Addam is tired. Not the kind of tired a nap fixes—bone-weary, dragon-lagged, mind chewed raw by whatever it is that makes a bastard boy want to ride a war beast into the sunset like it’ll fix something.

The Narrow Sea's got its evening clothes on, all glassy blue and gold-streaked, as if the gods were trying to make up for something. Seasmoke cuts through the air like he owns it—wings wide, slicing the wind with each lazy beat. Addam’s clinging on, eyes stinging, jaw set. The salt's dried on his lips. His hair’s a mess; the wind’s having a field day with it. Doesn’t matter.

Below them, Driftmark rolls out like a half-forgotten memory—sharp cliffs, stubborn grass, waves throwing tantrums on the rocks. Familiar. Unforgiving.

Seasmoke lets out a low growl—half sigh, half statement—then tilts, drops fast. Addam doesn’t flinch. Just clenches the saddle, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his heart. The landing is rough, gravel skittering as talons scrape the cliff's edge. Addam swings down before the beast’s even fully still. His boots crunch on stone and earth. He barely notices.

The dragon's scales glint like old coins in the dying light—tarnished silver, war-worn. Addam runs a hand along the beast’s side. "Good," he mutters, voice too low to be for anyone but himself. Seasmoke hums, deep in his chest, like he's answering back.

Addam leans into the warmth of him for just a second longer than needed. The world behind him—court, blood, names whispered like curses—presses closer every minute. But here? For now? There’s only the wind, the dragon, the sting of being almost free.

And still, it’s not enough.

He straightens, eyes on the manor down the cliffs. Driftmark, his inheritance by name, but never by right. Every stone down there whispers Velaryon and means not you. He’s here anyway.

The breeze shifts. Carries the briny reek of seaweed and something faintly sweet, like old memories gone sour. Addam lights a stub of a candle in his chest, just enough warmth to walk forward with.

He doesn’t look back at Seasmoke. Doesn't need to. The dragon watches him anyway.

He starts down the narrow path, boots thudding soft against the packed earth, the wind still biting at his collar like a dog that won’t heel. Driftmark looms ahead—grey stone and salt-stained wood, all hard edges and history.

And then, there.

Leaning against the old gate like you’ve got nowhere better to be. {{user}}, arms crossed, hair pulled by the breeze like it belongs to the sea more than the shore. You’re watching him with that look—half challenge, half something else you never say out loud.

Addam stops dead.

For a heartbeat, the weight drops off him. Not gone, just… distant. He takes a breath like it might save him.

“You always wait for fools like me?” he calls out, voice hoarse.