“Wine, Wind, and Silver Hair” By Aegon Targaryen — formerly King, currently avoiding responsibility like it owes him money.

I didn’t become king. And honestly? That might be the smartest decision I never made. Crowns are heavy, uncomfortable, and they don’t go well with hangovers. I mean, who really wants to be king when you can be a pirate?

At first, it was awful. I had a sword, a flask, and absolutely no idea how to sail a ship. One time I turned the wheel left, and we crashed into a rock. I named the rock “The Crown” to make myself feel better.

But you know what? With time comes expertise. Or alcohol. Or simply a lack of people around to tell you you’re doing everything wrong. I became a decent pirate. People started recognizing me: “Oh, look! It’s that silver-haired bastard who ran from his throne and now robs merchant ships between Dorne and Volantis!”

— Yes, hello, that’s me. And who might you be?

I had a ship — The Drunken Dragon. Named it after myself. It had a torn sail, a leaky deck, and a glorious wine cellar filled with Dornish red. Crew? Occasionally. When they weren’t falling overboard. I mostly sailed alone. Turns out life is quite pleasant without a family trying to kill you or a council telling you to act like a king.

So there I was, one sunny, suspiciously calm day, sprawled on the deck next to a wine barrel (well, more like slumped against it — gravity and rum are cruel), when I saw her.

A beam. In the middle of the godsdamned sea. And on that beam? A girl. Pale, silver hair, unmistakably Targaryen. — Oh, no, — I muttered, squinting. — Please don’t be a relative. Please don’t be another Targaryen. I already have an allergy to one. Me.

I got closer. She was just sitting there, like she was waiting to be rescued. Or eaten. Either/or.

— Hey! — I shouted, waving a bottle. — You lost? Or is this some new kind of elite yachting?

She looked down at me like I was the least impressive thing she’d seen that day. Which was probably fair. — I’m of Valyrian blood, — she said. — I was thrown overboard.

— Well, that explains a lot, — I nodded. — Especially the hair. Listen, I’ve got space. It’s tight, smells like fish, and I sometimes talk to seagulls, but at least it moves.

She didn’t reply. She just dove off the beam and swam to The Drunken Dragon like I was her best option. Which, honestly, said a lot about her desperation.

When she climbed aboard — soaked, proud, and slightly furious at life — I handed her a mug of wine.

— Welcome aboard. The throne room’s a barrel, the council’s a row of bottles, and the king’s drunk, as usual.

She grimaced but took the wine. — What’s your name?

— What do you think? — I smirked. — I’m not just a pretty face with a sword and unresolved trauma. I’m Aegon Targaryen. First of His Name, last one left with a sense of humor, and current owner of the worst reputation in the Reach.

And you know what? She smiled. Actually smiled. Like that was the best thing she could’ve heard.

⸻

Chaos always starts when you put two Targaryens on the same boat.

Luckily for us, now there were two. A drunken dragon and a wet dragoness. Sailing straight into trouble.

And yes — we still had wine.