The Dragon's Legacy

Chapter One-Hundred

Ser Davos Seaworth stood on the windswept battlements of Dragonstone, watching as the first rays of dawn touched the jagged cliffs and stormy sea.

The air smelled of salt and smoke, and the wind bit through his cloak like a blade. Below, the men of Stannis Baratheon's army prepared for the march to King's Landing. The faint clatter of armour, the calls of sergeants rallying their men, and the heavy thuds of horses' hooves echoed up from the courtyard..

A nervous energy filled the castle, humming in the air like the magic Melisandre had once claimed to wield.

Men sharpened their swords with grim determination. Banners bearing the crowned stag and fiery heart fluttered in the breeze, snapping like the war drums that would soon sound as they sailed to war.

Davos's his eyes were drawn to the long line of ships anchored just beyond the bay, bobbing in the churning waters. His own ship, Black Betha, was ready for the crossing, and he felt a pull of loyalty and dread at the thought of what lay ahead.

The bastard Joffery Baratheon would not even know what was coming for him. It was all crossed his mind.

Stannis was marching on King's Landing, finally making his claim for the Iron Throne, the seat he believed was rightfully his. Joffrey Baratheon was no true king—Davos knew that much. The boy was the product of Lannister incest, a puppet in his mother's hands. But the prospect of taking the city filled Davos with unease. He had seen too much blood spilled in his life, too much death. War was a cruel thing, and the men gathered here, most of them fresh recruits, would soon learn just how cruel.

Davos made his way through the castle, passing men he knew by name, men who had followed Stannis for years. Their faces were lined with weariness, but their eyes shone with hope. To them, Stannis was the rightful king, the man who would set the world to rights. He had never been a man to inspire love, but his men respected him.

They believed in him.

Davos believed in him too.

He had to.

"Ser Davos," one of the soldiers called, nodding as he passed. "Will we be sailing soon?"

"Aye," Davos replied. "Be ready. As soon as the King orders we will."

The man nodded, his face showing the hint of a smile before he turned back to his work. Davos continued on, his footsteps echoing in the stone corridors. As he moved deeper into Dragonstone, the light faded, and the familiar shadows of the keep swallowed him. He had always hated this place.

The stone dragons carved into the walls, the ancient statues of long-dead kings—it was a place of ghosts, haunted by the memories of Targaryens and the madness of their bloodline. But now it was Stannis's, and the shadows seemed to shift in his favor.

Davos's thoughts drifted to his sons, especially his eldest, Matthos, who would sail with him to war. The boy had grown strong, a true sailor, but he was still young. Too young, Davos thought, to know the horrors that awaited them. A pang of fear twisted his gut, but he pushed it aside. He could not afford to think like that now. They had a king to serve, a duty to fulfill.

As he neared the great hall, the air grew colder, the flicker of torchlight barely warding off the gloom. The doors to the throne room stood ajar, and Davos paused at the threshold, knowing he would find Stannis inside.

He stepped through, his boots tapping lightly on the cold stone floor. There, at the far end of the hall, Stannis Baratheon sat upon the chamber of the painted table of Dragonstone. The great stone chair, shaped like a dragon's maw, loomed over him, making him appear smaller than he was, but no less formidable.