The fortification of the island had never been considered the most beautiful. Being so close to the sea had not made it the most peaceful place either, as the waves constantly resonated between its walls and rocks.
It was always damp and gloomy, but the people of Zarpa had found charm in it, especially the new lord, Baelor Celtigar, who had recently ascended to his position after the death of his father, Ardrian, in the Battle of Blackwater.
Baelor, the second son of the late Lord Ardrian (though the eldest male), was a thirty-year-old man with gray hair and cyan eyes. For decades, the Celtigars had had hair as silver and eyes as purple as the Targaryens or the Velaryons, but over time their lineage had faded, darkening their hair and staining their eyes. It was not something that bothered them too much; after all, they were not an arrogant or selfish house like their relatives, although they were just as proud of all the feats they had been part of.
Returning to the new Lord, known as the Little Claw, he had ventured on a journey at just thirteen years old, returning half a decade later with a crew consisting of pirates, merchants, and mercenaries. He claimed to have negotiated a direct trade route with the King of the Stepstones, which was affected by the war.
In his youth, he had been a lustful and egotistical man, but since his marriage to Elyssa Rosby and the birth of his daughter Laena, he had become chaste and honorable, often consulting with his father's decisions to ensure he was doing the right thing.
"Is there anything else I should know?" Baelor asked his maester. He was seated at his father's desk, with his legs resting on the table as he left a ledger on the surface.
"Yes, milord," the old man said slowly, approaching him with a piece of paper. "This letter arrived some time ago from Essos."
Baelor read it attentively and even read it again to make sure he understood it correctly. It was a letter from his nephew, Aemond. He could still remember the pain he felt when his father sent his beloved older sister to Essos to be with the useless Aemon Blackfyre. He had met him on the wedding day, and from that day on, he had noticed that he did not live up to his name. But he could see the affection he had for his sister, which prevented Baelor from traveling to Essos to bring her home.
"'… King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men?'" he read aloud with an inquisitive tone, to which the older man nodded. "What did my father reply?"
"He refused to join the war."
"What? Why would he do that?"
"I suppose it's too risky, milord."
"Matters related to dragons are always risky," Baelor replied hesitantly, rising to his feet. "Send a letter to my nephew informing him of my father's death and that we will stand by him when necessary," he ordered without thinking twice. His daughter was betrothed to Monterys Velaryon, thus both houses had an alliance that would compel them to take up arms in any war involving them.
"Milord, I think this is a hasty decision. We should discuss it with—" the maester tried to advise, but was interrupted.
"Maester, my nephew has lost his mother, his father, is thousands of leagues away from his only family, and now he leads an army of ten thousand men by himself, just to give those men a home," he recalled everything the letter said about his plan. "He is the son of Alanna, my blood. I owe him."
"But, milord, that would mean betraying the crown," the maester insisted. "I remind you that your ship sails in a few hours to nothing more than King's Landing to pledge loyalty to King Joffrey in the name of your house."
"Then let King Joffrey not find out," he declared, adding more authority to his tone. "When I return from King's Landing, we will continue discussing the matter."
"As you command, milord."
Astapor, The Bay of Slaves
The two knights walked through the hot, cobbled streets of the red city. Both had left their kings behind to head to the nearest tavern and reminisce about old times. They had not seen each other in more than fifteen years, and both had been through much since then.
"The last time I heard from you, Barristan, I was told you served in the Usurper's guard," began the Dornishman as they followed the route a merchant had indicated.
"I was told you had set sail when we marched to the Trident," replied Ser Barristan, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword out of habit.
"I would have liked to be there," Jon admitted regretfully. "To be with him in his last days."
"Nothing would have changed what happened," said the grizzled knight. "That day Robert Baratheon was unbeatable, and Rhaegar…"
Both fell silent upon hearing that name. A sharp pain formed in Jon's chest, and bitterness took over his face. He often forgot that he was dead and that he would not be waiting for him in Westeros to watch the sunset from Griffin's Roost as he had promised so many years ago.
"What about his brothers? Did you meet Viserys?" he tried to change the subject.
"No, I arrived at the queen's service only a few days ago. Though considering how everyone speaks of him, he was no dragon."
"And Daenerys?"
"She is fierce as only a Targaryen can be. She reminds me a lot of him. She is the strength of her people, and they are hers. She is good but young and inexperienced."
"And her dragons?" he asked as they approached the tavern's door. They were about to turn into a busy street.
"They are incredible. Still small, but incredible and real."
Ser Jon simply nodded in what seemed like approval. It had been hundreds of years since dragons last flew the skies, and the last of the Targaryens was the only one capable of making them hatch. How? It was a secret Jon and the whole world would be unable to know. So many religions, so many gods, so many legends. None would ever have a single answer.
"And what about Aemond? I'm surprised you're with a Blackfyre," Ser Barristan asked once they were seated in one of the more secluded corners of the tavern. The grizzled knight ordered wine, while Jon chose something a bit less refined but stronger—rum.
"It's funny to say it, but he's quite similar to what you describe of Daenerys," Jon responded with an ironic look, resting his elbows on the table. "He is a great man, noble, but still doesn't understand duty. He thinks he has to convince all his soldiers to follow him, when they are the ones who swore to do so."
"One of the many differences between our lands and this one."
"But still, I trust him," Jon continued. "There is something about him that makes him… different. That's why I stand by him."
"A Targaryen and a Blackfyre separate us, my friend," Ser Barristan noted, reclining in his seat while holding his wine horn in one hand and scratching his immaculate white beard with the other.
For several minutes, they remained silent. Jon occupied himself with the conversations of the other patrons while drinking his drink quickly. Barristan pondered what had been said moments earlier, a new idea rapidly forming in his mind.
"A Targaryen and a Blackfyre," he repeated, capturing his companion's attention once more. "Two dragons; one red and one black. Two leaders. Two kings. Two claimants."
"What are you getting at, Barristan?" asked the redhead, frowning at the intrigue his companion left hanging in the air.
"They are two young claimants to the Iron Throne, heirs by blood to the Seven Kingdoms," Barristan explained with a certain glint in his eyes. To Jon, it meant he had faith in his plan. "Both single…"
"Are you suggesting marriage?"
"Together, their claims have more validity than any other. Together, the Unsullied and the Golden Company are relentless, and not to mention the three dragons when they grow."
"Barristan, my friend, listen to what you're saying," Jon asked kindly, setting aside his rum. "You're talking about marrying a Blackfyre to a Targaryen. Aemond may be very noble, but he is the most stubborn man I have known, and from what you describe of Daenerys, she is not very different."
"The Mother of Dragons was married once to someone for convenience, and he must have been a man far worse than Aemond Blackfyre," the white-bearded man insisted. "Not only would it end a century of enmity, but it could also be the beginning of a new era."
"And if it's not?"
"Then they will continue until they have the Iron Throne. At that point, they will decide."
Silence returned. Jon was thinking it over, and if it weren't for his king's stubbornness, he would have easily agreed. But that was not the case. However, there might still be hope. He could only believe in the idea that Aemond and Daenerys would eventually decide that joint rule would be better, and the realm would not have to suffer another war.
"And how do you plan to make them accept?" the knight finally conceded, resuming his drink and signaling the tavern wench to refill it.
"By telling them the truth. What other way is there?"
"Men always evade the truth."
"Men evade the truth when the lie is more seductive," he corrected with a satisfied smile. "In this case, what is the lie? Conquering the Seven Kingdoms alone? Creating and breaking alliances? Betrayal? Vengeance? Fire and blood?"
"Everything for the throne," Jon recalled those famous words known since the Dance of the Dragons.
"Everything for the throne."
The noble knights would have stayed drinking well past sunset, laughing at foolishness. Occasionally, they pointed out key points of their plan, and then returned to laughing at their conversation.
It was like their youth, except Arthur and Rhaegar's seats were empty. Neither could remember the last drink they had shared together, after all, within the span of a week they had been sent to different corners of the Seven Kingdoms, without even the privilege of saying goodbye as they should have.
A dragon had united them once, and they were eager to unite again for two more dragons.
