Light.
Not the golden thunder that had annihilated everything in his memory, but the pallid light of afternoon, tinged with the briny smell of the sea.
It pierced Stannis Baratheon's closed eyelids, dragging him bodily back from empty darkness and absolute silence.
There was no searing pain, no warmth, only a heavy, all-pervading numbness.
He slowly opened his eyes and saw the low, leaden sky, then the familiar cold grass of Dragonstone's eastern shore, strewn with black gravel.
And farther away, the familiar Stone Drum Tower, tall and sheer, built of black volcanic stone.
He was not dead.
That realization brought no relief, only a deeper emptiness and absurdity.
He moved his fingers, braced himself, and sat up.
Then he saw them.
A crowd stood in silence, like a forest growing along the coast.
Black and dark red cloaks stirred in the sea breeze, their wearers' calm gazes fixed on him.
Behind them, on the low walls and towers farther away, enormous banners snapped in the sea wind.
Black fields, embroidered with vivid red three-headed dragons.
Targaryen.
Beneath an enormous black Three-Headed Dragon Banner, a silver-haired figure in black armor faced the sea.
No introduction was needed, no announcement.
That face, faintly resembling Prince Rhaegar's yet utterly different, and everything this scene proclaimed pointed unmistakably to one name.
Aegon Targaryen.
He planted his stiff hands on the ground and stood, the sea wind buffeting his damaged armor and his cloak, caked with salt and soot.
He began walking toward that figure, his steps unsteady but resolute.
The soldiers silently cleared a path.
Stannis stopped ten paces behind Aegon. Rather than looking at him, he followed his gaze toward the sea ahead.
Then he understood what Aegon was watching.
And why he was still alive.
The sea.
The waters of the