# The Narrow Sea - Above the Stepstones
The flight across the Narrow Sea had settled into that peculiar rhythm known only to dragonriders—the steady drum of wing-beats against salt air, the whistle of wind through scales, the comfortable silence that comes when men have exhausted talk of weather and war and women and must simply endure each other's company whilst suspended between sky and sea.
Three dragons flew in loose formation across waters that had swallowed more ships than any maester could count. Close enough that a man might see his companions' faces, far enough that turbulence from one beast wouldn't send another spiraling into the waves like a stone from a sling.
Haerion Peverell had been lost in thought—a dangerous state for any man, doubly so for one about to meet his beloved's family under circumstances that would test a septon's patience and a sellsword's brass. The rhythmic motion of Aegerax's flight had lulled him into that warrior's calm, that stillness before steel sang and blood flowed and men learned whether their plans survived first contact with reality.
Then Aegerax's voice cut through his contemplation like a Valyrian steel blade through silk.
*The islands below. Look at them. Really look, oh mighty liberator of cities. Try seeing past your own arse for once.*
"Charming as ever," Haerion muttered, but his attention snapped downward with the focus that had kept him alive through more fights than he cared to count.
What he'd dismissed as just another scatter of rocks and gulls revealed itself to be something altogether more interesting upon closer inspection.
The Stepstones stretched below like a broken chain across the throat of the Narrow Sea, dozens of islands forming a natural bridge between continents that men had fought over since the Long Night. From this height, they looked peaceful enough—rocky shores crowned with scrub, small harbors tucked into coves where the surf broke white against black stone, the occasional fishing village clinging to land where sea met stone.
But Haerion's senses—honed through years of hunting dark wizards and months of burning slave markets from Volantis to Pentos—cut through surface appearances like a hot knife through butter left in the sun.
His magical perception detected concentrations of people that far exceeded what simple fishermen required. Fortifications that spoke of military presence rather than protection from storms. Ships moored in harbors whose designs screamed *we fight* rather than *we fish*.
And beneath it all, seeping through everything like piss through a drunk's breeches, the distinctive magical signature of systematic suffering. Not the sharp spike of immediate torture—that would have blazed in his consciousness like wildfire in a drought—but the dull, grinding misery of people whose hope had been crushed so thoroughly they'd forgotten the taste of it.
Slaves. Hundreds of them at minimum, possibly thousands, scattered across these gods-damned islands in patterns that suggested organized operations rather than isolated incidents.
"Oh, *bollocks*," Haerion breathed, his hands tightening on Aegerax's reins until his knuckles went white beneath the riding gloves. His jaw clenched with that particular sort of controlled rage that preceded remarkable violence. "The bloody Stepstones. I should have fucking anticipated this."
*Language,* Aegerax observed dryly. *What would your mother say?*
*My mother's dead, and if she weren't, she'd be telling me to burn the bastards.*
*Fair point. Proceed with profanity as needed.*
Through their bond, Haerion felt Gael's attention snap toward the islands below like a hound catching scent of blood. Her own magical sensitivity—awakened through the merger of Hermione's trained perception and Gael's natural Targaryen gifts—caught the same signatures he'd detected.
*Harry?* Her mental voice carried confusion mixing with dawning horror, like a maid discovering her lover's married with six children. *What in the Seven Hells am I sensing? It feels like... like the slave pens in Volantis, but spread across multiple locations. Organized. Hidden like a merchant's second set of books.*
*Because that's exactly what it is, love.* Haerion's mental voice had gone quiet in that particular way that made even dragons nervous, the way a man's voice goes quiet right before he does something that ballad-singers will argue about for generations. *The Stepstones have always been a haven for pirates, smugglers, and every other sort of scum that crawls out when legitimate authority turns its back. Too scattered to govern, too far from any major power to matter, absolutely perfect for bastards who profit from things that would get them hanged in civilized lands.*
He gestured toward a particular island showing fortifications that went well beyond keeping storms and raiders at bay. *And now they've become refuge for every slaver we displaced from the Free Cities. The ones who escaped before we could put them to the sword, who took their ships and their remaining cargo and fled to places where our authority doesn't reach.*
His emerald eyes blazed with cold fury that would have made a wiser man reconsider his choice of profession. *Some of those people down there were probably captured specifically because I disrupted their previous operations. Slavers who lost their markets in Volantis or Lys or Tyrosh, who needed to recoup their losses. Which means their suffering is at least partially my bloody responsibility for not finishing what I started.*
*Oh, here we go,* Aegerax observed with the sort of weary resignation usually reserved for mothers watching their sons about to pick fights with men twice their size. *The 'I must save everyone because I have magic and dragons and an insufferable sense of moral superiority' speech. Again. You realize we're currently en route to delicate diplomatic negotiations where the primary goal is NOT starting a war before dessert is served, yes? Just checking you remember that part.*
*I remember perfectly well,* Haerion said through teeth clenched tighter than a miser's purse. *Doesn't mean I have to bloody well like it.*
*No one said you had to like it. I said you had to NOT immediately declare war on pirates whilst flying to meet the family of the woman you're claiming is your soul-bonded wife from another life. These are different things. Subtle, I know, but meaningful.*
*Your sarcasm is noted and unappreciated.*
*Good. I'd hate for my efforts to go unnoticed.*
Prince Baelon's voice carried across the distance between dragons, rough as ship's rope and practical as a butcher's knife. "The Stepstones have been a pirate haven since before Aegon the Conqueror burned Harrenhal to slag. My father's tried to pacify them twice—never worked, not even with dragons. Too many islands, too many hidden coves, too damned easy for any bastard with a fast ship to disappear when the crown comes calling with fire and blood."
His purple eyes—Valyrian purple, the color of royalty and old magic—studied the islands below with the professional assessment of a man who'd spent forty years evaluating military challenges and learning which ones would get you killed for no good reason. "If your displaced slavers have established themselves here, they're effectively beyond anyone's immediate reach. The Iron Throne lacks the resources to mount sustained campaigns against scattered targets across dozens of islands. Your Federation's authority, impressive as it is, ends at Essos's shores."
He paused, then added with the sort of calculating precision that came from years at court where every word was weighed like gold: "For now, at least."
"For now," Haerion agreed, his voice carrying that particular edge that suggested plans were forming with uncomfortable rapidity, like storm clouds gathering on a summer afternoon. "Though I suspect His Grace King Jaehaerys might find the prospect of clearing pirates and slavers from his doorstep considerably more appealing than leaving them to operate with impunity. Funny how mutual interests can align when properly presented to men of sense and vision."
*Oh yes,* Aegerax said with profound sarcasm that could have stripped paint from wood. *Nothing says 'I'm a stable choice for your granddaughter' quite like 'Also, whilst I'm here, I'd like permission to start a war in your territorial waters.' Really setting yourself up for success with the in-laws there. Top marks for diplomacy.*
*I'm not starting anything,* Haerion shot back with the sort of wounded dignity that fooled absolutely no one. *I'm merely observing that strategic opportunities occasionally align with moral imperatives in ways that benefit all parties involved.*
*You're planning military campaigns whilst flying to a family dinner. That's not 'observing opportunities,' that's 'being you,' which frankly should come with more warning labels than a Myrish swamp-wine.*
*I contain multitudes.*
*You contain obsessions and poor impulse control dressed up in fancy words. Again, subtle difference, but meaningful.*
"Lord Haerion," Ser Harrold Westerling called from Vhagar's back, his voice carrying the weary patience of a man who'd spent decades trying to inject sense into Targaryen planning sessions and had the scars to prove it. His face was weathered as old leather, his eyes sharp as broken glass, and his tone suggested he'd had this exact conversation more times than any man should have to endure. "Perhaps we might maintain focus on immediate diplomatic objectives rather than planning additional military campaigns before we've even completed the current journey? Just a thought, my lords, from an old man who's seen what happens when Targaryens start planning wars before they've finished breakfast."
"Where's the bloody fun in that?" Daemon Targaryen's voice rang out with theatrical enthusiasm that suggested he'd been waiting for exactly this sort of chaos like a hound waiting for table scraps. His grin was sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous. "Besides, Ser Harrold, our mysterious dragonlord makes an excellent point. The Stepstones need burning like a plague house needs the torch. The slavers need killing like rats need the terrier. And having both problems operating with impunity from an archipelago that controls shipping between continents is simply poor strategic thinking on everyone's part."
His purple eyes gleamed with the sort of manic enthusiasm that made careful men reach for their swords. "Plus, just imagine the bloody songs. 'The Liberator and the Dragon Princess's First Joint Military Operation: Clearing Pirates, Freeing Slaves, and Establishing Model Governance Whilst on Honeymoon.' The singers will dine out on that for decades. Very romantic, in a violent sort of way."
"We're not married yet, Daemon," Gael pointed out with the sort of patient exasperation usually reserved for dealing with particularly slow children or very drunk sellswords. Though her mental voice carried more amusement than actual protest. *Though I appreciate you're already planning our future military campaigns together like other couples plan where to honeymoon. Really sets the tone for the relationship.*
*I contain multitudes,* Haerion repeated with affected dignity that wouldn't have convinced a blind septon. *I can simultaneously prepare for diplomatic negotiations AND plan future interventions against systematic evil. It's called being efficient with one's time.*
*It's called being incapable of leaving well enough alone even when well enough is actively trying to mind its own business,* Aegerax corrected with savage precision. *There's a difference. Subtle, I know, but trust me when I say it's there, like the difference between brave and stupid.*
*Those are basically the same thing.*
*That's what stupid people say.*
"The boy has a point, though," Baelon said, his tone thoughtful despite the circumstances, like a man weighing whether to bet on the black or the red at the gambling dens in Flea Bottom. "The Stepstones do need clearing regardless of whether slavers are involved. They've been a thorn in Westeros's side for generations—longer than that, truth be told. Every few years some pirate lord gets ambitious enough to start demanding tolls from ships passing through, and we have to send dragons to remind them why that's a bad idea."
He stroked his beard, a gesture that suggested he was working through tactical implications whilst trying not to appear too enthusiastic about potential warfare. "The fact that clearing them now would also serve Federation interests in eliminating escaped slavers who threaten your territories? That's not cynical opportunism—that's recognizing when doing the right thing also serves practical purposes. Call it enlightened self-interest."
"I love it when righteousness and self-interest point in the same bloody direction," Daemon declared with obvious satisfaction, like a man who'd just discovered his mistress was also rich. "Makes moral clarity so much simpler, doesn't it? 'Should we burn the pirates?' Yes. 'Would it be strategically advantageous to control shipping lanes between continents?' Also yes. 'Will it be entertaining?' Absolutely yes. See? Decision practically makes itself. No need for all that tedious debate that makes my head hurt."
"Prince Daemon," Ser Harrold said with the tone of a man who'd had this exact conversation too many times to count, usually right before something expensive caught fire, "your enthusiasm for burning things is noted and filed away for future reference. Perhaps we might consider whether this particular burning requires immediate planning whilst in flight toward diplomatic negotiations where the primary goal is building alliances rather than discussing which things need setting alight?"
"What better time to plan burning things than whilst we've got the actual targets in sight below us?" Daemon countered with the sort of logic that made sense only if you didn't think about it too hard. "We're already discussing it, the targets are literally below us doing their slaving and pirating and generally being the sort of scum that needs a good burning, and frankly, if Father and Good-King Jaehaerys can't appreciate the value of clearing pirate havens whilst simultaneously eliminating mutual threats to shipping and human decency, I question their strategic judgment."
*The scary thing,* Aegerax observed with what might have been genuine concern if dragons were capable of such human weakness, *is that the chaos prince is actually making sense. When Daemon Targaryen is being the voice of reason in your planning sessions, you know your plan has gone thoroughly sideways into territory usually reserved for mad kings and drunk philosophers.*
*He's not being the voice of reason,* Haerion protested with the dignity of a man defending his sanity against all available evidence. *He's being enthusiastic about violence that coincidentally serves multiple purposes whilst also providing entertainment value. It's different.*
*So exactly like you, then. Congratulations, you've found your people. I'm sure this won't end with everything on fire and people asking 'how did this happen?' whilst standing in ruins.*
*That's only happened twice. Three times at most.*
*You've been in this world for less than a year.*
*Your point being?*
"Harry," Gael's mental voice carried that particular mix of affection and exasperation that suggested she was reconsidering several life choices, possibly including the one where she'd flown across the Narrow Sea on a dragon to throw herself at him based on memories from another life. *Could you possibly try to present yourself as a reasonably stable individual with appropriate judgment when you meet my grandfather? Rather than, say, a revolutionary idealist who sees moral imperatives in every direction and responds to them with immediate violence?*
"I'm perfectly stable," Haerion said aloud, his tone crisp and British and entirely too proper for someone currently planning military campaigns whilst flying to meet his future in-laws. "I simply maintain high standards regarding systematic suffering and believe in swift, appropriate consequences for people who profit from it. It's called having principles."
*That's not the bloody reassurance you think it is,* Aegerax observed with brutal honesty. *'Don't worry, I'm very stable, I just have strong opinions about burning things and the people who deserve burning' is not actually calming to family members wondering if you're suitable marriage material.*
*It should be,* Haerion replied with wounded dignity. *Shows consistency of character. Dependability. They'll know exactly what they're getting.*
*Yes. That's what concerns them.*
"Look at it this way," Daemon offered with the air of someone being extraordinarily helpful whilst simultaneously making everything worse. "At least he's not boring. Can you imagine if he showed up and was all 'Oh no, pirates in the Stepstones, whatever shall we do, clearly this requires extensive committee review and careful cost analysis and perhaps we should commission a study'—*that* would be concerning. Possibly grounds for questioning Gael's judgment. But 'Pirates in the Stepstones, they've got slaves, let's burn them until they're ash and memory'? That's refreshingly direct. Honestly, it's the sort of attitude we need more of."
"Prince Daemon," Ser Harrold said with the weary patience of a man whose life had become an extended exercise in damage control, "your definition of 'refreshing' concerns me deeply and has done so since you were old enough to hold a sword, which in retrospect was probably too early."
"Everything concerns you deeply, Ser Harrold. You're concerned about breakfast arrangements. You're concerned about proper sword maintenance. You're concerned about whether people are standing in the right order when entering rooms. I maintain that life's too bloody short for that level of anxiety about everything."
"Life's also too short for unnecessary wars started because people couldn't maintain focus during diplomatic missions that were supposed to prevent wars."
"Who said anything about unnecessary?" Daemon's grin widened like a wolf spotting a lame sheep. "These sound like extremely necessary wars. Pirates, slavers, strategic chokepoints that control trade between continents—practically a public service, really. We'd be heroes. They'd write songs about us. Good ones, too, not like those tedious things about grain taxation and proper crop rotation."
"The songs about grain taxation serve an important educational purpose—"
"Ser Harrold, if I have to hear one more song about grain taxation, I'm going to start questioning why I didn't become a sellsword like I wanted."
"You wanted to be a sellsword for approximately three days when you were seven years old, Prince Daemon."
"Best three days of my life. Simpler times. No politics, no diplomacy, just hitting people with swords for money."
*Your family is completely insane,* Haerion observed to Gael with something between amusement and genuine concern. *They're all insane. Every single one of them.*
*You're planning military campaigns whilst flying to a family dinner,* she replied with brutal honesty. *You fit right in. It's actually concerning how well you fit in. I was worried there might be cultural differences to navigate, but apparently 'enthusiastic about burning things that need burning' transcends culture.*
*I'm choosing to take that as a compliment.*
*It wasn't meant as one.*
*Taking it anyway. Confidence is key in diplomatic situations.*
As the Stepstones fell behind them and Dragonstone's distinctive silhouette grew more prominent against the western horizon—black stone and dragon-carved towers rising from the sea like a great beast breaking the surface—Haerion forced himself to compartmentalize.
The fury remained. It always did when he encountered systematic suffering, burning in his chest like coals that never quite went cold. But he pushed it into that mental compartment where such things waited until circumstances allowed proper expression, the way a man might set aside a good weapon until the time came to use it.
But part of his mind remained fixed on those islands and the people suffering there, cataloguing details that would prove useful when the time came. Ship configurations that suggested military capacity rather than simple trade. Fortification patterns that spoke of organized defense rather than scattered resistance. The specific locations where his magical senses had detected concentrations of systematic misery.
Information that would prove invaluable when circumstances finally allowed him to return and ensure that the Federation's liberation efforts weren't simply displaced to territories beyond immediate reach, like squeezing a wineskin only to have the wine leak out somewhere else.
*You're planning already,* Aegerax observed with profound resignation, like a man watching his son court the lord's daughter despite knowing it would end in tears and possibly swordplay. *Can practically feel tactical calculations running through your consciousness even as you're trying to focus on not accidentally insulting royalty or suggesting their kingdom needs significant improvement.*
*I contain multitudes,* Haerion repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, with dignity that was becoming increasingly threadbare. *I can hold multiple thoughts simultaneously. It's a skill.*
*It's a problem. You contain obsessions and poor impulse control dressed up in fancy philosophical justifications. Again, subtle difference, but meaningful to those of us trying to keep you alive and out of unnecessary wars.*
*Has anyone ever told you that you're remarkably unsupportive for a bonded companion who's supposed to be on my side?*
*Daily. Usually by you. Right before you do exactly what I advised against and somehow make it work through sheer bloody-minded determination, excessive application of violence, and luck that should have run out years ago.*
*See? It works out in the end.*
*'It works out' and 'it was a good idea' remain entirely distinct concepts that you persistently conflate.*
"Are they always like this?" Baelon asked Gael, gesturing toward where Haerion sat on Aegerax's back, clearly engaged in heated mental conversation if his expression was any indication—jaw clenched, eyes distant, the occasional muttered curse in what sounded like multiple languages.
"Always," Gael confirmed with the sort of fond exasperation usually reserved for lovers who'd accepted their partner's flaws because the alternative was being alone. "It's like watching someone argue with themselves, except the other party is a dragon with strong opinions about tactical planning, appropriate risk assessment, and why my beloved shouldn't immediately solve every problem with violence."
"Sounds exhausting."
"You have no bloody idea. Sometimes I wake up and they're already arguing about something. Yesterday it was whether the breakfast eggs were strategically optimal for the morning's activities."
"...The eggs?"
"The eggs. Apparently there's a right and wrong way to approach breakfast from a tactical perspective."
Baelon stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head with the sort of weary acceptance that came from years in a family where three-headed dragons were considered reasonable heraldry. "You're sure about this match? It's not too late to claim temporary madness brought on by dragon-riding or reunion fever or something."
"Completely sure," Gael replied with conviction that surprised even herself. "He's brilliant and brave and completely mad, but he's *my* mad brilliant brave fool, and I'm keeping him."
"Gods help you both, then."
*I heard that,* Haerion sent with wounded dignity.
*Good,* Gael replied cheerfully. *It was meant to be heard. Consider it motivation to focus on immediate priorities—like making a good impression on my grandfather—rather than continuing to plan campaigns against pirates whilst we're literally approaching the castle where you're meant to convince my family you're suitable husband material despite being a foreign revolutionary with unclear origins and alarming tendency toward violence.*
*I can multitask.*
*That's not the reassurance you think it is, love.*
*Why does everyone keep saying that?*
*Because it's true and you're the only one who doesn't see it.*
As Dragonstone drew close enough that individual features became visible—the carved dragons adorning every tower and wall like a stone forest of beasts, the black stone that seemed to drink light rather than reflect it, the ancient Valyrian architecture that predated the Doom by centuries, the harbors where ships gathered like children seeking shelter from a storm—Haerion felt anticipation and nervousness warring in equal measure, like two sellswords fighting over the same contract.
He'd faced Voldemort and his Death Eaters. He'd conquered slave cities and founded empires. He'd died and been reborn, lost everything and found it again in forms he'd never imagined in his wildest fever dreams.
Surely he could handle meeting his soul-bonded partner's family and negotiating treaties that would determine whether their peoples could coexist peacefully or end up in the sort of war that ballad-singers would argue about for generations.
Though somehow, despite all available evidence suggesting he should feel confident, that prospect remained remarkably more intimidating than any battlefield he'd ever known.
"Right," he muttered, straightening in the saddle with the sort of determined focus usually reserved for walking into obvious ambushes because there was no other choice. "Family politics. Dragons, dark lords, slave armies—all of that I can handle. How difficult can one family dinner possibly be?"
*Oh, you sweet summer child,* Aegerax said with the sort of profound amusement usually reserved for watching someone about to step on a rake. *You're about to discover that dragons fear to tread in family dinners for excellent reasons, and that love and duty create complications that no amount of magical power can simply overwhelm through force of will or excessive violence.*
*Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Can't bloody wait.*
*Liar. You're terrified.*
*Completely terrified,* Haerion agreed with unusual honesty that surprised even himself. *But I've found that terror and determination aren't mutually exclusive. One can be scared shitless whilst still charging forward. Besides, I've survived worse.*
*Name one thing worse than meeting the in-laws whilst simultaneously negotiating international treaties and trying not to accidentally start wars or insult ancient houses or suggest their kingdom needs significant improvement.*
Haerion considered this for a long moment, his brow furrowed in genuine thought.
*...I'll get back to you on that.*
*That's what I thought. We're all going to die.*
*Probably not today though.*
*Your optimism is inspiring. Truly. Should write it down for posterity. 'Probably won't die today'—what an excellent family motto that would make.*
"Lord Haerion," Baelon called across the wind, his tone almost gentle in the way that gruff men sometimes managed when they actually gave a damn. "Bit of advice, if you'll take it from an old warrior who's navigated more courts than campaigns?"
"Always willing to learn from experience, Prince Baelon. Stupidity is trying the same thing twice and expecting different results."
"Smart man." Baelon's expression was serious, his purple eyes sharp as the Valyrian steel at his hip. "Don't try to be anything other than what you are. My father's met enough liars, schemers, and silver-tongued courtiers to recognize authenticity when he sees it, and he values it more than gold. You're a revolutionary who freed half a bloody continent and somehow bonded with my niece across death and dimensions through means we don't understand and probably shouldn't question too closely. Own that. The moment you start trying to be what you think we want to see, you've already lost. Be yourself—brilliant, mad, violently opposed to slavery, and probably planning at least three military campaigns at any given moment. If that's not good enough, then it wasn't going to work anyway."
Haerion blinked, genuinely surprised by the sincerity of it. Then he smiled—genuine and warm and entirely Haerion rather than Lord Peverell, Lord Consul of the Phoenix Federation, Liberator of Cities and Master of the Narrow Sea. "That might be the best bloody advice anyone's given me in months, Prince Baelon. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now try not to immediately suggest burning things during dinner. Wait until at least the third course."
"The third course," Daemon added cheerfully, having apparently been listening to the entire conversation because of course he had. "That's when the wine's flowing properly and Father's more receptive to suggestions involving fire. First course is too early—seems aggressive. Second course is awkward—interrupts the rhythm. Third course? Perfect timing. Trust me, I've made this mistake enough times to be an expert."
"Prince Daemon's expertise in poor timing concerns me," Ser Harrold observed.
"Everything concerns you, Ser Harrold. You should try that Dornish wine I mentioned. Supposed to calm the nerves."
"Wine is not a substitute for common sense."
"Not with that attitude, it isn't."
"Prince Daemon—"
"Besides, I'm not suggesting wine as a substitute for common sense. I'm suggesting it as a complement to common sense. Work together, like—like sword and shield! Or dragon and rider! Or morning and breakfast!"
"Those metaphors make progressively less sense, my prince."
"I'm going somewhere with this, Ser Harrold. Have faith in the journey."
"The journey concerns me almost as much as the destination."
As Dragonstone's landing fields came into view—already populated with what looked like half the castle's garrison, various courtiers, and probably every servant who could invent an excuse to be nearby when three dragons landed bearing riders whose arrival would reshape the political landscape whether negotiations went well or catastrophically poorly—Haerion allowed himself one final moment of reflection.
The age of dragons had returned to reshape the world through liberation and revolution and uncomfortable questions about the nature of power and who should wield it.
Now it would discover whether family dinner proved more challenging than warfare, conquest, and fundamentally restructuring economic systems across an entire continent.
*Here we go,* he thought as Aegerax began his descent toward ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of dragon landings.
*Try not to accidentally declare war, propose marriage in culturally inappropriate manner, suggest significant improvements to their governance, or otherwise create situations requiring immediate damage control,* Aegerax advised with the sort of comprehensive warning that suggested he'd been making a mental list. *Beyond that, I have complete confidence in your ability to navigate family politics with your usual combination of brilliant insight, spectacular tactical planning, and occasional lapses in judgment regarding the difference between what's possible and what's advisable.*
*Your faith is touching.*
*I know. I'm generous that way. Also realistic about your limitations, which in this case involve an unfortunate tendency to speak your mind when politic silence would serve better.*
*I'll try to restrain myself.*
*You'll fail spectacularly, but I appreciate the attempt.*
And with that less-than-reassuring exchange echoing in his consciousness, three dragons descended toward Dragonstone and whatever diplomatic challenges awaited on the ancient volcanic rock that had witnessed the rise of the last Valyrian dynasty to survive the Doom.
Time to discover whether love, duty, and politics could coexist peacefully.
Or whether this ended with fire, blood, and the sort of remarkably awkward family dinners that people would talk about for generations.
Either way, Haerion suspected with grim certainty, it would be memorable.
*That's what I'm afraid of,* Gael sent with profound feeling.
*Where's your sense of adventure, love?*
*I left it somewhere over the Narrow Sea when you started planning military campaigns during what's meant to be a diplomatic mission focused on convincing my grandfather you're not completely mad.*
*I'm not completely mad.*
Four voices spoke in unison—Baelon, Daemon, Gael, and Aegerax—with perfect, damning synchronization that suggested they'd been waiting for exactly this moment:
"Yes, you are."
Haerion considered this for a long moment, then shrugged with the sort of philosophical acceptance that came from knowing when one was comprehensively outnumbered.
"Fair point. Let's go be mad at royalty together, then. What's the worst that could possibly happen?"
*Don't ask that question,* Aegerax advised urgently. *The universe takes it as a personal challenge, and we've had enough challenges already.*
*Agreed,* Gael added. *Please, for the love of the Seven, don't invite more chaos into our lives through rhetorical questions that fate might answer.*
But it was too late. The words were spoken, the dragons were descending, and destiny—that fickle, bloody-minded force that cared nothing for careful planning or diplomatic necessity—was already moving like a great wheel crushing everything in its path.
Whatever came next would be memorable.
That much, at least, was as certain as death, taxes, and Daemon Targaryen suggesting something inadvisable.
Everything else?
Well.
They'd just have to bloody well see, wouldn't they?
Three dragons landed on Dragonstone with coordinated precision that suggested their riders had been practicing, which they absolutely had not because they'd been too busy arguing about pirates, planning campaigns, and generally behaving like the magnificent disaster they absolutely were.
The assembled crowd watched in silence as three great beasts settled onto ancient stone—Aegerax black as midnight and crackling with barely contained power, Silverwing silver as moonlight and graceful as a dancer, Vhagar vast as a mountain and old as the Conquest itself.
Their riders dismounted with varying degrees of success—Baelon with practiced ease born of forty years in the saddle, Daemon with theatrical flourish that probably wasn't entirely necessary but certainly looked impressive, Haerion with careful precision of a man who knew everyone was watching and absolutely could not afford to fall on his arse in front of his future in-laws like some green boy fresh off the farm.
*Nailed it,* he thought with satisfaction.
*You stumbled,* Aegerax observed with brutal honesty.
*Briefly. Hardly counts.*
*Definitely counts. At least three people noticed. Possibly more.*
*No one noticed.*
*Everyone noticed. You're not as subtle as you think you are.*
"Gentlemen," Haerion said aloud, turning to face Baelon and Daemon with the sort of formal courtesy that would have made his etiquette teachers weep with joy if they'd lived long enough to see it. "Shall we proceed to meet His Grace King Jaehaerys and discover whether I'm about to become family or inadvertently start an international incident through insufficient attention to protocol?"
"Why not both?" Daemon suggested with the sort of cheerful optimism usually reserved for people about to do something spectacularly inadvisable. "We're Targaryens. We excel at family bonding AND international incidents simultaneously. It's practically our house specialty, right alongside fire, blood, and questionable marriage practices."
"That," Ser Harrold said with profound feeling born of decades watching Targaryens be Targaryens, "is not reassuring, Prince Daemon."
"Not meant to be, Ser Harrold. Reassurance is boring. Now come on—Father's waiting, and I desperately want to see the look on his face when he realizes the mysterious dragonlord is exactly as mad as we are. Possibly madder. It'll be glorious."
"I'm not mad," Haerion protested with wounded dignity.
"Yes, you are," came the chorus—Baelon, Daemon, Gael, Aegerax, and now even Ser Harrold, who apparently felt strongly enough about it to join in.
Haerion sighed with the sort of philosophical acceptance that came from being comprehensively outvoted.
"Right then. Let's go be mad at royalty together and see what happens. Should be educational if nothing else."
*That's the spirit,* Aegerax said. *Low expectations—the key to happiness and avoiding disappointment.*
*Your encouragement is overwhelming.*
*I know. I'm generous that way.*
And with that exchange ringing in his consciousness like a bell announcing doom, Haerion straightened his clothes, checked his weapons out of pure habit, and prepared to walk into Dragonstone Castle to meet the king whose granddaughter he'd bonded with across death and dimensions.
Whatever came next would be memorable.
That much was certain as sunrise.
Everything else?
Time would tell.
---
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