ASOIAF- The sworn knight, killer of 100 men.

Chapter 8: The Smell of Smoke

Dawn broke over Sunspear like the slow draw of a blade.

Michael stood by the battlements, watching the horizon burn gold. The warmth didn't comfort him. It hadn't in years. He could still smell fire on the wind. Still hear screaming if he closed his eyes too long.

Behind him, the castle stirred. Somewhere, a maid lit incense in the prayer hall. Somewhere, steel clanged against steel in the yard. And somewhere, Elia Martell woke with the same dreams he did.

Aegon had asked to spar again before breakfast, and Michael wouldn't refuse. But something in his bones was heavier this morning. Like the air knew something before the tongues of men could speak it.

A rider had come the night before—quiet, hooded, alone. He bore the sun and spear of House Martell on his cloak and a sealed letter for Prince Doran.

Michael hadn't seen what was written, but he'd seen Doran's face after reading it. A subtle tightening of the mouth. A twitch in his arthritic fingers. The smallest nod.

War wasn't here yet.

But it had found their scent.

In the practice yard, Aegon moved like a whip of silver—his blade cutting sharp angles through the air as Arthur Dayne shouted corrections and Michael stood silently, observing.

"Left shoulder's still exposed," Arthur called. "You're fighting like you've never lost before."

"I haven't," Aegon shot back, breathless.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Then you're due."

Michael didn't speak. But when Aegon turned toward him, sword raised for praise, Michael only said, "Again."

Aegon blinked. "But I—"

"Again."

The prince didn't argue.

Arthur leaned toward Michael as Aegon resumed the drill. "You're harder on him than I ever was on squires."

Michael's gaze didn't leave the boy. "Because no one ever taught you what failure looks like."

Arthur looked away, rubbing his jaw.

A moment later, Prince Doran's steward approached, carrying the seal of House Martell on his robes. "My lords. Her Grace, Princess Elia, requests Ser Michael's presence. Immediately."

Michael arched an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

"She says you'll know once you arrive."

Michael passed his blade to a nearby squire, glanced at Aegon—who gave a confused nod—and followed the steward back toward the Tower of the Sun.

Elia's solar

She wasn't alone.

Rhaenys sat beside her, dressed in traveling leathers rather than her usual silks. Her eyes were dark with curiosity. There was another man present, older, lean, and sun-scarred—the same rider who had delivered the letter.

Michael bowed. "You summoned me."

Elia rose. "We received word last night from Lys."

Michael frowned. "That far east?"

The rider stepped forward. "A ship was attacked. One of ours. A Martell vessel returning from a trade negotiation with Pentos. All hands lost. It was flying the sigil of the sun and spear… and someone made sure to leave one survivor to tell the tale."

Michael's jaw clenched. "Who?"

"Golden Company. Or at least men who claimed to be."

That caught him.

"They said it was a warning," the rider added. "To stay out of the East. And to keep the 'False Dragon' from crossing the Narrow Sea."

Michael turned to Elia. "They're afraid of him."

"They should be," she said simply. "But this isn't just about Aegon anymore. We have enemies who want this line dead no matter how long we've stayed silent."

Michael crossed his arms. "What's the plan?"

Elia's eyes locked with his. "We go quiet. For now. But we prepare."

"I want Rhaenys to begin learning the histories of Essos," she added, glancing to her daughter, who gave a reluctant nod. "I want you and Arthur to begin sparring with the guards twice a day. Train them for war even if they don't believe it's coming."

"And Aegon?" Michael asked.

"He keeps training. But more than that, he begins to learn command. From you."

Michael looked toward the window. The winds off the sea were warmer than usual. Too warm.

He nodded once. "It will be done."

As he turned to leave, Elia stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

When their eyes met, she asked softly, "Will you walk with me tonight? Just us."

Michael's answer was quiet but immediate. "Yes."

Nightfall – The Orange Garden of Sunspear

They walked between shadowed trees heavy with citrus, the moon a silver coin above them. Elia held her shawl close, though the night was warm.

"You're troubled," she said.

Michael didn't deny it. "Something's coming."

"It always is."

"This feels different. Like the gods are moving pieces faster than before. Like we're out of time."

They sat on a stone bench near a fountain. The sound of water was soft, but steady—like a lullaby for men too old to sleep without ghosts.

Elia turned to him. "Do you ever regret it? Saving us?"

"No."

"Not even what it cost you?"

Michael met her eyes. "I gained far more than I lost."

A silence passed. A long one. One that didn't beg to be broken.

Then Elia shifted closer. "Do you remember what I told you that night on the tower? Ten years ago?"

Michael nodded. "'You don't have to be a weapon anymore.'"

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his cheek. "You're still trying to be one anyway."

"I don't know how to be anything else."

Her hand found his. "Then maybe it's time you learn."

They didn't kiss.

Not yet.

But she leaned against him again, and he let her. And for the first time in weeks, his breath came easy.

Elsewhere – The Raven Tower, Volantis

In a dark chamber of stone and flame, a red priest watched flames dancing across a shallow basin.

"Blood of kings," she whispered. "Blood of fire. Blood of prophecy."

Behind her, a figure in golden armor approached. His eyes were pale as moonlight.

"Is it true?" he asked.

She nodded. "The Dragon lives. And worse… the Black Wolf stands at his side."

The man said nothing.

But in his silence, war began to stirred

Later That Night – The Armory Hall, Sunspear

Michael didn't return to his room. He rarely did after speaking with Elia.

Instead, he wandered—armorless, swordless, but not unarmed. His thoughts were steel enough tonight.

He found himself outside the armory hall, where the torches were still lit despite the hour. That usually meant one thing.

Sure enough, Aegon was inside—sitting on the floor, cross-legged beside the central table, a map of Westeros unfurled before him. Miniature pieces carved in the shape of dragons, stags, lions, and wolves were scattered across its painted surface. His silver hair was mussed, his eyes strained from candlelight.

Michael stood silently in the doorway.

"You always watch before you speak," Aegon said, not looking up. "You do that with everyone?"

Michael stepped forward. "Only with people I trust."

Aegon smirked. "You're a terrible liar."

"I'm just out of practice."

Aegon motioned for him to sit. "Come on, Ser. You're supposed to be teaching me to rule. Might as well suffer through my questions now."

Michael sat across from him. The map between them looked… smaller than it used to. Just like Aegon himself no longer seemed like a boy. The lad had grown taller than Michael expected. Broader in the shoulders. Sharper in the mind.

The dragon was waking.

Aegon pointed at the Trident, tapping it with the lion piece. "You think they'll ever forgive this?"

Michael raised a brow. "Who's 'they'?"

"The Riverlands. The North. Even the Reach. All of them. You think they'll ever accept me as king, or will I always be Elia's boy who got away?"

Michael considered. Then he said plainly, "They'll follow strength. And they'll follow justice. Give them both, and they'll follow you."

Aegon exhaled. "That's the thing. I want to be a just king. Not just a powerful one."

Michael nodded. "Then show them that power and justice don't have to be enemies."

Aegon leaned back. "You sound like you've said that before."

Michael's voice was quiet. "To a man who died trying to prove it."

A moment of silence passed. The flickering candles made the coastlines of Westeros seem to ripple like waves.

"I asked my mother about you," Aegon said.

Michael arched an eyebrow.

"She didn't tell me much. Only that you saved her. Saved me. But not why. You didn't know us. You weren't sworn to House Targaryen. Why risk your life for ghosts?"

Michael looked down at the map, then up at the boy—no, the man—who would one day be king.

"I've seen what happens when good people die and bad men write the stories. I saw what they did to your family. I wasn't going to let them write the end of yours."

Aegon stared at him. "You still call it mine. Not yours."

Michael didn't blink. "Because it isn't. My duty is to you. To your family. Not the throne."

Aegon was quiet for a long time. Then he spoke, voice low. "You've been more of a father to me than anyone I've ever known. More than my own would've been, I think."

Michael's chest tightened.

"I've watched how you talk to the guards. How you train with Arthur. How you hold your anger when you want to explode. And I've watched how you look at my mother."

Michael stiffened, but Aegon raised a hand. "I don't say that with jealousy. I say it because I see it. And I want to tell you this before war comes."

Michael looked at him.

Aegon straightened. "You have my blessing. If that's what you want. If that's what she wants."

Michael's voice cracked a bit. "You're seventeen."

Aegon smirked. "Then I'm old enough to decide who my family is."

Michael didn't know what to say. For once, the great warrior of the Ash Wolves, the shield of Dorne, the slayer of the Mountain—was speechless.

"You told me once that a man should know what he's willing to die for," Aegon continued, rising. "I know now. I'd die for her. For Rhaenys. For Dorne. For the future."

He paused at the door.

"But I'd live for you, Ser. For the lessons you've given. For the shield you've been."

Then he was gone.

Afterward – The Silent Tower

Michael sat there for a while after Aegon left, staring at the miniature kingdoms.

He moved the lion piece back to Casterly Rock. He moved the stag to Storm's End. The kraken to Pyke. Then he picked up the wolf—and placed it by the Vale.

"Where are you, Stark?" he muttered.

His hand hovered over the dragon piece.

Not over Dragonstone.

Not over King's Landing.

He placed it in the center of the map, untouched. Waiting. A kingdom to be born, not claimed.

And then he left the map behind and walked back toward the princess's tower. Not to knock. Not to speak. But to simply sit outside, sword across his knees, and keep watch over what he could never afford to lose.