The Narrow Sea, 219 AC
The sea was grey beneath a brooding sky, the winds heavy with salt and omen. At the prow of the leading galley, clad in blackened steel inlaid with crimson, stood Haegon Blackfyre, heir of the pretender line and son of Daemon the First. Time had hardened him. No longer the soft-faced boy of Tyrosh, Haegon was now a man grown—broad in shoulder, his silver-gold beard and hair braided in the flamboyant Tyroshi style. His eyes, deep violet, gazed hungrily across the Narrow Sea.
There, faint in the distance, rising like a red crown from the mists of memory, stood the Red Keep.
Aegor Rivers, called Bittersteel, came to stand beside him. He looked unchanged from the days of Redgrass Field—tall and lean, his long black hair streaked with steel at the temples, his purple eyes ever watchful beneath a heavy brow. His crimson cloak whipped behind him in the wind, and his gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
"We'll be home soon," Bittersteel said, his voice rough as old iron.
Haegon did not look at him. "Do you remember it well, Uncle? I was only a babe when we fled. But I still recall... fragments. The hall with the black dragon banners, and the sound of my father's laughter. My brothers sparring in the yard, like princes from some song."
"They died like princes too," Bittersteel said, his tone cold. "And the crown they died for was stolen by bastards in silks. But soon... soon we'll repay that theft in kind."
Haegon's hand fell to the sword at his hip. Blackfyre, the ancient blade of Aegon the Conqueror, lost to their line, then reclaimed, gleamed darkly as it caught the low light of day. He stroked the hilt as though it were a lover's hand. "I'll mount the heads of every traitor on the Red Keep's gates," he said. "And then my father, and Aegon and Aemon, they will smile down from the Hall of Heroes."
Bittersteel gave a rare smile, thin and sharp. "That's the spirit that will win this war, Your Grace."
A shout rang out from the decks behind them—crews preparing for landfall, men shouting orders in half a dozen tongues. The Golden Company's banners fluttered above the masts, the golden skull and sword on black, a reminder of all they had lost and what they meant to take back.
"We should ready the men," Haegon said at last, his voice steady as the sea beneath them. "It's time."
Bittersteel nodded once. "Aye. Let's show them what true dragons are made of."
And with that, the tide turned ever westward.