Solomon?

  Blood soaked into the parchment, mummified fibers and ink reaching out across time and space to his parchment kingdom in Volantis.

  He ignored the part of him annoyed that it was but a pale shadow of when his will could yawn across the world with the ease of a thought. It had all the sense of a junkie looking for their next fix. Safer by far to carve his will into the firmament of the world, the same as the old gods and their cousins in far Essos had done. The same as the Valyrians had done…

  And how much blood will you need to spill to see it done?

  The cynic in him was harder to ignore. Especially when the sorcery withered away before it ever reached Volantis.

  What insight he had gained from studying the ancient roots that snaked across the bedrock of Westeros could perhaps fill a single page, leaving him ambling in the dark still. And even that much had cost its share of blood, for every drop that touched the Stone Garden fed the old gods as much as his pursuits.

  He returned to his work, drawing more blood from a weeping finger.

  For all his kvetching, the only kingdom that did not dance to his siren song now was the Vale. Even there, few were the lips that his name had not touched, and with every whispered utterance the weight of his blood only swelled to greater heights.

  Perhaps he might have spurned the Fates and kept Robert Baratheon on the throne instead. Had he succeeded, the might of the Seven Kingdoms might have met winter at the Wall, and the might of the Seven Kingdoms might very well have died there, only to rise again with cold stars for eyes.

  Or perhaps he might have let the cards fall as they will and waited for Azor Ahai to save the day in the Summer Isles.

  As he listened to a fisherman's daughter paint a picture of a city from a story, he decided that neither much appealed to him. By the time he walked its streets and breathed in its… colorful scents, he already knew how he would do it.

  He hadn't so much as conjured it in his thoughts since.

  Now the weight of prophecy was in his favor. Now when the Wall fell, the Others would find a realm drenched in sorcery. For how did you fight sorcery if not with sorcery?

  He watched as the process repeated itself, failing in some new way this time. Each was a lesson in its own right.

  He also had a visitor bedecked in silk and blood-orange feathers. He turned to the door before she stepped inside. "Sarella," he greeted.

  Her clever eyes raked across the room. "I wonder if we might find you buried under parchment one day. Uncle Doran complains of the expense."

  "We each must occupy our time somehow."

  A sphinx's smile curved across her lips dyed gold. "Most would have spent it seeding their pretty new wife."

  She was still Oberyn's daughter in the end.

  Where the servants shunned the very sight of his rooms, she boldly walked its breadth to trace the shifting script. "A sem…blance of life," she read in heavily accented English. Then she switched back to the Common Tongue. "A moon more and I'll have figured you out."

  "You might find it duller than you hoped," he commented simply.

  It was not as if he cared to jealously guard every scrap of sorcery. On the contrary, he would see it bloom far and wide.

  Marwyn and him were kindred spirits in that respect.

  "Has our archmaester called on me?"

  Her dark eyes met his a moment, the sunlight from the window catching on her curls just as dark. "He's down in the shadow city."

  "Then I shan't keep him waiting," A river of yellow trailed after him as he swept from the room.

  Descending down the Tower of the Sun, he crossed into the city that sprawled under the shadow of Sunspear. On a more desolate stretch nearer to the harbor, he spied the stirrings of a tower worked on by stonemasons. The remnants of the Alchemists' Guild assisting in its construction bowed low as he passed, for it was him they had to thank for succor.

  Marwyn he finally found speaking with a man as tall and thin as a reed and pale as milkglass, lips stained so blue they seemed almost black.

  "Hakur Hakun," the gorilla of a man introduced. "Fresh from Qarth, the Queen of Cities."

  Those lips split into something of a smile. "Even we as far as Qarth have heard mention of a Solomon the Magnificent."

  It was not as if he had been subtle. A snap of fingers also saw a pale boy rushing over with a coffer black as pitch.

  "Our mutual friend here mentioned your interest."

  The coffer opened to reveal a decanter of what could only be shade of the evening. It reminded him of honey, if honey was the color of a bruise.

  "A fine gift." He spirited it away into his robes. "I will have to return the favor before you depart."

  The boy took a step back as the warlock turned his eyes upon the tower, what stones already laid down more yellow where the sun touched them. "The House of the Undying has an interest in seeing that this endeavor succeeds. It offers coin, as well as a teacher of the higher mysteries when enough of its stones have been laid down." The words hung in the air a moment. "Its friends in the Tourmaline Brotherhood would also speak of trade."

  "I will make a mention of it to Prince Doran."

  The warlock departed after a soft bow. The last he heard was him whispering to the boy in another tongue he inexplicably knew. The Qartheen spoke in syllables that flowed like water, or perhaps the milk they were so fond of.

  It was that question that was at the heart of everything.

  "The grey sheep will move to censure myself soon. I suspect Caleotte has already wagged his tongue. Had he any less courage his own shadow would frighten him."

  "I suppose you will have to return your rod and mask," he mentioned after a moment.

  The man gave a hacking laugh. "They would not dare draw more eyes to their embarrasment. Nor would they see a replacement. No, they will do as they always have, plug their ears with wax and threaten the stipend of any acolyte asking uncomfortable questions."

  "However did you stomach it?"

  Marwyn offered a red smile stained by sourleaf. "By calling on the Citadel as often as a man calls on a leper."

  A softer smile found his own lips. "I wonder if a shadowbinder might visit us next."

  "Few are those steeped in that art that care to venture beyond Asshai. It would surprise me if one ventured far as Westeros."

  And yet the cards would insist otherwise…

  He touched a hand to the archmaester's shoulder before he departed for Sunspear again.

  Only to catch sight of another of Oberyn's daughters as he neared the Tower of the Sun. She stilled at his approach. "I fear I lack another rose to gift you, my lady."

  "I never asked for a rose from you at all," she protested. The way she avoided his eyes told another story.

  Though Obara Sand was not as much a giant as the lady he had given a yellow sword to, he had heard her described with that same candor when others thought themselves among closed circles. It was rather sad that it had only taken a gesture and some kind words to confuse her good sense.

  "I only hoped to brighten your day." He stole a kiss from the back of her hand before returning to his rooms. Sarella had remained to lounge on his bed as she continued poring over his parchment kingdom, though she had been joined by yet another of Oberyn's daughters.

  "Lady Tyene…" he whispered. The evening sun turned her hair as orange as a Dornish banner, her nimble fingers adorning her sister's dark curls with some golden ornaments.

  "She's being a nag," said sister complained.

  "Is it a crime now to miss my beloved sister?" She hugged her tightly from behind, planting a wet smooch on her nut-brown cheek.

  The sight stirred his humors, if not enough to spend the rest of the eve stirring their humors. It was only another turn of the moon that a red comet would cast itself across the heavens. It would remain there for only a few moons.

  He tangled a finger in a lock of pale hair anyway, drawing those deep blue eyes to his. It would not do to lose his silver tongue to rust.

  The ink had fled the parchment to another in the meantime, drawing a sound of protest from the other.

  "The two of you are much too comfortable around a sorcerer, I think."

  "Our father nursed us on snakes," Tyene followed with a dangerous smile. "The fault is his."

  "You, perhaps," Sarella snarked.

  He found their bickering amusing. "Your sister had cursed him also for the predicament her folly left her in. Along with half the Seven and several of the gods and goddesses of Old Valyria." He gave the lock of hair wound around his finger a pull. "Not that I need tell you, my lady. You heard it well enough yourself."

  Tyene was too much a master at the game for his words to win even some color to her cheeks, but it did draw her sister's dark eyes as she spoke. "Nym had always favored the company of girls more than boys."

  He caressed her pale cheek. "And what of you?" A thousand secrets had passed his ears these past moons, yet never had he seen her more than tease and tempt.

  "The chase always amused her more," her sister answered in her stead.

  "Am I a cat?" Tyene wondered.

  "I've always had a fondness for cats," he followed. Then he stole a kiss from her lips.

  Something thoughtful took her when he retreated. "I've never had a kiss that tasted of so many things." A dainty finger traced along her lip, tempting him to steal another.

  Yet the words had already stirred her sister's curiosity. Her hands touched his cheeks as she brought him lower, only to scrunch her brows when she dared to find his tongue.

  After he easily overwhelmed her and threatened to crawl down her throat, she retreated, her breaths hot and heavy. "Nor a tongue as that."

  "Then I am happy to have offered a novel experience."

  Though they could have scarcely looked more different, they shared their father's viper eyes. A sly little smile on Tyene's lips soon tempted him again.

  He pushed her down upon his silken sheets, his hair tumbling around her like a cage. His fingers plucked at the gown as blue as her eyes.

  "Rather than spend your seed on your Targaryen bride, you'd see it spent on a pair of Dornish bastards instead. It seems a queer thing to me."

  "The bastards of a prince are near enough to princesses themselves," he husked in her ear.

  He stole another kiss after, his tongue crawling down her throat, tasting every part of her. A part of her loved it, even as the rest of her shivered under him, her hands clawing at the yellow that bedecked him.

  He relented after a time, his tongue serenading the room in the most lurid sounds as it retreated also. He tugged her gown down around her hips as she watched him with a lidded stare. Her breasts were soft and pale as milk as his tongue snaked between them.

  Soon he went lower still.

  The pale hairs he found around her cunt were as carefully maintained as the rest of her. How long would it take to see all of it come undone?

  He endeavored to find out as his tongue slithered into the pot of honey between her legs. He had intended to tickle her womb when he found a maidenhead instead.

  He would have caught her eyes if she hadn't closed them, her teeth locked around her knuckles on one hand as her other clutched at the sheets. It was not as much of a surprise as it might have been. She was rather obsessed with the image of a maiden, after all. All the better to hide her black heart.

  He could have taken her maidenhead then and there, but why spoil her fun? He rather loved the thought behind it.

  He played it like a bard strung his instrument instead. Also the rest of her. It did not take very long for a scream to escape her knuckles. Nor a second. By the time he relented again, she resembled a puddle of bliss more than anything else. A testament to his titanic ego.

  Sarella had watched it all with black eyes, her hand plucking the strings of her own cunt beneath her gown of silk and feathers. A nervous smile curved across her lips for his noticing.

  "I would be remiss in my hospitality if I did not offer you the same pleasure, my lady."

  She stood and let her gown drop upon the stones at his invitation. Where her sister was soft and pliable, she was sleek and fit, her dark skin almost shining in the moonlight.

  The moon in the sky had hardly moved when her long legs already locked around his head, all while he plumbed her depths without a maidenhead to bar his way. A part of him adored it even more to see her come undone, for she was just as much a student of the higher mysteries as he was, if not as advanced in her studies.

  Truly, she had potential he would not see squandered. This was just one of many lessons.

  He left them tangled together as he stood, the contrast of their naked skin a stimulating sight. Soon he shed the yellow that bedecked him for the first time in too many moons.

  Their lidded eyes caught upon his form, his black hair falling well past his shoulders. "If you might return the favor," he whispered into the wind.

  His nimble fingers tangled in their hair as they approached, one a river of pale gold and the other a shock of soft dark curls scented with spices. Their own hands worshipped at the instrument of his ego hanging heavily between his legs. Perhaps the only part of him he hadn't cared to change in some way.

  Soon they planted kisses across its length, Sarella leaving smudges of gold from the dye that decorated her lips. She was also the first to take him in her mouth, those same golden lips stretched messily around its heft.

  Though she tried mightily, she could not take it to the root, and her sister fared not much better, retreating as soon as the crown dared tickle her throat, her fa?ade of innocence ruined for the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

  It was Sarella that finally dared to place his hands behind her head. He understood the assignment, slowly lodging himself inside her velvet throat with a sigh, her dark eyes rolling in the back of her head. He had missed this.

  His eyes turned on Tyene as she touched her fingers to the heft of him in her sister's throat, her bruised lips upturned into one of her smiles.

  He dared for a few strokes until he closed on his release. Vacating her with a lurid pop, he brought their faces together and painted them the color yellow like they were a canvas. Streaks of it decorated their nose and cheeks and hair. "Magnificent," he joked.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Tyene touched some of it to her tongue. "Honey, lemon, saffron…"

  "Don't forget blood," Sarella added as she followed her example.

  "Who are we to judge a sorcerer's seed?" her sister snarked, supping on some more of it.

  It was like to join his fondest memories.

  They made themselves more presentable before they departed for the night.

  His eyes touched on the stars in the sky after a breath, the sun long since set. He would not recriminate himself for some indulgence. It was only another way to keep in touch with his humanity.

  He retrieved a sphere of black that threatened to steal all the light from the room, having done away with the pretensions. That it also rendered the world of blood and thought he had carved inside the dragonglass less unstable did not hurt. A dash of non-Euclidean geometry.

  His head yawned and soon he had crawled inside of it.

  In this world he did not have to wonder how to conquer the Sisyphean boulder that was entropy, its strings stretching out across the breadth of a continent. All but a daughter in Myr, a crownless king in the Disputed Lands, and a leal subject in Volantis.

  It was King's Landing that drew his gaze first. There a queen sat with her grandmother for supper, their conversation touching on a thousand things. If not for her dove-white gloves, the horror would already be plain to see, for within her belly a second heart of petal, vine, and thorn beat once for every seven heartbeats.

  Elsewhere a maester clutched his own belly as its children wagged his tongue.

  Her grandmother already suspected something in her heart of hearts, yet what were they to do? House Tyrell stood upon a house of cards. To rock it would only spell their doom.

  He would see them rise to heights unimaginable instead. Time would tell if they would put in him the same faith as their queen.

  To their north a lady carried his sword high into the mountains, her eyes set in determination. Neither the wind nor the treacherous heights would stop her.

  Her squire awaited her.

  On the other side of Westeros a princess and would-be queen mourned her father. Not far from her he watched a salt-stained priest argue for a kingsmoot, his beak wet with the blood of kings.

  That led him to the Rock, his first wife staring at herself in a mirror as her ladies waited on her. Her unrepentant narcissism amused him sometimes.

  A crown of sunshine still sat upon her mane of golden curls for all the rest of her was bare. Her hands rested on her generous hips, carefully so as not to leave even a blemish on her porcelain skin with claws as deadly as any lioness's. Her breasts still laden with milk heaved with every forceful breath. Truly, she was a work of art all his own.

  "Robe me," he heard her purr. Even the tallest of her ladies had to stand on her tiptoes to throw a nightgown over her shoulders.

  When he crossed into the waking world, it was as something more than a yellow smear. How much more… that was more open to debate.

  "Solomon," she breathed. Her ladies were sent away.

  He approached her more like a specter than a man, caressing her cheek before he claimed her lips. It left two yellow smears.

  Cersei soured slightly when her fingers passed through him like smoke. "I would see you with me sooner."

  "It is only a turn of the moon more," he whispered in her ear.

  "Aunt Genna schemes where she thinks I won't hear," she complained. "And trusting Tyrion to…"

  "Let her. It is her words that will stir your father from Deep Den. Let them all play right into your hands." Those hands he took into his own, smearing them yellow. "As for Tyrion, you need only trust him to act in his nature."

  "You are right," she murmured softly. "I worry needlessly."

  "Better than to let your wits dull," he soothed. "And I am never far from you. You see that truth before you."

  With those words he retreated back to Dorne.

  The black mirror he vanished into the yellow that bedecked him again. He retired for the night after. While his body rested, his mind wandered across Sunspear.

  He only cared to stir when a Dornish princess called on his door.

  She stalked past him not unlike a prowling cat bedecked in colorful silks when he opened it. He supposed she had worked up the courage. "Sunspear has come alive with rumor despite my father's decree of secrecy." Her big dark eyes met his boldly. "Some of it has concerned you."

  Not a word of it was news to him. "All those that care to know already know of their presence here. The secrecy is not for their benefit. As for my person…" The next smile found his lips on its own. "Spend an eve in Flea Bottom and you will soon discover that I am the ghost of the Mad King and Maegor the Cruel returned to haunt them. Black Harren also."

  "Not Bloodraven?" she asked. The question much amused him.

  "I wondered the same. Perhaps they think he still lives."

  She pulled on a lock of her dark hair. "Many of the lords have found it queer that His Grace would give away his only sister's hand to a man with no lands to his name." A pink tongue wet her lips in a pointed manner. They find it queerer still to see it go unconsummated."

  "You would forgive me if I do not find their rapprochement to be compelling. When the sky bleeds red and dragons soar through a Dornish sky again, they will bite their tongues."

  Her smile turned inviting as she touched his hand. "Perhaps you would bed a woman instead."

  Her gown tumbled to the floor, the sun dancing across her dusky skin. She was a woman grown as she had said, her already ample breasts standing out all the more for her prominent dark nipples. Her belly was slightly plump, her hips curvaceous, and between her legs was a patch of curls the same color as her hair.

  For all a part of him reacted accordingly, it also brought to mind an issue he had been neglecting.

  Approaching her, a needy whimper escaped her pouty lips for his fingers tangling in her perfumed hair. "You need not win my favor when you already have it," he told her. "I would see you succeed in all your endeavors."

  A pout met his words.

  "It is an heir they will soon expect from you. If you would be bold, you know what you should do. Join the dragon with the sun again."

  She gave a noisy sigh. "If he does not spend his time exacting a messy justice on thieves and rapers, he spends it poring over old tomes with the queerest maester I had ever seen. How can I win the heart of a man that hardly seems to care for a woman's touch?"

  He did not question her on the sense of trying to win his own black heart instead.

  "Are you just any woman?" He toyed with one of her prominent nipples, her teeth tugging at her lip for it. "Perhaps I might lend a helping hand."

  He turned his mind on Sunspear for a breath.

  "His Grace is still abed."

  Though she had a thousand questions, she donned her gown again before they left his rooms. A part of her even seemed relieved at having left his parchment kingdom behind.

  One of the Kingsguard met them at the door, his darkly purple eyes stirring to them only a moment. "Darkstar," he greeted cheerfully.

  "Sorcerer," he returned miserably. They were such good friends that the vain knight did not bar him passage.

  He threw open the curtains to bask in the sunlight, the same sunlight that woke a Targaryen king and cast light on his betrothed.

  "Solomon?" he questioned, his silver hair in disarray. He was not as gaunt as when he found him, yet still slender as most every Valyrian.

  "I am no apparition, Your Grace."

  The would-be queen least knew to play the part. "Beloved." A radiant smile even graced her lips.

  "It is not long now until the red comet would herald you. For all you will take to the skies upon Balerion the Black Dread as the Conqueror had, you will need an heir also."

  His pale cheeks colored. "Now?"

  "Now," he confirmed just as cheerfully.

  "My moonblood had gone some days ago," she mentioned. With the words her gown fell to her feet again.

  Viserys stood from the bed like a man possessed, his eyes of pale lilac raking across her form. They met his own more nervously.

  "I would ensure it takes, Your Grace." Approaching him, his fingers toyed with a lock of silvered hair. An altogether impressive blush greeted him as he pulled the would-be king nearer to his debutante.

  Quick on the uptake again, she took her betrothed's hand and brought it to one of her dusky breasts, pale fingers pressing into the soft flesh. Then she stole a kiss. Finally she took his hand and led him back to bed.

  It wasn't long until they were going at it like a pair of bunnies.

  He swept from the room back to his own rooms after whispering a spell into the room. His work continued.

  Unfortunately his parchment kingdoms would remain stubbornly separated. It tempted him to just try as it were.

  Perhaps he would have if yet another visitor had not come to his door.

  Her deeply violet eyes were nervous as she entered, her dainty hands clasped together in supplication. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

  Daenerys Targaryen presented a bundle of contradictions. Part of her was grateful that he was content to wait a hundred years if it so pleased her. Another part thought too highly of him, and wanted him to ravish her.

  "You are free to come and go as you please."

  She smiled at him for it, the morning sun catching on her hair of silver and gold. And then again it turned nervous.

  "Viserys had asked why I am not… which is to say…"

  He spared her the trouble. "You will find your brother verily distracted for a time. Princess Arianne has taken him to task. You are like to have a niece or nephew in some nine moons."

  Her cheeks as pale as her brother's turned red as cherries. "T-That is fair to hear. After Ser Darry, it had only ever been my brother and I…"

  Her thoughts seemed to take her, at least until his hum returned her to the world. "Do you remember what I mentioned after we were wed?"

  "You spoke of Valyria before the Doom took her." Her eyes gleamed with curiosity.

  "Yes. Your blood might help with the endeavor, if you would part with it."

  Though his black mirror already held her blood, more could only help.

  Her silver tresses bobbed as she nodded. A dagger of Valyrian steel he offered and a black sphere he raised.

  To her credit, she did not so much as make a sound when she cut her fingers open, the mirror greedily drinking every drop of blood until the flow ebbed and ended.

  His head yawned open again. "You might not like what you see if you stay."

  Her stubbornness showed itself. "We are husband and wife."

  He touched his heart before he crawled inside that world of blood and thought again.

  Although all the parts of him across the world were still disseparate, there were enough of them that he could find his way back. Or so he hoped. There were very few certainties with sorcery…

  With all the blood she fed it, it had only given him more power over her, the sight of her bright as a supernova. Though that was not what occupied his mind now.

  That image of her shattered into a thousand reflections as he cast his mind deeper into all that her blood represented. He saw the monstrous sight of the Mad King, the folly of Aegon the Unlikely at Summerhall, the hubris of Aegon the Unworthy.

  He saw queens also, the sadness of Rhaella Targaryen and the black smiles of Betha Blackwood. That rabbit hole he shied away from. The Blackwoods were an old line.

  Soon he saw Rhaenyra Targaryen devoured by a dragon bright as the sun. He saw Jaehaerys, so ancient he'd almost turned to dust. He saw Aegon and his sister-wives, and he went deeper still, even as his head began to pull apart at the seams so very far away.

  And then, finally, he beheld her. Daenys the Dreamer. She even resembled her however many times removed granddaughter.

  "I would see what you saw," he whispered in a thousand ways.

  Her haunting violet eyes were wet with tears as she obliged.

  Valyria was at the very peak of her power. None would dare challenge them after they had ground the Rhoynar to dust. Even the Golden Empire of Yi-Ti in far Essos acknowledged their ascent.

  Their hubris saw no end. They drank even deeper of the Fourteen Flames. They were gods in the skin of mortals. Soon some wondered if they might shed even that.

  When they heard that one of their number had succumbed to greyscale in Volantis, they laughed at his weakness.

  When the grey plague devoured a city, they scorched it from the earth with dragonfire.

  When one of the sorcerers and wizards that held dominion over the Fourteen Flames turned to stone in the night, their hubris turned to worry for the first time in an age.

  Yet even as it spread like something out of a zombie apocalypse, they still bickered, still sabotaged rivals and friends alike. The centuries unchallenged had left a deep rot.

  Those the grey did not take, the slaves bearing a thousand faces did. They stirred rebellion near and far. They turned disagreements into feuds and feuds into massacres. And then the fall.

  One morrow the Fourteen Flames heaved. Their shackles, already weakened, came unbound, and their fury erupted with a sound that shattered glass as far as Qarth.

  The hundred spires of Valyria vanished in a breath.

  Above it all a grey thing laughed and laughed and laughed. It was not of the world, parts of it creaking in and out of it.

  His heart crawled with vindication at the sight.

  It was when it "turned" in his direction that he took his leave, though not before a bow on his part, one thing that went bump in the night to another.

  A river of yellow trickled down his nose and chin when he returned to the present, smearing across the stones. A princess looked at him worried and petrified in equal measure. He soothed her. Pain was an old friend.

  The revelation still left him giddy. Mad, maybe. Why?

  He had worried that his search was all for naught. Now he knew the truth. That there was more than sorcery in this world.

  He stirred himself to stare at the evening sky. One moon more…