'Listen to me, Daenerys Targaryen,' she spoke to the Mother of Dragons in the Common Tongue, the language of the Seven Kingdoms. 'To go north, you must go south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.'
This girl has succeeded where several generations of her forefathers failed miserably. The sorceress looks at the black dragon, barely more than a lizard, sitting on the girl's shoulder. Once, long ago, the shadowbinder held in her hands the egg it hatched from.
She touches Daenerys's hand. Now, the girl bears her mark. Now the sorceress always knows the whereabouts of the Mother of Dragons. She can see the girl, talk to her remaining unseen to others.
The shadowbinder lets go of the body she is currently wearing. She has no further need for it. The shadow returns to the bleak and shallow existence it calls life.
'The glass candles are burning,' she whispers, two summers later. 'Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal.'
The candle flame, frozen like a droplet turned upside down, transforms into a tiny window into the wide outer world. Daenerys looks like she doesn't get enough sleep. The sorceress sighs. The girl's erratic floundering around Essos is like a flight of a butterfly with a burnt wing. But the shadowbinder is patient. She can wait. Oh yes.
'Remember who you are, Daenerys Targaryen. Your dragons know. Do you?'
These words seem to finally reach the girl's heart. The sorceress pushes a stray strand of silvery hair off her cheek, making notes in her journal. The imperative has been found. The Mother of Dragons is moving east at last. The sorceress turns back to the fire, casting a fleeting glance at the mirror. The polished surface reflects a pair of bright eyes, a sheen of porcelain skin, an outline of full red lips, the epitome of temptation itself.
The girl has arrived. The shadow keeps her busy, feeding her another bunch of prophecies, vague and obscure and empty. One day, Daenerys will learn to trust no one save herself. The sorceress is sure of it. The girl has Targaryen blood.
From a tall tower window the shadowbinder observes the dragons.
The black one is out of questions. It is already bound to Daenerys. It's easier to kill the beast than to break the bond. Too dragons left, then. The white one or the green one? The sorceress hesitates for a moment. Viserion is more cunning, but Rhaegal is more dangerous. All right. The green one it is.
The drop of dark blood start smouldering even before it reaches the flames.
Rhaegal's eyes are the color of molten bronze, his breath is yellow-red with green veins in it, his scales are all shades of dark green like a thick forest moss. Despite herself the sorceress cannot stop stroking this sleek, hot, shiny hide. What a wondrous creature, a child of fire and blood, flame in the flesh.
Rhaegal makes a deep rolling sound in his throat. The dragon enjoys her touch. The dragon likes his new mistress.
Everything is easy when you know what you want, and have the means to get it. Simplicity, that's the sign of a true might.
She arrived to these lands many years ago, the sea driblets mingling with tears on her cheeks. Her half-brother had his men waiting for her, but they came back empty-handed. She was heading to Asshai, where the shadows lie. Where her mother had mastered her dark arts.
Back then she was driven by her yearning for the secret knowledge. Even her ambition yielded to its powerful pull. Later, her thirst was quenched, and when it happened, the desire for advancement resurfaced, more eager than ever.
Now, she has overcome the last barrier. She is no longer a prisoner of her own tower. The mighty walls protected her from vagabonds, the complicated spells woven into the stone supported her youth and beauty that otherwise would be long gone. She has no more need for this. She also doesn't have to reach across half a continent with her mind. She is done with the shadows. Her dragon is her new source of power. He gave her the sky, too.
The sorceress inhales deeply. She is a rider. She has a dragon. She proved a worthy daughter of the Valyria of old.
'There is only one thing I want,' the Tattered Prince tells her. 'And it's Pentos.'
'Deal,' she replies.
She needs a steward in each of the Free Cities. Loyalty is ephemeral. A trade contract offers a far more reliable kind of a bond.
The Pentoshi magisters have called an emergency meeting to discuss the new circumstances. She beckons fat Illyrio Mopatis close.
'From now on, the prophecy rests on my shoulders,' she whispers to him. 'Obey me, and you'll get your son back. The lad with blue hair and insolent eyes. The mummer's dragon.'
Next morning, Pentos surrenders.
Myr. Tyrosh. Lys. Volantis. Norvos. The sorceress immerses herself into a conquering spree, enjoying every instant of it. She spent decades on planning; now, it's time to see her designs fruit.
Of course, there are discrepancies, failures, sudden crucial details she overlooked. She disregards them. When you own a dragon and know how to use it, you'll always find supporters ready to solve your problems for you in exchange for favors. And she has quite a formidable pool of favors to offer.
Yunkai. Astapor. Meereen. Within one week she survived several attempts to shoot her, stab her, poison her, drown her and kidnap her in order to marry her. She weaves enchantments to track those who opposes her. Rhaegal burns the assailers alive. Show lovers exalt. This is far more entertaining than fighting pits.
Her thoughts turn towards Daenerys. Losing a dragon shattered the girl. But the little one is tough. She will regain her strength and move on. The sorceress has no designs for Westeros. She is not planning to deprive Daenerys of her birthright. The shadowbinder will be quite busy restoring the fame of the Old Valyria.
The girl will need an heir, though. Daenerys is barren. The sorceress spent quite a while pondering this; she knows the answer by now. She saw it in the flames. Faces, numerous faces, brown-skinned, pale, silver-haired, dark-eyed. There was one face, a strange face, different from all the others. It looked stern and distant and cold, as if frost and wind washed all the emotions out of it. This one will do nicely.
Braavos. The city founded by runaway slaves. These people will be tough to bargain with. She saved her most precious boons for Braavos. The secret of Valyrian steel. The art of working the stone. The magic of blood and fire.
There is one more reason why she visited Braavos last. All gods are honored here. Rhaegal lands on the lakeshore in the center of the city. There is no godswood on the Isle of Gods, but a weirwood tree grows here, and that's all she needs.
The sorceress kneels amongst the mighty roots. Her pale hand touches the snow-white tree bark. A dead face carved in wood comes to life. One eye remains blind, the other one blossoms red, as if the tree just had a fresh blood sacrifice.
Gods, what did he do to himself? Men can never keep themselves in shape. She will restore his looks of old… if he asks nicely. If he pays the price.
'You?' the whisper comes, like a wind rustling in the autumn leaves.
'Well met, sweetheart,' Shiera Seastar whispers back.