Far across the Narrow Sea, Driftmark rose from the horizon beneath a sky streaked with pale silver clouds. The island's black stone shores stood firm against the restless tides, waves crashing endlessly against the rocks below as though the sea itself sought audience with House Velaryon.
High above those waters, a dragon descended.
Its vast wings beat steadily against the wind as it approached the ancestral seat of the Lord of the Tides. Sailors in the harbor paused in their work to look upward, while guards along the walls watched the familiar sight with practiced calm. Dragons were not uncommon visitors to Driftmark, but they never ceased to command attention.
The beast landed upon the designated grounds near the keep, stirring dust and salt into the air.
Rhaenys Targaryen dismounted with the ease of long experience. Silver hair shifted lightly in the sea breeze as she adjusted her riding cloak. Before she could take more than a few steps, a waiting retainer approached and bowed deeply.
"My lady."
Without delay, servants moved to attend the dragon while the retainer guided her toward the main keep. Behind them, dragonkeepers and household attendants carefully directed the great beast toward its resting grounds.
The halls of Driftmark were as familiar to Rhaenys as her own reflection. Stone corridors echoed with the distant sounds of servants at work, while the scent of salt lingered stubbornly within the walls. Returning after any journey always brought a sense of comfort, but today her thoughts remained occupied by the council meeting she had only recently departed.
She had scarcely entered the central hall when she spotted him.
Corlys Velaryon stood waiting near the far end of the chamber.
The Sea Snake carried himself with the same commanding presence that had earned the respect of princes, kings, and merchants alike. Though age had touched him, it had done little to diminish the confidence that seemed woven into his very bearing.
A smile appeared upon his face as he approached.
"You are earlier than expected."
Crossing the remaining distance between them, he wrapped his arms around her. Rhaenys returned the embrace without hesitation.
For a brief moment, the burdens of councils, politics, and dragons seemed distant.
"The meeting ended quickly," she answered once they separated.
Corlys raised an eyebrow.
"Quickly? That alone makes me suspicious."
A faint smile touched Rhaenys's lips.
"As it should."
Together they began walking through the hall.
"What was so urgent that the Crown summoned half the realm?" Corlys asked.
Rhaenys's expression grew more serious.
"The matter concerned the recent events throughout Westeros."
Corlys immediately became attentive.
"The Reach."
At those words alone, his gaze sharpened.
"The reports are true?"
"They are."
Rhaenys recounted what had been discussed before the king and his assembled lords. She spoke of fertile lands reduced to ruin beneath sapphire-colored flames unlike any dragonfire recorded in memory. Entire harvests had vanished. Villages had been consumed. The devastation had shaken both noble and commoner alike, forcing many to reconsider the stability of the realm itself.
Corlys listened in silence.
The Reach supplied much of Westeros. Any threat to its prosperity was a threat to the kingdom as a whole.
Still, it was not the Reach that had left the council uneasy.
Rhaenys spoke next of Prince Daemon Targaryen.
How the prince had marched south without leave from the Iron Throne, convinced he could force Dorne into submission.
How confidence, pride, and dragons had convinced him victory would come swiftly.
And how reality had proven otherwise.
"The campaign failed," Rhaenys said.
Corlys frowned.
"Failed?"
"More than failed."
She met his gaze.
"Daemon was captured."
The Sea Snake stopped walking.
For several moments he simply stared at her.
"Captured?"
"The Dornish lord responsible now holds him."
"A prince of House Targaryen?"
"Yes."
"With a dragon?"
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Of all the possibilities Corlys might have imagined, that was not among them.
He had spent decades sailing across the known world. He had witnessed empires rise and fall. He had seen armies shattered and kingdoms humbled. Yet dragons remained dragons. They were the ultimate symbol of Targaryen power.
"What manner of lord accomplishes such a feat?" he finally asked.
Rhaenys shook her head.
"The council itself seeks that answer."
She then revealed the detail that had caused the greatest unease among those assembled.
The Dornish lord not only held Daemon captive.
He apparently possessed authority over a dragon as well.
Corlys's expression darkened immediately.
"A dragon obeys him?"
"That is what was reported."
"By the Seven."
The word escaped him before he could stop it.
Such a thing challenged centuries of understanding. Dragons belonged to House Targaryen. They obeyed dragonriders of Valyrian blood. The notion of an outsider commanding one felt less like politics and more like madness.
"The council believes the reports?" he asked.
"Enough to take them seriously."
Corlys folded his arms.
"I would sooner believe sailors' tales of mermaids."
"So would many others. The evidence appears convincing enough."
The Lord of the Tides exhaled slowly.
The implications alone were staggering.
"The Crown seeks negotiation before matters worsen," Rhaenys continued.
"And?"
"The king has named me as his representative."
Corlys looked toward her.
"You."
"Alongside my dragon."
His concern was immediate and unmistakable.
"If this Dornish lord was capable of capturing Daemon Targaryen once, what prevents him from doing so again?"
"A fair question."
"And one the king should have considered more carefully."
Rhaenys remained calm.
"If this lord truly desired war with the Iron Throne, Daemon's head would already be displayed upon a spear somewhere in Dorne."
Corlys could not argue that point.
"He remains alive," she continued. "That alone suggests a willingness to negotiate."
"Or patience."
"Perhaps."
Their eyes met.
"But I believe he possesses enough sense to understand the consequences of provoking the Crown further."
Corlys remained unconvinced.
"I dislike placing faith in strangers."
"As do I."
A brief silence followed before he spoke again.
"Then I shall accompany you."
Rhaenys immediately shook her head.
"No."
"Rhaenys—"
"Driftmark cannot be left without its lord." Rhaenys cut him off.
His expression tightened.
"There are capable men here."
"None who are you." Rhaenys said and smiled at his husband.
The answer left little room for argument.
Corlys knew she was correct. The responsibilities of House Velaryon extended far beyond the island itself. Fleets, merchants, captains, shipyards, and trade routes all depended upon his leadership.
Reluctantly, he let the matter rest.
As they resumed walking, another thought surfaced in his mind.
"Speaking of strange matters..."
Rhaenys glanced toward him.
"What now?"
Corlys released a long sigh.
"My brother."
That alone caused her concern.
"Vaemond?"
"Yes."
Rhaenys rolled her eyes.
"If this is about that hall of his again, I thought we settled the matter months ago."
"Oh, the hall is no longer the problem."
That answer immediately drew her attention.
Rhaenys frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Corlys rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"The hall is finished."
"And?"
"The people have started gathering there."
A pause followed.
"Gathering?"
"In large numbers."
Rhaenys stared at him.
"How large?"
Corlys looked almost embarrassed to answer.
"Large enough that merchants have begun selling food outside."
The Princess Who Never Was stopped walking.
"You are joking."
"I wish I were." Corlys replied.
"What exactly is Vaemond doing in this hall?"
"According to him? Honoring the man who saved his life."
"And according to you?"
Corlys sighed.
"I believe my brother may have accidentally founded a religion."
For several moments Rhaenys simply looked at him.
Then she laughed.
Not because it was amusing.
Because she could think of no other response.
"Show me."
The two left the main keep and made their way through Driftmark. As they approached the structure, Rhaenys immediately noticed that Corlys had not exaggerated.
The area surrounding the hall was crowded.
Far more crowded than she had imagined.
Men and women from across the island stood gathered around the building. Some carried flowers. Others held carved trinkets, candles, or small offerings. Several waited patiently near the entrance as though awaiting permission to enter.
What had once been intended as a memorial hall now looked more like a shrine.
The sight alone left her speechless.
Corlys noticed her expression.
"I told you."
Rhaenys did not answer.
Together they entered.
The interior was surprisingly grand.
Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating polished stone floors and carved pillars. Rich tapestries hung from the walls. The craftsmanship rivaled many noble halls across Westeros.
But it was the figure at the far end of the chamber that seized her attention.
A massive golden statue.
Rhaenys slowed.
The figure depicted a young man dressed in flowing robes. A slender stick rested lightly in one hand. The craftsmanship was extraordinary. Every fold of cloth, every strand of hair, and every feature of the face had been rendered with such precision that the figure appeared almost alive.
Behind the statue stretched an enormous mural covering the entire wall.
Rhaenys studied it carefully.
The artwork depicted a violent sea. A ship lay broken in two amidst towering waves while a colossal kraken rose from the depths, its immense tentacles coiled around the wreckage.
Above them all floated a lone man suspended in the sky.
The same man portrayed by the statue.
One arm extended forward.
The small stick pointed directly toward the monstrous creature below.
The scene possessed an uncanny realism. It felt less like an artist's creation and more like a memory captured in stone.
For reasons she could not entirely explain, Rhaenys found herself intrigued.
"It is impressive," she admitted.
Corlys nodded.
"Vaemond gathered the finest craftsmen he could find."
"Clearly."
Even so, the entire display felt absurd. Magnificent, certainly, but absurd all the same.
Rhaenys had spent her life among dragons and royalty. She had witnessed wonders few people could imagine. Yet returning home to discover that her brother-in-law had transformed a memorial into something resembling a temple was not something she had anticipated.
What unsettled her far more was what happened next.
The gathered people began to kneel.
One after another they lowered themselves before the statue. Heads bowed. Hands clasped. Some whispered prayers beneath their breath while others simply gazed upward with expressions of quiet reverence.
Rhaenys watched in disbelief. What she saw in their eyes was neither fear nor duty, but faith.
Then the voices began.
Soft at first, barely louder than whispers. But as more people joined, the words spread throughout the chamber until they echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling.
"Praise the Great Being."
"Praise the Great Being."
"Praise the Great Being."
The chant echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, low and steady as a prayer.
Rhaenys turned toward Corlys, searching his face for some explanation.
The Lord of the Tides merely sighed.
For perhaps the first time that day, even the Queen Who Never Was found herself at a loss for words.
As evening approached, Ghost Hill no longer resembled the arid, exhausted stronghold it had been only days prior. The land itself seemed to breathe differently.
Reservoirs that had been reduced to cracked basins now brimmed with clear water that reflected the bruised colors of the storm-swept sky. Irrigation channels, hastily reinforced during the ritual's preparation, carried steady flows into fields that only yesterday had been dry dust. The air carried the scent of wet stone, crushed herbs, and rain that had not fallen in years but now lingered like memory made physical.
The transformation was not subtle. It was visible in every direction, as though the world itself had been rewritten.
At the heart of it all stood Thaddues.
The ritual had succeeded. That he remained on his feet afterward was another matter entirely.
His body had been damaged long before the fourth rune was ever activated. For this ritual, he had pushed himself far beyond his magical limits, relying on potions simply to see it through.
Now the debt had come due.
As the last traces of magic settled into the land, a violent tremor coursed through him. His vision blurred. Pain flared through muscles already stretched beyond their limits.
Another thin stream of blood escaped from his nose. A second traced its way from the corner of his mouth.
A hush spread through the crowd.
Thaddues merely raised a sleeve and wiped the blood away. The gesture carried the weary familiarity of a man who had paid such prices before.
Reaching into his robes, he withdrew a small crystal vial filled with shimmering liquid. His hand shook as he removed the stopper and drank.
The effect was immediate, though far from miraculous.
The dizziness receded. His breathing steadied. The worst of the tremors faded.
The potion did not restore what the ritual had consumed. It merely granted him enough stability to remain on his feet.
For a moment he stood motionless, gathering himself.
Then his gaze shifted toward the center of the completed array.
Amid the fading runes rested the Master Card he had received upon the ritual's completion.
Ordinarily, retrieving it would have required nothing more than bending down. In his current condition, even that felt unnecessarily taxing.
A faint flicker of magic danced at his fingertips.
The levitation charm was simple—so simple that a Hogwarts student could perform it. Yet it was all he was willing to expend.
The card rose smoothly from the stone and drifted into his waiting hand.
After securing it within his robes, Thaddues turned toward the waiting carriage.
The crowds gave way as he passed. Around him, conversation died. Laborers, guards, and nobles alike followed his progress with quiet eyes. Even the ruling house of Ghost Hill watched in silence.
They had witnessed magic reshape the fortunes of an entire region. Water flowed where drought had reigned for years. Reservoirs brimmed once more, and fields drank deeply from newly restored channels.
The man who had made it possible looked as though the effort should have killed him.
Blood stained the edge of his sleeve. The potion had steadied him, but it could not conceal the exhaustion etched into every measured step. Only his posture remained unchanged.
He walked toward the carriage as though collapse were a concern for other men.
The people watched him depart, and already memory was giving way to legend.
It would pass from servant to merchant, merchant to traveler, traveler to singer. It would cross deserts with caravans and sail along distant coasts. With every retelling, the line between history and legend would blur a little further.
Children not yet born would hear of the foreign lord, a wizard who stood at the heart of Ghost Hill and called water back to a dying land.
Minstrels would sing of the storm that answered his summons. Of ancient runes blazing across stone. Of the mage who bled for a miracle and departed before the cheers could reach him.
And wherever those songs were sung, one name would endure.
Thaddues Peverell.
The Wizard of Dorne.
TBC
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