[157] A Serpent’s Gift
Chapter 157: A Serpent's Gift
—
The wind over Myr tasted of salt and conquest, but as Viserion descended toward the Magister's palace, something else crept into my nostrils. Fear. Raw, primal fear that had nothing to do with dragons.
That's never a good sign.
Daenerys landed Drogon beside me with grace, her silver hair whipping around her features. It was still a sight to see, as she looked around, the way her violet eyes held actual fire now instead of just the metaphor.
"Brother," she said, dismounting with fluid grace. "The city seems—"
"Viserys!"
Arianne burst from the palace doors like a woman possessed. Her usual sultry confidence, that weapon she wielded as effectively as any blade, had shattered completely. Her bronze skin was pale, those dark eyes wide with panic. The burnt orange silk dress she wore was disheveled, clinging to her curves in disarray as she ran.
"It's Rhaegal! Something is wrong!"
My expression didn't change. "I know."
The System notification had been burning in my vision for the past hour, flashing like a dagger to my chest.
[Rhaegal has been afflicted with 'Wyrm-Blight' Poison. Status: Critical.]
[Shared Skill Poison Resistance (B) is slowing the effects.]
My girls weren’t the only subjects to assasination attempts. After I returned to Myr from Norvosh atop Rhaegal, I left him here and flew to King’s Landing atop Viserion since she was faster. Some bastard had taken that chance to attack my dragon.
"You know?" Arianne's voice cracked. "Then why aren't you—"
"Because knowing and fixing are two different things." I strode past her, my boots clicking against marble with barely contained rage. "Show me."
The courtyard they'd converted for Rhaegal was a scene from the seven hells. My jade dragon, my beautiful boy who'd soared over conquered cities with such majesty, writhed in agony. His scales, once gleaming like emeralds in sunlight, had dulled to the color of old copper. Black smoke trickled from his nostrils with labored breath, and the sound he made...
Hah, he must be in so much pain to be making such sound.
It wasn't a roar. It was a whimper magnified a thousand times, pain given draconic voice.
Kinvara knelt nearby with her red robes pooling around her like spilled blood. The High Priestess chanted in High Valyrian, her hands weaving patterns of flame that sputtered and died before reaching Rhaegal. Her ruby pulsed weakly at her throat, and I could see the strain in every line of her body.
"My magic can't touch it," she said without looking up. "Whatever this is, it's beyond fire and prayer."
"Of course it is." I stepped forward, but Rhaegal's head snapped toward me, teeth bared. Even in agony, a dragon was dangerous. "You think simple hedge magic could affect a dragon? This is something older and darker."
"Viserion," I commanded. Time for the alpha to remind everyone why she ruled.
My golden queen descended from her perch atop the palace, her wingbeats sending tremors through the ground. She landed with earth-shaking force, her neck arching high as she surveyed her suffering sibling. Then she roared.
The sound wasn't just loud, it was absolute. Windows shattered. Grown men even far from here fell to their knees. Even Drogon, massive and proud as he was, lowered his great head in acknowledgment.
Rhaegal whimpered and went still.
"Good girl," I murmured to Viserion, then approached the trembling jade dragon. My hand found his snout, and through our bond, I felt it all. The poison wasn't just killing him, it was rewriting him, trying to corrupt the very magic that gave him life.
Wyrm-Blight, huh? I'd heard of it in the deep lore, the kind of poison that could only be brewed by someone who truly understood dragons. Someone who wanted not just to kill, but to corrupt. The Faceless Men?
"He was poisoned," I announced, and the girls fell still. "This isn't some random attack. This was targeted. Specific. Where is Captain Yara?"
A few minutes later, Yara Greyjoy arrived, striding through the crowd with her usual swagger. Even in crisis, she moved like she owned the world. Her leather vest was unlaced at the top, revealing the swell of her breasts, and her axes hung at her hips like deadly accessories.
"Your Grace," she said, all business despite her appearance. "What do you need?"
"Information. What was Rhaegal's last meal?"
She didn't hesitate. "Meat. A whole cart of prize cattle arrived from Dorne two days ago. Supposed to be the finest stock in the Seven Kingdoms."
“Why the fuck did meat have to come from Dorne? Was there not enough in Myr?” I asked, glaring at her and she began to sweat.
“I don’t know, don’t ask me.” Her grey eyes narrowed as she shrugged. "A tribute, the manifest said. From Prince Trystane Martell. A gift to honor the Dragon King's dragons after some successful hunt in the Red Mountains. I didn’t think much of it."
The silence that followed could have choked a giant. This wasn’t Yara’s fault, she didn’t have any reason to be suspicious of meat coming from Dorne. I turned my gaze to Arianne. Slowly. Like a predator deciding whether prey was worth the effort.
She understood immediately. The blood drained from her bronze skin, leaving her looking like a beautiful corpse. The dragon that she was gifted, now poisoned by food that came from her kingdom. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. No words came.
"Viserys," Daenerys said softly, "surely you don't think—"
"I don't think." My voice was winter given sound. "I know."
Arianne finally found her voice. "No. No, Trystane wouldn't... he couldn't be that stupid."
"Couldn't he?" I stepped closer to her, noting how she trembled. "Your brother, who loved Myrcella Baratheon. Your brother, whose intended bride I stole and made my cupbearer. Your brother, who watched his father thrown in a dungeon and his sister fly away on the back of his enemy's dragon."
My words were a nail in a coffin.
"He's young," she whispered. "Young and stupid and angry, but not... not this."
"Then explain the timing. Explain why the poison is found in the stuff he sent. Explain why your brother would send tribute at all when he's done nothing but sulk since you left."
She had no answer. How could she?
"Daenerys," I said, not taking my eyes off Arianne. My sister’s face was a manifestation of rage as she watched her baby in pain. I’d simply taken Rhaegal in, but it was Dany who awakened him. "Can you keep Rhaegal calm while I work?"
"Of course." My sister moved to the jade dragon's side, her own draconic nature calling to his. "But brother, we can’t just leave the poison be, can we? Then…"
"I know, we can’t." I rolled up my sleeves, revealing arms corded with muscle. "I’m going to relieve some of his pain by drinking his blood."
What followed was the longest hour of my life. It was painful beyond belief.
[Skill Poison Resistance (B) has evolved to Poison Resistance (A).]
****
The solar was quiet except for the scratch of quill on parchment. I'd been writing the same letter for twenty minutes, my words chosen with the care of a man building a gallows.
To Prince Trystane Martell,
By the time you read this, you'll know your assassination attempt failed. My dragon lives. Your sister weeps. And I am coming.
You have seven days to present yourself at Sunspear for judgment. By then, Braavos and the Faceless Men who gave you the poison will be ashes. If you run, I will burn every building in Dorne until I find you. If you hide, I will turn the sands to glass. If you fight, I will make your death last a moon's turn.
Choose wisely.
Viserys Targaryen, Dragon King
"You… You're not really going to send that."
Arianne stood in the doorway, still in the same disheveled dress. She'd been crying, I could tell from the slight puffiness around her eyes, the way her usual perfect makeup had smeared. Even in distress, she was breathtaking. The kind of beauty that made men start wars. Or end them.
"Why not?" I didn't look up from the parchment. "It's more warning than he gave Rhaegal."
"Because you're not a monster." She moved into the room, each step careful, calculated. "You're angry, and you have every right to be, but—"
"Stop."
The word cracked like a whip. She froze mid-step.
"I'm not in the mood for your particular brand of persuasion tonight, Arianne." I finally looked at her, letting her see the fury I'd been containing. "Your brother tried to kill my dragon. Do you understand what that means? It's not just an attack on property or even a pet. Dragons are... they're part of me. Killing Rhaegal would be like tearing out a piece of my soul."
"I know." Her voice was small. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"Sorry doesn't heal Rhaegal. Sorry doesn't undo betrayal. And it is not you who committed the crime, is it?"
She moved closer despite my warning, close enough that I could smell her perfume, jasmine and something darker, more dangerous. "Then tell me… Tell me what I need to do to fix this."
"You can't fix this." I stood, towering over her despite her own impressive height. "Your brother signed his own death warrant. The only question is whether Dorne burns with him."
"Please." She reached for me, but I caught her wrist. "Please, there has to be another way. The poison could have been intercepted, tampered with by the Faceless Men. You said yourself they're targeting everyone close to you. Maybe they’re just trying to make us fight."
"You present a good hypothesis, I can’t really put that down. After all, this poison was the infamous Wyrm-Blight, brewed from the blood of dead dragons and found only in Old Valyria." My grip on her wrist tightened. "However, your brother definitely was involved. I believe so. Someone whispered in his ear and gave him the tools. If he isn’t involved? I’ll ask him once I reach Dorne, and I have a feeling he’d admit the truth to my face."
"Then punish the whisperer, not the fool who listened!"
I released her with a laugh that held no humor. "So it seems you too know deep down that your brother is willingly involved in this. And oh yes, I will punish the whisperers too. But fools who listen to whispers of regicide don't get to claim innocence."
"Viserys, please—"
"You said, ‘maybe they’re just trying to make us,’ Arianne. You’re right, they must be. In that case, we don’t have to fight. I don’t want to fight you, Ari. Be a good girl and leave." The words came out colder than I'd intended. "I am not pleased right now."
She flinched as if I'd slapped her. For a moment, I saw past the gorgeous princess to the woman beneath, scared for her family, ashamed of her brother, terrified of losing my favor. Then the mask slipped back into place, and she straightened her spine.
"...As you command, Your Grace."
She left with as much dignity as she could muster. I listened to her footsteps fade before slumping back in my chair.
Fuck.
It wasn’t that bad of a situation, nobody really died, well Trystane would, but who gives a fuck about his life? But this would have pointless emotional drama with my women that I wasn’t too excited to deal with. Whatever, fuck him.
The door opened again before I could properly wallow. This time it was Yara, and she didn't bother with permission. She never did.
"Trouble in paradise?" She leaned against the doorframe with that insufferable smirk, all leather and danger and barely contained violence. She must have caught Ari and my last exchange, given the smirk in her lips.
[Image Here]
"Don't be so smug."
"Why not?" She sauntered in, hips swaying with each step. "It feels good knowing it's not just Greyjoys who have stupid brothers. Though I have a feeling you won't let this go as easily as you did with Theon."
"Theon was a boy playing at war with the Starks, not me." The anger bled into my voice despite my control. "Trystane tried to kill one of my dragons. He tried to take a piece of my soul."
The smirk faded. Yara might play at being heartless, but she understood bonds. This was more than the political implication of losing a dragon. There was emotion too. The Iron Islands raised hard people, but they knew loyalty.
She moved to me without hesitation, sliding onto my lap with practiced ease. Her weight was comfortable, familiar. Passionate in a way court ladies never were. When she kissed me, it tasted of salt and iron and home.
"So what are you going to do?" she murmured against my lips, her hands tangling in my hair. "I heard even your queens were nearly killed."
"Yes." My hands found her waist, fingers tracing the gap between her vest and her leather pants. "And for that, I will burn Braavos to its foundations."
"Mmm." She ground against me, a move that would have distracted a lesser man. "But?"
"But I need to do something first." I stood abruptly, lifting her with me before setting her aside. She pouted at the loss of contact, adjusting her vest with deliberate slowness.
"Leaving already? Where?" She stretched like a cat, every movement designed to entice. "And more importantly, can I watch?"
I turned to face her, feeling the dragon stir beneath my skin. Not the wings or the fire resistance, but something deeper. The part of me that had walked through molten metal and emerged unscathed, at least in metaphor.
"No, you can’t. I’m going to the Dothraki Sea."
Her eyebrows rose. "That's... random."
"No." I smiled, and she actually took a step back. "It's necessary.”
Understanding dawned in her grey eyes. "You… you're going to slaughter them."
Every last one. A hundred thousand screaming horse lords. Experience Points made flesh. My very last Level-Up session before I’d pounce at Braavos.
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