Quentyn Targaryen sat upon a throne of black iron. The arms of the throne were shaped to resemble dragon paws, and two great wings of iron fanned from the back of the seat. Behind the throne hung the standard of House Targaryen: a three-headed dragon, red upon a black backdrop. So too was Quentyn's garb; he dressed in sable leather leggings and long-sleeved jerkin, with black gloves upon his hands and tall black boots upon his feet. His cloak was black on the outside, scarlet on the inside, and clasped at the throat with the Targaryen sigil done in red gold. His silver hair fell to his shoulders, framing his face. His eyes were a deep purple, flecked with scarlet. Though he was but one-and-twenty, he was powerfully built, and his face was the stern face of a man twice his years.
Outside, a storm raged, wind and rain lashing against the walls of Dragonstone. Though Dragonstone was generally ruled by whichever Targaryen was next in line to sit the Iron Throne, Quentyn's brother Aegon had given the seat to Quentyn, electing instead to stay at King's Landing. There were whispers that, though Aegon was King Viserys's son and the lawful heir, King Viserys was still intent on being succeeded by his daughter and Aegon's elder sister, Princess Rhaenyra; Aegon wanted to stay close to their father, in case these whispers were true.
Quentyn had not believed the whispers, but he took Dragonstone nonetheless. The seat suited him; it was made of black stone, a dreary, cold island in the mouth of Blackwater Bay. Quentyn liked the isolation, away from the politics of court, and he liked flying over the often stormy sea on the back of his dragon, Darkfyre. Though he gladly took his leave of his father and sibilings, he had not believed the whispers...until today.
The wind picked up, showering the coastline and walls of Dragonstone with waves; the booming of the Stone Drum could be heard even through the thick walls of the Great Hall. Quentyn ignored the sound; he had eyes only for the two men standing in the center of the hall. They wore crimson tunics, with lions stitched on the breast in golden thread. Lannisters, Quentyn thought bitterly. Lions, they call themselves. Cravens, I think.
"Tell me again; I must have misheard you," he said, eyes burning with rage. Though his voice was quiet, the two emissaries quailed, stepping back a pace. His reputation as a dangerous man was known across the Seven Kingdoms.
The taller man answered him, his voice shaking. "M-my prince, your father, His Grace, bids you attend him at King's Landing. He means to publicly declare your sister, Princess Rhaenyra, as his lawful heir, and wishes you there to bear witness."
"My brother Aegon is the lawful heir." Quentyn stood, his cloak billowing around his shoulders. "Leave me, now. Return to your ship."
The Lannister men exchanged looks, shivering. "My prince, the storm-"
Quentyn waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, the storm. I had forgotten Lannisport sailors could not hold their own in the dragon's sea." He favored them with one more glare, his eyes hooded, and shouted for a guardsman. "Show these men to a room in Sea Dragon Tower. Have two serving girls attend them; see they are fed and brought wine, and have furs to sleep under until this storm passes." Though Quentyn had naught but scorn for the Lannisters, they were loyal subjects to the Targaryen rule, and had been ever since the last King of the Rock had bent his knee to Aegon the Conqueror. He was many things, but a poor host was not amongst them. "It will be done, my prince," the guardsman replied. The Lannisters, however, did not move.
"My prince...His Grace requests you send word by raven of the manner of your arrival," the shorter of the two men said, cringing slightly from the bright glare of the prince's eyes.
Quentyn let out a bark of laughter, causing the emissaries to jump slightly. "Why, I will arrive on dragonback, as befits the Prince of Dragonstone. A raven will be useless; Darkfyre could make the trip thrice before the bird had flown halfway." With that, he strode from the room, out a small door behind his throne. The door led to a hallway, winding along the tail of the dragon the Great Hall had been fashioned after. Much of Dragonstone's construction resembled dragons; small dragons framed gates and dragon claws held torches, a pair of great wings covered the armory and smithy, and tails formed archways and staircases. Sea Dragon Tower, Windwyrm, and the kitchens were all built to resemble dragons.
Another door at the tip of the tail led to a small courtyard in front of Windwyrm, Dragonstone's largest tower, over two hundred feet tall. It was shaped as a dragon screaming defiance, its snout pointed towards the heavens. It was there Quentyn kept his quarters, in the highest room in the head of the dragon. Between the dragon's colossal wings, Quentyn had ordered a great cavern constructed upon his arrival; it was there that Darkfyre took shelter and was fed.
Rain lashed the courtyard, and the wind howled through the gargoyles that crowned the walls in place of the traditional square merlons. Pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, Quentyn walked around the base of the tower to the cavern. Darkfyre was beneath the colossal roof, chewing on the bones of the oxen he had been fed. Darkfyre was massive; his head was easily as big as one of the elephants of Slaver's Bay, his wings too wide to fully spread within the confines of his cave. His scales were as black as a moonless midnight, his eyes the scarlet of the deepest flame.
"Darkfyre," Quentyn called across the cavern. The dragon turned his head and spotted his master. Rising, the dragon crawled across the cavern, using the tips of his wings and his hind legs to shuffle along. Though the motion seemed awkward, the dragon was deceptively fast, and quickly reached Quentyn. The prince patted his dragon's neck and rubbed the scales behind the ivory horns sprouting from the base of his skull. Many of the Targaryen dragons were half-wild, but not Darkfyre; since he had been given to Quentyn as a hatchling, the prince had taken great care to train him well. Darkfyre was as tame as a dog under Quentyn's hand, though he was more vicious than any dragon in a fight and was nigh unapproachable by any man who wasn't a Targaryen or one of Quentyn's sworn swords. Quentyn had trained him well, indeed.
The prince still seethed over the news the Lannister men had brought him. My father wishes me to witness his folly? Then witness it I shall, and he shall know precisely how I feel about it. Though Quentyn was third in line for the throne, his father still heeded his council, at times even above his own Hand and Quentyn's grandfather, Lord Otto Hightower.
Quentyn climbed up Darkfyre's leg and settled himself into the hollow at the base of his neck. Touching his heels to Darkfyre's scales, he shouted, "Darkfyre! To King's Landing!"
With a shake of his head, the dragon shuffled to the mouth of the cavern and launched himself into the stormy sky. With three beats of his wings, Darkfyre cleared the wall around Dragonstone and flew out over the spray, angling east across the bay, towards the capital city of Westeros.