A massive, luxurious dark sedan chair glided slowly down the streets of Volantis.
Viserys and the girl who would soon be his bride—Daenerys—rode inside, nerves tight as they headed toward the red priests' temple.
Their most loyal knights flanked the chair. Powerful slaves carried their masters with smooth, practiced steps.
Inside the silk-draped cabin, the two sat exactly as their station demanded, trying to look calm.
"Once we're inside," Viserys said, unable to stay quiet, "we follow Benerro's instructions to the letter."
"Yes, brother. I understand."
Daenerys's answer came soft and strangely steady. The usual restless edge was gone. She had buried her fear so well it barely showed.
"I'll be even more obedient than Naera."
The half-hearted jab didn't land.
"If you change your mind…"
"No, brother."
As if she wanted the conversation over, Daenerys handed him the black dragon egg.
She kept the emerald one for herself. The white egg rested between them like a silent promise.
"What we're holding is our family's future. Our most precious treasure. I… I believe everything is going to be all right."
"Yeah."
In this life or the last, Viserys had never thought of himself as a coward. No enemy had ever been able to throw that at him.
He was ready for any fight—sword, spear, warhammer, even bare fists. When you faced flesh wrapped in steel and bone, any weapon worked.
People died. People killed each other.
But sorcery?
Magic couldn't be stabbed, cut, or broken.
Against that, you had to trust someone else's knowledge and skill. A stranger's.
Viserys knew Benerro wasn't a traitor. The priest wasn't luring the Targaryens into some cheap trap.
Still, when it came to this deadly, complicated high art, no one could offer guarantees.
He kept thinking about what Elyn had said earlier.
The wet nurse had been brought in specially to dress Daenerys for the day. This was too important to leave to slaves.
Last night, when Daenerys told her where they were going, the elegant, well-bred lady had dropped to her knees in terror in front of both siblings.
She begged them not to seek out sorcerers, not to summon demons, to forget the dragons and be content with the power they already had.
Viserys had lifted her up, but Elyn simply changed tactics and forced them to listen.
She told them everything Rhaella had confided in her—the full horror of Summerhall.
Elyn had been the queen's trusted lady and friend. Rhaella had shared the secret with her.
Now, in her desperation, she spilled every terrifying detail.
According to Queen Rhaella, King Aegon the Unlikely had truly earned that name.
Plenty of clever, strong, decisive kings had sat the Conqueror's throne, but only her grandfather had ever truly cared about his people.
He believed the lords had too many privileges.
The Faith was too rich.
Knights kept forgetting their vows.
He had seen it all as a young man and sworn to cut out those cancers from the kingdom.
He had grand plans: royal justice across the realm, stripping lords of excess lands, tearing down most of the castles…
Rebellions and plots kept erupting. His own children kept ruining his schemes.
He did manage a few laws—like forbidding lords from seizing a dead man's land from his kin.
But every grand vision slammed into a wall of mistrust, confusion, and resentment.
Yet he remembered that his family once possessed the ultimate weapon.
Dragons.
Three dragons had broken the Westerlands and Reach.
The North had knelt.
Vhagar alone took the Vale.
Meraxes ended the Storm Kings.
Without Balerion, even cruel Maegor would have been thrown into the sea by the Faith's zealots.
Aegon V's ancestors had grown arrogant and stupid during the Dance of the Dragons and stripped themselves of their greatest advantage.
The Targaryens had become soft, toothless, clawless—unable to truly rule.
Unlucky Aegon, Baelor the Blessed, mad Aerys—every attempt had failed.
Only Aegon V refused to quit. He was determined to succeed where his ancestors had fallen.
According to the queen, the disaster began when one of the king's trusted friends returned to King's Landing.
A simple adventurer captain—smuggler or pirate, no one was sure.
He'd been gone two years. Came back pale and hollow-eyed, like a man who'd lost his soul.
But he brought an entire chest of mysterious scrolls from Asshai.
The king, his scholars, and his children threw themselves into the brutal work of translation.
Rhaella had never seen her grandfather so happy, so alive.
He believed the goal was within reach. Success was close.
No wonder he ignored the "mundane" problem of the Stepstones.
While lords and knights planned the final campaign against the last Blackfyre, counting coins and groaning at the cost, Aegon knew he would ride a dragon to those islands.
He only had to wait a little longer…
The moment came.
Almost the entire dragon house went to Summerhall.
Aegon thought it was safe. He trusted the servants and the neighbors.
Rhaella, heavy with child, traveled there pampered like the eighth dragon egg.
Peasants and petty lords welcomed the king, queen, princes, and their party like heroes and protectors.
Aegon V's resolve became iron.
He had to bring dragons back—not just for House Targaryen's glory, but for the vast majority of his people.
Summerhall greeted its master with bread, venison, and fine wine.
A grand feast was held that morning—the last time Rhaella ever saw her grandfather and grandmother.
Afterward they withdrew with the others into the great hall.
Aegon promised the court that tomorrow's dawn would show the world a miracle it had not seen in centuries.
The young princess was left alone with servants who knew nothing.
The rest of the night, doubt and dread gnawed at her.
Until a deafening explosion split the air.
Then another.
And another.
Screams rose:
"The king is dead!"
"Fire!"
"Save the king!"
"The guards are running!"
"The king is dead!"
Rhaella couldn't rise from her bed, but she smelled the terrible burning.
The maester and midwife assigned to her fled, deaf to her pleas.
The woman was ready to die—
Then Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, walked into the room.
Without a word he scooped her up in his huge, powerful arms and carried the princess out.
They moved through walls of flame—horrible green fire—through black smoke and panicked crowds.
Dunk walked fast and sure, carving a path straight out of seven hells.
The old knight carried the princess across the river to a grassy meadow far from the burning hall.
A few survivors had already gathered. The laboring Rhaella was handed to a strange maester while a fertile, motherly maid stood ready to help.
The Lord Commander turned to go back for his king.
In the middle of the pain, terror, and chaos, the princess begged her rescuer to stay, not to throw his life away.
He only said that in his long life he had earned many names, but no one had ever called him wise.
Then he turned and ran back into the inferno to save his king, his old friend.
Ser Duncan never came out of that hell. No body was ever found.
Gone with him were Aegon the Unlikely, Queen Black Betha, Prince Duncan the Small, maesters, septons, servants, knights, wise men and fools…
All that remained of Summerhall was ash and dust.
The only survivors were Queen Rhaella and the newborn prince she had just delivered—Rhaegar.
"Your mother was saved by the last true knight," Lady Elyn finished, voice hoarse. "But who will save the two of you?"
It took Viserys and Daenerys another half hour to calm the old wet nurse even a little. They never fully succeeded.
Elyn left in tears, stumbling straight to her tiny prayer room.
"You know," Daenerys said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper, "have you thought of names for them yet? If…"
"Let's not tempt fate," Viserys cut her off, sharper than he meant.
He was grateful she had pulled him out of the Summerhall memory, but her forced lightness grated on him. "That kind of thinking only pisses it off. Didn't Elyn's story mean anything to you?"
"Fate is on our side. Elyn is just… easily frightened." Daenerys shook her head gently. "She's a kind and loyal lady, but her blood and her mind belong to Westeros. What do they know about dragons?"
"You don't need to know much. Knowing people can burn alive is enough."
"Brother!"
"I…" Viserys suddenly froze, as if he really felt a faint heartbeat inside the black egg in his hands.
Was this proof Daenerys was right, or a sign he was already losing his mind?
They would know soon enough. "I haven't decided yet. We'll have time."
After a moment of silence, Daenerys broke it again.
"You say planning tempts fate," she forced a small, brave smile, "but you're the one who's always making plans. And I have to say—you're pretty damn good at it."
"It's different." Viserys took the opening, trying to drag them both out of the heavy thoughts. "In war you know your own strength and you can usually read the enemy's. It follows basic rules. Knights and cavalry crush militia on open ground. In forests and swamps, infantry stops cavalry cold. Rain and mud kill charges. Fords are natural choke points. War has surprises, sure, but magic is nothing but surprises."
"Oh please." Daenerys wouldn't let it go. "Even you can't know every detail when you plan a campaign. And history—think of the Dance. All those fatal mistakes. Rhaenyra sent the two traitors to Tumbleton herself. Lord Baratheon charged like an idiot and put unreliable knights in reserve. Daemon the Pretender…"
"Exactly," Viserys said quietly. "Past wars should be studied. But magic is harder to learn than war. Books are rare and full of lies. Liars are everywhere. Even if you master the secret knowledge, there's no guarantee. Aegon V arrested, tried, and exiled Bloodraven—none of it saved him. They say the children of the forest had powerful magic, but it didn't stop men from conquering them. In the end, Dany, warriors rule the world. Not wizards."
"Speaking of warriors who rule the world," Daenerys changed tack suddenly, "you've been gone five hours. And I'm going to be your wife. When you ride off to war, I'll be the one governing this city."
"I was going to tell you when I got back."
"Tell me now. Please." Daenerys tried to sound firm and queenly, but to Viserys she still sounded like the little girl who used to crawl into his bed terrified of snarks, grumkins, and White Walkers.
She had grown up. She no longer begged for bedtime stories. But she still needed him. She still needed his voice.
He had no choice.
When they made plans, Viserys and his advisors always ran into the same problem…