Just then, Garlan Tyrell approached with a goblet in hand, a grave look shadowing his handsome face.
"Grandmother, brother—have you heard? News from farther east. Myr has fallen to the Easterners. They say their leader commands three dragons, each about thirty feet long."
The air seemed to freeze.
Nearby, Lord Fossoway and Lady Oakheart—who had been smiling, goblets in hand, ready to offer congratulations—stopped mid-step. Their smiles stiffened, awkward and uncertain, as their eyes darted toward one another in quiet unease.
Dragons. The word, long buried by time and confined to songs and legends, struck the hall like thunder.
Willas lifted his gaze toward the eastern horizon, eyes distant, as though trying to pierce through endless plains and seas.
Lady Olenna's wrinkled face betrayed no emotion, though her thin fingers tightened around her gilded staff. After a few moments of silence, she spoke slowly.
"Dragons? Hmph. The Seven Kingdoms already have more than enough troubles. The old lion Tywin still roams free. We must deal with what lies before us first. The Lannisters are the meat upon the block. As for dragons… let them burn across the Narrow Sea for now."
...
That night, in the bridal chamber atop Highgarden's tallest tower, a vast four-poster bed draped with layers of pale gold gauze shimmered dreamlike beneath the candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of rare incense and the sweetness of fresh roses.
Margaery Tyrell stood at the center of the room, a white rose on the verge of blooming. Her elaborate wedding gown, intricate and heavy with ornament, was being carefully removed piece by piece by Lady Taena Merryweather.
"Don't be afraid, my little rose," Taena said softly. "The King will cherish you. You're so beautiful, even the moon must be jealous."
She gently guided Margaery toward the great bed, its crimson velvet covers rich and deep in color.
The door opened soundlessly.
Renly entered.
He had shed the ornate robes of his coronation, wearing only light, sheer garments. The candlelight softened the finely crafted smile that so often adorned his public face, revealing a rare calm beneath. His gaze lingered on Margaery, wrapped in nothing but delicate gauze by the bed, admiration flickering in his eyes.
Taena stepped respectfully behind the heavy drapes, though her sharp eyes never left the royal pair.
Renly approached and sat beside Margaery. The faint fragrance of her skin—roses mingled with the warmth of youth—drifted toward him. He reached out, his fingertips brushing lightly over her smooth, rounded shoulder.
"Margaery, my queen," he murmured.
Margaery lifted her gaze, long lashes trembling like startled butterfly wings, her eyes full of tender longing. "Your Grace..."
The red candles flared high, their glow dancing over silk curtains and stone walls, twisting the overlapping silhouettes on the bed into wavering shapes.
From behind the drapes, Taena observed with a woman's instinctive perception, noticing details that defied the whispers. A faint smile curved her lips as she quietly slipped from the chamber.
Rumor had long claimed that Renly cared little for women, that he might never father an heir. But Taena had now seen the truth for herself—Renly was not as the rumors painted him.
Her pace quickened as she hurried down the corridor, eager to share the news with the waiting nobles.
...
Dragonstone.
The salty sea wind, eternal and unrelenting, lashed against the black basalt walls of the castle. Its shape was twisted and grim, with massive stone dragons coiled atop towers and battlements. Beneath the heavy sky, they bared their fangs and claws, hollow eyes fixed upon the raging waters of Blackwater Bay. Waves crashed against the cliffs below, roaring without end.
Inside the damp, cold council chamber of the Stone Drum Tower, the air was heavier than the weather outside. Stannis Baratheon sat rigidly in the seat of honor, his back straight as an iron rod. Before him lay several critical letters—news of Renly's coronation at Highgarden, and Tywin's orders issued in the king's name.
The day after those letters arrived, Stannis had crowned himself on Dragonstone and sent word across the Seven Kingdoms, proclaiming his claim to the Iron Throne and denouncing the legitimacy of Renly and Joffrey.
"Your Grace, the Iron Bank has officially rejected our loan request," Davos finally broke the silence.
"Their envoy, Noho Nestoris, was firm. He said we lack sufficient collateral, and that our chances of victory aren't high enough to justify the risk."
Stannis's jaw tightened. "Not high enough? More likely Tywin filled their purses with gold from the Westerlands—paid off old debts or promised them worse. Those merchants' scales tilt only toward gold. They see neither law nor justice."
Lord Celtigar's anxious voice followed. "We need ships, Your Grace. After Bloodstone Island, the royal fleet has fewer than ten usable warships. Three have keels nearly falling apart. The rest—oarboats—are no better than bathtubs in a real naval fight."
"Without gold, we can't buy Braavosi ships or hire proper sailors. Perhaps we could seek loans elsewhere?" Davos suggested.
Monford Velaryon, who had been silent until now, raised his head. "Your Grace, perhaps… we should look eastward?"
Stannis's icy blue eyes turned on him.
Monford met his gaze. "It's said the Easterner commands dragons. He's taken Myr. We have a truce with him. His fleet is vast. Perhaps we could borrow ships—or money to buy our own."
At the mention of dragons, a flicker of fervor lit Monford's eyes—the inborn longing for dragons that ran deep in Velaryon blood.
"That deceitful, greedy Easterner?"
Stannis's voice rose sharply, full of disgust and suspicion. "He's less trustworthy than the bankers of Braavos—and he has dragons!"
He stood abruptly, his gaunt figure casting a long shadow across the dim room. "He is an enemy of the Seven Kingdoms! He conquered Myr—where will he strike next? Pentos? Volantis? Or Westeros? Asking for his aid is no better than lighting our own pyre!"
Davos watched Stannis's chest rise and fall with restrained fury. The words he'd meant to speak in support of Lord Velaryon died on his tongue. He knew his king too well.
Stannis was as hard and unyielding as Dragonstone itself. Law, bloodline, and duty to the realm were his unbreakable code. The very thought of seeking help from the Easterner would, to him, be an insult to his honor.
Davos lowered his eyes, his fingers closing once more around the smooth bone in his hand.
No gold. No ships. Stannis's kingdom drifted, directionless, in the storm.