"Your bravery nearly killed you."
Rowena's voice carried the cool, timeless authority that always made the carriage feel smaller than it was. She watched the young wizard climb inside, rainwater dripping from his boots onto the floorboards.
Thaddues did not answer immediately. He lowered himself onto the cushioned bench, every movement drawing protest from battered muscles.
"And now you depart as though nothing happened," she continued, studying him with open disapproval.
"I have done enough," Thaddues replied. "There are other matters that require my attention."
The carriage lurched forward. Wood creaked, leather strained, and soon the steady clop of hooves carried them away from Ghost Hill and onto the muddy road leading north. Rain drummed against the roof as the ruined hill faded into the grey distance.
A flicker of amusement touched Rowena's features.
"I will admit, the magic of this world interests me. I have seen the echoes left behind by what you awakened. Even where I come from, power on that scale is dangerous. Such things are meant to be buried and forgotten, lest they consume those foolish enough to wield them."
Thaddues showed no surprise. The system granted knowledge and advantages beyond the reach of most wizards, yet beside Rowena, those gifts often felt insignificant.
If Rowena had ever wielded the full measure of her power, he doubted he would have survived facing her in battle. The system's cryptic notifications seemed to hint as much.
"If I were in your position," Rowena mused, her eyes fixed on the rain-swept world beyond the carriage, "I would have fashioned an artifact."
She spoke as though discussing an elementary lesson.
"To achieve the same result through ritual each time is needlessly burdensome. Knowledge exists to free us from repetition, not chain us to it."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"An object capable of calling forth rain would outlive kingdoms, serve generations, and demand far less from its creator. There is a certain elegance in permanence that temporary solutions seldom possess."
Thaddues opened one eye and stared at her.
"Could you grant me a moment of silence?"
Rowena blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the request. The look in her eyes suggested she was already preparing several more observations.
Thaddues spared himself the trouble of hearing them.
With a tired motion, he removed the diadem.
The faint shimmer of her presence vanished at once. The air seemed colder in her absence, and the seat across from him became empty.
Silence settled over the carriage.
For the first time all day, Thaddues released a long breath and eased back against the cushions. Rowena was not wrong. An artifact would be a permanent solution, something capable of serving Ghost Hill long after he departed. Yet alchemy was a field he had chosen to leave untouched for the time being. Somewhere within his inventory rested a mastery card waiting to be used, but the thought of spending such a valuable resource on alchemy held little appeal.turned inward.
"Sign in today." He spoke.
---
"Host, sign in successfully. Host received a box of healing draughts."
---
A practical reward, if not an exciting one.
"How long until recovery? "
The system paused before responding.
---
"With adequate rest and healing potions, host's physical condition and magical reserves will recover within two days."
--
Two days.
Thaddues nodded. The estimate was better than he had expected. After the scale of the ritual at Ghost Hill, he had anticipated a far longer recovery.
Outside, rain hammered against the carriage roof as the road stretched north toward King's Landing. The capital remained distant, and the roads of Westeros were rarely kind to travelers. Thaddues had no intention of remaining weakened for long. Whatever the Old Gods thought of what he had done at Ghost Hill, he would be fully recovered before they had any chance to answer.
The sea around Driftmark churned beneath a leaden sky as High Tide stood watch upon its cliffs. Upon the cliffs beyond the castle, Meleys was already waiting.
The Red Queen's scarlet scales glimmered beneath the overcast sky. Her massive chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and a low rumbling hiss escaped her jaws, rattling loose pebbles across the stone.
Beside her stood Rhaenys Targaryen, clad in riding leathers darkened by the sea wind. Her silver-gold hair had been braided tightly against her head, and her violet eyes remained fixed upon the man standing before her.
Corlys Velaryon stood wrapped in a heavy sea-cloak, his expression as stern as weathered driftwood.
Closing the distance between them, Rhaenys rested a gloved hand against his bearded cheek and kissed him. It was not a timid farewell but a fierce one, born of long years and Valyrian blood.
When she pulled away, her voice carried the authority of both princess and dragonrider.
"You had best speak sense into your brother, Corlys. Creating a religion? Has he lost all reason? Does he truly mean to challenge the Faith itself?"
Corlys exhaled slowly.
The danger needed no explanation. The Faith of the Seven was woven deeply into the fabric of the realm. To challenge it openly would invite resistance from Oldtown to the Neck and perhaps plunge the kingdoms into chaos.
Yet blood remained blood.
"I will speak with him," Corlys said. After a moment, the iron certainty in his voice softened. "You be careful as well."
A faint smile touched Rhaenys's lips.
"I am always careful. I ride Meleys. There is precious little in this world capable of catching us."
Her hand tightened briefly around his forearm.
"See that Laenor and Laena are cared for while I am gone."
"They are Velaryons," Corlys replied. "They shall want for nothing."
Satisfied, Rhaenys stepped away and approached her dragon. With the ease of long practice, she climbed into the saddle and secured herself.
A moment later, Meleys threw back her head and unleashed a roar that echoed across the cliffs and towers of High Tide.
Then she leapt.
Great crimson wings beat against the wind, carrying dragon and rider skyward until they became a red streak against the grey horizon, bound for Dorne.
Corlys remained where he stood, watching until they disappeared into the clouds.
An unease he could not name settled heavily in his chest.
Unbeknownst to the Lord of the Tides, his daughter was nowhere within the halls of High Tide.
Laena Velaryon had slipped away hours earlier.
The young girl hurried down the winding coastal paths leading toward the isolated shores below, ignoring the cries of septas and servants left far behind. A handful of guards and handmaidens struggled to keep pace across wet stone, kelp-covered rocks, and treacherous shale.
Salt spray lashed against Laena's face and tugged at her silver hair, but she scarcely noticed.
Her attention remained fixed upon the distant shoreline.
There, half-veiled by sea mist and resting upon black sands, lay a shape so vast it seemed part of the landscape itself.
Vhagar.
The oldest and largest living dragon in the world.
Ancient green scales, dulled by age and crusted with salt, covered a body that dwarfed castles. Her folded wings resembled the sails of a hundred wrecked warships. To look upon her was to look upon history itself—the last living memory of Aegon's Conquest.
Laena stopped.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was not fear she felt.
A strange heat bloomed within her chest. The blood of Old Valyria sang in her veins, answering something ancient and irresistible.
The desire to claim the great she-dragon rose like a tide, drowning out the distant shouts of her guards. The world narrowed until only Vhagar remained.
Slowly, almost unconsciously, Laena stepped forward.
Then another.
Her hand lifted toward the ancient dragon.
The wind screamed across the shore. Waves crashed against the rocks. Sea mist drifted between dragon and girl.
Then Vhagar's great eye opened.
Ancient, vast, and terrible, it settled upon the child standing before her.
Laena did not retreat.
TBC
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