The Small Council chamber had been cleared of its customary clutter. The ledgers of grain and taxes had been carried away, as had the reports from the Gullet and the Stepstones. In their stead remained only a table set with roasted capon, fresh bread, wheels of soft cheese, and two flagons of Arbor gold. The air was warm with the scent of wine, myrrh, and the crackling hearth.
King Viserys sat before the fire with a goblet in hand.
The great oaken doors swung open.
Ser Otto Hightower entered alone.
The Hand's green eyes swept the chamber in a single measured glance, noting the absence of every councillor before settling upon the king.
He bowed.
"Your Grace. You sent for me."
"I did." Viserys smiled easily. "Sit with me, Otto. This concerns no business of the council."
Otto took the offered chair without haste.
"I am ever at Your Grace's service."
"The maesters tell me I spend too much time at table." Viserys chuckled, lifting his cup. "Perhaps they are right."
He drank deeply before setting the goblet aside.
"We have spoken before of dragon dreams."
Otto's face revealed nothing.
"We have, Your Grace."
"The dream remains." Viserys looked into the fire. "The son who shall succeed me. The prince destined to unite the realm beneath House Targaryen once more. He shall wear Aegon's crown and inherit the legacy of Balerion the Black Dread."
The dream again.
Otto had hoped time would dull the king's faith in such visions. Instead it had only deepened.
Too many Targaryens mistook dreams for destiny.
"A blessed vision," Otto said. "May the gods grant Your Grace such a son."
"They shall."
There was not the slightest doubt in Viserys's voice.
"But greatness is not forged by blood alone." His eyes lifted from the flames. "Even dragons require guidance. My son must have a teacher unlike any other."
"A maester?"
"No."
"A knight?"
Viserys shook his head.
"Not one to teach him the sword. Not one to fill his head with histories." His fingers drummed softly upon the oak. "I seek a man untouched by the ambitions of great lords. One who sees farther than crowns and castles. A man of uncommon wisdom."
Otto considered his answer.
"Such men are seldom found, Your Grace."
"So I am told."
"The Citadel shelters many learned men. The Faith has its holy brothers. There are sages in the Free Cities as well."
Viserys frowned.
"No."
The word came quietly.
"It is none of them."
He fell silent for a long moment.
"I know not his name. Nor his face. I know not whether he dwells in a castle, a sept, or beneath the open sky."
His hand closed into a fist.
"But he lives."
The blow upon the table made the goblets tremble.
"I know it."
Only the fire answered.
At last Viserys spoke again.
"I would have you find him."
Otto neither blinked nor frowned.
"Your Grace?"
"Spend what gold is needed. Send ravens. Employ whisperers. Search the Seven Kingdoms, the Free Cities, wherever men may be found."
His voice was calm, though no less resolute.
"When darkness comes, my son shall not stand alone."
Otto inclined his head.
"As you command."
Behind lowered eyes, his thoughts were less obedient.
A nameless man. A faceless sage. A king sends his Hand to hunt shadows.
The blood of Old Valyria had ever carried strange gifts. Dragon dreams were among the kinder madnesses.
"If such a man lives," Otto said, "I shall find him."
"So you shall."
Viserys smiled and reached once more for his wine.
He had no idea that the very man Viserys described was already reshaping the balance of the world far to the south.
"Get out of my head, wizard!" Daemon snarled, clenching phantom fists.
"Do you think a glass bottle and a few parlor tricks give you dominion over me? I carry the blood of Old Valyria. I am the dragon's wrath, and you are nothing but a hedge wizard hiding behind his spells."
Thaddues regarded him with mild curiosity before the faintest smile touched his lips.
"The blood of Valyria," he repeated softly. "You speak those words as though they possess power of their own."
He descended the throne's steps without haste, stopping within arm's reach of the prince.
"Your disadvantage is so complete, Prince Daemon, that you lack the language to measure it."
"Try me."
Daemon lunged, driving a savage blow toward Thaddues' throat.
His fist passed through empty air.
The force of his own strike carried him forward, and he stumbled before wheeling around, fury blazing in his eyes. Lords had quailed beneath that gaze. Sellswords had fled it. Even now, stripped of sword and dragon alike, his defiance endured.
Thaddues merely folded his hands behind his back.
"You roar loudly for a man trapped inside a bottle," he observed. "Still, count yourself fortunate. Someone is coming to retrieve you. It seems they value your blood far more than your company."
"I'll gut you from chin to groin," Daemon said coldly, "and feed the rest to Caraxes."
"Caraxes is far away," Thaddues replied. "You are here."
He then looked into the distance.
"It seems our journey has come to an end." He returned his gaze to Daemon for the last time before his fingers snapped.
The sound echoed like thunder.
Cracks of blinding white raced across the dreamscape. The Iron Throne splintered, and the violet mist vanished.
Yet Daemon did not awaken.
Instead, the illusion gave way to the true bounds of his prison: the enchanted forest contained within the glass bottle. High above, Caraxes stirred among the towering trees, sensing the journey's end.
Daemon's jaw tightened.
The carriage lurched as it settled upon solid ground.
Outside, hot desert winds swept across the crimson sands of Dorne, carrying dust through the winding streets of the Shadow City beneath the towering walls of Sunspear.
A roar split the still desert air.
Meleys launched from the palace courtyard in a blur of crimson scales and scarlet wings. The Red Queen climbed hard into the sky, beating against the desert winds until she soared above the Sea Tower. She circled once over Sunspear before banking sharply toward the source of the disturbance.
Something was wrong.
The moment the strange carriage descended, an instinct older than memory had stirred within her. It was not anger that drove her into the sky.
It was dread.
She descended in a rush, landing well before the carriage with enough force to crack the sandstone beneath her talons. Dust rose in thick clouds as she spread her wings wide, placing herself between the newcomer and her rider.
Princess Rhaenys called for calm, but Meleys paid her no mind.
The dragon lowered her head and roared again, a deep, thunderous challenge that echoed from the walls of Sunspear. It was a warning, not an attack. She dared the intruder to take another step.
The carriage door opened with a quiet click.
Thaddues stepped onto the red sands, his dark robes stirring in the warm desert wind.
He neither looked at the dragon nor reached for a weapon.
Instead, he made the slightest motion with one hand, no more than a casual flick of the wrist.
Meleys' roar caught in her throat.
Her jaws remained wide open, yet not a single sound escaped her throat. The roar vanished as though someone had severed it from reality itself.
The dragon blinked.
She clicked her jaws, trying again to roar, to hiss, to warn.
Nothing.
Confusion quickly gave way to fear.
For perhaps the first time since hatching, Meleys discovered something she could neither understand nor overcome.
"Noisy."
Thaddues' quiet remark carried effortlessly across the silent courtyard.
Behind Meleys, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen stepped forward. Despite the impossible sight unfolding before her, she remained every inch the princess, violet eyes sharp and unwavering.
Then her gaze settled upon Thaddues.
For reasons she could not name, he seemed... familiar.
The feeling vanished before she could grasp it. Whatever familiarity she sensed was quickly buried beneath relief. After three days of waiting, she finally stood before Lord Peverell, the man the Iron Throne had sent her to meet.
Rhaenys approached with measured confidence.
"You bring a dark wind with you, Lord Peverell."
Her voice carried the effortless authority of House Targaryen.
"You possess curious tricks. You have silenced my dragon, but do not mistake confusion for submission."
She stopped several paces before him.
"I stand here on behalf of King Viserys."
"The Iron Throne does not tolerate those who threaten its blood."
Thaddues remained perfectly still.
His expression revealed neither annoyance nor interest.
"You hold my cousin, Prince Daemon." Her chin lifted slightly. "You will release him immediately." She took another step forward.
"Afterward, you will accompany me to King's Landing and answer before the King for your crimes against the blood royal."
A brief silence followed. Rhaenys studied his absolute stillness, the total lack of fear in his eyes. She remembered the whispers from the south—of skies breaking open and rain falling where it never should.
"If you cooperate," she continued, her voice dropping its demanding edge, replacing it with a low, deadly serious gravity, "we may yet find a peaceful end to this night. One where you walk away with your freedom, and the realm avoids a war it does not need."
Her gaze shifted briefly to the silent Red Queen perched above them, then back to Thaddeus. She didn't gesture to Meleys as a weapon, but as a reminder of the stakes.
"If you refuse... then you force the King's hand, Lord Peverell. I know what you can do. I know the storm you carry. But do not mistake the Iron Throne's desire for peace for a lack of resolve. If this turns to blood, neither your sorcery nor our dragons will save what is left of the realm from the ashes."
Silence answered her.
Princess Dareya who saw and heard this, shook her head. She knew what is next to come.
Then the air changed. The scorching heat of the desert faded.
An unnatural chill swept across the courtyard as though the sun itself had retreated behind invisible clouds.
Several household guards suddenly collapsed to one knee.
Others clutched at their throats, gasping as the very atmosphere grew unbearably heavy.
Thaddues had not moved but everyone present felt it.
He was angry.
His eyes glowed with an eerie brilliance, cold and absolute.
The arrogance before him—the certainty of a mortal woman who believed dragons and royal blood placed her above the laws governing creation itself—was almost insulting.
"A lamb," Thaddues said quietly.
His voice resonated through the courtyard, causing the stone beneath their feet to hum.
"A lamb pretending to be a wolf..."
His gaze settled upon Rhaenys.
"Host detected 87.5% Targaryen blood. Extract it?"
"...issuing commands to the shepherd."
'Extract it.'
Before she could react, her body froze.
An invisible force wrapped around her like iron chains, lifting her feet from the ground as her arms locked tightly against her sides. Her head was wrenched backward, exposing her throat in helpless defiance.
She struggled to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. Just like her dragon, even her voice had been stolen.
Thaddues slowly raised one hand.
His fingers curled as though pulling invisible strings.
Rhaenys drifted helplessly through the air, her body moving like a marionette beneath a puppeteer's control.
The moment Meleys saw her rider suspended helplessly in the air, something primal broke through her fear.
The ancient bond between dragon and rider overwhelmed instinct.
She could no longer roar, but she could still unleash dragonfire.
Her jaws opened.
A torrent of dragonfire erupted toward Thaddues, hot enough to melt stone and reduce flesh to ash in an instant.
Thaddues did not even glance up.
Almost absentmindedly, he raised his free hand.
The inferno never reached him. The instant the dragonfire touched his magic, it unraveled. The inferno dissolved into countless tongues of flame, each folding into a sapphire or crimson butterfly.
The courtyard filled with delicate wings.
They drifted harmlessly through the hot Dornish air, settling upon stone walls, banners, and armor with impossible beauty.
What had been a weapon capable of reducing castles to ruin had become nothing more than a cloud of fragile insects dancing beneath the sun.
A stunned silence fell over Sunspear.
Meleys, her claws gouging deep furrows across the courtyard, stared at the butterflies.
Then at Thaddues.
Nothing in her ancient instincts could explain what she had witnessed. Fire was fire. It consumed. It destroyed. It did not become butterflies.
Her wings folded tightly against her body, her massive frame trembling. It was not from injury, but from complete incomprehension. For the first time in her long life, the Red Queen understood what it meant to fear something beyond the natural order.
Thaddues raised a calm, steady hand toward the dragon. The lingering butterflies swarmed around his fingers before scattering into the wind.
Meleys flinched, a low, submissive whine vibrating deep within her chest. The fierce, unyielding pride of the Red Queen buckled under the weight of his absolute control. Slowly, she lowered her massive, crowned head until her snout brushed the shattered stones of the courtyard, completely submitting to his presence.
Holding her gaze for a final, quiet moment of absolute authority, Thaddues turned back to Rhaenys.
With the smallest flick of his finger, a thin crimson line appeared across her forearm.
The wound opened cleanly.
Bright Targaryen blood welled from the shallow cut, but instead of falling, it unraveled into dozens of impossibly fine crimson threads. They drifted through the air like silken strands, twisting and weaving around one another as though guided by an unseen hand.
Ignoring Rhaenys's horrified expression, Thaddues reached into his robes and withdrew a small crystal vial. With a quiet pop, he eased the stopper free.
The crimson threads responded at once. They coiled together in graceful spirals before streaming into the waiting vial, each filament slipping through its narrow mouth until not a single drop remained suspended in the air.
"Successfully extracted 87.5% Targaryen blood. One additional Targaryen blood is required to create a Full Targaryen Blood Fragment."
The corners of Thaddues' lips lifted ever so slightly as he sealed the vial and returned it to his robes. Even if it wasn't pure, it was more than enough.
Rhaenys could only watch, still hung suspended in the air, her face pale from blood loss and terror.
Every trace of royal composure had vanished. For the first time in years, Rhaenys silently cursed Viserys for sending her into the path of this monster.
Thaddues slowly raised his hand, his fingers curling inward with deliberate precision.
At once, invisible pressure clamped around Rhaenys's throat. Her eyes flew open in shock as she fought for air, struggling with all her strength, but her body remained utterly unresponsive.
Before the crushing silence could claim her completely, a voice suddenly rang out.
"Lord Thaddues! Stop!"
Everyone turned.
From beneath the palace archway, Princess Dareya of Dorne stepped into the courtyard.
Her expression was tense, but she did not approach as an enemy.
She walked toward him with the familiarity of someone who knew exactly how dangerous he truly was.
They shared a bond built far from the eyes of kings and courts.
A friendship founded on trust rather than fear.
She stopped a respectful distance away.
"Be reasonable, my friend," Dareya said, her voice calm despite the overwhelming magical pressure.
"I despise the dragons as much as you do. I despise their pride, their arrogance, and the ashes they leave behind."
Her gaze briefly shifted to the helpless Rhaenys before returning to Thaddues.
"But look where we are. That is Rhaenys Targaryen, the Iron Throne's envoy. If she dies here, in Dorne, the Iron Throne will not ask questions. They will send every dragon they possess."
Her voice never wavered.
"War will spread across the realm. It will cross our borders, and everything we've worked toward..." She held his gaze. "...will be delayed."
The butterflies continued drifting lazily through the courtyard as silence settled between them.
Thaddues considered her words.
She was right.
Killing Rhaenys would accomplish nothing beyond provoking a premature war. It was not that he feared the Iron Throne or its dragon. But he already had unfinished business with the Old Gods, and he had no desire to wage a needless war against all Seven Kingdoms before settling that score.
A conflict now would be loud, wasteful, and inefficient, drawing his attention away from matters that truly demanded it.
His fingers slowly relaxed.
"Very well."
His voice took on an almost playful tone.
"Her bloodline remains useful."
With a careless wave of his hand, the invisible force disappeared.
Rhaenys fell heavily onto the red sand.
She gasped violently as air rushed back into her lungs.
One trembling hand clutched the bleeding wound on her arm while the other supported her weight.
"Get the healers to tend the princess." Dareya said to a household guard. The household guard nodded before entering the hall.
Thaddues paid them no attention. He reached into his robes once more, withdrew a pouch, opened it, and took out a glass bottle.
Inside, swirling mist drifted through a miniature forest. At its center, Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes, both reduced to a tiny size and still imprisoned within the bottle.
Thaddues loosened the stopper just enough for the prince's voice to escape.
"I'll kill you!" Daemon's muffled roar echoed from within the bottle. "I'll tear your heart out, you bastard!"
Even reduced to the size of an ant, the Targaryen prince's hatred remained as fierce as ever.
Thaddues looked down at Rhaenys before raising the glass bottle in one hand. His expression remained calm, almost businesslike.
"Now tell me..." His voice carried across the silent courtyard. "How much is the Iron Throne willing to sacrifice..."
He gave the bottle a gentle shake.
"...to reclaim its precious prince?"
TBC
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