If you enjoyed this chapter, drop Power Stones and let the story march forward.
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The Boneway grew narrower with every mile, as if the mountains themselves wanted to crush them.
Kael rode with his eyes half-closed, fever starting to burn behind them. The wound on his ribs had turned ugly overnight — red, hot, and leaking pus. He knew what that meant. Infection. In the desert, that usually killed faster than any sword.
Stupid bastard, he thought. You survived the fight just to rot from the inside.
Sylva had taken her own horse again that morning. She kept glancing back at him, her face tight with something between irritation and worry. She hated that she cared even a little.
Ysira led the way, but her usual confident posture had cracked. The cut on her shoulder was healing cleanly, yet she kept touching it absentmindedly. Mira rode at the rear, silent and watchful, her grey eyes never resting.
They reached the ruins just after midday — old smugglers' caves carved into the cliff face, half-collapsed and forgotten by everyone except those who needed to disappear. The perfect place to hide a dragon egg… or die trying.
They dragged the egg inside the largest chamber. It took all four of them, and by the end Kael was shaking so badly he had to sit down or fall.
"Stay still," Ysira ordered. She knelt beside him without asking, peeling back the filthy bandage. The smell made her wrinkle her nose. "It's infected. Badly."
"I noticed," Kael muttered through gritted teeth.
Sylva brought water and clean cloth she had boiled over a tiny fire. When she pressed the cloth to his wound, Kael hissed in pain and grabbed her wrist by instinct. Their eyes locked. For a moment, neither breathed. Her fingers were rough from years of theft and fighting, but warm.
"Let go," she whispered. But she didn't pull away.
Kael released her slowly. "Sorry."
"You're always sorry after you do something stupid," she said, but her voice lacked its usual bite.
Mira watched the exchange from the shadows, arms crossed. "We need milk of the poppy or proper herbs. Without them, he'll be dead in three days."
"And if we go looking for medicine," Ysira said, "we risk being seen." She looked at Kael like he was a broken sword — still useful, but maybe not worth the cost anymore.
Kael laughed weakly. "Just say it. You're wondering if it's better to cut my throat now and take the egg without the sick bastard slowing you down."
None of them denied it.
The silence was honest. Brutal.
Later, while Sylva kept watch at the entrance, Ysira sat near Kael again. The firelight played across her face, softening the hard edges for once.
"You're not what I thought a man with Targaryen blood would be," she said quietly.
"Yeah? And what did you think?"
"Arrogant. Beautiful. Dangerous." She gave a small, tired smile. "Instead I got a feverish fool who bleeds too easily and still tries to protect people who might kill him tomorrow."
Kael looked at her. Really looked. The way her black hair fell across her shoulder. The small scar above her eyebrow. The exhaustion in her green eyes that made her seem almost human.
"And you?" he asked. "You're not exactly the cold Dornish noble I expected either."
Ysira leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper. "My father lost everything trying to rebel against the Iron Throne. I watched him drink himself to death. I won't let House Uller die the same way." Her fingers brushed his forearm, light as a secret. "So yes… I will use you, Kael Varyn. But I don't enjoy watching you suffer."
The touch lingered. Not quite a promise. Not quite safe.
From across the chamber, Mira cleared her throat. "We have a bigger problem."
She had unwrapped a small leather tube from inside her cloak — something she had taken from one of the dead scouts. Inside was a rolled message.
She read it aloud, voice flat:
"To Ser Gwayne — the violet-eyed bastard has been tracked since Yronwood. His mother was a known Targaryen whore named Saera. The egg must not reach Dorne. Burn it or bring it to King's Landing. Reward: lordship and gold. Bran's council grows nervous. — T.L."
"T.L.," Ysira whispered. "Tyrion Lannister."
Kael felt the world tilt. His mother's name. Saera. He had never known it. The revelation hit harder than any wound.
"So now they know exactly who I am," he said hoarsely. "And they're scared."
Mira rolled the message back up. "They're not just scared. They're desperate. A living Targaryen bastard with a dragon egg? That could bring every claimant, every lord, every madman out of hiding."
Sylva returned from watch, limping. She had heard everything. Her face was pale. "We're carrying fire and lightning. And we're all going to burn for it."
The egg sat in the corner.
Its veins began glowing again — slow, steady pulses. Almost like breathing. Like it was pleased by their fear. Like it was growing stronger from their secrets.
Kael stared at it, sweat pouring down his face from the fever.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he whispered.
"None of us did," Ysira replied. But her eyes said something different. She had asked for power. And now power was asking for blood.
That night, as Kael slipped in and out of fever dreams, he heard whispers that weren't voices.
Ancient. Patient. Hungry.
And somewhere far away, in the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister was already reading a second raven.
While in Sunspear, Prince Qoren Martell had just called his most loyal captains.
The noose was tightening.