The skies above rippled with wind and fire.
High above the clouds soared Syndor, the mighty dragon, cutting through the heavens like a living storm. His vast wings churned the air with raw power, carrying Gavin and Daenerys upon his back. Their cloaks flared wildly in the rushing wind, yet their expressions remained steady—fierce, focused.
Beneath them, the blue sea curved into a crescent. Dragonflame Bay spread out like a painter's masterpiece, and before long, the shadows of the Dragon Caves came into view.
Gavin leaned slightly forward, his hand resting on Syndor's scales.
"We'll hatch more dragons soon," he said, almost to himself. "With enough of them, no army in Westeros can stand against us."
Syndor responded with a guttural growl, his wings folding in as he dived with sudden speed, a black streak racing toward the rocky cliffs below.
Within the vast cavern of the Dragon Caves, three young dragons—Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion—frolicked wildly. Their wings beat the air as they chased one another, snarling and snapping playfully. Dust billowed, pebbles scattered.
Then came Syndor's thunderous roar.
The younger dragons froze.
Play ceased. Instinct kicked in. The three hatchlings scattered to the edges of the cave, crouching low in submission, their gazes turned downward, respectful and awed.
Syndor landed gracefully atop the wide stone platform, the rock groaning beneath his weight. Gavin and Daenerys dismounted in one smooth motion, boots touching stone.
No sooner had Gavin touched the ground than the young dragons came bounding forward, trilling excitedly.
"Easy, little ones," Gavin murmured, a rare softness in his voice. He raised a hand, and the dragons circled him, roaring and nudging against him like hounds reunited with their master. "I've missed you too."
Daenerys was already issuing orders.
"Bring meat—fresh, and plenty of it."
The Blood Dragon Guard moved swiftly. Moments later, a large brass basin filled with tender red meat was brought in. At the scent, Viserion slithered forward from the shadows. Now over a meter in length, the pale dragon moved with authority, pushing past the smaller hatchlings with a sharp snap of his jaw.
The others hissed and scattered.
Gavin stepped in swiftly, placing a calming hand on Viserion's snout.
"Enough," he said firmly. "You'll all eat."
He began feeding them, expertly dividing the meat, ensuring each dragon got its share.
Beside him, Daenerys leaned in, her voice soft.
"After this is done… take me to Lys."
Gavin looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"You will come—but not yet. It's safer for you to remain with me for now."
"Then I'll stay," she said, eyes shining as she nestled against him. "Where you go, I go."
Around them, the cavern pulsed with warmth—the soft growls of dragons, the quiet rustle of wings, the comfort of shared presence. For a moment, the world outside, with its wars and assassins and crowns, ceased to matter.
King's Landing — The Red Keep
Meanwhile, a heavy silence weighed down the imperial council chamber. The air was thick with tension.
King Robert Baratheon slammed his goblet on the table, crimson wine spilling across the polished wood.
"That assassin you found was useless, Littlefinger! Useless! The last one at least got close—this one vanished without a trace!"
Petyr Baelish bowed low, voice smooth, eyes darting.
"Your Grace, the Stepstones are heavily fortified. The target's defenses are tighter than we anticipated. It will take time… and patience."
Robert's scowl deepened as he turned toward Varys, the so-called "Spider" cloaked in silk.
"I've heard whispers," Robert growled. "Is it true? Do they have dragons?"
Varys folded his hands and bowed his bald head.
"There is no confirmation, Your Grace… but rumors abound. The girl, Daenerys, is said to have bonded with a red hatchling—Viserion. Others claim more eggs have hatched on the Stepstones. But even if true, baby dragons take years to reach strength. They pose no immediate threat."
"No immediate threat?" Robert bellowed. "You fool! She's going to marry Gavin Belerys. That traitor already commands a fleet and now he has dragons! Do you understand what that means?"
He pointed a shaking finger at Littlefinger.
"Find another assassin. Find ten! I don't care what it costs—kill her. And if you get the chance, kill him too!"
Petyr raised his hands carefully.
"With all due respect, Your Grace… the island has closed its harbors. No foreign ships are allowed to dock. The ports only offer water and minimal supplies. Getting an agent close is nearly impossible right now."
Robert slumped back into his chair, grabbing his goblet—empty. He growled, turning to Lancel Lannister, who stood trembling at his side.
"You blind dolt—can't you see your king's cup is dry?"
Lancel rushed to refill it, hands shaking. Robert drank deeply, red wine staining his beard, but it did little to calm his rage.
He turned, eyes narrowing as he addressed Grand Maester Pycelle, seated stiffly at the far end.
"Any word from Winterfell?"
Pycelle rose slowly, his joints cracking.
"None yet, Your Grace. But the matter of the Hand is grave. I believe Lord Eddard is… considering it carefully."
"Stubborn old wolf," Robert muttered. "If he keeps dragging his feet, I'll ride north and drag him here myself."
He then cast his gaze toward Ser Barristan Selmy, voice sharp.
"Ready the royal guard and a fleet. I'm sailing to Dragonstone to speak with Stannis. And when I return, we ride for the North. The Queen, the children—Joffrey too—they're all coming."
Barristan bowed instantly.
"As you command, Your Grace."
The room fell still.
No one dared speak.
Robert looked around at his so-called council—whispers of silk, rustling paper, but no courage among them. His face twisted in disgust.
"Cowards, the lot of you," he muttered, and rose.
The ministers stood quickly as he stormed from the room. Behind him, the door shut with a dull, final thud.
The Iron Throne sat in turmoil, and the winds of war stirred across the Narrow Sea.