The Power Of Prophecy

Chains of Fire and Blood

The library was a vast chamber lined with dusty tomes, parchments rolled tight and bound with thin leather straps. Shelves stretched toward the ceiling like twisted trees reaching for the sky, their shadows long and creeping as the low afternoon sun struggled to pierce the narrow, arched windows. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper and candle wax, thick and cloying, settling on Daena like an unwelcome cloak.

Maester Orwyle stood before her, draped in his gray robes, his fingers carefully unrolling a weathered scroll. His voice, though soft, was as precise as the ticking of a clock, yet Daena could barely focus on the words. Outside, the wind howled, raking across the windows in furious gusts, as if echoing the turmoil within her. It was ironic — on a day that was supposed to mark the beginning of something new, she felt as if the world around her was slowly closing in.

“The Valyrian ceremony,” Orwyle began, his tone that of a teacher lecturing an inattentive student, “is one of deep symbolism. Fire and blood, as you might expect, are at the core of its rituals.”

Daena nodded absently, her eyes flickering toward the window. The sky was darkening, clouds gathering like crows over the horizon, ready to descend upon her life in mere hours. A few hours until the wedding. A few hours until she would be tied, irrevocably, to Aemond Targaryen.

Her thoughts snagged on his name, and a sharp pang shot through her. She hadn’t seen him since that day at Dragonmont. At first, she welcomed the absence, telling herself she needed space, that being left alone was a relief. But now, the silence was unbearable, like an itch she couldn't scratch. Aemond’s silence unsettled her more than his presence ever did. It gnawed at her, twisting her insides with a strange blend of frustration and apprehension.

Orwyle cleared his throat, snapping her out of her thoughts. He extended the scroll toward her, the ancient parchment crinkling as she took it. “These are the marital ritual and the glyphs drawn during the ceremony. You must learn them.”

She stared at the script, the elegant, looping letters indecipherable to her eyes. High Valyrian — of course. Her mind raced. A lifetime of being raised away from King's Landing and its traditions had left her woefully unprepared for this. Yet here she was, expected to learn an ancient ritual within hours. She cursed Aemond under her breath. Of course he would be fluent in High Valyrian, perfectly at ease with the weight of his heritage. But her?

Orwyle’s gaze was fixed on her, waiting. She felt the pressure mount and forced herself to pay attention.

“The glyph of ‘fire’ must be drawn with precision,” Orwyle said, his finger hovering over a section of the scroll. “One slight error, and the meaning changes entirely. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Daena bit the inside of her cheek, feeling the pressure of his gaze. Her fingers hesitated over the symbol before attempting the stroke, a small frown creasing her brow. “It looks like a dragon’s claw,” she muttered, half to herself, half to Orwyle.

The old man cleared his throat in what could only be described as thinly-veiled disapproval. “It is not a claw, my lady. It is a flame.”

Daena leaned back, rubbing at her temples with a sigh. The whole thing felt absurd — learning the sacred traditions of a Targaryen marriage mere hours before the ceremony. There was no time to absorb the weight of it, no time to reflect on what it truly meant to be bound to Aemond Targaryen in this ancient rite of fire and blood. And yet, here she was, hastily trying to memorize glyphs that would soon be carved into her very skin.

Her thoughts drifted to Aemond. He had left her bruised, bloodied, and broken from the encounter. One would think his absence would have been a relief, a reprieve from his unrelenting presence. But it wasn’t. The silence between them was worse than the battles they waged with words or steel. It gnawed at her, made her restless, uncertain. What was he planning? Why this sudden withdrawal? It made her feel like a caged beast, pacing and waiting for the strike that might never come.