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Chapter Fifty-Three: A King's Shadow
The tent was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the glass candle casting long, twisting shadows across the canvas walls.
Daeron Targaryen stood still, his hands relaxed behind his back, his breath slow and steady.
He closed his eyes.
And suddenly—
He was not in his body anymore.
---
A cold sensation rushed through him, like he had plunged into icy water.
His senses shifted.
The world around him changed.
Now he was seeing through different eyes—
Eyes that were not his own.
The shadow dragon had become an extension of himself.
Daeron could feel its body—formless yet real, a creature of shadow and magic.
He flexed his will, and the dragon moved.
With a silent beat of its wings, it flew forward, gliding through the air inside the tent.
The creature twisted and turned, moving with unnatural grace.
It felt weightless. Bound by no flesh, no limits.
Daeron willed it to perch on his shoulder.
The shadow dragon obeyed, landing as lightly as a whisper.
Then—
It took flight again, slipping through the tent flap and vanishing into the night.
---
The Twins loomed ahead, their twin towers standing tall over the Green Fork.
The shadow dragon flew swiftly, unseen beneath the cloak of darkness.
No guards noticed its passing.
No torches revealed its form.
It was as silent as the wind.
Through an open window, it drifted inside.
It moved like mist, seeping through the cracks of stone corridors until it found its target.
Lord Walder Frey.
The old man was alone in his chamber, slouched in his chair, sipping from a goblet.
A pile of half-eaten food lay before him, crumbs littering his lap.
His breath rattled, his wrinkled hands shaking slightly.
The shadow dragon hovered above him, watching.
Then—
It dove forward.
Walder let out a startled gasp, his goblet falling from his fingers, wine spilling across his lap.
"What—?!"
His eyes went wide with terror as the shadow dragon's wings spread, looming over him.
He swiped at it—but his hands passed through nothingness.
His breath came in short, panicked gasps.
"What cursed sorcery is this?!" he wheezed.
The shadow dragon did not answer.
It moved closer.
And then—
It dissolved.
A wisp of dark mist slipped into Walder's open mouth.
The old man convulsed, choking, clawing at his throat as if trying to rip the shadows out.
His gasping breath turned into ragged wheezes.
His hands clawed at his chest, pain twisting his face.
Then—
With a final shudder, his body went still.
The shadows slid out of him, reforming into the shape of the dragon.
The creature perched on the back of the chair, watching.
Lord Walder Frey's lifeless eyes stared at nothing, his mouth still slightly open, as if frozen in silent horror.
The shadow dragon flicked its tail once—
And then it vanished, dissolving like smoke in the wind.
---
Back in the tent, Daeron's eyes snapped open.
The moment he did, exhaustion hit him like a hammer.
His vision blurred.
His body felt heavy, sluggish.
It was like he had been running for hours, his muscles aching, his limbs weak.
His balance wavered—
And then Ghost was there.
The direwolf pressed against him, steadying him.
Daeron leaned on Ghost, trying to regain his breath.
Marwyn stepped forward, studying him carefully.
"Is it done?" he asked.
Daeron nodded once, unable to speak.
Marwyn exhaled. "Good. But look at you—you can barely stand."
Daeron forced himself upright, but his legs shook.
Marwyn frowned. "You used more magic than your body is accustomed to. The shadow dragon drained a lot from you."
Daeron clenched his jaw. "I'll recover."
"You will," Marwyn agreed. "But listen to me well—do not attempt this again."
Daeron's grey eyes flickered toward the Archmaester.
Marwyn's expression was serious.
"Summoning another shadow would take years off your life," he warned. "You may have magic flowing through you, but you are still mortal. If you do this again too soon, the cost will be more than just exhaustion."
Daeron stayed silent.
"At least a year," Marwyn insisted. "Give your magic time to recover."
Daeron nodded once, showing that he understood.
Satisfied, Marwyn bowed.
"Then I will leave you to rest, Your Grace."
With that, he took the glass candle and left the tent.
---
Daeron turned toward his cot, his legs still weak.
He leaned on Ghost, making his way to the bed.
When he finally lay down, he felt the weight of exhaustion press upon him.
Ghost lay beside him, his red eyes watching with concern.
Daeron ran a hand through the direwolf's soft white fur, comforting him.
"I'm fine," he murmured.
Ghost rumbled softly in response.
Then—
He felt another presence in his mind.
Lyrax.
Her thoughts brushed against his, full of worry.
She had felt his sudden exhaustion, even from afar.
Daeron sent back a soothing thought, letting her know he was safe.
He could feel her reluctance, her urge to fly to him, to be by his side.
But he calmed her.
He wasn't dying. Just drained.
After a long moment, she finally accepted it.
Still, her presence remained—watching, protecting.
Daeron let out a slow breath, closing his eyes.
Tomorrow, when the sun rises over the Twins. It would a different day for House Frey, after they find Walder Frey dead in his chair.
A smile touched Daeron's lips as sleep finally took him.
The crossing belongs to them now.