Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 361: Alright, Let’s go to War!

"Prince Rhaegar, don't you think you're being too aggressive?"

Khaeldor interjected from the sidelines, his fat, tanned face taut with tension.

Rhaegar looked down at him with disdain. "In what capacity are you speaking to me, my lord?"

"I am the general representative of the Triarchy, and I am in charge of these negotiations," Khaeldor replied, straightening his clothes.

Myr had suffered greatly since the defeat at the Second Battle of the Stepstones, and Khaeldor was now the only magister left. He had made a fortune rebuilding the city, becoming the richest merchant in the city-state.

Rhaegar snorted. "A 'general representative,' indeed." He swept his gaze over the Triarchy representatives, finally fixing his cold stare on Khaeldor. "I'm asking you one thing: will you return Morghul or not?"

Under Rhaegar's violet gaze, Khaeldor's nerves tightened, and he swallowed hard. His heart raced, but the prospect of taming a dragon outweighed his fear. It was a businessman’s nature to seek profit.

Khaeldor straightened his back, his large belly protruding, and said in a deep voice, "Morghul is a wild dragon. It has no master or rider and now belongs to the Triarchy!"

"Rubbish!" Rhaegar's face darkened. "My great-grandmother Queen Alysanne’s mount Silverwing still resides on Dragonstone Island without a rider. Does that mean you can capture it as well?"

Khaeldor gritted his teeth. "Targaryen has never had an adult dragon named Morghul. It is fundamentally a masterless dragon."

"If you refuse to hand over Morghul, then prepare to see fire and blood!" Rhaegar's patience snapped, and the negotiations collapsed.

The tension around the stone table was palpable. Helaena clenched her fists nervously, while excitement flashed in Aemond's eyes as he glanced at his brother.

Seeing the confrontation escalate, Ferrego hurriedly stood up, laughing brightly. "Let’s not rush into anger. We can negotiate the ownership of the wild dragon." freeweɓnøvel.com

Bang!

Rhaenys slapped the table and turned her cold gaze to Ferrego. "Sealord, The Targaryens will not allow any dragons to be taken, nor will we tolerate anyone who dares to try it!"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop to freezing. Everyone knew that the Sealord of Braavos had been insincere, secretly aiding the Triarchy to suppress the Targaryens.

Rhaegar's eyes were icy. "Sealord, can I take it from your words that you have allied yourself with the Triarchy to declare war on Targaryen?"

Ferrego was momentarily speechless. He glanced at Khaeldor and then said with forced resolve, "Prince Rhaegar, the wild dragons do not belong to the Targaryens."

Rhaegar laughed derisively. "I didn't know there were dragons in the world that didn't belong to the Targaryens."

He crossed his arms and said, "Very well, then let's go to war."

Rhaegar patience was exhausted, since they wish for war, he will grant then a song of blood and fire that will be remembered in history!

Khaeldor, his face flushed with anger, stood up violently. "Liar! Do you think this is still the Freehold era? Targaryens was just a poor Dragonlord family. Many lineages in Essos are more noble than your bloodline!"

The representatives of Lys and Tyrosh stood up as well, turning the negotiation into a confrontation.

Crunch.

Rhaegar's chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the harsh sound echoing through the room. Khaeldor's face was grim as he stared at the silver-haired prince rising before him, his large belly heaving with each rapid breath.

Khaeldor's confidence was bolstered by the five hundred Unsullied soldiers under his command and the alliance with the Sealord of Braavos. This alliance was the backbone of his courage to challenge the Targaryen heir prince. His breath grew heavier, and he glanced at his ally Ferego, puffing out his chest with a proud demeanor.

But as his gaze returned to Rhaegar, a pale, jade-like hand shot out before his eyes.

Bang!

Khaeldor's head slammed into the stone table. He tried to scream, but his throat was crushed in Rhaegar's iron grip.

"My lord, I admire your courage," Rhaegar sneered, lifting Khaeldor up like a small chicken and slamming his dark face into the table again and again.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The relentless blows sent blood flying, an unbridled release of Rhaegar's pent-up rage. A lowly slaver who dared to defy him was beyond reproach.

"Stop!"

The sudden violence stunned the Lys and Tyrosh representatives, who shouted in alarm.

Swish.

Helaena, her face tense, drew a small, pocket-sized sword from her sleeve and pressed it against the Lys youth's solar plexus. "Don't move."

Simultaneously, madness flashed in Aemond's eyes. He smashed a ceramic cup from the table and held a sharp shard against the Tyrosh youth's neck, nearly severing his throat. Blood flowed freely.

The Qohor representative's face turned white with panic. "Targaryens, please, let's talk this out!"

As the old man tried to rise, Aegon sprang up, grabbed his head, and slammed it against the table. "Old fool, stay down!"

The meeting room transformed into an execution ground. One by one, the four Targaryen heirs unleashed their fury, having waited for this moment.

"Stop! Stop this at once!"

Ferrego's face was pale with shock. His gaze shifted from the cold-faced Rhaenys to the executioner-like Rhaegar. Rage and fear mingled in his eyes.

The lean swordsman beside Ferrego drew his blade, stepping forward to protect the Sealord.

Clatter...

Hearing the commotion outside, a group of guards quickly rushed into the conference room, their spears and swords raised as they surrounded everyone. Rhaenys stood haughtily, holding her sword, Dark Sister, as she gazed at Ferrego, who cowered in the doorway.

Only the Pentos representatives and Daemon remained at the conference table.

"Gentlemen..." the stunned Pentos representative began, trying to make peace.

Daemon squeezed his shoulder, keeping an eye on his nephews and nieces, and smiled slightly at Ferrego. "What, you still think you can keep us here?"

Ferrego's face turned red with anger. "Prince Daemon, you openly attack a guest in my palace. Do you think Braavos is easy to bully?"

"Oh?" Daemon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Wasn't it you who first thought the Targaryens were easy to bully?"

Ferrego's anger boiled over, his beard trembling as he pointed at Rhaegar, who was methodically smashing Khaeldor's head into the table. "He's committing murder!"

Rhaegar paused and turned to give a cold warning. "If you don't want to lose that finger, put it down."

"You..." Ferrego stuttered, unable to comprehend the Iron Throne's newfound audacity.

Suddenly, a dragon's roar echoed through the room, loud and piercing. The floor-to-ceiling windows darkened as a shadow fell across them.

Ferrego's eyes widened in horror as a massive, pitch-black dragon's head slowly emerged, its green vertical pupils glowing with a cold light, like an evil god watching over them.

The dragon bared its teeth, revealing interlocking sharp fangs, and exhaled a mouthful of ghostly green dragonfire. The intense heat shattered the glass window, sending a torrent of searing air into the room.

Even from over ten meters away, Ferrego's hair and beard began to singe, the acrid smell of burning hair filling the room.

Rhaegar stood with his back to the dragonfire, his silver hair blowing in the wind, his purple eyes glowing with fury. With one hand, he dragged the half-dead, bloodied Khaeldor toward Ferrego.

"Stop!" The thin swordsman cried, his fear evident as he glanced at the dragon.

The guards surrounding the chamber broke ranks, screaming and wailing in terror as the heat washed over them.

Rhaegar stopped in the middle, his expression fierce. "I said it was war!"

With that, he slammed his fist into Khaeldor's throat, then used his other hand to rip out part of the man's throat, the gruesome act silencing the room.

"Ho ho..."

Khaeldor couldn't even scream, his face contorted in agony as he clutched his throat, his black, fat body writhing like a dying maggot. Slowly, painfully, he succumbed.

Rhaegar glanced at Ferrego and scornfully declared, "Sealord, the first blood of the war has been shed."

He raised his blood-soaked palm, and the severed throat flew out, snapping off like discarded garbage.

The grisly piece slid across the white stone floor, leaving a vivid trail of blood, and came to a stop at Ferrego's feet.

Ferrego was stunned, his chest heaving with a mixture of rage and fear, unable to utter a word - neither to curse nor to spit venom.

Unconcerned, Rhaegar stooped, pulled a silk handkerchief from Khaeldor's breast pocket to wipe his hands, and headed for the door. "Dragonfire will first fall on Lys. Please, expect it."

His words echoed and drew an immediate response from his siblings.

Helaena glanced timidly at the Lys representative, and with a firm thrust, drove her small sword through his temple, the blade piercing his entire head.

Stab!

Aemond moved even faster, the porcelain shard slicing through the Tyrosh representative's throat, blood spurting three feet away.

Not to be outdone, Aegon laughed wickedly and grabbed the old man's head from Qohor, intending to smash it against the table.

The old man immediately pissed himself and yelled, "I'm not one of them!"

"Hm?"

Aegon hesitated, glanced at Helaena and Aemond, who had already completed their tasks, and scornfully released the old man.

With Rhaegar leading the way, the four young Targaryens walked out the door one by one.

"Heh, a good show," Daemon grinned as he rose, tugging the Pentos representative along. This was how wars should be fought—the more intense, the better. His brother's son was much more bloodthirsty than his father.

Rhaenys frowned, refraining from commenting on her cousin's approach, and turned to leave the conference room.

After the Targaryens exited, Ferrego looked at the field of corpses and the screaming guards, trembling in a daze.

Taking a few labored breaths, he turned to glare at the silver-haired figures walking down the corridor, unable to control his urge to curse.

Swish—

Sensing the malice behind them, the silver-haired figures turned their heads in unison, staring back with cold, unyielding eyes.

The corridor's dim light cast shadows on the white stone walls, and six pairs of violet eyes shone with a cold, deadly aura.

Ferrego hiccupped in surprise, the words dying in his throat.

A phrase came hastily to mind:

"Blood and Fire!"

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