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Chapter Fifty-Two: The Shadow of the Dragon
The tent was quiet except for the faint sound of Ghost's breathing.
Daeron Targaryen lay on his cot, his hand absentmindedly running through Ghost's soft white fur.
Outside, the northern camp was settling for the night.
Tomorrow, he would ride to the Twins. And tomorrow, he would have to deal with Walder Frey.
Daeron had thought of calling Lyrax.
Just the presence of a dragon would have the Freys throwing open the gates in less than a heartbeat.
But he dismissed the thought.
It was not yet time to reveal Lyrax to the world.
For now, he needed a different kind of weapon.
The thought lingered in his mind as he heard footsteps outside his tent.
Someone was approaching.
Ghost stirred but didn't growl—whoever it was, the direwolf did not see them as a threat.
A voice spoke from outside.
"Your Grace, may I enter?"
Archmaester Marwyn.
Daeron sat up. "Come in."
The tent flap parted, and Marwyn the Mage stepped inside.
In his hands, he carried a large glass candle, its surface dark and smooth.
The moment Daeron saw it, he already knew why the Archmaester was here.
He said nothing, waiting for Marwyn to speak first.
The old scholar studied him for a moment before setting the glass candle on the ground.
"I heard you ride to treat with Walder Frey tomorrow," Marwyn said. "I came to offer my… assistance."
Daeron's gaze flickered to the candle.
Then back to Marwyn.
"My grandmother told me what you can do with a glass candle," he said.
Marwyn's lips curled slightly. "Did she now?"
"But any secrets or knowledge you gain about Walder Frey are of no use to me," Daeron continued.
Marwyn raised an eyebrow.
Daeron leaned forward. "The real hurdle isn't knowing what Walder Frey is scheming."
"It's the fact that I cannot trust him."
Marwyn listened silently.
"But I still have to negotiate with him," Daeron went on. "I have to depend on a man I know is a coward at heart. Who is ready to stab me in the back as soon the winds change."
His silver eyes darkened.
"If only I could remove Walder Frey from the situation entirely."
Something shifted in Marwyn's gaze.
A knowing look. A flicker of understanding.
After a moment, the old Archmaester stepped forward.
"There may be a way," Marwyn said.
Daeron narrowed his eyes.
"Explain."
Marwyn's voice lowered.
"I spent years studying in Asshai," he said. "The shadowbinders there taught me many things."
His fingers ran along the edge of the glass candle.
"One of them," he continued, "taught me a spell. A rare and forbidden art. But it would come at a cost."
Daeron remained still. "What cost?"
Marwyn's lips twisted into a wry smile.
"Any ordinary man who performs this magic… would die."
Daeron said nothing.
"But you," Marwyn murmured, "are no ordinary man."
The fire in the tent flickered, casting eerie shadows along the walls.
"I felt it the moment I met you, Your Grace," Marwyn said. "Your blood is strong with magic. More than anyone I have ever encountered."
Daeron knew what he meant.
Most men had barely any magic in them at all.
But Daeron's body overflowed with it.
He could feel it.
His connection to Lyrax had only made it stronger.
The air in the tent grew heavy with anticipation.
Marwyn waited.
Daeron did not hesitate.
"Do it," he said.
Marwyn's expression remained unreadable.
"Are you sure?" the Archmaester asked. "This spell should not harm you—but with magic of this kind, there are always risks."
Daeron met his gaze without flinching.
"I am sure."
Marwyn nodded.
Then he lit the glass candle.
The flame flickered to life, strange and unnatural.
Marwyn muttered something in a language Daeron did not recognize.
The air in the tent shifted—the very fabric of reality seemed to ripple.
"Your blood," Marwyn said. "Just a drop."
Daeron unsheathed his dagger and pricked his finger.
A single drop of blood welled up.
Marwyn gestured to the flame.
Daeron let the drop fall into the fire.
The moment his blood touched the flame, the entire tent darkened.
The shadows twisted and stretched unnaturally.
The air became heavy, thick with whispers of ancient chants.
Ghost stiffened, his red eyes narrowing at the flame.
A strange, pulling sensation tugged at Daeron's chest.
A sliver of his own magic flowed toward the flame, like a stream being drawn into an endless ocean.
Then—
A shape began to form.
It rose from the fire, shifting, flickering, solidifying.
A creature of pure shadow.
At first, it was formless—just a mass of darkness and flickering light.
Then, it took shape.
Wings unfurled, stretching across the tent.
A tail coiled, curling like a serpent.
Two eyes glowed like molten silver, staring back at Daeron.
A dragon.
A shadow dragon, no bigger than a cat, but alive.
Ghost let out a low silent growl, but did not move.
Marwyn stepped back, awe in his gaze.
"It is done," he whispered.
Daeron stared at the shadow dragon.
It was not like Lyrax.
It was not flesh and blood.
It was something else entirely.
Something born of his blood, his magic, his will.
It tilted its head, studying Daeron.
Then it lowered itself, as if bowing.
Marwyn let out a slow breath.
"A king's shadow," he murmured.
Daeron reached out. His fingers passed through the creature's form—it felt like smoke, like nothingness given form.
But the connection was there.
He could feel it.
He could command it.
A slow smile formed on Daeron's lips.
Now he knew how to deal with Walder Frey.