The new moon was sharp as a blade, its light scattering coldly across the snow.
Winter had arrived. Days grew shorter, nights longer. The sunlight was dim and hazy, while the moonlight was pale and serene.
The Sanctuary defied the natural order of the surface world. Though time flowed endlessly—days and nights alternating, seasons turning from summer to winter—it seemed as though space and time within this place had frozen still.
In the vast, silent underground world, it was the same as it had been a million years ago—and would remain so a million years hence. Everything was trapped like an insect sealed in amber, unchanged for eternity.
At noon, a fire had been lit inside the cave; by midnight, after dinner, the dim red glow of the campfire still illuminated a small corner of the world.
In a corner of the stone cavern, a dozen squirrelfolk lay sprawled haphazardly on beds made of dead leaves and dry grass. Some were snoring, others sang in slurred tones, and a few muttered nonsense. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol in their breath.
The children of the forest drank, but their civilization was too primitive. Brewing alcohol was simple to learn, yet the productivity required for it was far beyond their means—it wasted food, and the bitter cold of the northern wilderness made grain too precious to spare.
In the stillness of the night, the squirrelfolk girl Leaf brought the Dragon Queen a bowl carved from weirwood. The bone-white bowl was etched with twelve faces, like those found upon the heart trees.
Inside was a thick, pungent white paste streaked with fine red threads.
The dark red strands were likely weirwood sap, but under the flickering firelight, they looked disturbingly like blood.
It resembled a bowl of freshly scooped brains.
In this stone hall that resembled the lair of some ancient tree hag, Dany felt as though she were attending a feast of human flesh.
"The smell is awful, and it looks even worse," Dany frowned.
"It's a magical potion," Leaf replied. "Aren't all magic brews like this? Even the moon tea made by forest witches isn't exactly fragrant or pleasing to the eye."
"Your Majesty, let Belwas try it first," suggested the fat eunuch.
Dany turned to look at the squirrelfolk.
Leaf frowned. "I don't oppose poison testing, but the magical potency of this weirwood seed paste is extremely high. It works wonders on those with special gifts, yet for ordinary people, it could be as deadly as poison."
"I think I have a special gift," said Bloodrider Rakharo, patting his chest.
"What gift would that be? I've never heard of it," Dany asked curiously.
The horselord widened his eyes and protested, "Khaleesi, did you forget? Back in Qarth, I was the first to awaken the 'Mark of the Pegasus.' You even made me recite the Pegasus Scripture, saying that when I grew older, I could serve as the High Priest of the Pegasus Faith in Vaes Dothrak."
"This—" Dany's lips twitched, though she did not refute him.
In swordsmanship, Rakharo was better than an ordinary Dothraki, but inferior to his two blood brothers. In intelligence and strategy, he was far beneath Qhoro; in leadership, he could not compare to Jhogo or Aggo.
Until now, his main distinction had been his tall, muscular build and the two small mustaches on his upper lip that gave him a slightly more commanding presence than most of his kind—a suitable ornament at Dany's side.
Perhaps he was also particularly capable in bed, for her Dothraki handmaidens, Jhiqui and Irri, were both fond of this "glossy piece of donkey dung."
The relationships among the young Dothraki men and women were complicated.
Well, not complicated—just messy and chaotic.
Still, after Dany had introduced the Pegasus Faith (a reformed version of the Horse God religion) among the Dothraki, Rakharo proved to be its most devout follower.
Dany had once joked that when he grew older and retired, he could help her oversee the Pegasus Faith in Vaes Dothrak.
She hadn't expected him to take it to heart—and even make it his lifelong goal.
"Does being a priest count as a special gift?" Dany asked Brynden.
"Let the horse-boy have a taste," Bloodraven said indifferently. "We'll know soon enough."
From his tone and the look in his eyes, it was clear that, to him, there wasn't much difference between a Dothraki and a horse.
"Rakharo is my blood of my blood. How could I let him be tested like that?" Dany said angrily.
"Then don't. The paste won't harm you anyway. A Green Seer's oath to the Mother of the Forest is one that can never be broken," Brynden replied impatiently.
"Coming from you, that means nothing," Dany sneered. "Did you forget how you came to wear black?"
Seventy years ago, after being tormented by a series of incompetent Targaryen kings and princes—Aerys, the Blackfyres, and Aegon Brightflame—the Iron Throne was left without a clear heir.
To prevent civil war, then-Hand of the King Brynden Rivers called for a Great Council to elect a new ruler.
A king chosen by council did not weaken the sanctity of the Iron Throne; if anything, it strengthened unity, for the throne's authority had never equaled that of a central empire like the Celestial Kingdom across the Narrow Sea.
When Daemon Blackfyre's son Aerys learned of this, he wrote to the Iron Throne requesting to be a candidate. Bloodraven agreed—and swore to guarantee his safety.
Aerys Blackfyre had every right to stand as a candidate. His lineage was as noble as could be—his grandparents, King Aegon the Unworthy and the disobedient Lady Daena (the maiden once imprisoned in the Maidenvault by Baelor the Blessed), were both of pure Targaryen blood.
Yet the moment that poor man stepped through the gates of King's Landing, Bloodraven had him arrested and beheaded.
It was for that broken oath that Dany's great-grandfather Egg (Aegon V) sent him to the Wall.
Now, hearing the Dragon Queen's scorn, Brynden gave a bitter laugh. "I sacrificed my honor for the good of the realm, traded my reputation to bring peace to Westeros—and your great-grandfather—"
He paused, his eyes shadowed.
"Had it not been for me, the Targaryen dynasty would have perished in the Blackfyre Rebellions. The Seven Kingdoms would have endured a century of war, and millions would have died. Without me, there would be no throne for you to sit upon."
"No one knows," he went on, "that before the Great Council began—after Aerys Blackfyre's letter arrived—young Egg came to me in secret. He confessed his fear, his uncertainty about the future."
A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "And Aemon—he was the wisest of Maekar's sons. Every lord intended to crown him king. But when the seemingly naïve, ambitionless Egg learned of this, he went to his brother—and not long after, Aemon gave up the throne of his own accord."
"That fool deserved to spend half a century suffering on the Wall."
"Dany, your great-grandfather Aegon the Fifth was the most dishonorable scoundrel of them all!"
The two white knights exchanged glances, while the Dothraki and the eunuch stood bewildered.
The stone cave fell into utter silence.
Dany had long suspected that her so-called great-grandfather—the "King Who Should Never Have Been"—had used questionable means to claim the Iron Throne, but she hadn't expected him to be so... reminiscent of a certain Celestial Empire style.
"This stuff can't be kept for long," said the squirrel-man, pointing to the wooden bowl before the Dragon Queen.
"Let me try it. If something happens to you, Khaleesi, the bloodriders will not live on," Rakharo said solemnly.
Dany hesitated for a moment, then scooped up a small spoonful of the paste and handed it to the horseman.
He opened his mouth wide and swallowed most of the spoon along with it.
"How is it?" Dany asked anxiously.
The bloodrider squinted, sucking on the spoon for a long while before replying, "A bit bitter. It'd taste better with some sugar."
The knights watching nearby nearly toppled over at his words.
Ser Jorah's face darkened. "Do you feel any discomfort?"
"None," the Dothraki shook his head.
Dany found another wooden spoon, scooped up a bit of the paste, and put it into her own mouth.
Rakharo wasn't wrong—it was bitter and hard to swallow.
But soon, the bitterness melted into a strange sweetness, like honeyed ice, then shifted into other pleasant flavors.
In an instant, Dany relived every delightful taste she'd ever experienced in her life, one after another.
"Is this really from a weirwood seed? Why does it taste so much like the Nightshade Water of the Undying?"
She remembered drinking the Nightshade Water prepared by Pyat Pree—thick and viscous, but dark blue in color.
Its smell and taste were revolting, like ink mixed with rotting flesh.
Yet after swallowing it, the lingering flavor was a blend of every taste the drinker had ever known—like something out of a "food-god" anime, where eating a dish triggers emotional illusions, such as "a taste of love."
"Was the Nightshade Water effective?" asked the squirrel-man.
"Yes. It induces the most exquisite hallucinations—and addiction," Dany said, spooning up more of the paste.
The squirrel-man continued, "To awaken a gift is to elevate thought and will to a higher level of existence, like a fish leaping above the surface of the river and seeing the world beyond the current.
"The Nightshade Water can also awaken supernatural gifts, though the type depends on the potion used.
"The Nightshade Water awakens the gift of the warlock, but the weirwood-seed paste is thousands of times stronger. It can stir the power of the Holy Spirit or Sub-Holy Spirit within one's bloodline."
Then he asked, "Do you know what a Holy Spirit is? It's the gift to hear the Song of the Laws."
"I've heard something like that before," Dany replied. "Tell me again—what's the difference?"
Leaf said, "A Sub-Holy Spirit can grasp the Song of the World, but only a true Holy Spirit can sing their own song."
"What about the Three-Eyed Raven?" Dany asked.
"At least a Sub-Holy Spirit," Leaf replied.
"I don't feel any different," Dany said.
By now, the paste in the bowl was nearly gone, and even the hallucinations were suppressed by her formidable mental strength.
"The weirwood-seed paste won't grant you new power or alter your bloodline," Leaf explained. "It merely awakens what is already there.
"No one knows their gift until they try.
"It's like a gifted swordsman—if he never practices, who would ever know he could become a great knight?"
Leaf's reasoning made sense.
Dany decided to rest in the cave until midnight and depart at dawn.
Brynden was displeased but powerless to object.
Barely ten minutes later, Dany woke suddenly from meditation and began searching for the wooden bowl.
When she found it, she glanced around, and when no one was looking, she stuck out her tongue and quietly licked the spoon and the bowl clean of the red-and-white paste.
The Three-Eyed Raven and Leaf hadn't deceived her.
The weirwood-seed paste truly worked wonders.
First, her meditation core circulated far more easily—like running a 2010 triple-A game on a 2020 top-end computer.
Second, her already vibrant soul began absorbing spirit essence in seemingly limitless quantities.
And finally—most importantly—her second soul ring began to divide.
In Dany's inner soul space, the nine-colored vortex of the Grand Sorcerer's Meditation sat at the center, surrounded by the ring-shaped stream of the Green Seer's Meditation.
During the dragons' infancy (even in the egg), Dany had shared a soul link with each of them.
But as they grew and gained independence, she could no longer consciously connect with their dragon souls—though in mortal danger, the dragons might still reach for their "dragon mother."
Between Dany and her dragons, there existed a soul pathway—but as the dragons matured, those channels became sealed.
Now, Dany could once again sense those three sealed pathways.
She felt that if she willed it, her second soul ring could split into four parts.
And she knew exactly what that meant.
She had long awaited this moment—the very reason she had ventured beyond the Wall:
The Era of the Fivefold Dragon Soul was about to begin.
(End of Chapter)
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