A Song of Ash and Smoke | a continuation of A Song of Ice and Fire

𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆

The ship creaked in the wind as it pushed through the churning waters of Blackwater Bay. The climate was not kind to the sailors as they heaved the anchors over the bow. Icy rain pelted them, small needles that broke against the calloused skin of their lined faces. Chips of ice nestled into their beards as they prepared to launch to shore.

The captain stood quietly, as she did always, looking over it all from the top deck. The ice melted into her scalp, the cold penetrative. She did not care. Her back was stiff, straight as ever. She had a daunting reputation that preceded her in every corner of the world. The captain feared little, because she'd seen and done the worst. Yet the comet that hung in the sky put a knot in her stomach and so the moment she'd seen it appear, three moons ago, she'd turned her ships to Westeros.

"Breakwater Bay, they call it." A broad man, skin bronzed by the sun and eyes sharp as arrowheads had come to her side. "A sight to see in person."

"Aye, Waren, tis a beauty." The captain's cool demeanor did not change, even as the ships in the fleet around them flailed in the stormy waves.

Waren did not see any beauty. "Tis a storm, Captain."

"Storms are beautiful. It's like watching the world cave in on itself. The way the lightening cracks over the Earth and the sea brings the land to heel."

"Aye Captain," murmured Waren. He was squinting up in the distance at the spirals of stone that made up the Red Keep, off in the distance.

"It'll be half a morning's walk up those steps," the captain said, her eyes following his gaze.

When they reached shore, the captain turned to Waren. "Stay here and come when I send for you. There are caves along the cliffs to shelter from the rain."

Waren glanced at her, uncertain. "Surely, it's too dangerous to go alone."

The captain broke a smile, mildly. "Danger is hardly a concern to me."

She stepped forward towards the path forged in the cliffs, her feet crunching lightly in the wet sand. The winded grasses and faded stones called to her, singing a song she'd not heard in many years. It was both friend and foe, and all the same, entirely too familiar. Her black cloak whipped in the gloomy air, the fabric flapping around her leather-clad steel toe boots. The furs that lined her cloak were drenched.

"It is just a storm, Waren. Besides, I am home."

The captain turned back to Waren, her eyes glimmering. He could not read them; he could only see that they were a light with a fire he had never seen in her before.

"And," the captain added, as she faced him squarely. "The true danger does not lie here."

He did not need to look up to know what she was speaking of, and yet he did so anyway, reclining his narrow head to peer up at the twisted sky. Even through the layers of clouds, the red comet shone. One could not even see the sun, and yet the flames of the fallen star burned brighter than the rest.

As the captain navigated the crypts of the Red Keep, her men loyally bound to the jagged beach of the bay, she hummed.

And who are you, the proud lord said? That I must bow so low?

She walked, her hands behind her back, towards the stairway at the end of the hallway.

Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know.

Rubble surrounded each statue in the crypt. The shadows from the flames of the captain's torch danced on them.

In a coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws.

The statue of Tommen Baratheon seemed to watch her as she passed.

And mine are long and sharp my lord, as long and sharp as yours.

At the end, two statues stood among the others towards the end of the hall. One depicted a woman, with long hair and sharp features. Cersei had been beautiful, even the captain had to admit. The other statue was that of a man, tall with a strong jaw. A glove of gold was fitted to his right arm. The kingslayer.

When the captain reached the throne room, King Brandon Stark was sitting quietly at a window, gazing into the distance. The captain cleared her throat and he turned. His face was a blank mask, but it could not hide the confusion in his eyes. He had not seen this coming.

"Arya," Bran said quietly. "It's been a long time."

"Aye," she agreed. "It has been."

"Did you ever find what was west of Westeros?"

Arya paused with a smile. "I found a world of wonder on the other side of the sea. Best hold this conversation until the grandmaester arrives. I think he'd find it quite interesting."

Her voice had a hint of longing, but Bran could observe the urgency in her face. "What is it that brings you here?"

"A comet hangs in the sky. Burning red, like the one we saw twenty years ago." The concern in her voice was palpable. "I set sail for King's Landing soon as I saw it. Do you remember what Old Nan used to say?"

"Dragons," Bran murmured. He looked at Arya. "Give me a few moments.

And then he warged.

The three-eyed raven soared towards Dragonstone, cawing as it did. In the distance, the sky blazed orange. The mountain that towered behind the castle looked like the wound of a man stabbed, squirting and oozing red. Flames engulfed the trees that perched upon Dragonmont. And then a screech. The raven turned its head and there was the little beast, sailing through the air directly towards it. Bran gasped as he returned to his body.

"Dragonmount bleeds fire," he announced to Arya. "There are dragons at Dragonstone. At least one anyway. It tried to eat me."

"I'm delighted to see that its efforts were unsuccessful," she quipped.

"The fire must have triggered the eggs to hatch," Bran said thoughtfully. "As they did when Danaerys Targaryen stepped into flames."

"How long until they're grown?"

"They never stop growing," he answered. "But it'll be big enough destroy things in less than a year's time."

Bran held the thought of the dragon's deep blue scales glimmering in the summer sun as it neared him, long after Arya had dismissed herself and left the room. He wondered how many there were. The stones had to have been petrified to go so long without hatching. But dragons were fire made flesh. He had never seen fire in liquid form before, but he recalled the heat he felt just from across the bay from Dragonstone. It was not like any fire he'd ever witnessed, both in his visions and in life. It must have had some effect on the eggs. He called for his squire.

"Get the Grand Maester immediately," Bran ordered. "Tell him it's urgent and that we have much work to do."