Dragonstone, beneath the Stone Drum.
Great Lord Eddard Stark stood at the edge of a sheer cliff, the salty, icy wind lashing his weathered face and whipping his dark gray fur cloak into a frenzy.
He lifted his gaze to the black stone fortress looming before him.
Unlike any castle in Westeros, it seemed less a man-made structure than a primordial dragon, born from lava and nightmares, coiled menacingly upon the volcanic isle.
Its twisted towers reared like heads, its winding, battlement-lined walls like the coils of its body.
Countless grotesque gargoyles—half demon, half stone beast—jutted like jagged spines along its back.
Now, rows of soldiers in black armor stood atop them, long spears in hand, silently watching the steel tide gathering below.
The air was thick with a suffocating stench: the salty tang of the sea, the iron bite of rusting steel, the musky odor of tanned leather, and the mingled sweat, grease, and nervous tension of tens of thousands of men.
Banners of bright and somber hues snapped in the wind—
The direwolf of the North, the roaring lion, the golden rose, the sun-and-spear, the crowned stag...
The sigils of the Seven Kingdoms converged here, a display of power unmatched, heavy enough to crush the breath from the air.
Then came a heavier tread, loud and metallic, joined by the hurried patter of attendants and the clatter of silver and steel.
King Robert Baratheon approached, surrounded by lords, courtiers, the Kingsguard, and a gaggle of young squires carrying great jugs of wine, silver platters, and even roasting spits.
His bloated bulk strained inside heavy plate, each step booming like a smith's hammer.
Tucked under one arm was his great visored helm, exposing a face puffed and ruddy from drink and excess, veined with red, his thick black beard bristling like thorns.
"Ned!"
Robert's booming laugh crashed like war drums, drowning the clamor around them.
He strode up to Eddard, reeking of wine, and with his gauntleted hand slammed the direwolf on his friend's shoulder so hard it sent pain lancing through his back.
"Ha! Years go by and you're still the same. Haven't changed a bit."
He laughed loudly.
Eddard steadied himself, studying his old friend.
Robert's face was more bloated than when they'd last met at Pyke, his eye bags deep, his once-bright blue eyes now bloodshot and dull. Even beneath his finely crafted plate, his gut bulged alarmingly.
Eddard realized that the memory of Robert as he had been—tall, handsome, sharp—was fading, leached away by the years.
Time had stripped away that image, just as it had gnawed at the indomitable stag who once triumphed at the Trident.
"Your Grace."
Eddard inclined his head slightly, his voice steady. "You've changed more than a little since those days…"
Robert barked a laugh, half a curse. "Ah, damn you, Ned. You're the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who'd dare say that to his king."
With a note of pride, he patted the curved breastplate that cleverly accommodated his swelling belly.
The smiths of King's Landing had worked their craft well, and Robert had paid dearly for armor that could still fit him.
Eddard turned the talk to business. "Tell me then, Your Grace—how do you plan to take the Stepstones?"
Robert glanced toward Paxter Redwyne, the King's appointed naval commander and leader of the campaign.
With Jon Arryn remaining in King's Landing during Robert's absence, Paxter now held the greatest authority among the lords here.
Paxter looked frail, his shoulders slumped, his thin frame topped by only a few wisps of orange-gold hair.
He addressed Lord Stark. "Lord Stark, Lord Varys has gathered detailed intelligence on the Eastern sorcerers' battle plans. They are currently massing troops on Broken Spear Isle, pinning Tyrosh in place. Therefore, our primary objective is to seize their stronghold—Bloodstone Island."
"Bloodstone Island?"
Lord Eddard Stark fell silent in thought.
The Dornish prince, clad in gleaming bronze armor, smiled faintly. "The largest island in the Stepstones, directly opposite Sunspear. Every night the Dornish can hear the sounds of pirates and whores reveling on Bloodstone..."
The lazy voice of Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, drifted into the council.
His lips carried that perpetual, mocking smile with hidden bite, as though this war council, on which the fate of the realm might rest, were nothing more than a play for his amusement.
Lord Paxter shot him a cold glance.
Ignoring the Prince of Dorne, he turned to the assembly, his finger landing firmly on Bloodstone. "According to reliable reports, Bloodstone is the Easterners' most heavily stocked supply base in the Stepstones. If we seize it, we gain a foothold—a solid bridgehead from which we can advance or retreat."
His finger shifted eastward. "From there, our fleet can sweep the Eastern islets, clear out the remnants, and finally join with our Tyrosh allies to crush the Easterners' main host in a pincer strike."
Ser Kevan Lannister, who until now had held his silence, finally spoke.
Clad in shining gold-and-red plate, the roaring lion on his chest glimmered, though his voice was low and heavy with doubt. "Reliable reports? Lord Paxter, do you mean... Ser Jorah Mormont?"
He paused, his hawk's gaze sweeping across the room. "In his secret missive, he spoke of... an elite legion under the Easterners' command, clad in Valyrian steel, moving strangely, nearly undying? Is this not... too far-fetched?"
Oberyn gave a sharp, mocking laugh, shrill as a night owl's cry. "Oh? Since when did the proud Lion of Casterly Rock take interest in the drunken ravings of tavern scum, or the ghost stories spun by exiled knights to save their hides? Or is it that the Lannisters' courage has grown soft as silk?"
Kevan's face darkened at once. His hand fell to the lion-headed hilt at his side, muscles tightening beneath his golden-red plates.
Eddard Stark stepped forward before tempers broke. His voice was grave. "Ser Jorah Mormont bears the heavy crime of slave-trading, wanted across the Seven Kingdoms. His credibility is already suspect. And being deep in enemy lands, eager for pardon, he may exaggerate or even invent such tales to prove his worth."
He cast his gaze over the lords, his tone carrying the North's blunt caution. "Until we see it for ourselves, we should treat all such claims beyond reason with care."
Sensing the atmosphere turn taut as a bowstring, Lord Paxter quickly interjected. "My lords, whether this so-called 'undying legion' exists, whether it is exaggeration or truth, one fact remains undeniable and must be faced: the Easterner has, in a short span, unified the Stepstones entire, save only Tyrosh. His soldiers number, by modest count, over ten thousand, and he commands no fewer than a hundred oared warships. This strength cannot be ignored."
"Just so. The Eastern sorcerer has united the Stepstones. Once he takes Tyrosh, he will march upon the Seven Kingdoms. We must hold him at the Narrow Sea."
King Robert cast Lord Paxter an approving glance.
Oberyn, though, seemed untouched by the grim mood. He straightened lazily, as if searching the room.
"Such fire in the air—yet the true master of this hall is missing?"
Cruel amusement curved his lips. "Where is Lord Stannis? The Great Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Ships. Will he begrudge us even his presence, at so grand a departure, to bid farewell to His Grace and his fellow lords?"
Though softly spoken, every word carried clearly through the chamber.
Robert's face darkened at once, purple with rage.
Lord Paxter's expression grew as heavy as Dragonstone's storm-laden sky.
"Do not speak his name!" Robert roared. "If he will not march, let him rot here with his stone dragons!"
Since the king's landing on Dragonstone, Stannis had hidden behind the excuse of military duties, sending men and a barely repaired royal fleet, but refusing to march himself, claiming he must guard the island against attack.
For Lord Paxter, who bore old grievances against him, even the name Stannis brought a surge of irritation.
His eyes fell darkly on Garlan Tyrell, the second son Mace Tyrell had sent. The youth stood with a hand on his sword hilt, watching the outspoken Dornish prince warily.
Damn these Dornishmen!
Paxter cursed inwardly, temples throbbing harder than when commanding fleets.
"Your Grace!"
He forced down his anger and frustration.
"The Eastern host is held fast at Broken Spear Isle, leaving Bloodstone lightly defended. Our fleet stands ready. Give the order, Your Grace—let us set sail and strike Bloodstone at once!"
Robert drew a deep breath, as if to turn all his fury into strength.
He raised his massive warhammer high overhead, the cruel spikes on its head glinting coldly in the dim light. With every ounce of strength, he bellowed a deafening roar:
"Forward! For the Seven Kingdoms—crush them!"
Woooo—!
A heavy, mournful horn blast, like a dragon's lament, split apart Dragonstone's brooding sky. One call followed another, echoing between the jagged cliffs and rolling across the harbor.
In an instant, Dragonstone's somber harbor boiled with life.
Like a slumbering beast awakened, the vast fleet began to stir.
Thick ropes were cast loose, heavy iron anchors hauled up with the groaning of winches.
Great square sails and triangular sails snapped open like banks of cloud, swelling under the sea wind with a thunderous, muffled boom.
More than four hundred warships of every size rose into a forest of sails that blotted out the sky, slowly gliding away from the harbor's jagged black reefs.
On every deck and along every bulwark, soldiers from the Seven Kingdoms crowded shoulder to shoulder.
Clad in every kind of armor, gripping weapons that glinted coldly, their faces showed murder, fervor, or emptiness—melding into a suffocating tide steeped in the stench of rust and blood.
Five thousand from the North, led by Lord Eddard Stark.
Six thousand raised by Ser Kevan Lannister of the Westerlands.
With Jon Arryn holding King's Landing and his heir too young, the eastern host marched under Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, bringing four thousand men from the lords of the Vale.
The South sent the most. House Tyrell sought to make a show: Highgarden alone, under Garlan Tyrell, fielded three thousand, House Hightower another two thousand, and Commander Paxter himself added two thousand more. With two hundred warships, the Reach sent ten thousand in all.
The Stormlands' lords, beneath Renly Baratheon, mustered five thousand. The Riverlands, under the Blackfish and Edmure Tully, sent five thousand.
Prince Oberyn of Dorne brought three thousand.
To these were added three thousand from the Crownlands and two thousand from the Iron Islands under Captain Victarion.
The Seven Kingdoms had gathered forty-three thousand soldiers, more than four hundred warships, and a massive train of supply vessels loaded with provisions, siege engines, and countless laborers—all bearing down on their target, the island called Bloodstone.
Never had the winds of the Narrow Sea carried such a heavy, choking reek of rust and blood.
The storm of war had come.