GoT and House of The Dragon: The Last Valyrian Dragonlord.

After weeks of preparation, Lozar finally announced the departure of his fleet.

House Bentarro had collapsed entirely. Their wealth and lands had been carved up between the Tiger and Elephant parties, with Lozar himself acquiring a significant share—gold, estates, and most importantly, a fleet.

From the spoils, House Varezys had gained 23 large warships and nearly a hundred smaller vessels.

Now, they had all been absorbed into the Varezys fleet.

Of course, not all of them would be needed for this voyage.

During the final days of preparation, Lozar handpicked the ships that would set sail. Among them were two newly constructed giant war galleons—the Weeping Boy and the Silent Lord. The latter would serve as the flagship. Both ships were built using shipbuilding techniques left behind by Cleorius, relying entirely on sails rather than oars, with towering masts and immense, sprawling sails.

Rumor had it that in test trials, these vessels were faster than even a three-hundred-oar war galley.

Accompanying them were nine additional full-rigged sailing ships, twelve three-hundred-oar war galleys, and sixty-five warships with two hundred to one hundred fifty oars.

As long as they avoided storms, this fleet could dominate the Summer Sea.

A Reunion at the Docks

The silver-haired boy barely dismounted before lunging at Lozar with open arms.

Lozar caught Valar Varezys, holding him tightly as he tousled his younger twin's hair.

"Brother." Valar's grip was firm, his voice relieved.

Lozar smiled, patting his shoulder. "You've grown stronger. About the assassination… I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Lozar," Valar reassured him. "We should have been more careful."

"As long as you're safe." Lozar nodded to Hoffa and Sebastian Pyrebrand, who had accompanied Valar back.

The two young men straightened in unison, raising fists to their chests in salute.

"Valar!" A voice of indignation sounded behind Lozar.

Valar turned to see Rey peeking out from behind his elder brother.

The little one had grown fast, seemingly changing by the day.

"And you," Valar grinned, ruffling Rey's hair mercilessly. "Brat, you're getting big."

"Hmph," Rey pouted, but still threw his arms around Valar. "I'm just glad you're okay. Everyone was worried."

"How's Flamewing?"

"Flying around wherever he wants," Rey sighed, casting a bitter glance at Maester Visari, who had come to see them off. "He's freer than me."

"Flamewing is old," Lozar murmured. "He may not live to see our return. That's why I had them release him."

For a moment, the three boys stood in quiet mourning for the falcon that had once been their faithful companion.

Then, it was time to board.

The Departure

Because Lozar had formally announced the departure in the Senate, the usual crowds at the docks were thinner than expected. Most of the space had been cleared for the fleet's grand exit.

Standing on the flagship's deck, Malahar, the newly healed red priest, was already absorbed in reading.

Visari and Ivens Dayne had returned to the Varezys estate. Vansen Kaon and Gonzal Pyrebrand remained behind to govern Volantis in Lozar's absence.

Meanwhile, nearly all of Lozar's inner circle had joined the expedition.

Lyn Valterkan wore purple plate armor, standing to Lozar's left, while Argo, dressed in lighter clothing with an arakh at his hip, stood to his right.

Hoffa, Sebastian Pyrebrand, and Amor took their places aboard the Silent Lord, aiding in command.

Tigaro Targaryen and Adams boarded the Weeping Boy, taking young Rey with them. This ship was designed for comfort, with spacious cabins.

Amos Featherstone and Zesar the Shadowweaver were stationed on the war galley Marlin, alongside Aslan Rondel, overseeing one of the main combat ships.

Then—

A low horn echoed through the harbor.

The fleet, pulled by tugboats, slowly began to leave port.

The waves rolled beneath them.

And far to the north—

Braavos, The House of Black and White

Amid thick mist, a titanic colossus emerged from the fog, revealing the sprawling floating city behind it.

Hundreds of islands spread across the massive cityscape, connected by long bridges of grey, gold, and crimson stone.

A city of stone. A city without green.

On a low hill, a strange building with a black spire sat in silence.

A massive, twelve-foot carved wooden door stood shut. The left side, carved from weirwood, was pale as bone, inlaid with black ebony in the shape of a crescent moon.

The right side, carved from black ebony, was dark as night, with a weirwood moon arc set within.

Together, they formed a black-and-white full moon.

Within, a ten-foot pool reflected the thirty statues that stood around it.

Among them—

The Weeping Woman.

The Lion of Night.

The Hooded Wanderer.

The Bakkalon.

The Maiden of the Dusk.

The Stranger.

The Mermaid King.

All stood watching their reflections.

A man stumbled to the pool's edge, collapsing before a figure in a half-black, half-white hooded robe.

Silently, the hooded man handed him a cup of water.

"May you find rest."

The voice was calm. Detached. Yet it carried a strange pull, an almost unnatural magnetism—compelling the listener to hear, but never remember.

A red candle burned softly.

The man drank.

The cup fell.

And he died without a sound.

The hooded figure reached out, gently brushing his fingers across the dead man's face.

Then—

He looked up.

The face he wore was now the dead man's face.

Expressionless. Empty.

Then, suddenly—

A shudder of pain rippled through him.

The figure clutched his face, a silent tremor wracking his body.

His lips moved, whispering unheard words.

Time stretched.

Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.

"A vision from the Many-Faced God?" he murmured, fingers tracing his decaying cheek. "The Heir of Broken Chains… The Patron of the Faceless Ones… finally walks the path of fate?"

He turned, walking to the Stranger's statue.

He knelt.

"The Faceless Men do not forget."

"As the Many-Faced God wills it, so shall it be."

Another hooded figure stepped forward from the shadows.

"All men must die."

The first man did not look up.

"All men must serve."

The decayed face tilted upward, empty of expression.

"One has been summoned."

The second figure spoke, his hood empty—as if nothing lay beneath.

"One must still serve."

"The price has been paid. The gift shall be given. One must travel east—find the musician who will change the song."

"One still has doubts."

"As the God wills it."

The last of his face crumbled away.

"One shall answer all."