Days had passed since that first dream, yet for Baelon, peace had not returned.
His dreams persisted. Unwelcome and relentless in their nature. They came every night, often enough that sleep itself had become something he approached with caution.
A caution he had not held for them since his yesteryears.
Each time he closed his eyes, he was confronted with those gnawing whispers.
Each dream peeling back his thoughts and laying them bare once more.
Yet, paired with Helaena's prophecy, a faint understanding had begun to take shape.
They were not tormenting him without purpose.
They were warnings.
Those whispers…those mocking, insidious whispers had cut through his memory and self-deception alike, slipping past the layers of justification he wrapped around his ambitions.
They named what he was, without embellishment nor mercy.
And more than that… they were guiding him. Drawing his attention toward something else.
For better or for worse.
Thankfully, matters in Asshai itself had progressed without complication. After days of careful inquiry, they had found the Conclave.
The exchange had been… amicable, by Asshai'i standards. Knowledge traded for knowledge.
None of the truly vital texts had left Baelon's possession, of course. Those were safeguarded, memorised where possible, hidden where not.
What he relinquished were tomes written in ancient Sarnori script, novel, certainly, but useless to him until he found the time and means to decipher them.
Which he likely would not bother with. After all, he could spend years trying to learn the alien script, just to learn the books he held were about describing haircuts across Essos.
Well, in that event, he would likely set the world ablaze.
Regardless of his musings, they had gained something far more immediately relevant in Asshai.
Fwhiiip.
The rustle of parchment drew Baelon out of the mire of his thoughts. He turned his head slightly, violet eyes settling on Helaena beside him.
They sat within the living room of their new home, a modest structure of dark stone and heavy beams, its walls seeming almost eager to swallow sound and light alike.
Candles lined iron brackets along the walls, dozens of them, their flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. Even so, they served their purpose.
Pools of warm light gathered around the low table and the worn rugs beneath them, enough for reading, enough for peace.
Helaena was cross-legged on the floor, scrolls spread around her in careful order.
One slender hand moved with practised ease as she sorted through their newly acquired writings, her expression focused, brows faintly knit.
The candlelight caught in her silver-gold hair, giving it a subdued glow as she read on blood magic.
Baelon returned his attention to the parchment in his own hands.
What they had traded for was… limited. No true secrets of Valyria. No complete rituals, no grand workings. Only foundational knowledge, fragments concerning blood and black magic.
A loss, perhaps, but one Baelon had anticipated. He had already begun considering alternative paths to reclaim what was missing.
For now, this would suffice.
His eyes traced the inked words once more.
…Black magic is the cruellest of magics. All magics exact a price, whether paid through limitations, such as bloodline restrictions in Valyrian pyromancy, or through the blood sacrifices common among the followers of R'hllor.
Black magic, however, differs in that its cost is absolute. It cannot be mitigated, only paid. Often, the price demanded is that which the practitioner values most: lifespan, memory, fortune, or self.
Baelon's eyes narrowed at the words.
One such example is the Misfortune Hex, a minor spell wherein the caster sacrifices a portion of their own fortune to inflict sustained ill-luck upon another.
However, that is a basic form of Black Magic. More potent spells exact more severe costs.
These costs warp both mind and body. Practitioners are often left as beings suspended between human and monster.
Yet many persist regardless, for black magic is notoriously difficult to counter or evade. If targeted, a victim may only hope the caster was weak or that the price offered was insufficient.
Baelon's eyes creased.
So little hope, then. How… reassuring.
He read on.
Despite this, mitigation is not impossible. Resistance may be granted through bloodline or status; those of Valyrian descent, or with the king's blood, often endure lesser effects.
If one can survive the initial curse, the victim may supersede the original cost with a sacrifice of greater value. This substitute need not mirror the original offering in nature.
For instance, a Misfortune Hex cast through sacrificed fortune may be offset by relinquishing lifespan, material wealth, or a magical artefact. Such a sacrifice must be enacted through the following ritual…
Baelon stopped.
Sacrifice.
His gaze lingered on the word as echoes stirred within him: Helaena's prophecy, the whispers that had dissected him so mercilessly within his dreams.
Slowly, he exhaled.
He knew, without needing to think further, that whatever fate awaited him, Helaena would never be its price. She would never be sacrificed.
That was not a path that existed. To lose her would be to lose the axis upon which his life turned.
Without her… what remained?
To live—why?
To grow stronger—for what?
To explore the world—to what end?
If Helaena were gone, Baelon knew himself well enough to understand that nothing else would matter. He would not claw forward. He would not rebuild meaning from ash.
He would simply… end.
Not out of vengeance. Not out of hatred. Perhaps not even of sorrow.
Instead, it would be out of...boredom. An indifference to life itself.
Thus, sacrificing Helaena was not something he needed to fear. If it were ever to come to that, his answer would never change, thus rendering the prophecy and dreams pointless.
Yet his thoughts still lingered, both unwelcome and insistent.
Curiosity crept in where dread had failed. He seemed to realise something.
It was not that he would be forced to sacrifice something.
No.
The whispers had never spoken of that.
Perhaps the danger lay in what he refused to give up. In what he clung to too tightly.
In a cost unpaid, not because it was demanded, but because he had convinced himself he could walk around it.
'But if it is not Helaena I was asked to sacrifice, what else could make it me so reluctant?' Baelon lowered the parchment, setting it carefully atop the table.
For a moment, he could not help but recall those mocking whispers, how they ripped apart and laid bare his desire for power.
A desire he did not think of wrong, even now.
'What am I meant to simply give up everything I learned?' Baelon scoffed. 'Ridiculous.'
Still, he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing as candlelight danced faintly against his lids.
"Whatever it is," he murmured softly to himself, "there is no point worrying now."
His hand fell away, fingers curling loosely at his side.
"What is to come," Baelon whispered, voice steady despite his unease, "will come."
"Are you alright?" Helaena asked softly, lifting her gaze from the cushioned chair across the room.
Candlelight traced the edge of her profile as she studied him. "You're still thinking about those dreams, aren't you?"
"I suppose I am…" Baelon released a bitter sigh. "Did you find anything of note?"
"Not much," Helaena replied after a moment, humming faintly as she gathered her thoughts. Her head tilted slightly as she sifted through memory. "Blood magic is…varied. Its forms differ, its rituals even more so. But at its core, it is always the same."
She looked back at him.
"An offering of blood or even flesh, exchanged for power or benefit."
Baelon listened intently as she continued.
"Dragon's blood is preferred," Helaena said, almost absently. "But few can find it. Thus, practitioners settle for what comes closest, royal blood, or that of Old Valyria."
Baelon raised a brow at that, the words striking something familiar within him. 'It seems royal and Valyrian blood is especially useful across many magical disciplines…'
Yet Helaena was already moving on.
"Even so," she said, lips pressing faintly together, "blood magic seems rather limited."
"Limited?" Baelon asked, curiosity edging into his voice. "How so?"
"It cannot grant what a person does not already possess," Helaena explained. "It may amplify, reshape, or distort, but it cannot create from nothing."
She paused, then added more quietly, "Even the Blood Bond ritual could not help just anyone. Without Valyrian blood, the capacity to ride dragons, and the endurance to withstand unbearable pain…" She shook her head. "The ritual would simply destroy them…"
Baelon pondered both magics for a moment. Compared to Blood Magic, Black Magic seemed far more esoteric. Far more varied.
As he remembered how one could counter Black Magic and compared it with his dreams, his gaze narrowed.
The pieces were slowly falling together...
***
Time slipped past almost unnoticed, a week lost to dreams. Baelon was caught in their unrelenting tide.
Sometimes, he was returned to the shadows of his younger self, whispers circling like vultures, mocking the cowardice he had once felt.
"Is all this ambition, all this striving, merely a shield against the boy you once were?" They asked, their voices persistent.
Other times, he stood again on Driftmark, watching Aemond lie before the maester's hands, and the same voices sneered at his arrogance. "All that effort… to harm your brother. Was it worth it?"
Yet, Baelon endured. He watched. He learned. Slowly, the meaning behind these dreams began to crystallise.
The source behind them was frightened, terrified of something he might yet do, and these nightly visions were warnings.
They reflected his own desires, his unspoken lust for power, laid bare by the whispers that echoed his thoughts.
Meanwhile, he and Helaena had seized every opportunity to absorb knowledge during their stay at the Conclave.
Blood Magic. Black Magic. They pored over every fragment they could, measuring the scope of what they had learned against its limits.
They had not acquired new spells, yet even the understanding itself made their journey worthwhile.
But time was finite, and at last, they returned to the Conclave.
The building loomed above the rest of the city, constructed from the same slimy, black stone that seemed to grow organically from Asshai's streets.
Its scale was immense, a labyrinth of towers and domes. Within its walls, the air smelled faintly of ash and herbs.
At the exchange counter, a man waited.
He was sickly pale, his skin stretched thin over his bones, and shadows of blue etched themselves beneath his eyes as if night itself had decided to dwell there.
Baelon stepped forward, returning the notes he had borrowed.
'I understand these scripts were unlikely to hold any more value for me,' he thought with a faint scowl, 'but returning them feels like I've been scammed…'
He had given up those Sarnori scripts permanently, but the knowledge he gained could only be held temporarily.
Still, the thought mattered little. Knowledge learned was never truly lost, only misused or misunderstood.
He handed over the scrolls and, as he turned to leave, curiosity pricked him. "Have you heard of anyone called Seryon, here?"
The man's lips curved into an eerie smile. "Guest, fishing for information without a price is unwise. Luckily for you, the Pale Lord has instructed me to tell you his identity."
"The Pale Lord?" Baelon and Helaena exchanged a glance.
"Yes," the man said, his voice like dust slipping through fingers. "It is the title we lowly men must use. He is the founder of this Conclave, a shadowbinder of uncounted years. You may know him as Seryon. We call him the Pale Lord. He seldom appears in recent decades."
The words struck Baelon. Not for the information they held.
No.
It was regarding the ease with which it was delivered.
Was his curiosity at this moment in time also a prediction?
Before he could ask more, the man's voice cut through the silence. "That is all I am to tell you. Anything further carries a price." His chalk-white fingers pinched together as if sealing a spell rather than gesturing.
Baelon shook his head and, without pressing further, followed Helaena toward the exit.
Outside, Asshai's streets stretched before them as dull and oppressive as ever. The city's blackened stone seemed to draw light and hope alike into itself.
"Why did you not press him further?" Helaena asked, glancing at him. "Surely we could have offered some of our more valuable knowledge. The books on Valyrian history, magic and dragons, for example…"
"It does not matter." Baelon's voice was calm, betraying not a hint of reluctance. "We have achieved what we came for. Even if I sought an audience with Seryon again, he would likely refuse. If he wished to speak, he would have done so already."
Helaena paused, a hesitant silence filling the space between them. Finally, she nodded, though a shadow of doubt lingered in her gaze. "Then… what of your dreams? What becomes of them?"
Baelon's lips curved into a brief smile. "I suspect our mysterious friend will trouble me but once more."
He offered her his hand, and they walked on, their black robes melding with the slick, veiled streets, shadows swallowed by shadows, back to their temporary home for one more night.