As Baelon came to, the first thing he noticed was the vast hall in which he stood.
It was the same one he had been in moments before, just… more alive.
Sculptures and strange artefacts now littered the chamber, where before there had been none. And at its heart stood two men, rather than the solitary book he remembered.
'What is this?' Baelon wondered.
Nevertheless, his thoughts were cut short as a finger poked into his side.
Raising a brow, he turned to find Helaena's familiar face appearing beside him.
Well, at least they had not been separated.
She tugged lightly at his sleeve and gestured toward the two men with her eyes, guiding him closer.
"They don't seem able to see us," Helaena whispered. "It feels like one of our dreams again, but—"
"—we did not fall asleep," Baelon finished, where she paused, casting a wary glance toward the men whose voices he could now make out.
'They cannot hear us. Nor can they sense us. Helaena was right.' Baelon tilted his head, curiosity stirring in his mind.
What was this?
How had they come here?
And why?
Questions. Questions. And still more questions.
Yet Baelon understood that if answers were to be found, they would likely come from the conversation unfolding before them.
"Your Excellency, do you truly have no clues regarding these recent incidents?" Asked a stalwart man of middle age, his bright silver hair framing eyes of burning purple.
"Lord Belaerys, I assure you the Tribunal has conducted its investigations," the other replied. He was older, far older, his wrinkled hands tightened around the opulent staff he held. "We will have news soon."
"Soon?" Lord Belaerys scoffed. "You have said that far too many times, Magister. We Dragonlords elected you to lead the Tribunal, and still you fail our trust."
The Magister's eyes narrowed, but he offered no reply.
Seeing the man's silence only stoked Belaerys' anger.
"Why the silence?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea what chaos this has brought upon the Freehold?!"
"A dozen deaths within a single moon!" He roared, his voice crashing against the chamber's walls. "And the most recent, a mage of my own house, stationed in Oros! The man was found dead in his very own mage tower!"
The hall fell into silence soon after, broken only by Lord Belaerys' heavy breathing.
"The Fourteen Flames weep. Men fall dead like flies in summer." Lord Belaerys spat the words with clear disgust. "Even some of our nobility have tucked their tails and fled to some backwater outpost in the West."
"The dream Lady Daenys foresaw was a falsity," the Magister replied calmly. "Merely whimsy of an agitated young maiden. For Aenar to have indulged her…" He shook his head faintly. "I can assure you, the Freehold will endure for millennia to come in my own visions. Whose visions you choose to trust is your own prerogative."
Lord Belaerys scoffed at the mage, though he did not directly challenge him. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the Targaryens merely used the child as an excuse to establish themselves elsewhere." He paused, sarcasm tinging his cold features. "Maybe there, they could finally taste a sliver of power."
Baelon furrowed his brows as he absorbed the exchange.
Weeping volcanoes.
Murders.
House Targaryen.
The names and fragments spun through his mind as he tried to make sense of the strange memory contained within the once-empty book.
'If House Targaryen had already fled by this point…then the Doom is not far off,' Baelon mused.
But why?
Why show him this?
And, why had this Magister so confidently stated the Freehold would be fine?
"Are they done?" Helaena tilted her head as she nudged him, pulling his attention back.
By now, the two men wore brittle smiles as they bid each other farewell. Lord Belaerys turned with a huff and strode from the chamber without another word.
Yet Baelon quickly noticed Helaena had not followed the moment with the same casual disinterest.
Her gaze remained fixed upon the Magister.
If the subject of her attention had not been a decrepit old man, Baelon might have thrown a small fit of jealousy.
Still, his Helaena was not one to watch people without reason.
"Is something wrong—"
The words died in Baelon's throat.
Helaena's expression had changed.
It was one he had never seen before.
And by the Seven, Baelon was certain he had made her wear a great many expressions on their wedding night.
Yet this one was different.
A quiet, dawning horror.
Baelon followed her gaze back to the Magister.
At first, nothing seemed amiss.
Then the change came.
An eerie stillness settled over the old man's face. His expression became unnaturally blank, a lifeless impassivity Baelon had only ever seen in statues.
Then, the Magister suddenly twitched.
His hand crawled up to his face, fingers digging into the hollow of his sunken cheek.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Baelon's heart slammed against his ribs, its pounding echoing loudly in his ears.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Slowly, the Magister's fingers began to pull.
The skin of his face stretched beneath his grip.
At first, it only shifted, wrinkling like loose cloth.
Then—
It peeled off with cruel ease.
A thin edge of flesh lifted from his cheek, curling outward as though it were nothing more than a mask poorly affixed to bone.
The Magister continued to tear the mask from his face regardless.
And as the mask peeled off beneath widened, the memory began to unravel.
The walls faded.
The floor dissolved.
Even the figure before them broke apart like ash scattered upon the wind.
Within moments, nothing remained as the memory died.
***
Sunlight spilt through wide, arched windows, bathing the chamber in warm gold. Outside, the city of Tyrosh gleamed beneath the midday sun.
Slender towers painted in bright hues rose above the harbour, their colours fading slightly under the salt-laden breeze drifting in from the sea.
The tiled roofs beyond were splashed with turquoise and violet, while narrow streets twisted between tall merchant houses adorned with carved balconies and fluttering silk banners.
A low table sat in the centre of the chamber, cluttered with maps, half-emptied wine cups, and rolled parchments marked with ink.
Then, the door creaked open as a hooded figure stepped inside with casual confidence.
Daemon Targaryen pulled back his hood as he sauntered further into the chamber, silver hair catching the sunlight. His violet eyes flicked toward the man seated at the table.
"Failed?" he asked, raising a brow.
"Obviously," the man replied without looking up from the map before him. "The would-be conqueror is a tenacious thing. His magic and strength render even the most elaborate assassination inadequate."
Daemon scoffed as he dropped into the chair opposite him. For the first time in years, the simple act of sitting where he pleased felt like a small victory.
He had, after all, been confined to Dragonstone for the past two years on the orders of his dear brother.
Had he not seized the opportunity presented by Rhaenyra's absence, he might have remained there another year still.
'Ridiculous,' he spat inwardly. 'I am his closest kin, yet he looks upon me with those eyes. Those disgusting, wary eyes. And all I do is help him.'
His eyes creased faintly as his thoughts drifted toward what his dear nephew and niece had accomplished across the Narrow Sea.
At this rate, by the time Viserys passed, Westeros itself might lie at their mercy. Whoever sat the Iron Throne would do so only with their blessing.
They commanded immense wealth, vast armies, three dragons and with what this recent attempt had shown, magic besides.
In only a few short years, they had also sunk their claws deep into the throat of Westerosi trade.
Spices, copper, and intricate crafts were only among the few of what was traded.
Others included wool and leather from Lhazar and Mesh, silk and tea from Yi Ti, as well as the various oddities thrown out by Asshai.
All of it now flowed steadily into Westeros through their influence.
Still, Daemon Targaryen would sooner die than place his fate in another's hands.
Thankfully, the rising power of Dragon's Bay had unsettled more than just him.
Pentos had seen its wealth shattered beneath relentless Dothraki raids. Lys and Volantis had likewise weakened in the shifting tides of power.
Only Tyrosh and Myr remained capable of asserting any real authority.
What brought a faint smile to Daemon's lips was the quiet damage Elyrian artisans had begun inflicting upon Myr.
Their crafts, so sought after, had slowly begun eroding the foundations of Myr's influence.
And so, Daemon had found himself a new ally.
Unfortunately, it seemed their latest endeavour had ended in failure.
"No matter," Daemon mused aloud. "At least we can now be certain that simple assassinations will not suffice."
The man across from him did not share his calm.
"Prince Consort," he said sharply, finally looking up. "Do not tell me we forsook the Dornish for simply this. A failed attempt and wasted effort. At this rate, we of the Twin Daughter Alliance may need to reassess your worth."
Daemon's fist tightened slowly upon the arm of his chair.
Even his breathing stilled as the title struck his ears.
Prince Consort.
Humiliation. This was a naked humiliation.
Yet for all the fire that flared within him, Daemon forced himself to remain still.
Much as he might wish otherwise…he could not burn this fool alive. Not yet.
"Hah!" Daemon forced out a laugh. "You chose me over Dorne for one simple reason. Do not pretend you have any alternative."
Dragons.
The word hung wordlessly between them.
If Tyrosh and Myr truly meant to oppose Dragon's Bay, they would eventually have to face its greatest strength.
Dragons had carried their expansion across Essos, burning cities and armies alike until they bent the knee.
And as that expansion had proven time and again, only dragons could restrain dragons.
That was what Daemon offered them. Something Dorne never could.
"So what?" The man pressed, irritation creeping into his voice. "We do nothing? Allow your kin in the East to strangle our trade, our profits?"
"Worry not," Daemon said with a dismissive wave, though the tightness in his expression betrayed his own concern. "My brother burns in his final embers. He...will not last more than a few years at most."
His voice died as he thought of his brother before he shook his head and continued. "And his greatest wish before he dies is to see his family gathered together again."
He paused slightly.
"That includes those two."
The man's head snapped up.
"So they will return to King's Landing?" He asked, slamming a palm against the table, his eyes lighting with sudden excitement.
Why would he not be ecstatic?
The greatest barrier to harming that pair had always been distance. So far east, few powers still possessed the strength to interfere. The Free Cities could not even hope to project meaningful power across such a distance, especially considering their current weakness.
Only Qarth remained a possibility, and even that was uncertain.
But Westeros?
Westeros was close.
Dangerously close.
There, their influence could spread like ink in water. Their gold could buy blades, whilst information flowed easily after all, ships crossed the Narrow Sea every day.
Daemon let out a chuckle as he thought of what was to come.
He could already imagine the sun setting on the budding kingdom as their rulers disappear into the muddy waters of Westeros.
The Iron Throne, his brother's legacy, cannot fall into Hightower hands, and he would not allow mere children to decide that for him.
Still, he had much to discuss with the Twin Daughters, and it was about time he showed his worth to them.