Chapter 561

Born amidst the storm, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm… Daenerys Targaryen had lived only twenty years, yet her journey had already spanned half the known world. Yet—despite countless miles traveled, her path had inevitably fallen into the familiar tropes of a transmigrator who knew her life inside out.

A brazier was moved before the bed. Daenerys rolled up her sleeve to her elbow, and a scalpel cut through the tender skin with precision, opening the vein beneath. Blood flowed from her left arm, dripping into a silver bowl prepared in advance. The contrast of dark crimson against her pale skin, the interplay of depth and light, was stark and unsettling.

Qyburn, who had once been expelled from the Citadel for illegal experiments, possessed medical skills that even his former peers acknowledged as brilliant. As he often boasted, he was "a healer as skilled as Archmaester Ambrose and destined to surpass him." His expertise in safe bloodletting was unquestionable, and despite being out of practice, he expertly collected half a bowl of "true dragon's blood" under Missandei's hesitant gaze. Only once he had stopped the bleeding and dressed the wound did he carefully lift the bowl and hand it to Melisandre, firm but cautious.

It was now the Red Priestess's time to perform.

Melisandre earned the title "Red Woman" not merely from her fiery red robes—garments exclusive to high-ranking priests of R'hllor—but for the mysterious aura they lent her. Outsiders saw only their splendor, unaware that hidden inside were countless secret pouches containing powders and tinctures of all kinds. Some healed injuries or sickness (though, as a sorceress, using magic for such purposes was always a luxury), others enhanced her spells' power—be it fire divination, communion with her god, or deadly shadow-binding. The largest portion of her collection, however, comprised alchemical compounds derived from metallic salts. These substances were used to produce flame-colored reactions when cast into fire, often paired with minimal spells to achieve maximum theatrics.

A seasoned high priestess, Melisandre was as much an illusionist and charlatan as she was a sorceress.

Despite the short preparation time—Aegor's plan had only been hastily devised the night before—Melisandre, Qyburn, and their co-conspirators had long mastered the necessary craft. The Red Woman lifted the silver bowl and carefully tilted its edge. As Daenerys's fresh blood streamed into the burning coals in a fine line, she began to chant in a low, murmuring voice. The incantation, resembling Valyrian but incomprehensible to Daenerys, accompanied the sizzling sound of blood striking the embers. Smoke curled upward, thick and dark. While the room’s attention was drawn to her ritualistic mutterings, Melisandre’s free hand discreetly reached into her robes. With the skill of a master magician, she flicked prepared powders into the flames with breathtaking precision.

The brazier erupted with a cascade of unnatural light—red, orange, yellow, green—every color imaginable bursting forth and filling the chamber with dazzling brilliance. No mundane flame could burn so brightly, no gemstone could compare in luster. This “blood magic ritual” was no amateur spectacle; the interplay of expensive alchemical powders, the priceless blood of a true dragon, and a sprinkling of genuine magic created an awe-inspiring display that defied any comparison to cheap tricks. The shimmering hues filled the room, and the surge of magic from the brazier was so potent that even knowledgeable sorcerers would struggle to doubt the ritual's authenticity without a deep understanding of blood magic.

The fire and dragon’s blood were real; the life-saving aspect of the ritual was a complete fabrication. Melisandre indeed cast magic, but most of her efforts went into enhancing the flames’ spectacular effects. A small portion of her spellwork targeted Aegor—not to cure poison, but to dispel the hibernation magic binding him and accelerate his return to normal body temperature. Once the patient’s breathing and pulse strengthened, and his body warmed, the ritual would be deemed a success.

As for the half-bowl of queen’s blood? Not a single drop was wasted. Having participated in Aemon Targaryen’s funeral pyre, Melisandre was well-prepared; the power within the blood dissipated into pure magical energy, which she absorbed into her body. The excess even partially recharged the depleted magical ruby at her throat. If not for the fact that everyone’s eyes were fixed on the brazier or Aegor’s prone figure, they might have noticed the Red Woman growing visibly more radiant as the ritual progressed.

No illusion lasts forever, and Melisandre knew better than to linger. As soon as the blood was fully poured, she wiped the remaining drops from the bowl with a prepared cloth and threw it into the flames, ensuring no trace of the precious fluid remained. The fire consumed the cloth, and with its destruction, the radiant colors dimmed. The Red Woman sealed the performance with a genuine spell, summoning two serpentine flames from the brazier. The fiery snakes coiled and danced in midair for a few seconds before plunging toward Aegor’s still body. With a collective gasp from the onlookers, the flames vanished at his nostrils, leaving only a faint trace of warmth and curling the fine hairs of his upper lip.

To the untrained eyes of those present, the spectacle was irrefutable proof: the power of the dragon's blood had been harnessed and infused into Aegor's body. Even Missandei, who had harbored doubts, now looked on with awe and reverence.

“It is done,” Melisandre declared, setting down the bowl. Though visibly energized, she feigned exhaustion. “The power in Your Grace’s blood has been transferred to the Lord Commander. Whether he survives depends on his will to live... and the whims of fate.”

Daenerys approached the bed and took Aegor’s hand, the one not injured by Qyburn’s scalpel. After a moment, her eyes lit with restrained delight. “It seems to be working.”

Qyburn, quick to seize the moment, examined the patient and confirmed her observation. “His breathing and heartbeat have normalized. His body temperature is rising!”

“Does that mean he will wake?” Daenerys asked, wary after her previous loss. “When?”

“Perhaps a splash of cold water will wake him, or perhaps he’ll sleep until dawn. Or... he may never regain consciousness,” Melisandre replied bluntly. “As I’ve said, the spell has pulled him from death’s edge, but nothing more. If Your Grace wishes for reassurance, I can tell you this much: the poison was purged long before midnight. Such timely intervention greatly reduces the chance of complications.”

“Whether or not he wakes, I will summon the Gifted army officers and tribal representatives tomorrow morning,” Harwin interjected, his tone both grateful and deferential. “They must know the Lord Commander is out of danger to calm the soldiers and stabilize Winterfell’s unrest. If the Lord Commander wakes, I will send word to Your Grace immediately. Until then, the Gifted stand ready for your command.”

(At least, I won’t have to flee Winterfell tonight.)

Daenerys allowed herself a breath of relief, but her expression quickly hardened as simmering rage surfaced.

If the poisoning had not been the result of Aegor’s recklessness, then the culprit’s intent to eliminate her inner circle was nothing short of malicious. She would uncover the truth and unleash the fury of the true dragon upon those responsible.

“Very well. I will issue my commands,” she said coldly, her voice carefully controlled to mask her anger. “I will organize an investigation to uncover the poisoner and their master. You will lead it, with the full support of Missandei and Grey Worm. Ensure that the investigation proceeds without obstruction, no matter whether the trail leads to the Northern lords, the Gifted, or my own inner circle. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace! I swear the poisoner will have nowhere to hide!”