287 AC. Blackwater Bay.
As the oars plunged rhythmically into the water, the silhouette of Dragonstone grew larger and larger.
Dragonstone was a lonely, isolated fortress rising from the sea—a damp, dreary wasteland besieged year-round by fierce storms and treacherous waters. With the looming shadow of an active volcano constantly belching smoke behind it, the island's atmosphere was undeniably oppressive.
"They say this place was quite lively back when it was the seat of the Crown Prince," Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden remarked, pointing toward the island.
"It may have been their seat, but after the dragons died out, the Targaryens rarely spent any real time here. The title 'Prince of Dragonstone' became mostly ceremonial," Lord Tytos Blackwood countered, his tone dry.
Such a gloomy place required joy to make it bearable, not solemnity.
Arthur studied Dragonstone intently.
The Dragonmont was steep and jagged. If there was anywhere a dragon egg might be hidden, it was here.
Since the Dance of the Dragons and the extinction of the great beasts, Dragonstone had steadily declined. While the title "Prince of Dragonstone" remained, the heir to the Iron Throne usually preferred the comforts of the Red Keep. The notable exception, of course, was Rhaegar Targaryen, whose decision to move his household away from his father and take up permanent residence on Dragonstone had caused a massive political stir.
A place that had once hummed with the life and fire of soaring dragons was now little more than a desolate rock in the middle of the sea.
The Lord of Dragonstone held dominion over the island itself, as well as Driftmark, Claw Isle, Massey's Hook, Stonedance, and Sweetport Sound. Crucially, the position came with absolutely no financial support from the Iron Throne.
"We've arrived at Dragonstone!"
"Dragonstone!"
The Riverlords cheered as their journey came to an end.
The trip hadn't been particularly grueling; the sailing time was relatively short, and Blackwater Bay was currently calm. For the landlocked lords, the brief sea voyage had actually been a novel, comfortable experience.
Arthur could now clearly see not only the imposing silhouette of the Dragonmont, but also the massive, black stone citadel itself, bristling with gargoyles and towers shaped like dragons.
In all of Westeros, the castle of Dragonstone was the sole surviving example of Valyrian stonemasonry—dark, magical, and utterly alien. It had originally been constructed as the westernmost military outpost of the Valyrian Freehold.
The bronze figurehead of the Lady Lyanna cleaved through the waves, sending spray flying like open wings. The volcano loomed higher and higher, wreathed in pale smoke. The air was thick with the sharp tang of sulfur and sea salt.
The sails snapped in the wind, the rowing drum beat a steady rhythm, and the oars swept smoothly through the water. Soon enough, the port of Dragonstone came into full view.
The docks where three-headed dragons had once breathed fire were now draped in the crowned stag banners of House Baratheon.
Every pier was packed with ships, bobbing gently against the breakwaters. The prime berths were occupied by the massive warships of the Royal Fleet. The most magnificent among them was the Fury, the flagship of the Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon.
As the Lady Lyanna pulled into port, the Riverlords began to disembark in a chaotic, eager throng.
"This way, my lords!"
"Right this way! King Robert, Lord Stannis, and Lord Jon Arryn are all waiting for you within the citadel."
Serving as a welcoming committee on behalf of Stannis were two men: the elderly "Red Crab," Lord Adrian Celtigar, and the seventeen-year-old Lord Monford Velaryon.
They were vassals to the Lord of Dragonstone, and currently the two most prominent houses among Stannis's pitifully small roster of bannermen.
The notoriously foul-tempered Lord Celtigar was showing his age. His cloak was fastened with a crab carved from solid garnet. The handsome young Lord Velaryon wore a tunic of sea-green silk, a white-gold seahorse clasp at his throat perfectly complementing his brilliant, silver-gold hair.
"Good day, Lord Adrian! Lord Monford!"
The two lords greeted the Riverlords with practiced politeness, but the underlying bitterness in their eyes was hard to miss.
Though a starved camel is still bigger than a horse, their political influence had plummeted drastically. Once, they had been the proud vassals of the Crown Prince and the most die-hard, loyal supporters of the Targaryen dynasty. Now, they were merely the bannermen of the Master of Ships.
Young Monford's father, Lord Lucerys Velaryon—often mocked behind his back as a sycophant—had been the Master of Ships under the Mad King, one of Aerys's three favored cronies on the Small Council. But Lord Lucerys had perished along with the remnants of the Royal Fleet during the massive storm that shattered Dragonstone the night Daenerys Targaryen was born. The storm had also destroyed a significant portion of House Velaryon's own fleet, accelerating the family's decline.
Watching them, Arthur could easily imagine the massive psychological whiplash they must have suffered. House Velaryon, in particular, had plummeted from being one of the premier great houses of the realm to a second- or third-tier power.
When Monford and Adrian spotted Arthur, Lord William Mooton, and Lord Raymun Darry, their greetings grew noticeably warmer. It was the mutual understanding of shared misery. Fallen lords recognized fallen lords.
"My lords, please proceed directly up to the citadel."
Guided by Dragonstone's guards, the Riverlords began the trek upward. The path from the port to the castle was a steep, winding incline.
The castle of Dragonstone was a relatively small, highly concentrated fortress built directly into the face of the Dragonmont.
"Make way for the honored guests of Lord Stannis! Clear the path!" Stannis's herald bellowed from the front of the column.
Sailors, men-at-arms, naked children running through the mud, and swineherds driving their pigs all scrambled to clear the road.
As they walked, Arthur carefully surveyed his surroundings, taking mental notes on Dragonstone's condition.
It was no wonder Stannis was so bitterly resentful about being granted this rock. The place was an absolute miserable, barren wasteland. Aside from the port, the only settlement on the entire island was a tiny fishing village at the base of the mountain. The terrain was harsh, rocky, and utterly unforgiving, supporting a minuscule population that made recruiting any significant number of soldiers practically impossible.
"We have arrived at the citadel."
Instead of standard crenellations, the walls of Dragonstone were lined with over a thousand grotesque, black stone beasts.
Gargoyles glared down at the approaching lords, no two exactly alike. Wyverns, griffins, demons, manticores, minotaurs, basilisks, hellhounds, cockatrices, and a thousand other twisted monstrosities jutted from the stonework as if they had grown there organically.
And dragons were everywhere.
Looking at the sheer volume of gargoyles packed onto the walls, Arthur felt a mild twinge of trypophobia.
The Red Woman claimed she could wake dragons from stone. Was it a lie, or was there truth to it? Arthur wondered, studying the bizarre, terrifying statues.
Whether her prophecy referred to literally animating the stone gargoyles or hatching petrified dragon eggs remained ambiguous. But Arthur was certain of one thing: if she meant animating the statues, it would require a horrific artifact powered by blood and fire. And a fake dragon spewing shadow-flame could never truly compare to the real thing.
Behind the citadel, pale, ashen steam hissed continuously from the geothermal vents of the Dragonmont.
More importantly, Arthur now had a clear, unobstructed view of the volcano itself.
The slopes of the Dragonmont were incredibly steep on both the eastern and western sides. The eastern face was slightly more sheer; historically, this was where the wild dragons had preferred to lair.
If there are dragon eggs left here, they'll be on the eastern slopes, hidden in the old dragon lairs, Arthur concluded.
The massive gates of Dragonstone were wide open, ready to receive the high lords of the realm.
"Master Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun!"
"Ser Stevron Frey, heir to the Twins!"
"Master Arthur Whent, heir to Harrenhal and Earl of Whitewalls!"
"Lord Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall!"
...
The herald loudly announced each lord and lady by name and title before booming, "Please enter, my lords!"
Given Dragonstone's bleak reputation, the Riverlands delegation consisted almost entirely of men.
Near the entrance, Arthur spotted the rest of Stannis's primary bannermen.
Lord Bar Emmon of Sharp Point was a plump, sickly young man bundled in layers of purple velvet trimmed with white seal skin.
Ser Axell Florent, Stannis's brother-in-law, wore a luxurious fox-fur coat that did absolutely nothing to distract from his remarkably plain face and massive ears.
Lord Sunglass of Sweetport Sound, a man deeply devoted to the Faith of the Seven, wore moonstones at his throat, wrists, and fingers.
Ser Justin Massey was a tall man with pink cheeks, pale blue eyes, and hair as white-blond as flax.
Standing out among them was the Onion Knight, Ser Davos Seaworth, dressed simply in a brown tunic and a plain green wool cloak.
Arthur did a quick headcount. That was it. That was the entirety of Stannis Baratheon's core vassal strength.
"We can head to the training yard first. The knights are currently sparring while we wait for the evening feast to officially begin," Ser Justin Massey offered.
With nothing better to do, the Riverlords followed him toward the yards of Dragonstone.