- The Island of Dragonstone -

The chill winds of the Narrow Sea bit at Addam Baratheon's skin as he walked the windswept battlements of Dragonstone. The sky above was layered in hues of gray and orange, the sinking sun casting its dying light over the restless waves.

He pulled his black cloak closer, its silver stag sigil rippling in the breeze. His blue eyes, sharp and restless, fixed on the western horizon. Somewhere beyond the waves lay King's Landing, a city teeming with life and intrigue, a place that no longer felt like home.

It had been over a month since the Hand of the King had died. The memory of those days clung to him like smoke. The hurried departure from the capital, his father's grim face as they boarded the ship to Dragonstone—no explanations, no comfort. Just silence and stony determination.

Addam had pressed his father for answers, hounded him like a pup nipping at his heels, demanding to know why they had fled. What had so rattled the great Stannis Baratheon that he would abandon the city they called home?

"Not yet," his father had said, his tone flat and final. "When the time is right, you'll know." And so the mystery festered. Addam's mind spun with questions, with images of his father and Jon Arryn slipping through the streets of the city for nearly a month, shrouded in secrecy. What had they uncovered? What truth had been so dire it pulled them away?

He paused, leaning heavily on the cold stone of the parapet, his gaze drifting out to sea. His thoughts turned to Rhaenys. His Rhaenys. The septa he loved with a heart still new to such feelings, a love forged in quiet glances and hushed conversations.

Now she was alone in King's Landing, left to navigate the murky waters of the court without his presence to steady her. He clenched his fists. His uncle Robert's small council would be circling her by now, vultures to a carcass, eager to exploit or devour.

"She'll be strong," he muttered to himself, though the words rang hollow against the wind. He hated that he wasn't there for her, hated the thought of her facing those wolves alone.

"You look lost in thought, my lord."

Addam turned sharply at the voice, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. It was Maester Cressen, the sage maester sworn to the Lord of Dragonstone. The man's face was weathered but kind, his graying hair tugged about by the wind.

"Just wondering when we'll leave this place," Addam replied, forcing a smirk. "I tire of this, being marooned on Dragonstone—sounds like the start of a bad tale, doesn't it?"

Cressen chuckled, though his gaze remained steady. "I would think you liked being back here, at home."

"I do, but I... Wasn't ready to leave the city, I was commanded to by my father," Addam muttered, glancing westward again. "The city is where we belong, not skulking about this dreary isle." He bit his lip, as if reconsidering whether to say more. But the words came anyway. "Maester, what do you think is the reason?"

The old man was silent for a moment before answering. "Your father is always one to do his duty. That, I think you know well. And if he left, it was for a reason." He placed a hand on Addam's shoulder. "Perhaps it's not for us to know. Not yet."

Addam sighed and nodded, though the knot in his chest refused to loosen. The sea stretched endlessly before him, a vast and restless expanse. Somewhere across it, Rhaenys waited, along with answers and the life he had been forced to leave behind. He only hoped he'd return before it all slipped through his fingers.

"Thank you, Maester Cressen, I think I needed to hear this." he was so damned worried, he still is but he would need to be patient.

Earlier that day, Addam Baratheon walked along the rocky shore of Dragonstone, the rhythmic crash of waves against the blackened stones providing a steady backdrop to the hiss and thrum of his blade. He swung his sword in sharp, deliberate strokes, the edge carving through the cold, salty air with precision. Beside him, Alyn, his young squire, mimicked his movements, though with far less grace. The boy's strokes were uneven, his timing off, and his grip too tight.

"Come on, Alyn," Addam barked, a note of impatience creeping into his tone. He stepped back and gestured for the boy to strike again. "I may as well hold out my arm and let you do all the work. At least then you might actually hit something."

The words came out harsher than intended, and guilt pricked at him immediately. He saw the flicker of disappointment flash across the boy's freckled face, even as Alyn held his tongue. Addam lowered his blade and sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm sorry, Alyn. I shouldn't be so cruel," he said, his voice softer this time. "Your progress is good. Better than mine was when I was your age."

But Alyn merely shrugged, his lips curling into a lopsided smile. "No, Ser. If you aren't hard on me, then I'll be a shit swordsman. Better you tear into me now than an enemy later."

Addam couldn't help but chuckle, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "Well said, Alyn. All right then—again. This time, focus on keeping your swings smooth. Strength without precision is wasted effort."

The boy nodded, determination lighting his eyes as he adjusted his stance. As Addam watched him try again, his movements less clumsy this time, a sense of pride stirred within him. Alyn was eager and resilient, qualities that would serve him well—qualities that reminded Addam of his own days as a squire under his uncle Renly's watchful eye. The lad had potential, and it was up to him to shape it.

They trained until the sun hung low in the sky, the light glinting off the black waves like shards of glass. By the end of it, both were sweat-soaked and breathless, their muscles aching from the exertion.

Addam glanced westward, his thoughts drifting to the city he longed to return to, the life that waited beyond the sea, to Rhaenys.

Later on, he would join his sister in her chambers, reading to her one of the newest historical tomes retrieved from the library.