The chamber was dim, lit only by the soft glow of candlelight flickering in red glass sconces. Silken tapestries hung on the walls—maps of the heavens stitched in silver thread, constellations that no longer matched the skies above. Incense curled lazily from a copper brazier, filling the air with a scent both sweet and metallic.
Lord Brynden Rivers, Hand of the King, stepped into his private quarters, the click of his boots muffled by rich Dornish carpets. His pale hair gleamed like snow in the firelight, and the red of his eye smoldered as it fell upon the figure reclining on the bed.
Lady Shiera Seastar lay amidst the sheets, her pale skin aglow against crimson silk. Her mismatched eyes—one emerald green, the other sapphire blue—caught the candlelight like twin stars, and she smiled with slow delight at his approach.
"You dismissed your council early," she purred. Her voice was music, low and smooth. "Is the realm safe once more, my lord?"
"Safer than it knows," Brynden replied as he moved to her side. "And growing safer still… thanks to you."
He bent to kiss her knuckles, her wrist, her shoulder. She laughed, languid and amused, fingers playing in his hair.
"The boy is a fool," she whispered into his ear, lips brushing his skin. "My darlings in Lys sent word only hours past. Bittersteel will not support him. He calls him weak, soft, more bard than Blackfyre. And he would not entrust the sword to one unworthy of its weight."
Brynden arched a pale brow. "No Blackfyre for the Blackfyre? How fitting."
"Not even a shadow of his father," Shiera said, eyes half-lidded. "He dyed his silver hair black and calls himself Ser John the Fiddler now, with a fake laugh and empty boasts. Thinks no one will notice his lilac eyes. He travels with mummers and sellswords, cloaked in rags and riddles, but they will find him all the same."
Brynden gave a crooked smile. "A dragon in a jester's cloak. And still dreaming of thrones."
"Let him dream," she murmured, running her nails lightly down his bare chest. "Dreams make fine bait for traitors."
He kissed her, slow and deep, tasting her laughter. When he pulled away, his voice was a murmur against her neck.
"You're wasted in this tower, my sweet. You should be sitting beside me in the council chamber."
Shiera smiled against his cheek. "And let the old men whisper of Lyseni poisoners and midnight sorceries? Better I serve in shadows, where men are more honest in their lust and treachery."
Brynden chuckled low in his throat. "Then we are well matched."
He lay beside her now, tracing the shape of her collarbone with one long finger. "The boy is less than a shadow. His father burned bright and died like a comet. This one will die before he so much as stirs the wind."
Shiera curled herself against him like a serpent basking in firelight. "Then you will have done what your brothers could not. Twice slain the dragon."
"No," said Brynden softly, as his red eye closed. "The first I slew for the realm. The second I will smother in the cradle… for peace."
And in the candlelight of the Red Keep, where secrets breathed thicker than air, the Hand of the King held his mistress close, while across the Narrow Sea, a dragon dreamed.