The Red Comet burned high in the heavens, its long, crimson tail stretching across the night sky like a wound that refused to heal. It lingered far longer than any ordinary celestial sign, visible to nearly everyone in the known world. To smallfolk it was an omen, to scholars a mystery, and to kings a warning. Beneath its cold light, war continued unabated. In the Riverlands, blood soaked the soil as steel rang against steel.
"Ser Barristan, I have urgent intelligence for His Highness. I must interrupt you," Qyburn said, bowing slightly, his voice respectful but insistent.
Ser Barristan Selmy immediately understood. "Then I shall wait until the old maester has delivered his report," he replied calmly.
At present, Qyburn, Barristan, and Anguy the Archer were often referred to—half in jest, half in earnest—as Gendry's 'gray-haired alliance': veterans seasoned by decades of survival, war, and hard-earned wisdom. Barristan sensed that what Qyburn wished to discuss was highly sensitive. With a subtle gesture, he and Anguy stepped back, granting Qyburn a moment alone with the young king.
"Your Highness," Qyburn whispered, leaning closer, "my research may finally be bearing fruit. If Gregor Clegane is brought to me half-dead, he would be the ideal specimen."
Gendry's expression remained steady. "Explain."
"Gregor is large enough, strong enough, and—most importantly—he has been poisoned. The venom he consumed was manticore poison, refined and treated with black magic. That is why it causes unbearable agony rather than swift death. He will not perish immediately, which gives me… opportunities."
"That path is dangerous," Gendry said slowly. "Anything involving this kind of research must be handled with extreme caution."
"Of course, Your Highness. I am well aware." Qyburn paused, then added, "Since the Red Comet appeared, I have felt it—faintly, but unmistakably. Magic is growing stronger. The tide is rising."
He continued, voice low and intent. "According to my intuition, the magic tide arrives first. Then the true dragons hatch. And once dragons awaken, they further amplify the tide of magic itself."
"That seems… logical," Gendry said after a moment.
"Magic has perhaps always existed," Qyburn went on, "but for centuries it lay dormant, so weak that most people dismissed it as superstition. Only a handful could grasp fragments of it. But now, as the tide rises, sorcerers grow stronger—dramatically so."
"For example?" Gendry asked.
"Alys Rivers during the Dance of the Dragons. And Bloodraven, more recently. Even in eras when magic was fading, both displayed extraordinary mastery."
Those names carried weight—half legend, half nightmare.
"Alys Rivers. Bloodraven…" Gendry repeated, committing them to memory.
"If only Maester Marwyn were here," Qyburn sighed. "No one in the Citadel surpasses him in the study of the occult. He bears a Valyrian steel link, proof of his profound understanding of magic."
"He'll come," Gendry said with certainty. "A true dragon would be irresistible to a man like him."
"Indeed," Qyburn smiled. "And if he does, he could help shield you from the schemes of rival sorcerers. I would even establish a new department for him."
Qyburn's expression soon turned grave. "There is something I must emphasize, Your Highness. No ordinary warrior can threaten you. I have taught you poisons, hidden weapons, and medicine. But magic—strange, unknowable magic—is another matter entirely. In the past, sorcerers were weak, rootless things. Now, as magic strengthens, they become far more dangerous. You must be cautious."
"Especially given your identity, Princess Daenerys's identity, and the existence of a true dragon. Such things will draw covetous eyes."
"I understand," Gendry said, nodding. "Before the magic tide, sorcerers were mocked. Now…"
"The Crow's Eye," Qyburn murmured. "And the Red Woman who follows Stannis."
"Is she still on Dragonstone?" Gendry asked.
"Yes. She believes Stannis is the promised one," Qyburn said dismissively. "Whether that belief is true is another matter. Prophecy is notoriously treacherous—vague, contradictory, easily misread. Sorcerers are often victims of their own interpretations."
"Stannis is also a practical choice," Gendry replied. "His power base is small. If he wishes to succeed, he may truly abandon the Seven for her god."
"Still," Qyburn said, "be wary of her."
"I will."
"There is, however, another protection against magic," Qyburn added. "The true dragon."
Gendry raised an eyebrow.
"Dragons are born of magic," Qyburn explained. "They are fire, miracle, and vitality incarnate. Where humans are deceived by illusion, dragons can perceive truth."
That resonated. Gendry remembered how, in old tales, dragonfire shattered false visions and sorcerous traps.
"Have you felt anything unusual since the dragon awakened?" Qyburn asked. "Resistance to fire? Control over flame?"
"I can endure heat better than before," Gendry admitted. "But resistance is not immunity. And I cannot manipulate fire."
"There is no need to rush," Qyburn said. "The dragon has only just awakened. With your blood—the storm, the dragonlords, the Rhoynar—it may yet change you."
"Where do you believe magic comes from?" Gendry asked.
"Blood and faith," Qyburn answered without hesitation. "Valyrians wielded fire. The Rhoynar mastered water. The First Men and the Children of the Forest practiced their own arts. And the Red Priests draw power from belief. These paths differ, but blood-for-fire, fire-for-blood—the Valyrian path is the most violent and domineering."
"So you believe I could wield magic?"
"In theory. But blood alone is not enough. Magic demands sacrifice. It consumes vitality."
"Then it is not something to pursue lightly," Gendry said.
"Precisely."
Their conversation ended soon after. Qyburn withdrew, and Barristan and Anguy returned.
They turned once more to politics and war: the Vale, Littlefinger, and the balance of power. Barristan spoke at length of armies, morale, and history, his words carrying the weight of experience earned in blood and fire. Gendry listened closely, aware that such wisdom was rarer than gold.
As the night deepened, far away in the Riverlands, Lord Beric Dondarrion fought a different war—one of desperation and faith. When Thoros of Myr breathed fire into a fallen man's chest and life returned, even hardened warriors were struck silent.
"Praise the Lord of Light," Beric whispered, shaken.
Above them all, the Red Comet still burned, silent and watchful, as if the world itself stood on the edge of something vast and terrible.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)