King's Landing, 113 AC,
"Were you able to find who spread the word, Lord Strong?" Viserys asked his Hand. The matter of him and Daemon going to Driftmark to arrange a betrothal between House Targaryen and Velaryon was not known to many, nor was Viserys's intent to let the lords know, yet. They had not intended to announce it until it was finalized and both Laenor and Rhaenyra had returned from the North. Then, they would hold a tourney and declare to the whole realm the union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon.
"Nay, Your Grace. Though I did find that it all began upon the Street of Silk," Lyonel Strong said, his gaze flicking toward Daemon, eyes alight with conflict, before he spoke again. "To be more precise—the brothel most often honored by the Prince of Blood above all others. Not that he withholds his attention from many others overlong."
Viserys turned his gaze toward his brother, who stood in the corner of the room, back against the wall, his eyes fixed beyond, lingering toward Visenya's Hill. Viserys stared at him, jaw tightening. Why must both Daemon and Rhaenyra test his patience and love so often? Was this punishment from the Gods, for what he had done to his late love, Aemma?
Daemon's eyes shifted to Lord Lyonel, and for a moment, Viserys saw his Hand squirm beneath his brother's intense stare. "Daemon," Viserys bellowed, hoping his tone made plain how little patience he had left.
"I was not the one who spread the word, Viserys. You may count on that," Daemon said. Viserys sighed. His brother did look serious as he said it—serious enough that perhaps it was true. If not Daemon, then who? Viserys was still turning the thought over when Daemon spoke again.
"Whoever it was, I think we have more pressing matters than finding that man. Why has no word come from Driftmark yet? Does the Sea Snake want more than what we offered?" Daemon's tone carried a sharp edge of anger, though Viserys could not say it was unearned.
Did Corlys still want more? Viserys had thought Corlys would be pleased—his grandchild destined to be King one day. But then, with Corlys, one could never be certain. If anything, it was his greed that had no bounds. Was it not that same hunger that had driven him across the known world?
"Or it could be that Lord Laenor has yet to respond," Lord Strong offered. Both Daemon and Viserys, who had been cursing Corlys's avarice, looked up at the Lord of Harrenhal. "Lord Corlys did say it would be his son's choice. Perhaps Lord Laenor has not replied… or…" he trailed off. No need to say more. Both brothers understood—perhaps Laenor did not agree to the match at all.
Daemon straightened and strode toward the door. Viserys, knowing all too well his brother's temper, rose swiftly from his chair and took a step after him. "Where are you going?" Viserys demanded.
"I shall make for the North. Let me meet Laenor and hear his answer myself," Daemon replied, pulling the door wide.
"Ser Cole, do not let my brother leave this chamber," Viserys commanded. The newly anointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was eager enough to obey. Daemon and Cole locked eyes, their hands straying to weapons, each hungry for an excuse to draw steel against the other.
Viserys sighed, weariness dragging at him. "Stop this at once. Daemon. Going to the North would be unwise and foolish. Laenor and Rhaenyra are making their way to Dragonstone within a week," said Viserys as he resumed his seat. The Grand Maester had visited him that very morning with a letter from Rhaenyra. She had written that they would soon return, Laenor having gotten what he sought in the North. What that was, however, she had not thought necessary to share.
Daemon turned, confusion flickering across his face, though anger still smoldered in his eyes. He cast Ser Cole one final glare before stepping back inside. Once the door was shut, Viserys drew breath to tell his brother the contents of Rhaenyra's letter, delivered at the hour of the dawn.
The Citadel, The Reach
Archmaester Androw, Archmaester of healing and herblore, was reading his predecessor's treatise on herbs and their uses when the approach of Maester Olly caught his attention. With a quiet sigh, Androw closed the diary and set his hand upon the pinewood table, waiting, curious why Olly had sought him out at this hour.
"Good morrow, Archmaester Androw," Olly greeted with a customary bow.
"Good morrow, Maester Olly. Now, would you be kind enough to tell this old man why you are here at this time of day? Has something happened?" asked Androw.
"Aye, Archmaester. We have received word from Maester Josua in the North. The poison did not work. That Velaryon boy drank the whole flagon of wine that had a full vial of poison that you gave, yet he did not so much as flinch," Olly said, his face pale with worry and fear.
Androw stood sharply and leaned toward him, lowering his voice. "What do you mean it did not work? You and others were present when I tested it, were you not? Not one of the subjects survived more than a few moments after consuming a drop. And you say that a boy of nine-and-ten was unaffected after draining an entire vial? One drop—one—could kill even the mightiest of beasts. It has been our weapon since the Old. There is no way it failed. No… this reeks of mistake, aye, a fool's blunder. Some simpleton entrusted with the task. Write to Maester Josua at once, ask him who that bungler was."
Panic, something Androw had not felt in decades, began to take hold. The poison was the Citadel's most secret weapon, meant to remove obstacles that stood in its way. Its potency was absolute—enough to fell a man in an instant. The Conclave would not be pleased with this failure. Even he would not escape unscathed. This had been their only chance; the Velaryon monster seldom left the hole he had made of his island. No. No, the Conclave would certainly not be pleased after hearing this.
Androw startled when Olly slammed his hand upon the table. "Archmaester—it was Maester Josua himself who poured the poison into the flagon. He was there when it happened. Velaryon had been distracted for some days, and Josua seized the chance. It was only by the Seven's mercy that none other drank from that wine, else Velaryon would have discovered the attempt upon his life. Maester Josua is terrified, Archmaester. He begs the Conclave recall him from Winterfell before he gets discovered somehow by some vile magic… before that monster does some vile magic on him."
Androw's heartbeat quickened; his breath grew shallow. The world tilted around him, and he might have fallen had Olly not caught him and pressed a cup of water to his lips. Androw drank greedily, gasping until his strength returned. Olly settled him back into his chair, but the outburst had not gone unnoticed. They were in a reading hall, and Olly's raised voice, matched with Androw's, had already drawn unwanted eyes.
With a trembling hand, Androw motioned for Olly to help him toward his private chambers nearby, where they could speak without ears upon them. Olly nodded, understanding, and helped the Archmaester rise. Their steps were slow, yet Androw's thoughts ran like a flood, a thousand questions pressing at once. The most troubling of them all—How will the Conclave react to this? And what judgment will fall upon me, and all who took part in this folly?
The Plane beyond the Veil
The Gods were done with judgment. The two most powerful among them had decreed that the Three be locked away in another dimension for breaking the Old Laws—not as hellish as the Pit, yet still a place of torment. The Maiden and the Lion, as they were called, had assured all that the Three would suffer for their crimes.
Now, silence reigned. Every divine gaze lingered upon the two radiant orbs standing beside the Nature, awaiting their words.
"Storm, we hope you are satisfied with the judgment we have passed upon the Three?" asked the Maiden of Light, her voice calm but edged with finality.
The God of Storm, whose form seethed like a raging tempest, rumbled back in a low, unenthusiastic tone, "Aye."
"Then let us turn to the matter for which we both are truly here," said the Lion, his voice carrying weight enough to command even the stillness of the emptiness they are in. At once, every God gave full attention, for curiosity stirred within them all. Why now, of all times, had these two deigned to appear? They had never honored lesser councils with their presence, even when graver matters had been debated.
"The threads of Song have shifted," the Lion continued. "Light and I have looked ahead into the river of time. What we have seen convinces us that certain choices—certain changes—must be made before the inevitable war rises again."
At the mention of war, all but Nature and the Dragon flinched, shadows of old memory stirring deep within them.
"Brother…" the Maiden of Light turned to the Dragon, her tone gentle yet solemn. "…we have decided that your children—and the children of the Rhoynar—should be brought back to the living. We trust you still hold a way to bring them back?" Her voice, sweeter and softer even than the Nature's, rang through the endless space.
"Aye, Elder Sister," answered the Dragon, his words dripping with affection and a love ancient as the world. "A failsafe was prepared. Yet it will take time before they may return once more to the mortal plane."
The Maiden inclined her head in understanding, then shifted her gaze to the figure beside her—a shape that resembled a woman, though parts of her bore the marks of turtle shell and fish-scale. "And you, Rhoynar? Can you bring them back?"
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