The streets of King's Landing were silent now, but it was not peace that settled over them—it was the calm that follows a storm. Shadows lingered where none should have been, whispers of power that mortals could neither see nor name. Aurelian moved through the alleys like a phantom, the Veil Anchors at his side thrumming softly, guiding him toward the city's heart.
Elayne followed, her senses sharpened by the night's chaos. "They'll be sending someone smarter next time," she warned. "Men who don't rely on swords alone."
Aurelian's eyes flicked to the Red Keep. "Let them come. If the crown thinks it can control what it does not understand, it will learn otherwise."
The pull of the Anchors led them to an abandoned tower near the river. Its walls were scarred with old magic, wards designed to suppress power but grown weak with age. Here, one of the Anchors throbbed stronger, reacting to something deep within the city—another fragment hidden in plain sight.
As Aurelian approached, the air shifted. The shadows around him tightened, coiling protectively, alert to unseen threats. Then, from the stairwell, a figure emerged.
Ser Alric Vayne.
His armor was polished, his expression unreadable, but Aurelian felt the tension in the man's body, the calculation behind every movement. "You've become… bold," Vayne said, voice calm but firm. "The crown did not expect this level of interference."
"Then you have underestimated me," Aurelian replied. Shadows writhed at his feet, eager to strike.
Vayne took a step closer, glancing at the Veil Anchors. "Those relics are dangerous. Not just to the crown—but to this city, to the people you claim to protect."
"I protect Nightbloom," Aurelian said. "But I will not stand idly by while Westeros unravels beneath its own arrogance."
Vayne's hand hovered over his sword, but he did not draw. Instead, he studied Aurelian with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. "So this is a war of shadows. Very well. I will not underestimate you again."
Before either could act further, the ground trembled. A distant roar echoed through the streets—a sound that made even the hardened soldier flinch. Dragons.
Aurelian's eyes narrowed. "They're waking sooner than I expected."
Vayne followed his gaze, realization dawning. "Dragons… not mine, not the crown's. This is something else."
The Veil Anchors pulsed violently, responding to the distant force. Magic surged through the streets, unseen by mortals, yet altering the very stones beneath their feet.
Elayne whispered, tense. "If the dragons are stirring, we're out of time. The Anchors won't hold the city together for long."
Aurelian nodded. "Then we move. We cannot let the crown—or the dragons—control the narrative."
Together, they descended deeper into the tower, where old tunnels branched beneath King's Landing like veins. Each step was deliberate, shadows bending around them, hiding their presence while extending their reach.
Vayne followed silently, neither attacking nor retreating. He was a predator assessing another predator, bound by duty and curiosity alike.
At the center of the tunnels, they found the source of the Anchor's pull: a hidden chamber, sealed by ancient magic. The walls were etched with runes older than the Iron Throne, symbols that hummed with restrained power.
Aurelian approached, hands steady, senses alert. "This is what the crown seeks," he murmured. "And it will not find it if I claim it first."
He extended his hand, merging the Anchors' power with the runes. The chamber shivered, stones lifting slightly as energy pulsed outward, resonating with the city above.
From above, the Red Keep shuddered faintly, its walls responding to the unseen force. Somewhere in the city, whispers of panic spread like wildfire. Guards faltered, animals scattered, and windows rattled as if the city itself had taken a deep, warning breath.
Vayne watched, expression unreadable, yet respect flickered in his eyes. "You are no ordinary prince," he said quietly.
Aurelian did not answer. His focus was absolute, merging with the Anchors, reading the flow of power, and sensing every tremor that threatened to unravel the city.
When the pulse finally subsided, the chamber was silent, stable, yet brimming with restrained energy. Aurelian had claimed the fragment.
Outside, the first light of dawn crept across the rooftops. King's Landing stirred again, unaware of how close it had come to collapse—or of the prince who had moved unseen through its veins.
Elayne looked at him, awe and worry mingling in her expression. "You're changing this city… whether it wants to be changed or not."
Aurelian's gaze was distant, focused on the horizon. "It is only the beginning. The crown believes it controls power. Soon it will learn that shadows have their own rules."
Above them, unseen in Nightbloom,
Maleficent's wings shifted. She felt the pulse of her son's victory, and a slow smile curved her lips. The game was far from over—but her heir had made the first move.
And Westeros would never forget the name of the Darkthorn prince.