The whispers reached Dragonstone on the breath of a weary fisherman, his hands trembling as he spoke to a Black council knight.

“Something washed ashore,” he had muttered. “Near the cliffs below the caves.”

You had barely heard the rest before you were mounting your dragon, the salty wind tearing through her dark gown as she soared toward the coastline.

The beach was desolate when you landed, save for a few scattered men who had already begun searching through the wreckage of what the storm had churned up. The sky was grey, the waves crashing against the jagged rocks with fury, as if the gods themselves mourned what had been lost.

Your boots sank into the wet sand as you moved forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

And then you saw it.

A tattered scrap of deep red fabric, tangled among the driftwood. A sigil barely visible—blackened and salt-worn, but unmistakable.

The Velaryon seahorse.

Lucerys’ cloak.

For a moment, You could not move. The world tilted, your breath stilled in your chest. This was not the boy you had longed to find, not the hands you had once held, nor the gentle laughter you had cherished. But it was something. A piece of him. A cruel reminder that he had been real, that he had been yours, and that he was truly gone.

Your hands shook as you reached for the sodden fabric, kneeling into the sand as the waves rushed forward, as if trying to steal it back into the sea. But you held firm, your fingers clenching around it as grief pressed into your bones.

Daemon arrived moments later, silent in his approach, though you felt him behind you. He did not speak. Did not tell you to stand. Did not tell you to let go.