Blood Oath Stirs the Waves

Rhaenys's declaration exploded through Dragonflame Hall like a thunderclap, amid the scent of medicine and burning charcoal!

Every word carried the resolute force to sever all hesitation, as scorching and irresistible as Meleys's dragonfire.

She straightened her back, wet black hair clinging to her cheeks, her pale violet eyes blazing with the near-dragonfire determination unique to the Targaryen Lineage.

She firmly shielded Daemon—the silver-haired youth drenched to the bone, his clothes in tatters and a strange, throbbing black mark branded upon his shoulder—half a step behind her, as though her body itself were a barrier against the scrutiny of the Prince of Dragonstone.

The air froze. The crackling of charcoal in the fireplace and the wail of sea wind squeezing through the window cracks were endlessly amplified in the dead silence.

The maester standing in the corner dropped his pestle into the copper basin with a clang, while the maid clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes full of incredulous terror.

The hand of Prince Baelon's personal guard clamped tightly around the hilt at his waist. His knuckles cracked faintly from the force, and the muscles beneath his armor were taut as iron.

The expression on Prince Baelon Targaryen's face churned violently the moment Rhaenys made her declaration, like a deep pool disturbed by a stone.

Initial shock crashed over him like an icy tide, followed by offended anger—Rhaenys actually dared to challenge his authority so forcefully, vouching for a man of unknown origin!

Yet beneath that anger lay something deeper: disbelief, and a sharp, agonizing wound connected to his elder brother, Aemon.

Aemon... his brother, perfect as the very model of a knight. Could it truly be...?

His sharp, dark violet eyes nailed themselves to Daemon's face, as if he meant to pierce through the youth's handsome exterior and see the soul hidden beneath.

Silver hair, violet eyes—flawless. And that shoulder... illuminated by the fireplace in Dragonflame Hall, the black three-headed dragon mark on Daemon's right shoulder pulsed with his breathing in a slow, uncanny rhythm, like the sleeping heart of a living creature.

Baelon's gaze lingered on the mark for a long time, his expression unreadably complicated. This was no ordinary brand. It emanated an ancient, unsettling aura.

"Rhaenys..." Baelon finally spoke, his voice low as muffled thunder rolling beneath the earth, every word carrying immense weight. "Do you... know what you just said?" He tried to suppress the turmoil in his tone, but the tremor of old pain being touched, along with the sudden intensification of the faint stabbing ache beneath his right ribs brought on by his agitation, made his voice sound stiff. The knuckles of the hand resting on the arm of his chaise turned faintly white.

"I do!" Rhaenys did not retreat in the slightest. Her voice rose even higher than before, carrying the resolve of someone willing to perish together with her enemy. "I know better than anyone! My father's blood flows in his veins! Dragonstone's sigil is branded upon him! Meleys has accepted him! That is ironclad proof! Uncle, look at him! Look at that silver hair, those violet eyes, that mark! He stands here as the continuation of Aemon Targaryen's bloodline!" Her words flew like a barrage of arrows, striking directly at the heart of the matter and allowing no doubt.

Baelon's breathing grew noticeably heavier. Rhaenys's mention of "the continuation of Aemon Targaryen's bloodline" was like a poisoned dagger thrust precisely into the deepest wound in his heart.

His brother's face and voice flashed before his eyes—the vile assassination in the streets of Myr... The rage of vengeance and grief of losing his dearest kin intertwined, bringing a suffocating pain to his chest. The irritating stab beneath his right ribs seemed to ignite with his violent emotions, abruptly becoming sharp and distinct, as though a red-hot needle were twisting there.

Instinctively, he raised his left hand and pressed his knuckles hard against the spot. His brows furrowed deeply, and a trace of barely concealed pain crossed his resolute face.

"Your Highness!" The maester immediately moved forward anxiously.

"Stay back!" Baelon abruptly raised his hand to stop him, his voice edged with suppressed irritation.

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the sudden agony and the surging blood in his veins. Fine beads of cold sweat seeped from his temples.

He looked at Daemon again. The scrutiny and doubt in his gaze had not diminished. Instead, his physical discomfort and Rhaenys's forceful stance cast an even darker shadow over them.

A "nephew" bearing a strange mark, "recognized" by Rhaenys in such a fierce manner, appearing at this sensitive time when the bloody aftermath of vengeance in Myr had yet to settle... The coincidence itself reeked of conspiracy. Was it slow poison? Or some more sinister scheme to taint the bloodline and shake the foundations? The hand pressed against his ribs unconsciously tightened.

At that moment, the throbbing black three-headed dragon mark on Daemon's right shoulder convulsed violently without warning! A piercing burn far worse than before erupted, as though a red-hot branding iron had been pressed directly into his flesh!

"Ugh!" Caught off guard, Daemon let out a muffled groan of pain. His body jerked violently, and his left hand clutched his right shoulder. Between his fingers, the black dragon mark seemed to come alive, dark red light twisting and struggling madly beneath his skin, straining to burst free!

Cold sweat instantly soaked his pale forehead. The sudden change startled everyone.

"Daemon!" Rhaenys cried out, immediately turning to support his swaying body.

Prince Baelon's gaze stabbed toward him like an ice pick, fixed on Daemon's pain-twisted face and the abnormally active mark.

His suspicions spread like ink dropped into clear water. This reaction... was far too strange!

Yet even more horrifying than the agony in his shoulder was the terrible sound that exploded in Daemon's mind immediately afterward! It did not come from outside, but thundered directly within his skull, within his soul!

A cry! The anguished wail of a colossal dragon from the abyss of hell, filled with endless suffering and the stench of decay!

The sound was saturated with the despair of death, forgotten fury, and a bone-deep chill that made the soul tremble!

It was more like... the final cry of some colossal beast's rotting remains, slowly decaying in eternal darkness, as an unseen force tore apart its dragon bones and stripped away its rusted scales—a cry full of boundless hatred and cold death!

The sound struck directly at his mind, making his eardrums feel as though they would split. Darkness swam before his eyes, and it felt as if the chill breath of death were crawling up his spine and over his entire body!

He staggered back a step, his back slamming heavily into the cold black stone wall. The icy touch jolted him, barely allowing him to keep from collapsing.

He gasped for breath, his heart hammering like a drum. That terrible wail seemed to still echo inside his skull, bringing waves of dizziness and nausea. He lifted his head, his gaze passing over the uncertain crowd as he instinctively looked toward the narrow high window of Dragonflame Hall that faced the castle's depths, toward the towering Dragonpit.

Outside lay only thick, impenetrable sulfurous mist and dusk pressing heavily down.

What was that? A hallucination? Or... an ominous sign from the very depths of the Dragonpit?

Daemon leaned against the cold stone wall, his wet, chilled clothes pressed against his skin, the mark on his shoulder burning like a glowing coal while the lingering echo of that wail remained inside his skull.

He looked at Prince Baelon's hand pressing against his ribs as he endured the pain, at Rhaenys's worried yet unwavering gaze, and felt the oppressive presence permeating the depths of this ancient castle, along with that dragon's roar that seemed to come from hell itself.

The immense shadow of Dragonstone had never weighed so heavily upon his shoulders.

Beneath the surface of calm, the poison of vengeance might already have seeped in unnoticed, while the decaying lament from the depths of the ancient Dragonpit tolled like a funeral bell.

The wheel of fate had already begun to spin faster, irreversibly, amid Rhaenys's declaration, Baelon's hidden pain, and Daemon's hallucination.

Just then, a set of somewhat hurried yet steady footsteps approached from afar, breaking the grave silence in Dragonflame Hall.

A guard appeared in the doorway and reported respectfully, though with a trace of nervousness, "Your Highness, Princess. The flagship of Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, has entered the harbor. Lord Corlys will soon disembark and requests an immediate audience. He says... he has brought the latest intelligence regarding Myr, as well as... an important lead concerning this morning's dungeon disturbance."

The Sea Snake had arrived!

Corlys Velaryon, Lord of Tidehead Island, one of the Nine Voyagers, the Sea Snake—a man renowned throughout the Seven Seas for his wisdom, power, and iron hand. The name itself carried the weight of the Seven Seas' waves and the chill of ruthless authority. His arrival would undoubtedly cast an even larger stone into the already turbulent undercurrents of Dragonstone.

A flash of sharp light crossed Prince Baelon's eyes, like cold lightning breaking through a gap in storm clouds. The hand at his ribs slowly lowered, as though he had temporarily buried all pain and doubt beneath the unfathomable mask of a statesman. In an instant, his face held only the cold, unquestionable majesty belonging to the Prince of Dragonstone and the Hand of the King, though the exhaustion and lingering pain between his brows remained.

He gave Daemon, supported by Rhaenys and pale as paper, a long look, then glanced at his determined niece. "Understood. Have Lord Velaryon come directly here." His voice had steadied, but it carried an unmistakably commanding tone.

The center of the storm had suddenly become even more dangerous and unpredictable.

Daemon Blackfyre, the Black Dragon from a century in the future, now stood at the edge of the whirlpool of Targaryen Lineage power and secrets. Before him lay unfathomable undercurrents; behind him lingered the dragon's sorrowful cry.