Chapter 27
Chapter 27 - Sky and Sea
The sea churned beneath the combined might of the Velaryon and Dragonstone fleets, sails billowing as they cut through the waves toward Lannisport. Smoke hung heavy on the horizon—a black smear against the fading light—where the Ironborn raiders had struck. The distant sound of clashing steel and crackling flame drifted across the water.
On the deck of The Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the chaos unfold. The sight of Lannister banners flapping weakly over the embattled port filled him with grim satisfaction. The lions are bleeding, he thought. And they’ll owe us for patching the wound.
A shout rang out from the crow’s nest. “Ironborn to the east—four longships breaking from the harbor!”
Corlys’ mouth curled into a smile as sharp as a dagger. “They think they can run.” He turned to his captain. “Signal the vanguard—no mercy.”
The captain nodded, raising a red flag that snapped sharply in the wind. Across the fleet, the oarsmen bent their backs, driving the ships forward in perfect unison. Corlys felt the familiar rush of battle humming in his veins. Let the Ironborn flee if they wanted—it only made the hunt more satisfying.
Before the Velaryon fleet could close the distance, a shadow swept across the deck, and Corlys’ eyes snapped upward. Dragons.
Two of them.
Baela on Moondancer led the charge, the dragon’s pale green scales catching the fading sunlight. Slight and swift, she sliced through the sky like a blade. Behind her, the shimmering white form of Grey Ghost followed—Rhaena, quiet and watchful, but no less deadly.
“Seven hells,” Corlys muttered under his breath. “The little fools.”
Without waiting for orders, Baela dove first. She leaned low over Moondancer’s neck, her silver braids whipping behind her. The dragon responded to her rider’s fierce will, plunging toward the lead Ironborn ship. With a sharp cry, Baela pointed—and fire erupted from Moondancer’s jaws, engulfing the longship’s sails.
The blaze spread fast, consuming the wooden vessel and forcing the Ironborn to abandon ship. Some tried to leap overboard, but Moondancer was already circling back. Baela urged her dragon lower, allowing her talons to rake across the deck, shredding rigging and men alike.
From the air, Rhaena scanned the chaos below, searching for a target. A second longship had slipped away from the battle, its black sail cutting through the waves. With a tug of her reins, she urged Grey Ghost after it. The pale dragon moved with eerie silence—no roar, no sound—only the whisper of wings.
Rhaena’s heart pounded as they drew closer. The Ironborn archers spotted her too late. She leaned forward, her voice clear and steady. “Dracarys.”
White-hot flame poured from Grey Ghost’s mouth, searing through the hull. The ship groaned as the fire devoured it, smoke billowing into the air. A few Ironborn flung themselves into the water, but Rhaena narrowed her eyes. “Not yet,” she murmured.
Grey Ghost swooped lower, talons extended. With a swift strike, the dragon snatched one of the fleeing raiders from the water and flung him against the burning wreckage. The sea bubbled with the heat, swallowing the last remnants of the ship as Rhaena circled back, searching for more prey.
On the deck of The Sea Snake, Corlys watched his granddaughters rain destruction with a mix of pride and exasperation. Reckless, headstrong—just like their parents. And yet… effective.
“Lord Corlys!” a deckhand called. “Another ship tries for open water!”
Corlys snapped his attention forward. “Bring her about! Cut off their escape.”
But before his orders could be carried out, Baela swept past once more. She stood tall in the saddle, her face alight with the thrill of battle as she gave chase. Moondancer flared her wings wide and dived, slamming into the longship’s stern. With a snarl, the dragon lashed her tail, sending splinters flying.
Baela laughed—sharp, wild—as the dragon’s jaws clamped down on the mast, snapping it in two. Flames burst forth again, the heat blistering the sea spray.
“Seven hells,” Corlys muttered. He shook his head, though there was no hiding the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “I should have known they wouldn’t sit idle.”
It was all over within the hour. Broken ships and Ironborn corpses floated on the waves, the survivors either dead or captured. Victory belonged to the Velaryons and Dragonstone—and the Ironborn would not soon forget it.
When the last fires smoldered low, Corlys ordered the fleet to anchor at a small, rocky isle near the Lannisport coast. As the longboats rowed ashore, the girls were already waiting—smug and unapologetic.
Baela dismounted from Moondancer with a spring in her step, the taste of triumph still fresh. “No need for thanks among family, Grandsire,” she called as Corlys approached, brushing soot from her leather gloves.
Rhaena slid down from Grey Ghost, quieter but no less defiant. “Happy to be of service to our house,” she said simply.
Corlys swept a hand across his silver beard, eyeing them both with a mixture of disbelief and pride. “You threw yourselves into battle without a plan or permission. And you”—he fixed Baela with a wry look—“seem to have a particular taste for burning things that aren’t yours.”
Baela only grinned. “We did what needed doing.”
“Aye.” His voice softened just a touch. “That you did. And the Lannisters will owe us for it.”
Rhaena’s expression turned thoughtful. “Does that mean Mother won’t be angry?”
Corlys laughed—a deep, rolling sound. “Oh, you’ll have to tell her yourselves. I wouldn’t trade places with you for all the gold in Casterly Rock.” His smile faded, yet pride gleamed in his eyes. “But your father? He’d be proud of you both.”
Baela’s grin widened. “Good.”
The sea breeze tugged at Corlys’ cloak as he turned back toward the waiting fleet. The Ironborn were broken. The Lannisters were in their debt. And somewhere in the Red Keep, the Greens would soon learn just how far the tide had turned against them.
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Aegon Targaryen sat slouched in the dimly lit chamber, swirling the last dregs of wine in his goblet as he brooded over his fate. The Red Keep had become his prison, each day a relentless cycle of expectations, whispered plotting, and the suffocating presence of his mother and grandsire. They had stripped him of freedom, of indulgence, of anything that made life worth living.
Then Larys came to him. “My Prince,” he murmured, leaning on his cane as he approached, “I have come with an opportunity. One that I suspect you will not want to refuse.”
Aegon glanced at him with mild interest but did not straighten. “I don’t see how anything you bring me could be of worth, Clubfoot.” His words slurred slightly, his drink already taking hold.
Larys—tilted his head. “Not even an escape?”
That got Aegon’s attention.
Larys took slow, measured steps closer, lowering his voice. “One last night. One last taste of what the world outside these walls has to offer before you are shackled to a throne you never asked for.” He reached into his robes, producing a small vial filled with a swirling, murky liquid. “This will alter your face and your voice—just enough that no one will know who you are. No guards to report. No courtiers to whisper. Just a man enjoying his freedom in the city below.”
Aegon stared at the potion with hungry desperation. “And if I’m caught?”
“You won’t be,” Harwin assured him. “Drink this and wear this cloak when you leave. The combination of both will allow for you to move about unhindered by your lineage and the pressures of the crown. Just slip out through the passage I’ll show you, and be whoever you wish to be for a few hours.”
Aegon snatched the vial from his hand, eyeing it with reckless eagerness. “I suppose it would be foolish not to indulge,” he mused, already uncorking it. The contents were drained and the vial tossed into the fire in the hearth.
As Aegon drew the cloak around his shoulders, he had yet to notice the tiny nick on his finger as he fastened the blood red dragonglass clasp. The stone began to faintly glow them faded away. It seemed almost to be a trick of the light.
Hidden beneath the perfected effects of the modified Polyjuice Potion, Harwin Strong stepped out of the room using the same hunched posture and knowing smirk that Larys always wore.
*******************
Hours later, the streets of King’s Landing pulsed with life, and Aegon—disguised beyond recognition—stumbled into a brothel on the Street of Silk, emboldened by drink and the thrill of anonymity. The moment he entered, his old habits resurfaced.
He took without asking. Grabbed too hard. Laughed when a girl cried out in pain.
The brothel’s guards and patrons were swift in their response. In a place where names held no weight and disguises stripped away privilege, he was nothing more than another lecherous brute. The moment rough hands seized him and threw him into the street, reality came crashing down.
“You don’t damage the goods like that,” one of the guards spat, cracking his knuckles as Aegon scrambled to his feet.
“You’re lucky we don’t gut you here,” another sneered. “Now get out before we make sure you don’t walk again.”
Aegon, disoriented, humiliated, and still under the effects of the potion, stumbled through the streets. He tried to return to the Red Keep, but the guards at the gate did not recognize him. His words slurred as he demanded entry, but his face was unfamiliar, his voice foreign.
“Get lost, drunk,” one of them barked, shoving him away from the entrance.
Panic and loneliness set in.
His only refuge was with his one remaining friend. With this thought in mind Aegon headed to the Dragonpit.
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The path to Sunfyre’s lair was a blur of shadows and torchlight. His mind raced as he staggered through the vast, echoing halls. Sunfyre would know him. His dragon would feel his presence, recognize his voice, his scent.
“He is mine. He will know me.”
But as he stepped into the cavern, the golden beast stirred, its great serpentine neck lifting from its resting place. Sunfyre’s molten eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. A deep growl rumbled from his throat.
Aegon took another step forward. “Sunfyre,” he gasped, hands outstretched.
The dragon let out a deafening roar.
Aegon flinched. The sound was wrong.
Then the flames came.
White-hot fire engulfed him, searing his flesh, burning away his skin, his hair—his very heritage. The runes cast upon his cloak, the potion coursing through his veins, had done more than disguise him. They had severed his connection to his Valyrian blood, stripping him of what tethered him to his dragon.
Sunfyre did not see his rider.
Sunfyre saw an intruder.
With one powerful swipe of his claws, he tore Aegon apart, his screams lost in the inferno. The cavern reeked of charred flesh and burning silk. By the time the fire died down, there was nothing left but blackened bones and ash.
Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Viserys, heir to the Iron Throne, was no more.