Lord Monford Velaryon had a great deal of trouble with accounts. Not with the numbers themselves—he could count ships and crewmen as well as any man—but with the way the numbers never seemed to agree with the logic. He was forever balancing the ledger, attempting to make the losses from a bad season of storms or a failed venture on the Narrow Sea line up with the few prizes his captains managed to take. He sat in the solar of High Tide, the salty wind rattling the shutters, a quill in his hand and a sour expression on his face.
The silence of his study was shattered by a sound that was no storm and no kraken. It was a loud roar, a sound that seemed to shake the very stones of High Tide. The ink sloshed across his parchment, and the quill slipped from his numb fingers. It was a sound that belonged to the age of dragons, a sound his house had not heard in a century and a half.
Monford rose, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He strode from the room, guards scrambling to keep pace with his hurried strides. The courtyard of High Tide was already a sea of faces, his entire household staring up at the sky with a shared, pale terror.
At the edge of the crowd, his silver hair a beacon in the sun, stood Aurane Waters. The bastard half-brother Monford both loved and pitied was staring at the sky, his lips parted in wonder.
"What do you think it is?" Aurane murmured, his eyes fixed on the sky, not bothering to glance at Monford.
Monford could not answer, for at that very moment, the sky itself did. A vast shape descended from the clouds, its scales glimmering like a thousand polished rubies. The dragon's roar silenced everyone present the second time, and the earth trembled as it landed in the courtyard. All around him, men and women fell to their knees, a mix of fear and reverence on their faces.
Monford could not breathe. He, who had grown up on tales of his house's service to dragons, now looked upon one with his own eyes. The beast lowered its massive head, smoke curling from its nostrils. From its back, a boy no more than fifteen summers slid down with a practiced grace. His hair was the color of fresh snow, and his eyes red that reminded Monford of the heart tree that northerners prayed. A beast no less fearsome padded at his side, a wolf larger than any Monford had ever seen, probably a direwolf from the stories of the North. Its eyes were the color of rubies, unblinking.
The boy's gaze swept over the courtyard, and when he spoke, his voice held the weight, which demanded right answers. "Lord Velaryon." The title rang like a bell in the sudden silence.
Before Monford could think, his tongue betrayed him. "Your Grace." The words were pulled from his lips by an oath older than he was.
The boy chuckled softly, though the fire in his eyes did not waver. "Am I?"
Monford swallowed hard, his knees trembling even as he straightened his spine. "House Velaryon has ever been loyal to House Targaryen," he said, his voice hoarse. "We are the Old, the True, the Brave."
"Then tell me," the boy pressed, his gaze sharp as steel. "Do you know who I am?"
Monford's eyes flicked to the direwolf at the boy's side. The beast's crimson gaze held his own. His throat tightened. He finally lowered his head, the truth as clear as the dragon that loomed above them.
"I know now."
The boy's voice rang out, clear and certain. "I am Aemon Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Blood of dragon and wolf both."
A collective gasp swept through the courtyard. Monford fell to one knee, Aurane beside him. Monford's voice rose, steady despite the storm of emotions within him. "House Velaryon pledges its fealty to the rightful heir of House Targaryen. To you, my prince… my king." The dragon roared once more, and one by one, the rest of Driftmark bent their knees, bowed their heads to the boy who held the fire of House Targaryen and ice of House Stark.
The dungeons beneath the Red Keep smelled of old stone and piss. Eddard Stark sat against the damp wall, his beard unkempt, his body thin from meager meals. His leg throbbed with a dull ache, the unhealed spear wound a constant reminder of his failure. He had stopped counting the days.
He stirred when a presence lingered outside the bars of his cell. A figure crouched in the flickering torchlight, its sharp features cast in shadow. Dark eyes, alight with a quiet intensity, studied him in the silence.
It was Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne. He sat cross-legged before him, watching for a long, quiet while. Ned's grey eyes, tired and sunken, slowly rose to meet his, a flicker of disbelief in their depths.
"Does this viper come to taunt me?" Ned rasped, his voice raw from disuse.
Oberyn tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. "No, Stark. I did not come to mock you."
Ned frowned faintly. "Then why?"
The Dornish prince leaned forward, the iron bars casting lines of shadow across his sharp cheekbones. "I came to ask you a question. Do you want to leave this place?"
Ned blinked, taken aback. "Leave?" He almost laughed, a dry, bitter sound that caught as a cough. "There is no leaving these dungeons, not for me."
Oberyn's smile was thin, sharp as a blade. "That is where you are wrong. Your son may need you soon, Stark. Would you not wish to be at his side?"