Chapter 8

A carriage rattled along the rugged roads of the Stormlands, the crest of House Durrandon—black crowned stag on a golden field—fluttering from banners that trailed behind the princess's escort. Argella Durrandon, daughter of the Storm King Argilac, sat in the plush seat beside her four ladies-in-waiting. The air inside the carriage was a mix of laughter and idle conversation, oblivious to the growing tension that surrounded their land.

Lady Celena, a highborn daughter of House Fell, was the most talkative of the group. Her dark hair framed a face full of expression, her hands always moving as she spoke, telling stories that ranged from trivial gossip to the latest news from the Stormlands. "Harren the Black grows bolder," Celena remarked casually, though her eyes flickered with unease. "They say the Riverlords are buckling under his rule."

Lady Vyla, seated across from Celena, shook her head. "It's only a matter of time before he looks south seeing from how he conflicted also with the King of Mountain and Vale and the King of the Rock. He has no interest in the Iron Islands anymore; all his focus is on the Riverlands." Vyla came from House Swann, her demeanor always calm, though there was a sharpness to her words that betrayed a keen understanding of the political world around them.

Argella had been silent, watching the landscape pass through the window. The sky was clear, a bright blue that seemed at odds with the looming sense of unease in the air. She didn't want to think about Harren the Black or his ambitions. "The sky is so beautiful today," she interrupted, her voice soft but commanding enough to change the topic. "Look at the fields. The sun touches the grass like it's setting it aflame."

The other ladies followed her gaze, their conversation shifting to the scenery. The Stormlands were wild and rugged, a land shaped by fierce winds and towering cliffs. The trees that dotted the rolling hills were twisted and bent from the relentless gales that came in from Shipbreaker Bay. Patches of heather and gorse spread across the hills like purple and yellow brushstrokes on a green canvas. To the east, the Red Mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks sharp and jagged.

"Your Highness, you always notice the smallest beauties," Lady Alerys said with a smile. She was the youngest of the ladies, barely more than a girl, her house—a minor banner sworn to House Durrandon—unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but she had a sweet, open nature that endeared her to Argella.

Lady Vaera, of House Caron, the one closest to Argella, leaned closer and nudged her with a playful grin. "More beautiful than the boys back at Storm's End?" There was a teasing lilt in her voice, and it earned her a few knowing looks from the other ladies.

"Oh, don't even start," Argella sighed, though a smile tugged at her lips. "You'll set them off."

"We all have our favorites, don't we?" Celena laughed. "Who was it last time, Vaera? Some knight from Tarth, wasn't it?"

Vaera laughed. "Ser Brynden of Tarth. He's handsome enough, but I hear he's about as exciting as a wet rag."

Argella rolled her eyes, though she didn't discourage the chatter. "And what about you, Celena? Still pining after that squire from Griffin's Roost?"

"Please!" Celena exclaimed dramatically. "He's a boy, barely knows which end of the sword to hold."

Vyla smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I heard Ser Harbert of House Estermont has been asking about you, Celena. A bit older, but very distinguished, they say."

"I'd rather throw myself into Shipbreaker Bay than marry that old fool," Celena scoffed. The ladies burst into giggles, the sound mingling with the clattering of hooves and the creaking of the carriage.

The conversation drifted between names and rumors, the women speaking casually about the men they favored, the knights they had watched in the tourneys, or the whispers they had heard in the halls of Storm's End.

But even as they laughed and joked, suddenly, a low rumble rolled across the sky, and the carriage shuddered slightly. Argella straightened, her eyes narrowing as she looked out the window. In the distance, the clouds had thickened on the horizon, but it wasn't the sound of thunder that had caught her attention.

"What was that?" Alerys whispered, her wide eyes darting to the others.

Vaera, seated closest to the window, leaned out slightly, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. "Gods… look!"

Argella shifted closer, following Vaera's gaze, and then she saw them—dragons, their massive forms cutting across the sky. Their wings beat the air with a rhythm that sent tremors through the ground. The creatures soared high above, their shadows passing over the hills like dark omens.

"Dragons," Celena breathed, her face pale. "They're heading west."

Argella's heart pounded in her chest, a strange mix of fear and excitement swirling within her. She had heard of the Targaryens, heard of the great beasts they commanded, but seeing them was different. The sight of them made her breath catch—terrifying, magnificent, impossible creatures. They were like something out of an ancient song, their scales glittering in the sunlight as they moved with an unnatural grace.

The captain of the escort rode up beside the carriage, his face grim as he nodded toward the distant dragons. "They're flying toward the Reach," he said, his voice steady but carrying a weight of caution.

Argella couldn't tear her eyes away from the sky. She felt a shiver run down her spine, though not from fear. She was drawn to them, excited to see these dragons, and the power they represented. Ever since she heard from them when they started purchasing dragons wine from Dragonstone that they enjoy daily, the thought of it made her pulse quicken.

The ladies inside the carriage fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts as they watched the dragons disappear into the distance. Argella leaned back against her seat, her hands gripping the edge of the window frame.

"What are you thinking?" Vaera asked softly, noticing the pensive look on the princess's face.

Argella didn't answer right away. She kept her gaze on the sky where the dragons had flown. "I'm thinking... that I'm a little thirsty, Vyla pass me a cup of dragon wine." What that meant, she wasn't sure yet, but something inside her had shifted. The world was moving and now the presence of dragons in the seven kingdoms, and soon, the Stormlands might have to move with it.

As the carriage continued its journey, the laughter and idle chatter resumed, but Argella remained quiet, her thoughts now far from the beautiful day and the rolling hills.

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In the heart of Oldtown, the rising sun bathed the spires of the Starry Sept in a muted, golden light. High Septon Alexander knelt before the altar, his weathered hands clasped in fervent prayer. His chambers within the Starry Sept were modest, the walls adorned with simple tapestries depicting the Seven. The room was quiet, save for the crackling of a small hearth fire and the soft murmur of his whispered invocations to the Father. His breath came slow and measured, his devotion absolute.

The Seven were always watching, always listening, but today something stirred deep within him—something more. His voice faltered as his mind was drawn inward, his prayers trailing into a low hum as the vision took hold.

The Father's voice thundered in his mind, ancient and powerful. Alexander trembled beneath the divine presence, his bones quaking as the words solidified into clarity. Do not stand in their way or clash with them. Bow to the fire, or be consumed by it.

The Father's voice was clear. It wasn't a command, but a warning, an inevitable truth.

His eyes snapped open, the fire in the hearth flickering wildly as if answering the divine command. He rose slowly, his prayer beads scattered across the floor, his old joints creaking with the movement, his heart pounding with the intensity of what he had seen.

It was more than a mere vision—it was a revelation. The dragons were coming, and the Faith could not resist them without facing utter destruction. They would burn the Sept, burn the people, burn the Faith itself to ashes. But the answer was clear, stand aside and just let them pass through untill they go as they came.

Without wasting time, Alexander left his chambers and summoned the Most Devout, the Sept would soon be filled with the whispered prayers of the faithful, but today, their prayers would be in fear.

The Most Devout assembled within the inner sanctum of the Sept, their faces grave as Alexander recounted his vision. Silence followed his words, a silence heavy with the weight of what they had heard.

"The Faith Militant must not interfere," Alexander said, his voice steady but grim. "The Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows are to stand down, no matter what provocations come from the guest to come."

Septon Eldon, an older man with a face like crumpled parchment, spoke first. "The people look to the Faith for protection. If we do nothing, if something were to happen they will lose trust in us. What are we to tell them?"

Alexander met his gaze firmly. "We tell them that the gods themselves have spoken. The Seven have revealed that to stand against these dragons is to invite ruin upon the Faith and upon Oldtown. We cannot protect them from this. We must... stand aside until they leave."

Later that day, Alexander summoned the son of Manfred Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown. Ser Gerold Hightower, one of the Warrior's Sons, arrived swiftly, armor clinking as he strode into the Sept. His features were sharp, his eyes betraying the hard, unyielding nature of a man born into both faith and duty.

"What is it that requires such urgency, your Holiness?" Gerold asked, his voice carrying the calm of a man prepared to die for his beliefs.

"Your father must be warned," Alexander said, eyes locking with the young knight's. "The dragons are coming. The Father himself has revealed to me that the Faith must not oppose them. Your father must prepare the city to welcome them, not fight or conflict with them. If we do otherwise, we will be destroyed."

Gerold hesitated for a moment, his knuckles tightening around the hilt of his sword. "And you wish me to tell him that the Faith will offer no resistance?"

"I wish you to tell him that if the Faith offers resistance to anything or arises any conflict, Oldtown will burn. Tell him that."

Without another word, Gerold bowed and left, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet.

Meanwhile, Manfred Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown, was indulging himself as he often did. His chambers, high within the ancient Hightower, were filled with the scent of incense and the quiet murmurs of pleasure. Two women lay beside him, their bodies draped in silks, their skin glistening in the morning light. Both were newly married, their husbands likely somewhere in the city, cursing their fate as Manfred exercised his lordly right of the First Night.

He was a godly man, at least in public, but he did not deny himself the pleasures that came with power. His bed had always been full, whether it was his wife or someone else's. The rumors of the true parentage of some of his children had long been whispered in the streets, though none dared speak openly of it.

As he lay back on his bed, fingers trailing lazily over the women's soft skin, the heavy doors of his chambers slammed open. Gerold stormed in, his voice sharp and loud enough to break through the haze of wine and lust that enveloped his father.

"Father, we need to talk. Now."

Manfred blinked lazily, his eyes narrowing at the interruption. "You dare burst into my chambers like this, Gerold? Have you forgotten yourself?"

"This is not about me. The dragons are coming."

The mention of dragons silenced the room. Manfred sat up, the two women quickly gathering their clothes and leaving as they saw the change in his demeanor. Dragons. The word was enough to sober any man, even one lost in his vices.

"What do you mean, dragons?" Manfred asked, his voice low but tense.

Gerold repeated the High Septon's warning, his words precise, his tone urgent. The Faith had received a vision, and to oppose or conflict with the Targaryens, who would soon arrive with their dragons, would be to invite disaster. Manfred was no fool; he knew what dragons could do. Stories from Valyria had spread far and wide, and none of them spoke kindly of those who stood in their way.

Manfred listened in silence, his mind racing. He was a godly man, or at least he had always appeared to be. The Faith was the cornerstone of his rule, and the people of Oldtown were loyal to it above all. Yet, the gods had spoken through the High Septon, and to ignore their warning would be madness.

"You're sure of this?" Manfred asked, his voice steady but strained.

Gerold nodded. "The High Septon saw it in a vision. The Faith must stand aside, or Oldtown will burn."

Manfred rose from his bed, pacing the length of the room. "Then we will prepare to receive them. Send word to the Conclave. The Archmaesters must be made aware. If dragons are coming, we need to be ready."

Gerold nodded, but his eyes lingered on his father. "The city watch—"

"Will stand down," Manfred finished for him. "The High Septon's orders are clear. We cannot risk the wrath of these creatures. We'll welcome them, and gods willing, they'll pass over Oldtown without trouble."

---

As the day wore on, the people of Oldtown remained blissfully unaware of the impending arrival of dragons. The market square bustled with activity, traders shouting out their wares, women haggling over prices, children running through the streets. Life continued as it always had.

But in the Hightower, preparations were underway. Manfred met with his advisors, including the Archmaester, a man with sharp eyes and a sharper mind. They discussed the practicalities of welcoming dragons to Oldtown, the potential dangers, the precautions that needed to be taken. Every option was considered, every risk weighed.

Manfred was not a man to leave things to chance. If the Targaryens were coming, he would be ready.