**Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea**
**THE DEPARTURE**
The port of Dragonstone is full of life.
Never before, perhaps, had it been so alive. Merchants shout their offers from makeshift stalls. Fishermen unload their day's catch. Children dart between the adults' legs, chasing each other with laughter that fills the salty air.
And at the main dock, the commotion is even greater.
AERE organizes the final preparations.
She is already an old woman but still full of life, though no one would guess it. Her hair, completely white, is gathered in a braid that falls over her shoulder. Her grey eyes, the same as always, shine with an energy that the years have not been able to extinguish. She moves among the sailors with the authority of one who has commanded all her life, giving orders, checking cargo, making sure everything is perfect.
Three large ships, well-armed, with the best the island can offer.
They are not warships, not exactly. They carry catapults, yes, and ballistas, and armed men. But they are not going to war. It is a trading voyage. A pleasure trip.
—We'll bring spices, silks, things for the baby —she says to Elera, embracing her with that affection only mothers can give—. Things we don't have here.
Elera smiles.
Her belly is now very swollen, a mound of life beneath loose tunics. She has weeks, perhaps days, left until the birth. But her face, despite the fatigue, radiates a peace that few first-time mothers possess.
—Take care, mother.
—I always do.
Beside her, Aerom's other children prepare:
ELERIS, the silent one, the observer, he who never says more than necessary. He checks the fastenings of his luggage with that meticulousness of his that sometimes despairs, but always yields results.
NEMERYS, his wife, the strange one, she who sees things others do not see. She is restless today. Her eyes, a lighter grey than the others, look toward the horizon as if searching for something only she can perceive.
ERROL, the dreamer, the one who always moves slowly, carries his young daughter in his arms while his wife finishes arranging the last things.
AEGAR, his wife, the cheerful one, she who always finds reasons to smile. Today she smiles more than ever, excited about the voyage, about the children, about the adventure.
And most importantly: the SIX GRANDCHILDREN.
**Aelor, Aemon, and Aelyra** (children of Eleris and Nemerys)
Aelor, the eldest, with his nine years and his seriousness of a small man. Aemon, the middle one, always observing, always quiet. Aelyra, the youngest, who already shows signs of inheriting her mother's strange gifts.
**Alyssa, Vaela, and Rhaena** (daughters of Errol and Aegar)
Alyssa, the eldest, methodical and precise like her father. Vaela, the middle one, quick and unpredictable as lightning. Rhaena, the youngest, fierce even at seven, promising future trouble.
All between 7 and 9 years old.
All excited for their first big voyage.
They run back and forth, pointing at the ships, asking when they'll depart, how long it will take, what they'll see, what they'll do. The adults respond patiently, smiling at such energy.
The adult dragons —Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion— fly above, tracing slow circles in the sky. Following the ships. Protecting them.
The children carry with them their baby dragons, small hatchlings that cannot yet fly long distances. They travel in special crates, with breathing holes, padded with soft furs. The children do not part from them for an instant.
—We'll return before the birth —Aere says to Aerom, kissing him.
He stands beside her, rigid, with that expression no one can interpret. His gloved hands hang at his sides. His grey eyes, those eyes that have seen so much, look at his wife as if wanting to etch every detail of her face into memory.
—I promise you.
Aerom nods.
But something in his gaze... something is not right.
A flash. A shadow. Something Aere, in her happiness, does not see.
—Take care —is all he says.
She smiles, confident.
—I always do.
The ships set sail.
The sails swell with the favorable wind. Sailors sing as they weigh anchor. The children wave from the deck. The adults, from the port, wave back.
In the highest tower, Aerom watches until the ships disappear over the horizon.
Behind him, Dareo and Elera watch him.
Elera rests a hand on her belly. She feels a kick, life moving inside her. She should feel happy.
But she cannot.
Something in her father's expression disturbs her.
—They'll return —she says, as if needing to hear it aloud.
Aerom does not turn.
—Yes —he says.
But she knows that voice. It is the voice he uses when he lies.
—They'll return —Dareo repeats, more firmly.
Aerom nods slowly.
—They'll return.
And the two children, without knowing why, feel a chill that does not come from the wind.
**THOSE WHO WATCH**
In the shadows of the world, many eyes follow those ships.
Not all eyes are friendly.
THE HEIRS OF ELERIS, that sect of dark mages operating in the shadows of the Free Cities, watch from a distant shore.
They stand atop a cliff, their black tunics whipped by the wind. Three figures: ATOX, with the deep voice; FIOR, with the easy smile; CERMI, she who whispers to the wind.
—There goes the dragon family —ATOX whispers, his yellow eyes gleaming in the twilight—. So trusting. So happy.
Fior smiles.
—We could attack them now. Decimate them. A swift, precise blow.
—No —says Cermi.
Her voice is strange, as if several people spoke at once. The wind swirls around her, bringing whispers from distant places.
—Something greater approaches. Something we cannot control.
Atox frowns.
—Greater than us?
Cermi does not answer.
She only watches the ships, growing smaller on the horizon.
—Wait —she says—. Only wait.
THE HOUSE OF THE FACELESS ASSASSINS, that brotherhood of knives operating in Braavos, also watches them.
But they do not attack. It is not business. Killing Targaryens is not profitable. Too much risk, too much exposure, too many reprisals.
—Let them pass —orders the one in charge, a man without a name who always speaks in whispers—. It is not our day.
The assassins obey.
THE HOUSE OF THE NIGHT, that order of sorcerers and seers who watch over the balance of the world, watches with concern.
LARA, the High Priestess, is in her chamber of visions. Before her, a mirror of black water shows the ships sailing.
—Something is going to happen —she says—. Something terrible. And we cannot stop it.
Beside her, an acolyte trembles.
—Can we not warn them?
Lara shakes her head.
—We already tried. The dreams, the visions... they do not listen. They listen to no one.
—Why?
Lara looks at him. Her eyes, black as night, shine with a frightening light.
—Because they are blind. Because they are happy. Because happiness, sometimes, is the worst of blindnesses.
The acolyte does not understand.
But Lara does.
And that frightens her more than anything else.
No one attacks. No one intervenes.
But something is already in motion.
Something even the most powerful mages cannot see.
Something approaching from the depths of the sea.
**THE HAPPY DAYS**
After spending weeks in Essos, they return heavily laden and content.
The ships sail, the dragons having gone ahead.
The wind is favorable, the sky clear, the sea calm. As if the gods themselves had decided to bless the voyage.
The children play on deck.
They run from prow to stern, chasing each other, hiding, laughing. Their shouts fill the air, mingling with the murmur of the waves and the distant cries of seagulls.
The baby dragons scamper among their feet.
Small creatures, the size of large dogs, with shiny scales and curious eyes. They follow their owners everywhere, stumbling, falling, getting up again. They are clumsy, adorable, and completely unaware of danger.
The adults converse at the stern.
Aere, Eleris, Nemerys, Errol, Aegar. Seated in a circle, wine cups in hand, laughing at anything.
—We should do this more often —Nemerys says.
Her gaze, for once, is not lost in the beyond. It is here, present, enjoying.
—Go out. Breathe. Remember there's a world beyond Dragonstone.
—When the baby is born —Aere replies, with a smile—, we'll all come. A great celebration. We'll bring Dareo and Elera. Little Aegon. Everyone.
The children, who have heard the word "celebration," shout with excitement.
—Will there be cakes? —asks Rhaena, the fierce one, eyes shining.
—Many cakes —Aegar laughs—. And games. And presents.
The children shout again.
No one notices that the sky, at dusk, has a strange hue.
That intense orange that sometimes presages storms. But there are no clouds. Only color. A color that seems too intense, too... artificial.
No one notices that the wind, suddenly, stops.
The sails hang limp. The sea becomes like a mirror. A strange, uncomfortable silence settles over the ship.
—How strange —mutters a sailor—. The wind...
—Bah —says another—. Dead calm. It'll pass.
But it does not pass.
The silence stretches on.
And on the horizon, something begins to glow.
**THE NIGHT**
Night falls, and with it, darkness.
The children sleep in their cabins, exhausted from the day's play. The baby dragons sleep at their feet, curled up like kittens.
The adults also sleep.
Aere, in her cabin, dreams of Aerom. Of their youth. Of the three ships emerging from the fog.
Only the lookouts remain awake on deck.
Two men, one at the prow, one at the stern, watching the night. The sea, calm. The sky, starry. Everything normal.
Suddenly, a light on the horizon.
A LIGHTHOUSE.
But not a normal lighthouse.
The light is intense, blinding, as if someone had lit a tiny sun in the middle of the sea. From it emanates a black, thick smoke that spreads over the waters like a giant hand, like a mantle of death.
The lookouts want to shout.
They open their mouths.
But they cannot.
The smoke reaches them before sound can leave their throats.
The black smoke envelops the three ships.
And then, EVERYTHING STOPS.
**THE SILENT DEATH**
The smoke enters through every crack.
Through poorly sealed windows. Through gaps in the wood. Through the hold's vents.
It has no smell. No taste. It is only... absence.
The children die first.
Without pain. Without waking.
Aelor, the serious one, stops breathing in his sleep. Aemon, the observer, stares at nothing forever. Aelyra, the little one, dreams of dragons as her heart stops.
Alyssa, Vaela, and Rhaena die embracing, as they always slept since they were small. Their baby dragons, at their feet, die too.
The adults, next.
Eleris, the silent one, opens his eyes for an instant. He sees the smoke. He knows what it is. He has no time to feel fear.
Nemerys, she who saw things, saw it coming. She knew from the beginning. But she could do nothing. Only accept.
Errol and Aegar die embracing, as they lived.
The sailors, the soldiers, all.
One by one.
Without noise.
Without struggle.
Without hope.
AERE opens her eyes for an instant.
The smoke fills her cabin. She sees through it, as if she could see beyond. She sees Dragonstone. She sees Aerom in his tower. She sees Dareo and Elera. She sees the baby about to be born.
—Aerom —she whispers.
And closes her eyes forever.
On three ships, in an instant, ALL DIE.
One hundred and twenty-seven souls.
Mothers, fathers, children, grandchildren, sailors.
All.
The only survivors are the adult dragons and Valerio, who flew very high, very far from the smoke and will arrive too late to protect them.
They feel the death of their riders.
Valax, the bronze, emits a heart-wrenching shriek that echoes in the night.
Aerion, the grey, bellows with a fury he has never shown before.
Vhaelar, the blue, the capricious one, the difficult one, weeps. A sound no human has ever heard.
Serion, the brown, the calm one, roars with infinite sadness.
Valerio is the first to descend and roar.
They dive toward the ships.
And what they find destroys them more than any death.
The bodies. The silences. The absence.
They circle again and again over the ghost ships, calling to their riders, waiting for a response that will never come.
But they can do nothing.
Only weep.
Only remember.
**AEROM'S NIGHTMARE**
On Dragonstone, at the top of his tower, Aerom bolts upright.
—NO!
The scream tears through the night.
Elera and Dareo, sleeping in their chambers, wake with a start. They run up the stairs, trembling, not knowing what they will find.
When they arrive, Aerom is on his knees on the floor. Pale. Sweating. Trembling.
—What's happening? —Dareo asks, kneeling beside him—. Father, what's happening?
Aerom lifts his gaze.
His eyes... his eyes are two wells of infinite pain.
—Something... —his voice breaks—. Something happened to them.
—It was a nightmare, father —Elera says, trying to calm him—. Just that. A nightmare.
Aerom shakes his head.
A slow, terrible, definitive movement.
—No. I felt it. I felt them die.
Dareo and Elera look at each other.
Fear, that old acquaintance, settles in their chests.
—I'm going to fly —Dareo says, rising—. I'm going to see.
He waits for no answer.
He runs down the stairs. Crosses the fortress. Goes out to the cliff.
CANNIBAL awaits him.
The black-green dragon, the most aggressive, the one with eyes red as embers, is already awake. He already knows. Somehow, he already knows.
Dareo mounts.
—Let's go!
Cannibal takes off.
His wings beat strongly, raising swirls of sand. He ascends quickly, very quickly, until lost in the night.
Elera, from the tower, watches him disappear.
Aerom remains on his knees.
—Forgive me —he whispers—. Forgive me.
She does not understand.
But something inside her, very deep, already knows the truth.
**THE ENCOUNTER**
Dareo flies for hours.
The wind whips his face. The cold seeps into his bones. But he feels nothing. Only the urgency. Only the fear.
Cannibal flies faster than he has ever flown. As if he too felt the need to arrive.
Until something appears on the horizon.
Ships.
Three ships.
But they do not sail.
They are run aground on a rocky shore, a tongue of land no one remembers having seen before. Their masts, tilted, seem like fingers pointing at the sky. Their hulls, holed by rocks, let out remnants of cargo.
Silent.
Dark.
Dareo descends.
Cannibal lands on the beach, beside the ships. His growl, deep, worried, echoes in the night.
Dareo dismounts.
He walks toward the first ship.
What he finds destroys him.
Bodies.
Many bodies.
All known.
His mother, Aere, is on the main deck. Her eyes, open, gaze at the starry sky. Her face, at peace, seems to smile. As if in the last instant she had seen something beautiful.
Dareo falls to his knees.
—No... no, no, no...
He searches for his siblings.
He finds Eleris and Nemerys in their cabin, embracing. As if they had known the end was coming and had wanted to face it together.
He finds Errol and Aegar on deck, also embracing, also dead.
The children.
The six children.
Aelor, Aemon, Aelyra. Alyssa, Vaela, Rhaena.
All.
His nieces and nephews. His little ones.
All dead.
The adult dragons —Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion— Valerio still roaring— are perched on the masts, on the railings, anywhere they can be. They weep.
That sound. That dragon's cry no human had ever heard before.
Dareo wants to weep too. Wants to scream. Wants to die.
But then, he hears something.
A cry.
A BABY.
**THE BABY**
Dareo starts suddenly.
The cry comes from the second ship. It is weak, barely a whisper, but it is there.
He runs.
He crosses the deck of the first ship, leaping over bodies, not looking, not wanting to look. He jumps to the second ship.
The cry is stronger now.
He follows it.
To a corner of the main ship, sheltered by a toppled cabinet. And there, huddled against the chest of a dead woman —a woman of his subjects, one of those traveling with them— is a baby.
Alive.
Breathing.
With eyes open, looking at Dareo without fear.
Dareo takes him in his arms.
The baby stops crying.
His eyes, a pale dark color, look at Dareo as if recognizing him. As if knowing he is safe.
—Who are you? —Dareo whispers, voice broken—. Whose are you?
There is no answer.
Only the silence of the dead.
Only the weeping of the dragons.
Dareo looks at the woman who protected the baby with her body. Young. She must have been one of the maids, one of the servants traveling to help with the children.
The baby cannot be hers. He does not have the silver hair of the Valyrians.
Then, whose?
But there is no time for questions.
Dareo mounts Cannibal, the baby pressed against his chest.
—Let's go —he says—. Let's get out of here.
Cannibal takes off.
Behind, more ships approach. Those of the Velaryon and Celtigar families, who have followed Dareo. They will take care of the bodies.
Dareo flies home.
With the baby.
With the mystery.
With the pain.
**THE RETURN**
Dawn tints the sky pink and gold when Cannibal appears on the horizon.
Aerom waits at the port.
He has not moved from there all night. Elera is beside him, leaning on him, trembling with cold and fear.
They see Cannibal approach.
They see Dareo descend.
They see the bundle in his arms.
—What happened? —Aerom asks, walking toward him.
His voice is grave, controlled. But his hands, inside the gloves, tremble as never before.
Dareo does not answer.
He only shakes his head.
A small, terrible movement.
Aerom walks to him.
He takes the baby.
His gloved hands hold him with infinite delicacy. The baby opens his eyes. Looks at him. Does not cry.
Then, Aerom looks into Dareo's eyes.
And HE KNOWS.
—All —he says, voice breaking—. All?
Dareo nods.
Tears run down his face. He does not care. He cannot control them.
—All —he repeats—. Mother. Siblings. Grandchildren. All.
Aerom staggers.
For the first time in his long life, for the first time since he fled Valyria, since he lost his father, since he watched his world burn, he falls to his knees.
The baby, in his arms, cries.
Aerom looks at him.
And weeps with him.
Elera runs to them. Embraces her husband, her father-in-law, the baby. Weeps too.
The three, at the port, under the dawn, weeping.
Behind, the dragons roar.
A roar of pain.
A roar that echoes in the cliffs and reaches the mountains.
All Dragonstone weeps that morning.
**THE WAKE**
The bodies arrive over days.
The ships of the Velaryon and Celtigar families, laden with dead, dock one after another. The survivors, those who went to search, descend with grey faces and empty eyes.
The wakes stretch over weeks.
First the children. Six small pyres on the beach, six small souls flying toward the sky. The baby dragons, those who died with them, burn as well.
Then the adults. Eleris, Nemerys, Errol, Aegar. Their bodies, burned together, as they lived together.
Lastly, Aere.
Aerom personally lights her pyre.
His gloved hands hold the torch. His grey eyes look at his wife's face for the last time. She is beautiful. At peace.
—I love you —he whispers—. I will always love you.
The torch falls.
The fire crackles.
Aerom does not weep. He has no tears left.
All Dragonstone weeps.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families have also lost many of their own on those ships. Maidens, servants, sailors. All dead.
The pyres light the night for weeks.
The smoke, mingled with ash, rises toward the sky.
As if the dead wanted to say something.
As if they demanded justice.
**THE BIRTH**
In the midst of pain, a light.
ELERA gives birth.
The labor is difficult, long, painful. But when the child finally emerges, when his cry fills the room, all the pain in the world seems to fade for an instant.
It is a boy.
Strong.
Healthy.
With the purest violet eyes ever seen. Like the ancient Targaryens. Like the heroes of legend.
Dareo takes him in his arms.
He trembles.
He looks at his son. The first new life after so much death. The first hope after so much despair.
—His name will be AEGON, the name my mother left for him —he says—. Like the first hero. Like hope.
Elera smiles from the bed, exhausted but happy.
—Aegon —she repeats—. Welcome, little one.
The door opens.
Aerom enters.
He walks slowly toward the bed. His eyes, those eyes that have seen so much horror in recent days, settle on the baby.
Dareo offers him to him.
Aerom takes his grandson in his arms.
For an instant, the pain in his eyes fades.
Something new appears. Something not seen in him since... since forever.
—Welcome, little dragon —he whispers—. You arrived at the worst time. But you arrived.
The baby opens his eyes.
Pure violet.
Looks at Aerom.
And Aerom feels something.
A connection. A warmth. Something that runs through his arm, his chest, his heart.
Something he hasn't felt since... since before.
Before the gloves.
Before the whispers.
Before the ravens.
—Little dragon —he repeats—. Little hope.
The baby smiles.
Or so it seems.
**THE DRAGONS**
The adult dragons —Valerio, Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion— no longer accept riders.
Since that night, since they felt their masters die, something broke in them.
They go to live in the mountains with VALERIO.
The great dragon, the oldest, the last of the flight generation, receives them without questions. As if he understood. As if he knew what it is to lose.
The four, alongside the great dragon, form a wild pack.
From time to time, the islanders see them fly together.
Five silhouettes outlined against the sky, tracing slow circles over the island. As if searching for something. As if still waiting.
But they never descend.
Never accept anyone.
No rider ever mounts them again.
Only Valerio maintains his bond with Aere, though she is no longer there.
Sometimes, Aerom watches him from his tower.
The great black dragon, perched on the highest cliff, looking at the sea. The same sea that swallowed his rider.
And Aerom knows.
He knows the dragon also weeps.
**THE INVESTIGATION**
Dareo does not rest.
He cannot.
While others weep, while pyres burn, while the entire island sinks into mourning, he investigates.
What was that light? That smoke? Who could have done such a thing?
He sends spies to all the Free Cities.
He asks in every port, in every tavern, in every palace.
He hires informants, mercenaries, even assassins.
The answers are always the same:
*"No one knows."*
*"No one could have done that."*
*"It must have been an accident."*
But Dareo knows the truth.
It was no accident.
The smoke was not natural. The light was not a phenomenon. Someone, somewhere, has the answer.
In the world, the enemies of the Targaryens celebrate in secret.
In Pentos, in Braavos, in Volantis, cups are raised in silence, smiles exchanged in hiding. Those who feared the power of the dragons, who envied their prosperity, who wanted to see them fall... all celebrate.
But the mages... the mages are WORRIED.
LARA, of the House of the Night, confirms the worst:
—Magic in the world has weakened —she says, before her council—. That smoke... was not natural. It was something more. Something that should not exist.
—Something worse than us? —asks an acolyte.
Lara looks at him.
—Much worse.
ATOX, of the Heirs of Eleris, is also uneasy.
He gathers his followers in his underground chamber.
—We did not do that —he says—. We cannot. That level of power... does not exist.
—Then who? —asks Fior.
—I don't know —Atox admits—. And that is what frightens me.
Cermi, she who whispers to the wind, speaks:
—Something approaches. Something that awakened. Something that has been sleeping since... since before.
—Since before what? —someone asks.
Cermi does not answer.
She only stares into the darkness.
No one knows.
And that is the worst answer of all.
**THE OATH**
Weeks pass.
The pain remains, but life, stubborn, continues.
One night, Aerom gathers those who remain.
The great hall is empty. The tables, once full of family, friends, allies, now have only four chairs.
Aerom occupies the head.
Beside him, Dareo.
Then Elera, with Aegon in her arms.
And in a cradle, by the hearth, the rescued baby. ORYS, they have named him. The bastard. The mystery. The one who survived.
—We have lost much —Aerom says—. Too much.
His voice, grave, resonates in the silence.
—But we still have this.
He gestures toward the babies.
—They are the future. They are the reason to continue.
He looks at Dareo.
—Promise me you will protect them. No matter what.
Dareo rises.
His face, marked by pain, by rage, by determination, is that of a man who has seen hell and returned.
—I swear it.
Aerom looks at Elera.
—Promise me you will teach them who they were. So they do not forget.
Elera nods.
Her son, Aegon, sleeps in her arms. Her little one, her hope.
—I swear it.
Aerom nods.
He rises slowly.
He walks to the window. Looks at the night. The stars. The sea.
—Then let us live —he says—. For them. For those who are no longer here.
Outside, in the distance, the dragons roar.
Valerio, Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion.
Five voices. Five broken souls.
As if responding.
As if saying: *we are here. We are still here.*
Aerom closes his eyes.
For an instant, his eyelids tremble.
When he opens them, they are grey again.
But in the reflection of the glass, for a fraction of a second, they glowed.
And this time, Dareo saw it.
—Father?
Aerom turns.
—Yes?
—Nothing —Dareo lies—. Just... take care.
Aerom smiles.
The same smile as always.
—I always do.
But Dareo is no longer sure of anything.