ASOIAF: The True House of Dragons

After the alliance was concluded, the envoys from each realm rested for the night, then set out on their return journeys the following morning.

House Targaryen's lord, Aerion, walked out of the main keep alongside the envoy from Tyrosh.

Aegon and his sister Rhaenys followed closely behind as the group made their way to the port to see the envoys off.

The massive form of the King-tier Dragon Vhagar loomed overhead, casting a vast shadow across the ground. It descended slowly and landed on the beach, where Visenya stood tall and poised atop its back, her black and red robes billowing fiercely in the sea wind.

The allied forces' temporary headquarters had been established in Tyrosh.

As the initiator of the alliance, Aerion was bound for Tyrosh to oversee the command of the joint army. Since the coalition forces currently lacked dragon support, Visenya had volunteered to accompany her father.

Aegon stepped forward and called out loudly, "Sister, be careful on your journey!"

Visenya placed a hand on the hilt of the Dark Sister sword at her waist, smiled, and gave him a gentle nod. "You take care too."

As Aerion, Maester Gawen, and the Tyroshi envoys boarded the ship, Vhagar let out a series of deep, thunderous roars. The sound startled flocks of seabirds into the air, and with a mighty beat of its wings, the great dragon kicked up a gale and soared into the sky.

Aegon and Rhaenys stood silently on the shore, eyes fixed on the departing ship.

At that moment, the Storm King's flagship slowly pulled away from the dock.

Aegon turned his head and saw Argilac, King of the Stormlands, standing at the bow surrounded by his guards.

Behind him, a tall guardswoman suddenly reached up and removed her helmet. Her long black hair instantly unraveled in the sea wind, whipping around like silk dancing through the air.

Aegon froze, his eyes flickering with surprise.

She raised a slender hand and gracefully brushed aside the windswept strands from her forehead. Noticing Aegon's attention, Princess Argella of the Stormlands gave a soft laugh.

The corners of her lips curled into a bright smile, revealing perfect white teeth. She lifted the helmet high above her head, gave it a small wave toward Aegon, then hurled it hard in his direction.

The ornate steel double-winged helmet traced a smooth arc through the air before landing in the sand at Aegon's feet.

He blinked, momentarily stunned, then bent down to pick it up. But by the time he straightened and looked toward the ship again, Argilac, Argella, and their party had already disappeared from view, leaving only the stern of the Storm Kingdom's vessel shrinking into the distance.

"Hmph!"

Rhaenys, clearly displeased, gave Aegon a sharp kick in the calf and scolded, "Brother, are you daydreaming?"

Snapping out of it, Aegon gave a slightly sheepish smile and quickly shook his head.

"No, just caught off guard, that's all."

In his heart, he was certain—any girl riding alongside the Storm King couldn't be ordinary.

...

After bidding farewell to the envoys of the allied realms, Aegon and Daemon threw themselves into the work of commanding the army. Time was short. They had to set sail immediately for Ross Island—the northernmost and most critical stronghold in the Stepstones.

There was still a wager between House Targaryen and the Storm Kingdom: whoever captured Ross Island first would claim dominion over the entire Stepstones.

...

The army's departure progressed far more slowly than Aegon had anticipated.

Although House Targaryen had made thorough preparations, it wasn't until the third day that the fleet finally managed to set sail for Ross Island.

In truth, House Targaryen's current strength was far from overwhelming. After protracted skirmishes with the Dragon Party of Volantis, their naval forces had only managed to scrape together a fleet of just over thirty warships.

Fortunately, House Stark had provided reinforcements—more than ten ships—which allowed them to cobble together what appeared to be a decently sized strike fleet.

Under the glow of the rising sun, the warships slipped from the port one by one. Their sails swelled full in the ocean breeze, flapping with rhythmic snaps. The oars dipped in perfect unison, churning the sea and sending up bright white splashes, the wooden hulls thudding dully with each beat.

Balerion and Meraxes circled high above the fleet, their massive forms casting great shadows as they soared across the sky, veiling part of the sunlight.

Aegon rode Balerion proudly, looking every bit the warrior prince. This was his first time marching with an army to war, and his heart was filled with both anticipation and curiosity.

But that excitement soon gave way to frustration. The slow pace of the ships dragged down the momentum of the journey—and completely disrupted Balerion's flight rhythm.

Unable to bear it any longer, Aegon pressed his knees gently into Balerion's flanks, guiding the dragon to descend alongside the flagship. He called out to Daemon:

"Balerion and I are going ahead! Rhaenys and Meraxes will continue escorting the fleet from above."

Standing at the bow, Daemon raised his voice in response.

"As you command, Your Highness!"

Aegon spurred Balerion forward, soaring alone toward Ross Island.

Balerion's wings spread wide, each mighty beat sending up roaring gusts. The dragon flew at full speed, the wind shrieking past Aegon's ears, tugging at his robes and whipping his hair in wild streams behind him.

Fortunately, the dragon saddle—based on Aegon's own earlier design—was semi-enclosed, built to protect the rider at high speeds.

"If it weren't for this saddle, half my life would've been blown away by now," Aegon thought with a sigh of relief, running a gloved hand along the smooth saddle frame.

From time to time, he glanced downward. Tiny fishing boats dotted the coastal waters below like scattered leaves, bobbing gently on the waves.

But when Aegon and Balerion reached the Stormlands, the sight before him was nothing like he expected.

The port was calm. There was none of the noise, bustle, or movement typical of a departing war fleet. Even the nearby sea was still—no waves, no wake, no sign that ships had recently passed through.

Aegon's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Did the Storm King give up the wager? Abandon the fight for the Stepstones? Impossible. Argilac is a fiery, prideful king. He'd never back down so easily.

Could they have gone ahead to the Stepstones in advance?"

There was no time to hesitate. Aegon reached behind him and retrieved a sea buoy containing a sealed message detailing his current movements. He hurled it with force into the waters along the route the Targaryen fleet would follow.

Then he urged Balerion onward—straight toward Ross Island at full speed.

As dusk bathed the sky in a warm glow, Aegon flew over Tarth. Not long after, bits of shattered ships began to appear on the waves below, drifting among the swells.

Aegon looked closely and spotted the sigils on the wreckage: the stag of the Stormlands, and the sigil of House Valentine from Volantis.

"A major battle already happened here?"

He slowed Balerion's pace, gliding low to get a better view.

"There's no sign of dragonfire scorching these hulls... so no dragons were involved in the fight."

Soon after, the largest island in the northern Stepstones—Ross Island—came into view.

On the northern shore, dozens of Storm Kingdom warships had landed. Thousands of soldiers surged from the beach, charging up toward a mountain stronghold like a crashing tide. Their battle cries echoed to the heavens, and their armor gleamed faintly under the fading sunlight.

Atop the fortress walls, Volantis soldiers fought with desperate resolve.

Boulders were being pushed down from the fort above, tumbling down the hillside in thunderous waves, raising clouds of dust and debris that rolled like miniature landslides.

Ross Island had become a scene of brutal, pitched battle—shouts and screams overlapping in a roar that shook the sky.

But then Aegon noticed something off.

As Balerion circled around to the southern side of the island, he spotted something startling: behind the mountains, hidden from the main battlefield, were hundreds of warships. Their sails flapped proudly in the sea breeze, emblazoned with a golden spear piercing a red sun—Dorne's emblem—glaring brightly in the sunset.

Even more concerning, a dozen or so main ships were mounted with massive ballistae—dragon-hunting crossbows.

Aegon's expression darkened. His gaze fixed on the siege weapons aboard the Dornish fleet.

"Dorne's warships? What did Volantis offer them to get them involved? And with dragon-hunting ballistae? Dorne came prepared. This won't be easy."

The Storm Kingdom soldiers, still engaged in their assault, spotted Aegon approaching on Balerion. They instantly recognized the dragon's massive and unmistakable form—one of the most powerful forces from the alliance of the Six Kingdoms.

Their morale surged.

Cheers and war cries erupted from the ranks.

"It's the Dragonlord of House Targaryen!"

"Kill them all!"

But their jubilation was short-lived.

From within the fortress, wave after wave of Dornish soldiers suddenly poured out like a flood. There were so many of them—easily double the number of Storm soldiers.

With cold, determined faces, the Dornish fighters quickly encircled the Storm troops.

Aegon hovered above on Balerion's back, watching the tides of battle shift in an instant.

Now he was faced with a decision—

To intervene, or not?

...

A few days after Aegon and the fleet set sail from Dragonstone, their banners raised and sails unfurled as they slowly departed the island...

At the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, one small warship after another emerged from the winding river like swift fish, streaming into the vast expanse of Blackwater Bay. On the sails of each ship was a striking emblem: a silver chain in the shape of a cross dividing the crest into four equal quarters.

This was the heraldry of House Hoare—the so-called "King of the Iron Islands" and "King of the Isles and the Rivers."

Each of the four quarters bore a distinct image: a green pine tree on a white field, a bunch of purple grapes on gold, and a black raven soaring in a blue sky.

The powerful House Hoare had emblazoned their coat of arms with symbols of conquest—the longships for the Iron Islands, the pine for Bear Island, the grapes for the Arbor, and the raven for Raventree Hall—all bound together by the Ironborn's unyielding chains.

"Blackheart" Harren stood atop the flagship, clad in armor forged from blackened fish scales that gleamed coldly under the sun. He loomed like a demon god.

Raising his warblade high with one hand, his coarse voice—raspy like a rusted gong—boomed across the deck.

"Pick up the pace, all of you! What are you waiting for?"

More than fifty longships surged forward, one after another, their hulls linked like the body of a great black serpent as they entered Blackwater Bay. Then, with a swift turn of the rudders, they aligned and paddled in unison, their oars churning white froth as they powered forward, thundering toward Dragonstone.

At the bow, Harren stood tall, his hair like salt-crusted rope splayed messily across his broad forehead, loose strands whipping wildly in the sea breeze. Deep-set eyes, a crooked high nose, and a thick, unkempt beard clung to his chin like tangled seaweed dragged from the deep.

Harren threw his head back and let out a strange, guttural laugh.

"Today, you dare join the Storm King in crushing Volantis. Tomorrow, you'll try to ride dragons to burn down my precious Harrenhal? Volantis has handed me a fine reward... now I strike first, take the lead—ga ga ga!"

His twisted laughter echoed across the sea, sending chills down the spines of those who heard it.

...

Blackwater Bay lay not far from Dragonstone. Once past Driftmark, seat of House Velaryon, and into the waters of the Gullet, one could reach the sea surrounding Dragonstone.

At that moment, inside the castle, an elderly handmaid named Illya was carefully sewing a Targaryen banner bearing the three-headed dragon. Her gnarled fingers moved deftly through the fabric, but suddenly she paused, sensing something.

She looked up from her work and turned toward the window.

Setting down her needle and thread, Illya slowly rose and shuffled to the window's edge, her movements unsteady.

Her clouded eyes stared long and far, fixed on the direction of Blackwater Bay.

After a long silence, her dry, rasping voice broke the stillness.

"Someone else is coming to die."