Dragon Mark Burns the Flesh

Meleys's massive body swept over Dragonstone's towering spires, her shadow passing like a giant hand over the grim castle below, built from black stone.

The scent of sulfur mingled with the salty stench of the sea breeze, growing ever stronger.

Rather than flying directly to the main keep, Rhaenys guided the scarlet dragon down into a quieter, heavily guarded courtyard near the castle's eastern wing.

It was closer to Prince Baelon's quarters and drew fewer curious eyes.

"Hold tight." Rhaenys's voice was unusually calm in the sea wind. She slid down from the dragon's back first, swift and decisive.

Daemon followed close behind. His drenched clothes clung to his slight teenage frame, bringing bone-deep cold, yet the black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder continued to radiate unnatural warmth, like a pulsing ember embedded in his flesh.

Meleys gave a low growl, turning her enormous head toward Daemon. Her scorching breath washed over his face, carrying the smells of sulfur and blood. Those molten-gold vertical pupils studied him for a moment, yet she showed no aggression. She merely flicked her tail impatiently and snorted out a small spray of sparks.

The guards in the courtyard had long since been alerted. They wore black armor bearing the Targaryen sigil and carried halberds, their faces a mixture of vigilance and astonishment.

They clearly recognized Princess Rhaenys, but their eyes remained fixed on the unfamiliar youth behind her—soaked through, raggedly dressed, holding a bloodstained curved blade, yet possessed of dazzling silver hair and deep purple eyes.

"Your Highness!" The captain of the guard stepped forward and bowed, his gaze sweeping over Daemon. "This is..."

"Someone I brought." Rhaenys's voice carried unquestionable authority, cutting off his inquiry. She did not even glance at the captain as she seized Daemon's icy wrist and pulled him along, hard enough to make him frown slightly. "Where is Uncle Baelon? I need to see him now."

"His Highness the Prince... is in the solar of Dragonflame Hall. He has just finished meeting with the maesters and is resting..." The captain looked troubled.

"Then wake him now! This is of great importance!" Rhaenys's tone was absolute, with a rare note of urgency.

Pulling Daemon along, she ignored the guards' hesitant expressions and strode across the courtyard, pushing open the heavy black-oak doors and entering the castle.

The interior of Dragonstone Castle was even more oppressive than Daemon had imagined.

The corridors were narrow and winding, their walls built of roughly cut black stone. There were scarcely any windows, and the only light came from torches wedged into cracks in the walls, their flames flickering unsteadily.

The air was thick with medicinal scents, sulfur, and a deeper, colder smell belonging to stone and sea.

Daemon noticed countless reliefs of coiling dragons carved into the walls. In the dim light, their hollow eye sockets seemed to watch him silently, this intruder.

The brand on his shoulder pulsed more clearly with every step. Each throb brought a faint burning pain and the echo of a deep dragon's roar within his skull. Every pulse seemed to resonate strangely with the dull heartbeat of the vast volcano beneath Dragonstone.

At last, they arrived before a massive stone door carved with the image of a fire-breathing dragon.

Two more elite guards stood solemnly at either side, cloaked in black capes embroidered with red dragons. They were Prince Baelon's personal guards.

The moment they saw Rhaenys arrive with Daemon in tow, their hands went to their sword hilts, their eyes sharp as eagles.

"Open the door," Rhaenys commanded, her voice echoing through the empty stone corridor.

The guards hesitated, but ultimately pushed open the heavy stone door. An even stronger, harsher medicinal smell mixed with the smoky scent of burning coals rushed out to meet them.

Beyond the door lay a spacious but dimly lit hall. Huge tapestries hung from the walls, depicting Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion as he burned Harrenhal.

At the center of the hall, a huge stone brazier burned, driving away Dragonstone's distinctive damp chill. Beside it, half-reclining in a broad chair draped with thick furs and velvet, was a man.

"Prince of Dragonstone," "Hand of the King," "Prince of Spring"—"the Brave" Baelon Targaryen.

The room was filled with the distinctive scent of parchment charts, ink, and a faint tang of sea salt.

The chamber was spacious. A vast wall bore an exquisite sea chart depicting the coastlines of Westeros and Essos. A warm fire burned in the hearth, driving away Dragonstone's damp chill. At the center stood a huge black-stone table covered with documents and sea charts.

Baelon Targaryen turned at the sound. He was in the prime of life, still tall and straight-backed, dressed in a well-tailored dark purple velvet coat embroidered with a three-headed dragon in gold thread. His silver hair was immaculately combed, and his chin bore neatly trimmed short whiskers. His deep purple eyes remained sharp, though a nearly imperceptible weariness and... gloom seemed to linger between his brows. It was a heaviness born not of illness, but of crushing responsibility and some unspoken concern. Though his movements were slightly stiff from sitting too long, he had lost none of the Prince of Dragonstone's decisiveness or majesty.

"Rhaenys?" Seeing his niece soaked through and visibly hurried, Baelon frowned slightly. Then his gaze immediately locked onto Daemon behind her.

Those sharp violet eyes, like a hawk's, pierced through Daemon's bedraggled state in an instant and settled on his pure silver hair, dark purple pupils, and youthful yet exceptionally handsome face.

The expression on Baelon's face froze at once. A flash of indescribable shock and deep scrutiny passed through his eyes.

"Uncle." Rhaenys pulled Daemon forward several steps, stopping a few paces from the table. "Meleys and I found this child by the shore. He was unconscious among the reefs, burning with fever, with a black three-headed dragon brand on his shoulder."

Her voice was clear and firm, and her gaze met Baelon's scrutiny without flinching.

Baelon did not respond immediately. His eyes were like cold probes, moving over Daemon's face again and again, as though searching for any trace of deceit or suspicion.

Daemon forced himself to stand straight and meet that overwhelmingly oppressive gaze. This pressure was unlike the flashing blades and shadows of the battlefield. It was a cold scrutiny originating from the very source of bloodlines, as if it sought to dig out even the secrets buried deep in his soul that did not belong to this era.

Though the man did not appear gravely ill, the invisible pressure he exuded made Daemon even more nervous than the Bloodcrow of the Redgrass Field.

"A black three-headed dragon brand?" Baelon finally spoke. His voice was low and steady, giving away nothing. "And Meleys?"

"Meleys accepted him without the slightest discomfort," Rhaenys answered at once, her tone certain. "And while he was unconscious, and when he choked on water just now, he unconsciously spoke the ancient Valyrian words Father once taught me—'Valar Morghulis.'"

Baelon's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.

The fingers resting on the arm of his chair tightened slightly. The room fell into a brief, suffocating silence. Flames crackled in the hearth while the sea wind squeezed through gaps in the windows, making the papers on the table rustle softly.

"Child." Baelon's gaze focused on Daemon's face once more. His voice softened somewhat, though its probing edge remained undiminished. "Tell me your name. And... how did you come to Dragonstone?" He did not ask directly about his mother, but his question had already struck at the heart of the matter.

Daemon felt his throat go dry. How was he supposed to answer? A lie? A bottomless abyss that would require countless more lies to fill? Or silence? He drew a deep breath and was about to speak—

"His name is Daemon." Rhaenys cut in before him once again. Her voice was not loud, but it carried an absolute, undeniable force, as hard as Dragonstone's own black stone.

She even stepped forward, subtly placing herself half a step in front of Daemon. "As for how he came here, that is not important, Uncle! What matters is that the Lineage's sigil appeared upon him! Meleys lifted him from the sea! The blood flowing in his eyes comes from the same source as ours! And he spoke the words Father left behind!"

Looking Baelon straight in the eyes, she said each word distinctly: "No matter who he is, no matter where he came from, his bloodline cannot be questioned! Even if he is a bastard, he still carries Targaryen blood! He is the brother I, Rhaenys Targaryen, acknowledge!"