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Chapter Text

Prince Baelon Targaryen groaned. The pounding in his gut was a shred of striking evidence that he was not dead yet. He turned his head slowly against the pain to survey the rest of his surroundings and saw his father—King Jaehaerys—frown at the Grand Maester kneeling at his feet. “Preposterous!” his father, so uncharacteristically, exploded. “How dare you utter this nonsense! You have to save him.”

“Your Grace,” Grand Maester Pycelle bowed his head with a desperate sigh. “It pains me to inform you that His Highness is dying. There is no treatment for a burst belly.” He glanced respectfully at his helpless, still body unaware that Baelon could hear them. “Prince Baelon the Brave … the hope of the realm…the rider of Vhagar and the Heir to the Iron Throne dead of a burst belly? The Gods must have forsaken us…”

“Cease your blabbering!” King Jahaerys bellowed. If not for the damnable throbbing that threatened to split his waist, Baelon would’ve burst out laughing. His father was known for his grace and gentle nature. His smile could warm the heart of the coldest man and tame the Bronze Fury. It was the first time he’d seen him so unsettled.

Was he indeed dying?

Was his fate to breathe his last in the Kingswood hunting the White Hart?

He had never contemplated such a shameful fate.

Were the Gods laughing at his expanse? But then….This was not a time to jest. Truth to be told, Baelon had never fully embraced the Faith of the Seven. A hidden part of him—that part he guarded covetously lest he was called a traitor—had always longed for freedom, for House Targaryen to embrace its true self and be done with all the Faith’s drivel. Sadly, even Aegon the Conqueror had recognized the need to abandon the beliefs of Old Valyria and forsake the Old Gods for aligning with the dominant religion was the only way for his House to gain the support and legitimacy needed to prevent resistance and save countless innocent lives.

And look where he was now…

It hadn’t been long since he’d been named the Hand of the King. He had yearned to honour his father and deceased brother and lead the realm to a prosperous and peaceful era.

His teeth clenched against the throbbing pain as despair, anger and resentment overwhelmed him.

Was his fate to die young and add to his father’s worries? If he were to perish in this wood a kind of chaos the realm had not seen in ages would erupt. His sons were too young and as much as it pained him to admit it, Westeros would never acknowledge Rhaenys as the Heir to the Iron Throne.

He blinked trying to clear his vision. Would his father blame him? It wasn’t that he had much choice to begin with. He had taken Alyssa as his wife like his father wanted. Like him, she was fierce and headstrong. In their years together, he had loved and cherished her. Unfortunately, she was too much of a danger-seeker for his peace of mind. Not long after she gave birth to Daemon—and although she was advised not to—she ignored the Maesters’ warnings, put the newborn in swaddling clothes and took him for a flight on Meleys leading to her falling severely ill. Her death had shattered him. It pained him to watch his newborn son cry with no mother to wipe his tears or give him a loving cuddle.

“Baelon…” Jaehaerys rubbed his sweaty forehead. “You should fight for Viserys and Daemon. They’re but nine and five, too young to lose their father.”

“Your Grace…” Grand Maester Pycelle whispered.

Baelon’s lips thinned. Before he could utter a word to soothe his father, he was startled by the Kingsguard's cries of alarm. He heard something crash down to the ground behind him. Several swords were drawn at once and the Kingsguard's built a protective wall around his makeshift kip.

Baelon frowned. Who was foolish enough to ambush them? He wanted to ask but everyone’s attention was rapt on the newcomer.

The sound of a huge Dragon’s talons hitting the forest floor was unmistakable. Stubbornly, he fought the excoriating pain and lifted his head, his shaking hand instinctively looking for Blackfyre. He spent all his life on the battlefield and would not die like a weakling. Whoever dared insult his family would taste the wrath of his sword.

A hard shock of awareness hit him when his blurry gaze landed on the newcomer. By the Gods…Was his addled mind playing games on him? But…the Dragon glaring ferociously at the Kingsguard was too distinctive to be mistaken with another.

Shining scales as black as coal, menacing eyes as green as poison and fangs sharper than any Valyrian Steel sword…It was the oldest and largest Wild Dragon known to Westerosi.

The Cannibal….

He wondered if even Vhagar could take the nefarious beast down. He closed his eyes but before he could tap on the Soulbond that linked him to his Dragon, a soft, melodious voice spoke in his head. ‘No need to disturb the Queen of All Dragon’s rest. We mean you no harm, Your Highness.’

His eyes snapped open at once. ‘’Lower your swords, I mean you no harm.” The voice spoke again, but loudly this time. Everyone fell into horrified silence at such foolhardiness.

The Cannibal lowered its neck and his breath caught when he noticed the figure on its back. Slowly, as if she was not riding one of the deadliest Dragons in the realm, she smiled and unfastened the saddle belt. She looked down at the Kingsguard and gave a slight smirk. Swiftly, she jumped, the pure white material of her flimsy cloak flowing behind her. Her feet touched the ground lightly.

“Who are you?” His father asked slowly.

She didn’t bow her head as expected and he wondered whether she did not recognize the king or if she was being insolent.

She tilted her head and pinned him with her gaze. Baelon felt something stir in his chest. She was tiny, but he could feel the unmistakable power she possessed. He was certain that her soft, elegant beauty was but a veil that hid a will of steel. With her dark hair seeming on the verge of tumbling from its pins, and sultry, glowing green eyes, she was original and striking. For all her apparent serenity, something was unsettling in her too-knowing eyes. Some wild turbulence hinted at emotions and thoughts that might overwhelm the realm were they let out.

At last, she looked at his father and nodded. “Greetings Your Grace. I do apologize for the disturbance and I wish that you take my word: I mean you and yours no harm. As it happens, I intend to help you and His Highness.”

Jaehaerys’ brows knitted together; he could almost hear him weighing the benefits and drawbacks of taking the stranger’s word.

The Cannibal’s neck slithered around her shoulder, his muzzle grazing her nape lovingly. When his wicked eyes landed on the swords pointing at his rider, they blazed. He was astonished at how could the Kingsguard hold their own while faced with such a menacing creature.

“You are a Dragonrider,” his father observed. “A Dragonrider we do not know of. Besides, it seems like you have claimed the Cannibal.”

“Your Grace is as observant as it is rumoured,” she smiled. “To answer Your Grace’s first question, I am Haela Peverell. My identity was kept  secret after all my kin perished. I am the last of my blood.” Her eyes gentled when they went to the terror at her back. “The Cannibal was all but waiting for me to forge the Soulbound.”

“Peverell? Soulbound?” Grand Maester Pycelle looked paler than a bone. He could not blame him. House Peverell was thought extinct after the Doom of Valyria. Like the Targaryens, Macklyns and Barlaeris, they were Dragonlords and among the most powerful nobles of the Valyrian Freehold. They had worshipped Balerion most ardently, making them his favourite children. The bond they had with the God of Death was absolute and mysterious.

Baelon sighed. Maybe he had his answer. Did she come to claim his soul and deliver it to Balerion? No wonder the Old God blamed him for straying from the path and adopting the Faith’s blasphemies.

“And to answer His Highness’ question, I am not after his soul. His Highness’ time did not come yet.”

“Baelon…” Jaehaerys all but forgot about Lady Peverell and rushed to his side. “Are you awake?”

“Barely,” he forced a smile. “If I perish today, do not mourn my death. All I ask is that you take care of Viserys and Daemon.”

“I said you will not die today,” Lady Peverell snorted. When the Kingsguard tried to stop her from approaching him, she lifted a challenging brow. The Cannibal roared and unfurled its mighty wings, making them sink into darkness.

Baelon sighed. “Let her be.”

His father’s sharp gaze studied her. “Are you a healer? Do you believe you can achieve what Grand Maester Pycelle could not?”

“I am,” she tilted her chin proudly and produced a bone-white stick from her sleeve. A wand…Was she a wilder of Old Valyria’s Magic?

“If you do,” Jaehaerys eyed her wand carefully, “I shall name you the Crown Princess.”

“Father…” Baelon wheezed. What was his father playing at? He had not entertained the thought of a wife since he lost Alyssa. His sons and the realm were all he thought about.

An amused twinkle lit her eyes as she nodded once. King Jaehaerys’ expression changed as something unspoken went between them.

She slashed her Wand deftly and the pin at his shoulder disappeared. His tunic fell aside to dangle off the sides. He winced when the cold air hit his burning skin. She did not look fazed by the gruesome sight. He tried to control the rise and fall of his chest as she studied his belly, unperturbed by his nakedness. His skin tingled as the golden light coming off her wand touched it. Baelon concentrated on her beautiful face and took a deep breath, gathering his strength for what could be a very difficult mending. He had escaped death so far. Would the Old Gods have mercy on his poor sons?

Unexpectedly, he felt no pain as she tended to him, her dark hair swirling lightly around her delicate shoulders. When she stared down at him, he fought the urge to caress her face with his fingertips.

When she was done, she brushed at his soaked hair, and a smooth, pale wisp came tumbling free down his cheek. “Is anything aching, Your Highness?” she asked softly.

“No.” Skin prickling, he lay in frozen silence and stared into her ethereal eyes. “How did you learn about my condition? Why now? Who are you?”

Jaehaerys cleared his throat. “Is this how you show gratitude to your benefactor?”

She shrugged. When she tried to rise, he caught her hand, noticing the strange black stone shining on the only ring she wore. It hummed with power. Her lips twitched but she let him hold her fingers.

As expected, his father did not miss the small exchange. “Very well. I believe it is time for us to head back to the Red Keep. I believe Viserys and Daemon are anxious to have you back.”

Haela’s interest seemed to be picked at the mention of his youngest son. “Oh, Prince Daemon…I would like very much to meet him.” Her sultry eyes opened and sparkled with… unbridled humour.

Chapter Text

A lone figure stood on the steep cliff, watching the stormy sea. She didn’t as much as shiver as the temperature dipped alarmingly. Her snowy cloak rippled in the freezing breeze as dark clouds obscured the Blood Moon. They churned grimly in the night sky, as black as obsidian. The Blood Moon’s red flush was painted the colour of blood by the thunderheads, casting down shivers of pink light with a ghostly glow. 

Lady Haela Peverell sighed. No matter where she went, Samhain never bore good news for her.

The new Blood Moon carried with it another loss. She closed her eyes and listened to the sea. Listened to the wails of the Smoking Sea—the treacherous expanse of rough water where once stood and thrived one of the greatest cities: Valyria.

The Magic of Old Valyria felt like sharp nails against her covered skin; wailing, hissing, cursing, and moaning yet another loss.

The echo of a rasping rumbling from the remnants of the city buried thousands of feet underneath came to her as clear as day as the waves sloshed, slurped and slobbered with their vicious lips. They pounded into the cliff, demanding her attention, slamming the rocks before releasing. When she didn’t move, knowing that she was to have a very long and arduous night, they frothed and pummeled the cliff more insistently, expunging their rage.

Lady Haela shook her head and muttered under her breath. “As you wish.”

She groaned when she felt a tug at her core. “My dearest…” The hateful voice beckoned through the Soulbond they shared.

She closed her eyes and summoned what little patience she had as she apparated to the Peverell Sanctum.

She landed at the Ritual Room. There was something cold and eerie about the place, but also comforting . In this room, people became equals, stripped of pride and ego and everything worldly and of value as soon as they sought the one true God’s clemency. Only their soul mattered, and how eager they were to have the Deity sluice it with his ichor and grant their requests.

Without turning her head, she felt his presence. “My dearest…” He greeted her knowing how much the term of endearment irked her.

Would he ever give her a moment of peace? If only his ardent worshippers knew his true colours.

The Stranger from the Faith of the Seven, the Weirwood face, the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, the weeping Lady of Lys or….The Great Balerion of Valyria. He had several names, several faces, but to her, he was her salvation and her doom. He was simply Death.

“Too many names, too little faith,” Death tsked indignantly. He crept to her, his pitch black robes flowing ethereally as if they were alive. “And for the sake of strict factual accuracy, I do abhor the name Balerion. No stinky creature as a Dragon is worthy of being named after me.”

Haela narrowed her eyes and scowled at his hidden face for all she was worth. Her heart, though, kept beating recklessly with the sheer thrill of the unknown. If she trusted anything fully, it was magic. Something important was about to take place .

“Are you sure you are quite ready, Haela?” Death’s icy fingers ran down her cheek. She didn’t wince or shiver. Since the second Killing curse hit her at point-blank range, and she made her choice to never go back to Magical Britain; she found comfort in coldness. Whether it was her home, the Peverell Magic she had embraced entirely and gladly or….the infuriating Deity she loathed and loved; they were cold and unforgiving and untamable. However, they were familiar. Familiar and welcome.

“The stars have aligned. This is no ordinary Blood Moon,” Death observed tauntingly.

“I’ve never liked Blood Moons,” she looked at the raging fire, her brows knitting together.

“Nevertheless, wars mean more headaches for me,” he drawled, making her wrinkled brows crease more deeply with worry. A premonition prickled along her spine. She had long since feared that Death’s reckless pursuit of fun would end in disaster. For her, of course. She blamed it on immortality. It must be tiresome to live for an eternity, she mused inwardly.

“Minions nowadays are rebellious. Targaryens, in particular. I hardly have the patience to deal with a Dance of the Dragons. A civil war could be merciless. House Targaryen is undistinguished in every area but possessiveness, and the last thing we need is a fight for the Iron Throne upon us. No Dragon would survive the dance. As it is, only a few survived the Doom of Valyria,” Death said flatly.

“But we live thousands of miles away from Westeros,” she protested. “It’s peaceful here. I want to devote my time to learning more about the noble art of Healing.”

“You came a long way from your days as Dumbledore’s little martyr, sweet Haela.” She heard the smile in his voice. “But….”

From the corner of her eye, Haela saw a flicker in the fire before it started burning like a beacon in the darkness.

“I have to admit, she is rather persistent.” Death clapped his hands.

“She?” she repeated dumbly.

A slim, tall, flimsy figure emerged from the fire. She was pleasing and regal, but not particularly like the other Targaryens she’d met. Of course, she was a Targaryen, going by the silver-blond hair and jewel-like eyes. The woman sported a dark scowl as soon as her gaze landed on Death.

“You!” she hissed.

“It is all your doing, Alyssa,” Death said, unruffled by the woman’s ire. “Your pursuit of the thrill of adventure was too much for your frail, mortal body.”

“But my sons!” she growled.

“They have their father and grandfather to look after them,” he answered with a touch of amusement. “Though Jaehaerys is growing old and balmy.”

The woman; Alyssa Targaryen screwed up her pale face in deep pain. “Baelon is dying. And Daemon….He lit a candle for me. Its fire reached me.”

At once, Haela’s interest was piqued. She looked at Death, seeking an answer. “The Magic of Old Valyria lives in the youngest Targaryen. He is blessed with Fire Magic. He lit a candle with his magic at such a young age. I would say, with the right training, he might become a mighty Dragonlord and Fire Mage.”

Alyssa lowered her gaze. “I admit I loved my three sons, Daemon, though…” she shook her head. “I felt how special he was from the moment Goddess Meleys breathed his soul into my womb.”

“We shall see about that,” Death said dryly. “The future is perpetually changing.”

“The future is not something we wait for,” Alyssa contradicted stubbornly. “It is something we create with our hands.”

“True,” he said with a cynical chuckle. “You, though, no longer belong with the living. You had your chance and you wasted it.”

“Death!” Haela hissed.

“What? It is the truth.” Silence stretched on; all that could be heard was the crackling of flames while they devoured the Weirwood.

“Give my sons a chance.” The words tumbled from Alyssa’s mouth. “Give them a better future.”

Death hummed gleefully. “I would like to. I have enough minions to train and torture as it is; I do not require more.”

“Lady Haela?” Alyssa stared at her firmly. “Everyone in the Underworld knows about you. You are Death’s Chosen.” Haela noted the tension and hope on the dead princess’ face. The peppery sting of anxiety filled her chest again.

“Princess Alyssa…” she started.

“Baelon needs a Healer and Daemon needs a guide; someone to show him right from wrong,” she said decisively.

Haela’s breath hitched. Surely, the woman was not asking her to take her place.

Even though she was living in the Smoking Sea, she heard of the Heir to the Iron Throne.

Baelon Targaryen was a born warrior, to be sure. Anyone who had ever seen the Dragonlord in battle, his face streaked with blood and ash, knew there was no question of that. He was also a great tactician, for there would not have been quite so many victories without his unparalleled intelligence. That, however, did not concern her. Was it a crime to wish for a peaceful life far, far away from greed, power and wars?

“You look uncomfortable.” Death’s sinful voice carried in the air. “Are you guessing why Alyssa took it upon herself to visit us at this ungodly hour?”

Alyssa snorted, and she glared at her. It was her fault to think that the woman was pitiful and deserving of her sympathy. After all, she was a crafty, cunning Targaryen.

“You think this is funny?” She narrowed her eyes at Death.

“Not at all, my dearest. But I’m going to let you rant and rave for a little while to get all that nonsense you’re about to spout out of your system before I wade into the quicksand in your head and pull you out. You are not made for a tedious, spirit-killing life. Westeros is calling your name. It is where you belong."

Suddenly animated, Alyssa floated toward her until she felt her icy breath on her face. One of her ghostly hands came to her wrist, her fingers curling around the side of it. “You have my blessing, Lady Haela. I will trouble you with saving my family.”

Sorely troubled, Haela looked at Death. He tilted his head and chuckled. “Do not worry, Alyssa. You made the right choice. Our Haela is compassionate; a natural nurturer. She is also a fierce protector of the weak and oppressed. She loves children the most,” he said, deliberately calibrating his words to test the limits of her patience.

“I hate you,” she growled.

“I am wounded, my dearest.” The bastard feigned hurt. “Worry not, you will not be alone. I will take my Dragon form and keep you company.”

Chapter Text

Baelon’s steed picked up speed, true to its name; its hooves hit the ground like thunder. King Jaehaerys kept pace, probably refusing to leave his side after what happened that morn in Kingswood.

The Red Keep broke up ahead of them, a rocky, harsh cliff rising along the horizon. They run perhaps a half mile more when a dozen Kingsguard appeared along the top of the bluff.

He slowed and came to a stop. His hand went instinctively to his belly. He didn’t feel any pain, as if he wasn’t on the verge of perishing not a half-day ago.

“Baelon.” His father raised a pale eyebrow, but something about his expression told him he wasn’t exactly surprised. “Accept the thing to which the Gods bind you and cherish the people whom fate brings you together. Do it with all your heart. A man often meets his destiny on the road he least expects.”

Cool air rushed over them as a massive shadow hid the daylight. Baelon raised his face to the sky. The Cannibal snapped his massive wings and flew toward them before banking left. Gaining rapid speed, he swooped down and released a stream of black fire, making several Kingsguard halt. At once, they were in full retreat. Unlike the Targaryen Dragons, the Cannibal was an unpredictable Wild Dragon. As if satisfied with his handiwork, the beast arched his long, serpentine neck and tilted down a horned, triangular head that was the length of a man’s body so that he could look at him with eyes that were great pools of poison green. With a sound that sliced the air, he whipped his tail back and forth. Baelon could swear that one huge eyelid dropped in an unmistakable wink before he bared his teeth in a vicious challenge. Was the creature of nightmares making fun of him? It was impossible not to sense the predator in him vibrating with the instinct to give chase.

He couldn’t fathom how could a slip of a girl like Haela Peverell command such a Dragon.

The sound of rippling soil had him looking back at the Cannibal. The Dragon dug his talons into the soil as he landed soundlessly. The moment Haela jumped and patted his flank, he needed no further encouragement. He crouched and sprang into the air. A roar split the sky like a thunderclap, making the short hairs at the back of his neck stand to attention before the Dragon finally disappeared from view.

Jaehaerys clasped his hands around the reins and hummed. His eyes narrowed like finely polished swords as he studied Lady Haela thoughtfully. “Your heart needs mending.”

“By mending, do you mean marrying Lady Peverell?” he asked, setting his careful gaze on his father and confirming his suspicions.

“Right now, what you must do is help her to Thunder's back,” he replied with a twinkle in his eyes. Recognising that his father’s smile was his most disarming weapon, he hesitated before he approached her. “Lady Peverell, may I help you to my mount? The cliff is quite steep.”

The brilliant gaze that met and captured his was alive with a myriad of emotions he so wanted to unravel. Her eyes were seas of passion, inviting and serene. Sorrow, joy, resolution, compassion, fury, and wildness so powerful that they emanated from her every pore. And there was something else: a shadow of something unrestrained waiting in the darkness, waiting to be set free.

‘’You are very gallant, Your Highness.” The words rolled off her tongue playfully.

Slowly, thoughtfully, his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer than required and behaving carelessly for the first time. He wondered why he felt utterly and completely consumed by her. Several Healers had tended to him, yet he had never shown such a reaction to any of them. She flooded his senses. He could hear her breathing and smell the earthy scent that clung to her. He was simply being swept away, drowning in endless waves of attraction and anticipation until he ceased to know himself and knew only her.

When she was finally settled, he lowered his arms and felt more alone than ever. Baelon shook his head and jumped behind her.

He was surprised when she whispered. “Shhh…I won’t hurt you,” she soothed as Thunder snorted, throwing his head back at the stranger’s touch. She ran her hand down the white patch between the steed’s eyes and closed her eyes. She was patient while the horse huffed and kicked out behind them, but it was not long before it was calmed by her gentle voice, eager for the touch of such a tender hand.

Baelon watched her, touched by the almost poignant way she spoke to his steed, as if she understood the beast’s fear. But how could she tame Thunder? His horse was as stubborn as they came. It took him a sennight to tame it. He knew then and there that this woman feared nothing.

“You ease fear well, My Lady,” he pointed out silkily.

She turned her eyes on her while she stroked Thunder’s face. “Maybe because I know fear very well.” She looked at the Red Keep with eyes that probed his soul. There were many questions he wanted to ask, but he could always wait. “The children must be worried. Let’s not keep them waiting, Your Highness.”

Baelon slipped his arms around her, pulling her against the hardness of his chest and held the reins tightly. With a flick of his wrists, thunder echoed beneath his horse’s hooves. Wind whipped through the ends of her wild hair and stung his cheeks, and he raised his face toward the sun to relish the feel of it as he rode. He smiled, hearing her joyous laughter. Was it too wrong to relish in the beauty of this moment?

The creaking of the wooden doors drew Haela back from her musings. She cursed Alyssa Targaryen under her breath, then sighed helplessly.

“How kind of you, my dearest,” Death drawled in her head. “What is the use of living, if it be not to strive for a noble cause?”

“If you dare say for the greater good, so help me! I will hunt you to the deepest pit in Hell and beyond!” she hissed.

“I would never dare,” the bastard sniffed indignantly. “I told you, you will not suffer. His Highness is quite pleasing to the eye, methinks. He is a fine man with a good head on his shoulders. He will do,” he added smoothly.

Her eyes shot to Baelon, disbelief sweeping across her face. A mixture of embarrassment and shock replaced the smile she had offered him a moment earlier. She locked her mental shields, refusing Death access.

She would be lying if she denied Death’s claim. Prince Baelon looked especially handsome in his Valyrian Steel armour. He was tall, lethally quick, broad-shouldered, and strong. He possessed the lean grace of a wolf rather than the muscular density of a bear, like most knights. However, she was yet to wrap her head around the talk she had with his cunning, vexing and very deceased wife. By all that was holy! She hadn’t even agreed, and here she was, walking side by side with the most coveted man in the realm.

Emerald eyes adjusted to the soft light of candle flames and thin beams of sunlight that streaked through the painted windows as they stepped into the gleaming white marble of what she reckoned as the Great Hall. Her gaze went instantly to the Iron Throne, and a chill ran down her back. It was just as Death had described: a towering, untidy tangle of jaded, twisted blades. A symbol made of the melted and broken swords of Aegon the Conqueror’s defeated enemies. A reminder that a ruler should never rest easy in their power. She could almost hear the wails of the deceased’s souls as they mourned their loss. However, nothing could be done about it. The Iron Throne was a testament to the Targaryens’ sovereignty, yet their greatest weakness. No soul should be sacrificed for such an ugly chair.

“Welcome back, Your Grace, Your Highness,” the Master of the Pantry greeted them, but his polite smile promptly turned into surprise when he noticed her. He passed an inquiring look to King Jaehaerys. “Is there something you require, Your Grace?” he cleared his throat.

Jaehaerys smirked. “The day did not start well, but it seems that the Gods still favour the Blood of the Dragon,” his sharp eyes went to her. “Who would’ve thought that we would meet the last of the Peverells in Kingswood?” He chuckled heartily.

The Master’s eyes bulged. Grand Maester Pycelle gave him a nudge, making him splutter. “Welcome to the Red Keep, My Lady.”

“Thank you,” she nodded.

Jaehaerys looked around. “Where are my grandsons?”

Haela glanced down the hallway, and her heart started hammering as she saw a little silver-blond head peeping around the corner at her. Baelon’s eyes instantly lit up. “Daemon?”

He sidled into the doorway, walking with a confidant gait way too perfect for a five-year-old. His curls were tousled carelessly about his forehead and made him look charming and playful. To her surprise, he was dressed like a man rather than the loose, simple gowns in which children were customarily dressed when at home until the age of about six years old. He wore a black tunic with matching trousers. She had never seen anything so adorable in her life. He hung back and lifted his amethyst eyes to her. Unable to look into his beautiful eyes and not see the loneliness and fear that reminded her of her five-year-old self, she knelt down swiftly and caught him in her arms, with a lump in her throat. She kissed him gently on his pale cheek. “Your father is safe,” she whispered. “And your mother….” Daemon gasped and clutched her shoulders, his fingers sinking into her cloak. She paused and dragged out a low breath. “Lady Alyssa is so proud of you, Your Highness.”

Tears swirled in Daemon’s eyes, but he refused to let them down. He hugged her, burying his face in her hair and whispered in her ear. She swore she heard his heart drumming in his chest. “You are the woman I saw in my dreams. The Gods did not forsake me.”

The words spoken in the small voice flooded her heart, her very soul. Haela closed her eyes and offered the child all the comfort she could. Something tugged at her heartstrings, and she knew that Daemon felt the same, going by how he refused to loosen his grip. Such a bond hardly required words. All that she wanted at the moment was to protect and help the little Mage.

Chapter Text

Somehow, it had not occurred to Baelon that he would feel so isolated in the midst of a family supper.

The empty space beside him, where his wife should have been, seemed like a painfully obvious gap. Unexpectedly, a feeling akin to fear came over him, as if he had stumbled into a place where he did not want to be. He was half of something that had once been whole. The empty seat next to him only served as a reminder that a dearly loved woman and mother had been lost. He knew nothing about love when his father ordered them to wed. Everyone thought they had been made for each other, and people had once joked with admiring smiles about how his sister followed him wherever he went.

She had been average in height, but wonderfully fit, and so very attractive with her silver hair, alert, mismatched eyes, and the dazzling smile that was never long in hiding. She had loved to laugh, to dance, to challenge her limits and conquer the skies that no man dared breach.

She had left, but his sons were here, still young and innocent and needy. Maybe it was every Targayen’s fate to go through a trial. He, however, would protect his family to his dying breath. He had enough of tears and smothering mourning rituals. The line between death and life was like the water passage where the tide met a river current, hard to define yet as thick as a sturdy wall. Nevertheless, the living came first. Always.

His gaze scanned across the table, locating his family members. His father was indulging Viserys and regaling him with tales of their hunting adventures. His oldest seemed so absorbed, he barely paid attention to little Daemon. The latter was sitting quietly, his plate untouched. He subtly stared at the door as if waiting for someone.

Baelon’s heart wrenched painfully. It pained him that he could not reach his child or comfort him. Daemon was special, in ways he could not aspire to understand. Even at the age of five, there was something about him that made everyone bow with genuine affection and respect. How wonderful it would be to escape the invisible mantle of grief that covered him from head to toe. Baelon reckoned that he so desperately needed a mother’s hug. If not for his obsession with Queen Visenya’s journals, he would never have a moment’s respite from the constancy of loss and loneliness.

He wondered if things would change now that Haela Peverell was here. He had witnessed the hug they shared earlier. A hug that spoke volumes and had rendered him speechless for everyone in the Red Keep knew of Daemon’s aversion to a stranger’s touch.

They heard her approaching steps, and Daemon’s demeanour changed forthwith.  The amethyst eyes that lacked a mischievous spark a moment ago shone brightly, and the slow, dazzling smile he offered her made him look his age for once.

“Lady Peverell,” his father beckoned. “Please, come and share this meal with us.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she curtsied and looked at him. It was only then that he realised there was just one vacant seat at the table. The one next to him. Needless to say, someone had ordered the servants to remove all the spare chairs.

“Take the seat next to Baelon,” Jaehaerys prompted while amusement flicked in the azure depths of his treacherous eyes.

Haela touched her sleeve lightly and offered him a smile before she took the seat beside him.

His father lifted his goblet in a silent toast graced by an expectant, luminous grin to him. Viserys frowned while Daemon seemed pleased. As the servants brought a lavish meal, his eyes found Haela’s on more than one occasion, sharing a quiet glance with Daemon, which made his heart falter every time he saw it.

“Here, you need more meat,” she said.

Everyone stilled when Daemon accepted her offering. He bit his lip, lowered his head and chewed down the food.

“Viserys,” his father cleared his throat. “I believe you haven’t met Lady Peverell yet. She’s a Healer and your father’s benefactor.”

Viserys’ gaze settled squarely on her for a moment, just a pause that showed his surprise. ‘’Thank you for saving my father, Lady Peverell.”

“It’s my duty as a Healer, Your Highness.” The corner of her mouth lifted with mirth. “I was taking a leisurely ride on my Dragon’s back when we took notice of the commotion in Kingswood.”

“Your Dragon?” Viserys’ eyes widened. “You have bonded with a Dragon?”

“Believe me, it was not by choice,” she muttered under his breath.

Viserys managed a wan smile. Baelon forced a similar one to his stiff lips.”You are still young, Viserys. You will get your Dragon, eventually.”

“I know,” he nodded. Even though most Targaryens bonded with their Dragons in their last teens, the eggs they had placed in the cradle of Viserys and Daemon did not hatch. Viserys took it as a failure on his part.

His father levelled his keen gaze on his grandson. “One day, you shall claim a great Dragon. Who knows? You might even ride Balerion.”

Viserys gasped. “I-I do not think…”

Jaehaerys waved his concerns off. “You don’t choose the Dragon you bond with.”

Haela nodded. “True. You have many years ahead of you to forge a Soulbond.”

Lifting his head, Viserys’ eyes sparkled with fear and hope. “Thank you, Lady Peverell.”

The aromas of the meal called to them like a long-lost lover, and soon enough, they lowered their heads and feasted on the food.

When they were done, Haela pushed her chair back, and at once, his father gave him a side look. “Why don’t you show Lady Peverell to her rooms? I hope you’ll find them to your liking.”

“No need,” she said swiftly, “you must stay here and enjoy the rest of the evening with your family. I’m perfectly able to find my room unescorted, Your Highness. In fact, I would like to have a walk before I go to bed.”

He paused, looking at her in a silent search for words. Without thinking, he blurted as he surged to his feet. “Then, let me show you the gardens. I believe you will like them."

As soon as the words left his lips, he blinked. The realisation that he wanted to spend more time with her, to get to know her, was staggering. It hadn’t even been a day since he met her, and yet…she had entranced, bewitched and subtly taken control over his senses until she rendered him weak. She was indeed a …Witch, he snorted inwardly as he offered her his arm.

Torches flared above them as they walked silently side by side. A blast of fresh air assailed his senses when he pushed the door open and entered the garden. She left his side and crossed to where the prized plants bloomed under the moonlight. She knelt and reached for the Leadwort, then changed her mind and decided on a Firethorn.

He joined her and watched her serene expression dissolve into one of quiet wonder as she examined the flower. Unconsciously, he positioned his broad fingers around the fragile stem to keep her from getting hurt by its thorns. He didn’t know why, but the idea of her getting hurt didn’t sit well with him.

Baelon was aware that, as the Lady of House Peverell, probably the last wielder of Old Valyria’s Magic and a Dragon rider at that, she was far from being fragile. Maybe he hit his head earlier, or maybe he was under some spell. Either way, when her face transformed with a smile of such heart-wrenching appreciation, he knew that trying not to fall for her was not going to be easy.

The dazzling swath of the star-studded sky soon disappeared above a canopy of dark leaves. She followed his directions as he introduced her to his mother’s garden. Awe and rapture were written all over her face as she looked around.

“I believe you might find several medicinal herbs you can use in your potions here,” he said.

“This is heaven,” she laughed.

He smiled at the thrill that laced her voice. “I didn’t thank you earlier for saving my life.” He set his gaze on her.

She shrugged. “That’s what Healers do.”

“You seem quite passionate about the art of healing.” He tilted his head to the side. “You are indeed a great Healer.”

The wailing wind snapped a lock of her hair across his cheek when they took a seat. “Maybe because I’ve been hurt many times to count. I know pain very well. I might even call it an old friend.”

What she said stilled his heart. Her past didn’t sound pleasant. Did she suffer so much grievances? Who had hurt her?

He contained his anger and said instead. “What does not kill us makes us stronger.”

“Well said, Your Highness,” she smiled, looking down. “At last, I’m using my power to help people.”

“You have Old Valyria's Magic.” His intent gaze remained on her. “Everyone believed it was dead after the Doom of Valyria.”

She smirked. “Magic is not something one can destroy or possess. It’s a blessing.”

“As long as someone has it, Old Valyria lives,” he whispered, barely able to stifle the myriad of questions that her words ignited. However, he was sensible enough to understand that he had pushed enough for one day. Unknowingly, she brought with her something every Targaryen coveted. A part of Old Valyria. That knowledge was an exhilaration that made his blood sweep through his veins like fire. A heart-stopping awe that snatched away any meagre words.

His father’s words played in his head again and again: A man often meets his destiny on the road he least expects.

As if sensing his warring feelings, Vhagar, ever his faithful companion, made a swift turn and flew above them, he enormous shadow covering what little light the moon offered. Her pointed bronze wings, half-open and huge, kept the rest of her in shadow, as if the light itself repelled her. Baelon could see nothing but her clever eyes—green orbs with serpentine slits, bright as a torch flame. He had instructed the Dragonkeepers to release her so she could hunt. Unlike the younger ones, the Queen of All Dragons was proud and temperamental. Used to the battlefield, the survivor of a hundred or more battles did not accept being trapped in the Dragonpit for long periods without stretching her wings.

Haela lifted her head to the sky. “She’s a beauty. I cannot wait to talk to her.”

Baelon shook his head and grinned, flashing his famous dimple. Of course, she was a Dragonspeaker as well. Would this woman ever stop surprising him? He doubted that. Either way, all their lives were about to change with the arrival of Lady Haela Peverell.

Haela paced her bedchamber, creating a worn path in the carpet. So much had changed since she left her home and came to the Red Keep.

“Curse you, Death,” she sighed.

“Why?” he whispered in that irksome voice. “I see he’s quite handsome and tall and strong. He’s a good listener, too and seems interested in you. I would call him a good match for my precious mistress.”

Her lips settled into a determined line. “I will ignore you.”

“But I will never leave your side, my dearest,” he avowed.

She cast the window a dark glare. “Aren’t we here to save the children?” she asked instead.

“Among other things,’’ he replied skeptically. “You have seen how badly young Daemon is doing. Viserys is not faring any better. So much is going through that head of his.”

Her heart thrashed against her ribcage. Daemon did remind her of her younger self, indeed. Nothing hurt more than being misunderstood. His family wasn’t treating him badly, but… she sighed deeply. It seemed that his mother’s absence hit him differently. He needed a woman’s guidance and affection. A Witch’s guidance and affection.

She could hardly ask the King and his Heir to let her take him to the Smoking Sea. He was of Targaryen royal blood, more valued than a horde of Dragons.

“We have to find the traitors and stop them,” she said resolutely.

“We will,” Death promised. “We will end their bloodline.”

“Aren’t you a little bit bloodthirsty tonight?” she mocked. “I thought you had it with inept minions.”

He feigned a sigh. “I do. One name, though, comes to mind when I think of my next minion. I would not mind taming him.”

Shivers run down her back. For Death to covet a mortal soul so badly, it could mean simply one thing: that said soul was rotten to the core and deserved whatever notorious plans he had for it.

“You have a little visitor,” he tsked. “Why, he seems eager.”

Haela let her magic out, and a small smile lifted her lips when she sensed Daemon’s Aura nearby.

“At least, he’s a better company than you. He doesn’t plot against me.”

Death gasped. “When have I ever led you astray? All I want is for you to be happy, my dearest.”

She rolled her eyes. “Be gone.”

She heard a faint knock before the door opened, and Daemon stuck his small head inside the chambers. He looked handsome in his dark blue evening gown. “May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course,” she sat on the edge of the bed and asked him to join her.

He sat next to her, his back ramrod straight. Haela had the urge to laugh. The little Prince was not only adorable, but he was entertaining, too. His eyes squinted as he studied her, and his hand trembled slightly as he lifted it. “I heard how you healed Father,” he said quietly. “You are of magic."

She nodded. “I am a Witch.”

There was a spark, a glint of recognition in his eyes as he kept his gaze firmly on her face. “Queen Visenya wrote about the Magic of Old Valyria in her journals. She was a Sorceress.”

Haela hummed. “I believe she was. Did she command fire?”

His amethyst eyes looked earnestly into hers. “Yes. She did. She had predicted that someone of her bloodline would inherit her gift.”

“Show me, your Highness.” She faced him fully. “Let me help you.”

“Will you?” His small voice was an endearing caress.

“Didn’t you say that you saw me in your dreams?”

Daemon bent his head, his silly hair hiding his expression. The only sound in the room was the wafting crackle of the torches. The only sight was the long shadows cast by the flickering flames. An eerie tendril of anticipation snaked up her spine. Beneath the sweep of silver eyelashes, his determined eyes seized her heart and refused to let go.

She couldn’t breathe past the lump that clogged her throat when he said softly. “I’ve wanted to light a candle for Mother for so long. It is the greatest way I can honour her.”

“Your mother loves you.” She ran her hand over his shoulder.

“Viserys didn’t believe I could,” he licked his lips, “but….”

His eyes were like molten steel when he lifted them. “I had dreams about a woman in white who rode the darkest Dragon. I know you would come and help me.”

He studied his hands pensively for a moment; it was as if they were overflowing with promises of the future. Haela tightened her grip on his shoulder and let her magic surround him. Daemon shivered and closed his eyes. Her heart pounded when blood-red flames ignited from the tips of his fingers.