Daenerys Targaryen had dreamed a thousand times of a wedding in the Great Sept of Baelor.
The pious High Septon would bless the couple while white-cloaked Kingsguard stood watch. Hundreds of loyal lords and elegantly dressed ladies would rejoice in their happiness.
Outside the sept, thousands of citizens who loved their rulers would cheer until their voices gave out.
The celebration would spill from the torch-lit Great Sept all the way to the Red Keep—rivers of wine and honey, feasts rich enough to satisfy the pickiest vassal.
Singers would perform, music would soar. Everything would be as perfect as the songs promised.
She would outshine every legendary beauty, her mother's crown making her glow like the sun itself.
And at the end she and Viserys would step into the quiet chamber where their ancestors slept, sharing a private moment that belonged only to the two of them.
How beautiful that would have been…
And because it was too beautiful, Daenerys had long accepted it would never happen.
She had imagined their wedding would be a hasty little ceremony in some dusty town in the Disputed Lands.
A monk found by the army would mumble a few prayers, they would exchange simple vows, and the guests would be every soldier Viserys commanded—maybe the local ruler if they were lucky.
There would be wine and honey too—not the finest, but plenty of it.
The sellswords would celebrate the only way they knew how: rowdy, crude, and wild, treating the night like the last feast of their lives.
Someone might even die in a drunken brawl. If Viserys's guards were careless or drunk, tragedy could strike in an instant.
She would wear Rhaella's crown—not to flaunt glory, but to give the few remaining loyalists one last spark of hope.
These poor souls needed to remember the distant homeland and the fallen dynasty.
And the place where the two of them would finally be alone would be nothing more than a tent or the only stone house in town worthy of being called a hall.
Until recently, that had been the full extent of the reality she and Viserys could hope for.
But fate is both kind and cruel; the gods love to twist mortal hopes until they snap.
Everything had become impossibly complicated, leaving the exiled princess lost and adrift.
She would marry the man she loved with all her heart—the man who loved her just as fiercely—yet war could tear him away at any moment.
She would wed according to ancient Valyrian custom, yet feel nothing for the Valyrian gods.
She would hold the celebration inside the magnificent palace of the Triarchs, yet never truly become a Volantene noblewoman.
Just as Jorah had said yesterday, "You can plant northern flowers in foreign soil, but no one can promise they will live."
Centuries had passed. The Targaryens no longer belonged here, and the girl still could not accept that truth.
What tore at Daenerys most was the war that had already begun.
If anyone wanted a complete list of every clash between Volantis and the Three Daughters, it would probably take a maester half a lifetime of study.
The petty fights in the Disputed Lands happened too often to count.
Inside the city, people often noticed nothing. Trade kept flowing, life went on.
But the arrival of the envoys and that ultimatum meant only one thing.
A real war had started.
Sometimes she believed with all her heart that everything would be fine—after all, Viserys had crushed the Dothraki horde.
But reason would mock her: Rhaenys had been undefeated in the Stormlands, yet she still died in the red sands of Dorne.
Sometimes she told herself Viserys's warriors were invincible and deserved every honor, but reason would answer: brave Daeron's army won every battle only to die of plague in the end.
She repeated to herself that Viserys was now an impossibly brave and powerful warrior, and the Three Whores' cities would never find a duelist who could match him.
But reason would coldly reply: Daemon the Pretender had once been called unbeatable, yet he died from a stray arrow and his own mistakes.
Why did the gods love to torment mortals like this?
To escape the storm inside her head, Daenerys hid in a quiet, hidden corner of the garden.
A small lake nestled here, home to graceful white swans. Watching them, the girl could finally find a sliver of peace.
Silence. The soft glow of dusk. Elegant white birds. The gentle murmur of water…
People said swans mated for life. How she wished her marriage to Viserys could be just as true.
Viserys might hint at dark possibilities now, or speak them plainly… but it was only temporary!
Every great king of Westeros had enjoyed a happy, faithful marriage, and her brother was already great—he would achieve immortal glory in the future.
She would help him see that. After all, Doreah had been teaching her everything she needed.
"It's time to find her. She promised to teach me the things Viserys likes best."
"My princess, your brother wishes to see you." Eleonora appeared without warning, her tone leaving no room for questions or delay. "It's urgent."
The voice yanked Daenerys out of her daydream and slammed her back into the real world.
For one dizzy second she felt like a slave caught making a mistake instead of the prince's sister and betrothed.
And from the look on Eleonora's face, she knew she would get no explanation.
She rose from the couch and hurried after Viserys's lover.
Eleonora moved so fast Daenerys almost had to jog to keep up.
They finally stopped in front of a small house built for secret meetings.
The building was modest, tucked deep in the palace, with double walls lined with hides to guarantee perfect privacy.
"You're not coming in with me?" Daenerys asked her former teacher.
"My orders were to find you and then guard the door."
Daenerys had no choice but to accept it.
Inside the little house only one candle burned, the light dim. There were only Viserys and a figure wrapped in a gray cloak.
Daenerys couldn't see the stranger's face, but the next moment he spoke.
"Princess of Flame, may the light of truth never fail to light your path."
She had heard that voice only once, seen its owner only once, yet she could never mistake it.
Even if Aegon the Conqueror himself stood before her, she would not have been more shocked.
Sitting across from Viserys was High Priest Benerro himself!
The man who had been forbidden from entering the Black Wall. The priest who had ignored every message from them for months…
"Prince of Blood, rest easy. I come as a friend. In this room you need fear nothing."
"But how did you get in?"
The shock was so great that Daenerys completely forgot proper etiquette.
"The sacred flame that nourishes all things has its faithful guardians, no matter how proud and isolated those behind the Wall may be." The man in the gray cloak that did not match his faith spoke slowly. "They led me through the Black Wall to this palace. Then I informed your captain… and so we meet here, beneath this candle that drives away darkness."
"Faithful guardians of the sacred flame?"
Daenerys understood instantly.
It seemed the guards inside the Black Wall were not as unbreakable as the old-blood nobles believed. Otherwise a red priest could never have slipped inside.
Fortunately the palace guard answered to Eleonora, who had chosen only the most elite Black Knights.
Or perhaps the priest simply had not wanted to risk more.
"Benerro, Daenerys is here. I have met your condition." Viserys's tone was calm—perhaps too calm. "Now it is your turn to explain."
"Of course."
"Then why have you been silent all these days? We are grateful for the temple's help, yet you refused every meeting?"
"Our will—the will of the priests—means nothing, Prince of Blood… Only the will of the god is real. Only He decides our actions. We merely obey His commands and guidance."
"Even so," Daenerys couldn't help interrupting, "you came today."
"Yes."
"It took you quite a long time to receive that instruction," Daenerys muttered.
"Yes, but no one ever said it would be simple or quick." Benerro explained patiently. "Imagine a man searching for pearls on the seabed. How many times must he dive into the deep? And how many times will he succeed? We, the servants of the sacred flame, gaze into the fire for hours—sometimes days—seeking answers. The true god is under no obligation to grant us revelation. That is grace, a privilege… and it demands a price."
"But," Viserys took over, "you came to see us today, alone, uninvited, risking your life. I assume you have something to tell us."
"Indeed."
The High Priest of the Lord of Light paused, then continued.
"You announced to this city and to the entire world that you possess your ancestors' treasure… that you seized dragon eggs from the barbarians and long to restore the miracle of a lost age."
Daenerys gradually understood where the conversation was heading and stayed silent, letting Benerro finish.
"Our god and master commands us to help you accomplish this." The High Priest declared solemnly. "We weak mortals will carry out His will with all our zeal and care."
"That announcement was made long ago," Viserys said with clear suspicion. "Yet you never even informed us that you were studying the matter?"
"Prince of Blood, any ritual worthy of the name can never be completed in haste." Benerro refuted respectfully but firmly. "Miracles—especially one as extraordinary as this—require care, effort, and time… Deep in your heart you surely understand this, or you would have driven those frauds and beggars away long ago. Moreover, those who make promises but never fulfill them are doomed to eternal shame. But now I stand before you, Princess of Flame, Prince of Blood, to tell you that everything is ready. The ritual can begin very soon…"
"Will… will it succeed?"
Daenerys asked the only question that truly mattered.