Storm's End.
Lord Borros Baratheon was no longer the fierce and mighty warrior he had been over a decade ago during the Dance of the Dragons. That war had drained him of his fire and fury. The Stormlands had paid a heavy price for his indecisiveness. Since then, Borros had been haunted by dreams of his dead daughters and endless flames.
I personally killed six thousand Stormlander soldiers.
I personally killed my daughters.
I personally doomed the future of the Stormlands.
Borros sat in silence upon the Storm King's throne. He had cursed his own wavering and greed countless times. Had he stood firmly with Rhaenyra back then, the Stormlands might have at least retained Nightsong—perhaps even carved a prize from the Reach.
Now, though House Baratheon still appeared to be one of the strongest in the realm, no one understood its true weakness better than Borros. Without the Marches, the Stormlands now struggled to even muster twenty thousand men. They were forced to hire sellswords, to recruit wandering soldiers and hedge knights.
"My Lord, messages have arrived from Lord Connington, Lord Mertyns, and Lord Swann." The maester, hunched and frail, scurried to Borros' side.
Borros took the letters, hoping they had gathered enough men and ships. He no longer needed the maester's aid to read; over the years, he had become proficient in the Common Tongue, even picking up a few phrases of High Valyrian—though only a few.
Roland Connington, the young Lord of Griffin's Roost, was reckless. When the Dance of the Dragons erupted, he had still been a child barely able to speak. Like many young men who had never known the horrors of war, he was eager for battle and glory.
Griffin's Roost had gathered the largest force. Roland had flung open his family's treasury, spending lavishly to assemble over sixty-five hundred men, including more than three hundred hedge knights. The forces of Mertyns at Mistwood and Swann at Stonehelm were not as numerous, but southern Stormlander nobles had rallied to their banners. Together, they had mustered over eight thousand men, including no fewer than six hundred cavalry. Grain stores were already being sent to Mistwood and Stonehelm in preparation for war.
Borros folded the letter. King's Landing had tacitly approved his plan to march on the Stepstones. Unlike Daemon Targaryen's ill-fated campaign, Borros had the entire Stormlands behind him—ample troops, ample supplies. His war would not drag on until it turned into a disaster. Daemon had crowned himself King of the Narrow Sea, only to slink back to King's Landing soon after.
Even Dragon's Nest had not opposed him. In fact, Lord Samwell, commander of the Silver Fleet, and Gunthor Raven, another commander, had written personally, offering ships for the crossing.
Of course, not for free. But the price was within Borros' means.
"What of the Rogare Bank?" Borros asked. He intended to take a loan in King's Landing to hire Lysene ships.
Lys had become nothing more than a Targaryen lapdog—no, it was entirely a Targaryen lapdog now. Lysandro Rogare had cemented his power with Targaryen backing. He had even planned to declare himself First Magister for life, but a letter from Draezell had forced him to reconsider.
Lys' ruling council had been stunned when Lysandro abruptly changed his approach. He abandoned his push for complete control, allowing other noble families a sliver of dignity. The city's political strife began to ease, and Lys slowly recovered, but its golden age was long past. The Dance of the Dragons and the War of the Three Daughters had shattered the fragile alliance of the Free Cities. Tyrosh had fallen, while Myr and Lys had become bitter enemies. Now, Lysandro was preparing for war against Myr.
He was quite interested in House Baratheon's plans.
"Master Lothar has agreed to the loan," the maester said. "However, he has included a clause—if my lord agrees to send troops to aid Lysandro's war against Myr, the governor will offer debt relief."
Damn these bloodsucking leeches.
Borros cursed inwardly.
Still, he smiled. "Write back to Lothar. Tell him the Stormlands deeply value Magister Lysandro Rogare's friendship. We will provide all necessary aid to our allies."
The maester bowed and slowly withdrew, leaving Borros alone in the hall, his smile fading into a grim scowl.
Outside Storm's End
Rhaegor and his companions retrieved their shields from the blacksmith. Just as Elarion assumed they would be joining the war as sellswords, Rhaegor told them otherwise.
They would not be fighting.
Instead, they would continue north—to the Crownlands and the Riverlands.
"Your Highness, aren't we preparing for battle?" Elarion asked, puzzled. They had already bought breastplates, prepared their horses, and even acquired shields—wasn't this all in preparation to follow the main force to the battlefield in the Stepstones?
"Elarion, what is our mission?" Rhaegon understood Rhaegor's intent and posed the question.
"To protect His Highness," Elarion replied, still confused.
"And what is His Highness's mission?"
"To travel." Elarion finally realized what was happening. He bowed his head sincerely to Rhaegor, who had remained silent. "Your Highness, that was my mistake."
"It's fine." Seeing that his companion had caught on, Rhaegor offered a small smile. "The Stepstones—we'll have our chance to go there."
Rhaegor did intend to participate in the war, but certainly not now. He needed to fulfill his father's mandate and complete his journey across the continent within the given time. From what he had learned, this war in the Stormlands would not be over anytime soon. House Baratheon had no navy, and their only way to fight across the sea was by hiring fleets. Meanwhile, the pirates of the Stepstones were hardened veterans of countless battles. No matter how large an army the Stormlands gathered, it would be useless if they couldn't land on the islands.
Unless Borros could acquire a seasoned and battle-ready fleet.
The two young men exchanged glances, reassured that Rhaegor wasn't simply making baseless claims, and let go of their worries.
More and more people were gathering beneath Storm's End. Every day, new arrivals came, and others departed. The three boys' departure was hardly a noteworthy event.
Only the blacksmith at Storm's End seemed disheartened.
He had been eagerly awaiting a large order from House Tarly, a chance to make a significant profit and establish connections with other noble houses. But now, his prospective customers had vanished. With a long sigh, the blacksmith lamented his lost opportunity.
---
Dragon's Nest, Silverblood Tower
Diana gazed out the window with a worried expression. Since Rhaegor had left, her habits had changed. She used to enjoy walking in the gardens and indulging in fine food after putting her children to bed, before eventually reviewing the household accounts.
But now, she found herself staring blankly out the window, constantly recalling her son's face.
"They've left the Stormlands," Draezell said softly as he approached his wife.
Diana snapped out of her thoughts and turned to him with a sorrowful look. "Promise me, Draezell. If anything happens to Rhaegor… I know you can sense it. Please, you must protect him."
After all, he is our son, she thought.
Draezell offered a bitter smile and nodded.
He will be safe, Draezell assured himself.
After all, he is my son, the true dragon of Silverblood.
He, too, gazed out the window. The promise made by the Green Man all those years ago—was it finally coming due?
Draezell had glimpsed fragments of the future in Melisandre's flames.
He had seen Rhaegor beneath the weirwood. That meant the promise from back then was about to be fulfilled.
Not upon himself, but upon his son.
He only hoped the Green Men's promise would be to his satisfaction.
Or at least to Rhaegor's.