The silence that followed was thick. Doran raised an eyebrow, his expression contained.
—Are you certain of that?
The queen did not waver. She straightened with even more elegance, delicately taking the cup before replying calmly, almost arrogantly.
—I have an army of one hundred thousand men. A fleet with one hundred and fifty warships. And four dragons. No… I don't need you. But that doesn't mean I wish to cast you aside.
Doran narrowed his eyes, weighing each word carefully. Arianne seemed ready to speak, but it was her father who responded first:
—Then… what do you seek in Dorne, if not support?
Daenerys took a slow sip from her cup before answering, her voice firm and composed.
—Peace. Why make enemies when we could be allies? We can reclaim the throne without help… but we prefer to do it with as little bloodshed as possible. After all, winter is coming.
The Prince of Dorne nodded slightly, though his expression grew more serious.
—Then tell me plainly: what do you want?
The queen set the cup down with a soft clink, and her eyes locked on Doran's with intensity.
—I want you to publicly announce that I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. That Dorne supports me officially. I don't need soldiers, but a symbolic gesture… such as sending ships to transport troops… would be well received.
Then she paused briefly. Her tone grew more solemn.
—And I also need you to hand over Myrcella Baratheon.
The room seemed to grow colder at once. Doran didn't move, but his gaze darkened, while Arianne pressed her lips together in a mix of surprise and suspicion.
—Why? Revenge? —Doran asked, his voice tense.
—I can swear the girl won't be harmed and will be treated with all due respect —Daenerys replied—. My husband has plans for the last two Baratheons. They'll be useful when the time comes.
—Last two? —Arianne asked, confused—. What about Joffrey?
Daenerys only smiled with smug confidence, making it clear she wouldn't elaborate.
Doran watched her for a moment before responding calmly, his voice steady:
—You've given us much to consider, princess. Please, enjoy Dorne's hospitality while we deliberate.
—Gladly. I'll stay a few days —she emphasized, clearly marking the limit of her time.
—I'll have the maids show you to your chambers. If you'll excuse us… —Doran added as he walked away, Arianne following closely, frowning at his back.
[King's Landing]
In a grand and ostentatious mansion in the upper district, a group of the most unlikely individuals gathered.
A woman of exceptional beauty, with sleek black hair and a figure that would make any sensible man drool. A man in elegant attire, wearing a monocle and holding a cane, exuding refinement and wealth. A filthy beggar in rags, his greasy hair unwashed, but curiously, without a foul smell. Then a massive man, with arms like tree trunks and the weathered look of a mercenary or pirate. And lastly, a priest, clad in the clean white robes of the Faith, adorned with the symbols of the Seven hanging from his neck.
They were all seated at the table, presided over by Edward, a tall man with black hair, pale skin, and a scar that ran down his cheek. They were the most important members of House Drakul, vampires, progeny of Vlad, turned years ago and sent to take control of different sectors of Westerosi society to prepare for their master's arrival.
The five sat around the table, all in silence, waiting for someone who had not yet arrived. In the seat nearest to the empty throne sat Edward, tall and pale, his face marked by the scar across his cheek. He was the eldest of them, or at least the one who had borne the name the longest. All had been saved from something, death, slavery, or a meaningless life. Vlad had found them, given them power, a second life, and each of them, in their own way, had taken it.
The woman seated next to the richly adorned empty chair, clearly reserved, looked around at those present.
Lena Drakul had once been the sickly daughter of a Braavosi prostitute. Her mother died the day she gave birth, bleeding out in a filthy cot, with no one to help her or mourn her.
Lena grew up in the dark corners of the city, surviving on scraps, without a figure to protect her or a roof to call her own. From a young age, she had to learn to avoid men who looked at her like garbage, and women who saw her as just another mouth to feed. She spent years plagued by illnesses that left her bedridden for weeks, and with hunger as her constant companion.
When she was finally old enough to be looked at differently, she began to work. Not by choice, but because not doing so meant starving. The other girls told her to endure, that maybe someday someone would buy her for something better. But Lena knew better. She knew she'd end up like her mother, dead in a bed, with a child who wouldn't survive the night.
Then Vlad appeared. The city already whispered about him, the foreign khal who walked through Braavos, visiting the most expensive brothels without touching a single woman. Some said he was a eunuch, others a blood-drinking warlock. Lena didn't believe in rumors, but she could recognize someone who didn't belong.
She saw him one afternoon, escorted by two dark-skinned riders, dressed in clothes not from Essos. He walked as if he feared nothing, as if the world belonged to him.
Lena, used to stepping aside so clients could choose the more attractive girls, simply moved away. She wasn't worth offering, too thin, too pale, too sickly to appeal. She was no one.
But Vlad didn't move aside. He stopped in front of her, looked her in the eyes, and smiled. It was the calmest, most confident smile Lena had ever seen.
He said nothing. Just offered her his hand. Lena, without knowing why, took it.
They spent three days together. Not in a bed, but walking through canals, sitting in quiet alleys, sharing bread and wine. They talked about everything, about dreams she never had, about places he had seen. Vlad listened as if her every word mattered. He didn't touch her. Didn't ask for anything. Just spoke, with a patience Lena couldn't understand. It was enough.
When he said he had to leave, Lena felt something break inside. She thought she would lose him forever, that she'd become invisible again. But Vlad, with that same calm, offered to take her with him. He didn't explain why. Didn't promise love. He simply said she could stay by his side, if she wished.
Lena didn't hesitate. For the first time, someone had offered her a hand.
During the journey, Vlad told her of his nature. She didn't fully understand. He didn't use words she could link to anything familiar. He didn't call himself a god, or a demon, or a sorcerer, but he spoke of blood, of strength, of eternal life.
Lena thought she was being prepared for some dark sacrifice, that maybe it had all been a cruel joke. But Vlad never raised his voice. Never showed cruelty. He didn't want her life. He wanted to offer her a new one.
She drank his blood not knowing if she'd wake again. And when she did, she was no longer the same. Her weak muscles were now firm. Her posture, once hunched from fatigue, stood tall. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself.
She wasn't just stronger. It was as if, for the first time, her body reflected the soul that had survived all those years. She didn't cry. She only smiled.
And so, when she was reborn as Lena Drakul, she swore to serve him. She wanted to be at his side, to share his bed, to be the only one he looked at. But Vlad did not seek love. He entrusted her with control of the brothels of King's Landing, a position of power, influence, and wealth.
It wasn't a punishment. It was a mission. But to Lena, it was a disappointment. She didn't want riches or respect. She wanted Vlad. And still, she didn't give up. If he didn't love her now, he would later. She had time. Years. Centuries. Eternity.
By her side, leaning against a beam, sat Cole Drakul. He sharpened his nails with a small dagger, as if it were a calming ritual. He watched Lena with heavy eyes, not with desire, but with the tense focus of someone reliving something violent. Lena found him vulgar, too rough for her taste.
But she didn't despise him. She knew what he had suffered.