Stormborn

On the afternoon before the storm, the sky took on a heavy, leaden yellow hue. Thick moisture hung in the air. The sea was unnaturally calm, without even a breath of wind.

Ser Willem Darry stood at the bow of the flagship Aegon and drew a deep breath. "Today's the day. A storm is coming," he murmured to Arthur Dayne beside him. There was no excitement in his voice, only solemn concern.

Before his words had faded, a wall of purple-black clouds surged up in the southeast, swallowing the entire horizon. The wind came first, shrieking as it tore the sea apart. Then sheets of lightning split the sea and dark clouds, and thunder exploded just above the waves. Last came the rain. It did not fall in drops-it was as though the entire ocean had been hurled into the sky and slammed back down.

Less than fifty nautical miles southwest of Dragonstone, the Stormlands fleet struggled to adjust its formation. On the deck of the command ship Fury, Stannis Baratheon pressed his lips tightly together, his fingers digging into the gunwale. In the blue-white glare of the lightning, his gaunt face looked like a stone carving.

"Pick up speed," he said, his voice almost inaudible beneath the storm's roar. "We'll strike straight at Dragonstone under cover of the storm."

His second-in-command, a knight of House Estermont, had gone deathly pale. "My lord, these seas are too rough! Shouldn't we..."

"Carry out your orders," Stannis interrupted, his gray eyes unwavering. He, too, despised this surprise attack and considered it dishonorable, but these were the orders of his king-and his elder brother, Robert. Besides, if he could use the storm to wipe out the Targaryens' last stronghold in one stroke, then he, Stannis, would finally secure his position in the kingdom instead of forever living beneath his brother's shadow and contempt.

Yet the sheer scale of the storm soon surpassed any notion of "cover" or "advantage." Only when that black wall of cloud connecting sea and sky truly drew near did their ships reveal how small they were.

When the first enormous wave struck, the Fury was thrust upward, almost standing on end, before being slammed into the trough. Sailors were flung from the deck like scattered beans, swallowed by the sea before they could even let out a final scream. The ship's keel groaned with a teeth-grating creak. Then came the second wave, and the third...

One ship after another, the Stormlands fleet fell apart before the might of nature. Masts snapped as easily as matchsticks, and hulls vanished beneath crushing masses of seawater or collided in the raging waves, shattering into fragments.

Stannis's Fury barely held on thanks to its relatively sturdy hull and skilled sailors, but its mainmast snapped in the wind, and water poured into its hold. Stannis himself clung desperately to a mooring post as icy seawater flooded his mouth and nose.

"Turn around! Retreat!" At last, he roared the order to withdraw, his voice thick with bitterness. The fleet he had painstakingly assembled, the foundation on which he had hoped to win glory, had been annihilated before it even caught sight of the enemy. He did not know whether he could make it back to face the king who had never been able to stand him. Robert's bellowing and those contempt-filled eyes were already looming before him, chilling him more than the storm itself.

Meanwhile, farther west, the Lannister fleet attempting a flanking maneuver also met with catastrophe. The all-engulfing winds and towering waves mercilessly shredded the roaring lion banners and dragged the warships into the abyss. A handful of battered ships escaped the heart of the storm, but they had lost all ability to fight.

Dragonstone itself was also suffering the storm's onslaught.

The gale drove torrential rain against the black-stone castle atop the cliffs, battering it relentlessly. Several old fishing boats moored in the harbor were smashed against the shore by enormous waves.

But in several sheltered coves chosen beforehand, things were very different. Secured by multiple heavy hawsers and iron anchors, the warships rose and fell with the waves, their hulls remaining intact. Apart from a few sailors still aboard, everyone had been sheltered in caves and the castle.

Inside the castle, the atmosphere was equally tense. Queen Rhaella's labor was going badly. Outside her bedchamber, Viserys leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to the intermittent moans from within and the anxious voices of the midwives and maester. The howling storm outside mingled with the struggle for life inside. Rhaenys was terrified. She clung tightly to Viserys's leg and buried her little face against him. Ashara stood nearby, gently stroking Rhaenys's hair with one hand while casting worried looks toward the bedchamber door.

Time grew blurred and drawn out amid the storm's clamor.

Suddenly, a piercing infant's cry cut through the storm's roar and reached Viserys's ears clearly. There seemed to be a strange vitality in that sound.

The door opened, and the old maester emerged, his face a mixture of exhaustion and sorrow. "A princess, Your Grace. The child is healthy. But the queen... the Stranger has taken her. She lost too much blood. There was nothing we could do."

Viserys closed his eyes for a moment. What had to come had come at last. He pushed open the door and went inside.

Queen Rhaella lay quietly on the bloodstained sheets. Her face was as pale as marble, yet it held a trace of peace, as though she had been released from her suffering.

A tiny baby wrapped in soft fur still lay in her arms. The girl's violet eyes were open, gazing uncomprehendingly at this unfamiliar world. A thin down of silver-white hair covered her head.

Viserys stepped forward and lifted Daenerys Targaryen, the last pure-blooded Targaryen in the world, from Queen Rhaella's already cold arms.

After all, he himself was no longer a Targaryen, and neither was Rhaenys. Even Jon did not count. Rhaegar and Lyanna's marriage was not considered legal in Westeros, so he was only a bastard.

The future Mother of Dragons was still just a tiny little thing.

Looking at her, Viserys could not help thinking, Now that I've transmigrated here, let her live a peaceful, carefree life under my protection.

The storm gradually subsided before dawn the next day, leaving the sea strewn with wreckage: floating planks, torn sailcloth, and countless bloated corpses. They bore witness to the devastation suffered by the attacking fleets.

The queen's death weighed like a stone on everyone's hearts, but they had no time to grieve. A funeral so simple it was almost hasty was held on the cliffs behind the castle. House Targaryen had always practiced cremation.

Using the dry wood and old sailcloth they could find, they built a tall funeral pyre. Queen Rhaella's body was washed, dressed in a respectable gown, and laid upon it with her head toward the west, facing Westeros.

Viserys lit the pyre himself. Orange-red flames instantly consumed that frail figure, and the sea wind swept the ashes out over the water. Arthur, Jon, Willem, and the other knights knelt on one knee, their heads bowed in silent mourning. Ashara stood beside Viserys, holding Rhaenys, who had been stunned by the sight, while Daenerys slept soundly in her wet nurse's arms.

As soon as the funeral ended, the order came.

"Board the ships." His voice was quiet, yet it carried above the sound of the waves.

There were no further words. More than two thousand followers boarded their assigned ships in an orderly fashion, raised their sails, and set course for Essos.