The Targaryen Banner Rises Again Over Westeros

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A massive fleet was sailing toward the southernmost tip of Westeros. It was far too large to go unnoticed, yet among those who did see it, almost none belonged to Stannis's patrol forces.

As always, the truth was simple—those crowned men had withdrawn nearly all their strength, concentrating it between the vast stretch from Dorne's northern border to the Neck. Everything else? They'd deal with it after the war was over.

A half-month of smooth sailing, with favorable winds, might sound like a gift, but in reality, it was unbearably dull. The sea stretched on endlessly, each day no different from the last. The ship rocked without pause, and beyond that constant motion, there was nothing—nothing at all.

Clay had long since lost any interest in riding Gaelithox into the skies. There was nothing to see but ocean in every direction, and flying over it felt utterly pointless.

Daenerys, on the other hand, still hadn't had her fill. Of her three young dragons, the largest—Drogon—was only the size of a young horse, even without counting his long neck and tail. Technically, she could ride him, but it was clearly a strain on Drogon.

And dragons, proud creatures that they were, would only accept a single rider—unless that rider died, of course. So, with Clay grounded, Daenerys had no choice but to stay grounded as well.

Other than chatting with Daenerys about the state of Westeros, Clay spent most of his time exchanging stories with Barristan Selmy. The old knight, as it turned out, had not exactly been a model gentleman in his youth, and he had more than a few colorful tales to share.

And so, what felt like a journey of six months rather than half of one finally reached its turning point. When Clay spotted the prey clenched in Rhaegal's jaws—a snow-white seabird—he immediately knew they were close to land.

Word spread quickly through the fleet. Daenerys, who'd been dozing lazily on the deck, perked up at once. She tugged on her handmaid, Missandei's sleeve and began scanning the far horizon with eager eyes.

Time passed strangely out at sea. Sometimes it felt like it was flying, sometimes like it had stopped altogether. Without the sun as a guide, it was nearly impossible to tell how long had passed. Just as Daenerys's excitement began to wear thin, something finally changed on the water's surface.

It was a shadow of a sail!

A single ship—not large, likely a local fishing vessel—but the emblem on its canvas was unmistakable, blazing beneath the sun: a golden sun pierced by a long spear.

This was no ordinary boat. It belonged directly to House Martell. Nowhere else in Dorne could a ship fly the sun-spear without question; it carried a meaning that only they could claim.

On board, a group of fishermen were grumbling over the day's poor catch. Suddenly, one of the crew shouted in alarm.

"Look! What's that?!"

The grizzled old fisherman turned his head and froze. One ship. Then two. Then three... no, far more than that. A fleet of warships, black sails snapping in the sea wind, was closing in fast, each vessel aligned in perfect formation.

The constant gales of the open sea had swelled those dark sails to their fullest. The younger men had no idea what that red sigil painted on them meant, but the elder Dornishman did. He knew it all too well.

It was the old royal sigil—the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen. And that could only mean one thing: the fleet belonged to House Targaryen.

The old fisherman didn't waste time wondering how the Targaryens, long thought extinct, could possibly be sailing here now. Every hair on his body stood on end as he shouted,

"Run! Head for Sunspear!"

If this Targaryen fleet had come as an enemy of Dorne, they would not spare witnesses. In naval warfare, the rule was simple—sink the ships that saw you. No hesitation. No mercy.

His wife and children were making a living along the coast. If the invaders landed, not one of them would survive.

The little fishing boat cast off its partition nets and spun around in panic, trying to flee. But small sails and a light hull offered no advantage now. Ironically, the massive warships behind them maneuvered with greater ease and speed. It didn't take long for the old fisherman, hands white-knuckled on the tiller, to realize the Targaryen fleet was closing in fast.

The looming bow of one ship was already overhead, a monstrous shape that seemed to press down upon them like the weight of the sky. The sheer pressure left them gasping for breath.

Then, from somewhere above the deck, a strange and unfamiliar sound broke through the wind—followed by a sight that would burn itself into their memories forever.

A massive creature, shimmering in hues of blue and gold, unfurled its mighty wings and soared over their heads. The fierce cry it unleashed struck deep into the hearts of every man on that boat like a thunderclap.

Terror bloomed within them like wildfire. None of them knew exactly what the creature was, yet somehow, instinctively, they all understood.

Yes. Anyone in this world, upon laying eyes on such a being for the first time, would know the truth without needing to be told.

This was a dragon. A true dragon. Not the drunken ramblings of old sailors, nor the exaggerated tales spun by wandering bards, but a living, breathing creature of fire and legend—soaring through the sky before their very eyes.

"Gods above… what in the world is happening?"

The old fisherman's thoughts churned in a storm of disbelief. The Targaryens—those rulers of old, long believed to have vanished beneath the tides of history—had returned, not only with a fleet behind them, but with dragons once more at their side.

For a moment, it felt as though time itself had bent and twisted around him, dragging him back two hundred years into the past, into the golden age of the Targaryen dynasty.

The sight before him was something torn from the ballads of minstrels and the faded pages of history, and he stood frozen in it, uncertain whether he still belonged to the world he knew, or had somehow fallen into legend.

…

The news of the Targaryen fleet approaching Sunspear traveled faster than the ships themselves, reaching the Water Gardens—Prince Doran's residence—before they ever made landfall.

The prince was caught off guard. His first instinct was to place the entire city on high alert, summon his vassals, and prepare to march on Sunspear.

But then he paused, reconsidered, and let the thought pass.

The Targaryens had sent someone to invite him, after all. Though his body no longer permitted travel, he had already extended them the courtesy of sending his brother in his place. Even if the talks collapsed, it was difficult to imagine the Targaryens crossing the sea solely to wage war on Dorne.

Doran Martell believed—and rightly so—that Dorne was a natural ally to House Targaryen, a truth both sides understood well enough. Unless Daenerys Targaryen had taken complete leave of her senses, she would not begin a war here, not now.

If she truly had the strength and ambition to conquer Dorne, then why hadn't she gone straight for King's Landing instead? That was the seat of the Iron Throne—the symbol of true rule. What reason would she have to pick a fight with him instead?

Weighing all this, the ruling prince of Dorne thought long and hard before finally issuing the order to open the harbor and allow the Targaryen fleet to dock. But quietly, behind closed doors, he also instructed a few of his most trusted men to escort his son out of Sunspear with a small, discreet force.

When preparations were complete, Prince Doran seated himself high on the garden balcony, gazing out across the sea where the outlines of countless sails had just begun to appear—and in that moment, he realized just how foolish all his calculations had been.

A dragon, cloaked in shimmering blue and gold, swept over the city skies, with three smaller dragons trailing behind. As they passed above Sunspear, the prince finally understood why the Targaryens had dared to march their fleet into Dorne without fear.

Dragons—real dragons—had returned to Westeros, a hundred years after their disappearance. From the city below came a rising tide of gasps, screams, and cries of awe from the people of Dorne.

Prince Doran closed his eyes. He knew then, with painful clarity, that the era of the Targaryens was upon them once more.

"Elia… your vengeance… has finally come."

Slumped in his chair, the old prince kept his eyes shut. But had anyone been standing nearby, they would have seen that his frail body, stricken by gout, was trembling ever so slightly. His thin hands clenched tight on the armrests, veins bulging under pale skin.

…

By now, Clay was well aware of the effect he had whenever he arrived in a city for the first time riding on the back of a dragon. He had grown used to it—the gasps, the panic, the wide-eyed awe. But no matter where he flew, it was always the same: shock, disbelief, fear.

At the Water Gardens, he finally came face to face with the Prince of Dorne, seated quietly in his chair, so weakened by illness that even standing appeared a painful effort.

Clay understood Doran's condition well, and he took no offense at the prince's failure to greet them in person. But Daenerys did not share that understanding. Her expression had already begun to darken with displeasure.

Whether she was offended or not, Doran could not say for certain. His mind was still lingering on the scene he had just witnessed—this unfamiliar man dismounting first from the dragon, then walking forward hand in hand with a silver-haired, violet-eyed woman. Now, they stood together before him.

"Your Grace," Clay said with a courteous smile, extending his hand in greeting, "I hope our sudden arrival hasn't caused you too much trouble."

Doran's lips pressed into a faint line, but after a moment, he lifted his hand and returned the gesture with a light handshake.

Clay continued, his voice smooth and calm. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Clay Manderly. Yes, the very same House Manderly Your Grace might be thinking of. And this," he said, motioning behind him, "is my mount. I call him Gaelithox."

"As for how I came to ride a dragon… well, that is not something I can explain in just a few words. But Your Grace, your brother Oberyn has written you a letter. I believe everything will become clear once you read it."

At those words, Doran suddenly realized that he hadn't seen his younger brother anywhere among the visitors. His heart sank slightly as he took the letter from Clay's hand and began reading it carefully.

By the time he reached the final lines, much of the tension in his features had eased. The letter was unmistakably Oberyn's. There were phrases and inside jokes only the two of them would understand—private memories from their childhood, shared words from long-forgotten games. The tone was Oberyn's as well, sharp and irreverent as ever. Clearly, he had not suffered any mistreatment.

And not long after, Prince Doran saw Ellaria Sand enter the chamber, alive and unharmed, which eased his heart even further. The letter explained that Oberyn was now ruling over Astapor and had asked his brother for help—managing a city of that size alone was more than he could handle.

Doran understood right away. This was his brother's subtle way of asking him to verify everything with his own people. If Oberyn had been in any danger, he would never have made such a request. The very fact that he could write so freely already meant that he was safe.

Letting out a quiet breath of relief, Doran finally lifted his gaze to the man and woman standing before him. Like his brother, he still found it difficult to believe that someone from the relatively obscure House Manderly had somehow risen to the status of a dragonlord.

Yet the enormous blue-and-gold dragon sprawled across half the courtyard behind Clay left no room for doubt. However improbable it might have seemed, the truth was undeniable.

And that truth brought consequences.

If House Martell chose to stand behind this man—Clay Manderly, who now held power and dragons in his own right—they would gain a formidable ally in the North and the Riverlands.

Especially now that the last daughter of House Targaryen had become his woman, so there was only one answer left for the Martells to choose.

At last, the Prince of Dorne opened his arms and spoke with a voice that rang through the garden, warm and clear.

"Then let me be the first to welcome you to Dorne, honored guests from across the Narrow Sea."

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