Chapter 42 Fire

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Chapter Forty-Two: The Weight of Fire

The waves whispered against the shore, a quiet lull beneath the lingering tension that hung thick in the air. The scent of smoke still clung to Daenerys Targaryen's skin, the echoes of last night's fire still dancing in her mind.

Daenerys Targaryen had always believed in dragons.

Even as a child, when Viserys whispered stories of their ancestors beneath the cover of night, when her mother would speak of Balerion and Meraxes in hushed tones—she had believed.

But believing was different from seeing.

And now, as she knelt before the three dragon hatchlings in the privacy of their chambers within Castle Driftmark, she could do nothing but stare.

They were real.

Small, fragile even, but alive.

The largest, coal-black with burning red eyes, flicked its tail and let out a low hiss.

The second, sleek and bronze-scaled, stretched its thin wings, testing them in the dim candlelight.

And the smallest, emerald-green with golden eyes, chirped softly, as if sensing Daenerys's gaze.

She exhaled shakily, reaching out a tentative hand toward the smallest one. It turned its head, watching her with an intelligence that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her fingers brushed against warm scales.

And then, in that instant, she felt something—something deeper than touch, something that curled in her chest like a slow-burning flame.

The green hatchling let out a soft trill, pressing itself against her palm.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

The thought was sudden, unbidden.

The dragon had no words, no voice, but she felt it all the same.

This little creature, no larger than a cat, was part of her.

It always had been.

A sharp laugh shattered the moment.

Daenerys blinked, turning to see her brother pacing excitedly across the chamber, his violet eyes gleaming with triumph.

"This is it!" Viserys grinned, his hands gesturing wildly. "Do you see, Mother? We have dragons now! We can finally take back what is ours!"

Rhaella, who had been silent, watching them all carefully, finally turned to face her son.

"You fool," she said sharply, cutting through his excitement like a blade.

Viserys faltered, his smile slipping.

Rhaella stepped forward, her gaze as cold as winter steel. "They just hatched. These are hatchlings, Viserys. They are not the legendary beasts that once ruled the Seven Kingdoms. They are not the monsters who burned Harrenhal to the ground."

Her voice was steady, firm.

"It will take years for them to grow. Decades, perhaps."

Viserys scowled. "But—"

"But nothing." Rhaella's tone brooked no argument. "They will not win us a throne today, nor tomorrow. You would do well to remember that before you start dreaming of conquest."

Viserys clenched his jaw, but he said nothing.

Daenerys lowered her gaze.

For the briefest moment, they had forgotten.

Forgotten that they were not warriors.

Forgotten that they were still on the run.

That they were still hunted.

A silence stretched through the room, tense and thick.

Then, at last, Rhaella turned her attention to Marwyn.

"The dragon," she said. "The one that appeared last night. What do you know of it?"

Marwyn, who had been standing near the table with his acolyte Alleras, turned slowly.

He did not look surprised by the question.

"I know little," he admitted, his voice low. "Only that I saw it through the glass candle. I do not know its name, nor where it came from."

He gestured toward the remains he collected from the pyre. "But I do know this: our ritual would have failed without its fire."

Daenerys bit her lip.

She had seen it—felt the heat, the sheer power of that dragon.

It had known what it was doing.

It had come for a reason.

And now, because of it, the dragons had returned.

A strange feeling curled in her chest.

Was it destiny?

Or something else?

She did not know.

Monford Velaryon, who had been silent until now, let out a slow breath. "A wild dragon, flying free," he mused. "If the realm learns of this, Robert will not rest until it is hunted down and slain."

Rhaella nodded. "Which is why we must leave."

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

Monford's eyes narrowed. "Leave?"

"You heard me," Rhaella said. "We depart as soon as possible. Myself, my children, Ser Arthur. And we take the dragons with us."

Monford pushed off the table, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Why?" he asked again.

Rhaella turned toward him, her blue eyes sharp. "Because we have already taken a risk coming here. Driftmark is too close to King's Landing. It was dangerous before—but now? Now that a dragon has been seen? Do you think no one will hear of it?"

Monford's lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Rhaella's voice lowered. "We trust you Lord Velaryon. But Varys's little birds are everywhere."

A heavy silence settled over the chamber.

Daenerys swallowed hard.

Her mother was right.

For the past few hours, they had been so lost in their awe—so caught up in the miracle—that they had forgotten the world was still hunting them.

How long could they hide three dragon hatchlings before the whispers reached Robert Baratheon's ears?

How long before they were found?

Monford exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Where will you go?" he asked finally.

North, Daenerys realized.

They were going north.

Their supplies were gathered swiftly.

The next morning, as the first light of dawn touched the waves, they boarded the ship.

Daenerys stood at the bow, the sea wind whipping through her dyed hair.

Behind her, hidden within sturdy wooden crates, the hatchlings stirred.

Their future was uncertain.

But one thing was clear—

The game had changed.

And the world would never be the same.