'First day of the Blood Bond ritual...'
Helaena pursed her lips as she watched Baelon stand at the table, the morning light slanting through the shutters and catching on the small glass vial in his fingers.
Inside it, a single crimson bead rested against the curve of the glass, too large to be called a drop, closer in size to a grape.
It did not slosh when he moved it. Instead, it clung to the glass as though reluctant to part from it.
Faint smoke curled from the vial's mouth, thin as breath on winter air. It twisted upward in lazy spirals, carrying with it a dry, metallic scent that prickled at the back of her throat.
Dragon blood was never still. Even the glass of the vial was beginning to crack with the heat.
Thankfully, they had exchanged for several vials only yesterday.
Helaena's gaze drifted briefly to the sacks stacked neatly against the far wall. Two weeks' worth of food. All of it for her.
Baelon would not eat, not today, not in the days leading up to the ritual, nor during it. The book had been clear on that point.
The body could not digest food and fire at the same time. Anything solid would only worsen what was to come.
She swallowed and forced her attention back to him.
"Okay." Baelon's voice cut through the quiet. He stared at the blood in the vial, and Helaena saw the hesitation there.
It was his last flicker of doubt, the part of him that still understood how easily he could turn back.
Then it hardened, replaced by something colder and more resolute as he glanced at her. "This is it. I'm counting on you, sister."
"I will do my best…" The words left her almost without her noticing, barely louder than a breath. Her eyes never left the vial. Still, Baelon heard her.
"I know you will." He smiled, small and sincere, and that somehow made it worse. "I would trust you with my life."
Her throat tightened.
Then—
Gulp.
Baelon tilted the vial. The bead slid free at last, not flowing but dropping.
It did not smear or streak the glass. It simply detached and disappeared past his lips, pulled down his throat as if by its own weight.
Helaena's heart stuttered.
Time seemed to slow. Baelon lowered the empty vial and closed his eyes, his brows knitting together as he waited, shoulders tense, breath held.
For a heartbeat, two, three…but nothing happened. The room was painfully quiet, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant sound of wind outside.
"Do you feel anything?" Helaena asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
Baelon inhaled slowly, then exhaled. "No…" He opened his eyes, blinking once. "Other than a strange warmth, there is nothing else."
She let out the breath she had been holding, her shoulders sagging as relief washed through her. The tension in her chest loosened, just a little. Soon, a thought crept in, half hopeful, half naive.
Maybe. Just maybe, this ritual won't be too painful.
***
'It's almost been a whole day, and he's taken two drops.'
Helaena stood near the edge of the room, her gaze fixed on Baelon as he sat before the hearth. The fire was low, banked rather than roaring.
He had positioned himself close enough that the heat licked at his knees, the flames casting a faint amber glow across his face and down the line of his jaw.
Baelon had told her the warmth inside him was… wrong. Not painful, not yet at least.
But it was a spreading heat pressed outward from his chest and stomach, easing only when he sat near open flame.
"It's time for your third drop."
Helaena crossed the room and held out a new vial. Just like the earlier ones, a single bead of dragon blood rested inside, thick, dark, and faintly smoking. This time, her hand did not tremble.
She even placed it directly into his palm instead of setting it down and stepping away.
Compared to the morning, she felt… steadier.
An entire day had passed. Two drops taken. And Baelon still sat upright.
Still spoke clearly. Still looked like himself, save for the constant warmth beneath his skin and the way he lingered near the hearth.
Maybe the texts had exaggerated. Maybe the suffering described was for those without Valyrian blood. Maybe—
A smile almost broke across her lips before she caught herself.
That would be for the best.
Baelon turned the vial slowly between his fingers, watching the bead cling to the glass as firelight danced in his violet eyes.
"Ready?" she asked softly.
He nodded once and raised the vial toward his lips.
***
Helaena's chest heaved, each breath tearing its way in as panic clawed up her throat. Air felt too thin, as though the night itself had turned against them, pressing down, suffocating.
It was only night…and yet everything had changed.
Moments ago, there had been calm. Quiet. The fragile peace she had allowed herself to believe in had shattered so completely that she could barely remember what it had felt like to breathe without pain.
The world had narrowed, collapsed inward, until there was nothing left but this room, this heat, this unbearable sight.
Her thoughts threatened to scatter. To splinter into dreadful visions, of silence where his voice should be, of waking alone in the morning, of living in this ruin by herself.
The weight of it pressed at her temples, threatening to crush her beneath it.
No.
She forced it all down with sheer will, shoved the fear into some dark corner of her mind and locked it there.
Not now.
Not while Baelon writhed beside her.
His body arched on the bed, muscles drawn tight. The pale of his skin had deepened into a furious crimson; veins dark beneath his angry skin.
With his every breath, faint wisps of smoke slipped past his lips, carrying the scent of heat and ash.
"Wa…ter," he rasped.
The word barely survived the journey from his throat.
Her heart clenched so hard it hurt.
For a moment, her hands trembled, useless, her breath coming shallow and useless, but she caught herself.
Forced each inhale. Forced each exhale. Made herself stay.
He needs me.
He needs me.
The thought anchored her.
She reached for the nearby jug with one hand, nearly fumbling it in her haste.
With the other, she slid her fingers into his hair, cradling the back of his head in support.
His skin burned beneath her touch, a sharp sting licking at her palm, but she didn't pull away.
She never would.
Carefully, desperately, she tipped the jug, guiding the water to his lips. Some spilt down his chin, steam hissing faintly where it touched him…but enough made it into his mouth.
Unfortunately—
The moment the water touched his lips, Baelon's body seized.
A violent convulsion tore through him, his back arching as a strangled sound ripped from his throat.
The cup rattled in Helaena's grasp as his jaw clenched, teeth grinding in protest.
"Baelon—" Her voice broke.
His hand twitched weakly, fingers curling as though to push her away, his body rejecting even relief.
Another shudder wracked him, harsher than the last, breath tearing in and out in broken gasps as inky smoke bled from the corners of his mouth.
Tears burned in Helaena's eyes, blurring her vision.
Her hand screamed in protest, the scalding pain sharp enough to make her fingers want to release him, but she clenched them tighter instead, pressing his head against her palm.
"I'm here," she whispered. "I've got you. You're not alone. You never will be."
She didn't know if he could hear her. She didn't know if she believed the words herself.
The pain in her hand grew sharper, but she ignored it. Pain was distant. Fear was distant. There was no room for either.
There was only him.
Someone she loved was breaking apart in front of her, and she would not falter. Not now, not ever.
***
The moment passed too quickly. Evening had already come on the third day of the ritual, and it was time for the day's final drop.
Biting her lip until the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, Helaena rose and made her way to the storage unit.
Her fingers fumbled for a vial, and when she finally found one, she opened the thick cauldron.
A blast of heat hit her face, making sweat bead along her hairline. She scooped out some of the dragon blood, pouring the rest away until only a single drop remained.
She glanced at the drop in the vial, a wave of gratitude washing over her. Baelon had made a small wound on Vermithor before all this began and collected the blood in advance.
Otherwise, despite all their time together, the thought of doing this to Vermithor by herself filled Helaena with a morbid certainty: she would likely be burnt alive, no matter the dragon's indifference.
With a pit gnawing at her stomach, Helaena sealed the cauldron and returned to where Baelon lay.
His condition had worsened.
He lay by the hearth atop a stone slab. She had dragged the slab from near the dragon's nest all the way over here, with a desperate strength she did not believe she had.
Her muscles ached, her joints cried. But she succeeded.
However, Baelon's side was still by no means hopeful.
His condition had worsened.
The crimson flush beneath his skin had darkened, deepening into something almost bruised, as though fire itself had pooled inside him with nowhere left to escape.
His chest rose and fell in shallow jerks. His every exhale blistered the air, distorting it and causing it to shimmer like some desert mirage.
When he saw her, his eyes lit up with desperate awareness. He tried to rise, tried to push himself upright, but his body betrayed him.
His muscles seized mid-motion, locking hard before writhing beneath his skin.
He collapsed back with a strangled gasp, writhing as the convulsions rippled through him, his own strength turned against him.
With her, she grabbed a piece of loose cloth lying nearby, a carefully embroidered handkerchief she had once planned to give him.
Ignoring the burning sensation across her palm, she pressed the cloth against the back of his head.
Carefully, she tilted his head back just enough to part his lips, her other hand steadying his jaw as another convulsion shuddered through him.
His throat worked weakly as she tipped the vial, a single drop of dragon blood touching his tongue.
Kneeling again, she whispered, "Just a few more days…"
***
It had turned to the sixth day.
Helaena, bloodshot eyes burning, flung the shattered jug from her hands.
The fragments clattered across the floor, echoing through the quiet, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the old house.
Since the fifth day, Baelon had been wracked by muscle spasms.
And, thanks to his increased strength, even a casual twitch or wave of his hand could send objects flying, or worse, injure him.
At times, when he sensed her near, he would try to suppress the spasms, but only for fleeting moments before consciousness seemed to slip from him entirely.
The nights offered no reprieve. The crash and break of items as he twitched kept her on edge, forcing her to scramble to clean up or reposition him to prevent further injury.
And even when the house remained intact, and Baelon remained still, his low, almost animalistic groans of pain gnawed at her waning sanity.
Now, in the dim glow of the hearth, she heard it again, soft, desperate.
"Food…" Baelon murmured, his voice hoarse, as if it had been parched dry for days.
Helaena's body quivered, and she turned her head, unable to meet his pleading, almost bleeding gaze. She could not give him food, not now, not at this stage of the ritual.
One morsel would undo everything. And by this point, if the ritual failed, Baelon would undoubtedly die.
Her fingers clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe past the ache in her chest.
"Just…one more day…" She whispered to herself, the words trembling.
***
It was the evening of day seven.
By now, Helaena had become a shadow of herself. Her bloodshot eyes had deepened to a vivid scarlet, her hair was wild and tangled, and her clothes were coated in a thin layer of dust and ash.
By the seventh morning, Baelon had lain still, no spasms, no groans, no writhing of pain. The absence of movement, while making her task marginally easier, only deepened her unease.
Had the ritual failed?
Had something gone horribly wrong?
Or had it been a lie from the start, a cruel trick that had lured them both into this madness?
With a sigh, she pried open Baelon's mouth, ignoring the blisters searing her fingers as she fed him the last vial of dragon blood.
Pain lanced through her hands, a white-hot agony that clawed at her nerves as she touched him. Her teeth clenched so hard she almost yelped, but she forced the sound down, forcing herself to focus.
Soon, the dragon blood disappeared into Baelon's throat.
That was it.
The main body of the ritual was complete. Now, only the final step remained.
Flesh that cannot endure flame must be reduced to ash, that stronger flesh may yet be forged.
The words from the accursed book echoed in her mind.
Then, ignoring the tears of pain in her eyes, she grabbed Baelon, dragging him out of their home.
Soon, she arrived before a pile of vegetation and shrubs, almost as tall as she was.
Releasing Baelon from her grip, Helaena looked at the pale blue dragon by the mound, and a soft look appeared in her eyes.
Helaena wanted to stroke Dreamfyre, but hesitated looking at the scars on her hand.
Her eyes fell on her brother's still form. Crimson had replaced his pale skin, blistered and scarred.
Every exhale spat thick black smoke that curled upward like a cloud of ink.
The heat around him was so intense it warped the air, making it seem like she was looking at him through a poor-quality mirror.
The sight was almost unbearable…the sight of her brother transformed into a creature of fire and suffering, yet caught between life and death.
"Dracarys." Helaena whispered.
Her bond obeyed her command, spitting out a jet of flames at the mound before them.
Watching the flames begin to roar, tears burned down her cheeks.
She wanted to turn away, to ignore the final step, to pray for some miracle that might let him survive. But the truth weighed on her like molten iron.
Baelon had two choices: enter the open fire or let his body fail from its own weakness. Neither offered hope.
Even Targaryen's were not immune to flame. Resistant, yes, but not immune.
Immunity to flames was a fantasy, and it mocked her in this very room of smoke and heat.
A breath.
Two breaths.
Three.
The moments stretched on and on.
Then—
Looking away, eyes stinging with tears, she pushed her brother into the dancing flames before her with trembling hands.