As the maid combed his waterfall of long silver hair, Lynn's gaze fell on a book inlaid with gemstone chips on the dressing table.
Its cover was made of tanned purple leather, with the title written in Old Valyrian-A Song of Dragons and Fire.
It was a collection of legends about ancient Valyria.
Here was his chance.
Controlling Daenerys's body, he pretended to straighten the almost transparent purple silk gown, letting his fingertips slip soundlessly across the table.
He swept a quill and a small bottle of pitch-black ink into his loose sleeve.
The movement was gentle and seamless.
With everything ready, a cluster of chattering maids escorted him back to his bedroom.
"Your Highness, please rest for a little while. Magister Illyrio will soon send someone to fetch you."
The maids bowed respectfully and withdrew. As the heavy door closed softly, the world finally fell silent.
Now!
Without the slightest hesitation, Lynn went straight to the carved desk, opened the collection of tales, and flipped directly to the blank flyleaf.
He forced Daenerys's right hand steady despite its slight trembling from nerves and mental overload, then dipped the quill in ink.
The nib raced across the ancient parchment.
He could not write a straightforward warning. That would only be dismissed as the nonsense of a girl about to be married.
What he needed to write was a prophecy.
A prophecy powerful enough to overturn her understanding, inspire her unquestioning belief, and carry the utmost romance and epic grandeur.
He abandoned the Common Tongue for the older, more rhythmic Valyrian, writing with the air of a divine oracle:
[Zȳho perzys, naejot sȳndor ēngos hen vējes.]
(True Dragon's Blood should not gather dust amid the grass sea.)
[Ñuho brōzi, daor syt dāriot qilōni hen Dothraki,]
(Thy destiny lies not with the