Dragonstone—that ancient land of smoke and salt—rose from the stormy seas like some great beast born of volcanic shadow. Today, the island fortress awaited its new master.
The harbor teemed with life. Nearly two hundred warships of the Royal Fleet lay at anchor, their drums beating like distant thunder across the water. Looking outward, countless masts stood adorned with dazzling golden banners—a sea of gold, as if the crowned stag of House Baratheon had conquered every inch of the narrow sea.
All this pageantry for a single merchant vessel sailing slowly toward the harbor.
Every eye followed the ship's approach, watching as it entered the dock, its anchor dropping with a splash, its gangway extending for disembarkation.
A voice rang out across the harbor: "Welcome the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, His Grace Joffrey of House Baratheon, the First of His Name."
The lords of the Narrow Sea immediately bent their knees, their retinues following suit, voices rising in unison: "Long live His Grace Joffrey, First of His Name!"
Step... step...
Joffrey's boots echoed on the weathered stones of the pier. Only two companions flanked him—the black-haired Jon and Ser Barristan Selmy, resplendent in his white cloak, white armor, and pale sword.
"No need for formalities. Rise," Joffrey commanded, raising his hand as his gaze swept across each face that rose to meet his own.
The handsome lord beneath the silver seahorse sigil had long, bright golden hair—Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark, heir to an ancient and proud house now fallen from its former glory.
Behind the banner of seven golden seven-pointed stars stood the devout followers of the Faith—Lord Gunther Sunglass of Sweetport Sound.
The elderly man adorned with red crab embroidery exuded an aura of dignity and deference—Lord Ardrian Celtigar of Claw Isle, known as the "Red Crab."
Beneath the blue swordfish standard waited a fat, soft-looking boy—Lord Duram Bar Emmon of Sharp Point.
And more were gathered—lesser lords and landed knights, all vassals to Dragonstone's rocky shores.
Joffrey regarded them all, noting their prompt arrival despite having received only three days' notice. A proper show of fealty, at the very least.
But the reason for his advance arrival went beyond testing the loyalty of these men.
Joffrey approached Stannis's widow, Selyse Florent. "Lady Selyse, my uncle's death is a grievous blow to us all. Yet you must endure, if only for your daughter Shireen's sake."
Stannis is dead, and Dragonstone has been granted to me, he thought. So why hasn't Selyse departed? Could she still harbor delusions about this fortress?
Joffrey smiled at the little girl standing beside her mother. Shireen immediately shrank back timidly, seeking shelter behind Selyse's skirts.
The girl held no fond impression of this cousin she had never met. Her father and mother had spoken ill of him, and in her childish mind, their words must surely be true.
Lady Selyse made no response to the king's overtures, her eyes revealing undisguised wariness and resistance.
It was the Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth, who stepped forward to thank the king on her behalf. "His Grace's sincere concern is truly admirable. I pray you forgive my lady—she is overcome with grief. Young Miss Shireen has scarcely spoken a word since it happened."
Joffrey nodded in understanding. "I suppose that's to be expected. Perhaps Shireen might return with me to the Red Keep? It's a livelier place, with children her age—companionship enough to ease the sorrow in her heart."
Shireen's small fingers clutched her mother's gown even more tightly.
Lord Velaryon seized the moment to approach, bowing respectfully. "I wonder if Your Grace has specific instructions for us on this visit? We stand ready to serve."
Joffrey regarded him coolly. "There's no rush. We'll speak of such matters at council in the Chamber of the Painted Table tonight." He looked up toward the looming castle on the high ground. "A fortress built by Valyria itself... You lords may be accustomed to Dragonstone's magnificence, but this is my first visit. Would you do me the courtesy of a tour?"
The lords visibly relaxed, expressions warming as they gathered around their king, each eager to point out the unique features of Dragonstone to His Grace.
It was, to all appearances, a harmonious and peaceful gathering.
Dragonstone's black stone castle was indeed a marvel beyond compare.
Thousands of gargoyles and dragon statues with outstretched wings adorned its walls and towers. Stone sentinels stood several feet tall, carved with such skill that they seemed poised to awaken at any moment, ready to descend upon the living with fang and claw.
Despite centuries of wind and salt spray, the ferocious sculptures remained intact. Even bird droppings did not mar their vigilant watch from the battlements, a silent threat to any who might covet this ancient stronghold.
Walking between these stone guardians, Joffrey grasped the parapet and surveyed the castle. What lay before him was not mere masonry but something else—a collection of dragons with flesh and blood of black stone.
The great hall was a dragon lying prostrate upon the ground, its open jaws forming the gates through which men passed.
The kitchens were a dragon curled into a ball, its nostrils perpetually belching smoke and steam.
The many towers, such as the Sea Dragon Tower, were stone wyrms of varying sizes—some sleeping, others with heads raised to the sky.
Viewed from afar, the entire castle itself formed the head and neck of some colossal dragon, making Dragonstone appear as a vast beast sprawled across the sea.
"Truly a rare wonder in this world," Joffrey murmured, unable to contain his awe.
Stone statues might be carved through great effort and skilled hands, but how had such a massive fortress been shaped to resemble a dragon so perfectly?
With such unusual structural stresses, how had the black stone maintained its integrity for centuries? It defied reason.
Lord Velaryon answered with pride in his voice. "The great Valyrian Freehold built it with magic, Your Grace. Each tower was shaped from the living rock itself—that is what created such a unique marvel."
"Unfortunately, the Doom came," Lord Sunglass intoned piously. "Praise the Seven. Valyria should never have angered the gods. A pity."
Lord Velaryon shot him a glare.
Joffrey pointed toward the improbable spire of the Dragonmont Tower. "Let us examine that one."
"Yes, Your Grace," the lords responded, hurrying ahead to lead their king.
Ignoring Lady Selyse's polite protestations, Joffrey insisted on lifting little Shireen—her eyes still red from weeping—into his arms as he strode forward, treating Dragonstone entirely as his own domain.
None dared suggest it wasn't.
Every lord present understood that His Grace remained, at the very least, the Prince of Dragonstone. Until he bestowed the title elsewhere, the island and its vassals remained his personal property.
It seemed increasingly evident that His Grace had no intention of relinquishing the title.
The lords silently calculated their responses to this development.
By Duke Stannis's legal decree, Dragonstone rightfully belonged to Shireen.
If they followed the tradition of Dragonstone belonging to the heir to the Iron Throne, it would pass to Prince Tommen or perhaps Duke Renly.
If His Grace claimed it for himself, perhaps even merging Dragonstone with the Crownlands henceforth...
The wind howled ceaselessly atop the Dragonstone Tower, lending a gloomy, foreboding atmosphere. The lords stood behind their king, gazing out over the angry seas stretching to the horizon.
Who would be the first to broach the subject?
"My lords," Joffrey said, breaking the silence, "I've heard tell of beautiful dragonglass deposits on this island. While daylight remains, let us examine them—we wouldn't want to delay tonight's council."
Joffrey turned from the spire, regarding the lords with their carefully composed faces.
Two faint magical auras emanate from this tower, he thought, one familiar, one strange. And below, vast dragonglass deposits and hot volcanic vents. Truly a land of treasures.
He sighed audibly. "The court requires my presence too dearly. I can remain on Dragonstone but a single day."
The Onion Knight bowed low. "The dragonglass mines are no longer worked, Your Grace. Only abandoned pits remain on the island. I beg your forgiveness."
Joffrey's smile was thin. "It matters not."
"Perhaps it's better they lie fallow," he added. "It makes for a cleaner restoration."
The lords murmured their agreement.
Yet something in their expressions suggested they understood he spoke not merely of dragonglass.
==============================================
Support me at [email protected]/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.
New fanfic : Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
=============================================