here while the lions march? Explain yourself!"
Aurane Waters stood by the window, his arms folded, but said nothing. Monford Velaryon, seated behind his desk, only smiled faintly at the Celtigar lord's outburst.
"You think me careless, my lord," Monford said smoothly. "But I would not waste your time, nor mine, with folly."
He rose from his chair, his eyes sweeping over the gathered lords, each one waiting, some fuming, some curious. He let the silence linger until even Lord Celtigar's lips pressed thin with uncertainty.
"I summoned you," Monford said, "because I have found the king we are meant to serve."
A murmur rippled through the chamber, confused and incredulous. Lord Sunglass furrowed his brow. Lord Massey scoffed aloud. Adrian Celtigar's face darkened further.
"You dare mock us?" Celtigar barked. "There is no king but Stannis, rightful by law and blood."
Monford's smile only deepened. He gestured with one hand toward the great window that overlooked the sea. "Then look, my lords. Look, and tell me who your king truly is."
They turned, muttering, crowding the window. At first, they saw nothing but the cloudy blue sky above Driftmark's cliffs. Then a shadow fell across the sea, vast and moving swift. The sound came next, a roar, a shattering cry that made glass tremble in its panes.
From the sky, it descended—a dragon, great and red, its wings outspread like sails of warship. The beast dove low, the wind of its passing rattling shutters and sending cloaks billowing. It landed in the courtyard of High Tide with an earth-shaking crash and men falling to their knees as the dragon roared again.
Silence followed. And in that silence, the lords of the Narrow Sea stared with mouths agape, their doubts stripped in an instant.
Adrian Celtigar, who had come prepared to argue and rage, stood rooted to the spot, his face drained of blood, eyes wide as a child's. Words failed him and all the lords who arrived with him.
Monford Velaryon did not move from where he stood, though his heart thundered in his chest. His smile had vanished, replaced by a solemnity.
"Behold," he said quietly. "The Targaryen's have returned."