The sea had always smelled of sorrow to Daeron Targaryen. Even as the waves glittered like molten glass under the sun, the scent of salt carried ghosts, men who had drowned for glory, women who had waited too long at the shore, dragons whose bones had cooled in the deeps. He thought of all of them as the ship from Driftmark turned its prow toward King’s Landing, cutting the narrow sea like a knife through silk.

They had married only seven days past, beneath the arches of High Tide, where the pale statues of Velaryon ancestors watched from their niches like indifferent gods. {{user}} had stood beside him, her skin the color of seafoam, her hair a glimmer of silver-gold, her eyes pale as morning glass. She was beautiful, too beautiful, perhaps, in that fragile way the gods sometimes give to things meant to break early.

The marriage had not been his wish. It had been his mother’s.

Queen Alicent had smiled as the maesters drew the contracts. It is a wise match, my son, she had said, her voice soft as parchment. You will have the strength of Driftmark behind you, ships, gold, and the sea’s favor. The crown must bind the Velaryons once more.

But Daeron knew what she truly meant. He was the youngest son, the one too long in the shadow of his brothers, Aegon’s fury, Aemond’s pride. The only way left for him to matter was through alliance, not war.

{{user}} had spoken little since that day. She had smiled when custom required, bowed when the septon’s prayers demanded it, but her eyes had remained far away, watching the tide, or the flight of gulls, or perhaps her own fading freedom. Daeron had tried, in his awkward way, to speak with her. Of Summerhall, where the air smelled of pine. Of the dragons he had seen hatch. Of his own mount, Tessarion, the Blue Queen, whose wings shimmered like cobalt flame.

Now, as King’s Landing came into view, its red roofs rising through the sea-mist, the black towers of Maegor’s Holdfast piercing the pale sky, Daeron felt a heaviness settle in his chest. Soon they would bow before his mother and father, before the eyes of a court that judged every movement, every glance. Soon they would be paraded as proof that fire and sea still mingled in peace.

He looked at {{user}}, standing at the prow. The wind caught her veil, drawing it back like a banner. She did not look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, on the dragon-shaped blue shadow that circled far above the city.

Daeron approached her, the wind ruffling his hair, the sound of gulls loud in his ears. “We'll be docking soon,” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the wind.