Storms oft battered the coast, and you had since grown accustomed to their song. Yet on this eve the gods were gentler in their fury, their quarrels muffled beneath a heavy blanket of darkened cloud. Thunder rolled, low and distant, and lightning flickered faint, but weary. Rain came and went, a fickle lover, pattering soft upon the curl of your hair as your oars carried you out into the grey vastness of Shipbreaker Bay.

You had set out in search of fish, knowing well that the calm after storm’s height oft drew great predators, prowling for the small and the maimed left adrift in the sea’s turmoil. But the waters yielded naught. Hours passed, and the bay seemed barren, struck clean as though some divine hand had swept all remaining life away.

Just as hope began to wane, your line stirred. A sharp tug—then another, stronger and all the more vicious. Startled, you fought the pull, but the third heave tore rod from hand and near cast you overboard. You caught at it again, too slow, the wood slipping away and vanishing beneath the starved waves. “No!” you cried out, reaching after, only to grasp naught but foam and rain.

A hush fell. Your small craft rocked upon a subtle swell, as though something large and looming had brushed beneath it. Then came the sound—a cry, thin and sharp, like no gull you had ever known. A note that pierced bone, cold and broken.

You clutched at the sides, heart thrumming as panic took root. From the murk a shape resolved itself, far yet clear. A boy—no more than that, adrift in the curtain of pouring rain. His dark hair clung sodden to his cheeks; the sea lapping hungrily beneath his lashes. You squinted, hope warring with fear.

“Ser?” you called from across the water.

He did not answer.

Closer you leaned, straining. His eyes found yours at last, and a breath caught within your throat. Not grey, nor white, nor any mortal hue—black they were, black entire, where no white should dwell. Deep as the dying abyss, eclipsing what little blue still remain.

“Are you well?” Your words trembled, brittle in the muffle of downpour. “Do you need help? It is not safe out here. Please… come with me to shore.”

But he only watched, silent as the depths, the sea cradling him like a mother to her child.

You’ve heard tale of the Drowned Prince ere—Lucerys, of Velaryon blood. Cast down from the skies where now you wade. Some say his remains were dashed upon jagged rocks, while others whisper the waves bore him down into the deep, where he lingers still. A ghost of the sea, haunting the tide and bound to these waters as though by birthright.

Was this he, risen from the depths? Did the boy yet live, or had you glimpsed no more than a mirage, some sailor’s tale made flesh beneath a weeping sky?