Born of the Storm. Mother of Dragons. The Unburnt. Queen of Meereen. Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm…

Daenerys Targaryen’s life had not yet reached its third decade, but her journey had already spanned half the known world. Yet, even after crossing mountains and seas, she could not escape the trap laid by a transmigrator who knew her better than she knew herself.

The brazier was moved closer to the bedside. Sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. A willow-leaf-shaped scalpel sliced precisely through the subcutaneous vein of her pale skin. Blood flowed from Daenerys’s left arm, dripping into a silver bowl prepared in advance. Crimson against ivory, dark against bright—the contrast was stark and striking.

Before being expelled from the Citadel for conducting illegal experiments, Qyburn had been recognized by his peers and superiors for his exceptional medical skills. In his own words, he had been “a healer equal to Maester Ambrose, destined to surpass him.” He knew very well “how to draw blood safely.” Though he hadn’t practiced in some time, his hands were steady. Under Missandei’s hesitant gaze, he quickly collected half a bowl of True Dragon blood, stopped the bleeding, and bandaged the wound. Only then did he calmly lift the bowl and hand it to Melisandre, both decisive and cautious.

Now, it was the witch’s turn to act.

Melisandre was known as the Red Priestess, a title taken from her distinctive robes, which only full-fledged priests of R’hllor were entitled to wear. She rarely changed them, whether in the depths of winter or the heat of summer. Outsiders saw only the robe’s grandeur, unaware that its interior was a world of its own: countless hidden pockets containing paper packets and miniature bottles filled with powders or liquids of various functions. Some could treat illness and injury. (Though a witch, it was far too costly to rely on magic for such tasks, whether before or after the return of magic.) Others enhanced the power and effects of spells, whether for fire divination, communication with the Red God, or the shadow-binding arts that could kill.

The largest share consisted of alchemical compounds, mainly metallic salts.

Their role was to be thrown into flames at the right moment to provoke specific reactions. Combined with a hint of magical assistance, they achieved maximum divine effect at minimal cost.

Melisandre’s not-so-long, but certainly longer-than-average mortal life had taught her one lesson: when it came to converting people to the Red God’s faith or gaining trust for her counsel, nothing worked better than a demonstration of power. No matter how carefully she spread doctrine or explained reason, it could not compare to one direct display of magic. Casting spells publicly was the most effective means. However, in a world where magic had faded, its use came at a price. She could not waste precious energy on every unworthy soul.

Thus, sleight of hand and simple alchemical effects became the best substitutes.

A high-ranking priest was usually also an excellent performer, a master illusionist.

Ten minutes onstage required ten years of practice offstage. Although Aegor’s plan had only been discussed and prepared the previous night, it seemed inevitable—almost fated—that she, Qyburn, and the Red Priestess would be ready, their talents well-suited to the roles in this grand deception.

Melisandre picked up the silver bowl, tilted it carefully, and poured the fresh royal blood into the brazier in a slow, thin stream. As she did so, she began chanting in a low voice. The murmured words sounded like Valyrian, but Daenerys could not understand them. The blood sizzled on the hot coals, releasing hissing sounds and curling smoke. While everyone’s attention was drawn to the incantation and the smoke, Melisandre’s left hand, the one not holding the bowl, discreetly pulled out a prepared powder. With a swiftness and precision that would shame many mummers and magicians, she skillfully flicked it into the flames.

The brazier flared into a spectacle of strange lights—red, orange, yellow, green… all imaginable colors burst forth, competing for brilliance, as if the air itself were filled with divine radiance.

No lamp could burn so brightly. No jewel could shine so vividly. With the help of costly alchemical powders, priceless royal blood, and just the slightest touch of real magic, the ritual’s spectacle far surpassed words. The flickering colors flowing through the room and the heavy magical aura rising from the brazier reinforced one another. Even if a mage familiar with true magic had been present, unless they were highly skilled in blood magic, they would be hard-pressed to detect the illusion. Melisandre appeared to be channeling the essence of royal blood to save a dying man.

The brazier was real. The True Dragon bloodline was real. Only the “saving” part was a lie. Melisandre was indeed casting a spell, but most of the magic served only to boost the visual spectacle of the flame reaction. A small part was directed toward the motionless Aegor—not to detoxify him, but to lift the hibernation spell placed on him and give a small push to raise his body temperature.

As long as his breathing and heartbeat became stronger, and warmth returned to his body after the ritual, it would be deemed a success.

As for that half bowl of Queen’s blood? None of it was wasted. Thanks to Melisandre’s preparation after taking part in Maester Aemon’s funeral rites, it was all absorbed as raw magical energy. The excess even began to fill the depleted ruby hanging around her neck. If those present hadn’t been focused on the brazier and the unconscious Lord Commander, they might have noticed that the Red Priestess, instead of appearing drained from casting spells, was becoming more radiant by the second.

No matter how dazzling the performance, it was still an illusion. Afraid that drawing things out would expose flaws, Melisandre kept the ceremony short. Once she had poured out all the blood, she took a pre-prepared cloth, wiped the inside of the bowl clean, and tossed the stained cloth into the fire, unwilling to waste even a drop of royal blood. The cloth quickly curled and turned to ash. At the same time, the rainbow-like colors in the room dimmed and faded. The Red Priestess, now bursting with magic, formed a hand seal and used a real fire control spell to bring the entire spectacle to a close.

At her rising chant, two serpents of flame, no thicker than a finger, shot up from the charcoal brazier. They danced and coiled in midair for several seconds, then suddenly dove toward Aegor on the bed, dissolving over his nostrils with audible gasps and wide-eyed stares from all around. The dissipating spell released heat that curled a few hairs on the Lord Commander’s upper lip.

This was High Priest Bennero’s most famous fire trick. All high-ranking Red Priests had learned it. It served no real purpose other than creating visual awe or lighting candles. It wasn’t strong enough to kill a mouse. But now, in front of spectators unfamiliar with blood magic, it became a powerful symbol. It looked like the power of the True Dragon’s blood had entered Aegor’s body through his breath. Even Missandei, who had harbored doubts, now stared in wonder, awe replacing all suspicion.

“Alright,” Melisandre said, placing down the silver bowl. Though full of energy, she deliberately adopted a weary tone. “The power in Her Grace’s blood has been fully introduced into the Lord Commander’s body. Whether he can survive now depends on his will to live, and on fate… or luck.”

Daenerys moved closer to the bed, sat again on the stool, reached out her uninjured hand, and clasped Aegor’s hand under the covers. After a moment, a trace of surprise appeared on her face.

“It seems to be working?”

Qyburn stepped in quickly, making a show of examining Aegor before confirming what she sensed.

“His breathing and heartbeat have returned to normal. His body temperature is rising.”

“So, is it a success?” Daenerys asked, cautiously, her voice tense. Having endured one painful loss before, she did not allow herself to rejoice too quickly. “When will he wake?”

“Perhaps a splash of cold water will wake him. Perhaps he’ll sleep through the night and wake tomorrow. Perhaps… he never will. As I said earlier, the spell can only pull Lord Aegor back from the edge of death. It cannot guarantee anything more.” Melisandre maintained her expression of brutal honesty. “If Your Grace insists on hearing some good news, then I can say this: the poison he consumed at noon was expelled before midnight. The rescue came in time. The likelihood of a bad outcome is very low. Your Grace may rest easy.”

“Regardless of whether the Lord Commander wakes soon or not, I will arrange for the Gift Army’s lower-ranking officers and representatives of each tribe to visit tomorrow morning. They must see that the Lord Commander is no longer in mortal danger, to ease unrest and maintain order in the city.” Harvey stepped forward with visible gratitude, his tone respectful and unwavering. “If Lord Aegor wakes, I will have someone notify Your Grace immediately. Until then, the Gift Army… is at Your Grace’s command.”

(No matter what happens next, at least I don’t have to flee Winterfell tonight.)

Daenerys felt a faint relief, but right after, a smoldering anger rose.

If this poisoning had not been Aegor’s own reckless action in an emotional moment, then the true culprit’s goal was to eliminate all three of her closest advisors. Such malice was vile and unforgivable. She had to find whoever was behind it, whether man or group, and make them feel the wrath of a true dragon.

“Very well. I will issue the order.” Daenerys raised her head, trying to keep her voice steady despite the fury beneath. “I will begin a full investigation immediately to uncover the poisoner and their mastermind. You will take charge of this matter. I will assign Black Shell and Missandei to assist you and ensure there are no obstacles, no matter whether the trail leads to the Northern lords, someone within the Gift Army, or someone at my side. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace! I guarantee the poisoner will have nowhere to hide!”

(To be continued.)

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