Chapter Text

Chapter One: Ashes and Lotus

The dogs found him again just as the sun died behind Yunmeng’s frozen rooftops.

Four of them—thin, hungry, feral. One limped. One had only one eye. All of them growled.

Wei Ying didn’t move.

He crouched low beside a rotted alley wall, a thin scrap of tattered cloth drawn around his shoulders. His hands were too numb to shake, too cold to bleed, and the snow fell in hard, frozen crystals that stung like teeth. His bare feet were blue. His lips cracked from the cold.

And still the dogs came.

He whimpered without meaning to, backing farther into the shadows. He pressed himself into the wooden wall, chest tight, heart hammering. He hated dogs—had always hated them. Their barking, their sharp teeth, their wild eyes. They reminded him of nights when hunger howled louder than anything, when bones cracked in the dark and no one came to help.

One of the dogs stepped closer. Its teeth were yellow. Saliva dripped from its snarling jaw.

Wei Ying covered his ears, trembling. “Please,” he whispered to no one. “Please don’t bark…”

The growl deepened, and—

A sharp cry split the alley. Then a flicker of gold cut through the gloom like a sunbeam, and the dogs scattered with frightened yelps.

Wei Ying looked up.

A man stood in the snow, sword unsheathed, the blade gleaming with cold light. His robes were ink-dark and lined with fur, his face marked with a tired sort of dignity. Behind him, snowflakes caught in the flicker of his lantern, softening the lines of his expression.

“You’re Wei Changze’s son,” the man said quietly, sheathing his sword.

Wei Ying blinked, dazed and half-frozen. “…Who are you?”

“My name is Jiang Fengmian.” The man stepped forward, his voice warm. “Your father was my sworn brother. I’ve been searching for you.”

Wei Ying didn’t answer. He was too tired to speak.

So when Jiang Fengmian knelt in the snow and held out his hand, Wei Ying simply closed his eyes and let go.

They crossed the lake as snow fell in slow, silent sheets.

Wei Ying sat wrapped in a thick fur cloak aboard the boat, barely able to believe what was happening. He hadn’t ridden a boat before. He hadn’t ridden anything. For weeks—maybe longer—his only home had been a corner of the city where the wind never stopped, where people stepped over you if you fell.

Now he was being carried across frozen waters, toward a palace lit with lanterns and magic.

Toward a place called Lotus Pier.

He watched the distant glow of pavilions shimmer through the mist like a dream. The cold still bit at his skin, but warmth burned somewhere inside him now, too—a fragile, trembling spark of something unfamiliar.

Hope.

The courtyard was quiet when they arrived.

Snow had layered itself thickly on the tiled roofs, softening the sharp elegance of the Jiang compound. Servants moved quickly but respectfully, their eyes flicking curiously toward the boy beside their sect leader.

Wei Ying’s head stayed low.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even blink when a pair of lanterns floated above his head, carried by invisible threads of spiritual energy.

But when the doors slammed open and a voice hissed like a whip, he flinched hard.

“You brought a stray into our house?”

A woman swept into the courtyard, robes of deep violet trailing behind her. Her face was sharp, and her presence sharper. Madam Yu, wife of Jiang Fengmian, mistress of the Jiang Sect.

“He is Wei Changze’s son,” Jiang Fengmian replied, calmly but firmly. “He will be treated as one of our own.”

Madam Yu’s lip curled.

“His mother was a witch. You remember that, don’t you, husband?” Her eyes cut toward Wei Ying. “A nameless girl, a harlot, and you bring her spawn into my home?”

Wei Ying said nothing.

He didn’t lift his eyes. He barely breathed.

But inside, something small and hot curled behind his ribs.

The next morning, the world changed again.

Wei Ying stood quietly by a garden wall, watching the boy called Jiang Cheng crouch beside a woven basket in the snow. Inside were three wriggling puppies—fluffy, tiny, and loud.

Jiang Cheng laughed as one licked his fingers. “You’re getting big, Jasmine . That’s it—bite the sleeve! Good boy!”

Wei Ying’s fingers curled at his sides.

The puppies were cute, but his chest tightened just looking at them. He remembered their teeth, their snarls, the feel of claws at his ankles. He took a step back—and ran straight into Jiang Fengmian.

“They’re frightening him,” the sect leader said softly. “Take them away for now.”

Wei Ying froze.

Jiang Cheng’s head snapped up. “What?! No!”

“The dogs will return when he’s ready.”

“They didn’t do anything wrong!” Jiang Cheng shouted. “Why should I lose them just because—because he’s scared?”

Before anyone could answer, Madam Yu arrived again, her face pale with fury.

“You’re banishing my son’s dogs? Are you mad?!”

“Enough,” Jiang Fengmian said sharply.

By afternoon, Wei Ying was kneeling outside the hall.

Madam Yu stood over him, a bowl of uncooked rice dumped at his knees. He bled through the thin cotton of his trousers.

“You embarrass this house,” she snapped. “You bring bad luck with you like flies on rot. And if you think your little act of fear makes you innocent, think again.”

Wei Ying didn’t respond. He only bowed his head lower.

The rice cut into his skin.

That night, the room was quiet—until it wasn’t.

Jiang Cheng slammed the door open. He stood with arms folded, eyes burning.

“You’re sleeping here?” he spat.

Wei Ying blinked. “He said… your father said we share…”

“I don’t want you here. You made them take my puppies.” His voice broke slightly. “You ruined everything.”

“I didn’t ask—” Wei Ying tried.

“I don’t care,” Jiang Cheng snapped. “You get in my way again, and I’ll call the dogs myself. I’ll have them chase you into the river.”

Wei Ying’s breath caught.

“You wouldn’t…”

Jiang Cheng smirked. “Try me.”

He ran.

The night was bitter, but the fear in his chest burned hotter than the cold.

Wei Ying darted past the outer gates and into the forest beyond Lotus Pier. Trees loomed like shadows. Snow crunched beneath his feet. He didn’t know where he was going—only that he had to run.

He climbed the first low tree he could reach and curled into its branches. His breath fogged the air. He hugged his knees to his chest.

And when he shifted to get warm, something in his leg twisted—wrong.

Pain lit his vision white.

He cried out once, softly, before everything went still again.

They found him just before dawn.

“Ying-di!” Jiang Yanli’s voice was soft and urgent. She held a lantern in one hand, her other arm wrapped in a blanket.

Behind her, Jiang Cheng followed, eyes red-rimmed but dry.

Wei Ying stared down from the tree, lips chapped, face pale.

“You—” he choked. “You said you’d sic dogs on me…”

Jiang Cheng looked away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Yanli held out her arms. “Come down. You’ll catch a cold.”

“I can’t…” His voice cracked. “My leg…”

Together, they climbed up. Together, they helped him down.

And as Jiang Yanli wrapped him in her cloak and whispered soft comforts, Wei Ying thought—for the first time—

Maybe he wasn’t so alone anymore.

[End of Chapter One]

Chapter Text

Dragonstone

The fire in the hearth had nearly burned down to coals when the letter came.

Rhaenyra stood alone in her solar, a goblet of watered wine cooling in her hand, her eyes locked on the dying flame. The silence wrapped around her like a shroud, thick and unyielding. She had always hated the quiet that came with peace. It was too sharp. Too still. Like a sword suspended mid-swing—dangerous in its pause.

The wind outside howled low through the narrow window, stirring the heavy curtains. Dragonstone’s old bones groaned beneath the weight of memory. Even the sea sounded far away tonight, as if the island were holding its breath.

She heard the servant before he knocked—soft-footed, hesitant, as if afraid of breaking something fragile. “A raven from Essos, Your Grace,” the boy murmured, bowing as he extended the scroll. “From a scribe in Yi City.”

She took it without a word.

The seal was unfamiliar—no crest she recognized, no sigil of any noble house. Just a thin black thread knotted through red wax, like a thread of blood wound tight around a secret.

She broke it.

“A woman answering the description of your lost sister was seen in Yi City, over a decade past. Pale-haired, violet-eyed, carrying a child. She called herself Changse Sanren. She did not stay.”

Rhaenyra read it twice. Then a third time.

The flames hissed as a log shifted in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere in the keep, a bell rang the hour.

And then she sank into her chair, the letter clenched tightly in her hands, her breath shallow. Her eyes—dry, bright—shone with something sharp and secret.

Visenya.

She had been fourteen years since she vanished.

Not killed in battle. Not carried off by dragon. She had simply… disappeared. The night Dragonstone burned and the sky split open with screams and wings, the child had slipped away—too young for war, too old to be helpless. One moment she was there, huddled with the younger children in the keep’s old crypts. The next, gone.

No one saw her fall. No bones were found. No blood. Just the absence.

And Rhaenyra had never stopped searching.

The court assumed her dead. A casualty of war, like so many others swallowed by fire and rubble. But a Queen does not forget her blood. Rhaenyra had kept her sister’s memory hidden, buried deep in the vault of her chest where grief and hope waged silent war.

She hadn’t even spoken Visenya’s name in public since the war ended—but the memory of her lived quietly, behind the Queen’s ribs like a wound that never closed.

She remembered the last thing her sister said before she left court:

“I want no part of a throne soaked in blood.”

Now it seemed she had meant it. Not just words—an oath. A farewell.

Outside, Dragonstone rested in uneasy peace.

The war was long over. Rhaenyra Targaryen had claimed her crown—but at great cost. Too many had died screaming her name, too many children left fatherless or burned. And yet, she had done what no Targaryen ruler before her had managed:

She had ended the bloodshed.

Her brother Aegon—scarred and humbled by war—had knelt before her three years prior. He bore the mark of it still in every movement, slower than he once was, quieter. At her command, he had been spared. So too had Aemond, who had lost an eye and nearly his soul during the burning of Harrenhal.

Even Helaena, strange and silent as ever, now lived quietly in the Queen’s court, her twin children running wild through the stone gardens of the keep, laughing like ghosts of a future that might never have been.

They were a family again—fractured, yes, but not broken. Bound not by love, perhaps, but by survival. By the silence that comes after the last scream.

That was Rhaenyra’s legacy.

Not fire. Not death.
 Forgiveness.

But there were some who had not been forgiven.

Otto Hightower—the man who had engineered the coup, who sowed seeds of war like a farmer sowing wheat—now rotted in the deepest cell beneath the Red Keep. His name was no longer spoken in court. His allies had scattered to the winds, and the legacy he tried to build had crumbled beneath the weight of blood.

And Alicent, once the Queen Dowager, now lived locked in the Maiden’s Tower.

Not as a prisoner—but as a penitent.

Rhaenyra had offered her freedom. Alicent had refused.

“I must live with what I’ve done,” she had said, staring through the narrow bars at the courtyard below. “I saw your light and called it blasphemy. I will not beg to walk in it now.”

So she stayed. Alone.

Rhaenyra visited her once a year. They never spoke of the war.
 Only of children. Of dragons. Of the past they could never undo.

Back in her solar, the Queen reread the letter.

“…She carried a child.”

That was the part she couldn’t stop thinking about.

A boy.

 A son.

If it was true—if Visenya had lived, and borne a child in secret—then that child carried Targaryen blood. Fire and shadow. Her blood.

A thousand questions clawed through her mind.

Where had they gone?
 What name had the boy been given?
 Was he safe? Was he strong?
 Did he know who he was?

But there was no name. No clue where they had gone next.
 No grave. No ashes. No proof of death or life.

Only silence.

And silence, Rhaenyra knew, was more dangerous than any sword.

She set the letter aside, hands trembling slightly, and turned to the open window. The sea beyond Dragonstone stretched out like a wound stitched with silver. The waves glittered with moonlight—gentle, indifferent.

She stared into the dark horizon and whispered, “Visenya… where did you go?”

Behind her, a soft knock.

It was Prince Joffrey, the third of her sons—barely thirteen, hair wild from wind and sword practice. He was already taller than she expected him to be, already swinging blades with too much confidence. The age when boys believe themselves invincible.

“Mother?” he asked, stepping in.

Rhaenyra turned, her face softening at the sight of him.

“Come sit.”

He crossed the room and leaned against her chair, frowning. “You’re thinking about the missing one again, aren’t you?”

She smiled faintly. “You mean your aunt.”

“She would have liked me,” he said proudly. “I know she would have.”

“She would have loved you,” Rhaenyra whispered. “She had a wild heart, just like yours.”

Joffrey grinned and laid his head on her shoulder. For a moment, he was just a boy again. Not a prince. Not a warrior in training. Just her son.

In the quiet, the Queen closed her eyes.

And waited.

Somewhere across the world, a boy named Wei Ying—nine years old, shy, soft, and scared of dogs—dreamed of snow and fire. Of a woman with pale hair who sang to him in a language he didn’t understand. Of dragons, wings like thunder, flying across a burning sky.

And the sea between them whispered:

Soon.

[End of Chapter Two]

Chapter Text

Dragonstone

The ravens had taken flight at first light, cloaked not in royal sigils, but in secrecy.

Rhaenyra sent no noble names across the Narrow Sea. No scrolls bearing the three-headed dragon. No mention of the Iron Throne, or the Queen who ruled it. What she dispatched were whispers—curious hands and cautious eyes, dressed in the skin of healers, wandering monks, traders, and scribes. She had learned well from her war: banners drew fire. Silence, however, could be sharper than any sword.

And this wasn’t a matter of politics.

This was blood.

This was Visenya.

And though the world had long since declared her lost to fire or war or sea, Rhaenyra Targaryen had never believed it. One does not lose a sister so easily—not when the bond had been forged not in court, but in shadow. In whispered rebellions and stolen flights on dragonback. Visenya had never asked for a crown. But she had been born with dragon’s blood, all the same.

Now, all Rhaenyra had was the silence she left behind.

But silence, like ash, leaves a trail.

The first raven returned from Qinghe under a merchant’s seal, wax cracked and smeared with dust. Rhaenyra tore it open with a blade.

“A woman matching your sister’s description arrived in the Nightless City sixteen years ago. Her name was Changse Sanren. She came with a man in plain robes, no clan markings. A child was born. They vanished before the boy could walk.”

She read the message three times. Folded it. Unfolded it. Folded it again.

Then a second letter arrived, weeks later, from a spice seller passing near Yi City.

“I saw a pale woman once—burned a man’s throat with a blade and a whisper. Like magic. Her son was always near her side. No clan. No name.”

Neither scroll confirmed her sister was alive. But neither confirmed her dead, either. And in that space between certainty and hope, Rhaenyra’s fire rekindled.

“Your Grace,” Prince Aegon said carefully one evening, standing beside her war table. “If word spreads that you’re chasing ghosts across the sea, it may give your enemies room to speak again.”

He spoke gently, without malice—no longer the boy who had claimed her crown in blood, but the man who had bent the knee. Aegon had changed since the war. There was weariness in him now, and wisdom too. Rhaenyra trusted him. Which made his caution all the harder to ignore.

“If you would permit it,” he continued, “I’ll go in your place. Or Aemond will. Daeron, perhaps. We are still princes, even in exile. And men.”

Rhaenyra only shook her head. “They would smell royalty on your breath and slit your throat for the coin.”

She turned to the fire then, eyes dark with resolve. “I won’t send dragons to find a shadow. I’ll send ghosts.”

But not all shadows moved in silence.

Daeron, the youngest of her half-brothers, heard the news at court and came to her quietly one night. “Is it true?” he asked. “You search for your sister’s child?”

Rhaenyra hesitated. Then nodded.

“He would be what—ten? Eleven?”

“Nine, perhaps. If the timing’s true.”

Daeron looked out toward the sea, lips pressed tight. “Then he’s old enough to be taught. To be shaped.”

“Or already shaped,” she replied. “By a world I don’t understand.”

At her table, maps of Gusu, Lanling, Qinghe, and Yunmeng lay outstretched like veins on a dragon’s wing. The names were strange to Westerosi tongues—Cloud Recesses, Unclean Realm, Lotus Pier—but Rhaenyra studied each, marked them, and committed their shapes to memory.

A name recurred: Changse Sanren. Her sister’s alias, used like a shield.

And another name soon followed.

A marriage, scribbled hastily in a letter from a spy in Yunmeng:

“She wed a servant of the Jiang Sect. No known title. They had a child—a boy. Then both vanished. No death reported. No burial. Just a silence that spreads like mist.”

Rhaenyra clutched the letter in shaking hands. A son. Born of her sister and some quiet man in a foreign world. What life had he known? 

What had he been told of fire?

That night, she visited Helaena, now calmer in her mind, though no less strange.

They sat in a candlelit room high above the sea, the wind whistling between ancient stones. Rhaenyra brushed her sister-in-law’s hair, untangling the silver strands slowly.

“You dream still?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Helaena murmured. She held a moth in her palm, its wings dusted like soft parchment. “Last night I dreamed of a boy walking into a lake of fire.”

Rhaenyra stilled. “And?”

“He walked out unburnt.”

A silence stretched between them.

“You won’t find him by name,” Helaena added absently. “Only by the smoke in his eyes.”

Before the end of the month, Ser Corwyn Velaryon departed with false seals and a handpicked company. His orders were clear:

“Do not follow the mother. Follow the boy.”

For if Visenya had died, the child was the only flame that remained.

Rhaenyra stood at the highest window of her solar, watching the storms gather over the blackened cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea crashed below, furious and endless.

“Why now?” she whispered to the waves. “Why come to me only in riddles?”

Her fingers trembled against the sill.

Behind her, the chamber door opened.

Daemon.

Her husband moved with the quiet familiarity of a man who no longer needed to ask for entry. He studied her from across the room, his gaze unreadable.

“You’re unraveling,” he said, not unkindly.

“I am searching.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

She didn’t turn. “What if he’s already gone?”

“Then nothing you burn will bring him back. But if he lives, you’ll need a clear mind to reach him.”

She exhaled slowly. “He’s her son, Daemon.”

“Then find him. But don’t lose yourself doing it.”

Far across the sea, in a world ruled by swords and moonlight, a child named Wei Ying wandered the lotus-shaded paths of Lotus Pier, kicking stones and avoiding dogs. He laughed easily, and cried quietly. He did not yet know what dragons were, or how close their shadows pressed.

But that night, he dreamed again.

Of a voice calling a name he didn’t recognize.

And of wings, like thunder, splitting the sky.

[End of Chapter Three]

Chapter Text

 Dragonstone

The search had grown colder in some places, hotter in others.

The first whispers had brought glimpses. Rumors. Smoke and shadows. But now Rhaenyra needed more.

So she chose her most clever servants — not her fiercest knights, but minds like knives: linguists, spies, healers who could mend both flesh and truth. The kind of people who knew how to listen without being noticed.

She sent them east, not with swords, but with scrolls.

Disguised as scholars and pilgrims, they crossed the sea and slipped into the lands of Yunmeng, Gusu, and Qinghe, into temples with paper walls and libraries older than Westeros itself.

Their first obstacle was language.
The common tongue of Westeros was useless here. So they listened. They watched. They copied sounds into wax tablets and sang nonsense until it began to form meaning.

One of the older mages — Maester Lorent, once a spellsmith at Storm’s End — crafted a spell drawn from ancient Valyrian and Braavosi glyphs. Not a translation, but an understanding, woven like a net between minds.
It worked—half the time.
At least they no longer asked for “horse soup” when they meant “lodging for the night.”

Each week, Rhaenyra received updates in code:

“Lotus Pier’s walls carry no crest but the river’s scent. A boy practices with a blade too large. He walks alone. Name uncertain.”
“The Cloud Recesses speak often of shadows—one who came and vanished. Fire-touched. Possibly her.”
“The language bends around the name Changse Sanren. Reverence. Regret. No one speaks of her directly.”

The clues gathered like rain in a deep bowl. Still not enough to drink. But close.

And the closer they came, the more Rhaenyra felt the air shift.
Something coming. Something old.

She stood now before the hearth in her private solar, one hand toying absently with the edge of a sealed scroll, the other clenched loosely at her side.

Her eyes drifted to the flame, but her thoughts wandered further — back, to a different fire.
A smaller one. A campfire in the Vale, years ago.
And a girl’s voice behind her:

“Is she really going to eat us if we don’t hold on tight?”

Rhaenyra had laughed, back then. Her younger sister had only been six — all wild curls and questions. She’d begged to ride Syrax. Not beside Rhaenyra, but with her, clutching her tightly around the waist as the dragon lifted into the clouds.

Syrax had been temperamental that day, wings catching a sharp updraft over the Narrow Sea. The girl had screamed — not in fear, but in delight — and Rhaenyra remembered thinking:
She was born for this.
Born for wind and sky and flame.

They’d landed hours later on a black sand beach, cheeks burning from the wind, faces aching with laughter. Her sister had asked if they could fly all the way to the stars next time. Rhaenyra said yes. Of course. Always yes.

Another memory pulled her under—
The echo of slippered feet on stone.
Laughter in the hallways of the Red Keep.

They had run like shadows in moonlight, giggling behind tapestries, hiding from septas and guards, pretending to be ghosts from Old Valyria. Her sister had tripped over her own skirts, and Rhaenyra had pulled her up, breathless, both of them collapsing into a heap near the Queen’s Solar, too loud, too alive.

“If we’re caught, they’ll make us do lessons until our hair turns white,” her sister had whispered.
Rhaenyra had grinned. “Then we’ll dye it red and say we’re dragons.”

Now her hair was half white, streaked with silver like ghosts in snow. And her sister—
Gone.

Not dead. Not for certain. But gone far beyond the reach of ravens or dreams.

A knock stirred her from reverie.

“My lady ,” came the voice of Ser Erryk. “Word from Yunmeng.”

Rhaenyra took the scroll and waved him off.

She broke the seal.

“ The boy is quick. Bright. Too bright for his station. He bears no crest, but something follows him. The elders call it misfortune. We call it flame. ”

Syrax stirred in the caves below, restless.
The dragon always knew when Rhaenyra’s thoughts wandered too close to grief.

She let the scroll fall to the floor, curling like smoke at her feet.

And across the Narrow Sea, in the waters of a foreign land, a boy with old blood stared at the stars and whispered:

“Who are you?”

The wind did not answer.

But it was listening.

Chapter Text

The Eastern Reaches — Months After the Raven Flew

The Targaryen envoys arrived in the cultivation world with little more than cloaks, coin, and fire-forged resolve. They did not wear the sigils of House Targaryen. Their dragons remained behind, hidden from the skies of this new realm. What they carried was quieter than steel and heavier than gold — they carried the will of a Queen searching for a lost sister’s child.

Lady Baela Velaryon, daughter to the Queen’s consort  and gifted in both tongues and illusion, stepped onto foreign soil in a plain grey robe. Beside her stood Ser Ryon Massey, broad of shoulder, sharper with his tongue than his sword — a man better suited to tavern tables than royal courts, which made him perfect for this task.

“Do you understand any of this?” Ser Ryon asked, squinting at a wooden sign covered in ink-brushed script.

“Barely,” Baela muttered. “But give me a moon’s time and a few scrolls and I will sing like their poets.”

“And until then?”

“We listen. We learn. We watch for a boy with silver fire in his blood.”

They carried with them a spell — old Valyrian sorcery, channeled through dragonbone and whispered into obsidian mirrors. It did not translate as much as attune. Their ears adjusted slowly. Words no longer sounded alien, but familiar in tone. The language of the cultivation sects bent to meet them, not fluently, but enough to find the right questions.

And the right name.

“Changse Sanren.”

It echoed in tea houses, in market stalls, in old sect libraries where elders remembered a pale woman who once burned bandits with a whisper and vanished into legend.

“She had a son,” one old shopkeeper said. “A boy with eyes like dusk. No crest. No clan.”

Baela’s fingers trembled over her parchment.

Lotus Pier — Yunmeng Jiang Sect

Wei Ying was almost twelve now.

He ran like a storm through the outer gardens of Lotus Pier, barefoot and laughing, his loose braid flying behind him like a banner. A strip of cloth was tied around his forehead, too large for his face — a discarded training sash, now repurposed as a “hero’s crown.”

Jiang Cheng chased after him, scowling but not truly angry.

“Give it back, Wei Ying!”

“Not until you catch me, chengcheng !” Wei Ying grinned, dodging behind a peach tree.

YanLi and a few of the younger disciples watched from the sidelines, cheering, occasionally pointing out where Wei Ying had ducked.

But their games ended the moment a sharp voice split the air.

“WEI WUXIAN!”

Madam Yu’s shadow descended like thunderclouds.

The boys froze. Jiang Cheng stiffened.

Wei Ying bowed quickly, panting. “Madam Yu, I was just—”

“Playing while others train? Disgracing the Yunmeng Sect with your foolishness again?”

“I finished my drills,” Wei Ying muttered, but not low enough.

The slap was fast. Not harsh enough to break skin, but enough to sting — to humiliate.

Madam Yu turned on her heel. “Ten strikes. No supper. And clean the night court pond until dawn. Perhaps then you’ll remember your place.”

Wei Ying didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He simply lowered his head and walked toward the training yard.

Jiang Cheng said nothing, but his fists were tight at his sides.

Uncle Jiang Fengmian watched from the window and said nothing at all.

That night, Wei Ying curled in the corner of his shared room, bruised and sore, his hands raw from scrubbing stone. He didn’t sleep — not truly.

But he dreamed.

A woman’s voice, soft and strange, hummed a lullaby in a tongue that wasn’t Chinese. Her hair shimmered white as sea-foam, her eyes like twin moons. She cradled him close, singing in rhythm with a dragon’s heartbeat.

“Kesrio ñuha rūklion…”

He reached for her face, but it blurred in the firelight.

“Wait—Mama?”

The language meant nothing. But the warmth meant everything.

And then he woke.

Wei Ying stepped out into the gardens, the moon hanging low above the lotus lake. The water glistened like silvered glass.

He sat near the edge, trailing his fingers in the cool surface.

Who was she? he wondered. The woman in my dream? Why did she sound so sad… and why do I feel like I knew the song?

He didn’t remember his mother. Only scattered images — pale hands, humming tones, the feel of riding on someone’s back through the reeds.

He sighed and looked toward the glowing lights of the inner sanctum.

Why doesn’t Uncle Jiang stop her? Why does he let Madam Yu treat me like this?

He didn’t hate her. He didn’t even fear her, not anymore.

He just… wanted to know.

Who he really was.

Elsewhere — in a quiet mountain village

Ser Ryon crouched near a fire, speaking low to a merchant woman who remembered the name “Changse Sanren.”

“She had a child,” she whispered. “A boy who laughed too loud. His father was from Yunmeng, but I don’t know more.”

“Do you remember the child’s name?”

She shook her head. “Only that he smiled like he had the sun behind his eyes.”

Back at Dragonstone, a raven returned with news. Rhaenyra opened it with shaking hands.

The note was short.

“He lives. A son of no crest. His eyes are grey-violet in the sun. His mother was called Changse Sanren. He resides in Yunmeng under a sect lord’s care. The boy has fire in him. We are watching.”

Rhaenyra stood, scroll clutched to her chest.

Daemon entered quietly behind her.

“Well?”

“They found him.”

Daemon’s brow lifted slightly. “And?”

“She named him Wuxian. Wei Wuxian.”

Daemon stepped beside her, taking the letter. “If he’s anything like you… he’ll burn the world to find the truth.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes.

“I just hope he doesn’t burn first.”

Chapter Text

The Dragonstone estate was quiet that morning—the kind of quiet that pressed into the bones. A stillness so profound, it felt like the castle itself was holding its breath.

Rhaenyra stood by the arched window of her private solar, her hands clasped behind her back, her gaze fixed far beyond the crashing waves. The sea was dark, restless. The scent of salt and iron carried on the wind, mingling with a dull, persistent ache in her chest she couldn’t name. Perhaps it was memory. Perhaps it was something more.

Then—
The pounding of hooves shattered the stillness.

A mounted rider approached the estate’s main gates. Within minutes, the clatter of boots echoed through the halls, followed by a firm knock at the door of the grand hall.

The man who entered was no stranger. Ser Maelon of Driftmark, a trusted messenger of House Velaryon. He bowed deeply, his face pale beneath windburned cheeks.

In his gloved hands: a sealed letter, and a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Your grace,” he said, voice steady despite the weight he carried, “I bring word from the cultivation world. From Yunmeng. It concerns your sister.”

Rhaenyra turned sharply, her heart stalling. “Speak.”

Ser Maelon knelt and held out the scroll first. “Her son has been found. Alive.”

The words hit her like dragonfire.

“Alive?” she echoed, her voice breaking. She stepped forward, clutching the back of a carved chair for balance. “What of my sister? Her husband?”

Ser Maelon lowered his gaze. “They passed away over a decade ago. Slain under mysterious circumstances when the boy was but four. The details… are tragic and politically delicate. But their son lives. He is now fifteen.”

Rhaenyra did not speak. Could not. Her breath came shallowly, the pain of old wounds reopening, mixing now with something unbearably tender: hope.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, reverent. “You’re certain it’s him?”

“We are. He bears her features… and something else. A presence. Flame in his blood.” Maelon paused, then offered the small bundle. “We recovered these from a hidden shrine maintained in secret by a cultivator loyal to her memory.”

Rhaenyra unwrapped the cloth with shaking hands. Inside: a silk scarf the color of dawnlight, embroidered in fine silver thread; a small jade pendant in the shape of a phoenix in flight; and a folded scrap of parchment, old and worn with age.

She opened it carefully.

It was a letter—written in her sister’s hand.

To whoever finds this,

If you are holding this, I am likely gone. But know this: I have lived proudly, fiercely, and with joy.
My son is fireborn. He laughs like his father and flies in his dreams.
Tell him that I never stopped thinking of him. That every lullaby I sang was in Valyrian, so he’d never forget where he comes from.
Tell him that I loved him enough to walk away, to hide him from the world that would use him or break him.
And if my sister still lives—Rhaenyra, my brave star—tell her I never forgot her.
She was always my other wing. My strength. My dearest friend.
And tell her not to cry too much.
We are Targaryens. We burn, and we rise.

With all I was,

Visenya

Rhaenyra pressed the letter to her chest. Her vision blurred.

That evening, she summoned her family to the great hall. The long table was bathed in golden candlelight, shadows flickering along the stone walls as the sea winds moaned outside.

Her voice, when she spoke, was low and heavy with emotion.

“Our sister… is gone.”
The words lingered, settling like ash in the air. “And her husband with her. But their son—our nephew—lives.”

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room.

Aegon leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Why have we heard nothing until now?”

Rhaenyra took a breath. “The cultivation world is vast. Twisting. Secretive. They value silence as much as we value banners. But he has been found.” She looked toward her daughter. “Rhaena, I’m sending you ahead. You’ll begin preparations for a proper household—something grand. Let the world know the blood of the dragon has returned to their shores.”

Rhaena straightened, pride gleaming in her eyes. “It will be done.”

Jacaerys, always careful, asked, “Has the boy been told who he is?”

“No,” Rhaenyra replied. “He knows little of our world. He must be eased into it. I intend to establish quiet influence first—a business front, scholars, diplomats. When the time is right, we bring him home.”

There was a silence. Then—

Helaena rose from her seat, her expression tender. She crossed the room without a word and pulled Rhaenyra into an embrace.

“I remember how she laughed,” Helaena whispered. “She called me her little starcatcher.”

Rhaenyra clung to her, her voice cracking. “She was the first to defend you. Every time. Even against Father.”

“She never let anyone speak cruelty if she could answer it with truth,” Helaena murmured. “She was strong, and kind. People forget those can live in the same heart.”

“She studied under Baoshan Sanrae,” Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice rising slightly. “The immortal cultivator. One of the greatest of his age. She translated his work into Valyrian and Westerosi. Even he called her ‘the wind that carried wisdom.’”

“She sounds like she belonged in both worlds,” Rhaena said softly.

“She did ,” Rhaenyra replied. “She walked between them like a bridge on fire.”

Her hand brushed the pendant now hanging around her neck—the jade phoenix. “I want her things preserved. A room made in her memory. Our nephew will know her—through stories, through song, through us.”

Everyone nodded.

Aegon poured a cup of wine and raised it. “To Visenya. The dragon who vanished, but never fell.”

“To Visenya,” they echoed.

That night, in the solitude of her chambers, Rhaenyra laid the scarf over her lap. She could still smell her sister’s scent—jasmine and paper and wind.

She whispered into the quiet:
“You were always the brave one. The bold one. I only ever followed your light.”

A single tear traced her cheek as she added, “But now I will carry it.”

The waves crashed below. The wind howled around Dragonstone. And in the dark, somewhere across the sea, a boy with fire in his blood looked up at the same moon.

Chapter Text

Lotus Pier was quieter than usual that evening.

Dinner was served in the main hall, the long lacquered table laid out with warm dishes of lake fish, steamed lotus seed buns, sweet wine-soaked pears, and of course—lotus root and pork rib soup. The warm scent hung heavy in the air, but something about the atmosphere felt tight, expectant.

Wei Ying sat beside Jiang Cheng, his hands resting in his lap, knees bouncing slightly under the table. Across from him, Madam Yu ate in cold silence, her sharp eyes darting between her children like hawks.

Jiang Fengmian cleared his throat softly.

“I have received word from Gusu Lan,” he began, setting his cup down. “The Cloud Recesses have opened an advanced study program—one year under Lan Qiren’s personal instruction.”

Jiang Cheng immediately looked up. “We’re going?”

Fengmian nodded. “You and Wei Ying will both attend.”

Wei Ying blinked. “Me?”

“You don’t have to,” Fengmian said gently, turning to him. “If you don’t want to go, you can remain here.”

There was a pause.

Then a sharp clatter—Madam Yu had dropped her chopsticks.

“Oh, how wonderful,” she said icily. “The son of a servant is given a choice. But my son—my son—he must go whether he wants to or not?”

Wei Ying lowered his head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Yu Ziyuan,” Jiang Fengmian said quietly, “I only meant that Wei Ying may not feel comfortable in Gusu—”

“And whose fault is that?” Madam Yu snapped. “If he had been raised properly, perhaps he would be comfortable. But you’ve given him free reign since he was a child—no discipline, no rules, no consequences. And now look at him. Ungrateful.”

“I’ll go,” Wei Ying said, voice steady but quiet.

Everyone turned toward him.

“I’ll go to Gusu. If that’s what’s best for the sect.”

Jiang Cheng gave him a wary glance, reading between the lines. Madam Yu, however, gave a cold, satisfied smile.

“Of course you will.”

The rest of dinner passed in strained silence. Wei Ying ate sparingly. Jiang Yanli tried to ask him if he liked the soup. He nodded politely, but the taste barely registered.

Later, after the table was cleared and the lanterns in the hall began to dim, Wei Ying walked toward the guest wing when he heard the sharp call of his name.

“Wei Ying.”

He turned. Madam Yu stood at the top of the stairs.

“Come.”

He hesitated.

“I said come.”

The room was cold. The windows were open, letting the night breeze curl in like thin fingers. Wei Ying stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“You think you’re clever?” she hissed.

He stood in the center of the room, fists clenched at his sides.

“You think you’re noble? That this is your home? That my husband’s attention means anything?” She walked in a slow circle around him. “You’ll go to Gusu, and you will not bring shame upon the Jiang sect. Do you hear me?”

“I understand.”

She slapped him. Hard. His head jerked to the side, but he didn’t flinch.

“You are nothing but the son of a servant,” she spat. “Don’t forget it. You think being named head disciple makes you special? You haven’t earned a single thing. You are not equal to my son. Not now. Not ever.”

Another blow—this time to his back, swift and cutting. He stumbled but caught himself.

“You will carry yourself like a dog, and you will remember who your master is. If you shame this family, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”

When it was over, she left without another word.

Wei Ying stood there for a moment. Then, slowly, he knelt down and gathered the few things he had dropped: a worn ribbon, a talisman that had fluttered loose from his sleeve. His hands trembled slightly.

Later, back in his tiny room near the back courtyard, he sat on the edge of his pallet. He stripped off his robes and winced as the rough fabric brushed over fresh welts.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Ah-Ying?”

He quickly pulled on a clean shirt.

“Shijie,” he said, opening the door with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jiang Yanli stood with a small tray in her hands. “You forgot your soup. I brought it for you.”

“You’re the best,” he said automatically, stepping aside.

She sat down and handed him the bowl. The steam warmed his hands.

“Mother…” she began hesitantly, “She… she has a difficult way of showing it, but I think she worries about you. That’s all.”

Wei Ying sipped the soup and didn’t reply.

“She just doesn’t know how to say it properly,” Yanli continued gently. “You’re part of this family. You’ve always been.”

Wei Ying smiled faintly. “If that’s how she shows worry, I’d hate to see how she expresses disappointment.”

Yanli didn’t laugh. Her brow furrowed.

“Promise me you’ll be careful in Gusu. And… don’t let them make you feel like you don’t belong.”

He nodded. “I promise, Shijie.”

After she left, he set the bowl aside, half-finished, and started to pack.

It didn’t take long.

Two sets of robes—one simple, one formal. A winter coat that was more symbolic than useful, made from thin wool that hardly kept out a Lotus Pier breeze, let alone Gusu cold. A worn wooden sword scabbard, a pouch of talismans he’d drawn himself—some experimental, some unfinished. A hair ribbon Jiang Yanli had given him on his tenth birthday. That was it.

He looked at the small bundle and shrugged. It fit easily into the corner of the satchel.

He hadn’t questioned why he didn’t have more—no salary, no stipend, no robes with his name embroidered like the other senior disciples. He assumed it was because he was too young. Or too irresponsible.

Jiang Fengmian probably thought he’d lose the money anyway, spending it on sweets or nonsense.

So he never asked.

Later that night, he unwrapped a small ointment jar and tended to the welts on his back in silence. He couldn’t reach all of them, so he did what he could. His hands were scraped too—from the practice field or maybe from falling during the beating, he wasn’t sure.

Lying on his side in bed, he stared up at the ceiling.

Why do you always make me feel like it’s my fault, he thought silently, but never hers?

He closed his eyes.

The road to Gusu would begin tomorrow.

And he would walk it with his head high—even if it was heavy.

Chapter Text

The road from Lotus Pier to Gusu stretched long and winding, carved through lush fields and misty hills that blurred into grey as the sun dipped westward. Wei Ying leaned forward over the reins of his sword, his face bent into the wind, enjoying the rush of air and the momentary silence.

Behind him, Jiang Cheng rode tensely, quiet, as usual. Jiang Yanli followed steadily, more graceful than both boys combined.

They reached Seatown just before dusk, the sky turning lilac. The streets bustled with noise—merchants closing shop, fishermen unloading, children chasing lanterns. Wei Ying looked around with bright eyes.

“Looks like a festival’s starting,” he said cheerfully.

“We’re just here to rest,” Jiang Cheng reminded him, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get distracted.”

They made their way to the only decent inn near the harbor. Jiang Yanli stepped forward to arrange the rooms while Wei Ying stretched his legs outside.

Minutes passed. Then Jiang Yanli returned, her expression tight.

“What happened?” Jiang Cheng asked.

“The rooms are all taken,” she said carefully. “Reserved by Jin Zixuan’s party.”

Wei Ying groaned. “That peacock again?”

As if summoned by insult, Jin Zixuan himself stepped into view from the inn’s side balcony, robes pristine and eyes disapproving.

“You again,” he said, gaze falling on Wei Ying like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant. “I reserved this entire inn for my retinue. Surely you knew that.”

“We’re only here for the night,” Jiang Yanli said politely. “Surely a few rooms won’t offend you.”

“My people come first,” Jin Zixuan said coolly. “I won’t make space for… unnecessary guests.”

Wei Ying stepped forward, jaw tightening. “Unnecessary?”

“Come on,” Jiang Cheng muttered, grabbing his sleeve. “Forget it.”

They flew straight for Gusu, cloaked in nightfall.

By the time they reached the gates of the Cloud Recesses, the mountains were soaked in moonlight. The white stone steps stretched high above, impossibly still.

Wei Ying yawned. “So… where’s the invitation?”

Jiang Yanli turned to him. “You had it, didn’t you?”

“What? No! Shijie, you never gave it to me!”

“I gave it to someone,” she said, flustered. “You were holding the satchels!”

“I was holding our robes! That invitation wasn’t in my bag!”

Jiang Cheng rubbed his forehead. “You lost it?”

“I didn’t lose anything!” Wei Ying said. “I never had it!”

A voice, cold as Gusu moonlight, broke through the tension.

“No invitation. No entry.”

They turned.

A tall, pale young man stood at the top of the steps—robes white as snow, hair bound high with a white forehead ribbon, and golden eyes that seemed carved from frozen sun.

Lan Wangji.

“The Second Young Master of Lan,” Jiang Yanli whispered.

“No invitation. No entry,” Lan Wangji repeated without emotion.

“I can go back,” Wei Ying offered. “Back to Caiyi Town . I’ll check the inn. We probably dropped it there.”

“You can try,” Lan Wangji said. “But you will not enter without it.”

He turned and vanished down the steps like mist.

Back in Caiyi Town, the streets were almost deserted. Wei Ying ducked through the side alley behind the inn. After a bit of searching and a few persuasive coins tossed at the stableboy, he finally found it—a scroll tucked under a bundled robe left behind by mistake.

He breathed out. “Found it.”

On his way back, he passed a small cart by the roadside. The vendor, an old man with missing teeth and a knowing grin, beckoned him.

“You look like you could use something warm.”

Wei Ying squinted. “Wine?”

“Sweet plum,” the old man said. “First bottle’s good luck. Second bottle’s pain relief.”

Wei Ying smiled crookedly. “I’ll take both.”

He tucked the bottles into his robes and flew back on Suibian, his sword gleaming silver beneath him, metal humming in harmony with the wind. The weight of the wine felt like a comfort against his side. He didn’t drink often in front of others, but privately… it was different.

Since he was twelve, he’d turned to wine when the bruises burned too deeply, or when the pain in his back from Madam Yu’s beatings screamed loud enough to keep him awake. One particular night at ten, her whip struck his knee so viciously, it hadn’t healed right. Now when it rained—or when the cold bit—it ached, and sometimes, he limped.

No one noticed. No one asked.

At least the wine dulled it.

By the time he returned to Cloud Recesses, the gates were quiet.

No Jiang Cheng. No Yanli. Just mist, and the silver-white walls gleaming like frost.

He landed outside the gate, invitation in hand, but there was no one.

“Well,” he muttered, “no one said I couldn’t climb…”

He vaulted lightly onto the outer wall.

A faint shimmer passed over him—the barrier.

It buzzed against his skin and cracked like a thread snapping.

“…Oops.”

He winced, then sat down on the rooftop wall, pulled the cork from one bottle, and took a deep drink.

The moon above was full and cold. He stared up at it.

He remembered once—long ago—a woman with silver hair, humming something in a tongue he didn’t recognize. She had touched his cheek. “You are so bright,” she’d said. “Just like the moon.”

His mother? A dream? He couldn’t be sure.

Another sip.

“You are violating the rules.”

Wei Ying nearly dropped the bottle.

Lan Wangji stood below, gaze unreadable.

“No alcohol in Cloud Recess,” he said. “No entry after seventh bell. No alcohol  in Cloud Recesses .You have broken three rules .”

Wei Ying blinked. “You counted that fast.”

“Come down.”

“I’ll go back out if it helps—” Wei Ying stood, arms raised. “See? I’m leaving!”

“There is no point. You have already entered.”

“I can give you a bottle?” Wei Ying grinned hopefully, lifting one.

“Bribery is also forbidden.”

Wei Ying sighed. “Is breathing forbidden?”

“Come. Down.”

He took a step—and tripped.

Both bottles slipped from his robes and shattered on the stone path below.

“No—!” he groaned. “Those were good!”

Lan Wangji caught him roughly by the wrist as he fell, then dragged him .“Hey, be gentle!” Wei Ying called. 

They rounded a corner—and came face-to-face with Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren.

Lan Xichen raised a brow, serene. “Wangji? Who is this?”

Lan Wangji bowed. “An intruder. Broke the rules. Was drinking on the wall.”

Wei Ying straightened. “Not on purpose! I’m Wei Wuxian of the Jiang Sect. I had to go back to town to retrieve our invitation. We weren’t let in earlier because we lost it, and I came back to check if my Shijie and Jiang Cheng were admitted. I didn’t know it was past curfew!”

Lan Qiren stared at him for a moment.

Then slowly, “Wei… Wuxian?”

Lan Qiren’s expression barely shifted, but something behind his eyes flickered. Recognition. Memory.

He murmured, “That boy…”

Lan Xichen smiled, ever calm. “As this is your first visit, and the rules were unknown to you, you will not be punished. But please make every effort to learn them.”

“I will!” Wei Ying said brightly, bowing to both. “Promise!”

Lan Xichen gestured. “Wangji will show you to the guest disciple quarters.”

Wei Ying turned to Lan Wangji with a grin. “Guess we’re roommates, huh?”

Lan Wangji said nothing.

As he led the way, Wei Ying jogged a few steps behind him and whispered, “Hey, does that rule book of yours come in multiple volumes, or just one long one?”

Lan Wangji kept walking.

Wei Ying laughed under his breath. “You’re really something else.”

[ end of chapter eight ]

Chapter Text

Dawn broke over the Cloud Recesses like a pale blossom unfurling. Mist curled around white-tiled roofs and the graceful arcs of moonstone bridges. Dew glittered on jade railings, catching the early light as if the entire mountaintop was breathing.

Wei Ying stood at the entrance to the main classroom pavilion, flanked by Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli, their robes crisp and ceremonial. Around them clustered disciples from all corners of the cultivation world—each group a tapestry of color, crest, and concealed nerves.

“How do I fix this stupid sash?” Jiang Cheng muttered, fiddling with his belt like it was trying to strangle him.

“I think it looks fine,” Yanli said gently, smoothing his sleeve. Then she turned to Wei Ying with a teasing smile. “Yours, though… crooked. Again.”

Wei Ying grinned without shame. “Good. A bit of rebellion keeps the sect on their toes.”

They walked together down a marble corridor, past paper-lantern sconces and whispering trees. Disciples from the Nie Sect passed in sleek black robes with silver thread, while the Jin Sect paraded in resplendent gold like peacocks had discovered embroidery.

One such peacock glared down his finely powdered nose—Jin Zixuan, now regrettably on foot and not atop a balcony. His expression promised doom.

Wei Ying, not one to waste dramatic opportunity, gave an exaggerated bow.

“Your Royal Peacockship, stride forth from the heavens and grace us mere mortals,” he declared.

Jin Zixuan’s lip twitched with pure offense. “Wei Wuxian,” he hissed, voice dangerously calm. Then he stormed ahead, silks swishing.

Wei Ying smirked. “He’s so polite,” he said loudly, “I just feel humbled every time we meet.”

As they arrived at the main pavilion, Wei Ying slowed, taking in the serene architecture and soft rustle of banners. He glanced across the courtyard—and spotted him.

Lan Wangji.

Clad in pristine white and blue, the second jade of Lan sat near the front steps with his back straight and hands resting in his sleeves. His expression was unreadable, carved from the same ice that made up the mountain. His presence was like a sword: refined, cold, and beautiful in its edge.

Wei Ying raised a hand in friendly greeting. “Hey!”

Lan Wangji did not move. Not a blink. Not a twitch. If anything, he stared harder in the opposite direction.

Wei Ying lowered his hand slowly, then mumbled to himself, “Okay, maybe I imagined that intense eye contact.”

Just then, a soft voice spoke at his side.

“You waved at Lan Zhan?”

Wei Ying turned to find a boy fanning himself lazily—a disciple of the Nie Sect, with a soft expression and mischievous eyes. He looked like someone who had studied exactly enough to pass and gossiped enough to graduate with honors.

“I’m Nie Huaisang,” the boy said cheerfully. “You must be Wei Wuxian. I heard about you. Three rules broken before breakfast yesterday?”

Wei Ying clutched his chest in mock offense. “That is a complete lie. It was after breakfast.”

Nie Huaisang chuckled. “Oh, good. I was worried you lacked ambition.”

They exchanged grins, instantly at ease.

But the moment of levity ended as the great mahogany doors creaked open and silence fell like snow.

Lan Qiren entered.

Clad in formal robes of blue and white, his silver-streaked hair glinting in the morning light, he moved like a scholar carved from stone—elegant, strict, immovable. He stepped up onto the dais and looked over the assembly of young disciples with eyes that had already judged them and found them lacking.

“Welcome,” he said. “To the Cloud Recesses.”

Wei Ying, never quite clear on the concept of silence, stood and saluted.

“Greetings, Grandmaster Lan !” he said, smiling brightly.

Lan Qiren paused mid-breath. His eyes narrowed slightly. “…Welcome, Wei Wuxian. Please sit.”

Hushed laughter rustled through the disciples like wind through leaves.

Lan Qiren continued as if nothing had happened. “Today begins your path toward discipline, cultivation, and enlightenment. Each sect has brought a token of goodwill. We shall begin the saluting ceremony.”

The Jin Sect went first. Jin Zixuan stepped forward, chin high, robes gold enough to blind someone. He presented a carved mango-wood box containing a set of spirit-threaded ornaments: ostentatious, excessive, Jin.

“From Lanling Jin: may prosperity follow your teachings.”

Next, the Nie Sect offered a polished dagger, its blade sharp enough to split air.

“From Qinghe Nie: honor through strength.”

Finally, Jiang sect and their disciples came forward. In his hands: a folded fan strung with green jade beads.

“From Yunmeng Jiang: humility, and sincerity.”

Lan Qiren accepted each with a graceful nod. Then he took a deep breath.

“And now, the rules of Gusu Lan,” he announced.

The crowd of disciples shifted.

Wei Ying glanced sideways. “How many again?”

Nie Huaisang groaned under his breath. “Three. Thousand. ”

Lan Qiren began, voice steady, eternal, merciless.

“No lying. No fighting. No excessive emotion.”
“No alcohol. No idle gossip. No stepping on the grass.”
“No yelling. No laughing too loud. No lingering outside one’s quarters past curfew.”
“No untidy robes. No flirting. No looking directly at the ancestral hall for more than five breaths.”
“No pets. No musical instruments after dark. No placing books out of order.”

Wei Ying turned to Nie Huaisang, eyes wide. “Wait— no music at night? What do they do for fun here?”

Nie Huaisang whispered, “Read. In silence. With proper posture.”

Wei Ying mock-gasped. “Barbaric.”

Lan Qiren’s voice continued, relentless.

“You will copy all rules by hand. Twice. By the end of your first week.”

Wei Ying slouched in spiritual defeat. “Lan Zhan looks like he was born with the rules tattooed on his soul.”

Jiang Cheng hissed, “Shh.”

Lan Wangji, unbothered and unreadable, did not move. But Wei Ying swore he saw one of the icy veins on his neck twitch.

After an eternity, the speech ended. Lan Qiren dismissed them with a firm wave and a final warning: “Rule-breakers will be corrected. Thoroughly.”

The students were herded out into the morning mist for orientation. The group passed meditation halls, open-air libraries, the Cold Spring, and the famed practice fields. Every inch of the Cloud Recesses was perfectly ordered, impossibly quiet.

Wei Ying trailed along with Huaisang, occasionally whispering observations that made the other boy snort into his fan.

“Did you see that tree?” Wei Ying whispered. “Even it looks like it’s meditating.”

At the rear of the group, Jin Zixuan marched as if the path should move for him. In contrast, Lan Wangji walked silently beside Wei Ying again—every step graceful, precise, controlled.

Wei Ying couldn’t help it. He smiled.

He didn’t know what would come next. He didn’t know if he’d win over Lan Wangji, or if Jin Zixuan would burst a vein, or if he’d survive writing 3,000 rules in ink.

But the mountains were beautiful. The sky was clear. He had a new friend, and a rival, and maybe—a very distant maybe—a path forward.

And as far as Wei Ying was concerned, that was already a good start.

[ end of chapter nine ]

Chapter Text

Cloud Recesses was tranquil. Too tranquil, perhaps. The stillness wrapped around Wei Wuxian like a silken cage. He found himself leaning out of his seat in Lan Qiren’s class, bored, folding small talismans instead of taking notes. Across the room, Lan Wangji sat unmoving—an unbroken line of order.

Why is he so calm? Wei Wuxian wondered as daydreams drifted beyond the window.

Suddenly, Lan Qiren slammed down a scroll of sect rules with a thud that echoed through the hall. “I repeat these so none can claim ignorance. And yet, some still do not pay attention.” He paused, scanning the room with piercing eyes. “Very well. We’ll move to something else.”

Wei Wuxian’s intuition prickled. He looked up and instantly knew he was the target.

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian sat up. “Here.”

Lan Qiren’s fingers tapped the desk. “Let me ask you. Are yao, demons, ghosts, and monsters the same things?”

Wei Wuxian’s grin was effortless: “No.”

“How are they differentiated?”

“Yao are formed from living non-humans; demons from living humans; ghosts from dead humans; monsters from dead non-humans.” 

Lan Qiren arched an eyebrow. “Yao and monsters are often confused. Give an example.”

Pointing out the window, Wei Wuxian replied, “If a living tree absorbs scholarly energy and becomes a spirit, that’s a yao. If I cut it down and the remaining stump becomes a spirit, that’s a monster.” 

Lan Qiren nodded once, expression grave. “What was the profession of the progenitor of the Qinghe Nie Sect?”

“A butcher.” 

“And the Lanling Jin Sect’s white peony is which variety?”

“Sparks Amidst Snow.” 

“And who focused on strengthening clan before sect?”

“The Wen Sect’s Wen Mao.” 

The room stirred with awed tension. But Wei Wuxian just shrugged, relaxed in the storm.

Lan Qiren’s gaze sharpened. “You’re Jiang Sect. You should know this already. No boast. Now—there’s an executioner who killed hundreds, dies publicly, left unburied for seven days. His spirit haunts, kills. What do you do?”

Wei Wuxian paused. The hall stiffened; even the senior disciples held their breath. 

Lan Qiren scolded, “No books.” 

Silence stretched. Finally, Lan Qiren said, “Wangji, you can answer.”

Lan Wangji stood, his voice calm, monotone, crisp: “First, liberate. Second, suppress. Third, eliminate.” 

” Not a single mistake .”

Wei Wuxian met his gaze.”Lan lǎoshī, i knew the answer but I was thinking of a fourth path.”  “There are some cases where liberation fails. Sometimes, suppressing is blockage. Perhaps a fourth method exists—redirection? As Yu the Great tamed the flood, he didn’t block water, he redirected it. Spiritual qi is energy… why not resentful energy?” 

Silence froze the hall.

Lan Qiren roared, voice rigid: “You reverse the natural order, ignore ethics and morality! If you figure out how to control resentful energy, the cultivation world will not allow your existence!” 

Another book flew across the hall.

Lan Qiren demanded: “How do you ensure the resentful energy follows you and harms no other?”

Wei Wuxian ducked to avoid another flying book. Calmly, he said: “I haven’t thought of it yet.”

Lan Qiren snapped, “Then there is no way you should exist in cultivation world! Leave.”

Wei Wuxian bowed swiftly. “As you wish.”

Outside, he sank onto a stone bench under the cherry tree. Cool shade eased his pounding heart. He stared at the mottled petals above, letting the breeze play in his hair.

The quiet snap of footsteps alerted him. Jiang Cheng strode into view, followed by Nie Huaisang.

“Brother Wei,” Nie began softly, “how could you talk back like that? Lan Qiren’s face went almost—red. That’s a first.”

Wei Ying shook his head. “He told me to leave. I left.”

Stepping past them, Wei Ying felt a presence: Lan Wangji, silent, watching from a respectful distance.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying called, head lifting.

Lan Wangji sniffed once, then turned away without a word.

Jiang Cheng let out a frustrated sigh. “Your punishment starts now. Library Pavilion. Copy all the rules, that's what shufu  decided.”

Wei Ying nodded and followed Lan Wangji through the stone archades.

In the Library Pavilion

Lan Wangji led him to a low desk by a window.

“Copy the The Book of Discipline,” he said. “Four times each.”

Wei Ying unrolled gleaming parchment, dipped his brush, and began. The silence stretched—drops of ink marking disciplined lines.

But by the 43rd character, his attention frayed. His pen paused. Then, with a mischievous flick, he whispered, “Young Master Lan ~Lan Er Gege! Are you lisining?”

No reply.

He tried again, louder. “Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji looked up, golden eyes cold. His mouth opened to protest—and Wei Ying stopped him mid-breath, smiling wide.

Lan Wangji exhaled sharply. “Continue writing.” His voice was low but firm.

Wei Ying giggled. “I will. But seriously what kind of sect has three thousand rules?! Are you trying to cultivate or kill me with boredom?.”

Lan Wangji’s brush flicked. “Then leave.” he said coldly 

Wei Ying packed his things, grinning. “, Lan Zhan. I’ll be back to finish soon.”

Lan Wangji said nothing but allowed him to leave. The quiet confidence between them spoke louder than any angle of posture or scroll left incomplete.

As Wei Ying stepped out, the fading sunlight caught the library’s façade. He breathed deep, light-headed with relief.Looks like I’ll be back tomorrow—just for you, Lan Zhan.

[ end of chapter ten ]

Chapter Text

The wind that rolled over Dragonstone that morning carried the scent of sea salt and smoke. From the high balcony of the Black Keep, Rhaenyra stood with her silver-gold hair loose about her shoulders, eyes cast toward the west, where the thin veil of the sky broke into endless blue.

Baela stood beside her—her hair braided high, her violet eyes narrowed against the sun. Though young in years, she bore the calm confidence of a daughter of dragonfire, forged by duty and sharpened by her mother’s wrath.

“You must take care, Baela,” Rhaenyra said, voice firm and low. “The Cultivation World is a realm of veils and blades. Their politics are as twisted as our own, but cloaked in honor and robes. You are not there to fight—you are there to find him. Find her son.”

“I will,” Baela replied. “I swear it on the blood of the dragon. I will bring him home.”

Behind them, Jacaerys Velaryon—her husband—adjusted his traveling cloak. “We ride together,” he said. “You will not be alone.”

“And you, Daerion?” Rhaenyra turned to her youngest brother, whose blade was as swift as his tongue.

He smiled, boyish and bright. “Rhany, I’ve long wanted to see this Gusu. I hear their mountains are guarded by silence.”

“Then do not make noise,” she murmured dryly.

The three departed at dusk, accompanied by seven trusted retainers, all cloaked in spell-woven glamours. Their silver hair darkened, their eyes dulled to brown or black, their bearing softened. Even their dragons—Moondancer, Vermax, and Daerion’s lean she-dragon Ashvein—were hidden away in deep mountain caves, enchanted and guarded by spellbound men sworn to silence.

The journey took weeks. They moved between realms—between rivers and sect lines—careful to draw no attention. It was between Qinghe and Yunmeng, on a plain where the river forked like a silver serpent, that Baela found it: a stretch of road where travelers passed from sect to sect, merchants whispered news, and caravan trails ran thick.

There, they raised “Moonlit Threads”, a shop of fine silk, dyed lotus prints, and strange ocean jewels no one had ever seen. It was a slow beginning, but curiosity lured people in, and soon it became the talk of the merchants’ routes.

Beneath the silk and shimmer, though, spies worked.

Baela dispatched them in pairs. One to Lanling, to listen in the golden courts of the Jin. One to Qinghe, where the Nie Sect’s stone fortresses offered cold welcomes but loose lips after wine. One to Yunmeng, to the banks of the Jiang Sect’s land. Another to Gusu, where the Lan were silent, but not always blind. And one to Qishan, though it risked much—where the Wen Sect’s ambition stank of sulfur and threat.

They returned with scrolls, scraps, half-truths. Bits of names. Descriptions of a boy with a bright laugh and sharp tongue. A servant’s son. A disciple with a silver sword and a bitter limp.

And slowly, the truth rose like moonlight over still water.

Visenya—Rhaenyra’s sister—was dead.

Her husband, a man of the Cultivation world whose name was still unknown, was also dead.

But their son had lived.

A boy taken in by the Jiang Sect. Named Wei Ying.

No title. No contract. No pay. No property.

Raised like a stray dog, and treated worse.

Baela received the report late one evening. Jacaerys stood behind her as she read it, the flickering lantern fire catching the fury in her eyes.

A healer from the Jiang Sect stood before her, shaking slightly. The woman had been brought in secret by one of Baela’s men.

“I saw to his injuries myself,” she whispered. “The sect leader never stopped her. I bandaged his hands. His ribs. Sometimes I think… he had more scars than skin.”

Baela’s voice was tight. “List them. Every one.”

The healer swallowed. “Malnourishment. Chronic underfeeding from childhood—his growth is stunted, his internal organs… fragile. Several bones healed improperly. A broken wrist from when he was nine. A fractured hip—never fully healed. He limps, especially in the cold. Bites on the arms and legs from dogs, untreated. Scars on the back—deep ones—from a spiritual whip.”

“Zidian,” Baela said. “Madam Yu’s weapon.”

The healer nodded. “He was punished often. Too often. And not only did it scar his skin—it disrupted the flow of spiritual energy through his meridians. It has permanently affected the strength and clarity of his Qi.”

Jacaerys moved forward, gently taking the scroll from Baela’s trembling hands. “He is not safe there.”

“No,” Baela said. Her voice burned with wrath. “He never was.”

She turned, sat, and seized a blank parchment. She began writing—furious, precise strokes. Jace stood beside her, dictating points between breaths. They wrote of Wei Ying’s injuries. Of his starvation. Of the permanent damage done to his body—and possibly his cultivation.

She signed it.

“Come now. He needs us.

—Baela Velaryon.”

She sealed the letter with a drop of molten wax, the dragon sigil stamped deep.

“Send it,” she told the messenger. “Tonight.”

And the dragons stirred in their darkened caves, sensing that soon—they would fly again.

[ end of chapter eleven ]

Chapter Text

The Grand Council Chamber of Dragonstone was alive that afternoon with the measured hum of strategy and weighty discourse. At the head of the table sat Queen Rhaenyra, shoulders square, her eyes steady as she presided with the quiet authority of a ruler born to command. To her right, King Daemon, his dark curls shifting in the torchlight, leaned forward in thought. On her left, Prince Aemond, one-eyed and elegant in deep velvet, listened with a calculating sharpness that seemed to weigh each word with exacting precision. Further around the table, Prince Aegon sat with calm wisdom in his gaze, while Princess Helaena,—Rhaenyra’s trusted advisor—made notes by the torches.

They were discussing trade agreements across the Narrow Sea and the need to secure alliances when a hush fell over the room. The heavy wooden doors opened, admitting a single servant bearing a sealed parchment. He approached the table and bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice reverent. “A letter from Lady Baela has arrived.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head. “Thank you.” The servant set the letter before her and withdrew.

She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. In smooth, bold script she read:

“Come now. He needs us.” — Lady Baela Velaryon

Her breath hitched. She held the paper as if it might shatter in her fingers.

Before she could fully digest the weight of those four urgent words, King Daemon accepted another document passed along by Prince Aemond.

He cleared his throat and began to read aloud, voice low but carrying into the stunned silence:

“Mother , Father, I write of Wei Ying’s suffering. He has been starved, malnourished, broken in body and spirit; beaten repeatedly with a spiritual weapon—Zidian—leaving scars across his shoulders and back. His wrists and hip are malformed; his steps uneven in cold weather, and his handwriting is nearly illegible from injury and lack of nourishment. He suffers chronic pain and his spiritual pathways have been corrupted, affecting his cultivation.”

Daemon’s tone hardened with each word, and Rhaenyra’s eyes grew glossy with unshed tears.

Aemond slammed his fist against the table, rattling goblets. “This is monstrous! To permit such abuse under the banner of a sect!”

Helaena’s voice was fierce. “How can they call themselves righteous when they allowed a child—an orphaned child—such treatment?”

Aegon rose, placing a calming hand on her arm. “The Cultivation world hides its strength beneath serenity. But that serenity masks cruelty.”

Daemon folded the letter as he rose from his seat, eyes flashing toward Rhaenyra. “My Queen , we cannot ignore this. He is yours as much as ours. He is kin, by bond and by blood.”

Rhaenyra swallowed, mind racing.

Slowly, she stood, robes whispering. Her voice was steady but trembled with emotion. “Daemon, I trust you and Aegon to hold Dragonstone—and by extension, the realm—in readiness. No one must perceive the truth behind our departure.”

Prince Aegon inclined. “My sister, we will prepare to govern and to protect. The realm will not suffer chaos in your absence.”

Rhaenyra looked at Prince Aemond. “You will accompany me to the Cultivation World. We ride beneath a veil of diplomacy—traveling to settle trade with the Riversmiths. No one—no Western ruler—must guess our true purpose.”

Aemond’s charging eye softened. “I will stand beside you. Dragons may sleep, but they always find their way home.”

She turned to Helaena. “ Helaena, you shall prepare Wei Ying’s return. Arrange for the finest fabrics, the most comfortable accommodations, fresh lymph healing, and spiritual medics. His room must welcome him as one who has suffered—but who is held dear.”

Helaena bowed. “By morning, I shall present three designs for his robes, and ensure qualified healers are assigned.”

Daemon’s face fell into a grim smile. “Very well. You will depart under the pretense of trade negotiations shortly.”

Aegon placed a hand upon her shoulder. “By the Seven, you’ll bring him back safe.”

Rhaenyra raised her gaze across the council table, voice steady with resolve that rang like steel. “Then it is decided. I, Queen  Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, will ride west to claim what is ours—our nephew, our responsibility. We will cross water and land disguised, traveling by ship and carriage, and we will gather our servants close, but speak of politics, not rescue. We shall liberate him.”

A hush followed her declaration, and the chamber seemed to lean forward in gravity and unity. As torchlight danced across determined faces, the words seemed to imprint themselves on the very stones of Dragonstone.

Daemonic calm met draconic fire—and in that joining, a promise: they would extract Wei Ying from a world of silence and neglect, and bring him home to the light.

[ end of chapter twelve ] 

Chapter Text

The winds above Dragonstone had always whispered the secrets of war and legacy, of ancient blood that ran through the veins of those born to ride fire. As dawn broke over the Black Castle’s towers, the sky bore witness to a moment that was at once momentous and perilously quiet. Two dragons stirred atop the cliffside ridges: silver-scaled and coal-dark, wings unfurling like veils of thunderclouds.

Rhaenyra stood before her dragon, Syrax, garbed in plain traveling leathers, her silver-blonde hair bound tight beneath a cowl that would soon be covered by spellcraft and illusion. She cast one glance behind her—at Daemon, who stood beside Prince Aegon and Helaena. Her heart tensed at the parting, though she did not let it show. Her duty now belonged not only to the realm, but to the boy who carried her sister’s blood.

“You’ll see him again soon,” Daemon said, his voice calm, but his hands clenched into quiet fists. “Bring him back. Whatever it takes.”

Rhaenyra offered no words. She turned toward Aemond, whose dragon Vhagar awaited. The great beast was ancient, eyes like pale blue suns, vast wings folded close against her mountainous body.

“We fly swift,” Aemond said, adjusting the satchel at his side. “No banners. No high skies. We ride beneath cloud and storm.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “We arrive before the sun falls. Baela will be waiting.”

And so they flew.

The sky welcomed them with roaring silence. Winds howled around their bodies as they raced across the Narrow Sea, their dragons threading between cloudbanks like phantoms of old. No banner bore their passage, no herald called their names. Their very forms shimmered beneath illusion spells—masks drawn by fire-wrought magic from Old Valyria. Silver turned to black. Pale eyes shaded into brown. They were no longer Targaryens of legend. They were travelers, cloaked in anonymity, bound for a world where swords spoke in spiritual energy and power sang through cultivators’ veins.

By the time they reached the jagged outcroppings between Yunmeng and Qinghe territory, the sun had already begun to sink behind the horizon, casting the landscape in warm amber light and lengthening shadows. Below them, the land was a patchwork of mountain valleys and ancient rivers, broken only by the dark entrance of a cliffside cave—guarded well and hidden deeper still.

Their dragons landed softly—Syrax with a great shuddering breath, and Vhagar’s heavy limbs echoing faintly along the stones. The guardians stationed outside—the trusted men sent ahead by Baela—rushed to greet them, swiftly guiding the dragons into the cavernous shelter alongside Moondancer and Beryon.

Baela stood waiting at the entrance, her dark curls swept into a half-braid, her violet eyes cautious but lit with the glow of familial relief. Beside her stood her husband, Prince Jacaerys—Jace—with strong shoulders, a quiet presence, and a stare that conveyed everything unspoken.

“You came,” Baela said, her voice softer than Rhaenyra remembered.

“We flew fast,” Rhaenyra replied. She crossed the threshold, taking her niece’s hands. “He will not suffer another day without us.”

Jace offered a nod to Aemond, who, despite their stormy past, inclined his head in silent agreement. The past no longer mattered. Not when blood was hurting.

“There’s an inn just south of here,” Baela said, as she motioned toward a winding trail. “Small, discreet. No one there asks questions, especially not when you pay in gold. We’ve already taken rooms. Your servants who travel by land and sea will arrive in three days.”

“They will need care,” Jace added, “but the townspeople will think we’re merchants. Baela’s shop gives us perfect cover. We’ve drawn in buyers from all five great sects. And her spies…”

Rhaenyra’s eyes turned sharp. “Have they confirmed?”

Baela’s jaw clenched. “Yes. Wei Ying’s abuse—his injuries, the spiritual damage, the neglect—it’s worse than we feared. And I’ve arranged for the healer who treated him to come tomorrow. She will give you everything.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them with fire burning behind their illusionary brown. “Good. He deserves truth. And he deserves more than what those people gave him.”

Night settled in thick around them as they reached the inn—an unremarkable building tucked between wild trees and lantern-lit streets. Inside, the walls were warm and simple, perfumed with sweet rice wine and aged wood. Their rooms were prepared, and no questions were asked. A few of their most trusted servants had already arrived and took up posts with practiced quiet.

As Rhaenyra settled into her chamber—her silver hair now hidden beneath a simple brown veil, her robes unadorned by house sigils—she looked out the small window toward the darkened sky and murmured softly, “Soon, child. We are here. We are coming.”

Across the hall, Aemond stood beside the window of his own chamber, sharpening a blade with deliberate patience. He looked at the stars not as lights of beauty—but as witnesses.

“Let them try to stand in our way,” he muttered.

Below them, the town of cultivators slumbered in peace, unaware of the storm that had just landed in their world—two dragons in disguise, coiled and waiting.

[ end of chapter thirteen ] 

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered through paper screens in the inn’s modest dining room, casting lavender and gold across the low wooden table. Rhaenyra sat at one end, her posture straight despite the tight knot of dread in her chest. Aemond and Daerion flanked her, silent as statues in plain dark silk. Jacaerys and Baela sat with her, their faces drawn yet resolute. The servants had laid out warm buns, jugs of sweet rice congee, and fresh fruit, though none of them touched a morsel.

“You look tired,” Aemond said quietly, lifting a cup of tea in offering.

Rhaenyra nodded, both grateful and bitter. “No rest for this journey.”

Daerion wrapped a hand around his mug, jaw clenched. “No rest until we bring him home.”

Baela reached over to squeeze her arm. “He needs us now.”

A quiet knock came at the door. The cook stepped in, followed by a tall, thin woman wrapped in gray robes with soft, weary eyes.

“Lady Rhaenyra,” she said, bowing deeply. “I am the healer assigned by the Jiang Sect. I have documentation and full records.” She carried a satchel, which she placed on the table.

Rhaenyra rose swiftly. “Please, sit.”

The healer opened the satchel, withdrawing sheets of parchment covered in official seals and delicate script.

“First,” she began, voice low, “ages four to nine, Wei Ying was malnourished—on the streets, searching scraps. At nine, upon entering the Jiang Sect, he was subjected to his first formal punishment: kneeling with rising, lasting hours, leading to brittle bones. At nine-and-a-half, he was beaten with wooden staves and planks.” The healer hesitated, swallowing.

Daerion’s hand slammed on the table—and a bowl tipped.

“Continue,” Rhaenyra whispered, voice trembling.

“At ten, they began using the spiritual whip, Zidian. It lacerated his hip so badly it never healed properly. He limps, and in cold or rain, the pain flares. From ages ten to fifteen, he continued to be beaten with Zidian—whipped until bruises blackened. After punishment, he was often denied food or overworked during training despite injuries. His handwriting is nearly illegible because of his broken wrist, and strokes are jagged from pain and disuse.”

Baela gasped, and Jace’s face went white. Aemond’s fist flew into the wood wall with a crack that echoed through the room, splintering the panels.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered through his teeth.

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded so loud she thought her chest would crack. She gripped the table, voice barely restrained. “How could they?”

The healer swallowed, pulling out another parchment: “Here are records for Wei Changze, his father. He was a servant in the Jiang Sect but also—by bond—sworn brother to Jiang Fengmian. He left the sect to be with Wei Ying’s mother, Visenya, who valued freedom above all. He has no living relatives—his parents’ graves are in the sect cemetery; they are listed here.”

Rhaenyra sank into her seat, breath shaky. “There is no one left.”

Daerion slammed his fist on the table again, splintering more wood. “They tortured a child. A bloody child.”

Aemond rose, red rage burning in his eye-patch. He grabbed a chair and smashed it aside. “They will pay. We will take him now!”

Baela leaned over the table, voice fierce as wildfire. “We leave immediately. The dragons are hidden. Rhaenyra, can you ride? Aemond, Daeron, we fly while Jace, I, and the healers go by carriage with cover. We bring him home.”

Rhaenyra looked to each of them. “Yes. Now.” Her voice was steel.

Jace punched his palm. “He needs food and healing. We must reach him—tonight, if we can.”

Helena, who had arrived quietly behind the healer, pulled notes from her sleeve. “Rhaenyra, I have robes ready—finest fabrics, tinted to conceal any injury—but easy to wear. Carriage is ready to leave at first light if you decide.”

Rhaenyra rose and walked to the shattered table. Her gaze swept over her family: her sons, brothers, and daughter-in-law. All radiated a fierce promise.

“Then it is done,” she said softly but decisively. “Aemond and I will fly tonight. Jace, Baela, Helena: prepare the carriage, have the healer begin immediate treatment.” She placed her hand on the healer’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

With a resigned nod, the healer stepped back.

Rhaenyra turned to Aemond. “Stay close.”

Aemond bowed his head, ready.

Daerion and Jace both moved to stand guard at her sides.

The first rays of morning sunlight broke through the windows, illuminating broken wood and fierce hearts. In that light, one thought pulsed in every vein: they would save Wei Ying. They would bring him home. And they would unleash the wrath of dragons if anyone stood in their way.

[ end of chapter fourteen ]

Chapter Text

Dragon’s Call

The morning sun had barely brushed the horizon when a messenger arrived at Dragonstone’s inner courtyard, bearing a scroll sealed with Baela’s violet dragon sigil. Rhaenyra unfurled it, her violet eyes flickering with anticipation and dread. The words confirmed what she’d prayed for: Wei Ying was in Gusu—he had remained in the Cloud Recesses this year.

She shared the news quickly: “Aemond, Daerion, gather fire,” she said, her voice determined as she climbed the cliffside slopes toward the cliff’s edge. Their dragons—black and silver—awaited amid roared breaths of wind and steam.

“Yes, Sister,” Aemond answered, voice taut with resolve. His dragon, raised beneath the same sun, knew him in its blood.

Daerion grinned. “We ride at once.”

Below, Baela and Jace stood in her silk-draped shop, quietly informing their loyal retainers. “We close at dusk,” Baela told them, “pack the crates. Inform the suppliers we’ll resume in two weeks. Gather all information—every scrap. I want final reports before we depart tomorrow.”

Jace looked out the shop’s lattice window. “Everything’s in motion.”

Cloud Recesses

Within the stillness of the Lan Sect’s lecture hall, the morning air hung heavy with incense and discipline. Lan Qiren stood at the front, robes pristine, voice clear and unwavering as he lectured on sectal history and the foundation of cultivation society.

“The Lan Sect,” he began, “was built on a foundation of restraint and clarity. In the Cloud Recesses, we honed our principles over centuries: strict discipline, unity, spiritual purity.”

He paced slowly, hands behind his back.

“The Wen Sect,” he continued, “rose not from peace, but from conquest. Their power grew in fire and ambition, scorched into legend by their fierce doctrines and sheer force.”

A few heads tilted with interest.

“The Nie Sect,” Lan Qiren said, “forged their name on the battlefield. With their saber cultivation and warrior hearts, they uphold courage and loyalty—though their path is a sharp and dangerous one.”

He turned slightly.

“The Jiang Sect, born near the rivers of Yunmeng, values freedom and compassion—but even water must be bounded, or it floods.”

He paused briefly before concluding, “And the Jin Sect—wealthy, proud, and influential—have long held dominion through political strength and deep-rooted legacy, their golden peacocks ever watchful.”

The lesson continued.

But Wei Wuxian had long stopped listening.

His eyes wandered—to the window, where mist rolled over the mountaintops, and then to Lan Wangji, who sat with perfect posture, calm and unreadable.

During a lull, Wei Wuxian tore a scrap from his notes and folded it quickly, shaping a small paper man. He tapped it with the tip of his brush, stealing a flicker of spiritual energy, and sent it dancing silently toward Lan Wangji.

The puppet flitted in the air like a curious moth.

Lan Wangji didn’t even glance up. With a fluid motion, he caught it midair and crushed it in his palm, expression unchanged.

Wei Wuxian grinned.

Lan Qiren looked up sharply, his gaze settling on Wei Wuxian—but he said nothing. Only resumed his lecture.

Eventually, the bell rang—sharp, resonant, final.

Lan Qiren cleared his throat. “Morning sword training. Master Lan Rong will oversee. At the field, she will assign sparring partners. Dismissed.”

The students stood, filing out into the soft gray light of Cloud Recesses, where the courtyard waited misted and still.

There, Master Lan Rong—tall, white-robed, and stern—stood in front of a rack of practice swords. She called the students forward, one by one, pairing them with quiet finality.

“Wei Wuxian with Lan Wangji.”

Jiang Cheng huffed beside him.

“Jiang Cheng with Jin Zixuan.”

Jin Zixuan smirked faintly.

“Nie Huaisang with Lan Meng.”

Wei Wuxian barely listened to the rest.

Swords drawn, they began.

First, Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan faced off. Their blades clashed with force, and though Jin Zixuan moved well, Jiang Cheng was faster—controlled. He forced Jin back, disarmed him with a sharp twist, and bowed politely. Jin Zixuan said nothing.

Next came Nie Huaisang and Lan Meng. Huaisang, ever reluctant with the saber, flinched at every blow. Lan Meng moved gracefully, ending the match with a soft but decisive disarm. Huaisang laughed nervously, bowing with embarrassment.

Then Jiang Cheng sparred again—this time with Nie Zheng, a quiet disciple with a firm stance. Despite a strong start, Jiang Cheng lost. He accepted the outcome calmly, nodding with respect.

And finally—Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji stepped forward.

The courtyard hushed.

Wei Wuxian twirled his sword lazily. “Lan Er-gege,” he teased, eyes gleaming. “Hope you’re ready. You’re not too cute to fight, are you?”

Lan Wangji said nothing. His stance was precise, blade raised.

They moved.

Blades sparked. Wei Wuxian danced with energy, fast and unpredictable, laughing through each strike. “You’re strong,” he said breathlessly, parrying a sharp thrust. “And serious. And… are those ears are really red?.”

Lan Wangji flushed faintly but said nothing—only pressed harder.

Wei Wuxian staggered slightly, pain flaring in his back, then in his leg. He winced, but didn’t stop, pushing through with a grin.

Then—Lan Wangji pivoted, disarmed him cleanly, and in one swift motion, had his blade at Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.

A heartbeat passed.

Then Wei Wuxian raised his hands and laughed. “I knew you were strong. But that was actually—really fun.”

Lan Wangji lowered his blade silently… and offered his hand.

Wei Wuxian hesitated, smiled wider, and took it.

and then a thunderous roar rattled the sky. The courtyard guards raised swords as three immense dragons tore through the thin barrier, the ward crackling under ancient power.

A yellow-golden dragon descended in a blaze of flame and light—Syrax.

Upon her back, Rhaenyra Targaryen landed first, her eyes sharp with purpose.

Then came Aemond, his sapphire eye gleaming, mounted atop his monstrous dragon,Vhagar.

And finally, Daerion, astride a sleek, silver-blue beast, wings slicing the clouds.

Lan Qiren’s face went ashen at the breach. “Disciples, prepare—”

But none could stand against dragons. The ward collapsed as the beasts settled before the school grounds.

Queen Rhaenyra emerged from the large dragon’s flank, her illusion falling away. Silver hair tumbled beneath her shoulders, violet eyes gleamed like amethyst fire.

A smattering of shock rippled through the disciples.

Aemond, still mounted on Vhagar, blocked anyone from charging.

Rhaenyra stepped between the dragons—looking every inch the monarch she was. Lan Qiren approached, swords still unsheathed, disbelief on his face. “Who are you? How did you breach our ward? What do you seek?”

Her voice rang across the courtyard, both regal and urgent:

“I come in peace,” she declared in the cultivated tone of the Lan lands.

Rhaenyra lifted her hands. “I seek one child—Wei Wuxian, the son of my sister, Chengse Sanren. I ask only—where is he?”

As the disciples stared in silence, Daerion narrowed his silver eyes. He looked at the boy in black and red—the one with striking silver-gray eyes, his hair tied high like a warrior’s. His heart clenched.

He leaned from his saddle and spoke sharply in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue of Old Valyria, known only to those of true blood: 

”Keā, muña… jēda iksos ñuha brōzi. Iksā gevie, vi spirta bē ñuha āeksia.”

(“Brother, sister… that is her child. He is beautiful, as the healer said.”)

Rhaenyra turned toward him sharply, as Aemond narrowed his eyes.

Daerion continued, louder now, voice breaking through the courtyard winds:

Aemond inclined his head. “He is.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward, the spell unraveling fully now, silver-gold hair glinting under the morning sun. Her voice trembled.

“Where is her child? Where is my nephew?”

When Wei Wuxian whispered, “That’s me. I am her son,” the air itself seemed to still.

And then, Daerion, eyes  with something unspoken, whispered to no one but himself — to the sky, to the wind, or to a soul long gone — his final words in the Old Tongue:

“Avy jorrāelagon ao, riña.”

(“I know you, little one.”)

[ end of chapter fifteen ]

Chapter Text

For a moment, all of Cloud Recesses was still. So still it felt as though the entire world held its breath.

The silence pressed down on every disciple’s chest, made their fingers tighten on sword hilts and prayer scrolls alike. The air, once filled with birdsong and wind through pine, had stilled completely—now broken only by the low, thunderous sound of three dragons breathing.

They stood like mountains at the edge of the courtyard, wings folded but alert, eyes glowing with otherworldly light. Their presence shifted the world, and every soul could feel it in their bones.

Gasps and whispers echoed among the Lan and Jiang disciples. Lan Xichen stepped forward instinctively, his robes brushing stone. Jiang Cheng’s face twisted with a storm of emotions he couldn’t name. And Lan Wangji—Lan Wangji turned sharply toward one person and one person only.

Wei Wuxian.

In the center of it all stood Rhaenyra Targaryen. She did not speak at first. Her black and red cloak moved only slightly in the wind. Her crown gleamed in the sun, but it was the expression in her eyes—fierce, searching, full of grief held too long—that silenced the courtyard.

Then she spoke, voice strong, steady, clear in the Common Tongue.

“I ask you—where is my sister’s child?”

The question cracked through the air like thunder.

Silence followed. A great, terrible silence that stole even the sound of the dragons’ breath. No one answered. No one moved.

But then—

A voice.

Small. Trembling. Almost uncertain. But heard by everyone.

“…That’s me.”

All eyes turned.

Wei Ying stood in the courtyard, arms limp at his sides, his eyes wide and shining with something vast and breaking. His voice shook, but it carried—echoing into every heart.

“I’m her son.”

Lan Wangji’s breath caught. His fingers twitched as if he might reach out.

Wei Ying took a step forward. Just one. Then another.

But something shifted in his face. His brows furrowed, lips trembled. A sharp pain flared across his hip. His leg faltered beneath him. He staggered forward—and then stopped.

His chest hitched.

He tried to speak—but the words tangled in a sob.

And before he could take another step, his knees gave out beneath him.

He didn’t fall.

Daerion was there—so fast it was as if he had flown. He caught Wei Ying before he touched the ground, arms wrapping around him with care not often seen in battle-tested princes. He cradled him close, as one might a child or a sacred thing, whispering something soft in a language most there could not understand.

Wei Ying clutched at his robes.

His breath was coming in sharp gasps. His body shook.

Then the sobs broke loose—raw, unrelenting, desperate.

“Why?”

“Why didn’t you come for me?” His voice cracked—high and hoarse. “Why didn’t you look for me?”

“Why didn’t you come when I was starving?”

“When I was beaten?”

“When I was insulted—why did you wait?!”

Each question came sharper than the last, choked through gasps. His body bucked with each breath, panic overwhelming him. He was unraveling in Daerion’s arms, caught in the spiral of a long-buried storm, voice rising to a scream.

“WHY DID YOU WAIT?!”

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes full of tears. Her voice was quiet—aching.

“I didn’t know.”

She swallowed. Her lips trembled.

“I didn’t know where she hid you. Your mother—she cloaked you so well. Even from me. She thought she was protecting you. She thought the world would devour you if it knew.”

Wei Ying screamed—not from hate, not from anger—but from the sheer weight of everything he had carried alone.

“I was alone!

I was alone and no one came! She died—and still no one came!”

Daerion held him tighter, arms steady, heart breaking.

He began to hum—then sing. A melody, ancient and soft, curled through the air. The words were in High Valyrian, but the comfort they carried needed no translation.

“Vezof nikunne rhaenagon, āeksia iksis laehossa,

Syt naejot kostilus, iā vestra rōva,

Mērī hen jēda tolie, mērī hen āeksia,

Avy ābrazȳrys ēdruta ao.”

(“Home is where the heart rests, beneath the warm hearthlight,

There are no more sorrows, only your safe smile,

Sleep under loving wings, sleep under my care,

For I will protect you, always.”)

The lullaby moved through the courtyard like wind through silk. Ancient and soothing.

Wei Ying’s sobs grew quieter. His chest still rose and fell too fast, but his grip on Daerion’s robes loosened slightly. His head dropped against the prince’s shoulder. A long, shuddering breath escaped him.

He fell asleep like that—gently, safely, in the arms of someone who held him like a promise.

Daerion pressed his cheek to Wei Ying’s hair, whispering something no one heard but the stars:

“Avy jorrāelan, byka.”

(“I love you, little one.”)

And then he rose, lifting Wei Ying into his arms—bride-style—like one might carry something holy.

Lan Qiren finally stepped forward. His voice was cautious, but not unkind.

“Your Majesty,” he said to Rhaenyra. “How can you be certain that this boy is of your blood? What proof can you offer that he is your sister’s son?”

Rhaenyra turned, regal even with tears drying on her cheeks.

“Because I knew her. I know her magic. The moment I saw him, I felt it—her spell work, her illusion, her shield.”

Lan Qiren’s brow furrowed. “He bears none of your features.”

“Because she made it so.” Rhaenyra’s voice was firm. “She altered his hair, his eyes, even his voice. But my daughter-in-law is coming. Baela knows the spell she used. She will undo it. And you will see what is true.” 

 “If you wish to stay the night,” Lan Qiren offered after a long pause, “you may. As long as your dragons do not endanger anyone.”

“They will not,” Rhaenyra replied. “They are not here for war. We want only Wei Ying.”

That was when Aemond stepped down from his dragon at last.

He moved with a predator’s grace, his sapphire eye glinting beneath the silver of his hair. He walked to Rhaenyra’s side, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Baela and my son are coming by carriage. Their dragons follow, hidden in the mountains.”

 Then Jiang Cheng broke the silence.

“You think you can just take him?” His voice was hard. “He belongs to the Jiang Sect. He was raised by us.”

Aemond turned like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Belongs?” he repeated coldly.

“He is not your property.”

Jiang Cheng took a step forward. “He is ours. He was raised with us. He—”

Aemond’s tone dropped to something quiet and deadly.

“If you call him your servant, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to my dragon.”

Gasps rippled through the disciples.

No one moved.

“We already have business with your sect,” Aemond added, his eye narrowed. “Would you like to escalate it further?”

Jiang Cheng fell silent, jaw tight.

Lan Qiren sighed, turning to his disciples.

“All disciples are dismissed. Return to your chambers.”

There was no protest. They scattered like leaves.

He looked back to Rhaenyra.

“You may use the guest pavilion. We will arrange what you need.”

Rhaenyra nodded, exhausted but grateful.

“Thank you. the truth will be plain to everyone.”

She looked once more at Wei Ying, still cradled in Daerion’s arms, his face peaceful in sleep.

“At last,” she whispered, voice breaking, “at least we found you.”

And above them, the sun burned brighter—as though the heavens themselves bore witness to the beginning of healing, beneath the wings of dragons.

[ end of chapter sixteen ]

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian awoke to soft murmuring, unfamiliar but warm—syllables spoken in the flowing cadence of a tongue he did not recognize, a language filled with power, intimacy, and age. His lashes fluttered open, and the morning light filtered through the paper-screened windows of the Gusu guest chambers. His gaze fell upon three figures seated around his bed—Rhaenyra, the woman with the silver hair and violet eyes who claimed to be his aunt, and her brothers: Daerion, whose steady hands had caught him in his collapse the day before, and Aemond, tall and silent, watching him with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

They were speaking in High Valyrian, the words curling around the air like incense. When Wei Wuxian stirred, Rhaenyra’s voice softened, turning to him.

“You’re awake,” she said gently.

He blinked, unsure whether to sit up or not. His body ached, his leg throbbed, but his mind buzzed with too many questions to let him rest.

Breakfast was brought in—a delicate tray of Gusu teas and rice porridge, which Rhaenyra and her brothers politely accepted, though it was obvious they were unused to  Lans  cuisine. Wei Ying sat up with their help and began to eat in silence, his fingers fidgeting around the wooden spoon, eyes darting between them. Finally, unable to hold back, he asked, voice rough but steady.

“How do you know my mother?”

Silence fell for a moment as they all looked at him. Rhaenyra set her cup down, her fingers brushing against the porcelain rim as if seeking something to hold on to.

“She was my sister,” she said softly. “Visenya. My younger sister. We shared blood, laughter, and fire. And you—Wei Ying—you are my nephew.”

Wei Wuxian stopped eating. His hand trembled.

“I—Why now? Why only now? Why did it take you so long?”

“I searched for years,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice steady, calm, like the sea before a storm. “Your mother disappeared from Westeros when she was only a girl. She ran away, cloaked her appearance with spells and old magic—turned her silver hair to brown, her violet eyes to gray. She married your father in secrecy, a good man by the name of Wei Changze, and vanished into a world we could not find.”

Daerion leaned forward then, his tone soft. “Only recently did one of our agents in the East discover fragments of her past—records buried, names erased. When we learned of her death and heard rumor of a boy, her son, left behind… we came.”

Before he could answer, a knock at the door interrupted them.

A servant announced politely that Lady Baela and Prince Jacaerys had arrived at the Cloud Recesses, escorted by Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, and Lan Wangji.

Rhaenyra exchanged a look with Aemond, who gave a brief nod and rose. Wei Wuxian’s heart beat wildly. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly didn’t want anyone else to see him like this—so thin, so confused, so broken.

The door opened.

Baela entered first, cloaked in traveling silks. Her eyes were sharp, her voice soft as she approached the bed. She knelt, her hands weaving through the air, speaking ancient words in a tongue even the Lan elders paused to hear.

“Vezof jin azantys, īlva lentor, ivestraks.”

(“Reveal the true blood, our flame, rise.”)

A shimmer of light crackled in the air. Wei Wuxian tensed.

His body glowed faintly—silver threads swirling like wind in water. Then, with a rush like a sigh, his blackish-brown hair began to lighten, slowly, strand by strand, until it shimmered with a luminous, pale silver. His eyes darkened to violet, then caught the light and turned the shade of a storm-struck sky. Everyone in the room gasped.

Rhaenyra’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mother above,” she whispered, stepping closer, “you look just like her—like Visenya.”

Wei Ying stared at his reflection in the polished kettle, touching his hair as if he didn’t believe it. He whispered, almost like a question, “Is this who I am?”

No one dared speak for a moment. Then Daerion gently touched his shoulder and helped him stand.

“You’ve been strong far too long on your own,” he said. “Let us carry you for a while.”

Outside, the air was cool. The courtyard gardens bloomed, and the soft burbling of a fountain masked the rising storm of voices. Rhaenyra, Daerion, Aemond, Baela, and the others seated themselves under the pavilion. Wei Wuxian limped beside Daerion, his hand tightly gripping the prince’s arm.

That’s when the shouting began.

Madame Yu stormed through the gates, zidian already raised. Jiang Fengmian followed, pale and drawn. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“Return him to the Jiang sect immediately!” Madame Yu shrieked. “That brat is our servant, our disciple—how dare you attempt to steal him from us?”

Rhaenyra rose slowly, but Aemond was faster. His sword rang as it slid from its sheath.

“You,” he said coldly to Madame Yu, “a woman of low birth, dare lay claim to a prince of Westeros? You abused him, beat him, starved him—your crimes are known. One more insult, and I will see your hands removed from your body.”

Zidian lashed forward in fury.

Aemond struck. Sparks flew as his sword cleaved through the whip’s energy, forcing it to the ground. Madame Yu stumbled back, breathless. The weapon flew from her hand, and Aemond kicked it toward Rhaenyra.

“You’ve no right to this,” he said.

Rhaenyra stepped forward. “My sister hid herself to protect her son. The magic she wove cloaked their bloodline. But now, the veil is lifted. He is Visenya’s child—my nephew—and the blood of the dragon flows in his veins.”

“You can’t take him!” Jiang Fengmian barked. “He is ours. Our children—Jiang Cheng, Yanli—they love him. They—”

“Love?” Daerion spat the word. “Is that what you call beatings and starvation? He limps, Jiang Fengmian. You did nothing to protect him.”

Madame Yu lunged again, but Aemond didn’t flinch. He placed his sword to her throat. “Do that again, and I’ll cut you down myself.”

Wei Wuxian, overwhelmed, tried to speak—tried to stop them. “Please,” he said, his voice small, “stop fighting, please—”

Rhaenyra knelt before him. “You don’t have to beg anymore. Not ever.”

Daerion wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “You deserve to be cherished, little one.”

Lan Qiren cleared his throat.

“You came with dragons,” he said. “You bring war to our doorstep.”

“We brought peace,” Rhaenyra corrected. “And now, we ask him.”

She turned to Wei Ying. Her violet gaze softened.

“You may choose. Stay with them, if you wish. Or return with us to Westeros, to your home, your blood, your people.”

Silence. The whole courtyard stilled.

Wei Wuxian looked at the woman who said she was his aunt.

At the man who had called him nephew.

At Daerion, who still held his hand.

His lip trembled.

“I… I want to go with you.”

And the dragons roared above, as if in answer.

[ end of chapter seventeen ]

Chapter Text

The morning air in Cloud Recesses held the hush of something sacred — not the solemn silence of rules and ceremony, but the soft, breathless kind that follows after something sacred has been returned to the world.

Wei Ying had already packed what little he owned: a small satchel of belongings, nothing too precious — most of his life had been built from things he could part with. But before he left, before he gave himself over to the dragons and the truth written in his blood, he took a quiet detour.

He stepped into the forests behind the Cloud Recesses — not far, just where the moss grew thick and the trees whispered in dappled morning light. He knelt there in the hush and waited, patient and still, until two soft shapes emerged from the brush: one white as moonlight, one black as the night sky. Tiny rabbits, alert and cautious. With coaxing fingers and a few stolen pieces of dried fruit from the kitchens, he caught them gently in his arms, holding them close against his chest.

Later, cradling them like the small treasures they were, Wei Ying made his way to the library pavilion, where the sun poured through slatted windows and bathed rows of scrolls in quiet gold. It was mid-morning, unusually warm, and empty but for one figure — quiet and composed, as always.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying called gently.

Lan Wangji looked up from the text in his hand, expression neutral but eyes immediately fixed on him — and on the two small creatures twitching in his arms.

“Do you like them?” Wei Ying asked, stepping forward and holding out the rabbits. “I caught them this morning. A farewell gift. One for each of your moods.”

Lan Wangji blinked. “…Pets are forbidden in the Cloud Recesses.”

Wei Ying raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Well then… I suppose I’ll just have to eat them.”

Lan Wangji’s head jerked up.

“Killing is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses,” he said, ears turning unmistakably pink.

Wei Ying grinned wide. “I’m kidding, Lan Zhan. Honestly. You need to work on your humor. This—” he nudged one of the rabbits closer to him “—is a thank-you. For being you.”

Lan Wangji hesitated, then reached out with careful hands. The white one — moon-pale and still — twitched its nose but didn’t flee as it was passed into his arms.

Wei Ying’s smile softened. “Think of it as someone to keep you company while I’m away.”

Lan Wangji lowered his gaze, but there was something tender in the way he cradled the rabbit. “I will take care of them.”

“I know,” Wei Ying whispered. “You keep what matters.”

Then he left the library, not with finality but with quiet resolve, and wandered through the gardens until he came upon a field of flowers he’d never seen before. Gentian-blue blossoms swayed in the breeze — unfamiliar and wild, a color not born from Lotus Pier, but something mountain-born and strange and beautiful. Wei Ying stood among them, the wind tugging gently at his robes, and for once, felt a stillness he didn’t need to fight.

And it was there, standing alone among blooms he couldn’t name, that Lan Wangji found him.

There was no formality in his step. No sound. Just his presence — certain and steady — like the sun pressing through clouds. Wei Ying didn’t turn right away. He felt him arrive. Knew it, in the bones of his spine, in the quiet hush the other always brought with him.

Then, a shift in the air — and arms. Arms around him. A strong, certain hold that Wei Ying hadn’t expected. It wasn’t brief. It wasn’t polite. It meant something.

Wei Ying let out a breath of laughter, quiet and stunned. “Hanguang-jun,” he said, voice a little too thick, “if you keep doing things like this, I’ll think you actually missed me.”

Lan Wangji pulled back only slightly, enough to look at him. His ears were flushed again. His voice was low and rough around the edges. “Thank you. For the gift.”

Wei Ying blinked, then smiled. “The rabbits?”

Lan Wangji gave the faintest nod. “They are safe. Fed. Warm. I… named them.”

Wei Ying’s eyebrows shot up. “You named them?”

“One is Snow. The other is Moon.”

For a second, Wei Ying was stunned. Then a soft laugh escaped him — full, open, and bright. “Lan Zhan, you’ve become poetic. What happened to robes and rules and lectures?”

Lan Wangji held his gaze with calm certainty, though the edge of his mouth hinted at a smile. “Perhaps something changed.”

“Or perhaps… someone,” Wei Ying murmured.

They stood there in the hush of wind and gentian blooms, neither needing to explain what the silence meant.

Wei Ying was still smiling when he said, “I knew you’d keep them. You’re not someone who forgets what matters.”

Later that day, he sat beneath the shaded pavilion in the inner courtyard, Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng beside him. The sound of water and insects curled around them, a kind of natural lullaby that made parting feel less cruel.

Jiang Yanli was the first to speak, her voice fragile as she took his hand. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Wei Ying nodded. “I think I have to. I’ve spent my whole life trying to belong in a place that never really felt like mine. I love you. Both of you. But I can’t keep living like I owe the world my silence. I want to know who I am. Who my mother was. If she laughed like I do. If she sang. If she ever dreamed of dragons. I need to see the land she left behind. I need to know if this pain was ever meant for me.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, words forced through clenched teeth. “So you’re just going to go? With them?”

Wei Ying’s voice was gentle. “They’re not strangers. Not anymore. And neither are you. But I can’t stay out of guilt. Not anymore.”

Yanli didn’t cry. She just pulled him close and whispered into his hair, “I understand, A-Ying. You deserve to know joy that doesn’t come with fear.”

Jiang Cheng stood, fists shaking. “Just don’t forget us.”

Wei Ying rose slowly, heart aching. “I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to.”

Before the skies changed, Nie Huaisang found him in the corridor, fan in hand, eyes wet but smiling.

“So,” he said with a flutter, “you’re off to become a prince?”

Wei Ying smirked. “Apparently. But I’ll always be the guy who got drunk and painted ducks on your fan.”

Nie Huaisang snorted, eyes glassy. “I’m glad we were friends.”

Wei Ying pulled him into a tight hug. “Me too.”

That afternoon, the sky broke open — not with storm, but with wings.

The largest of the dragons spiraled downward in a sweep of shadow and flame-glint, and atop it sat Daerion, silver hair loose in the wind, violet eyes trained on him with quiet intensity.

Rhaenyra had offered a place beside her. But it was Daerion’s arms that had held him when he broke. It was Daerion’s voice that had soothed the panic away. Wei Ying trusted him — not because of blood or titles, but because of the quiet kindness that had come without demand.

“I’m ready,” Wei Ying said, standing at the edge of the courtyard where the gentian flowers bowed in the wind.

Daerion leaned down from the saddle, arm extended. “Then let’s go home.”

Wei Ying took his hand.

As he climbed onto the dragon’s back, he looked down one last time — at Lan Wangji standing silent beneath the pavilion, Jiang Yanli with her hands clasped, Jiang Cheng silent with unsaid things in his eyes, and the blooms — wild and blue and soft — waving in the wind behind them.

The dragon rose.

And with it, so did he — into the sky, into the future, into the truth of his name, and the memory of a mother who had once hidden him for love.

He was no longer just Wei Ying of the Jiang.

He was the son of a dragon.

And he was finally going home.

[ end of chapter eighteen ]

Chapter Text

The wind lifted like a song as the dragons took flight, the storm of their wings scattering cloud and sky. Vhagar soared ahead, heavy and ancient, each beat of his massive wings echoing like thunder. Aemond rode him like a sculpture carved from steel and silence, unmoving, eternal.

Above them, Syrax wove golden loops through the evening light. Rhaenyra sat tall on her back, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back like a banner. The sun, dipping low on the horizon, caught the gleam of her armor and the soft lines of her face — a queen carved of fire and moonlight.

Behind them came Jace and Baela, their dragons dancing through the clouds in synchrony, and then Daerion — his dragon, Ashvein, dark as smoke and flame-touched like smoldering coals. His wings cleaved the sky in silent majesty, and on his back, wrapped in furs and Targaryen red, Wei Ying held fast.

The wind lashed his cheeks, sharp and cold and pure. His arms wrapped around Daerion’s waist, his forehead pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. The sky was immense, sprawling, full of breathless wonder. Below, the rivers glittered like threads of silver stitching the land together, the forests like dark velvet in a queen’s gown.

He laughed aloud — the sound shocked from his chest by awe, not fear — and it echoed like starlight.

Daerion twisted slightly to glance back, wind stealing the loose strands of his silver hair. He grinned, sharp and full of mischief.

“See?” he shouted over the wind. “I told you the sky would love you.”

Wei Ying laughed harder. His eyes burned, but not from cold. “You were right. You’re really annoying when you’re right.”

Daerion just grinned wider. “Get used to it.”

By the time they reached King’s Landing, the sky had surrendered to night. The towers of the Red Keep blazed with torchlight, firelight dancing across stained glass and ancient stone. Dragons landed one by one in the high courtyard, talons scraping against the flagstones, wings folding with a shiver like settling mountains.

Wei Ying slid off Ashvein’s back with Daerion’s steadying hand.

A hush had fallen over the keep. Then servants rushed forward, cloaked in crimson and onyx, moving like shadows with torches in hand. Heralds in silver and black announced their Queen’s return.

Wei Ying was guided — not pushed — to a private wing of the castle. The halls smelled of incense and lavender. His chambers were warm, draped in velvets and silks that whispered with the wind, and at the center of it all stood Princess Helaena, luminous and soft-eyed, her hair woven with tiny pearls like moonbeams.

She took his hand as if she had always known him.

“You have your mother’s soul,” she murmured, voice distant and sweet, “and his strength. I saw you once — in a dream of birds who did not know they had wings.”

She kissed his forehead, then turned to her handmaidens. They drew a steaming bath of rose and lavender, and Wei Ying stood trembling as his traveling clothes were gently peeled away and replaced with silk — deep red and black, the colors of House Targaryen. Dragons curled through clouds along the embroidered hems. In the mirror, he looked… older. Sharper. Like someone becoming himself.

When the healer came — a quiet, precise woman with kind eyes — she touched his leg, murmured something about rest, and told him it would heal well, given time. Wei Ying nodded, but his heart was racing.

He didn’t want to rest. Not yet. Not tonight.

A knock.

He turned as Daerion entered, dressed in garnet and onyx, his hair braided back with silver rings. He looked like the heart of a wildfire.

“Are you ready?”

Wei Ying blinked, hesitated, and smiled faintly as he slipped his hand into Daerion’s waiting arm.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I want to be.”

The Great Hall of the Red Keep

The hall was alive with fire.

Torches blazed in mirrored sconces, casting shifting shadows across marble and stone. Banners of House Targaryen hung from high columns, their three-headed dragon roaring in silk. Nobles lined the walls — Lords and Ladies in deep velvets and dragon-bone jewelry, whispering, watching.

And at the center, upon the dais, stood Queen Rhaenyra, in a gown like molten flame. Her eyes burned with triumph and longing.

As Wei Ying entered, beside Daerion, the music quieted. Heads turned. Eyes widened. The hush was palpable.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, each step a command.

“This is my nephew,” she said, voice clear and fierce, “born of my sister Visenya Targaryen. Stolen from us. Hidden. But not lost. Tonight, he returns — not as a ghost, but as fire reborn. Blood of the dragon stirs in him. And he is ours.”

Gasps. Murmurs.

Wei Ying felt Daerion squeeze his hand.

And then Daerion stepped forward, whispered against his ear:

“Welcome home, little flame.”

The Dancing

Later, after the toasts and greetings — after the bows and titles and stiff words from high lords — the music began again. A high, lilting melody from harps and flutes and the deep grounding of lutes.

Wei Ying danced first with Princess Helaena, who smiled like she was somewhere else entirely. Her steps were light as feathers, and she moved like water. He followed easily.

She whispered once, barely audible, “You dreamed once, didn’t you? Of dragons and wind?”

He nodded, unsure why he said yes. But it felt true.

Then came Daerion.

He didn’t ask. He just pulled him in, confident and warm. His hand rested just above Wei Ying’s waist, the other clasping his hand with easy grace. They spun in a slow circle, the world falling away.

“You looked terrified earlier,” Daerion teased gently.

“I was. Still am.”

“You didn’t show it.”

Wei Ying glanced up. “Neither did you. Were you scared?”

Daerion laughed under his breath. “I always am. That’s what makes it real.”

Their steps grew bolder, spinning a little faster.

“You belong here,” Daerion said suddenly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

“How do you know?”

“Because when you laugh, the fire listens.”

Wei Ying looked at him, stunned. His heart fluttered strangely. He didn’t reply — just stepped closer.

Later, a hand reached out. Gloved. Firm.

Wei Ying turned to see Prince Aemond, tall and stoic, one eye catching firelight like a blade.

“Would you honor me with a dance?”

Wei Ying blinked. He hadn’t expected it — hadn’t even spoken much to Aemond. But something in the prince’s tone was quiet. Not cold. Not warm either. But willing.

“Of course,” Wei Ying said, and took his hand.

The dance was slower, more formal. Aemond moved with precision, each step calculated. He didn’t smile, but his eye never left Wei Ying’s face.

Halfway through, he spoke, low.

“You remind me of her.”

Wei Ying blinked. “My mother?”

Aemond nodded once. “She danced like she was defying gravity. And she loved… completely. It frightened people.”

Wei Ying’s throat tightened. “Does it frighten you?”

Aemond looked away for a moment. “No. But I think… it made her dangerous. And extraordinary.”

They spun, one final time, in stillness.

Aemond added, “Don’t let this place change you too fast.”

“I’ll try,” Wei Ying whispered.

And something in Aemond’s eye — not pity, not warmth, something in between — softened.

As the final notes rang out, Wei Ying stepped back and breathed in the fire-scented air of the hall. He looked around — at Daerion’s waiting smile, at Rhaenyra’s watching eyes, at the banners above and the stone beneath.

He was no longer just Wei Wuxian.

He was the flame returned. The sky’s child. His mother’s echo. And he laughed softly to himself, dizzy and a little frightened — but not alone.

And the night held him like a promise.

[ end of chapter nineteenth ]

Chapter Text

 The Bond Forged in Flame

The city of King’s Landing, with its golden haze of rooftops and far-reaching red walls, stretched endlessly beneath the sky like a kingdom breathing in the late sunlight. Wei Ying walked slowly, almost reverently, between Daerion and Aemond, each step leading him deeper into a world he had only imagined in dreams he never allowed himself to have—dreams of home, of blood that loved him, of dragons and skies and names that meant something.

They had dressed him in travel clothes of black and dark red, trimmed with stitched dragon scales, and his silver hair caught the light like molten threads. His eyes, no longer hidden behind spells, were amethyst and unblinking, wide as he watched vendors hawking pomegranates, guards in gold cloaks sparring beneath battlements, and children running across cobbled courtyards without fear.

He walked with a slow limp still, but Daerion never let go of his hand, and Aemond walked silently beside him, as if ready to strike down any stranger who looked too long.

Then they turned toward the great archway of the Dragonpit.

The cavernous dome swallowed the sky above, casting long shadows over the pit where dragons, enormous and restless, shifted with low growls and rustling wings. The stench of fire and bone lingered in the air like incense in a temple to something ancient.

Daerion spoke softly as they descended, his voice blending reverence with pride. “Each Targaryen has their flame to match their soul. No dragon bonds with fear.”

Wei Ying’s heart thundered in his ribs like a second heartbeat as they approached the dragons, each massive and silent, eyes glowing with the awareness of gods. One—sleek and pale, with long black horns and wings flecked with silver—lifted its head.

It moved first.

The dragon stepped forward, tail sweeping behind it, claws gouging the stone floor with every pace. It stared into Wei Ying’s soul with those old, gleaming eyes. And then it bent its great head, low enough for Wei Ying to touch.

His hand, trembling, reached forward. The moment his skin touched warm scale, something clicked—like a breath of fire down his spine, a memory in his blood. His dragon. His.

Daerion’s grin widened. “He chose you.”

Aemond gave a short nod. “He’s called Sūriārion. Flame of the Forgotten.”

Wei Ying whispered in Valyrian, unsure where the words came from:

“Ābrar iā kesy, kesrio syt gaomagon.”

(“You are mine now, mine to soar with.”)

The dragon rumbled deep in his chest. The bond had been forged.

In the Halls of Judgment

While Wei Ying flew across the sky that evening, laughing freely as Daerion guided Sūriārion through gentle climbs and dives over the glittering rooftops of the capital, Rhaenyra stood in the war council chamber of the Red Keep, her eyes hard as steel and her jaw clenched as if she had been born a blade rather than a queen.

To her right sat Daemon, his arms crossed, his eyes calculating. Aegon and Helaena sat beside one another, Helaena’s delicate fingers turning over the parchment that held the healer’s report. Lady Baela, weary but resolute, stood quietly with her hands folded before her.

At the center of the table lay a map—Westeros stretched wide—and pinned in its southern corner was the Jiang sect’s ancestral seat: Yunmeng.

“The Jiang are not in Gusu anymore,” Rhaenyra announced, voice like the wind before a storm. “They’ve returned to Yunmeng. That is where they will answer.”

Daemon’s lips twisted into a snarl. “Do we send steel? Fire?”

“No,” Rhaenyra said, her voice sharper. “We send law. Justice. We send fear wrapped in civility.”

She nodded to Baela, who opened the scroll of injuries aloud for the second time.

“Chronic malnourishment, whip scars over lower back, untreated fractures of the legs. Emotional trauma from long-term isolation, repeated verbal and physical abuse from Sect Mistress Yu and Sect Leader Jiang.”

Helaena’s voice broke the silence. “If he were anyone else—a lord’s child, even a common boy—these crimes would demand public trial. But he is not just a child. He is a prince.”

Aegon nodded slowly. “Let us not forget: Wei Ying is Targaryen blood. They abused the crown.”

Daemon’s hands flexed around the hilt of his sword. “Then let the crown answer.”

Rhaenyra declared, “We will send a decree: the Jiang sect is to receive summons to appear before the Crown at the Red Keep. If they refuse, they will be tried in absentia. If they resist, they will be named traitors to the realm. And for every injury, we will answer in coin, in exile, or in steel.”

“Let Wei Ying decide,” Helaena whispered.

All eyes turned to her.

“He deserves a voice. Let him name his pain. Let him witness their judgment.”

And Rhaenyra—sister, queen, and fireborn mother of a scattered line—bowed her head. “So it shall be.”

[ end of chapter twenty ]

Chapter Text

The Red Keep in the early morning breathed like something ancient and waiting. The hush of distant waves brushing Blackwater Bay curled through open archways and stone corridors. Servants passed quietly, their steps soft on the marble as they prepared the royal wing for the ceremony to come. Sunlight streamed through the high stained-glass windows, casting long ribbons of crimson and gold that danced across the cold floor, like fire frozen mid-flight.

Wei Ying stood alone on a raised circular platform within a high-ceilinged fitting chamber. The ceiling above was vaulted, domed like the inside of a dragon’s eye. Arms slightly outstretched, he let his gaze drift upward, searching for steadiness. Around him, three seamstresses worked in focused silence, their hands swift and reverent as they draped him in dark layers of silk. The fabric whispered as it moved, black as starlit void, impossibly fine, shot through with the glimmer of silver threads. Across his sleeves, silver dragons soared mid-flight, curling over his back and shoulders as if they had taken root in his very skin.

His hair, silver and moon-pale, had been carefully brushed until it shimmered with soft light, tied back with a length of deep violet velvet. A single pin, shaped like a dancing flame, nestled at his shoulder—Valyrian steel, forged long before he’d drawn breath.

“You’ll have four court robes to start,” said one of the seamstresses as she adjusted the clasp of his ceremonial cloak. “Travel, council, ceremony, and flight. All hand-stitched. Dragonbone fastenings. Silk from Yi Ti. Lined with northern wool. The Queen insisted on nothing but the best.”

Wei Ying gave no answer. His throat was tight. He barely heard the woman’s voice over the thudding of his own heart.

He was being dressed not as a ward or a guest or a soldier’s bastard. Not as someone to be hidden, or hushed, or punished for being noticed. For once, no one told him to look down or lower his voice. No one looked through him. No one called him burden. Here, for the first time, he was being seen.

And he wasn’t just being seen—he was being claimed.

The thought opened something painful and wordless in his chest.

The door creaked gently, and as if summoned by his very ache, Rhaenyra entered.

She wore her formal robes already—deep, commanding red edged in black, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen stitched in threads so red they gleamed like wet blood. Her crown sat on her brow with effortless grace. But her eyes, when they found his, were soft. Not the eyes of a queen—but of a woman who had loved deeply, and lost deeply. The kind of gaze one might turn on the child of a sister lost to time and flame.

“You look like her,” Rhaenyra said quietly, her voice carrying warmth and sorrow in equal measure.

Wei Ying lowered his arms and turned to face her. “Everyone says that,” he murmured.

“They say it because it’s true.” She walked slowly toward him, her hands clasped before her. “You have her hair. The tilt of your chin. But your eyes… hers were soft, always searching for beauty. Yours… see too much. Yours have the edge of a sword in them.”

A silence settled between them like dust in morning light.

“Is that… bad?” he asked, not sure why the question felt like it mattered so much.

“No,” she said, with a faint smile. “It means the fire in you wasn’t extinguished. Not even in that place.”

He swallowed hard. “The Jiang Sect…”

But Rhaenyra shook her head gently. “No. Not today. Let this morning be free of ghosts.”

She reached for his hand and led him to a cushioned bench near the open balcony, where sunlight poured in and kissed the marble with warmth. A servant brought sweet tea and honeyed bread, but neither of them reached for it.

“I wanted to speak with you before the ceremony,” Rhaenyra said. “Before I name you. Before the world sees who you truly are.”

Wei Ying turned toward her, nerves stirring in his chest like a storm not yet broken. “You’re… giving me a Targaryen name?”

“Yes,” she said, and from within the folds of her robes, she drew a scroll and gently unrolled it.

“Our names are sacred. They carry our fire, our legacy, our grief. But also our hope.”

She laid the scroll across his lap, her hand brushing his. “This name is yours, but it was once hers. Your mother—Visenya—chose it long ago. She told me once, when we were both still girls, that if she ever had a son, she would name him Vaerion.”

Wei Ying blinked. His mouth opened slightly. “Vaerion…”

“In the Old Tongue, it means Ghost Flame.” Her voice trembled slightly now. “For the fire they tried to bury in you. For the truth hidden beneath false names and forced silence. Flame buried does not die, Vaerion—it only waits. And now, it returns.”

His throat was burning now, and his chest too. He looked down at the scroll as though it held something ancient and holy.

“Vaerion…”

“Vezofry is your middle name. Of the Unseen Line. For the blood of my sister that no one dared speak of. For the heir who was born and then hidden. For the throne that you were never meant to forget.”

Wei Ying’s hands trembled slightly as he held the parchment. “I never had a name like this,” he whispered. “Jiang Cheng called me Wei Wuxian because I had no envy. Madame Yu used it like a knife.” His eyes lifted to Rhaenyra. “But this… this name feels like it was carved into my bones before I was ever born.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward and placed a hand over his heart. “Because it was. Your mother made sure of it. You are her son. You are my nephew. You are a prince. A true Targaryen. Not just in name. But in soul.”

Wei Ying bowed his head, voice barely a breath. “Will I ever see her? My mother?”

Rhaenyra’s expression darkened, and her voice grew soft as shadows. “I do not know. If there is a place beyond fire and blood… then perhaps. But know this: she gave everything for you. She died with your name on her lips. She cast spells no one had dared for centuries. And still, she chose you.”

He nodded slowly, tears unshed but shimmering. “Then I’ll carry her name.”

“And your own,” Rhaenyra said. “Both of them. As flame and ghost and boy reborn.”

Later that afternoon, Daeryon came to find him.

He wore his leathers and a half smile. “So,” he said, leaning against the doorway. “Prince Vaerion. Has a nice ring to it.”

Wei Ying rolled his eyes. “Don’t you start.”

But Daeryon only grinned wider and reached for his hand. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

They walked together through the palace—sunlight brushing against carved stone, banners stirring in the breeze. The halls slowly gave way to quieter spaces, to open terraces and winding stairs that led down toward the inner court and its training grounds.

Daeryon tossed him a wooden practice blade. “If you’re going to be a prince,” he said, “you should know how a Targaryen fights.”

They sparred until sweat dripped from their brows, until Wei Ying was laughing despite himself. Daeryon taught him the curves of Valyrian form—fluid, flame-like strikes, turns that echoed dragonflame. Their blades clashed and sang. For a while, there was no ceremony, no grief, no bloodline. Only two boys beneath the sun, bound by heat and rhythm and the thrill of breathless movement.

After, Daeryon took him to the shoreline.

The beach was near empty. The tide was low, gentle. Wei Ying stared at the sea for a long time—until the longing in his chest burst.

“I haven’t swum since I was a boy,” he admitted.

Daeryon only smiled and began to peel off his boots. “Then today’s a good day to remember.”

They ran into the water, the cold shocking and glorious. Wei Ying laughed—really laughed—as the salt touched his skin. Daeryon splashed him, and he fought back. They dove beneath the surface, racing through the blue like they were made for it. For a while, there was no past. No expectations. Only the sea.

When the sun began to fall, they returned to the gardens—lush and quiet, heavy with green.

Beneath the arms of a weeping willow, Daeryon unrolled a scroll from his satchel. It was old, bound in dragonhide. A Targaryen book, written in High Valyrian. He sat back against the trunk, pulling Wei Ying between his legs, arms circling him gently.

“Read it with me,” Daeryon whispered. “It was written for us.”

Their voices murmured between the pages and the leaves. Wei Ying stumbled over words, and Daeryon corrected him gently, patiently. The sun slanted through the trees. The wind rustled the grass. And beneath the willow, in the arms of someone who saw him fully, Wei Ying—Vaerion—finally began to believe.

Not in fate.

But in flame.

And in love.

[ end of chapter twenty one ]

Chapter Text

The day began as many sacred ones did, with dawn unfurling gently over the stone spires of the Red Keep, its rose-gold light filtering softly through the latticework of the Queen’s solar. The sun’s rays turned the ancient halls into rivers of molten gold, glinting off marble columns and tapestries embroidered with dragons. It was the Hour of the Falcon, a time named for vision and ascent, and the Sept bells echoed faintly through the royal wing. The palace held a reverent silence, as if the very walls understood what was about to take place.

Vaerion stood half-dressed before a tall mirror, the polished glass reflecting a prince not yet certain of himself. His ceremonial robes lay waiting—folded and arranged with exacting care, crimson and onyx silks adorned with embroidered flame motifs and tiny dragons in gold thread. His skin was still warm and faintly flushed from the bath drawn for him earlier, steeped in ghost-lilac and myrrh. A warm sheen lingered on his chest and arms, his long, moon-silver hair falling over his shoulders like spun silk.

But he was not alone in this moment.

Helaena moved around him with the stillness and grace of a swan gliding over dark waters. She was barefoot, her gown of pale grey trailing behind her, and her eyes, faraway as always, seemed to see things others never could. She approached him with a small ceramic bowl filled with red ochre paint, the color deep as heart’s blood. A fine brush, made from wyvern hair, rested in her hand.

“You will wear the marks of the old rites,” she said softly, not quite speaking to him, her voice half-lost in reverie. “The dragon's breath, the eye that sees, the wound that births flame.”

She dipped the brush and, with infinite care, drew a sweeping arc over his right brow, then a mirroring curve over his left. A twin-headed dragon curled over his temples, the tails winding down toward his jaw. Flames licked upward from his throat, painted in elegant, sharp lines along his neck. On his collarbones, she traced sigils no longer spoken, passed down from a line that had nearly ended in silence.

His arms she took last, pushing back the sleeves of his inner robe and painting crimson flame spirals from shoulder to wrist. Down his left forearm, a sleeping dragon in coils. Down his right, a broken crown mended by fire.

Helaena paused before the final mark. She looked up at him, her expression distant but tender.

“For your brow,” she whispered, her fingers trembling slightly. “The eye that sees beyond. A mark worn only by those who carry legacy in their very blood.”

She painted a vertical line between his brows, the red pigment catching the morning light like a blade’s edge.

Aemond entered not long after, dressed in ceremonial black, his sapphire eye gleaming beneath a circlet of Valyrian steel. He studied Vaerion with a slow, careful gaze, and came forward to secure the crimson sash around his waist. His fingers moved with soldier’s precision.

“I thought you’d look like a boy playing prince,” he muttered, stepping back. “But you don’t. You carry it. You carry her fire.”

Vaerion met his uncle’s gaze in the mirror. “I don’t feel like I do.”

Aemond’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “That doesn’t matter. Fire doesn’t ask permission to burn.”

When the Great Hall doors opened, golden horns screamed into the vaulted ceiling, and long silk banners unfurled from the high rafters—ribbons of red and black descending like falling flame. The air shimmered with incense and summer heat, and the scent of myrrh, dragonwood, and rose oil hovered just above the assembled court.

All eyes turned toward the Iron Throne.

Queen Rhaenyra entered first, regal and slow, wearing the Conqueror’s crown upon her brow. Her cloak bore the three-headed dragon stitched in gold and rubies, its wings spread wide across her shoulders. Her presence cut through the room like the weight of prophecy.

Then came Vaerion.

He moved with the steady calm of one taught to walk among fire. His face and body bore the crimson marks of tradition, each stroke of paint a whisper from the past. As he stepped into the shaft of light cast by the stained glass above, gasps rippled through the court.

For a moment, there was silence. And then murmurs—reverent, awed, and speculative.

Some saw Visenya reborn in him. Others saw prophecy awakening from dormancy. And some, silent and stone-faced, gave away nothing at all.

Rhaenyra raised her hand. Her voice rang like iron across the chamber.

“Before you stands my nephew, the son of my beloved sister, Visenya Targaryen. Hidden from the world to protect him. Raised in shadow, but never without fire. Today, before the realm, I name him Vaerion Vezofry Targaryen—Prince of Dragonstone, and rightful son of our blood.”

Cheers thundered from the walls. Lords and ladies stood, clapped, and called his name. Lord Velaryon was the first to kneel, his sea-wolf cloak trailing across the stone floor.

“The blood of the dragon runs true,” he said solemnly. “Driftmark welcomes the prince.”

Others followed—House Celtigar with their storm-colored sigils, Bar Emmon with salt in their hair, even Lord Staunton of Rook’s Rest, usually sour-faced, gave a curt nod. There were those who withheld smiles—House Royce, grim and hawk-eyed, and the Riverlands emissary who kept his lips pressed tight—but none dared speak dissent.

Vaerion stood tall beneath the Iron Throne. The paint itched on his skin. The light felt heavier than before. Something stirred.

His fingers brushed the mark on his brow—and suddenly, the world slipped.

He saw her.

A woman cloaked in silver, standing in firelight. Her lips moved in a language lost to time. He saw a cradle, its rim carved with dragons, and smoke swirling with whispered names. “Vaerion.” Spoken by a voice he had never heard but somehow always known.

When the vision vanished, Queen Rhaenyra was before him. She pressed her lips to his brow, her hand cupping his painted cheek.

“You walk among the living now,” she whispered. “You carry her fire.”

The feast was a storm of wine, roast duck in cherry glaze, honeyed pears, and sweet saffron bread. Vaerion sat at the Queen’s side as courtiers toasted him, praised him, envied him. He smiled when required. He spoke when spoken to. He sipped slowly from a goblet of Dornish red, nodding to lords whose names he barely remembered.

Daeryon appeared like a breeze in midsummer—laughing, flushed, always where the music was loudest. At some point, he took Vaerion by the hand and pulled him into a whirling dance. They spun once, twice, three times, their robes catching and drifting like flame.

“You look like prophecy on fire,” Daeryon whispered as they passed close.

“And you look like you haven’t bathed in three days,” Vaerion replied with a grin.

“You wound me.”

They laughed, and the court laughed with them.

But after a while, the weight returned. The music dulled. The eyes—so many of them—felt like a tide, and Vaerion, though still smiling, began to drift away inside his own thoughts.

When no one was watching, he slipped out through a side corridor, robes loosened, the ceremonial torque left behind.

He found the garden—his mother’s garden once, they said—hidden in the eastern wing. Moonlight filtered through marble arches, silvering the leaves of glass-lilies and ghost-thorn. The fountains sang a low, cool song, and Vaerion sat beside one, his fingers trailing through the water.

He remembered her again.

Just a flicker. The curve of her lips. A song hummed in the cradle. The scent of sea salt and flame.

“Beautiful here,” a voice said behind him.

He turned.

Daeryon stood in the archway, shadows trailing from his loose sleeves, his eyes softened by candlelight. “You want to get away for a bit? You don’t have to go back in right away.”

Vaerion nodded, standing slowly. “Please.”

They walked in silence through the palace, past slumbering guards and candlelit halls, until they reached Daeryon’s private chamber. It was cluttered and full of life—scrolls, books, a lute missing two strings, and a half-eaten bowl of cherries on the window sill.

Daeryon lit a few lanterns, shrugged out of his robe, and tossed it over a chair. “Sit,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

Vaerion collapsed onto the cushions. Daeryon pulled a scroll from a shelf and began to read aloud, something old and tragic, but beautiful.

They laughed. They traded stories. Daeryon imitated Lord Staunton’s pompous accent until Vaerion wheezed with laughter.

“You know,” Daeryon said at last, voice low, “you looked beautiful today. But you’re even more so now.”

Vaerion’s smile was slow. “Stay with me. Just for a while.”

“Always.”

They lay together on the cushions, wrapped in each other’s warmth. Outside, the wind rustled the garden trees. The raven passed unseen across the moon, a scroll tied to its leg, bound for the Tower of the Hand.

And in the hush, where fire met silence, something ancient and true refused to flicker out.

[ end of chapter twenty two ]

Chapter Text

The morning sun broke over Yunmeng like a breath drawn too long, heavy and slow in its rise, casting a veil of pale gold across the waterways that wound their way through the marshlands, lakes, and riverbanks surrounding Lotus Pier. Mist hovered low, curling around the stilted platforms and sloping roofs like a lover reluctant to part. The stillness was sacred, the kind of silence that made the world feel as if it were holding its breath.

But that silence shattered.

From the high clouds came the beat of wings—massive, relentless, resonant as war  drums—and the heavens trembled under the weight of three dragons.

They tore through the sky in a formation both beautiful and terrible: first, the obsidian-scaled Ashvein, his wings glinting like hammered iron in the morning light, bearing upon his back Prince Daerion Targaryen, whose long braid snapped in the wind, bound at the end with crimson silk, a symbol of both heritage and blood. He rode tall, unmoved, his expression carved from marble.

Beside him soared Vhagar, vast and ancient, his body streaked with scars earned across lifetimes, his roar echoing down the valley like a declaration of dominion. Upon his back sat Prince Aemond Targaryen, as still as stone, his single eye sharp beneath the weight of memory and vengeance, the dark leather of his riding armor stitched with threads of Valyrian steel.

And third, swiftest among them, came the radiant Sūriārion , younger but no less regal, his  wings fanning wide as he circled the sect grounds. Atop him rode Prince Vaerion, once known in this land as Wei Ying, though the boy had long since given way to a man shaped in fire and forged in shadow. His silver hair streamed behind him like smoke from a battlefield pyre, and his violet eyes—once curious, now cold—did not flicker at the sight of the home that had once broken him.

They did not land within the inner courtyard. No formal procession greeted them. Instead, the dragons circled once above Lotus Pier, their vast wings stirring the waters into rippling crescents, their shadows gliding over rooftops like specters. Then, without fanfare or herald, they descended with thunderous intent onto the long, flat stone promenade that stretched before the outer gate.

The ground trembled with the impact of three titanic bodies settling onto ancient stone. Dust and petals rose in their wake. Servants fled screaming from the manor, some collapsing to their knees in terror, others frozen where they stood, eyes wide with the kind of fear passed down only through legend. No dragon had ever flown above Yunmeng before. Not in all its history.

And now there were three.

It was Vaerion who dismounted first and alone, his descent graceful, deliberate, as though he were stepping down not from a beast but from a throne. His boots rang out sharply against the stone, the sound precise and final. He no longer wore the robes of the Jiang sect—the gentle blues, greens, and whites of his childhood. Instead, his cloak billowed behind him in a storm of black and garnet edged with silver, and at his throat gleamed a dragon’s eye wrought in polished obsidian—a gift from his aunt, Queen Rhaenyra of Westeros.

Above him, Daerion and Aemond remained mounted, impassive and silent. Their dragons shifted slightly beneath them, tails curling with restrained menace, eyes glowing like coals. This was no diplomatic visit. It was a show of force.

From within the manor, a steward stumbled forward, his face pale and bloodless. He bowed so deeply his forehead scraped the dust.

“H-honored guests,” he stammered, barely able to lift his gaze past Vaerion’s boots. “May I ask—what brings you to Lotus Pier?”

Vaerion’s voice was low, clear, and sharpened with authority.

“We have come to speak with Sect Leader Jiang Fengmian and Madame Yu Ziyuan. Bring them.”

The servant faltered, glancing upward toward the dragons looming behind the prince.

“They… they are not here,” he said at last, voice cracking beneath the weight of those monstrous shadows. “The sect leader, his wife, and their children—Young Master Jiang Cheng and Young Mistress Yanli—departed days ago for the Discussion Conference in Qishan Wen. All the clan leaders are gathered there.”

Vaerion gave a single nod, his expression unreadable. Then, turning to his uncles, his tone softened slightly, but the command within it did not lessen.

“Then we go to Qishan.”

There was no need for further discussion. With the ease of those long accustomed to conquest, Vaerion vaulted back onto Arkarion’s back. The dragons rose in a single coordinated surge, wings exploding outward in a cyclone of air and dust that sent tiles tumbling from the eaves and sent every remaining servant to the ground in terror.

As they climbed higher, the people of Yunmeng watched them vanish into the sky—some weeping, some praying, some simply staring—as if the very gods had descended upon their homes and found them wanting.

The skies darkened as they crossed into the lands of Qishan, the clouds thickening like bruises against the morning light. Below them stretched the Nightless City, a sprawling labyrinth of towers, courtyards, and firelit halls that rose like a forest of stone. The ground was redder here, the scent of ash and oil heavier in the air, and the arrival of the dragons sent waves of panic pulsing through the streets.

“Dragons!” came the cries, bursting from throat to throat in a wildfire of fear. “Dragons in the sky! Three dragons!”

Children were swept inside, merchants fled their stalls, and cultivators froze mid-step as shadows swept over them. Even the high tower where Wen Ruohan ruled with unchecked arrogance trembled under the dragons’ descent.

This time, they did not land on the outskirts.

They came down directly into the central courtyard of the Discussion Conference, shattering centuries of decorum in a single thunderous arrival. Dust exploded outward. The air bent beneath them. The clang of boots and weapons filled the space as sect leaders and disciples spilled from the hall like ants from a broken mound.

At their head stood Wen Ruohan, draped in the deep red robes of his house, his expression a careful blend of fury and curiosity, his voice slicing through the wind like a blade.

“Who dares bring dragons into my city?! What is the meaning of this?!”

Vaerion made no move to dismount again. He simply turned in his saddle and looked toward Prince Daerion, who remained atop Skarion like a general at war. It was Daerion who answered, his voice calm but cold, projecting with the trained authority of royalty.

“I am Prince Daerion Targaryen of Westeros. With me rides Prince Aemond Targaryen, and Prince Vaerion, son of Visenya Targaryen, sister to Queen Rhaenyra of the Targaryen bloodline. He was once known to you by another name—Wei Wuxian of the Jiang sect.”

A shudder ran through the crowd. The name struck many like a slap, but the new title—Prince—left them gasping.

Wen Ruohan’s gaze narrowed, calculating.

“And what, pray, do the princes of Westeros desire in my city?”

“We have not come to wage war,” Daerion replied, his voice cutting cleanly through the gathering murmur. “We have come to deliver justice.”

That single word ignited the air like oil meeting flame.

From the side, Madame Yu Ziyuan surged forward, her eyes aflame, one hand already twitching near her sleeve, where the whip Zidian had once slept.

“Justice?” she hissed. “You dare speak of justice in riddles? This is madness—”

“Silence, woman,” Aemond growled from atop Vhagar, his voice a blade honed on blood. “Speak again out of turn, and I will see if your tongue burns as quickly as your home.”

Ziyuan flinched, her fury momentarily checked.

It was Jiang Fengmian who stepped forward then, his face pale but composed, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.

“There is no need for threats,” he said. “Let us speak calmly. What accusations are being made?”

Vaerion shifted slightly in his saddle. His voice, when it came, was ice over steel.

“You know what you did. You beat a child who could not fight back. You allowed your wife to hurt him, to break him. You fed me scraps and called it kindness. You named me servant when I was your kin by blood.”

Ziyuan’s face twisted. “You were a servant! We took you in!”

Daerion raised his hand again—Aemond had already begun to lean forward—and then turned to address Wen Ruohan and the other gathered leaders, his voice rising like a judge’s gavel.

“This is not some family dispute. This is the exposure of a crime. Prince Vaerion is of Targaryen blood—hidden by his mother’s spells for his own protection, stripped of his name and place. And this sect—” his gaze swept toward Jiang Fengmian “—chose to treat him as lesser than a dog.”

“The Queen of Westeros,” Daerion continued, “has decreed judgment. The leaders of the Jiang sect will answer for what they did to a Targaryen Prince .”

Wen Ruohan folded his arms slowly, a gleam in his eye that suggested amusement more than concern.

“And what are their choices, Prince?”

Aemond’s voice, soft and terrible, answered him.

“They submit to the Queen’s justice… or we burn the Jiang sect to the ground. Their walls, their halls, their legacy.” 

Silence.

The kind of silence that stretches beyond sound, into the marrow of every soul present.

Jiang Cheng, who had stood motionless until now, looked as though the stone beneath him might swallow him whole. Yanli, gentle and wide-eyed, clutched her sleeves like they might hold her together.

At last, Jiang Fengmian bowed his head, his voice brittle.

“We will… answer the summons. We ask only for mercy.”

Madame Yu opened her mouth again—but this time, her husband caught her wrist, and for once, she said nothing.

Vaerion’s gaze lingered on them a moment longer. He did not smile. He did not sneer. He only nodded, once.

“You will be received at the Red Keep, in three days’ time. Prepare yourselves.”

Then, without another word, he turned.

The dragons roared—once, twice—and the three princes rose into the sky, trailing smoke, shadow, and flame behind them.

And in their wake, they left behind a city trembling in fear, a legacy unraveling by the seams, and the first cold taste of reckoning long overdue.

[ end of chapter twenty three ]

Chapter Text

The seas that brought the Jiang delegation to Westeros were gray with mist, the sky over Blackwater Bay hung low with fog like a curtain drawn before a play, as though the gods themselves were reluctant to reveal what lay ahead. From the deck of the ship, Jiang Cheng stood rigid, eyes fixed not on the towering outline of King’s Landing, which now rose ever nearer, but on the waters curling away from the ship’s bow. His hands were clenched tight behind his back, as if forcing his spine not to tremble. Beside him, Jiang Yanli wrapped her shawl tighter—her features soft with worry and wonder. The siblings had spoken little since Lotus Pier; there was little more left to say.

As the Red Keep emerged from the mist, its towers like bloodied thorns piercing the sky, the siblings felt a deep, spiritual smallness—an awareness of their true place beneath something ancient and vast.

Arrival at the Keep Gate

They were met not by heralds, but by Daerion himself. He stood beneath the gate’s shadow, draped in a wine-dark velvet mantle trimmed with dragonbone and silver. Guards in black-and-gold armor flanked him, their spears reflecting the misty light.

Jiang Cheng, seeing Wei Wuxian replaced by Prince Vaerion’s royal bearing, felt envy, shame, and something deeper: a bone-deep recognition that the boy he once knew was gone. Daerion said nothing at first—he only watched them, his gaze unreadable.

Then, softly: “You are received in the name of the Crown. Follow me.”

No procession. No fanfare. Just the echo of footsteps in the halls of dragons and the heavy press of silence.

The Trial

Inside Throne Hall, the Iron Throne sat empty. Queen Rhaenyra was absent; a panel of Westerosi lords and Eastern sect representatives observed from high seats, cloaked in quiet. Braziers burned low, casting flickering shadows, and stained-glass windows filtered light into sharp beams of crimson and gold.

At the chamber’s center, Jiang Fengmian bowed his head in immaculate robes—though the weight of unspoken guilt tugged at him. Yu Ziyuan stood beside him, her posture rigid, her features cold and fortified.

Vaerion, without armour or crown, entered last. His midnight-blue garments threaded in silver rustled. He moved like a tide gathering itself, and the chamber hushed like breath before a scream.

“You knew,” he began softly, “from the very beginning. You knew and did nothing about it .”

Fengmian’s voice was low and formal. “I suspected.”

Vaerion smiled—no warmth in it. “And you chose not to ask. You let me rot in silence, fed scraps of love like bones to stray dogs, then called it charity.”

Fengmian stiffened. “Everything we gave, we gave freely.”

Yu Ziyuan’s voice cut through the hall: “You were unruly. Unnatural. I had to discipline you. You embarrassed my son. You brought shame to my house.”

Vaerion stepped forward. “I was a child you beat and locked in cold rooms, mocked behind closed doors…” His voice cracked. “A child who bled and still smiled, hoping love would come if he smiled enough.”

He faced the panel. “I do not ask for their deaths. Only that their legacy be broken. Let the world know. Strip their house of honor. Let their names burn in memory—not with fire.”

He bowed, not to the Jiang family or panel, but to Rhaenyra standing above, her expression heavy with pride and sorrow. The verdict: no flames, only silence—deafening and resolute.

As Vaerion stepped away, Madame Yu’s composure snapped. Rage flared in her eyes; she stormed forward, shrill and quivering. “You’ll regret this, you monster!” she spat.

Before guards could intervene, she struck Vaerion across the face with the flat of her palm, the sharp crack echoing in the hall. Vaerion’s cheek reddened, but his expression remained steady. Enraged, Madame Yu continued, seeking fresh wounds.

Guards lunged. Chaos erupted. Vaerion did not resist. His eyes met Madame Yu’s—empty sorrow reflected in her fury.

Return to Lotus Pier

That very night, Vaerion dined with Daerion beneath starlight on a high terrace. A goblet of untouched wine rested beside him.

“You could have had them killed,” Daerion said quietly.

“Then I’d be no better,” Vaerion replied.

Daerion’s voice softened: “You are a dragon with a dragon’s heart—and a boy with a boy’s heart.” He reminded Vaerion of his kindness: crying when a rabbit died, leaving sugar for birds, learning every servant’s name because no one should be invisible. “I knew who you were before I knew your name—and I love you still.”

They shared no more words, just the hush of wind and two hearts learning to beat near each other.

Three days later, Jiang Cheng and Yue Yanli arrived back at Lotus Pier. The place was quiet—no dragons overhead, no throngs, only lotus-scented air and stillness.

Inside the main hall, the elders of the clan had gathered. Heads bowed respectfully as Jiang Cheng stepped forward. Beside him stood Yanli.

He cleared his throat. “News from Westeros: my parents  have been officially stripped of their title. Vaerion’s judgment is final.”

Gasps filled the room. He continued, unwavering: “Their treatment of Wei Wuxian was unjust—he suffered for years. Now, I have been named head of Yunmeng Jiang.”

A hush fell over the room. Jiang Cheng’s voice softened: “I know many of you feel guilt—for not speaking against the cruelty. But our sect’s future relies on healing. Wei Wuxian has found his happiness, away from our halls—but we must learn from our failures. Under my leadership, Lotus Pier will be a place of compassion and justice. No child—no person—shall be made invisible here.”

Elders exchanged glances. One of the oldest spoke, voice full of remorse: “Cheng’er… you are right. We have failed in our duty as teachers and parents. But we’ll follow you. We must make amends.”

Nods spread across the room—guilt transformed into resolve. Yanli stepped forward, quiet tears in her eyes. She said, “Wei Wuxian… he deserves to know that we tried to change.” And together, siblings embraced the new future of Lotus Pier.

That evening, back in their private chamber, the lotus pond glowed silver under moonlight. Jiang Cheng and Yanli stood side by side.

Yanli broke the moment. “Do you think Wei Wuxian will ever… return?”

Cheng shook his head once. “No. But maybe he doesn’t need to. He’s free.” His voice softened: “And now, we have a duty—to honor that freedom.”

Lotus leaves stirred in the breeze, carrying the scent of lotus and memory. In the house behind them, the silence held—but no longer weighed by shame. Instead, it was a promise.

[ end of chapter twenty four ] 

Chapter Text

The day following the sentencing passed not with the clarity of a clean break, but with the strange unreality of a fevered dream—vivid at the edges, indistinct at the center. It was as though the weight of justice had finally settled over the Red Keep, not like a banner raised in triumph, but like a final snowfall over a battlefield long since gone silent. Clean, yes—but not sweet. Not triumphant. Rather, it carried the kind of stillness that arrives after the last breath is drawn. Cold. Inevitable.

Jiang Fengmian and Madame Yu had been escorted out of the Red Keep before dawn, bound by decree and accompanied by the Crown’s armed guard. Rhaenyra’s sealed scrolls—bearing the verdict in dragon-ink—were tied to their wrists with ceremonial red cord, not as decoration, but as weight. Not even their children were granted the dignity of farewell. There were no parting words. Only the sound of boots on stone, and the slight rustle of silk torn by consequence.

By dusk, the palace had resumed its rhythm. Torchlight flickered against high marble walls, music rose and curled like perfume through the long corridors, and the nobles of Westeros gathered in their usual splendor for evening feasts and whispered games. But within all that warmth and movement, Vaerion felt only a kind of echoing quiet. He had no appetite for gold-threaded banquets or perfumed chambers brimming with dancers and toasting lords. His mind was too full of ghosts.

It was in that stillness, as the sun died a soft death beyond the city walls, that he found Daerion waiting in the garden court, leaning idly against the white-barked tree they’d once sat beneath as boys. The torchlight caught his profile—unmistakably Targaryen, all sharp lines and impossible grace—but he wore no circlet tonight, no embroidery, no dragon sigil on his chest. Instead, he stood draped in a heavy woolen cloak, thrown loosely over both shoulders, as if the cold could not decide whether to stay or leave him. His eyes—half mischief, half tenderness—lit the dusk.

“Come,” Daerion said, and extended his hand with the kind of easy charm that made the world seem simpler for a moment.

Vaerion blinked. “Come where?”

A crooked grin bloomed on Daerion’s face. “Let’s vanish. Into the night. Into the city. Into somewhere we can breathe.”

Vaerion let out a small laugh, unsteady and uncertain but real. “You want to sneak out of the palace?”

“I’m not sneaking,” Daerion said solemnly. “Princes don’t sneak. We… disappear with style.”

“And return hungover with consequences,”  Vaerion teased, already stepping forward.

“Probably,” Daerion admitted, with a shrug. “But it’s worth it. Trust me.”

They dressed in plainer garb—Daerion in a charcoal tunic cinched at the waist with silver cords, his hair braided low and loose, and Vaerion  in unadorned black, a red sash knotted at his side like a flicker of fire daring to be seen. They slipped through a lesser-used postern gate near the kitchens, accompanied only by a single guard who lingered at a discreet distance, more a shadow than an escort.

King’s Landing was awake, teeming. Lanterns swung from iron hooks and curled vines. The streets glowed with firelight and festive chaos. Hawkers called out wares in melodic, drunken singsong. Laughter drifted from taverns and window balconies. Children darted between dancers, and in the air hung a heady mix of roasted chestnuts, citrus peel, wine, and smoke. The city was alive in a way the court never would be.

“You ever been to a spectacle?” Daerion asked as he led Vaerion through the cobbled lanes. Their shoulders brushed now and then, but neither moved away.

Vaerion ’s lips quirked. “You mean like theater?”

“I mean like real theater. Street magic, silk dancers, illusionists. The kind where the crowd gasps, and no one’s entirely sure if it’s sorcery or sleight of hand.”

Vaerion ’s expression softened, distant for a moment. “Once. A long time ago. Before my parents were gone. I was maybe four? There was a fire-juggler with a golden mask, and a woman who could walk on knives. I remember ginger buns and orange lanterns. I remember laughing so hard I forgot the world for a while.”

Daerion stopped and looked at him. “Then let’s make you remember again.”

The Heart of the Night

They drank hot spiced wine from a carved wooden goblet passed between them, fingers brushing over the rim. Vaerion ’s cheeks flushed in the warmth, his smile loose and boyish as Daerion steered him toward a temporary stage draped in silks. Acrobats twisted mid-air, their bodies gleaming with sweat and lantern-glow. A troupe of masked actors performed a tragic tale of dragon-lovers torn by war, and at the climax, a paper phoenix was set aflame and tossed into the air—igniting into a cascade of sparks as the crowd erupted in applause.

Daerion turned to find Vaerion watching with wide, glass-bright eyes. “You like it?”

Vaerion  nodded, unable to form words.

At some point, Daerion bought a sugared peach slice from a vendor and, with mock ceremony, held it out to Wei Wuxian between two fingers. “For your continued cooperation with my terrible ideas.”

Vaerion laughed and bit into it—accidentally catching Daerion’s fingers between his teeth.

Daerion didn’t pull away. He only grinned, lips curving with something softer than amusement.

And just like that, the air changed.

The crowd thinned as they wandered downhill toward the harbor district, where lanterns hung lower and the wind carried the scent of sea brine and lilac blossoms from a nearby garden wall. The street was quiet here. The water lapped gently against the docks, and the world, for a moment, felt as though it had narrowed to just the two of them.

Daerion paused beneath a flowering arch and leaned lightly against the stone frame. “You’ve changed,” he said quietly.

Vaerion looked at him. “Have I?”

Daerion studied his face—not as a prince studies a subject, but as someone who remembered it in firelight and silence both. “You smile more easily now. But your eyes still carry loneliness. A kind that hasn’t quite left.”

Vaerion lowered his gaze. The night softened his features, and the wind teased strands of hair across his cheek. “I’ve always been lonely. Even when I was surrounded by people. Even when I was laughing.”

“I know,” Daerion replied, stepping forward, closing the space between them with no rush. “I see it because… it’s in me too.”

They stood there for a breath, then another. The silence between them was no longer awkward. It felt like the space before something sacred. Something irrevocable.

Daerion reached out, slow and certain, and touched Vaerion ’s cheek with the back of his hand. Not to claim. Not to take. But simply to be there. Vaerion didn’t flinch. He leaned into the warmth without thinking.

“If I kissed you now,” Daerion said, voice a hushed thing, “would you stop me?”

Vaerion ’s eyes lifted—dark, luminous, full of a trembling courage. “No,” he whispered.

And so Daerion kissed him.

It was not the kiss of fire and fury—it was not desperation. It was slow, reverent, shaped by silence and memory. It tasted like smoke and sugar and the ache of long years spent waiting for something unnamed to arrive. Vaerion ’s fingers curled into the fabric of Daerion’s tunic. His lips parted, not in surprise, but in welcome.

The world fell away.

There was only the rhythm of breath, the press of warmth, the sudden certainty that maybe—just maybe—this was what healing could feel like.

When at last they parted, Vaerion ’s cheeks were flushed and his voice came soft and wry.

“You’re dangerous,” he said. “You make me feel things I thought I buried for good.”

Daerion pressed their foreheads together. “Then let’s dig them up. Together.”

And in the dark, beneath a flowering arch in a city bursting with celebration and song, a prince kissed a ghost made flesh—a boy who had clawed his way through pain and silence and exile—and loved him with the quiet reverence of someone who had waited his whole life to find him again.

End of Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Text

The Red Keep had begun to breathe again—not with the urgent breathlessness of political upheaval, not with the sharp inhalations of scandal and whispered judgment that had gripped it in the weeks before, but with a kind of slow, tentative exhale, like the sea after a long storm, as though the castle itself were rediscovering how to exist in stillness after too much motion. The stone walls, so often filled with the clang of armor, the rustle of robes, and the crackling of council fires, now resonated with a quieter rhythm—one of watchful peace rather than strained vigilance. Courtiers still moved through its corridors with purpose, letters still arrived by raven and rider, and alliances continued to be forged in soft parlors and starlit gardens—but the air had shifted, mellowed, as if the Red Keep itself had decided, for a time, to stop bleeding.

And amid that soft return to order, Wei Ying—Prince Vaerion now to most, though the name felt both distant and intimate, like a title worn by someone who resembled him but had never quite been him—moved through his days like a man relearning how to live. The sharp edge of survival had dulled, replaced by moments that hovered delicately between healing and uncertainty. Mornings passed in a haze of light and wind, often spent riding beside Daerion along the cliffs or in the training yards where his dragon, a creature of shimmering gold and violet flame, waited with unspoken patience and eyes that held centuries. Wei Ying’s hands had once trembled when they touched leather and steel—now they steadied, though not without effort, not without memory.

There were afternoons where laughter found him unexpectedly—when he and Daerion would sneak into the kitchens like boys half their age, stealing sugared fruits while the cooks shouted half-hearted curses at their retreating figures, or when they climbed forgotten towers simply to watch the sea, its vastness a kind of comfort, its constancy a balm. Sometimes, amid the hush of marble columns and hanging tapestries, Daerion would take his hand, fingers interlacing not with urgency but with a quiet certainty that required no permission, only presence. And sometimes, when no one looked—or perhaps when they only pretended not to see—he would kiss Wei Ying beneath archways or behind drawn curtains, kisses that were soft and fleeting, almost reverent, like secrets spoken not in words but in breath.

They did not speak of love. Not openly. Not yet. Perhaps not ever in the way that stories demanded. But Wei Ying, once so battered by demands and expectation, now found that he did not need declarations. He needed only this—hands that held but did not grasp, eyes that saw him not as a prize or possession, but as a person still learning how to be whole. In Daerion’s presence, the quiet became a sanctuary.

And yet the court watched, as courts always do. Even the quietest love casts shadows.

“You’ve had six marriage proposals this week,” Queen Rhaenyra remarked one morning, her voice composed and laced with amusement as she sipped from a delicate cup of tea. They sat in the Queen’s garden, where the roses still bloomed defiantly against the heat, their scent heavy in the air. Wei Ying knelt beside his dragon, carefully combing its mane with a comb of ivory and horn, his attention half on the creature’s rumbling breath, half on the Queen’s words.

He wrinkled his nose. “Do they also know I’m still recovering from emotional trauma, physical injury, and possibly haunted by the ghosts of my past choices?”

Rhaenyra’s laughter was soft, almost indulgent, and full of something like affection. “I informed them that my nephew will not be bartered like a jewel on a merchant’s tray. If he chooses to love, it will be when the fire within him burns steady—not when others demand its warmth.”

Wei Ying glanced up, startled by the tenderness in her tone. “Thank you.”

She studied him for a long moment, her gaze unreadable, then said, “You remind me of myself, sometimes. Too much fire in a world that only reveres cold steel. You burn, Wei Ying. And they will kneel, in time, to that flame—or be consumed by it.”

Far away, in the serene, snow-kissed mountains of Gusu, where the air was cooler and the sky clearer, another world turned in parallel—one of silence and stillness, of restraint and ritual. In the Cloud Recesses, everything moved with a deliberate, measured grace, as though time itself dared not rush. But for Lan Wangji, serenity had become an unfamiliar stranger. The stillness was no longer peaceful; it chafed at him, restless and unresolved.

In his private library, amid scrolls and texts centuries old, he sat at his desk dressed in robes of white so pristine they felt more like chains than comfort, his fingers ink-stained and trembling slightly from indecision rather than effort. A single candle flickered beside him, its light dancing on the polished wood, casting shadows that seemed too large for the room.

Before him lay a pile of letters—unsent, unwanted, uncertain.

Some he had written in haste and discarded in shame. Others were too formal, too guarded, their words betraying nothing of the storm within. They were fragments of thought, incomplete gestures.

“I hope you are well.”

“The air in Gusu is cool today. I remembered how you laughed once beneath the moon.”

“Do you miss music?”

“Do you miss me?”

Each failed him.

In the end, he had written only one that he could bear to send—simple, composed, and yet bleeding with the things he could not say.

To Wei Ying,

I trust you are in good health and safe surroundings. I am told the air in King’s Landing is warm this time of year. I hope it brings you peace.

If it is not too much trouble, I would like to hear from you. Not for formality, but—just to know.

Lan Wangji

He sealed it with the cloud seal of his clan, and when the courier took it from his hands, Wangji sat alone for a long time afterward, the echo of the wax seal still warm in his memory. His mind wandered to Wei Ying’s laughter—so once bright, once uncontainable, now fading in his recollections like music heard through a closed door.

Lan Xichen, his brother, found him thus—surrounded by letters, haunted by silence.

“You think of him often,” Lan Xichen said gently, kneeling across from him.

Wangji did not lift his gaze. “I do not know what I think. There is… confusion. I cannot name it.”

“Love often begins unnamed,” Xichen replied, his smile gentle. “It is not always a thunderclap. Sometimes it is a quiet thing, persistent. Like water against stone.”

“He is far away.”

“And still you write.”

“I do not know if he will reply.”

“Then wait. And if he does not… what you found in yourself remains. That truth is yours.”

That night, Wangji sat beneath the moon, staring into its pale glow as though it could answer the question that tore quietly at him: was Wei Ying happy without him? Was someone else beside him now, in the warmth of another hearth?

And in the Red Keep, under that same moon, Wei Ying opened a letter written in neat, elegant brush strokes, and read it three times before he allowed himself to breathe.

To Wei Ying,

I trust you are in good health and safe surroundings. I am told the air in King’s Landing is warm this time of year. I hope it brings you peace.

If it is not too much trouble, I would like to hear from you. Not for formality, but—just to know.

Lan Wangji

Wei Ying sat at his desk, the letter trembling slightly in his hands. Each word was a whisper, a thread tugging at the place in his heart he had tried so carefully to bind in silence. But it was no longer silent.

He picked up a fresh sheet of parchment, inked his brush, and wrote with a hand steadier than he expected.

To Lan Wangji,

Thank you for your letter. It arrived at just the right time.

The sea here is vast and loud, but I like it. The nights are different—crimson at sunset and blue-black by moonrise—and the stars seem to burn in different constellations than in Gusu, but I think I’ll learn their names soon enough.

You may write by raven from now on, if you like. It’s simpler. Mine knows the way.

Your words made me smile.

Vaerion (Wei Ying)

As he sealed it, a knock came—a familiar, gentle cadence. “Wei Ying?” Daerion’s voice, hushed and intimate.

“Yes?”

Daerion entered, quiet and unhurried, his hair loose, his eyes steady. “Can I stay?” he asked.

Wei Ying nodded.

And when Daerion kissed him—deeply, slowly—there was no resistance, only breath, only fire, only two people searching for solace.

Later, in bed, Daerion read softly from a book, words of old Valyria, of fire and blood, of names written in flame.

“Ao iā ao se elēni.”

(You and I are flame-born.)

Wei Ying, eyes half-lidded, murmured, “Skoriot jemēla naejot se Ēdruta.”

(Then we burn toward the future.)

The fire in the hearth dimmed, but the warmth remained. Outside, the raven flew beneath stars unfamiliar—but not unwelcome. And between them, in the hush of night, something real began to take root—unspoken, but not unseen.

[ end of chapter twenty six ]

Chapter Text

The clang of steel rang out across the courtyard, sharp and rhythmic like a battle-hymn, as Vaerion darted back from Daerion’s strike, feet light on the packed earth. Sweat beaded his brow, strands of silver hair clinging to his face as he twisted, parried, and then lunged, forcing Daerion to retreat a step.

“Good!” Daerion barked, teeth bared in a fierce grin. “Again!”

Their swords clashed, ringing against each other, the force of the blow reverberating up Vaerion’s arms. He winced but grinned back, pushing off with a burst of speed, slipping beneath Daerion’s guard and tapping his side with the blunt edge of his blade.

“Aha!” Vaerion crowed triumphantly. “Point for me!”

Aemon, standing nearby with arms folded, nodded coolly. “You’re too eager, Daerion. Your reach is your strength, but he’s baiting you in close.”

Daerion snorted, lowering his blade. “That’s because he fights like a fox in a henhouse.”

Vaerion sheathed his sword and flopped onto the grass, breathing heavily. “I prefer ‘graceful and innovative.’ Or perhaps ‘brilliant.’”

Daerion rolled his eyes and sank beside him, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Aemon joined them, the sunlight catching on the silver of his hair and the cool amethyst of his eyes.

“You truly fought like this before?” Daerion asked, glancing sideways at Vaerion.

Vaerion chuckled. “More or less. Though most of my fights weren’t so… friendly.” He turned his head toward the sky, watching clouds drift lazily overhead. “When I was young, I trained under Jiang Fengmian, my adoptive father. Then, later… well, everything fell apart. ” His smile faltered but didn’t disappear. “There’s something about sword training that never changes, no matter where you are.”

There was a pause before Daerion spoke again, his voice softer. “My father used to say the same. Viserys I. He trained with his father, but his true teacher was grief.”

Vaerion sat up slightly, curious. “You never speak of him.”

Aemon’s eyes darkened. “Because to speak of Viserys is to speak of pain.”

Daerion nodded. “He loved deeply—his wife, Aemma Arryn. When Visenya disappeared, something in him cracked. They said he ruled with kindness, but a kind king is not always a strong one. Otto Hightower preyed on that.”

Vaerion listened, fascinated. “My mother… that name is spoken with awe.”

“She was like fire,” Daerion said. “Bright, dangerous, unyielding. And she vanished. No one knows where or why. Some say she fled, others say she was taken. Father  never stopped searching for her.” His gaze drifted to Vaerion, thoughtful. “She had Aemma’s face. And you are the image of your mother, Vaerion.”

Vaerion blinked. “You mean to tell me I resemble her?”

“In more than one way,” Aemon said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Bold, defiant, unpredictable.”

Vaerion laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Daerion’s tone turned bitter. “But then came Otto. And Alicent , our mother. He put Aegon on the throne, against Viserys’ will. He betrayed the realm, and Rhaenyra paid the price.”

Vaerion ’s smile faded. “And your mother? She was Rhaenyra’s friend once, wasn’t she?”

Aemon nodded. “As close as sisters. But ambition rots everything. Now, Otto and mother live out their exile. Power taken, family divided. A song of sorrow.”

Vaerion  looked away, pensive. “Our pasts are littered with ghosts.”

The halls of Dragonstone were cool and shadowed, light streaming through stained glass windows as Vaerion entered the council chamber later that afternoon. He wore black robes trimmed in silver, hair tied neatly at his nape, a silver flute slung at his waist like a sword.

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her expression calm but commanding, with Daemon beside her, sharp-eyed and brooding. Around them were lords and advisors, the air heavy with politics.

As the discussion turned to trade routes and fortifications, Vaerion tried not to fidget. His presence at council was new, though Rhaenyra insisted it was vital. She trusted his insight, and more importantly, she trusted him.

Then Lord Borros Baratheon rose, smooth-faced and ambitious. “Your Grace,” he began, “we speak of alliances and strength, yet neglect the simplest bonds that bind houses together—marriage.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly, Lord  Baratheon.”

He inclined his head. “My eldest son, Ser Luthor, is noble, dutiful, and unwed. And Prince   Vaerion is a unique asset, one whose presence brings power and prestige. A union could cement ties between us.”

Silence followed. Vaerion stared at the man, incredulous.

Before he could respond, Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and final. “If  Vaerion wishes to wed, he will choose when and to whom.”

Daemon leaned forward, amusement glittering. “Besides, your son wouldn’t last a day trying to keep up with him.”

Chuckles rose around the room, Vaerion, cheeks flushed, stood with a hand on his hip. “I appreciate the… offer,” he said dryly, “but I prefer my freedom. At least for now.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head. “The matter is settled.”

Lord Baratheon sat down, chastened, and the council moved on, but the moment lingered like smoke in the air.

Dusk settled over Dragonstone, the sky a tapestry of gold and crimson. Vaerion stood near the dragon roosts again. The dragon’s scales shimmered with twilight hues, eyes gleaming as it watched him with ancient intelligence.

Daerion approached quietly, holding two cloaks. “Come. I want to show you something.”

Vaerion raised an eyebrow. “Another sword lesson?”

“No,” Daerion said, smiling. “Something better.”

They mounted Ashvein, and with a thunderous beat of wings, they soared into the sky, the island falling away beneath them. The wind was cold and sharp, but freeing. Vaerion closed his eyes, feeling the dragon’s heartbeat beneath him, the pulse of the sky itself.

Daerion guided Ashvein into a series of loops and dives, laughter on the wind. “Hold on!”

Vaerion whooped with joy, arms tight around Daerion’s waist as they spiraled above the sea. Below them, moonlight danced on water, and far off, lights glimmered from distant shores.

Then, ahead, a hidden cove revealed itself—tucked between cliffs, with a waterfall spilling into a clear pool. Ashvein landed lightly, and they dismounted, the world quiet around them.

“This place,” Daerion said, leading him forward, “was Visenya’s refuge. Few know of it. It’s been forgotten.”

Vaerion looked around in awe. “It’s beautiful.”

A blanket was already spread near the water, food and wine laid out. They ate in peace, the sound of water and wind their only company.

Later, as the stars emerged, Vaerion stood by the pool, gaze distant.

“Do you ever wonder,” he asked, “if all of this—dragons, war, legacy—if it’s worth it?”

Daerion joined him, silent a moment. “I used to. But now I think… it’s not about whether it’s worth it. It’s about what we do with it.”

Daerion turned to him, eyes solemn. “You could change everything, Vaerion. You already have.”

Vaerion smiled softly. “And you’ve given me something I thought I’d lost—family.”

They stood together under the stars, two shadows in a world of light and fire.

[ end of chapter twenty seven  ]

Chapter Text

The halls of the Red Keep were quiet at night, but not silent. They breathed. The great fortress, carved of red stone, watched and listened. Every step taken in its winding corridors echoed like a whisper from the past — a ghost of a thousand secrets.

Lord Marston Massey, a minor lord of Driftmark’s coast and sworn bannerman to House Velaryon, moved through the quiet with care. His once-respected house had fallen into near obscurity in the past decade, and he had grown tired of being overlooked. Power had a way of slipping through the fingers of the hesitant, and Lord Massey was not hesitant. Not anymore.

He paused beneath a tapestry depicting the Doom of Valyria, the dragonlords falling into fire and ruin. A fitting omen. He adjusted the gold clasp of his cloak, glancing both ways before ducking into a narrow servants’ corridor.

At the end of the hallway stood a man cloaked in gray, hood pulled low, face hidden in shadow. Two others flanked him — rough men, with the lean build of sellswords and the cold eyes of killers.

“You’re late,” Massey said.

“You’re cautious,” replied the hooded man, voice smooth like oiled steel. “That’s good. It means you know the risk.”

“I know the reward,” Massey hissed. “You know what I want. The boy. Alive.”

The man gave a nod. “He’s young. Strong. He’ll fight.”

“Not if he’s drugged,” Massey said. He handed over a small vial. “This will go into his wine at dinner. My…sources in the kitchens will see to it.”

“And after?” the hooded man asked.

“You’ll find him in his chambers, weakened. Take him. Quietly. My ship waits beneath the cliffs, hidden. You’ll be paid triple when we reach Massey’s Hook. Once I have the him, the realm will know he will be mine to mold.”

The man laughed softly. “A worrier in chains. Dangerous.”

Massey’s eyes glinted. “Not when you hold the whip.”

The deal struck, the men disappeared into the dark.

Vaerion  sat curled in the ancient library, his silver-blond hair falling over his eyes as he read. The fire crackled nearby, casting golden light across the pages of the thick tome on his lap — The Freehold of Valyria: Secrets of Blood and Flame.

He ran a finger over the script, absorbing the words with intense focus. He had found so little about his mother, but in these pages were echoes of her — of her blood, her history. She had been obsessed with Valyria, he had heard. And now he understood why.

“Still chasing shadows, Vaerion?” a soft voice echoed through the library.

Vaerion turned to find  Helaena approaching, a book clutched tightly in her arms. Her eyes, strange and distant as always, met his with an odd glimmer.

“Helaena,” Vaerion greeted, closing his book. “I didn’t hear you.”

“No one hears spiders spinning,” she said absently, sitting beside him. “They spin quietly. And by the time you notice… you’re already caught.”

Vaerion blinked. “Is that a riddle or a warning?”

“Both,” she whispered. “Be careful, Vaerion. The wine is sweet tonight, but bitter dreams follow. When the moon rises thrice without your shadow, beware.”

He frowned, puzzled. “I have no idea what that means.”

She smiled, dreamy and distant. “You will. When it’s too late.”

And with that, she vanished down the aisle of books, leaving Vaerion staring after her.

Later, high above King’s Landing, Vaerion soared through the sky astride his dragon,   Sūriārion — a silver beast with wings streaked in crimson. The wind rushed past him, sharp and exhilarating, the city a blur below.

For a time, he forgot Helaena’s riddle. Up here, there were no whispers, no rumors. Just sky and clouds.

He returned to the ground with reluctance, landing in the Dragonpit, and made his way to the training yard. There, Aemond waited, sword in hand.

“You’re late,” Aemond said, smirking.

“Your eye patch is crooked,” Vaerion replied.

They clashed, steel ringing out in the air. Vaerion had grown strong, faster than most expected. But Aemond was relentless, his blows precise and powerful. Sweat glistened on their skin as they dueled, brothers in arms and blood.

After their bout, Vaerion returned to his chambers, stripping off his training clothes. On his writing desk lay a letter, sealed with a familiar mark — a cloud and a lotus.

He opened it quickly, recognizing the handwriting.

Vaerion,

Are you well? Have you eaten? Your letters grow shorter, your words fewer. I worry. The bunnies are thriving — one of them escaped into the library. It took me two hours to retrieve it.

Do you still plan to visit? Cloud Recesse is calm. The sect grows strong. 

– Lan Wangji

Vaerion smiled softly. He took up quill and parchment and began his reply.

Wangji,

I’m fine. I train. I fly. I read. Sometimes, I think too much. I might visit, but only to see you — my only friend in that world. Lotus Pier… maybe. But I make no promises.

– Vaerion

He sealed the letter and set it aside just as a knock echoed on the door.

“Enter,” he called.

Daemon  stepped in, his presence always commanding. In his hand, he held a small box.

“I have something for you,” Daemon said.

Vaerion stood as Daemon opened the box, revealing a delicate golden necklace — a small dragon entwined around a ruby, its eyes tiny black stones.

“This belonged to your mother,” Daemon said quietly. “Visenya wore it always. I thought… it should be yours now.”

Vaerion took it, fingers trembling slightly. “Thank you…”

He looked up at Daemon and, on impulse, embraced him. It was brief, but real. Daemon froze for a moment, then returned the hug — the first they had shared.

“She loved to fly,” Daemon said softly, stepping back. “With Caraxes, not Balerion. She always wanted to be with me in the sky, never with Viserys. Said he talked too much.”

Vaerion laughed.

“We played tricks,” Daemon continued. “Once, we put salt in Viserys’ wine. He spat it halfway across the hall. She listened to everything though, even when she played at her father’s feet — contracts, war councils. She was clever. Too clever.”

He paused, eyes distant. “She would’ve liked you.”

And then he was gone, leaving Vaerion staring at the necklace, lost in thought.

Evening fell. Vaerion lay on a long sliding chair on his balcony, the necklace clutched in one hand. The air was warm, the stars bright.

Sleep came easily.

He woke to a gentle shake.

“Vaerion,” Daerion whispered. “You’ll miss supper.”

Vaerion blinked, stretching. “I wasn’t that tired…”

“You never are,” Daerion smiled.

Together, they made their way to the dining hall. Rhaenyra, Aegon, Helaena, and others were gathered. Daemon gave him a nod. Vaerion sat beside Daerion, relaxed.

The long oak table groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh breads, and fruits glistening with honey. Vaerion entered alongside Daerion, the golden necklace Daemon had gifted him now hanging lightly around his neck.

“Ah, the newly arrived prince,” Aegon quipped, raising his goblet. “Come to grace us with his presence.”

Vaerion arched a brow but sat without comment, his eyes catching Helaena’s. She was plucking at a piece of bread absently, her gaze distant again, as if seeing things beyond this room.

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, rubbing her temples. “If I have to read one more letter from a lord trying to secure a marriage for his daughter, I might throw myself from the Dragonstone tower.”

Aegon chuckled. “Be glad it’s only letters. I heard Lord Redwyne sent a portrait of his daughter. She has… teeth like a donkey.”

Vaerion smirked slightly, while Helaena murmured, “Teeth are for biting… not for binding.” Rhaenyra glanced at her with a mix of amusement and unease but said nothing.

Daemon sipped his wine, watching the conversation with half-lidded eyes.

“They fear your power,” Vaerion said suddenly, his voice calm. “That’s why they clamor. Marriages, alliances — they want to cage dragons with silk and vows.”

Rhaenyra looked at him sharply. “You sound like your mother.”

Vaerion smiled faintly. “Perhaps I do.”

A small laugh echoed from Joffrey, one of Rhaenyra’s  sons. “Uncle Vaerion, do you think dragons could be married?”

“Only to the sky,” Vaerion answered. “And the sky never asks permission.”

Laughter echoed again. A moment later, a maid approached with a silver flagon, bowing.

“My prince, wine?”

Vaerion nodded absently. The cup was filled, the wine deep red and sweet-smelling.

He took a sip, still listening to Daerion explain something about a raven he had seen bearing letters sealed with golden wax — gossip from the Stepstones, rumors of pirates, nothing of concern.

The conversation flowed around him, warmth and comfort lulling him. Fifteen minutes passed. And then—

A flicker of dizziness.

Vaerion blinked. The candlelight seemed… dimmer.

He rubbed his temple.

“Are you alright?” Daerion asked quietly.

“Just tired,” Vaerion murmured. “Too much flying today. I think I’ll retire early.”

Rhaenyra gave a small nod. “Rest well.”

He stood, careful not to sway, and walked steadily — or as steadily as he could — down the corridor to his chamber. The walls seemed to move slightly, but he clenched his fists, trying to shake the creeping fog from his mind.

The door to his room creaked open. He stepped inside, breathing out slowly.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Two steps forward—

A cloth pressed to his mouth.

Hands — rough, strong — seized him from behind.

Panic surged, but his limbs were slow, sluggish. He thrashed, trying to bite, to twist away, but the scent on the cloth was sharp, acrid — everything spun.

Darkness swallowed him.

He awoke to cold stone beneath his back.

Vaerion’s wrists were bound tightly behind him, the ropes cutting into his skin. His ankles were tied, his mouth gagged with rough cloth. His head ached.

He tried to summon his spiritual energy — nothing.

Blocked.

A seal — ancient and effective — burned against his inner core.

He was helpless.

A shadow loomed above him.

The hooded man.

Vaerion glared, fury in his eyes.

“You’re awake,” the man said calmly, pulling back his hood just enough to reveal cold gray eyes.

Vaerion tried to move, to speak — useless.

Footsteps echoed in the chamber.

Lord Massey appeared, his cloak trailing behind him like the shadow of a snake.

“Well done,” Massey said to the hooded man, then turned to Vaerion with a thin smile.

“The realm will change, my prince,” Massey whispered. “And it begins… with you.”

[ end of chapter 28 ]

Chapter Text

The corridor outside Vaerion’s chambers lay silent and still. Daerion’s knuckles drummed against the heavy oak door. Each unanswered knock twisted a new coil of dread in his chest.

“Vaerion?” he called desperately. “It’s me—Daerion. Are you alright?”

No answer met him. The silence felt wrong. He pushed open the door.

The chamber was empty. The window curtains fluttered in the breeze, candle stubs half-burned on the desk. Vaerion’s robe lay neatly folded, untouched. His goblet stood toppled on the floor, a dark red stain beneath it.

Fear tasted bitter. Daerion scanned the room again. No bed. No prince. Just absence.

He ran from the room. Panic surged as he burst into the hall.

Daerion burst into the solar where Rhaenyra, Aegon, Daemon, Helaena, and Aemond were gathered over breakfast. The air was light with gentle chatter until Daerion’s abrupt entrance sowed dread instead of warmth.

“Rhaenyra—Vaerion is gone. He… he vanished,” Daerion gasped, voice trembling as he clutched the sleeve of Rhaenyra’s robe.

Rhaenyra’s spoon paused mid‑air. “What do you mean vanished?” she demanded.

Daemon stood swiftly. “Where did you last see him?”

“In the hall. After dinner. He said he felt tired—looked pale—he left for his chambers, and now he’s not there.”

Aemond frowned, confusion tightening his features. “This can’t be. The guards…”

Rhaenyra rose, voice sharpened steel. “Search every corridor, every servants’ passage, every hidden door. Send men to his rooms, his dragonpit, everywhere.” 

Daerion shook his head. Panic flickered in his eyes. Daemon quickly called for a knight. “Sir Roland,” he said, voice clipped, “you and your men scour the Keep. I want him found.”

Sir Roland bowed and hurried out. Silence fell.

Helaena, her voice low but potent, said, “The one who kidnapped Vaerion… shall burn. A vision came in sleep — a fire that consumes the thief.”

The assembled lords were quiet, tension heavy in the room. Lord Massey bowed stiffly. “Your Grace, I… I will send my men to assist in the search. With the crown’s permission, of course.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze was unwavering. “See that you do,” she replied coldly. “And know that if any harm comes to him—there will be consequences.”

Some hours later, Vaerion regained consciousness in a dank chamber. Torchlight flickered across damp stone walls; silence pressed in. He lay bound—wrists and ankles tied, mouth gagged, legs stiff. When he tried to summon his spiritual energy, nothing stirred. Cold and sealed, a void where power should flow. Panic coursed through him.

A door opened and Lord Massey entered, followed by a hooded servant. Surprisingly, Massey removed the gag.

Vaerion’s head lolled; eyes wide with disbelief. “Why—why did you take me?”

The corridor’s torchlight caught Massey’s pale eyes. He leaned close, voice quiet but intense. “I once asked your mother for her hand. She refused—said I was unworthy. Viserys dismissed me. So if I could not have the mother… i will have the son.”

Vaerion’s chest pounded. “You’ll never have me.”

Massey smiled, and as he spoke he gently brushed Vaerion’s cheek, raising his hand. “I already have.”

He knelt beside him, gaze steady. “You shall bear my children. You will belong to me whether you like it or not.”

“You—  thats imossible,” Vaerion whispered, throat tight.

Massey’s laugh was soft but chilling. “Impossible?  But I have learned spells, potions… how to shape a dragon’s blood, how to paint a dragon’s eye that knows my will. Your mother’s blood shall birth what she denied me.”

Vaerion swallowed hard. “That cannot be.”

Massey rose. “The drugs you consumed tonight—they work. Your strength will become obedient. Soon you will feel… pliant.” A hand gently pressed against Vaerion’s cheek and lifted, tilting his face upward. Then Massey kissed him forcefully. Vaerion tried to jerk away, but his limbs felt leaden and dull. He could not move. He could only tremble,humiliation burning.

Setting him aside, Massey spoke over his shoulder: “See? You feel it. Weak. Small. Helpless.” He stopped and looked back. “Soon you will be mine, comfortable, compliant. You will not leave.”

Vaerion glared in mute defiance, powerless to protest further.

Meanwhile, in the Red Keep, panic reigned. In the solar again, Daemon’s voice throbbed with iron determination. “The wine was spiked. That much we know.”

Aemond nodded. “Guards have begun tracing where it came from—the kitchens, the cellars, servants who served the prince.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was steady, commanding. “We must hold a public council this afternoon. All lords of Westeros will be summoned. I will announce that my nephew is missing—and demand their support in finding him.”

In the courtyard that afternoon, the great banner of House Targaryen was raised as lords, ladies, knights, and bannermen gathered. Rhaenyra sat, implacable behind her seat at the dais. Aemond and Daeron by her side. Massey stood with his banners among other lords, expression placid.

When hush fell, Rhaenyra’s voice carried across the silent assembly. “My nephew, the lost son of Princess Visenya, has disappeared. He drank wine at dinner and retired for the night—and has not been seen since. He is missing. I call upon every lord here to lend your men, your watchers, your ships, your eyes. We must locate him.” She curved her gaze across the gathering. “Whoever finds him will be rewarded. Whoever harbors him or withholds information will answer to the Crown.”

Lord Massey stepped forward, voice steady. “Your Grace, my men will aid in the search. We stand with the Crown. My ships, my riders—anything needed.”

Others murmured affirmations. The atmosphere crackled with urgency. Rhaenyra nodded. “Then let us bring our boy home.”

Back in the dungeon, Vaerion lay curled, spirit dimmed and heavy. The seal pulsed at his core, a silent terror. He heard voices again—Massey and that servant brought water and something bitter in a goblet.

They said, “He looks like he’s waiting.”

Massey added, “Soon you will be moved. Once you are firm enough—you’ll no longer resist—we leave at night. My ship awaits at a hidden cove.”

A goblet was placed at his lips and lifted; the servant poured water and a viscous potion. Massey’s tone: “You will drink this every day until you obey. Then you will be mine.”

Vaerion coughed, legs trembling. He swallowed unwillingly, gagged and humiliated. A haze clouded his mind; tears threatened.

Above, Massey murmured, “You belong to Visenya’s bloodline—but soon, you belong to me.”

Vaerion closed his eyes, quivering. He tasted iron and magic. He dared not cry.

Meanwhile, in Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji sat under moonlit silence, his guqin resting by his side. His brother Lan Xicheng and Uncle Lan Qiren sat across him in the tea courtyard.

Lan Wamgji’s fingers drummed on his tea bowl. “Vaerion may visit soon,” he said.

Lan xichen smiled. “That would be good—peaceful, even.”

His Uncle inclined his head. “Steady, Wangji. If the winds carry him to our shores, patiently await the sign. We cannot send you lightly.”

Lan Wangji’s voice tightened. “I feel… unsettled. Something stirs in his world.”

Lan Qiren’s brow furrowed. “If you wish to go, write again. If he replies soon enough, we will not stand in your way.”

Lan Wangji folded his hands over the parchment. His gaze drifted upward, moonlight on lotus lilies. “I will wait… for the letter.”

Back in the Red Keep, the council resumed. Sir Roland reported grimly. “We found tracks —drag marks, footprints—but no body, no sign of the prince.”

Daemon’s fists clenched. “We pursue ships, caves, every cove. He cannot vanish into thin air.”

Aemond frowned. “But if the wine was drugged, then someone in the Keep conspired.” His eyes scanning each Lord present.

Helaena stood, dark vision burning in her eyes. “The captor who took Vaerion will know fire in his dreams, will suffer mother’s grief.” She looked drowsy. “We will find him; he will burn.”

Rhaenyra’s voice silenced the room. “Then we do not rest. We ride at dawn. Every available vessel, every sworn sword. We search until he is returned.”

In the dungeon, Vaerion heard distant waves. A servant came again with food—cold broth and stale bread. He ate, hands shaking. His body felt distant, unresponsive.

Massey visited with a note carried by the servant. He watched Vaerion eat, expression remote. “Soon,” he said softly, “soon you will speak my name willingly.”

Vaerion’s heart pounded. He forced himself to swallow. Fear, despair coiled together beneath the seal’s weight.

He closed his eyes, mouth trembling, prayer unsaid: Grant me strength to endure. To survive.

In the courtyard of Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji lifted his head to the moon.

His heart whispered across worlds: Hold on, Vaerion. I will come.

Rhaenyra could not rest. That night she stood on the balcony, eyes scanning the dark sea.

Daemon beside her said nothing. They both knew the hunt had only begun—and that trust must be watched as closely as enemies.

Helaena joined them, voice quiet. “He will burn,” she repeated.

they held their vigil in silence, love fierce in absence.

End of Chapter 29.

Chapter Text

The night air hung heavy in the Red Keep, thick with the smell of rain on stone.

In Rhaenyra’s solar, the candles burned low, their flames swaying whenever the wind rattled the shutters. She sat at the long table, hands pressed to her temples, eyes ringed in shadow from nights without rest. The black silk of her gown seemed to swallow her whole; she looked smaller than she had ever allowed herself to appear in public.

Daemon stood behind her chair, his palm resting lightly on the carved dragon that crowned its back. His voice was quieter than usual, but it still carried that iron edge.

“We will find him,” he said. “You know I will not stop until we do.”

Her youngest, Joffrey, came to her side, sliding his small hand into hers. His palm was warm, his grip tight.

“He’s strong, Mother,” Joffrey said, his voice wobbling but earnest. “Vaerion will come home. You’ll see.”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened. She looked up sharply at the nearest servant, her voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade.

“Summon every lord in the Keep,” she commanded. “Now. I want them in the council chamber. If they know anything—anything at all—we will have it before the hour is out.”

The Council Chamber

The vaulted ceiling loomed over the assembly, banners swaying in the occasional draft. The gathered lords spoke in low murmurs, their words overlapping like the restless rustle of birds in a roost.

Ser Harwin Strong stepped forward, bowing deeply.

“Your Majesty… we have scoured the grounds and the city. There is no trace of the prince. Only that his wine was spiked.” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “Whoever took him had help within the Red Keep. We have not yet learned who.”

Rhaenyra’s knuckles whitened against the table edge.

At the far end, Lord Massey  rose from his seat. His face wore the perfect mask of concern, his voice smooth and almost soothing.

“My people are everywhere, Your Majesty,” he said. “They will find him. You need not trouble yourself with worry. He will be returned to you soon.”

Daemon’s dark gaze flickered toward him, sharp as a knife point, but Rhaenyra gave only a curt nod. “See that it is so,” she said.

Vaerion woke to the faint rustle of curtains and the silver glint of moonlight spilling across satin sheets. His head felt heavy, thoughts moving like sluggish fish in deep water. The sheets were cool beneath him, but there was a faint, unnatural heat in his body, as if something foreign pulsed just beneath his skin.

Silk cords bound his wrists — not cruelly tight, but enough to make the act deliberate, calculated. He tried to lift an arm; it obeyed halfway, then failed him. His legs felt no better.

The door opened without a sound. Lord Massey entered, his steps slow, deliberate, as though savoring each one. The candlelight caught on the gold of his rings as he drew closer.

He sat on the bed’s edge, close enough that Vaerion could feel the shift of the mattress, close enough for the air between them to warm.

Massey’s fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from Vaerion’s cheek, the motion practiced, proprietary.

“Such fire in your bloodline,” he murmured, voice low. “It begins here. With you.”

Vaerion turned his head away, forcing his sluggish muscles to obey, but Massey followed the movement, leaning in until his breath stirred the fine hair at Valerion’s temple.

“Soon,” Massey said, “you will understand your purpose. And when you do, you will not resist me.”

His knuckles grazed Vaerion’s jaw — not a caress, but a claim — before he reached into his sleeve and produced a small vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly.

He tipped it toward Vaerion’s lips. The prince tried to turn away, but his body was too slow. The potion burned as it slid down his throat, honeyed and bitter all at once.

Vaerion’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “What… was that?”

“Soon,” Massey replied, his smile unreadable, “you’ll feel the changes in your body. And then… you’ll know.”

Cloud Recesses — The Jingshi

The mountain air was cool, but Lan Wangji felt the disquiet deep in his chest. Two weeks. Not a single letter. Wei Ying had never failed to write.

The Jingshi was quiet save for the soft creak of leather straps as Wangji tightened the bindings of a travel pack. His guqin rested against the wall, ready to be carried.

Lan Xichen stood in the doorway, his expression calm but his eyes shadowed.

“You’ve decided,” Xichen said softly.

“I'm going to Westeros,” Wangji replied.

“Wangji—” Lan Qiren’s voice was sharp as he stepped inside, but the protest faltered when he saw the unyielding set of his nephew’s jaw.

“Nothing will stop me,” Wangji said. “When I arrive, I will write. But I will not sit here while he is in danger.”

Xichen placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We will speak with the elders. Go.”

King’s Landing 

The spy’s boots were still dusty when he knelt before Aegon , Aemond and Daerion.

“We found her — the maid who served the wine. Her name is Lyla.”

They brought her in. She twisted her apron in both hands, eyes darting to the corners of the room as though shadows might be listening.

“A cloaked man told me to give that cup to Prince Vaerion and only,” she said in a rush. “Green robes he was wearing … and I saw a symbol under them. A brown dog, with a bone in its mouth.”

Aemond and Aegon exchanged a look that carried unspoken understanding.

“The Hell Hounds,” Aegon said grimly. “Assassins from a fallen house. Now a den of kidnappers.”

His pack was light, his guqin strapped securely across his back. The surface of the lake lay still as glass, reflecting the pale sky.

A maiden arranging flowers on the dock paused as Wangji boarded the small vessel.

“Who is the blossom for, Young Master ? Your wife?” she asked with a teasing lilt.

Wangji’s gaze softened slightly. “For my beloved.”

The oars dipped into the water, the ripples stretching out behind him like the first threads of a much longer journey.

The Beach 

Waves hissed against the shore as the two princes walked, boots sinking slightly into damp sand.

“If they wanted ransom,” Aemond said, “they would have made demands by now.”

“That means something else,” Daerion replied, scanning the horizon where the sea met the sky.

A small boat approached, its single passenger standing with poised stillness. When it reached the dock, the figure stepped off — tall, white-robed, with a sword at his side and an instrument strapped to his back.

Daerion’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come for Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “Something is wrong. He is in danger. I can feel it.”

Red Keep — Private Council

The solar was sealed, the fire in the hearth burning low. Only Rhaenyra, Daemon, Aemond, Helaena, Daerion, and a few of the most trusted family members were present.

Lan Wangji stood before them, straight-backed and calm, but his words carried weight.

“In my land, Wei Ying and I are married under our sect’s rites. Three bows — to heaven, to earth, to each other. We are bound in spirit. I can feel his energy… locked, but not wholly. I can track him.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes, red-rimmed from sleepless nights, shone with a fierce new hope. “Then we will form a plan. If you can find him, we will bring him back.”

Daemon’s hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister. “And when we find him,” he said softly, “gods help those who stand in our way.”

They bent over maps, tracing possible routes, marking strongholds known to the Hell Hounds. The talk was low and urgent, the air thick with purpose.

As the council ended, Lan Wangji closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, and the faintest shimmer of spiritual energy rose from him like mist in moonlight. Somewhere far away, Vaerion’s own spirit flickered — weak, muffled, but still there.

Wangji reached for it. The hunt had begun.

[ end of chapter thirty ]

Chapter Text

Hey everyone! 

I just wanted to say sorry for not posting recently and for not giving you all a heads-up. I’ve been in the hospital, and my hand has been in a cast, which made it really hard to post or stay active.

Also, with school starting, things have been a bit overwhelming. But the good news is — I’m finally getting my cast off this week! 🙌

Thank you all for being patient with me. I truly appreciate it. I’ll try my best to get back on track and start posting every Monday and Friday from now on.

Thanks again for your support 💖

Much love,SIMKAA