"I am unharmed, Father," Helaena said quickly. She lifted her chin, pale lashes fluttering as she offered him a small, hopeful smile. "Dreamfyre was gentle. She did not hurt me at all."
She knew she stood in the wrong. The words came too fast, too carefully chosen, her voice soft with the sweetness she used whenever she wished to be forgiven.
King Viserys did not return the smile.
His mouth was drawn tight, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened by a fury he struggled to contain. When the dragonkeepers had burst in with their cries, he had already resolved to make an example of the reckless knight who had dared mount a dragon without leave. Fines, imprisonment, perhaps even exile had all crossed his mind.
Never had he imagined the culprit would be his own daughter.
For a long moment he only stared at her, as if hoping his eyes deceived him. Then he stepped forward and lifted Helaena into his arms. She was light, all bones and warmth, clinging to him with the unquestioning trust of a child.
How could this be? At such an age, she had already entangled herself in the perilous affairs of dragons and secret pacts. When Viserys had been so young, the world had been a blur of songs and feasts. He had known nothing of dread or destiny.
"Do not ever do this again," he said at last. His voice was low but unyielding. One hand rested firmly between her shoulders, anchoring her in place. "If you wished to claim a dragon, you could've told me. I would have guards posted, soldiers standing watch. I would have seen you protected."
His jaw clenched as the rest spilled out, sharp and measured. "You led armed men into a dragon's lair. Dragonkeepers were injured. You mounted a dragon without leave of the Crown. If another had done this, it could be named treason without exaggeration."
The words were severe, yet the heat behind them dulled as he looked at her face. The anger remained, smoldering, but he could not bring himself to loose it upon her.
"But you would never allow it, Father," Helaena murmured. Her fingers twisted in the sleeve of his robe. "I dreamed of it."
Viserys stilled.
"There is more," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "I wish to go north. I dreamed that Baelon was attacked there. He was surrounded by enemies, pressed back again and again, until he fell into the sea. After that, no one knew his fate."
Her grip tightened, knuckles pale. "I must help him. Only Dreamfyre can help us both."
Viserys felt the blood drain from his face.
A dream.
As a dreamer of House Targaryen, he had learned never to dismiss such words. Prophetic visions had shaped his life and haunted his reign. Slowly, he lowered her onto a cushioned chair and knelt before her, his hands resting on his knees.
"Tell me all of it," he said, urgency breaking through his restraint. "Do not leave a single detail unspoken."
Helaena folded her hands in her lap, gaze unfocused as if peering into another world. "I saw a frozen plain without end," she said. "Creatures of ice wandered there, countless and wrong. Giants rode mammoths, and savage warriors followed them, mounted on unicorns."
Her breath hitched. "They fell upon Baelon. When the fighting ended, he plunged into the sea. No one could say if he lived or died. Tyraxes was struck from the sky and torn apart by those creatures. Then a tide of cold swept south, swallowing everything. The Seven Kingdoms were destroyed."
Viserys straightened slowly, his heart hammering. Even his own dragon dreams had never shown him such utter ruin. He remembered the vision of direwolves and bloodshed from his youth. Death had followed, yes, but the threat had ended. This was something far worse.
That crimson flame. It could only have been Baelon.
Why him? Why now?
He did not linger on the question. Turning sharply, he crossed to his desk and seized a quill, ink splashing as his hand moved. He wrote to Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, commanding him to fly north at once and lend his strength to Baelon without delay.
"I am going as well."
Helaena's chair scraped against the floor as she rose.
Viserys did not look up. "You are not," he snapped. "You are too young to ride a dragon into war."
She did not answer. Instead, she turned away, already calling for her maid. Heavy northern garments were fetched, furs and wool piled into her arms. She slung a small pack over her shoulders with surprising resolve and walked toward the doors.
"Helaena," Viserys said, reaching for her. His fingers closed on empty air.
She was gone.
The hall felt suddenly vast and hollow. Viserys remained where he was, hand still outstretched, an unfamiliar weakness settling into his bones. His children moved beyond his grasp. His kin no longer bent to his word.
And yet he was king, crowned and anointed, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
The truth sat bitter on his tongue. Even a king could command dragons, but not always the hearts that rode them.
Ser Criston Cole had already taken a step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His intent was plain. If need be, he would seize the princess by force and carry her back to the Red Keep.
They had nearly reached the city gates when King Viserys raised his hand.
"Enough," he said.
Ser Criston halted at once, steel still half drawn. He turned, confusion flickering across his face.
Viserys stood rigid, eyes fixed on the road ahead where Helaena had vanished moments before. The wind tugged at his cloak, yet he seemed not to feel the cold.
"Helaena's gift for dragon dreams may surpass even my own," he said quietly, more to himself than to the knight beside him. His fingers curled slowly, as if grasping at a thought just beyond reach. "Perhaps this journey of hers is not folly, but prophecy."
Ser Criston hesitated, then lowered his sword. He knew better than most the weight such words carried in House Targaryen.
Viserys turned back toward the keep at once. He crossed the chamber in long strides, seized his quill, and finished the letter he had begun, his hand steady despite the storm in his chest. When he was done, he sealed it and pressed it into the hands of a Kingsguard he trusted beyond all others.
"Ride for Harrenhal," the king commanded. "Give this to Prince Daemon. Tell him there is no time to lose."
He met the knight's eyes, his voice dropping. "The prince's life is in grave danger."
The Kingsguard bowed, fist to breast, and departed at once.
When the echoes of his footsteps faded, Viserys moved to the window.
Below, in the courtyard, Helaena was already changing into heavier clothes. Servants hurried about her, fumbling with furs and straps, but she waved them off and tightened the pack on her own shoulders. Without looking back, she broke into a run toward the Dragonpit.
Viserys watched as Dreamfyre stirred, pale wings unfolding. The great dragon lowered herself, and Helaena climbed with practiced haste. A moment later, the beat of wings thundered through the air, scattering ash and dust.
Dreamfyre rose above King's Landing and vanished into the clouded sky.
Only then did Viserys move.
"…Dragons," Ser Criston murmured, leaning back against the stone wall, his voice heavy with wonder and dread alike.
Far to the north, Baelon reached the gates of Last Hearth at the very edge of his strength.
Ice-Needlings had hounded him through the frozen sky, forcing him to burn what little power he had left. Before landing, he tore a banner from the battlements and wrapped it clumsily around his body. The moment his boots touched the ground, the strength left him. His form faltered, dragonfire fading, and he collapsed as flesh and bone reclaimed him.
"Your Highness! Prince Baelon has returned!"
Tyraxes was impossible to miss. The dragon descended in a wide, unsteady arc, snow swirling around his wings. The guards at the gate shouted in alarm and relief both.
Tyraxes landed.
Baelon did not stand.
His body, young and not yet fully hardened by years or war, had been driven past its limits. The battle with the mirror-scaled dragon-man had drained him utterly. When his transformation ended, he lacked even the strength to cling to the saddle. He slipped free and struck the snow without a sound.
"Something's wrong!"
Two soldiers ran forward, only to see Baelon lying motionless at Tyraxes's side, his skin pale, his hair rimed with frost.
"Quickly, help him! The prince has been attacked!"
They lifted him at once, hands trembling.
"Where are his clothes? Gods, he's half naked!"
"Use my cloak. Hurry, don't let him freeze!"
One by one, heavy cloaks were thrown over him, wool and fur piled high as they carried him through the gates. Baelon was a savior to these men, the prince who had driven back the savage host. To see him broken in the snow struck fear into every heart.
What had happened?
The commotion drew Whitefrost to the gate, the defense of the fortress rested on his shoulders while walls and towers were still being rebuilt. He took in the scene at a glance.
"What occurred?" he demanded.
"We don't know, my lord," a soldier answered. "The prince landed and collapsed. He was barely clothed. We wrapped him to keep him warm."
Whitefrost did not waste another breath. He took Baelon from their arms himself, grim-faced.
"See that Tyraxes is fed," he ordered. "Plenty of meat."
Then his voice hardened. "This is not to be spoken of. Not a word. Anyone who spreads tales of this will answer to me."
With that, he turned and strode into the keep, Baelon's limp form held fast against him.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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Notice
Unfortunately, I have some disappointing news to share. I may have to place this novel on hiatus for the time being because I'm currently unable to access Qidian, which means I can't obtain the raws needed to continue translating the chapters.
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