The Red Dragon
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36. Blood of the Gods
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 17:17:51 +0000 UTCEmpire of the Dawn
“Quite a bold claim, Valyros. Did you forget the great empires that came before us? There were many and more,” asked the only woman in the room.
“Well, if they were so great, why haven’t their origins and records survived the centuries? Since the Empire of the Dawn came into existence, we’ve maintained records of everything—within and beyond our borders. And Rhosana, did you forget the divine law? Not to speak of those accursed empires in the capital?” Valyros replied. Rhosana merely scoffed and gave a sultry, inviting smile to Daeron, who couldn’t help but blush. The woman was stunningly beautiful, and every time she smiled at him like that, Daeron lost his composure against his will.
He shook himself free from such thoughts and sighed. He had a strong suspicion—these dreams of his were glimpses into some ancient magical empire lost to time. Back in his old world, he remembered reading on Reddit that Daenerys Targaryen had seen a dream much like his. He’d concluded that these people were from Valyria, never in his wildest imagination did he though they were from the Order of Sorcerers of the Empire of the Dawn. Heck, Daeron doesn’t know that there was any Order of Sorcerers in the first place. But what troubles him more is that if this Valyros’s words were any indication, they had been preparing for the birth of the Promised Prince. The legendary empire was working to ensure that Jon Snow or Daeron Targaryen would be born.
And now, he had taken the promised prince’s place. The Song of Ice and Fire. Which meant whatever trouble these people had foreseen… it was his to face. Daeron groaned.
When he returned his focus to the dream, he found Valyros and Rhosana in the midst of a heated argument, glaring at each other.
“Enough, the both of you,” said a man with dark skin—one of several in the room—with wiry, greasy hair and a perpetual frown etched into his features. His voice was marked by a low growl, every word laced with disapproval. “You two barbarians, acting like common brawlers. Act like the blood of the gods should. The emperor would be ashamed of you both.”
Daeron turned his gaze to the man. His presence was imposing, and yet, his words rang with restraint. But what struck Daeron even more was the language they were speaking.
How could he understand them?
They weren’t speaking the common tongue, nor High Valyrian—not quite. Some words echoed the harsh cadences of High Valyrian, but this was different. Not musical, not soothing. Like High Valyrian. But cruder. And yet, Daeron understood it completely. He even felt he could speak it fluently. It should have surprised him more, but it is barely anything compared to him travelling ten thousand years back in time.
“Zoghis, ever as stiff as swords that you seem to prefer,” Rhosana said with a mock-innocent smile. “Valyros and I are not as formal as the rest of our kin, but that does not mean you will speak to us in that tone. Mind your tongue and do not take liberties of speaking to us like that again ever in your life. My brother and I will act as we please. As you said, we are the blood of gods—we are above your petty rules and discipline. Save your lectures for your legions. And the next time you raise your voice to me, you’ll find yourself cockless like the men you command.”
Her onyx eyes flared, even as her face wore a serene smile. Daeron couldn’t help but notice how she had, despite their quarrel, referred to Valyros as “my brother.” A fact Valyros clearly noticed too, for a faint smile curved his lips.
“And you, dreaming baboon,” Rhosana continued, turning her attention to her brother, “you stand there silent while this lesser man insults us? Where is your fire? Your temper? Your magic that could melt stone?”
Valyros raised an eyebrow. “Very well. The things I do for love.” He sighed, dramatically, then turned to Zoghis. His deep purple eyes glinted as he spoke: “Thūr'ax.”
Daeron winced. The word was spoken like it had been torn from Valyros’s throat, pulled from the depths of his soul.
And then came the flame—white as starlight. It erupted around Zoghis.
And just like that, he was gone.
Daeron blinked. Twice. Where a man had once sat, there was now only a neat pile of ash. The sorcerer of the Empire of the Dawn had vanished—burned out of existence by pure white fire.
“The army will need a new legion commander,” muttered the white-bearded man, as though noting an increase in his workload. “He was also very good with sound music,” The man whispered.
“The family of Zo has thousands like him. By the evening, we would have a new legion commander,” Rhosana said airily. “But do be kind and explain to his kin why he died—so they might teach the next one how to behave. And if our father asks, tell him it was my brother who did it. Not me.”
“Afraid, are we?” Valyros smirked.
“Sadly, some of us aren’t born with all the gifts of the bloodline that makes them father’s golden son,” Rhosana murmured. Daeron couldn’t tell whether there was envy in her voice.
Valyros opened his mouth to respond, but the white-bearded man spoke again.
“The lad won’t be here forever, Prince. Princess.”
“Ah, we nearly forgot about you,” Valyros said, his attention now fully on Daeron. “Tell us your name.”
The man’s gaze—those same purple eyes Daeron had often seen reflected in his own—was fixed upon him.
“Daeron Targaryen,” Daeron introduced himself. But to his surprise, every face in the room fell with disappointment. Surely his name wasn’t that bad?
“We couldn’t hear his voice. I should have known better,” Valyros said, clearing up Daeron’s misunderstanding.
Well, there went his chances of asking them to teach him the old magics they used. Daeron still couldn’t interact with anything in this dream, so writing down his name was also out of the question.
“But you’ve spoken to others in your dreams, my prince. Why is he unable to?” asked the white-bearded man respectfully.
“Come now, old man,” Rhosana scoffed. “He might be the Song of Ice and Fire, but Valyros is the strongest sorcerer in the recorded history of the Dawn Empire.”
“Forgive me, my princess. I shouldn’t have asked,” the old man chuckled, brushing off the rebuke. “The sudden appearance of the lad and the death of Zoghis… it’s too much for my old mind today.” Then, turning to Daeron with the same thoughtful gaze Valyros had given earlier, he added, “Though the lad has the potential to reach the crown prince’s current power. But I don’t believe he’ll live long enough to achieve it. Yes, my prince?”
“You’re right on both counts, Sigorn,” Valyros replied. “He has potential... but a mortal’s short lifespan.”
“So now what?” Rhosana asked.
“Well, we might not be able to hear him, but he can still nod or shake his head, can’t he?” Valyros said, turning to Daeron. “Tell me, lad—do you possess a red sword?”
The room’s mood shifted. Valyros’s expression turned serious, all the amusement draining away.
Daeron tilted his head. A red sword? Was he talking about Valyrian steel? But most Valyrian steel was dark, not red. Even Oathkeeper didn’t qualify as red. Then the realization hit Daeron like a shipwreck in Shipbreaker Bay.
Lightbringer.
He jabbed a finger toward the window—the only source of light in the room. Confusion rippled across the faces of the sorcerers.
“Yes, one that could fly. Do you have it? Was our empire successful?” Valyros asked eagerly.
Daeron tilted his head again. Since when could a sword fly? And then it clicked: they weren’t talking about a sword. They were speaking in metaphor. The red sword was a dragon. Lightbringer. The flying, fire-breathing weapon of legend. Had the Dawn Empire been trying to create or tame dragons all along? Was Septon Barth right?
Daeron spread his arms like wings and mimed breathing fire, pointing toward the burning candles on the table. It took a few heartbeats, but the Dawn sorcerers caught on. They looked to him, nodding in eager anticipation.
“Yes! Flying and breathing fire! Do you have it?” Rhosana asked, her eyes gleaming with hope and excitement.
Daeron nodded, then spread his arms wide again to indicate its size.
“Is it big?” Valyros asked, a mad gleam in his eyes. Daeron hesitated a moment—slightly spooked—but nodded again.
Valyros began to laugh, wild and unrestrained. The others smiled with joy.
“We must inform Father. He will be most pleased,” said Rhosana.
Valyros nodded, but Daeron’s confusion must have shown, because the prince turned back to him.
“You seem confused, lad. You’re wondering how a sorcerer as powerful as I—one who can even speak through dreams, unlike you, who can’t—doesn’t already know about the red sword’s future existence?” Valyros paused, reading Daeron’s face. Daeron could only nod and smile awkwardly at the vain prince.
“As I said, there are things fate hides from even my vision. I believed I had foreseen all that would happen in this century. But I hadn’t seen this encounter. Nor had I foreseen Zoghis’s death. Neither was ever meant to happen in this era. And now they have. That alone will change the course of events—ripples that may be felt for thousands of years. Though not by you, I suppose. You are far too distant from our time to be affected.”
But before Valyros could finish his thought, Daeron vanished from the dream.
“Hm. He’s gone. Must’ve woken up,” Valyros muttered.
Seagard, The Riverlands
Daeron awoke to the cawing of a raven outside his window.
“Wake up. Wake up.”
He rubbed his eyes, groggy and disoriented, but for a fleeting second, he could have sworn the raven had a third eye on its forehead.
