At Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister read the report in his private study with an impassive face, setting the parchment aside after finishing it in full. Kevan, at his side, waited for a comment, but the Lannister patriarch merely closed his eyes for a moment before speaking.
—Eighty thousand riders… well-trained. Led by a man we know nothing about, but who has the last Targaryen as his wife.
Kevan nodded, folding his arms.
—And they say he cannot be wounded.
Tywin barely spared him a glance.
—Men always say foolish things when they don't understand something.
—Do you think he'll cross the sea?
Tywin remained thoughtful, weighing his words carefully.
—If he does, Westeros will have to unite to face him. But I don't think he's that foolish. Not yet.
—And what will we do?
—Wait. Watch. And if the time comes… profit from it, as we always have.
His voice held no fear, only pragmatism. If Vlad Drakul became a real threat, he would deal with him as he had dealt with many others before.
---
In Highgarden, Olenna Tyrell listened to the news with a cup of wine in her hand and an expression of disbelief, while her son Mace appeared visibly skeptical.
—So now we have some impaling monster conquering the other side of the world? —Mace scoffed—. Bards exaggerating again!
Olenna, however, was far less relaxed.
—If the rumors are true, this could shift the balance of power in Essos. And if Daenerys Targaryen uses those savages to fight for the throne…
Mace waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to consider the possibility.
—Bah. Let the man do whatever he wants in Essos. If he sets foot in Westeros, let the Baratheons or the Starks deal with him. We have other priorities.
Olenna rubbed her temples, once again wondering how she could have raised such an idiot of a son. If it weren't impossible, she would've thought her husband had been unfaithful.
---
In Sunspear, Doran Martell listened to the news while staring out at the sea from his balcony, the sound of the waves echoing through his thoughts.
—Vlad Drakul? —he whispered, testing the name on his lips—. A new player in the game.
Areo Hotah, by his side, remained silent, but his expression was cautious.
—They say he has banned the killing of children and rape in his army —Hotah continued—. An interesting man. Not a typical Dothraki.
Doran nodded slowly, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair.
—No. He seems more like a conqueror.
Hotah nodded in understanding of the prince's train of thought.
—Let's see if he wants more from the last Targaryen than just a wife. If he fights for the throne… we might support him.
Doran kept his gaze on the horizon, remaining silent for a long time before giving his final order.
—Keep me informed.
[Two months later – Sea of Grass]
The ritual would take place on the night, when the full moon stood at its zenith. In the center of the camp, a circle marked with ash and salt surrounded a massive pyre, fed by wood that crackled fiercely. Atop the fire, arranged on an iron altar, rested four dragon eggs: one black with crimson veins, another deep black with silvery reflections, a red one glowing with orange hues, and the last one a dark green with bronze shadows.
Around the altar, eight Dothraki prisoners and mercenaries captured during Vlad's campaigns knelt with their hands tied and their eyes blindfolded with bloodstained cloth. Silence reigned, broken only by the crackling of flames.
Vlad stood at the center of the circle, his bare chest covered in runes drawn in blood, written in High Valyrian according to the ancient instructions from his book. In his hands, he held a Valyrian steel dagger, using it to trace runes into the ground with his blood, all lines converging toward the center of the circle.
Beside him, Daenerys watched the scene with a solemn expression, wrapped in a white dress that billowed in the wind. Her eyes, fixed on him, showed concern at how much of his blood the ritual demanded.
When the silence became absolute, Vlad spoke. His voice was a deep whisper, like thunder resonating in the bones of all present. It seemed like a song, a melody in High Valyrian that sounded more like a dark lullaby than a spell.
Taking the dagger, he stepped toward the first prisoner and, without hesitation, slid the blade across his throat. The blood gushed in a hot stream that Vlad directed toward the eggs. The fire seemed to blaze higher, dancing in more intense golden and red tones.
A second prisoner fell, then a third. With each death, the fire roared louder, as if it fed not only on the wood. Vlad felt the heat enveloping his body, the magic seeping into his flesh, into his blood, into his bones.
When the final sacrifice was made, Vlad raised the dagger and, without flinching, plunged it into his own palm —and then into Daenerys's. The girl winced, holding back the pain as the blade cut her skin. Their blood dripped onto the eggs, hissing as it touched the scalding surface. Then, he looked at Daenerys, and with a somber smile, they joined their bleeding hands.
—Come —Vlad said softly to his wife.
She hesitated for a moment but then nodded and stepped forward, her steps steady despite the crackling fire. Together, they entered the pyre.
The heat was unbearable, a searing sensation that pierced the skin and burned the innards. Vlad forced himself to stay upright, his body resisting, even as his skin burned and his muscles tensed under the pressure of the flames. The fire licked his arms and chest, leaving charred marks on his flesh, though his regeneration slowly began to counteract the damage. Daenerys, on the other hand, remained untouched, her silver hair flowing in the fiery wind, her eyes fixed on the eggs, as if she could feel something awakening within.
Then, it happened.
A crack, like distant thunder, echoed from the heart of the fire. One egg fractured, then another. A blinding light burst from the cracks, and a primal screech —a sharp, ancient sound— rose above the roar of the flames.
The dragons began to hatch.