The road southwest of Ashford was little more than a long scar of mud and stone, beaten flat by wagon wheels and hooves. The sun hung high above, drying the surface just enough that each rut shone dark and slick. A wooden cart creaked along at a steady pace, its wheels groaning in complaint every time they struck a deeper groove.
The man driving it sat hunched slightly forward, reins wrapped around calloused hands. His beard was thick and uneven, flecked with gray despite his still-strong frame. Mud stained the hem of his boots, and the smell of horse sweat and damp earth clung to him.
Behind him, the canvas cover shifted as his little daughter edged toward the open side of the cart.
"Father… how far are we?" she asked, her small fingers gripping the wooden rail as she leaned out.
"Careful," her mother called. She shifted beneath the canvas and leaned forward, one arm bracing her daughter's back as she settled beside her husband. The cart rocked slightly as she moved, the leather straps creaking.
The man glanced over his shoulder, his eyes softening when he saw his daughter's expectant face. "Not much farther now," he said. "We'll… "
"…go like the wind!" the girl burst out, finishing the thought with a bright smile.
He laughed, low and easy, and flicked the reins lightly. "That's right. Go like the wind." His voice took on a playful lilt as he began to sing.
"Go like the wind, come like the wind…"
The girl clapped once and joined in, her voice piping but enthusiastic.
"With a creaky old cart and a merry old grin,
From village to village my tale spins…
Go like the wind, come like the wind!"
Her mother smiled, resting her head briefly against the canvas frame as the song carried them forward.
"I've hauled rotten cabbages, leaky old barrels,
Sacks full of turnips, fit for quarrels… "
The cart jolted and swayed, the horses snorting as their hooves sucked free from the mud. The rhythm of the road and the rhythm of the song blended together, comforting in their sameness.
"And a pig that shat all over my laurels…
Go like the wind, come… "
Then the light shifted.
It dimmed all at once.
The girl's voice cut off mid-line. She frowned, confused, and tilted her head back.
The father turned, about to ask why she had stopped…
A vast shadow slid over the cart, swallowing the road, the horses, and the three of them whole. The air felt heavier, pressing down on skin and breath alike.
Above them, wings.
A dragon.
Huge and dark bronze-brown, it passed overhead, its scales dull and massive like aged armor. Each beat of its wings stirred the air, sending dust and loose straw swirling. The horses screamed, rearing violently.
"Seven hells!" the man shouted, yanking hard on the reins as the cart lurched sideways. Mud sprayed up his legs as he dug in his heels. "Easy! EASY!"
The cart shuddered but didn't tip. The girl stumbled, and her mother grabbed her at once, pulling her close, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Before any of them could speak, the shadow deepened again.
Another dragon crossed the sky.
This one was enormous, green and vast. It blotted out the sun entirely, turning midday into something like dusk. Though high above, the wind from its wings snapped the canvas cover and made the cart groan in protest.
The man stopped fighting the reins. The horses, trembling, finally stilled. All three of them simply stared upward, mouths open, caught between terror and awe.
Then came a third.
Blue.
Bright, cold, and immense, its scales glimmered as it passed, nearly as large as the green one before it. The air rippled with heat and motion as it flew overhead, tugging at hair, at cloth, at their breath itself.
"Come closer," the father said hoarsely, dragging his daughter toward him.
Her mother was already moving, half out from beneath the canvas now, arms wrapped tight around both of them. She pulled the girl close against her chest.
"Dragons… " the girl whispered, as her parents held her between them.
They stood there in the middle of the road, reins hanging loose, mud forgotten, watching as the three vast shapes flew southward. The horses trembled, sides heaving.
The wind tore at Gael's face, cold and unrelenting, carrying with it the dry taste of the sky. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms tighter around Aegon's waist, pressing her cheek briefly against the hard leather of his riding suit.
"How much longer…" she asked, her voice nearly lost to the rush of air and the thunder of wings.
Aegon did not answer immediately. His posture remained steady, his hands firm on the reins as Dreamfyre surged onward, her great body rising and falling in powerful rhythm. The dragon's heat bled backward through the saddle, a faint, living warmth against the chill.
He shifted slightly, angling himself so his back took the worst of the wind. Gael felt the difference. The cold still bit, but it no longer felt sharp enough to steal her breath.
"Not long now," Aegon said, glancing over his shoulder. His voice was calm, reassuring. "Highgarden soon. After that… Oldtown."
Gael nodded, though he could not see it. Her fingers tightened again, knuckles whitening inside her gloves.
"Sister Maegelle…" she murmured, the name slipping free before she could stop it.
Aegon heard it. She felt it in the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, before easing again.
"It will be all right," he said quietly, as if speaking louder might make the words untrue.
"Hmm…" Gael made a small sound. Would it?
She lifted her head, squinting against the wind, and looked ahead.
Vhagar flew before them, her wings beating slow and deliberate. Baelon rode her like a carved figure of stone, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed forward. He did not turn. He did not look back.
Farther still… Vermithor.
Her parents rode together upon its broad back, their figures smaller than she remembered, pressed close in necessity.
Even from this distance, Gael could see it. The way their backs hunched. The way they leaned into one another.
They had already lost three daughters.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Her mother's scream still echoed in her ears.
The sound had been raw… painful, torn from her chest the instant the words were spoken.
Grayscale.
The room had gone still. Someone had dropped something, a cup, perhaps, and it had shattered on the floor, loud in the silence that followed. Gael remembered how her mother's knees had given way.
It had struck House Targaryen like a merciless thunderclap.
Maegelle contracted Grayscale.
Her father. He had only stood there, staring, his face drained of all warmth. He looked older. Not tired… aged. As if years had pressed themselves into him in that instant.
They all knew what it meant.
There was no cure. Grayscale did not pass.
Maegelle's face rose unbidden. Soft, composed, always kind. She remembered Oldtown. The Starry Sept. The smell of incense and stone. How Maegelle would sit beside the sick children for hours, speaking gently, washing their hands herself when others would not. How she told Gael stories when the days grew long, stories full of quiet humor and gentle lessons, never once speaking down to her.
How she smiled, even when she was tired.
How she had chosen this.
How it was meant for her.
Taking a deep breath, Gael pressed her face briefly into Aegon's back, fighting back the tears. Her grip tightened as Dreamfyre surged onward through the sky, carrying them all toward whatever waited ahead.
Oldtown — the Hightower
The bells of the Starry Sept were silent.
Lord Hobert Hightower stood by the tall arched window, a half-filled wine cup hanging loosely from his fingers. The light from outside caught the pale gold of the Arbor red and turned it darker, almost brown.
Beyond, the Starry Sept rose white and serene, its domes untouched by the worry that now pressed into Oldtown like a gathering storm.
Hobert took a sip, then another, without savoring it.
"I told them this would happen," he said, his voice flat, edged with irritation. "All that time spent among the sick. Grayscale children." He let out a short scoff. "Folly dressed up as mercy."
Behind him, Lady Lynesse Hightower reclined in her chair near the hearth, her skirts arranged with care. She lifted her own cup and drank more slowly, her eyes half-lidded in thought.
"They like to think themselves different," she said mildly. "Closer to gods than men." A faint smile touched her lips. "But even Targaryens bleed. Even… they rot."
Hobert hummed in agreement.
The doors opened suddenly.
Ormund entered at a near run, boots striking stone too loudly, breath still quick in his chest. He slowed the moment he sensed it… the stillness, the tension hanging in the air.
"You called, Father?" he asked, unsure, his voice catching slightly as he straightened.
Hobert turned.
His gaze was sharp, displeased. "I did," he said. "An hour ago." His eyes traveled over his son, rumpled sleeve, hair not quite in place. "Where were you?"
Ormund swallowed. The familiar weight settled between his shoulders, heavy and constricting.
"I was… with friends," he muttered.
Hobert's mouth tightened. "Friends," he repeated, as if tasting something sour. "While the realm shifts beneath our feet." He took a step closer. "You are seventeen, not a child. You should be learning restraint. Awareness. Responsibility."
Ormund nodded quickly, gaze dropping. "Yes, Father."
Hobert exhaled through his nose and turned back to the window.
Lynesse watched the exchange. She set her cup aside and rose, smoothing her skirts as she crossed the room. Her voice softened as she reached Ormund's side.
"Your father only wants what is best for you," she said, placing two fingers beneath his chin and tilting his face up. "Stand properly. Shoulders back."
Ormund obeyed at once.
She adjusted the line of his collar, brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "The Targaryens are coming," she said quietly. "You know why, right? "
His eyes flickered. He nodded.
"Good," she murmured. Then she stepped back, studying him. "Now… not like that." She frowned faintly. "Too stiff. You must look… saddened. Regretful." She demonstrated, letting her own expression fall just slightly, eyes softened, mouth drawn, grief measured and appropriate. "Like this."
Ormund tried again. Too forced.
"No," she corrected gently. "Less effort. Think of something lost."
He inhaled, then adjusted. His face settled into something more subdued, more believable.
Lynesse smiled, satisfied. "Better."
She stepped aside and gestured toward the door. "Go. Be ready to receive the king and queen."
Ormund bowed his head and left quietly, closing the doors behind him with care.
Silence returned.
Lynesse turned back to Hobert. He still stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back now, the wine forgotten on the sill.
Her expression cooled once the door shut and her son's footsteps faded down the corridor.
"You found out which whore he's been sneaking about with?" she asked. Her voice was lower now, stripped of its earlier warmth.
Hobert gave a small, noncommittal grunt. "Mm."
Lynesse's eyes narrowed. "See that it's handled quietly," she said, stepping closer. Her gaze lingered on her husband's profile. "I do not intend to wake one morning to whispers of scandal… or a bastard tied to our name."
Hobert inclined his head, cold and assured. "You won't."
Satisfied, Lynesse turned and left the chamber, her steps firm, her skirts whispering softly against the stone.
Hobert remained where he was.
After a moment, his gaze drifted back to the window, toward the city beyond.
***
📜 Milestones:
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