Kinvara's footsteps echoed quietly in the stone hallway as she left the home where Viserys Targaryen and his sister were staying. The night air was cool, brushing against her face, and smelled of smoke and salt from the nearby harbor. Her red robes flowed behind her, the ruby on her neck glowing faintly with the last bit of divine fire. But inside, she didn't feel calm at all.
She had told Viserys the truth—everything she said came from fire and faith. But what disturbed her now wasn't how Viserys reacted, or what danger he might become later. What truly unsettled her was that it all felt… meaningless.
Just months ago, she had been sure of everything.
For years, Kinvara had believed without doubt that Daenerys Targaryen was Azor Ahai reborn, the hero promised in the prophecy. The signs seemed to fit: the blood of the dragon, born amidst salt and storm, hidden across the Narrow Sea until her time would come. Her birth under tragic skies. Her survival in exile.
What else could those signs mean?
Kinvara had stayed far away, quietly guiding other followers of R'hllor, getting ready for the day she would stand beside Daenerys and help bring about the promised dawn.
But then, the visions changed.
She looked into the flames, just as she always did—hoping for guidance, for the will of the Lord of Light. But this time, something was different. The fire didn't flicker or twist like usual. It burned straight and bright. And in the center of that fire, she didn't see Daenerys.
She saw a man.
He had dark hair and strong features. His eyes were full of vigor. He stood alone on a battlefield full of the dead—men, animals, and other things she couldn't name. Above him, fire and lightning fought in the sky. And in front of him was something ancient and terrible, a huge shadow wrapped in chains of ice and death.
But the man didn't run. He held up a sword, and the fire bowed to him.
That night, Kinvara fell to her knees and cried. She thought it must be a mistake. She prayed and begged the fire to show her more, hoping for correction.
Instead, the flames spoke even more clearly than before.
"Stannon Baratheon. He is the Flame That Was Promised."
She had fought it. She wanted to believe it was a test. Flames could be tricky. R'hllor sometimes tested His followers. But the same dream kept returning. The same name echoed in her head.
Not Daenerys. Not Viserys. Not even Jon Snow, the boy in the North that some Red Priests in Volantis had started whispering about.
Stannon Baratheon.
She sighed as she came to a stop and looked at the sky feeling a bit out of place. She couldn't help but stop thinking about the very people who once seemed so important to the fate of the world—and they felt meaningless.
Viserys was a fool. Daenerys, though not yet forged, would be caught in others' plans. Illyrio Mopatis, ever the schemer, had already arranged Daenerys' marriage to the Dothraki warlord in exchange for future favors. The girl would be traded like a trinket, wrapped in silk and sent into a foreign culture she did not understand.
And yet—they had no idea. None of them about what this fragile girl would do, what would she amount to once she hatched the three dragon eggs.
But Kinvara now saw a different path.
The eggs were powerful, yes. But who awakened them was just as important as the fact that they could hatch.
And she no longer believed Daenerys was the one meant to do it.
She had seen Stannon's hand, reaching toward the cracked surface of an egg, and fire blooming outward like a sunrise. She had seen a dragon born of light, not shadow. A creature with eyes like his. Not Dany's.
That's why she had come to Pentos, to serve the path that led her to power. Power that was never meant to be hers.
If Daenerys married Khal Drogo, she would gain a mighty army. If she received the dragon eggs, and somehow awakened them—as the fire had once implied—she could burn the world before Stannon even had a chance to rise.
Kinvara could not let that happen and she had pulled out every possible string to do so. All now she had to was let it unfold and hope that everything goes according to the wishes of the Lord of Light.
Meanwhile,the night was quiet over House Boggs, but down near the training grounds, Stannon Baratheon was wide awake.
He couldn't sleep.
He had tried. He lay in bed for a hour and half, but his mind wouldn't rest. Something inside him—burning like fire—kept him awake.
So, he did what he always did at times like this. Pushups.
He was halfway through his hundredth pushup when a shadow fell over him. He had already sensed the person far before he had approached him.
"You still trying to wrestle the ground into submission?" the person spoke.
Stannon didn't look up. "What do you want, Ragnok?"
Ragnok stepped into view. His face was tight, jaw clenched, eyebrows low. Stannon had only seen that look twice—once, the night he beat Ragnok in the proving yard to take command of the warband. The second time… was now.
Stannon raised an eyebrow. "Here to train?"
Ragnok looked him straight in the eye. "To challenge you. No weapons. Just fists and will."
Stannon blinked. "You want to spar? In the middle of the night?"
"There's a storm coming," Ragnok said. "I can feel it in my bones. And before it hits us, I need to know something."
Stannon crossed his arms. "What's that?"
"If the man I follow is still stronger than me."
The yard went quiet. Then Stannon stepped aside and cracked his knuckles. "Fine. Let's find out."
He knew Ragnok well enough to know that this wasn't why the man asked for a spar. Ragnok wasn't here to question his leadership or strength, he was here just to vent it out and Stannon welcomed him with open arms.
They moved to the middle of the yard. No armor. No swords. Just their bodies and the cold wind watching. Ragnok started circling first, taking slow, careful steps. Stannon stood tall, relaxed, but with sharp eyes. Ragnok threw the first punch—fast and low—but Stannon blocked it with his forearm and twisted to hit Ragnok's ribs with his elbow.
Ragnok grunted and shoved back, trying to land a quick jab to Stannon's chin. Stannon moved with it, spun low, and swept Ragnok's leg. Ragnok stumbled but didn't fall. They kept circling, fists flying, neither one holding back.
Ragnok was bigger and stronger, with the instincts of a street fighter. His punches hit hard when they landed. But Stannon—Stannon moved like fire. Quick, unpredictable, always striking back.
A sharp punch hit Ragnok's jaw, and he staggered. Stannon didn't chase. He waited. Calm. Focused. When Ragnok charged again, Stannon stepped aside and hit him in the shoulder, then pushed his palm into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
"Still want to test me?" Stannon asked, his voice steady.
"You're faster than before," Ragnok said, breathing hard and dripping sweat. "More focused."
"I have to be."
They exchanged more hits. Stannon blocked. He kicked Ragnok's thigh. Ragnok grabbed his arm and tried to throw him down, but Stannon twisted in the air, landed on his feet, and drove his knee into Ragnok's stomach.
It was clear that Stannon was winning. His every move showed skill, training, and deep control. He wasn't just strong. He was better.
Just as Ragnok prepared for one last try, both men stopped. Someone stood at the edge of the yard, breathing hard, holding a scroll.
It was Hilda.
She looked like the scroll burned her fingers. "My leader—" she said, out of breath. "A raven. It's urgent."
Stannon nodded and signaled for Ragnok to step back. Ragnok did, still breathing heavily.
Stannon opened the scroll in the moonlight and read it. His jaw tightened.
"Bad news?" Ragnok asked.
Stannon's eyes scanned the scroll quickly, his expression darkening with every word. He looked up, the parchment crumpling slightly in his tightening fist.
"The Greyjoys have rebelled," he said, his voice like iron. "And they're not alone. The Boltons have joined them. Together, they've launched an assault on the North—burning villages, cutting down holdfasts, and pushing hard toward Winterfell."
Ragnok's fists clenched at his sides. "They picked a damn fine time."
Stannon nodded. "The storm you felt—it wasn't in your bones. It's already here."
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