Of course, it was only a legend.
A week ago she would have said so without hesitation.
But today, after seeing real dragons with her own eyes, Eleonora no longer dared to be certain of anything.
A lifetime spent believing dragons were extinct, that the power and pride of the Freehold had vanished from the world forever…
Then standing face to face with living, breathing beasts.
The Targaryens had prepared a grand hall for the dragons inside their palace, plus half a wing. Daenerys had ordered the renovations herself to give the three hatchlings room to grow. The family's restored treasures were guarded day and night by the most loyal and battle-hardened of Viserys's Black Knights.
The dragons were not only alive—they were growing stronger every day, fed the finest meat, watched over by the Targaryen siblings and their most trusted servants.
Aeksion, the black dragon, grew fastest and was the first to take flight. Rhaellys, the emerald-green one, and Sōnarys, the snow-white one, chased after him with fierce determination, though they still struggled to keep up. Their appetites and energy were already impressive.
The three young dragons circled their happy mother, Daenerys, and showed proper respect to Viserys.
Who could deny miracles and magic after witnessing this?
Who could still blindly reject the old legends without even bothering to understand them?
Now, perhaps, she should pay special attention to the ritual unfolding before her.
The corridor seemed endless.
The three of them walked slowly, giving her time to study everything around her.
Statues and mosaics, paintings and stained glass—every detail spoke of eternal, unbreakable grandeur.
Sunlight pouring through the colored windows felt like the beginning of a new age.
A true age of greatness, not imagined.
An age of power, not weary decay.
An age of rule, not compromise and half-measures.
Eleonora let herself sink into distant, abstract thoughts.
The wealth gathered here was enough to make anyone's head spin.
At last they reached a vast hall.
Once again she was struck speechless.
In the center stood a black-stone altar carved in the shape of a dragon's open maw. Its eye sockets held the largest sapphires she had ever seen.
This lost masterpiece sat inside a square outlined in red stone, with four marble pedestals at the corners.
Three of them held the symbols of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes.
The fourth stood empty.
The hall was not lit by candles—candlelight could never have illuminated something this immense. Instead, daylight streamed through exquisite stained-glass windows.
In that white daylight, a true Valyrian wonder stood before them.
Eleonora prided herself on appreciating beauty, whether male or female.
At this moment she had no choice but to admit the obvious truth.
Daenerys Targaryen was breathtaking—truly, magnificently beautiful.
Her long silver hair was coiled into an intricate braid. The purple gown, worthy of a dragonlord's daughter, clung to her now fully mature and alluring figure. Precious armbands circled her arms, and around her slender neck hung a traditional Valyrian steel necklace.
It had been kept safe inside the Temple of Meraxes, a relic of ages past that no one ever expected to see again.
Long ago it had marked the identity of young women from dragonrider houses—proof of pure blood and flawless character.
She had to admit it: in this image of a young, ancient Valyrian noblewoman, Daenerys looked like a goddess made flesh.
Yet that beauty, that true royal dignity, also sent a sharp pang through Eleonora's chest.
She remembered the conversation with Viserys a few days earlier.
He had been honest with her about the changes that were coming.
The man had told her that, while he would never cut her out of his life completely, from now on he would spend most of his free time—outside of ruling—on his young wife.
He had to take care of her, respect her feelings and wishes.
And, eventually, give the dynasty the heirs it needed.
None of this was news to Eleonora.
She had known for almost two years that one day Daenerys would become her brother's bride.
She had always understood she would eventually have to step aside from the chief place in Viserys's bed. She could never compete with Daenerys.
But accepting that logical, rational, correct decision had not been easy.
Back then she had nearly strangled her own heart for him.
Now a new question stood before her.
The family's revenge had, in its own way, been completed. The man she loved was about to marry, and she wanted him to be happy.
So what was left for her? Only her faithful old sword and the search for new challenges, new experiences?
But the Sword Saintess was no longer young.
One day her strength and her beauty would leave her.
What then?
She could worry about that tomorrow.
Today she had to guard her prince and, as much as possible, feel happy for him.
Eleonora took a few more steps, then stopped at the first red line drawn on the marble floor.
They had been warned beforehand: only the groom, the bride, and the officiating priestess were allowed inside the marked area.
Now she could only wait and watch.
The Targaryen siblings and the priestesses accompanying them walked toward each other with slow, solemn steps, fully aware of the gravity of the moment.
Finally only one servant of the goddess reached the altar. The priestess who had escorted the bride bowed, then backed away, turning her back to the altar as she left.
Clearly her rank was not high enough to take part in what came next.
The moment the unworthy one stepped outside the boundary, Meraxes's servant raised both arms to the heavens and began to chant.
She chanted in Valyrian.
It should have been Valyrian, yet the phrasing was like nothing Eleonora had ever heard.
The streets of the Free Cities did not speak this way.
Great lords and ladies did not speak this way.
Even the dustiest old books and scrolls did not write this way.
Only one possibility remained.
This was the ancient tongue—the language of the Freehold at its height.
It carried none of the borrowed words from other languages, none of the affected, excessive ornamentation of High Valyrian.
Here a dragon was simply a dragon, a goddess simply a goddess, a husband simply a husband. One only had to grow used to the strange, unfamiliar sounds.
The priestess in the red-and-gold robe carried a special, almost hypnotic power in her voice.
She spoke of the hero Aelion's trials, sacrifices, and deeds.
She praised Syrax's beauty, wisdom, and love.
Finally she glorified the courage, strength, and authority of Aelion and Syrax's most outstanding descendants—those destined to rule both men and dragons.
Eleonora could not follow every word.
But she understood the general meaning.
The priestess prayed to Balerion to grant the groom strength and courage, to Meraxes to grant the bride beauty and fertility, to Vhagar to grant the couple long life.
She prayed that the gods would protect the dragon bloodline so it would never die out in this mortal world, shielding it from weakness and the malice of petty men.
At last she reminded the dragonlords where their power truly came from—the very power that set them apart from ordinary mortals.
How long it lasted—an hour, perhaps an entire day—she could not tell. At last the chanting ended. The priestess offered final thanks to the gods for agreeing to witness the coming rite.
With solemn, majestic movements she drew a delicate cup and a knife from the dragon's mouth of the altar.
"Take the Blade of Fate from my hand, my lord," she gave the first command. "My lady, step forward. May there be no fear in her heart—the gods have heard our prayers and granted their blessing."
Daenerys walked forward a few steps and stopped an arm's length from the groom.
Even from halfway across the hall, Eleonora could feel her nervousness, her shyness—and her anticipation.
Of course.
Her life was about to change.
Right now.
"Now, mix your blood,"
the priestess said, her strong voice trembling slightly with emotion, "your bodies, your fates, into one. For those joined by blood, no one can ever separate."
No further words were needed. They already knew every detail of the ritual.
Viserys cut himself first. He was used to pain and showed no reaction.
Red drops fell into the cup. The three-headed prince recited the prescribed vows in a clear, steady voice that betrayed not a trace of nerves.
"I offer you my blood, my strength, my soul."
"I swear to protect you. I swear to honor you. I swear to love you."
He handed the dagger to his sister and spoke quiet words of encouragement.
Daenerys quickly pricked her palm.
"I offer you my blood, my heart, my soul."
Daenerys spoke, her tension impossible to hide.
But she kept her voice under control and continued.
"I swear to obey you. I swear to honor you. I swear to love you."
The priestess raised both arms to the heavens once more—this time without chanting.
"The two shall become one again,"
she said.
"As your blood has already become one."
Viserys drank first from the ritual cup.
The cuts had been shallow, so there was little liquid.
He solemnly passed the cup to Daenerys. She drank what remained.
"In the name of Meraxes, the two are made one!"
the woman declared.
And the kiss of the happy couple sealed the rite, binding them forever as husband and wife before the gods.