Chapter 28 – Voyage to Dragonstone
Once they had left the waters of King's Landing behind, the murky tides of Blackwater Bay gradually turned clear and deep. The Roughwind, a long, sleek galley, sliced through the waves with surprising speed under the strained effort of its uneasy crew.
But Eddard Stark knew forced loyalty never lasted long. He was cautious by nature—always had been—and so rather than steering north toward the familiar harbors of White Harbor or the Fingers, he ordered the ship toward the mouth of the bay, to the island fortress of Dragonstone.
"I had meant to tell Robert the truth," Eddard said, his voice low, the sea breeze whipping at his cloak. "That none of the queen's children were his by blood. But before I could… he was dead. You can be sure that was her doing—the Lannister queen's venom runs deep."
Anger flashed briefly across his face, quickly fading to a look of weary regret.
"With no trueborn heirs, the throne by right should pass to Stannis. Dragonstone is his seat—and it lies close enough to the capital. If we're fortunate, we can reach him before word of this spreads too far."
Charles smirked faintly. "To discuss how best to seize that stinking city back, I assume?"
"Perhaps," Eddard admitted. "Though after what I said on the steps of the Sept… I fear my words now carry little weight."
He shook his head, the memory still stinging. Though his confession had been forced—wrung from him by threats to his daughters—it did little to ease the shame of it.
"You weren't truly guilty," Charles began, his tone careless. "Coerced confessions hardly count as—"
The sound of light footsteps interrupted him. Turning, he saw a young girl approach—her auburn hair shimmering in the sea air.
"Father," she said, curtseying gracefully. Then she turned to Charles and dipped her head. "Ser Cranston."
[Sansa Stark – Daughter of the Lord of Winterfell. Estimated age: 13–15.]
A faint whisper of information flickered in Charles's mind as he took her in. Her long chestnut hair gleamed like polished copper, and her clear blue eyes shone with quiet curiosity—like the waters beneath the ship. Graceful, refined, and strikingly beautiful, she was every inch the noble maiden she was raised to be.
Charles thought she looked quite different from the version in his memories of the show—though the details had blurred over time. Best, he decided, to accept this new reality rather than chase ghosts of another world.
Sansa was undeniably beautiful. But her rigid posture and perfectly measured tone grated on him. He found more comfort in conversation with her younger sister, Arya—the tomboy with a sharp tongue and fearless eyes.
Unfortunately, Arya's relief after their escape from King's Landing had left her bedridden with a fever. She was still confined to her cabin, muttering in half-sleep.
"If you've come to thank me again, don't bother," Charles said lazily, leaning against the railing. "Your father's already done that."
His tone was flippant, his posture utterly unknightly. There was none of the solemn dignity expected of a noble warrior—he looked more like a vagabond bard enjoying the sea breeze.
Still, his good looks and easy charm kept the comparison flattering. Were he plain-faced or poorly dressed, people might've called him a scoundrel instead of a free spirit.
After two days at sea, everyone aboard had grown used to his irreverence. Even Eddard, for all his adherence to formality, had learned to tolerate it. Charles had offhandedly claimed it was "a noble tradition where he came from," which had only deepened the northern lord's quiet confusion.
What kind of nobles, he wondered, behaved like that?
---
"No, I only came out for some fresh air," Sansa replied softly. Her smile was gentle, almost radiant. "The sailors say we'll reach Dragonstone soon."
It was clear she was delighted to be free of King's Landing. Her face had been all smiles since leaving port—though every time she looked at Charles, her expression turned a mix of gratitude and awe, hinting at the suffocating fear she'd endured in the capital.
Eddard's voice broke her reverie. "We may have to stay there for a night or two," he said sternly. "See that you take care of your sister."
"Perhaps we should ask Dragonstone's maester to look after her?"
"Maester Cressen is old," Eddard replied, frowning. "I'm not certain he still practices medicine."
"Maybe the Citadel has sent a new one," Sansa offered hopefully.
Her father gave no answer.
---
As they spoke, the fog over the horizon began to thin, revealing the faint silhouette of an island.
It wasn't large. A fishing village huddled by the shore beside a narrow harbor, and beyond that rose a mountain of dark stone that seemed almost black against the gray sky. Halfway up its slope stood a fortress unlike any other—a vast stronghold crowned with towers shaped like dragons' spines and wings.
Even from afar, Dragonstone exuded an ancient, haunting majesty. Its towers were jagged, its walls the color of obsidian, its silhouette like a sleeping beast guarding the sea. Compared to the Red Keep of King's Landing, it felt older… prouder… alive.
The Roughwind surged forward, oars churning the waves in perfect rhythm. The rowers strained harder as if treasure—or destiny itself—waited for them ahead.
There was no treasure waiting at the end of their voyage—only a promise.
Eddard Stark had assured the sailors that once they reached Dragonstone, they'd be released with a generous payment for their trouble. Thus, when the shadowy outline of the island finally appeared over the horizon, the men bent their backs with feverish urgency.
What should have been a half-day's journey took barely three hours.
Under the direction of the harbor master, the Roughwind pulled neatly into the dock. Gangplanks were lowered, and one by one, passengers and crew descended—carrying crates, chests, and sacks of provisions.
To their surprise, a group was already waiting at the pier.
They weren't soldiers, but officials—middle-aged and older men, immaculately dressed, their faces lined with authority. They stood in neat formation, all surrounding a man at the front: broad-shouldered, rigid-backed, with a short-cropped beard that only made his expression look sterner.
He looked like a sculpture chiseled from stone—cold, immovable, utterly humorless.
"A bald-headed statue," Charles thought privately.
As Eddard limped forward, the man gave no greeting, no movement, only a steady, piercing stare. It seemed he wanted to speak but restrained himself.
Eddard opened his mouth first—but before he could utter a word, a manic shout broke the tense silence.
"Fog! All fog! Deeper than the sea! Can't see, can't see—oh, he's dead! He's dead!"
A jester-like man, round-bellied and dressed in garish colors, screamed hysterically from the crowd. The atmosphere shattered instantly. The bald man's eyelid twitched; his face remained stone, but his gaze slid toward a weary knight beside him.
The knight—gray-bearded and dressed simply—gave a stiff nod, turned, and dragged the shrieking fool away by the collar. A pale young girl, her expression caught between fear and pity, scurried after them.
The disruption ended as quickly as it began, like a pebble dropped in still water—ripples fading into calm. No one commented on it.
Eddard turned back toward the grim figure who had yet to say a word. Their eyes met briefly before Eddard bowed his head.
"Your Grace, Stannis."
At that, several of the men surrounding the dock smiled faintly in greeting. But the bald man—Lord Stannis Baratheon—did not. His expression remained ironclad as his cold voice cut through the sea breeze.
"You confessed before all of King's Landing that Joffrey Baratheon is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," he said. "Why, then, do you still call me king?"
The remark was as sharp as a blade—and several of those present exchanged uneasy glances.
A handsome man with long golden hair stepped forward hastily. "Your Grace, that confession was made under duress. Lord Stark spoke those words to save his daughter's life."
"I wasn't speaking to you."
Stannis's eyes flashed, and the man flinched, bowing his head in silence.
Eddard's voice was steady when he replied, humble and heavy with guilt.
"As Warden of the North, I failed in my honor. I beg your pardon, Your Grace."
The stiffness in Stannis's face softened by a fraction—though only a fraction.
"You wear humility well," he said dryly. "When you and Robert drank and laughed in the capital, I was still rotting here—eating rats in this godsforsaken place."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted to Charles, who was watching him with open curiosity. Stannis narrowed his eyes. "And I see you staring. I've not much hair to admire, boy."
The tension shifted immediately toward the young stranger. Dozens of gazes turned on Charles—some curious, some wary, others openly hostile.
Among the crowd, a sharp-faced woman with large ears and a severe expression stepped forward, her tone venomous.
"Heretics have no place on this island!" she snapped. "Dragonstone shall not harbor servants of dark gods!"
Her words hung cold in the sea air.
Stannis didn't even flinch. He turned to her, irritation flashing briefly in his eyes.
"My lady is tired," he said curtly. "See that she's taken to her chambers to rest."
The woman's face twisted in anger, but she dared not protest further. Servants quickly led her away.
Stannis then turned back toward Charles, his tone calm but distant, unreadable. His gaze flicked briefly toward another figure standing at his side—a tall woman draped in flowing crimson robes, her red hair gleaming like fire.
"Lady Melisandre," Stannis said evenly. "Our guest is a man of... unusual gifts. See that he's treated well."
At his command, murmurs rippled through the crowd—confusion, disbelief, even fear.
Charles met Melisandre's eyes and smiled faintly. Her expression did not change, but the air between them felt charged, as if two storms had just crossed paths.
The wind howled through the harbor, and above them, the towers of Dragonstone loomed like the claws of a slumbering beast.
The black sorcerer had arrived.