THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Poisons, Assassins and A Pissed of Mistress of Death

The people of King’s Landing gazed up in awe as two dragons wove through the skies above them. Whispers drifted through the crowd, old voices recalling tales of Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys, whose dragons, Silverwing and Vermithor, had once flown this same path. But today it was Prince Sirion and his little sister, Princess Visenya, circling in perfect sync atop those very dragons, carrying on the ancient legacy. Their flight was more than practice—it was a dance, the air around them vibrating with trust and grace as they dipped and soared together. Sirion, always lingering a little behind, kept a protective eye on Visenya, subtly guiding her, ensuring she could feel the joy of freedom while knowing he was ready to catch her at any moment.

When they finally swooped back to the dragon pit, Sirion slid down from Vermithor’s massive back, landing with ease. Visenya, fearless as ever, didn’t bother with a careful dismount. She threw herself from Silverwing, and he barely had to look before reaching out, catching her with an effortless strength that felt as natural as breathing. They’d done this a dozen times, but today, her laughter echoed, bright and pure, warming something inside him. She looked up at him, a wide grin lighting her face, the fierce, innocent joy of a child who knew her older brother would always be there.

“Did you see that, Sirion? I didn’t even wobble this time!” Visenya beamed, her small fingers tightening around his as they began their walk back to the Red Keep.

“You didn’t,” he replied, a proud, subtle smile curving his lips. “Pretty soon, you won’t need me at all.” He said it with an ease he didn’t quite feel. She was only seven, her hand still small in his, her trust so complete, so absolute, that he felt the weight of it press on his heart. She didn’t see danger or darkness—she saw only him, her protector, the one she’d follow anywhere." I could never stop needing you, brother!"

They walked hand in hand, Sirion moving at her smaller pace, though his mind was beginning to drift to the news of the recent birth. He felt the familiar weight of duty settle into his shoulders, the quiet relief that everything had gone well. Births in their family were never simple, not since that terrible day when Hermione had almost lost her life. He remembered holding a trembling, four-year-old Visenya outside the birthing chambers, trying to comfort her while the sounds of Hermione’s pain filled the air. Ever since, he’d promised his mother that he would keep Visenya far from the fear that haunted those rooms.

As they neared the entrance, his hand still holding hers, he felt something strange. His thumb grazed the inside of her wrist, and he froze, his fingers instinctively pressing against her pulse point. Beneath her skin, something pulsed—a faint, unnatural hum. Sirion’s senses sharpened instantly, his instincts honed from a past life as a master of dark magic and the darkest of secrets. His mind snapped to alertness, every detail sharpening, his pulse quickening.

This wasn’t her natural pulse. There was something else here, something foreign. The sensation sent a chill through him. He’d noticed subtle traces of this before in his other siblings, but he’d dismissed it as part of their inheritance as parselmouths. After all, his family had venom in their blood—a trait that usually developed with age. Jaemarys and Helaena had begun showing signs, but Visenya was too young. Seven-year-olds didn’t produce poison. Not like this.

“Visenya…” he began, his tone soft yet careful. She looked up at him, her violet eyes wide and untroubled, still riding high on the thrill of their flight.

“Yes?”

He hesitated, brushing a gentle thumb over her wrist as he let out a breath. “Nothing.” His voice was steady, but his heart was racing. Whatever this was, it wasn’t affecting her now, and he didn’t want to alarm her. Instead, he drew her a bit closer, his mind racing. This poison didn’t belong to her. It didn’t belong to any of them.