Above Dragonstone, the red comet burned across the sky.
Even in daylight, it refused to fade.
It stretched like a bleeding wound across the heavens—crimson, blazing, and ominous. Its colors swirled like blood and fire mixed with the dying glow of sunset, casting an eerie light over the jagged cliffs of the island fortress.
Behind the ancient castle, Dragonmont exhaled pale grey steam. The volcanic mountain breathed slowly, like a sleeping beast. The entire island bore the marks of a forgotten age—one where dragons once ruled the skies and fire was a language understood by kings.
Now, that age was gone.
Dragonstone had returned to what it truly was—an isolated rock in the vast sea.
Lonely.
Harsh.
Forgotten.
Davos Seaworth stood beneath the towering black walls, gazing up at the gargoyles perched high above.
Some resembled twisted hounds.
Others, long-winged dragons frozen in mid-flight.
There were sphinxes, demons, and creatures no man could name.
Thousands of them.
Silent witnesses to centuries of change.
"The gargoyles never change," Davos muttered to himself. "Only the masters of Dragonstone do."
Once, this place had been the westernmost outpost of the Valyrian Freehold.
Now, it belonged to Stannis Baratheon.
Davos had served him here for years. The sight of those monstrous carvings no longer unsettled him as it once had—but they never truly became comforting either.
As he walked through a narrow stone passage, a familiar sound reached his ears.
Clang.
Dong.
Clatter.
A mix of bells and uneven footsteps.
Davos paused.
"…Princess Shireen."
He recognized it immediately.
There was only one person on Dragonstone who moved like that—and only one who accompanied her.
The small figure of Princess Shireen appeared from around the corner.
Beside her shuffled Patchface, her jester.
A strange pair.
A lonely child and a broken fool.
"Ser Davos," Shireen said shyly, her voice soft. "Are you going to see my father?"
Davos nodded gently.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Shireen's eyes were a clear, innocent blue—but her face…
Davos felt a familiar ache in his chest.
The gods had not been kind to her.
Where other children her age might have been admired for beauty, Shireen bore scars instead.
Greyscale had nearly claimed her life when she was young.
Though she survived, it left its mark.
The disease had turned part of her face and neck into hardened, cracked stone-like skin. Grey and black patches marred her delicate features, a cruel reminder of death that never fully came.
She had her father's square jaw.
And her mother's prominent ears.
A child shaped by both parents—and burdened by fate.
"I wanted to see the maester," she said quietly. "He used to show me the white ravens… but he's gone now."
Davos lowered his gaze.
The old maester had been one of the few who truly cared for her.
Now, even he was gone.
Shireen was alone.
More alone than any child should ever be.
Behind her, Patchface skipped forward.
His costume was a faded patchwork of red and green squares. A dented tin bucket sat on his head like a crown, adorned with crooked antlers and dangling bells.
With every step—
Clang.
Clatter.
Ring.
"Under the sea, the birds have scales and no feathers!" Patchface sang, his voice shrill and uneven. "I know, I know, oh oh oh!"
Davos felt a chill.
There was something deeply unsettling about the jester.
Once, perhaps, he had been merely foolish.
But the sea had taken something from him.
His mind.
His memories.
His humanity.
What remained was… something else.
"I had another nightmare," Shireen said, looking up at Davos. "I dreamed that dragons were coming to eat me."
Davos forced a reassuring smile.
"Dragons are long gone, Your Grace," he said gently. "They're extinct. What you see here are only stone carvings—remnants of ancient Valyria."
"They cannot harm you."
But even as he spoke, his eyes flickered briefly toward the sky.
The red comet burned brighter than ever.
Even I have never seen something like that…
"But the woman in red says it's dragon's breath," Shireen whispered. "A sign from her god."
Davos's expression hardened slightly.
Melisandre.
"That is only a comet," he said firmly. "A natural sign. It means the seasons are changing."
"Autumn is coming."
Shireen nodded slowly.
"After autumn comes winter…"
Her voice grew quieter.
"I've never seen winter."
Patchface twirled beside her, bells ringing wildly.
"Under the sea, it's always summer!" he sang. "Mermaids wear silver seaweed gowns—oh oh oh, I know!"
Shireen giggled softly.
"I want a dress like that too."
"Snow falls upward under the sea!" Patchface continued. "And rain dries like bones! I know, I know!"
Davos felt his unease deepen.
There was madness in those words.
Or perhaps…
Something worse.
"I wish I had a bird," Shireen said suddenly. "A clever one. One that could sing to me during winter."
Patchface clapped his hands.
"Clever birds, clever men, clever fools!" he chanted. "Oh, clever, clever!"
Then he began to sing again—
"Shadows come to dance, my lords…"
He balanced on one leg, swaying.
"Dance, my lords, dance…"
Then the other.
"Shadows come to stay…"
The bells rang louder.
Relentless.
Unsettling.
Shireen trembled slightly.
"He sings this all the time," she whispered. "I told him to stop… but he won't."
"I'm scared."
Davos looked at Patchface for a long moment.
A dark thought crossed his mind.
Perhaps death would be kinder for him…
But he said nothing.
Instead, he bowed slightly.
"Your Grace, I must speak with your father."
Shireen nodded.
She turned and walked away, Patchface following close behind, his bells echoing through the stone corridors.
Davos continued toward the Stone Drum Tower.
The heart of Dragonstone.
The wind howled through the narrow windows as he walked. Outside, soldiers trained in the courtyard, while archers practiced beneath the watchful eyes of the gargoyles.
Beyond the walls, the sea stretched endlessly.
And anchored upon it—
Stannis's fleet.
One of the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms.
Davos took comfort in that.
"At least we have the fleet," he muttered.
Ships had always been his world.
And war would soon follow.
Inside the Round Table Hall, the air was cold and bare.
At the center stood the great painted table of Westeros.
Carved in the shape of the continent itself.
A masterpiece ordered by Aegon the Conqueror centuries ago.
Every time Davos saw it, he felt the weight of history pressing down upon him.
And at the far end—
Sat Stannis Baratheon.
Rigid.
Unyielding.
Like iron given human form.
"I had hoped for good news," Stannis said without looking up. "But I knew better."
Davos bowed his head.
"I failed, my lord."
"Then I should take your tongue—and your fingers," Stannis replied coldly.
He spoke plainly.
Harshly.
Without mercy.
That was his way.
"The Stormlords will not support me," Stannis continued bitterly. "Many follow Renly. Others wait, watching."
"They say I should choose between my brother… or the bastard."
His jaw tightened.
Davos chose his words carefully.
"Your nephew has been legitimized, my lord. And many believe he holds Lord Eddard's will."
Stannis's eyes burned with anger.
"The throne is mine by right!"
"Robert ignored me in life—and dishonors me in death!"
"I built his fleets. I fought his wars. And what did I receive?"
"Dragonstone."
He spat the word like poison.
"A barren rock."
Davos remained silent.
He had heard these grievances many times.
But they still cut deep.
"Our true enemy is the Lannisters," Davos said finally.
Stannis shook his head.
"I will not kneel to Renly."
"And the boy?" Davos pressed.
Stannis's expression darkened.
"He is Robert's son."
"And Robert wronged me."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Unyielding.
Like the man himself.
Outside, the red comet still burned.
And across the realm—
War was coming.
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