After more than a month of grueling travel, Lo Quen and Jaelena finally returned to Conquest Keep with their vast procession of captives.
Eighty thousand roaring warriors were chained together in a long, snaking line of iron links, their bronzed torsos bare, their faces carved with defiance as they stumbled forward under the lash of whips.
Once the undisputed masters of the grasslands, they now shuffled like beasts led to market.
Including the fifteen thousand survivors from Khal Drogo's earlier defeat, Lo Quen now held close to one hundred thousand Dothraki prisoners.
He had also brought back three hundred thousand horses from the Dothraki Sea. The endless herds filled the plains with a low rumbling of hooves and neighs, kicking up clouds of dust that veiled the distant mountains.
Viserys Targaryen, guided by his attendants, climbed the stone steps to the high watchtower overlooking Crown Town.
From there, he saw it—the black tide of Dothraki captives stretching endlessly below, and the ocean of horses rolling across the horizon. He drew in a sharp breath. His pale violet eyes went wide, brimming with disbelief, awe, and giddy joy.
"The gods... above..."
He whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "Your Grace... are all these... for me?"
Lo Quen turned to face him, his expression composed and unreadable, though a cold amusement flickered within.
All for you? Hardly.
In an even tone, he said, "Prince Viserys, I will grant you thirty thousand Roaring Warriors. Consider it a gift for your sister's hand in marriage."
"For... me?"
Viserys spun toward him, his pupils contracting with exhilaration, flames of madness dancing in his eyes.
"Your Grace! You mean—you'll give them all to me?!"
A wave of euphoria crashed over him, nearly dizzying in its force.
Thirty thousand Dothraki warriors!
Enough to conquer any kingdom!
The true dragon was returning at last!
The Iron Throne itself seemed to beckon him.
He could barely contain the urge to laugh aloud.
Lo Quen's inward smile deepened. The man was hopelessly foolish.
Did he not realize those Dothraki were captives, taken from the steppes in chains? Did he truly think he could command them?
As Viserys's excitement began to ebb, an even greedier desire took hold of his mind.
Dragons.
Only a dragon could befit a king of dragon's blood. Only a dragon could crush the usurpers once and for all.
He looked at Lo Quen, the earlier humility in his gaze replaced by naked yearning. A sycophantic smile crept across his face.
"Your Grace, your generosity is as vast as the summer sea," he said eagerly, "but... if you could grant me a dragon—just one, even a hatchling—then with a dragon and this army, I swear the Seven Kingdoms would kneel at your feet and mine! The Targaryen dragon banner will—"
Lo Quen sneered inwardly.
Greedy fool.
Outwardly, his expression did not change. "A dragon?" he said softly. "It seems the Prince still dreams of their power."
He lifted his gaze toward the sky above the castle.
As though sensing his will, the thick storm clouds above parted. From their depths, a massive shadow emerged, wings slicing through the air.
Lo Quen cast Blooddancer a knowing glance. The dragon blinked her molten-gold eyes in understanding.
Since his journey to the Dothraki Sea, Blooddancer had grown larger still. Her deep crimson scales glowed like molten steel beneath the sun. Her long, serpentine neck arched elegantly, and her massive head dipped low, those golden vertical pupils fixing coldly on Viserys.
Viserys's face turned scarlet with delirious joy, his violet eyes blazing with near-madness.
"Dragon!"
Viserys screamed, all pretense of dignity gone, scrambling forward on hands and knees. His eyes locked on the massive creature that embodied ultimate power. "Mine! It's mine! True Dragonblood! It will bow to me!"
He stumbled toward Blooddancer, arms spread wide, muttering disjointed phrases of the Old Valyrian words of dragon-binding.
Just as he came within three steps of Blooddancer's monstrous head—close enough to feel its blistering breath against his face—a flicker of almost human mockery glinted in the dragon's molten-gold eyes.
Blooddancer suddenly opened its jaws and let out a deep, thunderous growl.
BOOM!
A torrent of crimson Dragonfire erupted violently from the depths of its throat. The blazing surge didn't strike Viserys directly but swept past his scalp and shoulders, smashing into the ground in front of him with explosive force.
Shards of rock flew everywhere as a wave of searing heat blasted Viserys off his feet.
"AAAH—!"
He shrieked, feeling the burning wind lick across his head and back. His vision went red—pure, blinding red.
He hit the ground hard, rolling over and over before finally coming to a stop.
Flames licked at his head, smoke curling upward. The acrid stench of singed flesh filled the air.
Viserys flailed and rolled on the ground in panic, shrieking like a slaughtered pig. "Water! Water! Help me! Someone help me!"
His carefully arranged silver-gold hair—and the silk ribbon that bound it—had burst into flame the instant the Dragonfire's edge brushed past. Wisps of smoke rose as the fire spread fast, threatening to consume his scalp.
Lo Quen glanced to the side. Several quick-thinking guards seized nearby watering jars used for potted plants and, without hesitation, dumped the entire contents over the screaming prince.
SPLASH!
The icy deluge extinguished the flames in an instant, soaking Viserys to the bone.
He crouched on the ground, coughing violently, drenched and shivering. His face was smeared with soot and streaked with water.
With trembling fingers, he reached up and touched his head—only to feel bare, slippery skin.
A few charred, curled tufts of hair clung weakly to the edges.
His proud silver-gold locks—the mark of his Targaryen lineage—were gone.
"My... hair... my hair..."
Viserys murmured in disbelief, his voice hoarse and cracking.
He slowly raised his head to meet Blooddancer's gaze. The dragon looked down at him coldly, its molten eyes unblinking. All the greed and ambition that had filled him moments before were swept away, replaced by raw, suffocating terror.
That wasn't the gaze of a beast looking upon its master. It was the gaze of a predator sizing up prey—or a man crushing an insect.
The memory of the flame grazing his scalp, the unbearable heat that devoured everything, and the sheer, paralyzing fear—it all seared itself into his soul.
His yearning for dragons dissolved instantly, leaving only dread.
Why had it attacked him?
Were dragons not meant to serve House Targaryen?
His mind reeled, full of questions and confusion, yet powerless to act. He tried to stand, but his legs were weak as water.
All he wanted now was to flee—to get as far from this monster as possible.
Lo Quen watched the disheveled, broken prince with an inward smirk.
His tone softened. "The Prince is shaken. Escort him to the harbor. The fleet is ready. He should depart for the Stormlands at once. Storm's End awaits him—and with it, the army and horses that will serve under his command."
Viserys reacted as if granted divine pardon. Supported by his attendants, he stumbled and crawled out of Conquest Keep, not daring to look back even once.
...
The night was as dark as ink, gently wrapping around the silhouette of Conquest Keep.
In Jaelena's room, heavy velvet curtains shut out the moonlight, and the air still carried the faint, fresh fragrance unique to her.
Lo Quen slipped in without a sound.
Jaelena stood with her back to the door, wearing a silver-gray silk nightgown so sheer it clung to every graceful curve of her mature figure. Hearing the familiar footsteps, she turned and cast him a slightly reproachful glance.
"Your Grace, it's so late, you..."
Lo Quen didn't answer. His strong arms wrapped around her slender waist.
Jaelena's body tensed briefly, then softened with a quiet, contented sigh. Lo Quen's lips fell on the elegant curve of her neck, his heated breath tracing the sensitive edge of her ear. She turned toward him, meeting his lips eagerly.
Just as passion overtook them, and Lo Quen's hands began to pull at the troublesome silk ties—
Creak.
A faint sound came from the door. The two froze, as if doused in cold water.
At the doorway stood a slender figure, outlined by the shadow of the half-open door. It was Janice.
She wore a simple moon-white nightgown, her silver-gold hair cascading like a stream of moonlight. In her hands, she held a silver tray with a porcelain cup still steaming with heat—some kind of warm drink.
Janice had only meant to share the drink with her sister but had instead stumbled upon their intimacy. Her gaze drifted over her sister's flushed cheeks, over Lo Quen's hand still resting on her waist, and finally to the two lips that had just parted, still glistening faintly.
The tray trembled slightly in her hands.
Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but no sound came out. A flicker of hurt rose in her violet eyes.
Since witnessing the young dragon hatch, she hadn't shared a single intimate moment with Lo Quen. She'd been waiting all this time—only for her sister to get there first.
The room was deathly still, the only sound the quickened breathing of three people.
Jaelena was the first to react. Embarrassment flashed across her face as she instinctively adjusted the disheveled collar of her nightgown. Her voice carried a hint of flustered irritation.
"Janice... you... why didn't you knock?"
Her cheeks were still flushed.
Janice's gaze drifted from her sister and finally settled on Lo Quen's face.
Her voice trembled. "It seems I came at the wrong time."
Lo Quen looked at the girl standing in the doorway, her eyes shimmering with broken moonlight, and saw the hurt within them.
He suddenly smiled, ignoring Jaelena's startled glance. Instead, he extended an arm toward the bewildered girl at the door in open invitation.
"No, Janice. You came at just the right time."
Janice's head snapped up, her violet eyes widening in disbelief. She looked from Lo Quen's outstretched hand to the faint smile on his lips.
Her grip on the tray loosened. Without hesitation, she set the silver tray gently on the low cabinet by the door, then walked toward the embrace waiting for her.
Lo Quen's arm wrapped firmly around her slender waist, drawing her light body effortlessly against him.
On one side was Jaelena's mature, full, silken form; on the other, Janice's delicate, warm, and yielding frame.
The contrast of touch and scent kindled a deeper fire within Lo Quen.
The soft sound of silk sliding onto the carpet filled the air, heavy with meaning. Under the faint shimmer of moonstone light, two pale, radiant bodies were revealed.
A midnight symphony, one that belonged only to Conquest Keep, began to play.