Jace pushed open the heavy oak doors, his boots scuffing over the stone as he stepped into the small council chamber. He walked to the center and stopped without a bow, his hands clasped behind his back. The long table stretched before him, lit by flickering lanterns and pale shafts of morning light through narrow windows. At the head sat King Viserys, his knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair. The lines in his face looked deeper today, and his breath came a little faster. Queen Alicent sat at his side, her hands tight in her lap. Her gaze was fixed on Jace, unmoving. Otto Hightower leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his grey eyes following every movement Jace made.
Rhaenyra stood near the window, pacing a short line across the stones. She turned as he entered and watched him silently. Laenor stood near the door, arms crossed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Across the table, the other council members waited. Lyman Beesbury scribbled with his quill, his mouth twitching. Tyland Lannister tapped his fingers on the wood, not bothering to hide his impatience. Grand Maester Orwyle adjusted the weight of his chain as though it had suddenly become heavier. Every pair of eyes in the chamber was on Jace, and still no one spoke.
Viserys slammed his fist on the table and rose, the sound cracking through the room like a snapped bone. "What in the name of the Seven were you thinking?" he said angrily. "Leaping into that pit like some hedge knight looking to impress a whorehouse crowd, and dragging Princess Aliandra after you no less?"
He stepped away from his chair, breathing harder now, and pointed directly at him. "She is a guest of this court, daughter of Prince Qoren, and you pulled her into danger in front of half the nobility of the realm."
He walked behind the chairs, motioning toward the other end of the table. "If even one of those beasts had slipped its chain, if a claw had grazed her face, we'd be staring down a blood feud with Dorne. Do you grasp that, boy? Dorne does not forget slights. We'd have broken a decade of peace because you couldn't stand still and trust the men sworn to protect you."
He pointed at the doors behind Jace. "You're the son of the heir to the Iron Throne. You don't get to play at heroics. This isn't the yard. It's the capital. Every breath you take reflects on the Crown."
He turned back toward his chair but didn't sit. "You risked your life, her life, the trust of Dorne and the reputation of this court—and for what? Glory? Some foolish sense of honour that answers to no one?"
Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice tight as she looked at him. "Why did you do it, Jace?" she said quietly. "Why not give the order to Ser Erryk or Ser Steffon? Why leap in yourself?"
She took another step and grabbed his arm, her fingers shaking against the fabric of his sleeve. "I saw you climb that fence, and I couldn't stop you. If you had slipped—if you had fallen—I would have lost you in front of them all."
She let go and stepped back, wiping her face with her sleeve. "I couldn't reach you. I couldn't protect you. You didn't have to put yourself there. You chose to."
Alicent leaned forward, her voice sharp and clear. "You endangered the princess of Dorne, and in doing so, insulted her father and her house. You made us look careless—like we cannot keep our guests safe inside our own walls."
Otto glanced toward her, then turned his eyes on Jace. "The Dornish have long memories. If something had happened to her, they'd have cause to end their alliance and move against us. Whether or not you meant harm, you gave them the opportunity to claim it."
Laenor finally stepped away from the door, shaking his head. "You're not a child, Jace. You're past the age where recklessness can be excused. You have men trained for this. The Kingsguard are not there for ceremony."
Tyland didn't look up from the table as he spoke. "The melee was funded by the Crown. Lords from every corner of the realm came to see unity. Instead, they saw chaos. Do you think they'll leave here praising our strength?"
Beesbury looked up from his parchment, his voice dry. "You risked not just the girl, but the image of the Crown itself. Our coin paid for this. Our word sponsored it. And you turned it into something ugly."
Jace stood still, jaw tight, shoulders set, and took every word. He waited until the silence grew heavy again, and only when Viserys dropped back into his chair and Rhaenyra crossed her arms did he speak.
"Cregan Stark is the heir to Winterfell and will one day rule the North," he said steadily. "If he had died in that pit, your tourney would have become a funeral, and the North would not forgive it."
He looked at Viserys directly. "Princess Aliandra was behind the fence. She was not alone. Ser Steffon and Ser Erryk stood with her. But Cregan was not safe. He was on the ground, unarmed, bleeding, and about to die."
He stepped forward and placed both hands on the table. "The North already mistrusts the South. They speak of us as soft, slow, and weak in our promises. If Cregan had died there, in front of them all, it would have confirmed every fear they whisper. They would have turned away from us. If not in rebellion, then in quiet defiance."
He straightened and looked around the table. "That is what I saw. Not pride. Not glory. I saw the North slipping from our grasp."
Otto didn't lean back. His voice was calmer now but no less firm. "Why not send the guards? Why not shout for Ser Erryk or Ser Steffon instead of throwing yourself over the wall?"
Jace turned toward him without hesitation. "They wore plate and chain. They'd have taken too long. The shadowcat had him by the leg. Seconds mattered. I ran because I was fastest."
He looked again at Rhaenyra and then back to Viserys. "Cregan is my friend. He fought for my name day, bled for my honour. I would not let him die at my feet while I stood behind the fence like some coddled prince. That would have shamed me. And it would have shamed you."
He crossed his arms, his voice still steady. "I'm not sorry. I would do it again. Because letting him die would have broken more than just ties with Winterfell. It would have broken me."
Viserys didn't answer right away. He rubbed his temple and sat back in his chair. Rhaenyra stepped closer and placed her hand on her son's shoulder.
"I only want you safe," she said softly.
"I know, mother," Jace said as he looked at her. "But he is my friend. I couldn't just stand there."
She brushed his hair back with her hand and sighed. "I know you couldn't," she said as she pulled him into a hug.
Viserys cleared his throat, his voice tired. "You will offer an apology to Prince Qoren and his daughter," he said as he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "You dragged them into danger they never agreed to face. They must not believe we treat their blood carelessly."
Jace stepped back from his mother and nodded. "I will," he said.
Viserys rose slowly, groaning as he stood, and crossed the room. He stopped just in front of Jace.
"You're a good-hearted boy. And you'll make a fine knight, I don't doubt it. But you must remember—your choices ripple outward. And others pay the price for your mistakes."
He clapped a hand on Jace's shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. "Go on. You're dismissed."
Jace nodded and turned on his heel, pushing open the chamber doors as they groaned on their hinges.
Edryck was waiting outside, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow as Jace stepped out.
"In trouble again, are we?" Edryck said with a crooked grin. "Didn't think it'd even take you a week this time."
Jace didn't stop walking. "Did you do what I asked?"
Edryck fell into step beside him, scratching the side of his neck. "Yeah, I met with Hugh. We got the names, the trades, everything from those buildings you bought. The full list's in your chambers."
Jace nodded once. "Good," he said.
He turned down a corridor without another word and kept walking, his pace steady. He was headed for Cregan's quarters. The maester had said he'd live, that he only needed rest, but Jace needed to see him with his own eyes.
...
Jace walked down the corridors of the Red Keep, Cregans condition a constant weight on his mind; the only thing stopping him from running was the looks people were already giving him. While he'd liked the attention he'd gotten when he first became a knight it was starting to get old. It seemed like everywhere he went he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up; he hoped it wouldn't last and someone else would draw everyone's attention away from him.
Before he could think anymore about it he found that he was outside Cregans room, he went up to the door and knocked twice. A moment later, it opened, and Sara stood in the doorway. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He glanced once at Edryck, who leaned against the wall and nodded. "Wait here," Jace said quietly as he stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
The room was dim, lit by a single brazier and a small window that let in the dull light of the overcast morning. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and the faintest trace of milk of the poppy. Cregan lay in the bed, half-sitting against a stack of pillows. His chest was bare except for the bandages wrapped around his shoulder and side. His skin was pale and slick with sweat. One arm lay limp across the blanket, the other rested near his chest. His eyes were open but unfocused, dulled by pain and poppy syrup.
Sara stood near the bed with her hands twisted together in front of her. She spoke without looking at him. "The maester says nothing vital was struck. He was lucky. He'll recover."
Jace stepped closer and looked down at the boy in the bed. He reached out and clasped Cregan's wrist, feeling the weak pressure of fingers returning the grip. "You're holding up," he said.
Cregan's mouth twitched slightly, his words slow and mumbled. "I'm fine. Should be up tomorrow."
Sara looked at him sharply. "The maester said a week in bed, not a day," she said. "You're not moving anywhere."
Cregan coughed, the sound hoarse and wet, and winced as he shifted on the mattress. "She worries too much," he said with a faint smile. "I've had worse."
She folded her arms and stepped closer to the bedside. "You nearly died out there," she said. "Don't try to make it sound small."
His face tightened and he looked away. There was shame in his eyes, and Jace understood it. He'd worn that look before.
"There's no dishonor in what happened," Jace said. "You held your ground until the end. You didn't fall. You fought till you had nothing left. That's enough."
Cregan's gaze drifted back to him. His eyelids drooped as the poppy dragged him down. "I just wanted to prove I could match—" he started, but the words slurred and faded as his head lolled back against the pillow.
Sara stepped in and pulled the blanket up higher, tucking it beneath his arms and smoothing it down. Jace watched her do it. Her hands were careful but firm, and her eyes never left Cregan's face.
"I'll send a servant to bring in a cot," Jace said as he turned from the bed. "You'll stay in here. Make sure he has someone close."
Sara nodded, her voice quiet. "Thank you, Jace."
He crossed the room and reached for the door handle, but before he could open it, she stepped across the room and stopped in front of him. Her voice trembled slightly.
"I need to thank you again," she said. "You saved him. If you hadn't gone in after him, I don't know what would've happened. I don't know what I would've done."
Jace looked down at her. "I gave you my word," he said.
She looked up, her grey eyes locked on his, wide and wet. She stepped in and wrapped her arms around him, pressing against his chest. He hesitated only a moment before returning the embrace, his arms slipping around her waist. Her cheek rested against his shoulder. They held there a long moment, neither speaking, the only sound in the room the soft crackle of the brazier and Cregan's faint, uneven breathing.
When she pulled back, her hands stayed on his chest, and her eyes searched his. She leaned in fast and kissed him. Her lips were soft and warm, and he didn't move at first. Then his hands slid down her back, and he kissed her back. Her mouth opened slightly and so did his. Their tongues touched. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic and his grip tightened at her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies pressed together.
She broke the kiss suddenly and stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth as she stared at him, breathing hard. Jace blinked, his own chest rising and falling as he realized what had just happened.
"I've got to go," he said quietly.
He turned fast, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor. Edryck straightened from the wall, raising an eyebrow as Jace passed him.
"You alright?" Edryck said, but Jace didn't answer. He kept walking, his boots heavy on the stone, the sound of them echoing through the hall behind him. His thoughts spun too fast to settle. His mouth still tasted of her, and his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the council's scolding.
"I'm fine... Edryck," he said, though his gaze was unfocused and he did not pay much attention to the man next to him.
Something which the older man noticed, and it didn't take him long to figure out what had happened. A cat-like smile stretched across his face as he stepped up to Jace. "There comes a point where every boy must step into adulthood my prince," Edryck said patting him on the shoulder. "But to think it came so soon for you," he said with slight exasperation.
Jace snapped out of the haze that Sara had put him in and glared at his sworn sword. "Shut up Edryck," he said shaking his hand off his back.
"To think you were a mere boy a few months ago, and now you have all the ladies swooning over you," Edryck said, mocking him by placing the back of his hand to his head and swooning.
Jace didn't pay him any mind and continued walking down the corridor, he had much more important things to worry about than his childish instructor. 'Like seeing Aliandra again.' He wasn't much looking forward to it, but he did have to apologise to Prince Qoren. Regardless of who was at fault—mostly her—it was expected that he apologise. Jace wasn't that prideful, he didn't much care about giving the apology but being in the princesses company made him nervous; she was already rather audacious in her actions towards him, even if they were in public. Politically speaking he wouldn't be surprised if her father was encouraging this, especially if there was already talks of them being betrothed.
'Betrothed.'
It made his blood boil at the thought. Him and Helaena had promised themselves to each other when they were five name days old, and even all these years later they both felt the same. He wouldn't let his grandfather or the Queen undo all of that just to bring Dorne into the fold. 'What could that desert offer us anyway?' He thought angrily to himself as he continued stepping along the stone corridor.
He let out a sigh as he stopped and leaned against one of the windows. He turned and saw Edryck was still following him, not surprising considering he was his sworn sword but annoying nonetheless. "Edryck I want you to go and meet with Hugh, tell him that I want representatives from each trade, who they are doesn't matter, they can decide amongst themselves, but bring them to to Red Keep after supper," he instructed as he looked to the old knight.
"You sure I can leave you alone?" Edryck said with a grin as he stepped up to his charge. "I wouldn't want to hear of any bastards being fathered when I'm not looking." He chuckled at his own joke, but more so had the look of annoyance on Jace's face.
"Go..." Jace said.
"Yes my prince," he said with an exaggerated bow before leaving with another loud laugh.
Jace just sighed as he put his head in his hands. He needed to go and see Helaena and Daena, they would be worrying about him after what happened. After that he would go to his quarters and look at the list that Edryck had gotten for him. It was his responsibility to care for the people his grandfather had brought over from driftmark, and that meant making sure they all had work in their respective trades as well as opportunities for the younger ones.
"Work never ends..." he said under his breath.
It didn't. It felt endless. He didn't know how to explain it, but the hours bled together. Every task led to the next. Every meeting ended with another. And lately, even his thoughts felt worn thin. He was tired. Tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. He didn't say it aloud—not to his mother, not to Helaena, not even to Edryck—but it was there. Always waiting when he woke.
He took one last look out the narrow window. The clouds were gathering above the rooftops, swallowing the sun without thunder. It looked like rain.
He turned away and walked down the hall, his hand brushing the stone as he moved.
There was still much to do.
___________________________
The wind hissed through the cracks of the old stone arches as Aekar made his way down the sloping path toward the dragonpit, one hand pressed against his lower back as if that might keep the pain at bay. It didn't. The old break in his leg ached with each step, a gift from a younger man's mistake two decades ago when he had gotten too close to a hatchling with a broken wing. The little bastard had spun quicker than anyone thought it could and thrown him halfway across the pit. It had been a hard fall onto rough stone, and the leg never healed right after that. He grumbled under his breath as he walked, dragging his boot a little on the uneven floor. The path was lined with old scorch marks and smears of ash. It didn't bother him. Nothing in this place had bothered him for years.
Aekar was old. Not in the way of lords who reached fifty by doing nothing but drinking Arbor gold and letting maesters measure their pulses. He was dragonpit old. Fire-burned and blood-crusted. His hands were full of scars and callouses, his back bent from years of pulling chains, slapping meat off bones, dragging corpses that had once been foolish men who thought a dragon could be gentled like a horse. He had been here when King Jaehaerys was still hale. When Balerion had flown. When Vhagar had still roamed the skies above the Blackwater. Those days had faded, but he had not. He passed the broken niche in the stone wall where a lantern used to hang. It had fallen in the last tremor. They were happening more often lately. The dragons stirred in their sleep and the ground trembled to match. Aekar reached into his coat and pulled a flint, struck it, and lit the torch in the wall mount beside him. The flame danced on the cracked stone, throwing long shadows behind him as he stepped deeper.
Far belo, he heard it a low growl that was high pitched but on the verge of becoming deep.
Vermax.
That one always made himself known first. He was impatient and proud and young. Aekar always found that the young ones were louder.
The answering growl came moments later, slower, deeper. Caraxes. That dragon did not like being caged. He never had. And Aekar swore he never would, he also hated the keepers and would only tolerate them. And yet, somehow, Daemon had tamed him.
Then came Dreamfyre's scream, which was shrill like a banshee. She always shrieked like that, as if reminding everyone she was there too. Out of all the dragons Aekar found that she was the fondest of people, though it was more like she was an attention seeker.
Aekar stopped walking and let the warmth from the torch soak into his skin. For all their fire, this place stayed cold. The roars from below soon stopped; the dragons were quieter than usual. Fed well last night. That helped. A well-fed dragon was less likely to scream. Not that they ever grew tame. They didn't obey. They tolerated.
He moved again, stepping through a tall iron arch into the main thoroughfare that cut across the old holding pens. The walls curved upward, high and wide and black with soot. Hanging chains rusted in the air above him, swaying slightly in the breeze. The scent of blood was faint but still there. Nothing in the pit ever really got clean.
Today, they told him, he was to meet another new one. Another boy who wished to join their order, one who dreamed of dragons. He'd trained plenty. A few died early, picked apart before they even earned names among the keepers. But most survived, and a few had become good men. Reliable. The kind who knew when to back away and when to move quick. But it never stopped being a chore.
He didn't like training them anymore. He didn't like anyone younger than thirty name days near the dragons. They asked too many questions. Thought they knew too much.
Still, someone had to do it.
He reached the last door on the left, a tall black slab of oak reinforced with bronze. It opened with a groan, and Aekar stepped inside, torchlight spilling into the antechamber beyond.
The new dragonkeeper stood waiting.
He was tall. Straight-backed. His black hair was neatly tied, his tunic pressed flat without so much as a crease. Not a speck of ash on him. His boots shone like they'd just been polished. His hands were clean. Not even dust beneath the nails. He stood with them folded in front of him, his posture calm, his face unreadable. Olive skin, soft jaw, dark eyes. Not Dornish, not Reachman, not from anywhere Aekar could place with certainty. But something about the stillness of him made Aekar slow his step.
The still ones were always the worst. Either too scared to move, or something else.
"Rybas Ines dorhoras?" Aekar said in High Valyrian. (Are you the new one?)
The boy bowed low and held the pose. "Avy jorrāelan, āeksio." (I am honoured to serve, master.)
Aekar squinted at him, then snorted and waved a hand. "Skoriot ñuhys gaomagon, dōrī sȳndror." (Keep your lips off my arse, it won't help you.)
The boy straightened and fell into step beside him as they exited the chamber. Aekar didn't slow. He never slowed for new ones.
"Kesy tubis ēdruta syt iā hen lantyz." (This is not just work for a king's coin.) Aekar said. "Zaldrīzes issi dāez. Se Targārien lenton issa qogror. Jurnegon ziry issa ābrar." (The dragons are sacred. The Targaryens are the last true fire. Serving them is a duty.)
The boy gave a respectful nod, glancing up toward the dark vault above them. "Kesa." (Yes.)
"Zaldrīzes issi perzys. Se Targārien lenton issaros." (The dragons are flame. The Targaryens are blood.) Aekar continued. "Kesy issa iā muño. Sȳndror daor. Tīkun daor. Se qogror daor. Jurnegon." (This is not a task. Not labour. This is a duty.)
Again the boy nodded. "Gō undaresēs." (I understand.)
Aekar led him down another corridor, the walls narrowing, the floor becoming more uneven. The deeper halls of the pit were closed in and hot, and the air carried a constant rumble of sleeping beasts.
"Daoruni gō," Aekar said. "Vezof idañe jēdri rhaenar. Sagon kostilus iā ryptan, qelu iā rūs, ivestragon skoros daor jēdri. Vezof ābrar hen lenton se nages luo jēda kesrio syt issa. Vezof rēbagon iā perzys se lantra iā tolie skoros gō. Vezof mūzūgagon lōgor, se skoros sagon vestri—rhaenagon skoros ēza pryjagon. Lo daorun istan... dēmalion syt iā ēlie."
("Now listen well," Aekar said. "You'll clean after the feedings. You'll gather bones and burn what you can't scrape. You'll fetch meat from the carts and lay it where I tell you. You'll boil the collars and unfasten the iron when I tell you to. You'll learn the ropes and which ones pull which gates. You'll file records, and if you can't read... I'll find someone to teach you.")
"Lo ivestragī daor... ēdruta hen lentor."
("If you're too stupid to learn... you'll stay outside with a shovel.")
The boy didn't so much as blink. "Skoros jemagon naejot gō?" (When do I get to see the dragons?)
Aekar gave a dry laugh, his voice echoing down the narrow passage. "Skoros jemagon rhaenagon bē?" (When you are worthy.)
They walked in silence for another stretch before the boy spoke again, his demeanour changing slightly. They were in a part of the pits now that few people came to during the night. "Nyke vēttan skoros jurnegon hen zaldrīzesse... istan daor lo ivestragon." (I heard a tale about the dragons recently... I do not know if it is true.)
Aekar grunted. "Skoros?" (What tale?)
The boy's shoulders shifted, and he seemed to manoeuvre something from his sleeve. "Nyke vēttan skoros eggs hēn zirȳla—kessa ivestragon. Yn daor. Morghon. Timsagon." (I heard the most recent eggs were meant to hatch. But they didn't. Stillborn. Twisted.)
Aekar stopped walking. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.
"Skoriot vēttan jāhor emagon gaomagon rūs." (Where did you hear such filth?)
The boy didn't break eye contact. "Nyke vēttan... ēza." (I heard... it is happening.)
Then, his words darkened.
"Syt iā valoti jurnegon. Rhaenar izula. Valyrīha ēza moriot. Lo hen lantyz... morghon. Vezof." (That magic is fading. Fire is dying. Valyria lives only in memory. And when the last dragon breathes no more... it ends.)
Aekar's hand shot forward and gripped the boy's tunic, pulling him close.
"Yn ȳdrassis. Vezof daor. Targārien lenton issa hāedar. Zaldrīzes issi sȳndror. Iksā jorrāelagon gaomagon. Vezof daor!" (You lie. It won't end. House Targaryen is strong. The dragons are proof. You speak poison. The dragons will not die!)
The boy looked at the hand on his chest. Then he looked up again.
"Valar morghulis," he said.
The blade slid cleanly from sleeve to throat slashing across the old dragon keepers throat. Aekar gasped. His fingers loosened. Blood poured down his tunic in hot rivulets. He staggered backward against the wall, his knees giving out beneath him.
He looked up.
The boy was still. But his face...
It changed.
Not all at once. But the cheeks thinned. The jaw sharpened. The lips parted slightly as if to breathe in a new shape.Aekar's vision blurred. His hands reached for his throat. The warmth was everywhere now. Filling his hands, soaking into his clothing and pouring into the floor. It felt as if the warmth was being sucked from his body.
He saw the stranger watch him. A blank expression on his face as he cleaned the dagger of his blood.
Aekar thought of the dragons, he thought of his life... he wondered if it was well spent. He wondered if he would be remembered... he wondered.
And then nothing.
The faceless man crouched beside him for a moment, tilting his head as he listened to the last rattle leave the keeper's throat. Aekar twitched once, then was still. His blood pooled slow now, thickening where it touched the colder floor. He stood without effort, grabbed Aekar by the collar, and dragged him through the shadows like he weighed nothing.
The pit was full of holes. Feeding troughs, waste tunnels, chimneys for heat and ash. Most had been sealed in recent years after accidents. This one had not. It was wide enough for a barrel, and it dropped down straight into the feeding pit. He heard nothing from below at first, only the echo of his own footsteps. Then, deep in the black, a shuddering growl. The faceless man watched the body fall. A second later came the hard crack of bone. Then came multiple roars and the sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing.
The killer did not flinch.
He turned and walked back through the corridor, his steps silent even on the loose gravel. His cloak barely moved, not even brushing the walls. He moved between torchlight and shadow, and passed two dragonkeepers on patrol without being seen. One leaned against a post yawning, the other stirred a brazier. They didn't even notice they were not alone. He timed his steps with the gusts of wind that echoed through the high arches, and when he reached the old gate, the iron door was already cracked open. Inside, Grand Maester Orwyle stood with a torch in hand, the flame trembling slightly with each gust of air from the corridor behind him. His robes were poorly fastened, his face slick with sweat, though whether from heat or fear was not clear. He glanced over his shoulder twice before the faceless man stepped through the threshold.
"You're late," Orwyle hissed as he pulled the door shut behind them. "You said you'd be here before moonrise. I was nearly caught by a keeper walking through the stair."
"The old one spoke longer than expected," the faceless man said.
Orwyle frowned and adjusted his grip on the torch. "Well, he's gone now. So let's get this done."
The faceless man turned and sealed the door with a silent push. The latch caught without a sound. When he faced the Grand Maester again, the torchlight flickered across his face, casting his eyes into deep shadows.
"Which dragon do you wish to target?" he asked.
"Most of them rest in the deep pit at this hour," Orwyle replied. "But one of the royal family, I believe returned from a late flight not long past. Their mount rests in the western roost. It is isolated. Less watched. Easier to approach."
"Do you have it?" the faceless man asking.
"I do," Orwyle said, lowering the torch just enough to free his other hand. He pulled open the flap of his satchel, rummaged for a moment, then withdrew a glass bottle wrapped in dark cloth. The liquid inside was thick and sluggish, a red so dark it was almost black, and it clung to the sides of the bottle as though alive. It shifted when Orwyle moved it, rippling as if it disliked being touched.
"This will work?" the faceless man asked again.
"That is what we are here to find out," Orwyle said. "But I believe this formula is promising. The essence is derived from weeping widow and a rare fungal rot found in the crypts beneath Dragonstone. It burns hot. If the creature ingests it, it should reach the blood quickly. I cannot say how fast it will act. Dragons are—"
"Not like men," the faceless man finished. "This one knows."
Orwyle eyed him, then shifted his weight. "And how do you plan to make it ingest it? The dragons tolerate few besides their riders and the handlers. If you walk too close, it may roast you where you stand."
"That is not your concern," the faceless man said. "This one will do the task. You will leave."
Orwyle hesitated. He held the torch a moment longer, and the flame sputtered as if in warning. Then he exhaled hard through his nose and shoved the bottle into the killer's gloved hand. "Fine. Just be quick. If they find me near the royal roosts, questions will follow."
"Then go," the faceless man said.
Orwyle scowled and turned, muttering under his breath about madness and fools as he vanished down the corridor, his torchlight bobbing like a firefly before it dipped behind a corner and disappeared. The faceless man stood still until the light was gone. Then he turned and walked deeper into the pit, toward the western roost.
(AN: We are back here and we are closing in for the finale of this arc. I'm glad to be finally finishing it. It's been a long time coming. After this arc there will be a 4-5 year time skip. I think I've developed young Jace enough and so it's time to get an older version of him. Which means more Romance and lemons which is one of my favourite things to do. Gotta have some romance in the story. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter.)
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