c44: Crying
The fleet's return from its expedition naturally caused a great sensation on Dragonstone.
In truth, news of this victory had already spread ahead of them, carried across the Narrow Sea by ravens dispatched from loyal outposts and surviving captains during the return voyage.
The first place it stirred unrest was King's Landing. In a city as crowded and volatile as the capital where nobles, merchants, beggars, and spies lived side by side rumors moved faster than ships.
The narrow streets and markets buzzed with speculation, and before long, the City Watch of King's Landing were once again thrown into chaos. Having barely enjoyed a few days of calm after the recent upheavals that followed Robert's Rebellion, they now found themselves scrambling to maintain order, arresting agitators and silencing those who spoke too boldly of dragons returning.
From there, the news spread outward.
Merchant vessels traveling between the Free Cities and the Crownlands carried the tale across ports and islands. These ships, which often stopped at Dragonstone to take on fresh water and supplies, brought word even before the Targaryen fleet itself could arrive.
It was said that the Targaryen fleet had utterly destroyed the Baratheon ships at Shipbreaker Bay, near Storm's End. Yet, as with all tales carried by sailors and merchants, the story changed with every telling.
One version claimed that House Targaryen had awakened an ancient Valyrian power buried beneath Dragonstone itself, tied to the fiery heart of the Dragonmont.
Another insisted they had uncovered a lost treasure gold, weapons, and relics left behind since the days when the Targaryens first fled the Doom of Valyria.
The most outlandish tale of all spoke of Prince Viserys performing a blood sacrifice within the ancient halls of Dragonstone, awakening a skeletal dragon from stone. According to this version, he had mounted the creature and flown across the skies, reenacting the conquest of Aegon the Conqueror, even burning Storm's End to ash.
Rumors grew wilder with each telling.
Yet despite all the exaggerations, one truth remained undeniable.
Viserys Targaryen still lived.
And he had returned.
At last,
the fleet entered the harbor.
After careful maneuvering through the damaged docks.many of which had been battered by the recent stormnthe ships were gradually secured. Ropes were thrown, anchors dropped, and sailors shouted commands as they guided the warships into place.
Viserys stood at the bow of the Black Death, waiting to disembark alongside the soldiers who had survived the campaign.
His long silver-gold hair flowed behind him in the wind, and though still dressed in practical leather armor rather than royal silks, the boy carried himself with a quiet, unmistakable presence.
His pale violet eyes lifted briefly toward the horizon before lowering to the sight below.
Dragonstone.
The island had changed.
As the very center of the recent storm, it had suffered greatly. What Viserys now saw barely resembled the place he remembered from only a short time before.
Trees had been torn from the earth, their roots exposed and twisted. The ground was scarred and uneven, churned into mud and debris. The already harsh volcanic landscape now seemed even more desolate, as though it had been scourged by the wrath of the gods.
In the distance, the great вулcano of Dragonmont continued to exhale thin streams of white smoke, its presence looming over the island like a silent guardian or a warning.
Rockslides had torn down sections of the cliffs, and near the harbor, the small fishing village that served as Dragonstone's only real settlement had been devastated.
Large stones still lay scattered among broken homes. Roofs had collapsed, walls shattered, and the small patches of farmland that sustained the villagers were ruined.
Viserys noticed strips of white cloth hanging from many of the damaged houses.
Markers of death.
Families mourning those lost to the storm.
This village, humble and fragile, was the only real source of population on Dragonstone. Its people lived by the sea, relying on fishing and trade with passing ships.
Now, even that livelihood had been crippled.
Fragments of wooden docks floated in the harbor, alongside broken planks and wreckage carried in by the storm.
Below, soldiers were already hard at work.
They shouted to one another, hauling ropes, dragging timber, and coordinating efforts to secure the warships and begin repairs. Their movements were urgent but disciplined, shaped by long experience under commanders like Sir William and the ever-vigilant Sir Barristan.
Among the gathered crowd waiting at the harbor,
Sir Shad the acting steward and de facto governor of Dragonstone stood at the forefront, his expression unusually grim.
Beside him stood Sir William Darry, once a master-at-arms of the Red Keep and one of the few men who had remained loyal during the fall of House Targaryen. It was he who had risked everything to spirit Viserys and his family away from danger in the chaos that followed the rebellion.
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder.
At their side was the young girl Renée, her small figure tense with anticipation, while servants and soldiers formed a line behind them, all waiting in silence.
Viserys glanced down from the ship.
Then, following the lead of the old sergeant, he stepped forward, surrounded by guards, and began to disembark from the Black Death.
Step by step,
his boots struck against the wooden gangway, each footfall echoing softly in the heavy air.
When he finally descended from the warship,
something unexpected happened.
The entire crowd waiting below soldiers, servants, villagers alike fell to their knees as one.
No cheers.
No cries.
Only silence.
"Hmm?"
Viserys paused midway, one hand steadying himself against the rough railing of the makeshift gangway. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
He did not understand.
Why were they kneeling?
What had changed?
But before he could speak, before he could even turn to ask Sir William or Sir Barristan for an explanation, Renée suddenly broke free from the Instructor's grasp and ran toward him, her small feet pounding against the ground as she rushed forward, cutting through the stillness.
The little brown-haired girl threw herself into Viserys's arms, clinging to him tightly as tears instantly welled up in her violet-blue eyes.
Viserys held Rhaenys close, feeling the warmth of her small body trembling against him. Soon, he felt his shoulder grow damp as her tears soaked through his cloak, and a terrible premonition quietly took root in his heart.
"Rhaenys…"
As the last light of day faded beyond the smoking peak of Dragonmont, the boy half-knelt on the cold ground, wrapping his arms around her. His chapped lips pressed together slightly, as though holding back words that refused to come.
He parted his lips again, wanting to ask but hesitated.
And in the end,
he said nothing.
The fleet had reached Dragonstone at dusk. Between unloading the spoils of war and dealing with the heavy destruction left by the storm shattered docks, broken moorings, and debris clogging the harbor, it had taken far longer than expected to secure the ships.
By the time everything was in order,
night had already fallen completely.
The group began their ascent toward the castle, walking along the steep, winding stone path that led up from the harbor to the ancient fortress of Dragonstone.
Torches lit their way.
Step by step…
Fully armed guards surrounded their young prince the last male heir of House Targaryen forming a protective ring on both sides. Flames flickered in the wind, casting long, shifting shadows against the jagged volcanic rock.
No one spoke.
Not a single word.
The joy of victory, the triumph at sea, the destruction of the enemy fleet near Shipbreaker Bay none of it could dispel the heavy silence that now hung over them.
Everyone understood.
Something was wrong.
The night air on Dragonstone had grown colder, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and salt. Viserys had wrapped himself in an extra black cloak, the fabric heavy against his small frame.
His long silver-gold hair spilled over the dark cloth, swaying gently with each step.
His right hand gripped Rhaenys's smaller one tightly, as though afraid she might disappear if he let go.
"Sir William."
At last,
Viserys spoke.
It was the first time since disembarking that he had said anything. His voice was quiet, almost fragile, as though even speaking required effort.
He turned his head slightly, looking toward the man walking beside him—Sir William, the loyal knight who had once served in the Red Keep and had remained steadfast even after the fall of Aerys II Targaryen.
"Mother… she…"
He could not finish the sentence.
Queen Rhaella had not come to the harbor.
And that alone was enough.
Viserys already knew.
After all this was how the story was supposed to go.
He had tried to change it.
From the moment he became aware of everything, he had done all he could comforting her, speaking with her, trying to ease the grief and fear that had taken root in her heart after the fall of their house.
He had tried to make her smile again.
Tried to give her hope.
But fate… was not so easily rewritten.
Too many things had already gone wrong.
The death of the old maester. The assassination attempt. The constant fear of betrayal after Robert's Rebellion.
Each blow had weakened her further.
Sir William's face darkened.
He heard the unfinished question, and for a moment, his expression tightened with grief. Then, without speaking, he slowly shook his head.
That was enough.
Viserys understood everything.
His heart lurched violently in his chest, as though something inside him had shattered.
He had known.
He had always known.
But knowing something in advance did not make it easier to bear when it finally came to pass.
Viserys took another step upward then suddenly stopped halfway along the stone path.
Still holding Rhaenys's hand, his fingers trembled slightly.
His small body bent forward, as if seized by a sudden chill or illness. One hand rose to cover his mouth, his shoulders shaking faintly.
"Cough"
Under the dim torchlight, his face remained half-hidden in shadow.
He tried, tried with all his strength—
to hold it back.
He did not want Rhaenys to see.
He did not want Sir William, or Sir Barristan, or any of the soldiers behind him to witness it.
A king should not cry.
A dragon should not weep.
But in the end,
it was useless.
The tears came anyway.
Silently at first, then uncontrollably.
They streamed down his pale face, glistening in the flickering firelight, as the last Targaryen prince stood on the cold stone path of Dragonstone…
and cried.
.....
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