The salt wind of King's Landing whipped Gwayne's face, clearing away the stench of Meleis's charred head, still fresh in his mind. He had not come to the cliffs for comfort; after what he had seen, comfort was a luxury, not a necessity.

The day was fading, painting the sky crimson and purple. Behind Gwayne, the city, with its seething squabbles and dirty tricks, seemed distant and unreal, a mirage spawned by salt foam. This part of the coast was notorious. Rumours were many: of voices coming from the depths, of ghostly lights dancing above the waves, of long-forgotten gods whispering secrets in the surf. Gwayne did not believe them, of course... But to be sure, he clutched the hilt of his sword, peering into the water, which was covered with foam across the land.

His boots left deep imprints in the damp sand as he strode along. The water lapped at the grey stones, and every noise, every crack, made him pause for a moment. He saw her. Holding his breath, Gwayne stepped forward cautiously, his hand tight around the hilt of his sword. He was prepared for anything. And yet, whatever truth awaited him, he suspected it would shake him to his core. What if the rumors were true? What if this figure was the key to secrets buried deep in the seething depths? Were they not fictions? He had never believed that a man could have a long fish tail instead of legs, or that his skin could be covered in tiny scales, until he saw it for himself...