The sea was restless that morning, its waves crashing hard against the black shores of Dragonstone. The winds carried the scent of salt and sulfur, and the sky had taken on a bruised hue, as if warning of the storm that would break not above, but within.
Princess Daenerys Targaryen stood at the prow of the royal galley Stormcloud as it cut through the churning bay. Behind her, the Red Keep dwindled into the mist. Ahead rose the great, grim fortress of Dragonstone, its towers shaped like dragons and gargoyles, its walls ancient and etched with the soot of forgotten fires.
It was not her first visit, but it was the first in years. Her brother, Prince Daeron, Heir to the Iron Throne, had made the island his seat since marrying Princess Myriah Martell of Dorne. Together they had brought a strange calm to the storm-beaten fortress: Dornish warmth and Targaryen chill, fire and stone.
A steward met her at the dock with a cloak of crimson and black, and by the time she reached the inner yard, the royal household had assembled to greet her.
Prince Daeron stood at the head of them all, dressed in a mantle of pale silver thread, his hair bound back in a dragonbone clasp. He had their father's eyes—hooded, watchful—but not his cruelty. There was an intelligence in them, veiled but undeniable, and a calm that gave no quarter to fools.
"Welcome home, sister," he said as he embraced her. "You are lovelier than ever."
"And you are graver than ever," she teased, though gently. "Is ruling Dragonstone such a heavy burden?"
He gave her a rueful smile. "Heavier than you know."
Then came Princess Myriah.
The Dornish princess was slender and tall, her skin a warm gold kissed by sun, her hair ink-dark and coiled in jeweled braids. She wore orange and copper silk, the colors of House Martell, though a black dragon clasp adorned her shoulder.
"Sister," Myriah said with a smile that was both warm and wary. "You honor our house."
"The honor is mine, Princess," Daenerys replied with a curtsey. "I have longed to see Dragonstone again... and your sons."
At that, the three princes stepped forward—three boys, three different faces of the dragon's legacy.
Prince Baelor, the eldest at nine, was all his mother in color and bearing. His skin was olive, his eyes black and curious, and his hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders. Yet beneath those Dornish looks, Daenerys saw the subtle stamp of Valyria—the high cheekbones, the long fingers, the sharp eyes that missed nothing.
Baelor bowed smartly. "Aunt Daenerys. I hope you will walk the cliffs with me. There are falcons nesting now, and I've named one 'Windfang.'"
"I would be honored, my prince," she said, pleased by his courtesy.
Maekar was next, smaller than Baelor but with a proud bearing. His hair was so pale it was nearly white, and it lay flat against his head like silk thread. His violet eyes were solemn, his jaw clenched like a knight twice his age.
He bowed as well, more stiffly. "Welcome to Dragonstone."
Daenerys smiled at him. "You stand like a soldier already."
"I will be one," Maekar said quickly. "I'll kill enemies and protect the realm."
"Let us hope you need not," Myriah interjected softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
The youngest, Aerys, was only five, and clung to his mother's skirts. He had the classic look of old Valyria: silver-gold curls, wide purple eyes, and the faint, half-dreaming look of one more prone to thoughts than deeds. He did not bow, but stared at Daenerys with wide-eyed wonder.
"I know you," he whispered. "You have dragon eyes."
"So do you," she whispered back with a gentle smile, kneeling to his height. "We are kin, sweet prince."
He touched her hand, then hid his face again.
Later that evening, as the household gathered in the Great Hall beneath the smoking jaws of the stone dragons, Daenerys sat beside her brother and watched the family he had built. Myriah spoke softly with the children, Baelor whispered to a septon about the stars, Maekar asked a knight about swords, and Aerys played with his spoon in a cup of milk.
"It suits you," she said to Daeron. "This place. This life."
He looked at her a long moment before replying. "And what suits you, Daenerys?"
She glanced away. "I do not know."
"I hear whispers in court," he said softly, "of your closeness with Daemon."
Her heart stilled. "They whisper of many things."
"Yes. And so I wonder, if Father intends to use you as a piece... who shall he trade you to?" He looked to Myriah and his sons. "You would do well to remember: not all cages are made of iron. Some are silk and sunlight."
"And you would do well to remember I am still your sister, and still a Targaryen," she replied, steel beneath her words.
He nodded. "Then be wise, sister. Or others will be wise for you."