90 AC. Driftmark
Corlys turned to her and gestured for her to follow him. Viserra swallowed hard, stepped over the threshold, and froze, utterly awestruck by what she saw.
Before her opened a vast, colossal chamber, transformed into a grand secret library. The hall spanned two tiers, connected by elegant spiral staircases of dark wood. Every wall, from the floor to the highest vaulted ceiling, was lined with massive shelves holding thousands of ancient books, parchment scrolls, and heavy codices bound in leather and metal. The air inside was dry and warm, maintained by an unseen magical force that protected the fragile paper from the island's destructive sea dampness.
But it was the far end of the library that drew Viserra's gaze the most. There, against a wall of smooth white marble, beneath the glow of magical lamps, hung a row of ten magnificent sheathed swords. Even without seeing the blades themselves, the princess immediately guessed what lay before her from the shape of the hilts and the distinctive craftsmanship of the scabbards. Her heart skipped a beat.
Corlys walked slowly toward the wall of weapons. Reaching out, he took down one of the swords and, with a smooth, practiced motion, drew the blade from its scabbard. A faint, clear ring of steel echoed through the hall.
Viserra took a step forward, unable to tear her eyes away from the weapon. It was a magnificent bastard sword. Upon the surface of its dark, smoky blade, the famous rippling patterns stood out clearly - the undeniable, primary hallmark of genuine Valyrian steel. The metal seemed to drink the candlelight, remaining both ominous and beautiful.
"You are right, Viserra," Corlys said softly, noticing her gaze. "It is Valyrian steel. All ten of these swords, as well as the two blades I always wear at my hip, were found by me personally within the ruins of Valyria. They lay in abandoned armories, untouched by time. And I will tell you more: this is but a fraction. In my secret vaults here, under lock and key, far more of these weapons are hidden. I possess entire chests filled with Valyrian swords, daggers, and the armor of ancient lords. I only bring them out when necessary, just as I did with your wedding gift."
Viserra shook her head in sheer disbelief, her mind reeling at the sheer scale of the truth unveiled before her. While the Great Houses of Westeros had waged wars for centuries, spent colossal fortunes, and squandered lives for the right to possess even a single ancestral Valyrian steel blade, her husband kept an entire arsenal under lock and key, capable of outfitting a small guard detachment.
She turned away from the swords and walked slowly along the endless rows of bookshelves. Her fingers glided gently over the spines of ancient volumes. Giving in to curiosity, she reached out and carefully slid a heavy book from its shelf, opening it at random. The pages were made of fine, durable parchment. The text was written in a flawless, calligraphic hand in High Valyrian - the language of her ancestors, which Viserra knew perfectly thanks to the strict tutors of the capital.
As she skimmed the lines, her face grew paler by the second. The books she happened upon had nothing to do with ordinary chronicles or poetry. They were meticulous, terrifying guides to the higher magic of the ancient empire. She found sections dedicated to the most intricate blood magic, rituals requiring precise offerings and the drawing of sigils, and chimerology - the science of creating and crossbreeding strange, horrific beasts. In one volume, she stumbled upon a detailed description of rituals that enhanced a rider's physical attributes, endurance, and mental acuity through their direct, blood bond with a dragon. On other shelves stood volumes with historical eras stamped upon their spines. Viserra realized that what lay before her was the true, unadulterated history of the Valyrian Freehold - a place known in present-day Westeros only through vague myths and bards' tales.
Corlys approached her from behind, watching as she leafed through the volumes. He gently took the heavy tome from her hands and slid it back into its place.
"These books are a true treasure, Viserra," he said softly, yet with immense weight. "It was through them that I was able to codify my knowledge, purge it of errors, and elevate my magic to an entirely new level. And it was these very books that opened my eyes to how the world of our ancestors truly functioned."
He turned to face her, leaning one hand against the edge of the bookshelf.
"You must understand, Viserra: the ancient Valyrians were not merely mad conquerors. They were great scholars and sorcerers. And they understood perfectly the paramount importance of blood purity. The rituals you see described here were performed regularly by the ruling houses. They utilized blood magic and specific cleansing rites to purge their lineages, generation after generation, of any genetic defects, deformities, madness, and afflictions that are inevitably passed down through incestuous unions."
Viserra frowned, listening to him intently.
"It was not out of mere whim that the Valyrians practiced brother-sister marriage for centuries," Corlys continued. "It was not a caprice. It was a cold, calculated political and magical maneuver. First, they sought to ensure that dragons - the supreme power of the empire - remained within specific families and never fell into the hands of outsiders. Second, and most importantly, unique, ancestral magical powers were transmitted within specific houses. The ruling elite of Valyria, composed of the forty great families who possessed their own dragons, fiercely rivaled one another. No house wished to strengthen its competitors with its own unique gifts. Thus, they wed within their own families to preserve the bloodright."
Viserra shook her head, the customary pride of her house stirring within her.
"But the Targaryens have no magic, Corlys," she countered, lifting her chin. "My father, my brothers, myself - we cannot command water to rise into the air, nor do we erect barriers. The only things that bind us to Valyria are our looks and our ability to command dragons. There is no such magic in our blood as you speak of."
Corlys looked at her intently, a mysterious, melancholic smile playing upon his lips.
"Are you certain of that, Viserra?" he asked softly. "Think carefully. Answer me one simple question: how is it that House Targaryen - out of all the forty families of Valyria - managed to survive? How did they escape the Doom, which in a single day turned the world's greatest empire into a burning hell and wiped out all the other thirty-nine powerful houses along with their dragons and their lore? What saved your ancestors?"
Viserra pondered. It was a question every child of House Targaryen asked themselves the moment they learned to listen to the historical chronicles of the maesters. The answer was simple and known to all.
"A miracle saved us," she replied. "Our ancestor, Daenys Targaryen, saw the destruction of Valyria in a dream twelve years before it befell. She told her father, Aenar Targaryen, and he believed her. He gathered our entire family, all our wealth, took our dragons, and left for Dragonstone, far from the Valyrian Peninsula. Because of this, the other lords of Valyria called him a coward, but in the end, he was the only one to survive."
"Exactly," Corlys nodded, his eyes gleaming. "Daenys, whom historians quite rightly named the Dreamer. Yet the maesters in their scrolls call it a 'miracle' or a 'fortunate coincidence.' They fail to grasp the essence. Daenys the Dreamer was no mere frightened girl plagued by vivid nightmares. She was a potent, pureblooded Valyrian seer. Dreams of prophecy, visions of the future, portents - this was the unique, ancestral magical talent of House Targaryen. The strongest among your caste of oracles experienced prophetic revelations not only in sleep, but through waking visions, forging true prophecies."
Corlys turned to the shelf, reached out, and pulled down a small but thick volume bound in silver, tarnished with age. On the cover, the title was stamped in High Valyrian. Viserra read: The Chronicles of the Unseen Eye: Oracles and Prophets of the Freehold.
He opened the book and turned a few pages, showing Viserra long lists of names and detailed descriptions.
"This book, penned a century before the Doom, compiles the annals of all the great prophets and seers throughout the history of Valyria," Corlys said, tracing his finger along the lines. "See for yourself. It is clearly stated here that the gift of prophecy was exceedingly rare and perilous. It manifested most often in women, with few exceptions among men. And if you read the surnames of these individuals closely, you will see that the vast majority of the empire's strongest oracles over the centuries were born specifically into House Targaryen. This was your ancestral magic, Viserra. The gift of foresight, hidden within your Valyrian blood."
The princess stared at the ancient pages, seeing the familiar names of her distant ancestors, and felt her long-held understanding of the world crumble within her.
"Prophecies are perilous things," Corlys continued, closing the book. "To ordinary men, they often seem like incoherent, mad ramblings - the delusions of a lunatic. Yet a true prophecy, born of magic, will come to pass one way or another, no matter what efforts you expend to avert it. And the history of your great forebear, Daenys the Dreamer, is the finest proof of that. She saw the Doom in all its nightmarish detail. And her father, Aenar Targaryen, did not believe her out of mere paternal affection. He was the head of the house, a stern lord. He believed her because he knew the ancient history of his bloodline perfectly. He knew that individuals with this true, undeniable magical capacity for foresight were born into their line with remarkable regularity. He understood that the gods spoke through his daughter's lips, and he snatched his house from the jaws of destruction."
Viserra sank slowly onto a nearby wooden bench. All the proof lay before her - the floating water in the garden, the ancient texts, the lists of prophets from her own house. Denying the obvious would be foolish. She lifted her eyes to her husband, a deep sorrow tinting her voice.
"Very well, Corlys. I believe you. Everything you say sounds logical and is confirmed by these volumes. But answer me this, then: why does no one in my family know anything of this magic today? My father, my brother Baelon, my brother Aemon - why do none of them possess this gift? Why, after Daenys, were there no more people born into our house capable of seeing the future or casting spells? Where did our power go, if it was once so potent?"
Corlys sighed, his face turning somber. He approached her and sat down beside her on the bench, resting his hands upon his knees.
"In all likelihood, the last true representative of your house who not only possessed magical gifts but actively practiced them was Queen Visenya Targaryen, wife to Aegon the Conqueror," he said softly. "Remember history, Viserra. The court gossips and the maesters in their chronicles did not whisper of her sorcery, her dabbling in the dark arts, and her brewing of poisons for no reason. There was an immense measure of truth in those rumors. My grandfather, Daemon Velaryon, who was close to the royal court in those years, told me so himself. Grandfather saw with his own eyes how Queen Visenya, at midnight upon Dragonstone, knelt and drew complex, frightening sigils upon the floor using the blood of sacrificed animals. Now, knowing what I know, I am absolutely certain: Visenya was drawing ancient Valyrian runes of protection and enhancement. I am almost certain she was attempting to preserve the fading remnants of her house's magic."
He turned his head toward the shelves, his gaze hardening.
"But after her death, and the terrible death of her son, King Maegor the Cruel, that followed, the continuity of knowledge was broken forever. Your father, King Jaehaerys, and his mother claimed the throne after Maegor's fall. They were the sworn enemies of Visenya and her line. Naturally, Visenya had no time, nor any desire, to pass her secret lore, scrolls, and books to a young nephew who was waging war against her own son. All her personal journals and texts were either destroyed or hidden so deeply that they remain undiscovered to this day."
Corlys paused, a cold, contemptuous smirk touching his lips.
"As for the generation before that... Your grandfather, King Aenys Targaryen, father to the current king... I am absolutely certain he knew nothing at all of magic and never wielded it. Forgive my words, Viserra, for I mean no insult to the memory of your forebear, but the man was an exceptional weakling and a spineless coward. He possessed neither the courage, the willpower, nor the iron discipline vitally required to awaken and master magic. He drifted with the current, startled at his own shadow, and nearly brought your entire house to ruin through his weakness and indecision."
Viserra sighed softly, casting her eyes down. It pained her to hear such words about her grandfather, yet her royal pride yielded to historical truth. She herself had read the chronicles of those years more than once, and in the depths of her heart, she agreed with her husband.
"It confesses me to sadness to admit it, Corlys," she replied softly. "But you speak the truth. My grandfather Aenys, from everything I know of him, was indeed the weakest, most indecisive, and vulnerable representative of House Targaryen since we left Valyria. It was due to his weakness that the realm drowned in the rebellions of the Faith Militant. Yet... even if that explains the loss of books and lore, why did the magical gift itself, the predisposition to power, never manifest in anyone naturally? After all, the blood remained the same. Why, among so many sons and daughters of my father, was not a single sorcerer or seer born?"
Corlys smiled with satisfaction, approval gleaming in his eyes.
"That is an excellent question, Viserra. It is precisely what I wished to speak with you about most of all. It is the primary reason we came down here."
Corlys rose from the bench, walked over to one of the shelves, and pulled down another volume - an old, battered journal bound in rough leather, filled with a hasty, uneven script.
"Before I answer your question, you must understand one crucial matter that the maesters conceal, or simply fail to comprehend out of their own ignorance," he said, turning back to her. "Do you know the danger of incestuous relations from the standpoint of nature? When a brother weds his sister, an uncle his niece, or a cousin their cousin? Without the use of specific, cleansing magic, such unions become a terrible curse upon the offspring. The blood begins to stagnate, it wanes. Children born of these marriages become increasingly prone, with each passing generation, to horrific physical deformities, mental stagnation, frail health, and severe hereditary afflictions. Nature begins to exact vengeance for the violation of her laws. And the magic hidden within the blood suffers first - it either fades entirely or twists into an ugly, destructive mutation that drives a person mad."
Viserra's eyes widened in alarm as she leaned forward.
"But every great family in Valyria practiced incest!" she cried out, seeking to defend the traditions of her house. "The forty dragonlord families wedded their sisters for centuries, and their empire flourished! They were beautiful, powerful, and ruled half the world! Why did they not degenerate over those thousands of years?"
"I have only just told you, Viserra," Corlys reminded her, patient yet firm. "In Valyria, the dragonriders regularly, once every few generations, performed highly complex, secret rituals of blood purification. Through blood magic, these rites entirely countered and erased all the pernicious consequences of incestuous unions. They cleansed the lineage of accumulated defects and sickness, restoring the blood to its pristine purity and strength."
"Then why did my family not perform these rituals after we relocated to Dragonstone?" the princess asked quickly. "Why did Aenar or the Conqueror not cleanse their blood?"
Corlys raised the leather journal he held and opened it to a marked page.
"The answer lies here," he said. "This is the journal of Aegon Aurion, a lesser lord who was close to your family in the early years following the relocation. He describes the events of those years in great detail. According to his writings, when Aenar Targaryen resolved to leave Valyria forever, the other families of the Freehold suspected him of treason and cowardice. They agreed to let him and his family depart in peace, allowing them to take their dragons and gold, on only one harsh condition: the Targaryens were required to surrender all their ancestral books, scrolls, and codices concerning magic, rituals, and spellcraft to the central conclave of sorcerers."
Corlys closed the journal with a dull thud.
"This meant that from that moment on, your ancestors were stripped of written sources of knowledge. They could pass down fragments of information about magic only by word of mouth, from father to eldest heir, entirely by memory. And it is no wonder that after nearly two centuries, amidst endless wars, internal strife, and the passing of generations, the Targaryens completely lost the remnants of this lore. Furthermore, if the journals of other families are to be believed, House Targaryen was originally considered, even within Valyria itself, to be one of the weakest, least significant, and most poorly gifted with power among all the forty dragonlord families. Your ancestors were never counted among the high sorcerers and rulers of the Freehold. They were modest landowners and warriors, and to perform many complex rituals, they always had to rely on the aid and knowledge of other, more powerful and scholarly houses. Left isolated in Westeros, you found yourselves utterly blind and helpless in the face of your own blood's decline."
Viserra sat shattered by this revelation. Her familial pride, her absolute certainty in the exceptionality and divine origin of House Targaryen, was blown to pieces by simple facts.
Corlys stepped close to her and sank softly onto one knee before her. His violet eyes looked up at her with a blend of gravity and profound compassion.
"Several months ago, Viserra, while we were still in King's Landing, I secretly tested your blood," he confessed quietly.
Viserra started, looking at her husband with a mix of surprise and wariness.
"Tested my blood?" she repeated, her brow furrowing. "But how? When could you have done such a thing? We were hardly ever left alone, and I do not recall you asking me to spill blood for any sort of inquiry."
Corlys smiled faintly, his fingers brushing her palm.
"Do you remember the day we walked through the royal gardens of the Red Keep, after our betrothal was announced?" he reminded her gently. "You reached out to pluck a rose and pricked your finger deeply on a long, sharp thorn. Several large drops of blood welled upon your palm. I offered to help you then, drew my silk handkerchief, and carefully wiped the blood away myself, pressing down on the wound. You took it as a simple act of courtesy and care. Yet when I returned to my quarters, I made use of that handkerchief. Magic allows one to extract the pure essence of blood even from a dried stain upon cloth. It was more than enough to conduct the analysis."
Viserra shook her head, marveled by his foresight and secrecy.
"And what did you find, Corlys?" she asked, a distinct dread in her voice. Her heart tightened with a grim foreboding. "What did your analysis reveal?"
Corlys's face grew grave once more, and he squeezed her hands gently, as though seeking to offer his support.
"I found precisely what I feared, Viserra," he sighed. "After the Targaryens relocated to Westeros, you were deprived of the cleansing rituals. Yet you did not abandon your ancient tradition of wedding brother to sister. Without magic, this wrought a terrible, catastrophic, cumulative toll upon each subsequent generation. With every new union, the defects of the blood multiplied, stacking atop one another like heavy stones in the foundation of a collapsing keep. Even our own house, House Velaryon, which from time to time took women of your line to wife, was not spared this waning. My own blood bore traces of this decay, and I was forced to perform a painful ritual of purification upon myself, and later upon my brothers - Daeron and Veylor - to safeguard our offspring. But in our case, these were minor, easily remedied deviations of health. What is happening to the current generation of Targaryens is far more terrifying."
Viserra felt a chilling dread creep toward her heart. She swallowed with difficulty, her gaze imploring her husband.
"Is it... is it truly so grim, Corlys?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What are you speaking of?"
"Look for yourself at the last three generations of your house, Viserra," he said firmly. "Aegon the Conqueror was wed to his own sister, Rhaenys. To them was born your grandfather, King Aenys. As we have noted, from his very birth he was incredibly frail, constantly ailing, plagued by muscle weakness and a vacillating mind. This was the direct consequence of his parents' marriage. At the same time, Maegor, Aegon's son by his second sister, Visenya, was born as healthy and robust as a bull, yet his entire life was overshadowed by frightening, senseless, and excessive cruelty. He knew no mercy, butchered thousands, and reveled in blood. From the perspective of magic, such rage and sadism can and must be deemed a severe mental affliction - a mutation of a dying bloodline."
Corlys took a deep breath, continuing to shatter the princess's illusions.
"Your father, King Jaehaerys, was remarkably fortunate," he continued. "His father, Aenys, had no true sister suitable for marriage, so he was wed to Alyssa Velaryon - a woman of our house. The influx of new, fresh Velaryon blood for a single generation broke the deadlock, helping your father to be born a relatively healthy, strong, and wise ruler. Of the exact state of his health, I cannot judge with absolute certainty, as I could hardly ask the King himself to yield his blood to satisfy my scholarly curiosity. Yet what did your father do the moment he ascended the throne? He repeated the very same terrible mistake of his forebears. He succumbed to his affections and wed his own true sister - your mother, Queen Alysanne. By doing so, he compounded the risk for his children, causing the defects of the blood to flare up with renewed, threefold intensity."
Viserra felt hot, bitter tears welling in her eyes. Her husband's words struck her most vulnerable wounds, for she knew the history of her family perfectly - a history rife with tragedies and early deaths, the causes of which the maesters could never clearly explain.
"Think of your brothers and sisters, Viserra," Corlys reminded her softly, yet ruthlessly. "The children of Jaehaerys and Alysanne... The boys - Valerion, Aegon, and Gaemon - all died within the very first weeks or months of their births. Their tiny bodies were too frail simply to endure. Your elder sister, Princess Daella... from her birth, she was an incredibly sickly, timorous girl, plagued by constant fits, and she suffered from clear, obvious delays in her mental development - she struggled to learn the simplest things that other children mastered in early infancy. None of this is a coincidence, Viserra. It is no 'curse of the gods,' as the septons claim. It is the law of nature and the decline of the blood. True, you yourself, and your brothers Aemon and Baelon, were born relatively healthy and managed to survive to this day. But that was no guarantee of safety. For every child born of such a union, fate merely flips a coin. And no one ever knows which side it will land on next."
Viserra no longer concealed her tears. They rolled slowly down her pale cheeks, dripping onto the blue silk of her gown. She gripped Corlys's doublet tightly.
"And what of me, Corlys?" she asked in a choked voice, filled with genuine panic. "What did my blood reveal? Tell me the truth, I beg of you!"
Corlys reached out gently and wiped the tears from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
"Your blood carries a heavy burden of degeneration, Viserra," he answered softly. "You yourself are relatively healthy, possessing a strong heart and a sharp mind. But your womb... the analysis revealed that in all likelihood, you might simply not survive your first childbirth. Your body may reject the babe, or you will bleed out upon the birthing bed, just as happened to your sister. And even should you manage to survive, your child would most likely be born stillborn, frail, or crippled by affliction. Your blood is far too depleted by the incest of your parents and ancestors."
This answer shattered Viserra completely. She wept softly, burying her head against her husband's shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs. That entire happy morning world, all those dreams of a child of her own that she had cherished while watching Thea and Elise, turned to ash in a single instant.
"Why... Why did you marry me then, Corlys?" she asked through her tears, her voice thick with agony. "If you knew all this even before our betrothal... If you understood that I was fading, that I could never bear you a healthy heir, never continue your line... Why did you not go against the King's will? Why did you seek my hand? To watch my frailty? To take a barren, doomed princess to wife?"
Corlys wrapped his arms around her tenderly yet firmly, holding her close against his chest. He laughed softly - a warm, confident sound filled with that unyielding strength that had always made Viserra feel protected.
"Viserra, my love, my foolish girl," Corlys murmured affectionately, running his fingers through her silver hair. "Have you forgotten what I told you only a few moments ago? Were you not listening to your husband?"
He drew her back half a step, forcing her to look into his eyes once more, a warm, reassuring smile playing upon his features.
"I told you: I performed this ritual of blood purification upon myself. I performed it upon Daeron, and I performed it upon Veylor. Their wives have borne fine, perfectly healthy and robust nephews for me, whom you saw at breakfast today. It presents absolutely no difficulty for me to perform the exact same ritual for you. I am a sorcerer, Viserra. I possess the knowledge, I possess the volumes of ancient Valyria, and I possess the power capable of undoing the mistakes of your ancestors. I married you because I love you, because I discerned your strength of spirit. And I shall make your blood pure, pristine, and potent. You shall live a long life, and you will bear me as many healthy children as we ourselves desire. Dry your tears, all can be mended."
Viserra froze. In her fright and the overwhelming grief, she had indeed completely forgotten this crucial fact. Relief, so sudden and powerful, washed over her soul that it caught her breath for a second. She sniffled, wiping away the remnants of her tears with the sleeve of her gown.
"Are... are you sure, Corlys?" she asked hopefully, still a bit timidly. "Will this ritual truly fix everything? My body... will my blood become pure? Will I be able to become a mother?"
"I am as certain of it as I am that the sun will rise over Driftmark tomorrow," he replied firmly to his wife.
Suddenly, panic flashed in Viserra's eyes once more. She remembered the past two weeks, every single night they had spent together in their marriage bed, surrendering to passion without restraint.
"But Corlys!" she cried, grabbing his arm. "What if... what if it's already too late? We have been together for two weeks now. Every night you... we... What if I am already with child? What if a babe is already growing inside me, with all this tainted, dangerous blood? What then? Won't the ritual kill it?"
Corlys smiled warmly, shaking his head.
"You need not worry about that either, my lady," he replied calmly. "I took care of everything in advance. Magic is capable of even this. Since our very first wedding night, before taking you to bed, I cast a simple yet entirely reliable spell to temporarily prevent conception. I knew I had to cleanse your body first, and only then could we bring our firstborn into the world. So, you are not with child, Viserra."
The princess let out a sigh of relief, feeling the final weight lift from her shoulders. Her husband had thought of every single detail, protecting her from any possible danger.
Corlys rose to his feet and helped her up from the bench. He turned to one of the distant shelves of the secret library, where the records he had kept over the past years lay.
"My inquiries regarding your family were not limited to you alone, Viserra," he began, running a finger along the spines of the scrolls. "My scholarly curiosity led me further. I wanted to understand how deeply the degradation had taken root in the next generation of Targaryens, in the children of your brother Baelon. And during our stay in King's Landing, I managed to secretly obtain and test the blood of your youngest nephew - the nine-year-old Prince Daemon."
Viserra's eyes widened in surprise once more.
"Daemon?" she asked. "But how did you manage to get the blood of a nine-year-old boy? He is constantly watched by guards, servants, and Baelon. Did you wipe his fingers with a handkerchief too?"
Corlys laughed softly at his wife's jest, shaking his head.
"Oh, with Daemon it proved far simpler," he answered. "The boy is growing into a true terror, he is obsessed with swords and martial glory. All I had to do was go to the training yard of the Red Keep and watch closely for an hour as he sparred with wooden swords against the master-at-arms. Daemon fights with a fury, sparing himself no mercy. By the end of practice, his hands, knees, and elbows are always covered in scrapes, scratches, and minor cuts. The moment he was distracted and left his wooden practice sword by the rack, I took it. His fresh blood from ruptured calluses remained on the hilt. Reclaiming it from there is a matter of seconds for a wizard."
"And what did you discover in Daemon's blood?" Viserra asked with curiosity, for her nephew's fate was not indifferent to her. Daemon had always stood out for his wild, untamable nature.
Corlys sighed, his face turning pensive.
"The lad is relatively fortunate in physical terms, one might say," Corlys spoke. "His body is hardy, his health robust, and he will possess the excellent innate reflexes of a warrior. Hereditary ailments have spared him. But as for his head... his mind and mental state are far less sound. The blood analysis clearly showed that Daemon is not mad in the conventional sense - he will not see hallucinations or speak with ghosts. Yet his blood carries that very same dangerous, twisted fury of Maegor. In the future, the boy will be prone to uncontrollable outbursts of aggression, cruelty, and rage if provoked even slightly. In those moments, the magic of his blood will completely blind his reason. Daemon will act first - cruelly, bloodily, impulsively - and only think of the consequences later, once his blood cools. It is a highly perilous temperament, Viserra. Such a man can bring great ruin upon both himself and everyone around him, if there is no one by his side to rein in his impulses."
Viserra bowed her head sorrowfully. It was bitter to realize that her own house, her family who proudly called themselves dragons, had driven themselves into a terrible, dead-end corner of genetic degradation and madness through a blind adherence to supposedly ancient traditions.
Corlys stepped closer and gently touched her chin, forcing her to look up at him.
"Mourn no longer for what we cannot fix right now, Viserra," he said confidently. "The important thing is that we save you and our future. I shall prepare everything necessary for the ritual by tonight. It will take a few hours. I have one important request for you: from this moment until nightfall, you must eat nothing. Fast completely."
"Why, Corlys?" she asked in surprise. "Why must I fast before the ritual?"
Her husband offered a mysterious smile as he made his way toward the library's exit.
"You will understand once the process begins, my love," he replied. "Trust me, your stomach must be entirely empty. Let us head back, the servants will soon come looking for us."
Evening fell quickly, bringing thick, dark twilight and a cool night wind. Viserra faithfully followed her husband's instructions - throughout the entire day, not a single scrap of food passed her lips, as she restricted herself to rare sips of pure water. Her stomach gnawed unpleasantly with hunger, but her internal anticipation and anxiety were so great that she scarcely noticed the discomfort.
Once the castle fell completely into nocturnal silence and all the servants and household members had retired to their chambers, Corlys came for her once more. He was dressed in a simple, loose-fitting shirt of dark linen without buttons, and matching trousers. He said nothing, merely extending his hand to lead her back down into the deep vaults of High Tide.
But this time, they bypassed the secret library. Corlys led her through even more distant, hidden corridors that plunged into the absolute depths of the dungeons, below sea level. At last, they stopped before a low, massive iron door. Corlys threw it open, and they stepped inside a spacious, circular hall.
Viserra froze on the threshold, surveying the chamber. It was a ritual hall. The room was carved entirely out of dark, smooth stone. There was no furniture to speak of - only massive stone pillars flanking the sides, supporting a low, domed ceiling. Around the entire perimeter of the hall, torches burned upon the walls, fueled by a special oil that yielded a steady, bright flame free of smoke and soot.
Yet the most prominent and terrifying element was the floor. The entire stone floor in the center of the hall was covered in intricate, intertwining geometric patterns, circles, and ancient Valyrian glyphs.
"I drew these signs this afternoon, Viserra," Corlys said softly, sliding a massive bolt to lock the heavy iron door behind them. "Tracing these circles took several hours. These lines are applied with a distinct mixture composed of specific inks and rare ingredients. But the primary element that binds this entire diagram together and activates the ancient Valyrian magic is fresh blood. The blood of the one performing the ritual."
Corlys approached a small stone plinth set right at the edge of the drawn circle. Upon the plinth rested a massive bowl cast of pure silver, and beside it lay a ritual dagger of a strange, frightening aspect. Its hilt was carved from the black bone of some unknown creature, and its short, broad blade was fashioned from dark-grey Valyrian steel, covered in fine runic inscriptions.
Corlys took the dagger in his right hand. He turned to Viserra, his violet eyes appearing utterly dark, deep, and brimming with magical power in the torchlight. Without the slightest hesitation or fear, he pressed the sharp blade against the palm of his left hand and drew it forcefully across the skin.
Viserra flinched instinctively as thick, dark-red blood instantly welled from the deep gash. Corlys calmly extended his arm forward, allowing the blood to fall in heavy, frequent drops right into the bottom of the silver bowl.
No sooner had the first drop of his blood touched the silver bottom than an invisible, potent wave of energy surged through the entire hall. Viserra gasped and took a step back as all the ancient runes and glyphs engraved upon the sides of the silver bowl instantly flared with a brilliant, pure, and steady blue glow. The light was so intense that for a second it eclipsed the flames of the torches on the walls.
Yet something else astonished the princess even more. The moment Corlys drew his hand away from the bowl, the bleeding on his palm instantly ceased. Right before the eyes of a dumbfounded Viserra, the edges of the deep cut began to swiftly knit together, the skin fused with frightening ease, and after a few seconds, nothing remained of the wound save for a thin, barely noticeable pink line that vanished immediately. The wound healed in a matter of moments, leaving not a single trace.
Corlys turned to her and proffered the hilt of the dagger, stained with his own warm blood.
"Now it is your turn, Viserra," he said softly but unyieldingly. "Take the blade. You must shed your own blood into this bowl. We need to mingle our blood so the magic knows whose body we are to cleanse. Fear not, the pain will be fleeting."
Viserra looked at the dagger, then at her husband. The pride of her conqueror ancestors surged in her veins. She was no craven girl, she was a princess of the blood of the dragon. Without the slightest hesitation, she reached out and firmly gripped the bone hilt of the dagger. The blade was remarkably light and perfectly balanced.
She turned her left hand palm up, pressed the cold Valyrian steel blade to her skin, and drew it diagonally with force. A sharp, searing pain instantly pierced her hand, and hot, crimson blood flowed from the wound. Biting her lip and making no sound at all, Viserra extended her arm over the bowl, allowing her blood to mix with Corlys's.
As soon as her blood touched the contents of the bowl, the blue luminescence of the runes transformed instantly. The bowl shuddered, and the symbols along its sides flared with an entirely different color - a deep, furious, and dazzling scarlet, resembling the flame of an angered dragon. In that very second, Viserra felt the pain in her left hand abruptly subside, replaced by a pleasant, cool relief. She cast her gaze down at her palm and froze in shock: the cut on her skin was closing with that same incredible speed, knitting the tissues together. A moment later, her palm was once again perfectly smooth and clean, as though she had never even touched the dagger.
"Gods..." the princess whispered, running her fingers over the healed skin. "I... I simply no longer know what to marvel at in these vaults. Your magic... it frightens and fascinates all at once."
Corlys took the dagger from her and returned it to the plinth. His gaze slid over her blue gown.
"This is only the beginning, Viserra," he said gravely. "And now it is time for the next, most crucial stage. Remove your gown. You must strip bare. Not a single thread, ornament, or scrap of cloth must remain upon your body. All of it will interfere with the flow of the magic."
Viserra hesitated for a second, feeling a light flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. Despite the fact that they had shared a bed for two weeks and Corlys knew every part of her form, stripping naked in this cold, bleak ritual hall within the dungeons, beneath the torchlight, felt strange and unsettling. Yet she remembered her purpose. She remembered those little boys, Corwyn and Aurane, she remembered the chance to become a mother and give life to a healthy lineage. This purpose was worth any pride, any modesty.
She raised her hands to her collar, and with swift, confident movements, unlaced the intricate ties of her gown's bodice. The blue silk slipped from her shoulders with a soft rustle, falling in heavy folds onto the cold stone floor at her feet. Next, she removed her thin shift.
Viserra stood before her husband entirely naked. The pale, flawless skin of a Valyrian princess seemed almost luminescent in the gloom of the hall, while her silver-gold hair fell in long strands over her breast and back, shrouding her shoulders. She crossed her arms lightly over herself, feeling the chill of the underground air, and looked at Corlys expectantly.
Her husband stepped closer. In his eyes at that moment, there was not a drop of carnal lust or desire - he looked upon her solely as a scholar and a master of his craft, entirely focused on the complex task at hand. He dipped the fingers of his right hand directly into the silver bowl where their blood had mingled, having turned thick and warm like liquid wax following its magical activation.
"Stand still, Viserra," he commanded softly. "Now I shall apply the ancient Valyrian runes of purification unto your body. These sigils must connect your primary life nodes with the magical circle upon the floor. I will trace them with our blended blood - the blood of the one undergoing the ritual, and the blood of the one who performs it and guides it with his will. The process will be long, try not to move and remain calm."
Viserra nodded, holding her breath. Corlys took a step forward and pressed his blood-stained fingers against her skin.
A long, painstaking, and grueling process began. Corlys moved with the intricate precision of a master artisan. His fingers slid slowly across her flesh, leaving behind sharp, even lines and complex symbols of dark blood. He began with her brow, tracing the mark of an open mind, then moved down to her neck and collarbones. He carefully sketched runes upon her breasts, drew elaborate geometric patterns along her spine, and covered her shoulders and arms down to her very wrists in symbols. He paid special attention to her abdomen and hips. There, his fingers traced the largest, most intricate marks of fertility and cleansing.
Viserra stood motionless. The touch of his fingers was warm, yet the blood mixture itself, upon making contact with her skin, induced a strange, tingling sensation, as though thousands of tiny, invisible sparks were skittering across her body. It felt to her as if these runes were beginning to slowly absorb into her, taking invisible root through the pores of her skin. The application of the patterns lasted nearly an hour. By the end of it, Viserra's entire body was completely covered in an intricate, frightening lattice of dark blood runes, transforming her into something resembling a living Valyrian statue.
Once the final rune upon her ankle was finished, Corlys stepped back and wiped his hands with a clean cloth. He looked at her with a grave, tense gaze.
"And now, Viserra, step into the very center of the circle drawn upon the floor," he said in a quiet, low voice. "Lie upon your back, right on top of these symbols. And listen to me very closely. The ritual itself is about to begin. And I must warn you honestly - it will be unfathomably painful. The magic will forcibly burn out from your blood, your bones, and your flesh all those genetic defects and aberrations that have accumulated there over generations. This is a process of deep reconstruction for your body."
He approached the stone plinth, took a small, thick piece of clean, multi-layered linen cloth from it, and held it out to her.
"Take this, Viserra. Place it in your mouth and bite down hard. When the pain becomes unbearable, you will want to scream. This cloth is necessary so that you do not bite off your own tongue during a fit of convulsions. Hold it tightly and do not let go, no matter what you feel."
The princess looked at the piece of cloth in her hand. For a second, a wave of primal, panicky fear washed over her. Her body trembled with the anticipation of the coming torment. Yet she gritted her teeth, banishing her weakness. Pain? So be it. Physical pain was a paltry, small price to pay for the chance to become a whole, healthy woman, for the opportunity to one day embrace her own robust child and watch them grow, without fearing that fate would flip a coin to choose between deformity or an early death for her baby.
"I am ready, Corlys," she said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly.
She took a few steps forward, stepping over the lines of the outer circles, and lay down on her back exactly in the center of the geometric diagram. The cold stone of the floor bit into her naked back. Viserra placed the cloth into her mouth and bit down with all her might, closing her eyes. She prepared herself for the worst.
Corlys stood at the outer edge of the magical circle, directly opposite her head. He closed his eyes, extended both arms forward over his recumbent wife, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
In the next second, the ritual hall shuddered. Corlys began to chant incantations loudly, imperiously, and without pause in ancient, archaic High Valyrian. These words differed from the tongue Viserra was accustomed to speaking - they sounded harsher, more guttural, carrying the rhythm of old spells with which dragonlords once melted entire cities. His voice, amplified by the magical acoustics of the hall, thundered beneath the vaults like claps of nearby thunder.
Scarcely had the first sounds of the spell slipped from his lips when all the lines, circles, and symbols traced upon the floor around Viserra instantly came alive. They flared with a brilliant, fierce scarlet light. Viserra snapped her eyes open and groaned mutely through the clenched cloth: she felt the cold stone beneath her back transform in a single heartbeat into glowing, heat-blasting embers.
The pain came instantly, and it was monstrous. It felt to Viserra as though this scarlet light from the floor was beginning to seep slowly, millimeter by millimeter, through her skin, penetrating the inside of her body. Every rune drawn upon her flesh in blood flared with a responsive fire, causing unbearable agony. The heat drove beneath her skin, forced its way into her muscles, and bit into her joints. It felt as if a thousand red-hot needles were plunging into her flesh simultaneously, methodically grinding everything within.
Corlys continued to intonate the spell, his voice growing louder, more demanding, and swifter. The magical fire around her blazed with a new, frantic intensity.
Viserra felt that she was now burning from within. This was no ordinary burn - it was a sensation as if the very blood in her veins had boiled, turning into liquid, churning gold. The heat concentrated within her bones, burning out the very essence of her lineage. With immense effort, overcoming the wild convulsions racking her limbs, the princess lifted her head slightly above the floor and looked down at her body.
The sight was terrifying yet fantastical. Her entire body literally glowed from within with a brilliant, piercing red light, as though an ancient, furious flame was fading and flaring anew beneath her skin. But the most horrifying part was something else: from the pores of her skin, across her entire body, a strange, foul black mixture began to slowly exude in thick droplets. It was viscous, sticky, resembling liquid tar or pitch. This sludge oozed slowly out of her, emitting a sharp, suffocating, and fetid stench of burning, brimstone, and rot. Viserra understood: this black pitch was the physical, material manifestation of all that corruption, deformity, and blood defects being snuffed out and burned away from her under the influence of her husband's potent magic.
The pain reached its zenith. It became so absolute, sharp, and all-consuming that Viserra could no longer restrain herself. She arched her back against the floor, her fingers clawing frantically into the rough stone. From her throat erupted a wild, piercing, and deafening scream that dissolved into a hoarse roar. She shrieked with all her might, pouring all her agony into the cry, biting down on the cloth in her mouth with a death grip that threatened to crack her jaw. Through a mind clouded with pain, a single, frantic yet anchoring thought flashed: Hold the cloth... hold it... better to rip this bloody cloth to pieces than bite off my own tongue... hold on for the child... for the future...
This nightmare seemed to last an eternity, though in truth no more than a few minutes passed. Corlys's voice bellowed the final, powerful word of the incantation, which swept through the hall like an explosion.
In that exact second, the scarlet glow upon the floor and her body died instantly. The torches on the walls became the sole source of light once more. The wild, flesh-rending pain subsided just as abruptly as it had begun - as if someone had simply severed an invisible thread binding her to the source of her torment.
Viserra collapsed exhaustedly back onto the stone floor. Her body was completely coated in the sticky, foul-smelling black sludge mixed with sweat. She breathed heavily, greedily, spitting the soaked, shredded piece of cloth from her mouth. The cool air of the vaults rushed into her lungs, bringing an incredible, divine relief. She lay there, unable to move hand or foot, yet something wondrous was happening within her.
Despite the horrific torment she had endured and her colossal exhaustion, Viserra began to distinctly feel entirely different with each new breath. The invisible, dull weight she had carried within herself since childhood and considered a normal constant had vanished from her body. Her mind became wonderfully clear and sharp, all her senses were heightened. She felt an incredible, powerful surge of physical vitality churning in her veins like a mountain spring. Her blood flowed effortlessly, her heart beating steadily and strongly. She felt renewed, powerful, and absolutely, flawlessly healthy.
Corlys walked swiftly to her side. Heavy fatigue was written across his features - the ritual had demanded a tremendous exertion of his magical strength, and his brow was slick with sweat - yet sincere joy and triumph shone in his eyes. He leaned down, carefully took her hands, and helped her sit up on the floor.
Viserra tried to move, but as soon as she lifted her arms, the sharp, repulsive odor of the black sludge coating her skin hit her nose. The stench was so potent and foul that the princess was nearly driven to heave - or rather, she would have heaved had there been anything at all in her stomach. She wrinkled her nose, looking at her soiled hands with disgust.
"Oh, gods... Corlys..." she choked out, trying to turn away from her own body. "I... I reek as if I spent a sennight in a filthy pen with a herd of unwashed swine! It is simply dreadful! I cannot breathe!"
Hearing her complaints, Corlys could not help but let out a bright, loud laugh. This laughter broke the remaining tension in the hall. He looked at his wife good-naturedly, trying to hearten her.
"Now, do not exaggerate, my love," he remarked with a chuckle, wiping the sweat from his brow. "You still smell quite decent and tolerable, trust me. If only you knew what a terrible, suffocating stench filled this hall when I performed this exact ritual for Daeron! He reeked thrice as bad, we could not air out these vaults for a night afterward."
Despite her revulsion, Viserra could not suppress a faint but happy smile at his jest. She looked at him with a grave, hopeful gaze, freezing as she awaited the crucial answer.
"Corlys... tell me... did it succeed?" she asked softly, holding her breath. "The ritual... did it truly work? My blood... is it cleansed?"
Her husband looked at her with pride and tenderness. He nodded with certainty.
"Yes, Viserra. Everything went perfectly. Your blood is now entirely clean of your ancestors' degradation. You have shed the burden of incest. Your body is strong and whole. Now, nothing shall ever threaten your future motherhood. You achieved it, you endured."
Her relief and joy were so immense that Viserra nearly wept again, but this time they were tears of absolute bliss.
"And now," Corlys said with a sly smirk, "let us get you cleaned up. My beautiful wife cannot go wandering about the castle entirely covered in black pitch."
He stepped back two paces, raised his right hand, and made a sharp, twisting motion with his palm in the air. In that very instant, right out of thin air above Viserra's head, a massive, dense torrent of the purest, cool water materialized. Corlys brought his hand down sharply, and the entire mass of water cascaded right over the seated princess like a heavy, roaring waterfall.
"Hey!" Viserra cried out in feigned, indignant protest as the cool water drenched her from head to toe, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut and sputter loudly. "Corlys! You... you could have at least warned me, you mad barbarian! This water is icy!"
She breathed heavily, wringing out her wet silver hair with her fingers, but she was forced to admit that this sudden downpour had instantly washed all the repulsive black sludge from her body. The pitch dissolved easily in the magical water, draining along with the flow into the imperceptible cracks between the stone slabs of the floor. Her skin was once again perfectly clean, smooth, and radiant, and the cool of the water finally banished the last remnants of heat from her muscles.
Corlys approached her, chuckling, and draped a spacious, warm cloak of thick wool over her wet shoulders, which he had prepared beforehand.
"Forgive me, my love, but it was the swiftest and most efficient way to cleanse you," he offered in self-defense with a smile, helping her to her feet and wrapping the cloak tightly around her. "Let us hurry back to our chambers. You need to take a proper, hot bath and get some good rest. Your body has earned it."
They quickly ascended the dark staircases back into the keep of High Tide. The castle still slept, and they encountered not a single living soul. Returning to their spacious marriage chambers, Viserra wasted not a single second and headed straight for the bathhouse.
There she spent a full hour, using a strigil and scented soap to scrub every inch of her skin, washing away the unseen remnants of the subterranean ritual. She washed her long silver hair several times until it was once more soft, clean, and smelling of lavender.
When she finally stepped back into the bedchamber, clad in a fresh, dry silk shift, she felt simply magnificent. Viserra approached the massive bed where Corlys was already awaiting her. He sat upon the edge, having changed into clean raiment, and watched her closely.
The princess sat beside him on the soft mattress. She stretched, squaring her shoulders, a happy, peaceful smile playing across her face.
"Well, how do you feel now, Lady Velaryon?" Corlys asked softly, taking her hand and peering into her face.
Viserra turned to him, her violet eyes shining with pristine, pure strength.
"You know, Corlys..." she replied softly, a hint of wonder in her voice. "I... I simply cannot remember when in my life I have felt this well physically. I feel as though I could run around the entire island of Driftmark from end to end without a single pause. There is so much strength in me, so much lightness. It is as if my body... as if it's floating. Thank you. You have performed a true miracle for me."
Corlys smiled with genuine, joyful warmth. Her answer was the finest reward for all his labors. He leaned forward, gently wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her close, sealing her lips with a long, deep kiss full of earnest love. Viserra returned it gladly, feeling the warmth of his body comfort her after the chill of the vaults.
When they finally, slowly parted, Viserra placed her palms against his chest. In her eyes, a spark of that very same untamable curiosity and pride that had always set her apart from her sisters flared once more.
"Very well, Corlys," she began, narrowing her eyes slightly. "My blood is now pure, the secrets of your magic are laid open before me, and we have corrected the mistakes of my ancestors. We have taken a first, giant step. What... what do we do next? What is our next plan?"
The countenance of Corlys Velaryon shifted in a single instant. The smile vanished from his lips, and his face became utterly solemn and focused. He stared intently straight into her beautiful eyes, holding her gaze with his unyielding will. Silence settled over the room, broken only by the measured, distant lapping of the waves outside the window.
Corlys paused briefly, letting her feel the weight of the moment, before softly yet with striking gravity, measuring every word, asking the stunned Viserra a single question:
"Viserra... answer me truly, do you wish to become a dragonrider?"
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A/N
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