Dragonstone.
Sunlight streamed directly into the ruined hall of Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in the high seat, her face pale. Before her stood Daemon, Corlys, Mysaria, and several vassals of Dragonstone. All had grim expressions.
"Say it again," Rhaenyra's voice was cold. "What happened to Sara?"
Mysaria swallowed and said cautiously, "Your Grace, before dawn this morning, the guards discovered... Sara, riding Silverwing, with Vermithor, left."
"Left?" Queen Rhaenyra's anger flared. "What do you mean, left?"
"She... she simply flew away. She rode her dragon and flew east."
"East? Toward Tyrosh?"
"Presumably."
Dead silence fell over the hall.
Rhaenyra stood and slammed her hand on the table. With a loud crash, the candlesticks on the table were overturned.
"Those bastards!" The queen roared. "Those treacherous white-eyed wolves! I gave her identity, gave her status, and this is how she repays me?!"
Daemon stood aside, his face dark. He had planned to attack the Hightower army and kill Daeron. For this plan, he needed Sara and Silverwing. Now that Sara had fled, the plan was dead before it began.
"Why did she flee?" Daemon asked. "Is there a reason?"
Mysaria shook her head. "I don't know. The guards said she left before dawn. No one saw her leave, no one spoke with her. It was as if... as if she made a sudden decision."
"A sudden decision?" Daemon sneered. "Do you believe that?"
Mysaria was speechless.
Corlys was silent. He remembered how Sara had just knelt and sworn loyalty to the queen. He had clearly seen the fanaticism in that woman's eyes. Would such a woman flee without reason?
"Investigate immediately," Rhaenyra gritted her teeth. "Send someone immediately to contact Luke, find out why she fled and what she intends to do. That lowborn woman..."
The queen restrained her anger and did not continue, but all understood what she meant.
Mysaria nodded. "I will do it."
Silence fell over the hall again.
Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. Her head began to ache again, like needle pricks.
Bastards—they are still unreliable...
"Daemon," Rhaenyra suddenly spoke.
"Yes?"
"Do you think we did something wrong?"
Daemon looked at her and said nothing.
Rhaenyra opened her eyes and looked at her husband. "Did we give them too much? But they are still wildlings from a mud pit. No matter how much you give, you can't feed them properly."
Daemon was silent a moment, then said, "Perhaps. But it's useless to say that now. We need to find a way."
He had never approved of those bastard dragon-tamings. When Jacaerys had let bastards train dragons, he had been furious too, but Jacaerys was dead... Even if those bastards had later been won over, it was due to Aemond's pressure on the Blacks...
---
The Disputed Lands.
Deep in the forest, the evening sun filtered through the gaps in the leaves. This was now Volantene territory. Trees towered to the sky, vines intertwined, wild beasts abounded, and few visited. But lately, it had become lively.
Not because someone had settled there, but because a dragon lived deep in the forest.
Seasmoke.
A silver-grey dragon that had once belonged to Laenor Velaryon. Ever since Laenor had "faked his death," Seasmoke had become a riderless dragon. The battle at Dragonstone had disturbed Seasmoke, and he had fled.
Seasmoke wanted to find his former rider, Laenor. Though he had not seen his master for many years, that blood bond told him that Laenor was still alive... So Seasmoke had wandered the eastern continent and finally settled in this forest in the Disputed Lands.
When the news spread, the Volantenes grew excited.
A riderless dragon! If they could tame him, Volantis would have its own dragon!
So the nobles of the Black Wall rushed into the forest one after another, trying to tame Seasmoke. And then, one after another, they died.
The first was a young nobleman of about thirty, who confidently rode into the forest with a dozen attendants. He stood before Seasmoke and tried to make the dragon submit by reciting ancient Valyrian. Seasmoke yawned—and then dragonfire burned him to ash. The attendants scattered in all directions, half dead.
The second was an old nobleman of about fifty, said to have ancient Valyrian ancestry. He was a little smarter, bringing gifts—a pair of live cows—as offerings to Seasmoke. Seasmoke ate the cows, then ate him.
The third, fourth, fifth... More than twenty died in total.
The Black Wall nobles of Volantis grew afraid. Instead of sending more men to die, they sent patrols to block off the forest. The patrols did not dare approach the dragon; they only patrolled the edges of the forest to keep others out.
But the blockade was of little use. The forest was too large to be sealed off.
Nearby villagers and passing travelers often sneaked in to glimpse the legendary dragon.
Today, several more men came to the edge of the forest. The leader wore a black cloak; his face could not be seen clearly. Behind him followed two Black spies, both under Mysaria's command.
"My lord," one of the spies whispered, "it's straight ahead. Don't go too far—you can see it."
The black cloak nodded and continued forward. They walked through the forest, crossed streams, and climbed hillsides. Finally, they saw Seasmoke.
The silver-grey dragon lay in a clearing, his enormous body like a hill. His eyes were half-closed, as if dozing. The sun shone on his scales, gleaming silver—breathtakingly beautiful.
"My lord, look," the spy pointed into the distance.
The black cloak followed his finger and saw several stealthy figures. They were some villagers who had secretly come to see the dragon, hiding behind bushes, craning their necks, whispering as they watched.
"Look, look, he's moving!" "Don't make a sound! If he finds out, we're done for!" "I heard Volantis lost more than twenty people—all trying to tame him." "Served them right! Those Valyrian nobles think they're dragonlords? Are dragons so easy to ride?" "If only I could ride a dragon..." "Dream on!"
The man in the black cloak listened quietly, making no sound. After the villagers left, he slowly moved forward.
"My lord!" the spy exclaimed. "Danger!"
The black cloak ignored him and continued.
Seasmoke sensed something and opened his eyes. The great dragon's eyes, like two golden lanterns, stared at the approaching black cloak. He let out a low rumble, as if warning: if you come any closer, I will burn you alive.
The black cloak stopped and slowly pushed back his hood.
The sun shone on his face—a handsome face, with silver hair and blue eyes.
Laenor Velaryon.
He looked at Seasmoke, his eyes full of mixed feelings.
Seasmoke looked at him too. A flicker of doubt passed through those dragon eyes. Then doubt turned to surprise. He recognized him. This was his master.
Seasmoke let out a deafening roar—not of anger, but of excitement. Seasmoke rose, spread his enormous wings, and lunged toward Laenor. The spies were so frightened their legs gave way; they thought the man would be eaten.
But Seasmoke did not eat him.
He lunged at Laenor, lowered his great head, rubbed against his body, and let out an affectionate whimper. That sound seemed almost like a plea.
Laenor reached out and stroked his scales. The scales were cold, with a metallic texture.
"Seasmoke," he said quietly, "I'm sorry."
Seasmoke excitedly thrashed about, knocking down a tree with his tail.
Laenor held his head, closed his eyes, and tears flowed silently.
He thought of his mother, Rhaenys. That proud mother, the woman who had fought all her life. He had received a letter from his father, Corlys. The letter was short, but each word stabbed into his heart like a knife:
"Your mother is dead. Killed by Aemond. Come back... my son... We need you..."
A year ago, he had also received a letter from his former wife, Rhaenyra. The letter was long, saying that Jacaerys was dead, Joffrey was dead, Lucerys was disfigured. That the Blacks needed him, that Rhaenyra needed him.
Jacaerys, Joffrey, Lucerys. His three sons in name only. But after all, he had called him father for so many years. Hearing news of their deaths, he had not been unmoved. Sad—but not this sad.
But his mother, Rhaenys—she was different. She was the one who had given birth to him and raised him. She had taught him to walk, taught him to speak, taught him to ride, taught him to shoot a bow. She was the one who had cried every time he was hurt.
She was dead. Killed by Aemond's hand. A sixteen-year-old bastard, a kinslayer, a monster with blood on his hands.
Laenor slowly opened his eyes; the sadness in them turned to anger.
He released Seasmoke, mounted him, and rode on his back. Seasmoke excitedly spread his wings, ready to take flight at any moment.
Laenor looked at the two spies and said in a deep voice, "Go back and tell Lord Corlys and Queen Rhaenyra..."
The spies were stunned.
"From today," Laenor muttered to himself with a sad expression, "my name is Addam."
Then Seasmoke let out a deafening roar, beat his wings, and soared into the air. The birds in the forest scattered in fear; the beasts fled. The two spies stood motionless, watching in astonishment as the silver-grey dragon climbed higher and higher, finally vanishing into the clouds.
Laenor flew on Seasmoke, soaring above the clouds. The wind whistled past his ears; the sun shone on his body, warm. He had not felt such dragonriding in a long time. Ever since he had faked his death, he had been spending time with his lover in Pentos...
Now Addam finally understood what his duty was.