c36 The Storm Is Coming
June, 284 AC, After Conquest.
Three months had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye.
Thick, dark clouds gathered across the oppressive sky above Dragonstone, heavy and low, as though the heavens themselves were preparing to collapse. Far out at sea, a monstrous storm was already taking shape lightning tearing through the clouds, thunder rolling like the drums of war, torrential rain descending in distant sheets, and fierce winds beginning to howl across the waters.
It was not an ordinary storm.
It was the kind sailors feared the kind remembered in stories.
And in the midst of this looming natural disaster, a fleet of warships cut through the waves, their dark hulls rising and falling with the tide as they sailed away from Dragonstone, heading into the uncertain horizon.
Viserys stood on the second deck of the flagship Black Death, facing the relentless sea wind. His long silver-gold hair whipped wildly behind him, revealing his pale, aristocratic features features unmistakably of Valyrian blood.
The young prince wore fitted leather armor reinforced with metal plates across his chest and abdomen, protecting his vital points. A short sword rested at his waist, while a bow and quiver were slung across his back, giving him the appearance of a young warrior rather than a sheltered noble.
Below him, the deck bustled with activity.
Sailors and soldiers moved quickly, securing loose cargo, lowering and adjusting sails, tying down ropes, and preparing the fleet for the storm that loomed ever closer. Orders were shouted over the wind, and the tension in the air was unmistakable.
"A storm is coming…"
Viserys murmured, his violet eyes fixed on the darkening horizon.
"Your Highness."
At that moment a hoarse, weathered voice sounded from behind him. It was Sir Geoffrey, commander of the Dragonstone fleet.
The old knight had cast aside his usual court attire and now wore full armor, his cloak snapping sharply in the wind. They were no longer merely discussing strategy in the painted hall, they were marching toward action.
"Why did you choose this moment to launch an attack?"
Sir Geoffrey stepped forward slightly, his gaze steady.
As a man who had spent most of his life at sea, he understood storms better than most. Weeks earlier, he had already noticed the signs above Dragonstone the heavy skies, the shifting winds, the unnatural stillness that often preceded a great tempest.
By his estimation, a storm surge was inevitable.
His original plan had been simple and safe:
keep the fleet anchored in harbor, secure every vessel with reinforced lines, and ride out the storm beneath the protection of Dragonstone's cliffs.
With proper preparation, even a violent storm would not cause catastrophic losses.
But Viserys had changed everything.
Half a month ago, the young prince had proposed something unexpected.
A strike.
Not later.
Not after the storm.
But now.
At a time when no sane commander would willingly sail into open waters.
His reasoning had been simple, yet bold:
the enemy would never expect an attack under such conditions.
At present, the forces of Robert Baratheon had not yet established full naval dominance. The royal fleet stationed around Blackwater Bay was still being reorganized, and ships were under construction, many not yet seaworthy.
Even Stannis Baratheon, though renowned for discipline and naval command, had not yet fully consolidated his strength at sea.
If they struck now, they could destroy the enemy fleet before it was properly formed. Cripple their naval power, Break their confidence, and seize control of the waters before the storm reshaped everything.
It was, in essence, a gamble.
A high-risk maneuver that relied on timing, surprise, and speed.
Compared to a prolonged harassment of Storm's End, which might delay shipbuilding but achieve little decisive gain, this plan aimed for a single, devastating blow.
And if executed correctly they could also outrun the storm itself, slipping past its outer edges rather than being trapped within it at harbor.
Yet despite the logic, the plan carried enormous risks.
Viserys's explanation, though sharp, lacked the depth of real battlefield experience.
To many, it sounded more like bold speculation than solid strategy.
And yet after long deliberation, Sir Geoffrey had agreed against his instincts, against his years of experience. He had chosen to trust the boy.
Thus, the fleet of Dragonstone had weighed anchor.
Sails raised.
Oars cutting deep into the sea.
They surged forward at full speed, leaving behind the looming shadow of the storm. Passing through the narrow choke point of Blackwater Bay, rounding the jagged coastline, the fleet pressed onward into open waters toward both opportunity and danger.
Initially, everything had gone according to plan; the fleet departed Dragonstone ahead of schedule, successfully putting distance between themselves and the looming storm before it could fully descend upon the island.
However, in the days that followed, as the fleet pressed onward across the restless sea, Sir Geoffrey's heart gradually grew heavier.
A lingering chill crept into his thoughts.
Even fear.
The fact that they had already sailed for several days and still remained within the storm's expanding reach spoke volumes about its sheer scale.
This was no ordinary tempest.
It was vast, unnaturally vast.
If he had ignored Viserys's warning, if he had stubbornly insisted on anchoring the fleet within Dragonstone's harbor and relying on chains, ropes, and experience to endure the storm then the consequences would have been catastrophic.
The royal fleet, tightly packed within the bay, would likely have been smashed against the black volcanic rocks, torn apart by wind and wave, and swallowed whole by the sea.
In such a scenario, the last naval strength loyal to House Targaryen would have been annihilated in a single night.
Because of this realization, Sir Geoffrey found himself increasingly unsettled.
And increasingly curious.
Why had the boy insisted on departing at such a critical moment?
At a time when Queen Leila was nearing childbirth, so close to delivering a child whose fate might mirror that of Daenerys Targaryen, who in another telling was born amidst a storm so violent it shattered fleets and earned her name?
Could it be that Viserys had somehow foreseen the magnitude of this storm?
"Did Your Highness… perceive something in advance?"
Sir Geoffrey finally asked, his voice carrying both curiosity and a trace of caution.
At that very moment a deafening crash split the air.
BOOM!
Thunder roared across the heavens as if the sky itself were breaking apart.
The sea surged violently, towering waves crashing against the hulls of the ships. The storm, which had been chasing them for half a month, had finally caught up with the fleeing fleet.
Rain poured down in torrents, as though the sky had been torn open, releasing days of pent-up fury all at once.
Below deck, soldiers scrambled in panic, securing cargo, tightening ropes, and bracing themselves against the violent rocking of the ships.
Above, Viserys gripped the railing tightly, his small frame braced against the force of the wind. His silver-gold hair lashed wildly, and the roar of the storm nearly drowned out all sound.
Struggling to hear Sir Geoffrey's question, the boy turned his head and shouted back over the wind:
"No!"
"I was only guessing!"
His voice was almost swallowed by the storm.
Sir Geoffrey narrowed his eyes slightly at the answer.
He tightened his grip on the railing as well, his gaze lifting toward the darkened sky, where lightning flickered endlessly within the thick storm clouds.
"Oh… is that so?"
he muttered, his tone unreadable.
Turning his head, he cast a long, measuring look at the boy.
Since their first real exchange three months ago, he had found Viserys difficult to understand.
At times, the boy displayed insight far beyond his years sharp, decisive, even reminiscent of Rhaegar Targaryen.
And yet, at other moments, he seemed no different from any other child—reckless, uncertain, guided by instinct rather than knowledge.
It was precisely this contradiction that made him dangerous or perhaps…
remarkable.
In truth, Sir Geoffrey's decision to follow Viserys's proposal had not been made lightly.
Nor had it been based on blind trust.
Shortly before their departure, he had received a letter from the Citadel in Oldtown.
The maesters men who studied the stars, winds, and tides had sent warnings to ports, islands, and cities along the eastern coast of Westeros.
Their message had been clear:
A storm of unprecedented magnitude was forming over the Narrow Sea.
A storm greater than any recorded in recent memory.
And based on their observations, its center would pass dangerously close to Dragonstone.
These were not wild rumors.
They were calculated predictions, made by men who wore chains of knowledge and served the realm without allegiance to kings.
Even after Robert Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne, the Citadel had not changed its duty.
Like the brothers of the Night's Watch, the maesters served the realm as a whole not any single ruler.
And so they had sent their warning to Dragonstone as well.
At first, Sir Geoffrey had not taken it seriously.
Storms were common in these waters.
Warnings were frequent.
But as the days passed, the signs in the sky grew darker, the winds more erratic, the sea more restless.
The old instincts he had honed over a lifetime began to stir uneasily.
And yet he had hesitated.
The queen was about to give birth.
The fleet was needed close to Dragonstone to guard against enemies, to maintain control of Blackwater Bay, and to ensure their survival.
Leaving at such a moment was a gamble.
A dangerous one.
But then Viserys had spoken.And those words bold, reckless, yet strangely precise had become the final push.
The deciding factor.
If the fleet remained and was destroyed by the storm…
then nothing else would matter.
Without ships, without protection, Queen Leila and her unborn child would be left completely vulnerable.
And that was a risk far greater than any storm.
...