The chamber at the top of the Stone Drum Tower had enormous arched windows on three sides, overlooking Dragonstone's jagged coast and the ink-black sea beyond.
Sea wind poured through the windows, heavy with the smell of burning, smoke, and death, stirring Aegon's unbound silver hair.
Outside, the stretch of sea remained a horrifying sight.
Wrecked warships, shredded sails and rigging, and bodies no longer worth recovering formed a vast, silent, ugly tableau of destruction against the leaden sky and dark water.
Several longships flying Targaryen banners still cruised slowly among the wreckage like patient scavengers.
Clearing these waters would take time, but more important was the sight itself:
News of the final fate of Stannis's vast fleet would travel swiftly to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms aboard merchant ships and on raven wings.
It spoke more powerfully than any proclamation.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter." Aegon did not turn.
The door opened, and a young man who already looked old stepped inside.
He wore a plain gray woolen robe, and the heavy chain around his neck proclaimed him a maester.
He looked scarcely past thirty, but his solemn face, habitually furrowed brow, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and his slightly stooped posture made him resemble a man of seventy worn down by too many cares.
He was Pylos, Dragonstone's maester.
The castle had changed hands, and the object of its maester's allegiance had changed with it, from Baratheon to Targaryen.
The Citadel's maesters served castles, not their lords.
He held a rolled letter sealed with hard black wax, bearing a simple device: the mark of the Night's Watch.
"Your Highness."
Maester Pylos's voice was much like his appearance: dry, precise, and devoid of unnecessary emotion.
He bowed slightly and presented the parchment with