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

The Summer Sea

The vast Summer Sea stretched endlessly, connecting the continents of Westeros, Essos, and Sothoryos—a vital artery of trade, but also a haven for pirates.

Since the Free Cities of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr had formed their so-called Kingdom of the Three Daughters, piracy had officially declined between the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea.

But in its place had come legalized piracy.

Ironic? Not at all. After all, honest trade brought wealth—but nothing was more profitable than theft without consequences.

Ships from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh had mastered the art of switching seamlessly between merchant and raider. Some had even allied with the longships of the Ironborn, creating a delicate balance between order and chaos at sea.

On the open water, a massive oared warship was slowly sinking.

Nearby, another warship—this one bearing the infamous banner of a naked woman clutching a coin—was desperately attempting to flee.

But it had no chance.

A larger oared warship was closing in from behind, hurling stones and flaming projectiles.

From the other side, a towering war galley with immense sails surged forward, wind swelling its banners. Its momentum carried it across the waves with frightening speed.

Both ships bore the same sigil on their purple sails—a silver dragon breathing fire, encircled by a wreath of laurel.

Farther in the distance, three more ships with the same markings were closing in.

"Goddess' curse," the pirate captain spat, ducking behind a barrel as another javelin thudded into the deck. He grabbed his first mate by the collar. "Didn't you say these waters were safe? Where in the hells did the Silver Dragon fleet come from?"

"I don't know!" The first mate shoved him off. "We should raise—"

Before he could finish, a javelin punched through his chest.

A rain of arrows and spears followed.

"Raise the white flag! Surrender!" The captain turned in horror as the massive war galley bore down on them, its reinforced prow angled for a direct ram.

"No—!"

CRACK.

The larger ship struck the pirate vessel head-on, shattering its bow. The impact drove the smaller ship sideways, its deck splintering under the force.

The captain lost his footing and tumbled overboard.

From there, it was over.

Another warship moved in, launching grappling hooks.

Within minutes, the pirates were subdued, their ship taken.

The usual process followed. The Varezys fleet would strip the ship of its valuables, rescue any captives, and then scuttle it.

But this time, they found something… unusual.

A young man.

The Dockyards of Volantis

"And that's how it happened."

Ivens Dayne sat across from Lozar Varezys, his face open and sincere.

He was a Westerosi, from House Dayne of Starfall in Dorne. As the youngest son, he had no inheritance, so his family had sent him to study at the Citadel in Oldtown.

On a routine journey, his ship had been taken by pirates.

Now, he had been rescued by the Varezys fleet.

The two men sat in the shipyards of Volantis, a place bustling with workers and merchants. Volantis had one of the largest natural harbors in the world, a crucial asset to its dominance in trade.

This particular dock and shipyard belonged to House Varezys.

Lozar had come personally, straight from the Senate, eager to meet the young Westerosi.

Accompanying him was Maester Visari—the only man qualified to confirm if Ivens was truly a maester-in-training.

"A novice maester," Visari said, after one look at him.

Ivens flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. It was true—he had yet to take his vows. His maester's chain contained only three links: black iron for ravenry, gold for economics, and red copper for history.

It paled in comparison to Visari's multi-colored, fully-forged chain.

Maesters were a uniquely Westerosi institution. Trained at the Citadel in Oldtown, they spent years studying various disciplines—history, medicine, engineering, politics, and warfare.

Once fully trained, they swore an oath, renouncing their family names. The Citadel then assigned them to noble households, where they advised lords and ruled in their stead.

One lord had once said: "Sometimes, I think my maester is the true lord of this castle."

At the highest level of power sat the Grand Maester, who served the king in King's Landing, holding a seat on the Small Council.

"Who was your mentor, novice?" Visari asked.

"Maester Grey," Ivens answered cautiously.

Visari nodded. He turned to Lozar. "He's legitimate. Grey was one of my students."

Lozar studied the young man.

Ivens wore a filthy grey robe, his fair skin pale from months at sea. He had short, pale-gold hair and striking violet eyes—a rarity even in Westeros.

"Matches the descriptions from the books," Lozar mused.

Everything he knew of Westeros came from Visari's old texts and the scattered recollections of his dying mother.

But Visari had left Westeros decades ago.

Back when King Jaehaerys I still ruled.

Now, the old king was long dead. His successor had reigned, sired heirs, and aged in turn.

Lozar had been juggling one crisis after another in the past few days.

But this was important.

The flames had shown him a vision—if he succeeded in Valyria, then Westeros would be his next destination.

He needed information.

Better to hear from someone who had actually been there.

Lozar gestured for Ivens to sit.

The young maester hesitated, but a grin from Lyn Valterkan encouraged him.

He sat down.

"Ivens, I have questions about Westeros," Lozar said. He poured a cup of fruit wine and slid it across the table.

"I'll answer whatever I can," Ivens promised.

He hesitated, glancing at the drink.

Then he took a sip.

It was sweet, with a faint tang.

"Let's start with politics," Lozar said. "Tell me about your king. Tell me about your lords."