On the afternoon before the storm, the sky was a heavy, leaden yellow. The air was thick with humidity. The sea was unnaturally calm, without even a whisper of wind.
Ser Willem Darry stood at the bow of the flagship, the 'Aegon', taking a deep breath. "It's today, a storm is coming," he murmured to Arthur Dayne beside him, his voice not excited, but grave.
No sooner had he spoken than a purple-black wall of clouds abruptly rose in the southeast, swallowing the entire horizon. The wind arrived first, shrieking and tearing at the sea surface. Immediately after, sheets of lightning split the sea and the dark clouds, and thunder boomed just above the waves. Finally came the rain; it didn't fall in drops, but as if the entire ocean had been lifted into the air and then violently smashed down.
Less than fifty nautical miles southwest of Dragonstone, the Stormlands fleet was struggling to adjust its formation. On the deck of the command ship, the 'fury', Stannis Baratheon's lips were tightly pressed together, his fingers digging into the ship's rail. His gaunt face, illuminated by the pale blue light of the lightning, resembled a stone carving.
"Full speed ahead," his voice was almost inaudible amidst the storm's roar. "We must use the storm as cover to strike directly at Dragonstone."
His adjutant, a knight from House Estermont, was utterly pale. "My Lord, the waves are too high! Should we perhaps..."
"Execute the order," Stannis interrupted him, his grey eyes unwavering. He equally loathed this surprise attack, deeming it dishonorable, but it was the command of the King, his brother Robert. Moreover, if he could use the storm to swiftly eliminate the last Targaryen stronghold, then he, Stannis, would firmly establish himself in the kingdom, no longer having to live forever in the shadow and disdain of his elder brother.
However, the magnitude of this storm quickly exceeded the scope of any 'cover' or 'utilization'. When the dark cloud wall connecting sea and sky truly approached, human ships appeared so minuscule.
When the first monstrous wave struck, the 'fury' was violently lifted, almost standing vertically, then slammed back into the trough of the wave. Sailors on deck were tossed like beans, swallowed by the sea before they could even utter a final scream. The ship's keel groaned an agonizing squeal. Then came the second wave, the third wave... one after another, the Stormlands fleet disintegrated before the might of nature. Masts snapped like matchsticks, hulls were swallowed by the heavy sea, or collided with each other in the furious giant waves, turning into fragments.
Stannis's 'fury' barely held on due to its relatively sturdy hull and excellent sailors, but its mainmast was snapped, and the hold took on a lot of water. He himself clung desperately to a mooring post, cold seawater filling his mouth and nose.
"Turn around, retreat!" he finally roared the order to retreat, his voice filled with bitterness. His painstakingly assembled fleet, the capital he relied on for glory, was completely annihilated before even seeing a trace of the enemy. He didn't know if he could even return to face the King who had never approved of him. Robert's roar and those eyes full of disdain almost materialized before him, chilling him more than the storm itself.
Meanwhile, the Lannister fleet, attempting to outflank them further west, also met with disaster. Overwhelming gales and monstrous waves mercilessly tore apart the roaring lion banners, dragging warships into the abyss. A few shattered vessels escaped the storm's core, but they had completely lost their combat effectiveness.
Dragonstone itself was also suffering from the storm's erosion.
Gale-force winds, laden with torrential rain, furiously pounded the castle built of black stone on the cliffs. Several old fishing boats moored in the harbor were smashed against the shore by giant waves.
But in several pre-selected hidden coves, the situation was vastly different. Warships, secured by multiple heavy cables and iron anchors, rose and fell with the waves but maintained their structural integrity. Except for a few sailors still on board, everyone else had been moved into caves and the castle.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere was equally tense. Queen Rhaella's labor was not going well. Outside the bedroom door, Viserys leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to the intermittent groans from within, and the anxious words of the midwife and maester. The storm's roar outside the window intertwined with the struggle for life inside. Rhaenys was terrified, clinging tightly to Viserys's leg, burying her small face. Ashara stood by, gently stroking Rhaenys's hair, her gaze anxiously fixed on the bedroom door.
Time became blurred and long amidst the storm's clamor.
Suddenly, a loud infant's cry pierced through the storm's roar, clearly reaching Viserys's ears. The sound seemed to contain a strange vitality.
The door opened, and the old Maester emerged, his face a mix of exhaustion and sorrow. "It's a princess, Your Majesty, the child is healthy. But the Queen... the Stranger has taken her. Too much blood loss, we were helpless."
Viserys closed his eyes. What was destined to come, had finally arrived. He pushed open the door and walked in.
Queen Rhaella lay quietly on the blood-stained sheets, her face like pale marble, yet with a hint of serene relief. In her arms, she held a tiny infant wrapped in soft fur. The girl opened a pair of violet eyes, looking bewilderedly at this strange world, with sparse, silvery-white downy hair on her head.
Viserys stepped forward and, from Queen Rhaella's already cold embrace, picked up his newborn sister, Daenerys Targaryen. The future Dragon Queen, now just a tiny baby. Since I am here, she will live a stable and carefree life under my protection in the future.
The storm gradually subsided before dawn the next day, leaving behind a chaotic sea. Floating planks, tattered sails, and many bloated corpses. The devastation of the attacking fleet was evident.
The Queen's death weighed like a stone in everyone's hearts, but they had no time for grief. A simple, almost hasty funeral was held on the cliff behind the castle; the Targaryen Family had always believed in cremation.
People used found dry wood and old canvas to build a tall pyre bed, on which Queen Rhaella, her body washed and dressed in a dignified gown, was placed, her head facing west, looking towards Westeros.
Viserys personally lit the pyre, and the orange-red flames instantly consumed the slender figure. The sea wind carried the ashes out to sea. Arthur, Jonothor, Willem, and other knights knelt on one knee, bowing their heads in silent mourning. Ashara held Rhaenys, who was startled by the scene, standing beside Viserys, while Daenerys slept soundly in the wet nurse's arms.
As soon as the funeral ended, the order was given.
"Board the ships." His voice was not loud, but it cut through the sound of the waves.
No more words. Over two thousand followers orderly boarded their respective ships, hoisted sails, and set course for Essos.
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