**YEAR 2066 AFTER THE LONG NIGHT**
*31 YEARS AFTER THE ARRIVAL AT DRAGONSTONE**
**Dragonstone and the ruins of Valyria**
**THE OFFER**
Two years have passed since the last failed attempt.
Two years of silent mourning, of scars that won't quite heal, of glances that avoid the east. The families have withdrawn into themselves, healing wounds, burying dead, trying to remember why they remain here.
But this time is different.
The first messengers arrive in the depths of winter, when the winds are cruelest and the sea most treacherous. They come in small, swift ships, sails spread as if the devil himself pursued them. They bring scrolls sealed with colored wax, each seal more ostentatious than the last.
Then more arrive.
From Braavos, the city of canals, where titans guard the harbor and bankers pull the world's strings. Their messengers speak in whispers and promise iron and steel in quantities that would make any kingdom tremble.
From Volantis, the oldest of the Free Cities, the one that still considers itself heir to Valyria. Their envoys wear purple tunics and speak with the arrogance of those who believe themselves superior. But their hands tremble as they deliver the scrolls.
From Qarth, the city of sorcerers, where spices are worth more than gold and secrets are bought and sold like merchandise. Their representatives barely speak, only deliver the messages and wait, with enigmatic smiles that say nothing but imply everything.
From Yi Ti, the empire of the far east, from which only rumors and silks arrive. Their messengers are the strangest, the quietest, those who look with eyes that seem to see beyond the visible.
Kings, mages, lords of coin.
All with the same message:
*"Help us reclaim Valyria. We will give you soldiers, ships, gold. Anything you ask."*
The scrolls pile up on the great hall table. Dareo leafs through them one by one, incredulous.
—Why now? —he asks, looking up—. Why so many?
He hasn't slept well for days. The circles under his grey eyes are deep. But there's something else in his gaze: a spark. Something he hasn't seen since before the last expedition.
Elera, beside him, examines another scroll. Her belly is beginning to show, a small bump beneath her tunics that both protect like the most precious treasure.
—Because they want to keep us away —she replies, without looking up from the document—. If we're occupied in Valyria, we don't interfere in their business.
Dareo nods.
He knows. He knows it perfectly. The lords of Essos are not fools. They know that a family with dragons is a threat. They know that if the Targaryens decide to expand, few could stop them.
—I know —Dareo says—. But it's also an opportunity.
An opportunity. The word echoes in the empty hall.
Two years have passed since the last failure. Two years of wondering if it was worth continuing to try. Two years of dreaming of the smoking ruins, of the voices calling from the bottom of wells, of the faces of those who didn't return.
And now this.
The six siblings gather that night.
The meeting room, small and intimate, welcomes them all. Dareo, Elera, Eleris, Nemerys, Errol, Aegar. The six. Those who always return.
They debate for days.
Nemerys, the strange one, she who sees things others don't, speaks little. But when she speaks, everyone listens.
—There is something there —she says—. Something that is not Valyria. Something that waits for us.
—Something good? —Errol asks.
—I don't know. But it waits for us.
Eleris, the silent one, the observer, nods slowly.
—We've all felt it. On every expedition. Something calls to us.
Aegar, the cheerful one, she who always finds reasons to smile, is serious.
—But we've lost so many...
—And we will keep losing —Dareo interrupts—. Either we give up and forget, or we continue and someday... someday we succeed.
Elera places a hand on her belly.
—Our child —she says—. What future awaits him if we obsess over a dead dream?
—A future where he'll know we tried —Dareo replies—. Where he'll know we didn't give up.
Silence.
Finally, they make their decision:
They will accept.
**THE REQUEST**
Before departing, Dareo climbs to Aerom's tower.
The stairs are long, steep, worn by decades of use. Each step echoes on the stone. Each breath condenses in the cold air.
When he reaches the top, he finds his father as always: with his back turned, looking at the sea.
The years have not been kind to Aerom. He looks older. His back, once straight, is slightly stooped. His hair, once silver, is white as snow. But his hands remain gloved. Always.
—Father —Dareo says—. I need to ask you something.
Aerom does not turn.
—Tell me.
—Take care of them. Of the children.
Aerom slowly turns.
His grey eyes, the same Dareo has seen all his life, look at him with an intensity that is frightening.
—I always do.
—I know. But this time is different. We're going with an army. Tens of thousands of soldiers from half the world. We've never had so many.
Aerom nods slowly.
—Precisely why —he says—. Large armies attract attention.
Dareo frowns.
—What attention?
But Aerom doesn't answer.
He only looks at his son with those eyes that seem to know more than they say.
—We will return —Dareo says firmly—. I promise you.
Aerom doesn't respond.
And that lack of response, that silence that weighs more than any word, follows Dareo down the stairs.
**THE DEPARTURE**
The day of departure dawns clear.
Too clear.
The sun shines on the sea as if blessing the enterprise. The seagulls fly in circles, their cries mingling with the roars of the dragons. The wind, gentle, favorable, swells the sails as if wanting to help.
The ships set sail.
Dozens. More than Dragonstone has ever seen. Braavosi warships, with tall masts and sharp hulls. Volantene merchant vessels, transformed for combat. Galleys from Myr, from Lys, from Tyrosh. An entire fleet, paid for with the gold of half the world.
Thousands of soldiers crowd the decks. Men of all races, of all tongues, of all loyalties. An improvised army, united only by the promise of plunder and glory.
The six siblings ride their dragons in the sky.
Dareo on Cannibal, the jet-black. Eleris on Valax, the bronze. Errol on Aerion, the grey. Elera on Tyraxes, the green. Nemerys on Vhaelar, the blue. Aegar on Serion, the brown.
They form an impossible tableau, an image that will be etched in the memory of those who witness it.
From the port, the children watch them. The children of Eleris and Nemerys, those of Errol and Aegar. All with eyes wide, pointing at the sky, asking when they too can fly.
And highest of all, Aere atop Valerio.
—Someone has to see with their own eyes —she said before leaving, when Aerom tried to stop her—. Someone has to know if it's worth it.
Aerom wanted to stop her.
He couldn't.
He's never been able to stop Aere when she decides something.
Now he's in the tower, watching the ships disappear on the horizon.
Behind him, the children watch him.
The six little ones, those left without parents for a few months. They stand together, holding hands, as if needing that contact to not be afraid.
—Grandfather... —Aelyra's voice, Nemerys's daughter, is barely a whisper—. Will they come back?
Aerom lowers his gaze.
For an instant, his grey eyes seem to cloud over. Something happens behind them. Something the children cannot see.
—Some —he says—. Some will return.
And the children, without knowing why, feel a chill that does not come from the wind.
**THE TRAINING**
While the adults are away, Aerom devotes himself to the children.
He gathers them every day in the training yard.
The sun is high, but the wind is cold. The children form an uneven line, some taller, some shorter, all with that mixture of fear and curiosity that only children possess.
—You are Targaryens —Aerom says, pacing before them—. The purest blood left in the world. The last true dragon riders.
The children listen attentively. Even the restless ones, those who always fidget, are still.
—There's something you must know. Something that makes you different from everyone else.
Aerom stops.
He takes a torch from a nearby sconce. The flame dances, hungry, casting orange glints.
The children watch without understanding.
Then, Aerom brings the flame near one of his feet.
The children scream.
Aelyra covers her eyes. Aemon steps forward, as if wanting to stop him. Rhaena, the fierce little one, opens her mouth to scream.
But Aerom does not burn.
The tongue of fire licks his skin, dances over his fingers, wraps around his wrist. And he does not burn.
—Fire does not hurt us —he says calmly—. It can mark us, yes. It can hurt. But it does not consume us. That is our blessing. And our curse.
The children slowly approach.
Aelor, Eleris's eldest son, extends a trembling hand.
—Can I... can I try?
Aerom smiles.
The first genuine smile in years.
—When you're older —he says, withdrawing the torch—. Now, train.
And the training begins.
Wooden swords. Strikes, blocks, dodges. The children learn as their parents learned, as their grandparents learned, as all Targaryens have learned since the beginning of time.
But Aerom doesn't just teach them to fight.
He teaches them to remember.
—Never forget who you are —he says each evening, as the sun begins to set—. Never forget where you come from. Because if you forget, you will cease to be Targaryen. And then, what will you have left?
The children nod.
They don't fully understand.
But they will remember.
**VALYRIA**
Days of travel.
Then weeks.
The sea changes. The sky changes. The air changes.
Finally, the coast of Valyria appears on the horizon.
But it is not the land of their dreams.
The dreams spoke of crystal towers, of golden temples, of dragons flying free. The dreams spoke of glory, of power, of home.
This is not a home.
The sky is grey.
But not grey with clouds, not that soft grey that promises rain and then sun. It is a sick grey, a grey of eternal ash, a grey that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.
The air smells of sulfur and death.
That sweetish, rotten odor of decomposing things, mixed with the chemical sting of erupting volcanoes. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be here.
The sea boils near the coast.
Large bubbles burst on the surface, releasing vapors that smell even worse. Dead fish float belly up, boiled alive. The ships keep their distance, sailors staring with terror in their eyes.
—I don't like this —Aere murmurs from Valerio.
The great dragon, the oldest, the wisest, roars softly. A deep, worried sound. He smells the danger.
Dareo nods from Cannibal.
But it's too late to turn back.
The ships approach cautiously.
The soldiers, those thousands who set out full of dreams of glory and plunder, look at the coast with expressions ranging from fear to horror. Some pray to gods they didn't know they had. Others curse the day they accepted.
They disembark.
The beach is black. Not the black sand of Dragonstone, the kind that shines in the sun. It is black with ash, black with death, black with something that should not exist.
And then, the hell begins.
**THE STONE SICKNESS**
The soldiers begin to fall.
Not by enemy swords. There are no enemies in sight.
Not by beasts. The beasts, if there are any, have not yet appeared.
From the AIR.
It starts with a dry cough. Harmless, it seems. A clearing of the throat, an annoyance. The soldiers shrug and continue onward.
Then, the skin turns grey.
First on the hands. Small patches, like dirt that won't wash off with water. Then it spreads. Arms. Face. Neck.
Then, the skin hardens.
It becomes hard as stone. It crackles when they move. It splits when they try to bend their joints.
Then, they die.
—It's the Stone Sickness! —someone shouts, an old mercenary who had heard stories—. The air is poisoned!
Panic erupts.
The soldiers run toward the ships, trampling the fallen, pushing each other. Those who breathe deeply, those who shout loudest, die first. Those who run, who wave their arms, next.
Those who try to help the fallen also die.
Because the poison is in the air. In every breath. In every sigh.
The six siblings, on their dragons, are safe.
The dragons fly high, very high, where the air is still breathable. From above, they watch the army crumble. How the men fall like flies. How the ships try to move away, but many already have dead crews.
—We have to leave! —Eleris shouts, his voice barely audible over the roar of the dragons.
—NOT YET! —Aere responds.
And without waiting, without consulting, she makes Valerio descend.
**THE ONLY ONE WHO VENTURES IN**
Valerio dives, wings tucked against his body, his enormous form cutting through the air like a spear.
The siblings shout. Call to her. Try to follow.
But Valerio is too fast.
Aere flies low, very low, over the ruins of Valyria.
She skims the fallen temples, those structures that once touched the sky and are now piles of smoking rubble. The decapitated statues of ancient dragons, the faces of forgotten emperors, all lie broken, filthy, dead.
There is nothing to recover.
No hidden treasures. No valuable secrets. No magic waiting to be claimed.
Only death.
Ash.
Silence.
Valerio roars.
Even the dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, feels the weight of this place. Even he knows there is nothing good here, only an ancient black magic that poisons the air.
—I've seen enough —Aere whispers, tears in her eyes—. Let's go.
Valerio ascends.
Just as a tower, the last tower standing, collapses behind them.
The dust reaches them. A grey cloud, dense, poisonous, envelops Valerio and his rider.
But Valerio is faster.
His wings beat furiously, propelling him upward, out of the cloud, toward the clean sky.
When he emerges, Aere coughs. Her lungs burn. Her skin itches.
But she is alive.
—Mother! —the children shout from above.
Dareo approaches on Cannibal, his face pale as wax.
—I'm fine! —she replies, still coughing—. But there's nothing! There's nothing to recover!
And in her eyes, in the eyes of the woman who had never cried, there is something none of her children had seen before.
Defeat.
**THE RETURN**
The journey back is silent.
The remaining ships sail with sails at half-mast, as if they themselves were in mourning. The decks, once full of eager soldiers, are empty. The few survivors huddle in the holds, staring at nothing with eyes that have seen too much.
Of the thousands who departed, barely a few hundred return.
Those who were on the ships, those who were far from the coast when the poison took effect. Those who did not breathe the cursed air.
The six siblings are intact.
Dareo, Eleris, Errol, Elera, Nemerys, Aegar. All alive. All unharmed.
Aere too.
But their souls... their souls are broken.
When the coast of Dragonstone appears on the horizon, no one shouts with joy. No one runs to the prow to be the first to see it.
They only watch. In silence.
Aerom waits for them at the port.
He is alone. The children are in the fortress, waiting for news, but Aerom wanted to be here. To see with his own eyes.
The ships dock. The survivors disembark like shadows.
Then, Aere descends from Valerio.
She walks toward her husband with slow, heavy steps. Her face is grey, not from sickness, but from something worse.
—There's nothing —she says, when she stands before him—. Only ash and death.
Aerom embraces her.
—I know.
And in that embrace, in those two words, there is more than Aere can process.
—You knew? —she asks, pulling back—. You always knew?
Aerom nods slowly.
—I suspected.
—And you didn't stop us?
—I couldn't. You had to see with your own eyes. You had to know.
Aere looks at him for a long time.
She wants to be angry. She wants to scream. She wants to ask why, why he said nothing, why he let so many die.
But she can't.
Because he is right.
It had to be this way.
**THE ARGUMENT**
That night, the three families gather in the great hall.
Celtigar. Velaryon. Targaryen.
The seats that once held dozens are now half empty. The families have diminished. The survivors can be counted on fingers.
The faces are the same on all: fatigue, pain, frustration.
The Celtigar patriarch, a man so old he remembers the original flight, rises with difficulty. His voice, when he speaks, trembles.
—We have lost too much. Our best men. Our children. All for a dream.
The Velaryon matriarch, equally ancient, nods.
—A dream that no longer exists. Valyria is dead. Truly dead.
Dareo rises.
Everyone looks at him.
—So what do we do then? —he asks, his voice harsh with contained emotion—. Do we give up?
—We survive —Aerom says.
The word falls into the silence like a stone into a well.
Everyone looks at him.
Aerom rises slowly. His gloved hands rest at his sides. His grey eyes survey the room.
—The poison in the air will last centuries. Perhaps millennia. There's nothing to do until it dissipates. And by then... we will no longer be here.
Silence.
—But our children —Aerom continues—. And their children's children. They will inherit this land. They will decide.
Elera, from her place, with her belly now clearly swollen, speaks:
—And in the meantime?
—In the meantime, we live. We build. We prosper. And we remember.
One by one, those present nod.
There are no applause. No cheers. Only silent nods, heads bowing, glances lowering.
The dream of reclaiming Valyria dies that night, until the cursed air clears.
Not with a roar.
With a sigh.
**THE HOPE THAT REMAINS**
That same night, when the meeting ends and the families withdraw to their fortresses, Elera seeks out Dareo.
She finds him where always: on the cliffs, looking at the sea.
The full moon bathes the scene in silver. The waves crash below with an eternal murmur. The cold wind plays with her hair.
—Are you alright? —she asks, sitting beside him.
Dareo doesn't answer immediately.
He keeps looking at the sea, that sea they've crossed so many times, that has seen so many deaths.
—No —he says finally—. But I'll survive.
Elera nods.
She places a hand on her belly.
—We're going to have a child —she says—. Soon.
Dareo looks at her.
For the first time in days, for the first time since they left for Valyria, something shines in his eyes.
—A child?
—Or a daughter. But yes. Someone new. Someone worth all this.
Dareo embraces her.
Tightly. With desperation. With hope.
—A child —he repeats—. Our child.
She smiles against his chest.
—Our child.
They remain like that, embraced, as the night advances.
Outside, on the cliffs, the dragons roar.
Cannibal, the black, the fiercest. Tyraxes, the green, the elegant. Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion. All roar.
But this time, it's not a roar of war.
Not a roar of warning.
It's a roar of welcome.
Welcome to the new.
Welcome to life.
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches.
His children. His grandchildren. His wife, who already sleeps, exhausted from the journey.
Behind him, the ravens crowd at the window. Dozens. Hundreds. Their black eyes gleam in the darkness.
—Not yet —Aerom whispers—. Not yet.
The ravens caw.
As if responding.
As if they know something he doesn't.
Or perhaps he does know.
Perhaps they both know.
But not yet.
Not yet.