Rhaenys's declaration struck like thunder, exploding inside the Hall of Dragonfire, which was thick with the scent of medicine and charcoal!
Every word carried a decisive power that severed all hesitation, burning as hot and irresistible as Meleys's dragonfire.
She stood with her back straight, wet black hair clinging to her cheeks, her pale violet eyes burning with the unique, almost dragon-fire-like determination of House Targaryen.
She firmly shielded Daemon—this silver-haired boy, soaked, ragged, and branded with a bizarrely pulsing black mark—behind her, using her own body as a bulwark against the Prince of Dragonstone's scrutiny.
The air froze. The crackle of charcoal in the hearth and the whine of the sea breeze squeezing through window cracks were amplified infinitely in the dead silence.
The medicine pestle in the hand of the maester standing in the corner clattered into a copper basin. A handmaid covered her mouth tightly, her eyes filled with incredulous horror.
Prince Baelon's personal guard clamped his hand onto the hilt of his sword, his knuckles cracking from the force, the muscles under his armor tense as iron.
Prince Baelon Targaryen's expression churned violently the moment Rhaenys made her declaration, like a deep pool disturbed by a thrown stone.
The initial shock hit him like a cold tide, followed immediately by a rising anger at the offense—Rhaenys dared to challenge his authority so forcefully, endorsing a person of unknown origin!
However, beneath the anger lay something deeper: disbelief and a sharp, stinging pain regarding his brother Aemon.
Aemon... his brother, the perfect model of a knight... could he really have...?
His sharp, deep purple pupils were nailed to Daemon's face, as if trying to pierce the boy's handsome skin to see the soul hidden beneath.
Silver hair, purple eyes—flawless. And that shoulder... In the firelight of the Hall of Dragonfire, the black three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder was pulsing with his breath in a slow, eerie rhythm, like the slumbering heart of a living creature.
Baelon's gaze lingered on the brand for a long time, his expression complex and unreadable. This was no ordinary brand; it radiated an ancient and unsettling aura.
"Rhaenys..." Baelon finally spoke. His voice was as low as muffled thunder rolling underground, every word heavy with weight. "Do you... know what you are saying?"
He tried to suppress the turmoil in his tone, but the tremor of touched grief, along with a sudden, sharp pain under his right ribs aggravated by his emotional state, made his voice sound somewhat stiff. His hand on the armrest turned white at the knuckles.
"I do!" Rhaenys did not back down. Her voice rose even higher than before, carrying a resolve that suggested she would burn down the world if she had to. "I know better than anyone! Father's blood flows in his veins! The sigil of Dragonstone is branded on his body! Meleys accepted him! This is irrefutable proof! Uncle, look at him! Look at this silver hair, these purple eyes! This brand! Him standing here is the continuation of Aemon Targaryen's bloodline!"
Her words were like a volley of arrows, striking straight at the core, leaving no room for doubt.
Baelon's breathing became noticeably heavier. Rhaenys's mention of "the continuation of Aemon Targaryen's bloodline" was like a poisoned dagger, plunging precisely into the deepest wound in his heart.
His brother's face and voice flashed before his eyes, along with that despicable assassination in the streets of Myr... The fury of vengeance and the grief of losing his closest kin intertwined, creating a suffocating ache in his chest. And the nagging pain under his right ribs, seemingly ignited by these intense emotions, suddenly became sharp and clear, as if a red-hot needle were churning inside him.
He subconsciously raised his left hand, pressing his knuckles hard against the spot, his brows knitting tightly together as a trace of unconcealed pain swept across his resolute face.
"Your Grace!" The maester immediately stepped forward nervously.
"Stay back!" Baelon raised a hand sharply to stop him, his voice laced with suppressed irritability.
He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the sudden agony and surging blood. Fine beads of cold sweat seeped from his temples.
He looked at Daemon again. The scrutiny and suspicion in his eyes had not diminished; instead, due to his physical discomfort and Rhaenys's forceful attitude, they were now cast in an even darker shadow.
A "nephew" with a bizarre brand, "certified" by Rhaenys in such a dramatic fashion, appearing at this sensitive moment when the bloody aftermath of Myr had not yet settled... The coincidence itself reeked of conspiracy. Was it a slow-acting poison? Or a more sinister plot to taint the bloodline and shake the foundation? His hand pressed harder against his ribs unconsciously.
Just then, the pulsing black three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder shuddered violently without warning!
A sharp, searing pain, far exceeding anything before—like a red-hot branding iron being pressed directly into raw flesh—exploded!
"Argh!" Caught off guard, Daemon grunted in pain. His body trembled violently as his left hand clamped over his right shoulder. Between his fingers, the black dragon pattern seemed to come alive, dark red light writhing and struggling under his skin, trying to burst out!
Cold sweat instantly soaked his pale forehead. This sudden, drastic change startled everyone.
"Daemon!" Rhaenys cried out, immediately turning to support his teetering body.
Prince Baelon's gaze stabbed like an ice pick, fixated on Daemon's pain-twisted expression and the abnormally active brand.
Suspicion spread like ink in clear water. This reaction... was too bizarre!
However, what shook Daemon to his core even more than the physical pain was the terrifying sound that exploded in his mind immediately after! It didn't come from the outside world, but roared directly deep within his skull, within his very soul!
A roar!
A dragon's wail, seemingly from the depths of the abyss, filled with endless agony and the scent of decay!
The sound was saturated with dying despair, forgotten rage, and a bone-chilling cold that made the soul tremble!
It sounded more like... the final death cry of a colossal beast rotting slowly in eternal darkness, its dragon bones torn apart and rusted scales peeled off by invisible forces, filled with boundless malice and icy death!
The sound assaulted his mind directly, making his eardrums feel like they were splitting and black spots dance before his eyes. It felt as if the cold breath of death was crawling up his spine to cover his entire body!
He stumbled back a step, his back slamming heavily against the cold black stone wall. The icy touch jolted him, barely keeping him from collapsing.
Gasping for air, his heart pounding like a war drum, the terrifying wail still echoing in his skull, bringing waves of dizziness and nausea. He lifted his head, looking past the bewildered crowd, his gaze subconsciously drawn to the narrow window of the Hall of Dragonfire that faced the depths of the castle, toward the towering Dragonmont.
Outside, there was only thick, unmelting sulfur mist and the heavy, descending twilight.
What was that? A hallucination? Or... some ominous omen from the deepest levels of the Dragonmont?
Daemon leaned against the cold stone wall, his wet, cold clothes clinging to his skin, the brand on his shoulder burning like a chunk of coal, the echo of the wail still lingering in his mind.
He watched Prince Baelon enduring the pain in his ribs, saw Rhaenys's worried yet determined eyes, and felt the oppression permeating the depths of this ancient castle, along with that dragon roar that seemed to come from hell.
The massive shadow of Dragonstone had never weighed as heavily on his shoulders as it did now.
Beneath the calm surface, the venom of vengeance might have already quietly seeped in, while the decaying lament from the ancient depths of the dragon's lair tolled like a death knell.
The wheel of fate, amidst Rhaenys's declaration, Baelon's hidden pain, and Daemon's auditory hallucination, had irreversibly begun to accelerate.
Just then, the sound of hurried but steady footsteps approaching from the distance broke the heavy silence of the Hall of Dragonfire.
A guard appeared at the door, reporting respectfully but with a hint of nervousness: "Your Grace, Princess. The flagship of Lord Corlys Velaryon, the 'Sea Snake,' has entered the harbor. Lord Corlys is coming ashore and requests an immediate audience. He says... he brings the latest intelligence regarding Myr, and... important clues regarding the disturbance in the dungeons this morning."
The Sea Snake had arrived!
Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, the Master of Driftmark, the "Sea Snake"—a man known across the seven seas for his wisdom, power, and iron-fisted approach. The name itself carried the weight of ocean waves and the chill of ruthlessness. His arrival would undoubtedly cast a massive stone into the already turbulent waters of Dragonstone.
A gleam of light flashed in Prince Baelon's eyes, gone in an instant like cold lightning through a crack in storm clouds. The hand pressing his ribs slowly lowered. He seemed to suppress all pain and suspicion beneath the unfathomable mask of a politician. In an instant, his face showed only the unquestionable, cold majesty belonging to the Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King, though the trace of exhaustion and hidden pain remained between his brows.
He took a deep look at Daemon, whose face was as pale as paper and who was being supported by Rhaenys, and then at his determined niece. He spoke in a deep voice: "Understood. Please ask Lord Velaryon to come here directly."
His voice had regained its steadiness, but it carried the tone of an absolute command.
The center of the storm had suddenly become even more dangerous and unpredictable.
Daemon Blackfyre, the "Black Dragon" from a century in the future, now stood on the edge of the vortex of House Targaryen's power and secrets. Before him lay unfathomable undercurrents; behind him, the lingering sorrowful cry of a dragon.
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