A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 53 – Return to Dragonstone

The waves of Blackwater Bay were still thick with the wreckage of war. The battle had been hard-fought, a clash of iron and fire upon the sea. Aerion Targaryen stood at the bow of his flagship, staring across the waters that had once been ruled by his ancestors. The sun was rising behind him, setting the waves ablaze with gold and crimson, as if the gods themselves had painted the ocean in blood to honor the fallen.

Beside him, Aurane Waters, his admiral, unrolled a salt-stained parchment and began reading the tally of losses.

"We struck Stannis before he could land, as planned," Aurane said. "But it was costly. We lost twenty-four ships, another dozen too damaged to sail without repairs. Hundreds of men dead or missing."

Aerion exhaled slowly, his red eyes scanning the debris-filled sea. The bodies of Baratheon men, Stormland knights, and even some of his own lined the water like flotsam.

"And Stannis?" Aerion asked.

"King's Landing finished the rest. What remained of his fleet burned," Aurane said. "He fled to the Wendwater with what little force he had left.."

Aerion gave a short nod. Stannis had been broken.

But there was no time for mourning, no time to waste. They were already sailing in familiar waters, the waters that House Targaryen had ruled with an iron grip for centuries. And now, it was time to return home.

In the distance, the blackened peak of Dragonmont loomed over the sea. At its base, Dragonstone, the draconic fortress, stood as it had for centuries—black as obsidian, carved with the twisting figures of dragons.

His forefathers' seat.

His birthright.

His destiny.

The women and children had already sailed ahead to Dragonstone, Claw Isle, and Driftmark before the battle. But Aerion and his warfleet had remained, striking at Stannis before the Baratheon could set foot on land. And now, the sea had delivered him home.

As his ship anchored in Dragonstone's harbor, he saw the smallfolk gathered along the docks. Men, women, and children of Valyrian descent, their silver-gold hair catching the wind, stood in silent awe as the banners of House Targaryen were raised once more after fourteen long years.

Aerion took his first step onto the stone pier.

He was home.

Westeros had forgotten the rule of dragons, but they would remember soon enough. The war had only just begun.