As handmaids combed that waterfall of silver hair, Lynn's gaze fell on a gem-encrusted book on the vanity.
The cover—tanned purple leather, title written in Old Valyrian—"The Song of Dragon and Fire."
A collection of ancient Valyrian legends.
Opportunity.
He controlled Daenerys's body, using the motion of arranging that nearly transparent purple silk gown—fingertips silently sweeping across the table.
A quill. A small bottle of black ink—slipped into wide sleeves.
Movements gentle, seamless.
Everything prepared, he was escorted by chattering handmaids back to his bedroom.
"Princess, please rest. Magister Illyrio will send someone shortly."
Handmaids bowed respectfully and withdrew. As the heavy door gently closed—the world finally quieted.
Now!
Lynn didn't hesitate—immediately walking to the carved desk, opening the storybook, flipping directly to the blank flyleaf.
He controlled Daenerys's right hand—trembling slightly from tension and Spirit overload—forcing it steady, dipping it in ink.
Quill tip flying rapidly across ancient parchment.
He couldn't write blunt warnings—that would be dismissed as a bride-to-be's ravings.
What he needed—a prophecy.
One that would overturn her understanding, make her believe completely, even carry ultimate romance and epic grandeur.
He abandoned the Common Tongue, using more ancient, more rhythmic Valyrian—writing in oracular strokes:
[Zȳhoperzys, naejot sȳndorēngo shenvējes.]
(True dragon's blood should not be lost in the grass sea.)
[Ñuho brōzi, daorsy dārio tqilōni hen Dothraki,]
(Your destiny—not the savage king who rides horses,)
[se aohe glaesāi ēdrosa, naejot dārio zaldrīzes uhe drēje.]
(But from the land of eternal winter, the true king who commands the three-headed ice dragon.)
[Kostōba sōnas mirre hen mirros,]
(He will awaken from legends where stars fell,)
[Lenton līqrōzī haerūs, mirros hen hārosao.]
(Cross seas of bitterness and poison, bringing Northern cold winds and frost.)
[Hen perzys līqe lbot, glaesā līz ȳhoperzys.]
(With ice and snow's kiss, awaken the burning blood within you.)
[Rhaenās, Daenerys, ōdrikot sȳz.]
(The prince is in the West.)
Lynn exhausted all Valyrian vocabulary in his mind before finishing the last letter.
He placed it in the most conspicuous position—ensuring Daenerys would discover it immediately.
After completing everything, Lynn's consciousness began separating.
Vision before him—blurring, distorting.
However—just as he was about to completely detach—
BANG!
A loud crash—the bedroom door violently kicked open from outside.
Viserys Targaryen.
That "Beggar King" with smooth silver hair but sinister, mad eyes—bursting in like an agitated beast.
His usual gentle refinement vanished.
Replaced by impatience—tone full of unquestionable command and threat.
"Daenerys! Hurry!"
"The khal's bloodriders arrive soon!"
"You'd better act like a queen tonight!"
"Don't show that dead-parents expression! Understand?!"
"You don't want... to wake the dragon, do you?"
Viserys's gaze—like appraising goods—greedily and critically sweeping over "Daenerys's" exquisite figure.
Through Daenerys's eyes, Lynn clearly felt this body's instinctive reaction.
Accelerated heartbeat. Cold limbs.
Fear branded deep in bloodline.
Viserys tormented her often.
This bastard—selling his own sister to restore House Targaryen.
Beast!
Lynn controlled Daenerys, inch by inch raising her head.
Those beautiful violet eyes—quietly meeting Viserys's gaze.
No past timidity.
No habitual submission.
That look... calm enough to chill hearts.
Viserys's roaring and threats—suddenly froze.
He stared blankly at his sister.
Something's wrong.
That look is wrong!
Those violet eyes—no past fear, no pleading, nothing.
Only bottomless indifference, as if viewing...
A ridiculous jester?
That was condescending scrutiny. Like contempt.
Viserys felt like being stared down by a true dragon—cold rushing from tailbone to crown.
His oft-repeated "waking the dragon"—at this moment so laughable, so powerless.
Lynn—seeing Viserys frightened—Spirit reaching its limit—finally withdrew his consciousness.
That was agony of soul forcibly extracted from shell.
Lynn's consciousness—like a stone shot from slingshot—rapidly retreating through endless spiritual storms.
King's Landing's silhouette flashed past in shattered vision.
Finally—Lynn violently "crashed" back into his own body.
"Hah—"
Lynn opened his eyes, gasping heavily, forehead covered in fine cold sweat.
The Red Keep tower's furnishings unchanged. Outside—sounds of patrolling guards' armor friction.
Everything unchanged.
Yet that exhaustion of crossing the entire continent, lodging Spirit in another person—nearly drowning his entire consciousness.
A hundred times harder than invading Jaime's mental world.
He was drained again.
Must rest a long time to fully recover Spirit.
But—worth it.
The seed was planted in Daenerys.
The rest—depends on that girl's own choice.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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