The Throne Beckons:
Only the strong stories survive the game. If you stand with this one, Power Stone it, and let it claim its rightful place.
ARC 1: Birth of the Daemon and Daenerys
Chapter 5: Flight to Dragonstone
Year 283 AC
Chaos reigned at the King's Landing harbor. The news of the city's fall had spread like a wildfire, and the docks were a scene of utter panic as people desperately sought any means of escape. Some merchants, quick to sense the changing tides or simply fearing the looting, had already cast off their ships, their sails disappearing over the horizon. Others were still frantically loading their vessels, their decks overflowing with desperate passengers willing to pay any price for a passage away from the ravaged capital. The air was thick with the shouts of the panicked populace, the creaking of overloaded boats, and the cries of those being turned away.
Amidst this pandemonium, Ser Kaelen Vance, his arm wrapped protectively around the small, cloaked figure of Princess Rhaenys, moved with a singular purpose: to find a ship bound for Dragonstone. He knew that lingering in the city meant certain death for the last known daughter of Prince Rhaegar. Their only hope lay in reaching the ancient Targaryen stronghold, still held by a loyal garrison and far from the immediate grasp of the victorious rebels.
Kaelen's younger years, spent as a lowborn knight serving House Targaryen, had necessitated a familiarity with the underbelly of King's Landing, including its bustling port. He had made a few acquaintances among the city's merchants, men who valued honesty and loyalty. One name echoed in his mind: Maron Rivers. Maron was a captain of a modest trading cog called the Sea Serpent. Kaelen recalled Maron's quiet respect for the Targaryens, a sentiment earned through years of fair trade and royal patronage.
With Rhaenys hidden beneath the crimson cloak he had taken from the fallen Lannister knight, her small hand tightly clutching his worn tunic, Kaelen began his frantic search through the crowded docks. The sheer number of desperate people made the task seem almost impossible. He called out Maron's name, his voice hoarse against the din, but his cries were swallowed by the surrounding chaos.
He pushed his way through the throngs of people clustered around the moored ships, his eyes scanning the familiar lines of cogs and galleys. He recognized the painted sigils of various merchant houses, the distinctive hulls of vessels he had seen countless times over the years. Finally, near the far end of the harbor, amidst a cluster of smaller trading ships preparing to cast off, he spotted the unmistakable coiled serpent, painted in vibrant green and blue, adorning the side of a sturdy-looking cog. The Sea Serpent.
A wave of relief, quickly followed by a surge of anxiety, washed over Kaelen. Reaching the gangplank was a struggle against the desperate crowd trying to force their way onto the departing vessel. Kaelen, drawing on his modest knightly training, used his body to shield Rhaenys, pushing through the throng with a quiet but firm determination.
He found Maron Rivers on the deck, his weathered face creased with worry as he barked orders to his crew, overseeing the final preparations for their hasty departure. Maron was a man nearing forty, his salt-and-pepper beard thick and his keen, intelligent eyes missing nothing in the surrounding chaos. He was dressed in the practical attire of a seaman, a worn leather jerkin over a sturdy woolen tunic.
"Maron!" Kaelen called out, his voice strained against the cacophony of the port.
Maron turned his head, his sharp eyes scanning the desperate faces crowding the gangplank. Recognition flickered across his features as he spotted the young knight, though Kaelen's commoner's clothes were a stark contrast to his usual knightly attire.
"Ser Kaelen? By the Old Gods and the New, what madness brings you to this cursed place?" Maron's voice was gruff but held a genuine note of concern for the young knight.
Kaelen quickly pulled Maron aside, leading him towards the relative quiet of the ship's railing, away from the ears of his busy crew. He kept Rhaenys concealed within the shadows of the crimson cloak. "Maron, I am in dire need of your help. I must reach Dragonstone, and I need passage for myself and… a young girl."
Maron's thick brows furrowed in concern. "Dragonstone? Ser Kaelen, the waters are treacherous, and with the realm thrown into such chaos… the Usurper's fleet will surely be watching the sea lanes. It is a perilous voyage, one I hesitate to undertake even without… passengers."
Kaelen nodded grimly, his heart heavy with the weight of his responsibility. "I know the risks, Maron. But this is a matter of life and death. The girl… she is of noble blood, Maron. A… ward under my protection. Her safety is paramount." He deliberately withheld Rhaenys's true identity as a Targaryen princess, fearing that such knowledge could endanger them all if it reached the wrong ears among Maron's crew or any other sailors in the port. The fewer who knew the truth, the better their chances of survival.
Maron's keen eyes narrowed, studying Kaelen's serious demeanor and the small, cloaked figure clinging to his side. He didn't press for more details, his years spent navigating the treacherous currents of information in a busy port having taught him the value of discretion. "The dangers are manifold, Ser Kaelen. What remains of the Royal Fleet might still patrol some waters, though their allegiance is now as uncertain as the winds. And as I said, Robert Baratheon's ships will be hunting for any Targaryen loyalists attempting to flee. Not to mention the storms that often brew in the Narrow Sea at this time of year. It will be a hard and risky voyage."
Kaelen met Maron's gaze with a firm resolve. "I understand the risks, Maron. I have some coin… not much, I confess, but enough to make it worth your while." He reached into a hidden pouch beneath his worn tunic and produced a small handful of gold dragons, offering them to the merchant captain.
Maron waved a calloused hand dismissively, his gaze fixed on Kaelen's earnest face. "Keep your gold for when you reach Dragonstone, Ser Kaelen. If you are in genuine need, and this girl is in true danger… then I will take you. My respect for House Targaryen runs deeper than the gleam of gold." He glanced at the cloaked figure, a flicker of understanding in his shrewd eyes. "But you must understand this, Ser Kaelen: my crew knows nothing of her… her true nature. To them, she is simply a girl under your protection. Loose lips sink ships, as the saying goes, and in these times, that truth is sharper than any blade."
A profound sense of gratitude washed over Kaelen. "Thank you, Maron. You are a true friend in these dark times."
Maron clapped him on the shoulder, his expression grim. "We must make haste. This harbor is becoming a rat's nest of desperation, and I want to put as much distance as possible between us and this cursed city before the Usurper's hounds arrive. My men are already casting off the lines. Take the girl below deck and keep her hidden in my private cabin. It is small and cramped, but it offers the best chance of privacy."
Kaelen nodded, gently guiding Rhaenys down the narrow, creaking steps into the ship's belly. The air below deck was thick with the mingled smells of tar, salt, and the unwashed bodies of the crew, but the small, sparsely furnished cabin that Maron indicated offered a semblance of sanctuary. Rhaenys, her small face pale and her violet eyes wide with lingering terror, huddled on the narrow bunk, still clutching the worn rag doll she had found amidst the chaos of the Red Keep.
As the Sea Serpent slowly pulled away from the crowded docks, the sounds of the ravaged city gradually began to fade behind them. But the perilous journey across the Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone had just begun. True to Maron's grim prediction, the voyage was fraught with danger. A sudden and violent squall descended upon them in the middle of the Blackwater Bay. Towering waves, whipped into a frenzy by the gale-force winds, crashed against the hull of the small cog, and the wind howled through the rigging like a banshee, threatening to tear the sails to shreds. Rhaenys, terrified by the raw power of the storm, clung to Kaelen, her small body trembling uncontrollably. Kaelen, though a seasoned warrior who had faced battle, felt the primal fear of the sea's fury and the terrifying fragility of their small vessel. It was only through Maron's expert seamanship and the tireless efforts of his experienced crew that the Sea Serpent, battered and soaked, managed to weather the storm, emerging into calmer waters with its sails tattered but still aloft.
The emotional toll of the past few days, culminating in the terror of the storm, was immense on young Rhaenys. Having witnessed unimaginable horrors in the Red Keep and now facing the seemingly relentless fury of the elements, the little Princess had become withdrawn and silent, her once bright violet eyes now clouded with a deep and unsettling sadness. Kaelen did his best to comfort her, whispering stories of brave knights and magnificent dragons, trying to rekindle even the faintest spark of hope within her young heart. He knew that the journey ahead, both physically and emotionally, would be long and arduous, and her spirit would need to be strong to endure it.
Meanwhile, as the Sea Serpent battled its way through the turbulent waters towards Dragonstone, a different kind of storm was brewing in King's Landing. The main rebel forces, having secured their victory at the Trident, were marching towards the capital. Slightly behind this main host rode Lord Eddard Stark and the northern contingent, their faces grim and their hearts heavy with the recent losses of Lord Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon, at the hands of the Mad King Aerys.
Ned arrived at the gates of King's Landing shortly after the Lannister forces had completed their brutal and opportunistic sack of the city. The sight that greeted him was one of utter devastation. The once-proud capital, a symbol of Targaryen power for centuries, was now a smoldering ruin of corpses, bloodstains, and widespread destruction. Smoke still billowed from burning buildings, choking the air and casting a pall over the ravaged streets. The stench of death, mingled with the acrid smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood, hung heavy in the air, a grim testament to the horrors that had unfolded. The streets were littered with the bodies of men, women, and children, their lives extinguished in a brutal and indiscriminate slaughter.
A cold and righteous fury gripped Ned Stark as he witnessed the extent of the Lannisters' treachery. He had joined Robert's rebellion to avenge the deaths of his father and brother and to fight against the tyranny of a mad king. But the wholesale slaughter of innocent civilians, the blatant disregard for any semblance of honor or justice, filled him with a profound and visceral disgust for House Lannister. This was not the honorable warfare he had envisioned; it was a brutal and opportunistic butchery.
Driven by a grim sense of purpose, Ned made his way through the ravaged streets towards the Red Keep, the heart of the Targaryen dynasty, now defiled by Lannister savagery. He climbed the steps towards the main keep, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of Ice, his ancestral greatsword, a silent promise of justice for the fallen.
He ascended the winding staircases, his boots echoing in the eerie silence of the once-bustling corridors, until he reached the entrance to the throne room. He pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped inside, his gaze immediately drawn to the Iron Throne, the jagged seat of Westerosi power.
The sight that greeted him in the throne room seared itself into his memory, a tableau of grim irony and profound dishonor. Jaime Lannister, clad in his gleaming golden armor, which was now stained with fresh blood, sat upon the Iron Throne, the sharp, twisted swords forming a grotesque mockery beneath him. The war, in its most significant sense, was over. Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, was dead, his reign of terror brought to an end not by the rebel lords he had fought so desperately, but by the very Kingsguard knight sworn to protect him with his own life.
Ned's fury and disgust were immediate and overwhelming. Firstly, the Lannisters, by feigning loyalty to King Aerys until the very last moment and then brutally sacking the defenseless city, had committed an act of utter treachery, violating the sacred laws of guest right and common decency. Secondly, Jaime Lannister, a sworn member of the Kingsguard, the very embodiment of royal protection and honor, had not only murdered the king he was duty-bound to defend but had then compounded his profound dishonor by brazenly sitting upon the Iron Throne, the very symbol of the royal authority he had so callously betrayed.
"Get off the throne," Ned Stark's voice was low and dangerously cold, the unwavering steel of the North ringing in his tone. The moment, charged with unspoken tension and moral outrage, marked the true beginning of Ned Stark's deep and abiding distrust of House Lannister, a suspicion that would cast a long shadow over the future of Westeros in ways he could not yet foresee.
His gaze then fell upon the lifeless bodies sprawled near the foot of the Iron Throne. He immediately recognized Princess Elia Martell, her once vibrant Dornish beauty now tragically marred by the brutal violence she had suffered. And beside her lay the small, broken form of her infant son, Aegon, his tiny skull crushed with unimaginable force. The manner of their deaths, the sheer, senseless brutality inflicted upon a defenseless woman and an innocent child, filled Ned with a profound horror and a deep sense of injustice. He saw it not as an act of war, but as a cowardly and dishonorable act of pure murder, a stain upon the very cause for which they had fought.
Unbeknownst to Ned Stark, as he stood in the blood-soaked throne room, his heart heavy with grief, disgust, and a growing unease about the nature of this victory, a small, battered ship, the Sea Serpent, was battling its way through the turbulent waters of the Blackwater Bay towards the ancient Targaryen stronghold of Dragonstone. On board, Ser Kaelen Vance held a terrified but alive Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, carrying the last known living heir of Prince Rhaegar towards an uncertain future and the pregnant Queen Rhaella, unknowingly carrying the last hopes of the Targaryen dynasty. The realm had been plunged into chaos, and the dawn of a new era was stained with the blood of innocents and the bitter taste of betrayal. The arrival of Robert Baratheon in King's Landing, the man who had ignited this bloody rebellion, was now only a matter of time, and the true cost of his victory was yet to be fully realized.