A suffocating silence clung to the corridors outside the birthing room.
Only the shuffling of hurried feet and hushed whispers of midwives broke the stillness. The soft cry of a woman in labor occasionally pierced the air, but the sound seemed distant—almost swallowed by the tension surrounding the waiting hall.
Governor Mataris stood rigidly in the narrow corridor, sweat running freely down his temples. His palms were slick, fingers trembling as if gripped by fever. His heartbeat thudded in his ears louder than any scream coming from behind the wooden door.
Every passing second felt unbearable.
He threw a look at the man standing beside him.
Unlike the governor, Allan appeared almost unnervingly calm. His expression carried a solemn confidence, his eyes alight with something between devotion and awe.
"These children," Allan murmured, voice steady and deep, "will be the first of a new Mataris people. They will be born from the divine grace of His Majesty, touched by the power no mortal bloodline has ever known."
His tone was low, yet the certainty in it echoed like a proclamation carved into stone. Every syllable carried weight—almost more than the governor could bear.
Mataris swallowed hard and nodded. He tried to speak, but his words stuck in his throat. His back felt drenched; whether from heat or terror, he could not tell.
He understood. More than anyone alive, he understood.
Today was not simply a birth.
The future of Mataris—their cursed, twisted bloodline—hung in the balance. If these children emerged healthy and whole… Mataris would finally be reborn. If not—
The governor dared not finish the thought.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. He nearly forgot to breathe.
At last, with the creak of wooden hinges, the birthing room door pushed open.
A stream of midwives emerged one after another. Their eyes were wide with exhaustion, foreheads glistening. But radiant smiles pulled at their lips as they carefully cradled four swaddled bundles wrapped in soft cloth.
"Three boys and one girl," one midwife announced joyfully, "and the mother lives—all are safe!"
Governor Mataris collapsed backward against the wall, knees buckling. Relief swept through him so violently he felt faint.
The curse had not struck.
His people had not been betrayed by their own flesh.
Allan stepped forward silently, eyes fixed on the newborns. Without touching them, he lowered his head—only a fraction—and his expression sharpened.
For the briefest moment, the pupil of his right eye shimmered, a thin streak of green light flickering and disappearing as quickly as lightning.
Under that enchanted gaze, nothing remained hidden.
Dark hair spilled from beneath the infants' blankets—black as ravens' wings. It was unlike the usual pale silver and pale gold that defined generations of Mataris children. The sound of life rang from their lungs—cries loud, demanding, almost fierce.
Their limbs kicked uncontrollably, full of strength and vitality.
No twisted limbs.
No fused bones.
No stunted organs.
None of the grotesque deformities that had haunted Mataris blood for generations stained these four tiny bodies.
They were whole. Perfect. Human.
But Allan's sight reached deeper.
His vision pierced skin, blood, bone, even marrow.
And there he saw it: threads of shimmering golden power—light so pure that ordinary magic curled aside like shadows before a sunrise. These luminous strands crisscrossed every vein and bone, a woven tapestry of divinity surging through the infants.
That power was gentle, yet absolute—reshaping them cell by cell.
Strengthening their flesh.
Expanding their minds.
Forging their destiny.
A shudder of ecstatic awe traveled through Allan's chest.
'These children will grow into beings far beyond common men. Strength as natural as breath. Magic as instinctive as speech. His Majesty has crafted a new race—chosen by divine blood.'
Unable to restrain himself, Allan gently brushed a fingertip on the cheek of one of the boys.
At the touch, the infant abruptly stopped crying. He blinked wide dark eyes, watching Allan with an unnatural awareness no newborn should possess.
A perfect seed of power.
A future giant in a child's blanket.
Allan exhaled slowly, satisfaction radiating through him. He turned to the governor, lips curling into a small smile.
"Very good," he whispered.
Two simple words—but they might as well have been a royal decree.
The governor's chest loosened, breath flooding back into his lungs. His trembling finally ceased. It was as though someone had allowed him to step back from the edge of a cliff.
His relief transformed instantly into feverish ambition.
Tonight, he vowed silently, I will ensure that my wife carries another child—and that child will also receive His Majesty's gift.
Mataris would transform from a cursed backwater to the cradle of a new humanity.
King's Landing — Four Days Away
Far across the sea, the ghostly green flame of a glass candle sputtered, then died. The shimmering mirage of magic dissolved into empty air.
Damian Thorne leaned back in his seat, fingers releasing the candle stem.
The conversation with Niro and Allan had concluded. The fleet continued toward King's Landing, wind filling sails, water parting in white crests. If all went smoothly, they would dock at Blackwater Bay in four days' time.
Damian closed his eyes and reviewed the results of his journey from Essos to Westeros.
Rhaenyra Targaryen—once uncertain, once isolated—now stood firmly aligned with him. Her claim was wrapped in his influence, her future tied to his will. Through her, he had secured his entry into the highest chambers of Westerosi power.
From the God's Eye he had taken even more.
He had found the last whispers of the Children of the Forest. He had understood—at last—why Harrenhal was cursed: what ancient defections, ancient wars, ancient losses had left the Old Gods weak and wounded.
Knowledge and opportunity intertwined in perfect strands.
All the pieces were ready.
Only one remained.
If Rhaenyra conceived a child carrying his bloodline—blood now imbued with the divine—the fate of Westeros would be sealed. Dragons, kingdoms, armies, magic—none would escape his reach.
Damian's lips twisted into a faint smile as one final family surfaced in his thoughts.
House Hightower.
Ambitious. Calculating. Opportunistic.
"A hive of schemers," he muttered to himself.
But even ambitious bees knew better than to sting a dragon.
He doubted the Hightowers would dare stand against him—his intentions were obvious, his power impossible to ignore.
The King's Growing Fear
Inside the royal study of the Red Keep, King Viserys Targaryen stood hunched over a model of Old Valyria. His fingertips traced the miniature city—his escape, his daydream, his refuge.
The envoy from Damian Thorne had just left the chamber. The words carried had slammed into Viserys's chest like the weight of a falling tower.
Daemon's fleet would arrive in four days. After the welcoming and political formalities, Damian intended to finalize the marriage between himself and Rhaenyra. Once done, the new couple planned to sail immediately to Dragonstone.
Dragonstone.
The name throbbed like a bruise.
Viserys's breath came unevenly as images flooded his mind.
The vast black dragon Damian commanded—larger than Vermithor, darker than Balerion's shadow. The air splitting under its wings. The earth trembling beneath its roar.
A creature beyond myth—and the man who commanded it even more terrifying.
Viserys had no doubt that Damian possessed powers beyond mortal reach. The dragons bowed to him—submitted—and Viserys feared what that meant.
What if he reached Dragonstone—and claimed more?
What if the ancestral fortress of House Targaryen became his instead?
What if every dragon egg, every rider, every fragment of Valyrian power bent to Damian Thorne?
A bead of sweat slid down the king's temple.
Should I refuse him?
The thought blossomed like poison.
He could craft excuses: storms at sea, repairs, sickness, danger. He could delay.
But delay what?
He had already gambled everything.
He had dismissed Otto Hightower, humiliating the most influential house outside his own. He had annulled Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor Velaryon, breaking the strongest naval alliance in Westeros.
To step back now would be to invite open disaster—from every direction.
Viserys lifted his head and stared through the window.
The sky gleamed bright and blue, deceptively calm.
But Viserys knew better.
Storm winds gathered just beyond the horizon—storms of politics, magic, dragons, and destiny.
He inhaled deeply, willing his fear back down his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice regained the authority he feared he had lost.
"Send word," he commanded the chamberlain.
"Inform the envoy I accept Damian Thorne's request."
No more hesitation.
The storm was coming.
And now, King Viserys would face it head-on.