Hiss~
The winged dragon in the cage suddenly froze, then immediately thrashed about even more violently. But no matter how fiercely it struggled, the beast was still just that—a caged creature with half a wing severed, its body bound in heavy chains. In the end, it could only retreat to the edge of the cage, exhausted.
Brynden, whose mind had just gone completely blank, suddenly snapped back to awareness. He cautiously glanced up at the adults around him and found that none of them had noticed his brief moment of strangeness.
The boy let out a quiet breath of relief. As the saying went, bastards always grow up faster. They had to mature earlier than their legitimate brothers—if they wanted to survive. Of course, that didn't matter if one was merely the product of a lord's lust or the result of the first night's privilege.
But clearly, Brynden belonged to the former. Though his mother and foster mother both loved him dearly, and the children of House Vaelarys—along with the youngest of the second generation, the "king of the children" at Dragon's Nest, Rhaegor—were fond of him, and House Blackwood didn't reject him either. After all, the crows understood the reality of things—if Lord Benjicot and his heirs were willing to compromise regarding Melissa, then whether it be the court at King's Landing or the septons of Oldtown, they would all welcome them as honored guests. Back when Prince Viserys was still alive, Benjicot had been a prime candidate for the Small Council. If he wished, he could have joined at any time.
Therefore, whether at Raventree Hall or Dragon's Nest, Brynden never truly felt like a "Rivers" or "Silverblood"—though the latter was never an official bastard surname anyway. Rather, he felt more like a Blackwood… or a Vaelarys.
But in truth, he was neither. In his veins and marrow, Brynden was a Targaryen.
He had more brothers and sisters than he could count—not only legitimate siblings, but also countless noble bastards. No one could predict what the future held, so from the moment Brynden could remember and began to understand the world, he had learned how to hide and be cautious.
Then he saw Syrae squint her eyes.
Brynden flinched, his small hand trembling before he barely managed to steady it. To be honest, that fleeting moment of "blankness" he had just experienced wasn't complete unconsciousness.
He remembered very clearly that, in that instant, his heart had been overwhelmed by a fury and madness beyond words. He had wanted to bite, to claw, to spread wings that didn't exist. Before his eyes, there was no Syrae anymore, nor the ladies resting in the sedan chairs.
What he saw instead was a black giant wielding a whip of hardened leather, a circus master groveling respectfully on the ground, and pairs of eyes—some purple, some of odd colors—gazing at him. In his nose lingered the stench of sulfur, terrifying yet infuriating, a smell that made him want to tear everything before him to pieces.
But all of that lasted just a moment. The boundless madness, rage, and pain tore through Brynden's consciousness, and when he came back to himself, it was as if it had all been a hallucination.
It seemed only Syrae had noticed something was wrong with him.
The little girl let out a soft babble, reaching out her chubby hands toward Princess Rhaena, who was happily chatting with Princess Elenna.
Brynden quickly raised a finger to his lips and motioned "shh". Syrae narrowed her eyes again and babbled, this time pointing straight at Brynden.
"Syrae, what is it?"
Princess Elenna noticed that Syrae was pointing at the dazed Brynden and asked curiously.
"Hold, hold."
"Looks like little Syrae wants little Bryn to hold her," said Helena, Jacaerys's lady, with a laugh. She was one of only two ladies present who weren't dragonriders, nor members of the royal bloodline—though her ancestors, the House of Rondell, might once have had dragon blood or perhaps were even a branch of House Vaelarys. But by her generation, those ties had all but vanished.
"Syrae, be good. Bryn is too small, he can't carry you," said Princess Elenna affectionately. She liked Syrae very much and quickly picked her up to comfort her.
Brynden let out another sigh of relief and flashed a wide smile at Syrae, who had opened her eyes and was watching him.
Seeing that the winged dragon had quieted down, Sebastian looked toward the circus master with a frown. "This winged dragon you caught—it's a Shadow Wyvern, isn't it?"
"You've got a sharp eye, my lord. Truly worthy of the Dragon King's blood," the circus master flattered with a bowed head. "Our caravan lost twenty Brindlemen warriors capturing it. Another seventeen good men died chaining it down."
"Sebas didn't ask you that," Igon said softly. "He's asking if you're aware that Shadow Wyverns are the fiercest among the Wyvern breeds? If you had brought it into the marketplace…"
"Your Highness, Your Highness…" The circus master threw himself down again, not daring to raise his head. "It only looks fierce. We've clipped its wings—it can't fly anymore. And we had special chains made to restrain it…" He didn't dare go on.
Igon looked to his elder siblings and the aunts behind him. The blood of the Silver Dragons could all sense what the circus master had left unsaid.
Even for a true dragon, those chains could bind them—let alone a wyvern.
"Your Highness, we've said all we can…"
"All right, all right," Igon interrupted, bending down. Still a child, it was easy for him to lean in and help the fat circus master back to his feet. "We're only concerned for your safety. Don't worry—even if the wyvern escapes, we can shoot it down on the spot. And with chains that strong? We're not worried."
"Thank you, Your Highness, thank you, Your Highness…"
The circus master bowed again, on the verge of tears, silently reciting the sacred names of every god he had ever believed in.
Why was he so unlucky? Having members of a noble house attend their show and exhibition was supposed to be a good thing. But of all nobles, it had to be these dragon-obsessed ones—and worse, ones raised by those ancient foreign gods who held to nothing but absolutes.
Still, for all their fixations, these noble children were decent.
Polite, too.
At that moment—
A voice reached the circus master's ears. It was soft but unmistakably clear. It was Igon's.
He spoke in Summer Isles tongue, with the unmistakable accent of the Basilisk Isles.
"The map of Sothoryos. And all sightings of that dragon. We know you have them. Deliver them to Dragon's Nest—there'll be a reward."
Cold sweat poured down the circus master's back.
Meanwhile—
At Dragon's Nest, in the Silverblood Tower, inside Draezell's chamber.
Draezell calmly watched the raven that had flown onto her desk. It appeared ordinary, but the black little creature flinched in terror as flames encircled it. Unable to escape, it could only give up, splaying its wings in surrender and pretending to be dead inside the ring of fire.
"Crossing half the continent… entering a vessel like this—it must not have been easy."
The raven let out a sigh-like croak, then cawed, its tongue vibrating strangely inside its beak to form an eerie voice.
"Your Highness, this wasn't what we agreed on."