The caravan moved slowly along the old coastal road under the cover of night, three wagons creaking through the darkness.
The lead wagon carried supplies and two middle-aged men at the reins. Behind them, the second wagon held the prize.
Beneath a pile of coarse blankets and empty grain sacks lay Rhaego, still unconscious, his silver hair loose, small black horns catching faint moonlight whenever the cloth shifted.
His wings were pinned awkwardly beneath him, his tail curled limply.
Inside the wagon, two young freedmen sat guarding him, their faces pale and nervous. One kept his hand on the hilt of a short knife.
The other constantly glanced at the sleeping boy as if expecting him to jolt awake at any moment.
"He's been out for hours," the first young man whispered, voice tight.
"What if the dose wasn't strong enough? What if he wakes up right here?"
The second shifted uneasily, wiping sweat from his brow.
"He's just a boy… But look at him. Horns. Scales. Wings. If he wakes up angry…"
From the driver's bench, one of the older men, glanced back and laughed low.
"Relax, you fools," he called over his shoulder.
"He was shot with a heavy dose of dreamwine mixed with milk of the poppy. He won't wake up all of a sudden. Not for many hours yet. Stop jumping at shadows."
The younger guard swallowed hard.
"Still… he's the dragon prince. If he opens his eyes and starts breathing fire in here…"
The older man spat over the side of the wagon.
"Then we'll all burn together. Now shut your mouths and keep watch. We're almost there."
The caravan continued in uneasy silence, wheels creaking, horses snorting softly in the dark. After a long, tense ride, they turned off the main road onto a narrow, overgrown path that led to an abandoned estate half-buried in the dunes, a secret place known only to the old blood of Meereen.
The wagons stopped. Torches flared to life as several figures emerged from the shadows. Waiting with quiet authority, stood a group of older masters.
Their eyes gleamed at the sight of the covered boy, and one of them, a tall man with streaks of gray in his black hair, stepped forward.
One older master, gaunt and cold-eyed, stepped forward first.
"Bring him," he ordered.
The freedmen carefully lifted Rhaego's limp body from the wagon and carried him inside the ruined courtyard, dropping him none too gently onto the hard-packed sand.
The boy's head lolled to the side, the small black horns catching the torchlight.
The old master crouched beside him, reaching out with long, thin fingers. He touched the silver hair, then ran his palm over one of the horns, feeling its smooth, hard curve.
Another master touched the folded wings, testing the membrane with curious fingers, while the third lifted one of Rhaego's hands, examining the faint scales along his knuckles.
"Remarkable," he murmured, almost to himself.
"So young… yet so dangerous."
He looked up at the freedmen, eyes sharp.
"No one saw you take him?"
The oldest of the freedmen shook his head quickly.
"No one. We used the dart just as you instructed. The boy never made a sound."
The old master nodded once, satisfied. He stood slowly, brushing sand from his robes.
"Good. Then we begin."
He looked down at Rhaego's unconscious form and gave a single, cold command.
"Cut them, the horns."
The young freedmen hesitated then asked. "Both?"
"Both," the eldest confirmed.
"The queen must understand that we are serious. A dragon without horns is still dangerous… but a dragon without pride is easier to break."
The youngest of the masters, more nervous, hesitated.
"If we maim him too badly, the Mother of Dragons will burn the city to ash."
The eldest's smile was thin and cold.
"She will burn it anyway if we do nothing. This is our only lever. We send the horns to her with a simple message: leave Meereen, or the next gift will be his wings."
The younger freedmen exchanged uneasy glances. One of them produced a small, wickedly sharp saw and a pair of iron tongs.
They knelt beside the boy.
The saw bit into the first horn with a wet, grinding sound.
"It's… it's like rock," one muttered, teeth gritted.
The material was far harder than bone, dense, almost like cutting through thick rock.
"Faster!" the master snapped, urgency slicing the air. "Do you think we'll be here all night?"
The horn did not yield easily. The steel chipped and scraped, sliding over the dense surface like a whetstone against stone. Sweat gleamed on the young men's foreheads, muscles straining as the master barked orders, urging them onward.
"Careful! Don't ruin it!" another master hissed.
His fingers brushed against the second horn, testing its hardness.
"This boy… this child is no ordinary man. Feel that? Strong as any Valyrian steel I've held. Harder, perhaps. Yet… beautiful. Look at him."
The blade caught and slipped several times. Dark blood welled up immediately, running down the side of Rhaego's face and pooling in the sand.
"Harder," the master snapped, impatience sharpening his voice.
"Do not dawdle. The ship sails before dawn."
The men pressed down with more force. The saw screeched against the horn, sending small shards of black material flying.
Rhaego's body twitched once, a low, unconscious groan escaping his throat, but he did not wake.
"Imagine what the Silver Queen would do if she saw his horns being sent to her…" one whispered.
The master's eyes glinted.
"Why waste time thinking of her? We hold leverage now. We have a prince who is half dragon. A prize beyond any gold. And a message to her."
The sound of metal grinding against horn filled the air.
The second horn proved even more difficult. The saw jammed repeatedly. One of the freedmen cursed under his breath, sweating heavily as he worked.
"Faster!" the second master hissed.
"If he wakes now, we are all dead and this is all for nothing."
Finally, with a sickening crack, the first horn came free. Then the second. The two small, curved black horns lay on the sand, still warm, glistening with blood.
The elder picked them up carefully, wrapping them in a square of white cloth before placing them into a small iron box.
"Excellent," he said softly.
"Take him to the docks," he ordered.
"The captains in Volantis will keep him hidden until the queen bends… or breaks."
The freedmen lifted Rhaego's limp, bleeding head once more and carried him back toward the wagons.
The eldest watched them go, the iron box where the horns held tightly in his hands.
"Send this box to the pyramid at first light," he ordered.
"With a simple message along with his horns."
He smiled thinly in the torchlight.
"The Mother of Dragons will learn that even dragons can be killed."
Outside, the ship slipped quietly away from Meereen's harbor under cover of darkness, its sails dark and unmarked.
Rhaego lay bound in chains and gagged in the cramped iron cage hold below deck, still unconscious, the stumps of his horns wrapped in bloodied rags.
The city slept uneasily behind them.
But the storm was only beginning.