Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 519: A Group of Bastards Without a Dragon

Afternoon, temporary base.

A flat, barren hillock stretched out for miles, devoid of grass, with a hot wind constantly blowing, mixed with sand and gravel.

“Roar...”

Vhagar's muddy pupils narrowed slightly, the massive dragon's body lazily sprawled on the ridge, its horse-sized throat occasionally emitting a low growl.

The sky was clear and cloudless.

Three dragons of different colors hovered above, casting shadows over the three sheepskin tents below.

Bang!

Inside the central tent, a rough map was placed on the table.

Rhaegar leaned over it, his hands propped on the table, speaking seriously, “A detailed map of The Lands of the Long Summer, along with information on a supposed descendant of a known Dragonlord family.”

His fingers traced an illustration of a red dragon with a crown, and he licked his lips. “Quite a mess, isn't it?”

On either side of the table, the three dragon riders gathered.

“Aethyrys! A name known even today!”

Daemon's eyes were sharp, his voice low: “Of the forty Dragonlord families, only a few are still remembered by the world.”

The uncle and nephew exchanged a knowing look, everything said without words.

Rhaegar touched the space necklace, the sun pendant of which was carved with the crowned red dragon.

Daemon glanced at the black whip in his nephew's hand, recalling the binding spells he had mastered.

All of it came from the Aethyrys family.

Rhaegar spoke first, his tone unwavering: “There can only be one Dragonlord family, and that is House Targaryen!”

Daemon immediately agreed, his voice cold: “There are four of us and four dragons. I propose we go straight to Slaver's Bay tomorrow morning and burn that filthy place to the ground.”

The uncle and nephew reached a consensus, their opinions strikingly aligned.

The Targaryens' long reign was due to two main factors.

First, the slow breeding of dragons.

Second, their unique noble bloodline.

Before the destruction of Old Valyria, the Targaryens were merely a mid-ranking Dragonlord family.

After the Doom, the remaining Dragonlord families were all wiped out.

As the sole survivors, House Targaryen rose to the pinnacle of the world.

A newly revived Dragonlord family would threaten the Targaryens' very foundation.

Watching the taciturn uncle and nephew, Laena frowned and rationally analyzed, “The authenticity of this news is unknown, and attacking without proper information is unwise.”

“Foolish, It’s not a matter of truth or falsehood!”

Daemon retorted bluntly, “If anyone dares to claim the Dragonlord name, the prestige of House Targaryen will plummet.”

Moreover, the Aethyrys family was not a recorded Dragonlord family.

No one had ever heard of this name before the semi-ruins of Myr appeared.

The uncle and nephew had kept their secret well, and it had never reached as far as Slaver's Bay on the far eastern continent of Essos.

There must be a reason for the news to spread.

Laena's eyes narrowed, and she looked away in disgust.

Helaena, who had been quiet until now, looked around and hugged herself.

She sensed the tension in the air, and her sensitive nerves were on edge.

“Take a break.”

Rhaegar noticed his sister's discomfort and took off his black robe, draping it over her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Helaena said, shrugging slightly but appreciating the warmth. She asked, “Where did this news come from? A Dragonlord family with a stable heritage wouldn’t hide its name for centuries, would it?”

After the Doom, the Targaryens had taken root on Dragonstone for decades, passing through generations. It wasn’t until the Black Dread, Balerion, reached the age of one hundred and crossed the threshold of adulthood as a dragon that the Targaryens began their conquest.

Meraxes and Vhagar had found their masters and reached the prime of their lives. Only then did the Conqueror and his two sisters start their war, thrusting the Targaryen and Valyrian bloodlines into the spotlight of the world.

Laena’s throw a skeptical look at Daemon. Daemon, avoiding his wife's gaze, looked directly at his nephew, his expression cold. His spies had not yet reached Slaver's Bay.

Rhaegar, no less direct, said, “The news came from a Red Priestess of the Red Temple. Her followers are everywhere in Meereen.”

She was a difficult woman with strange methods. When Volantis was selecting the a councilor to be stationed in Lys, the Red Priestess was on the shortlist. Rhaegar, disliking witches, had secretly removed her from the list.

Daemon snorted derisively, "Great, maybe there really is a bastard Dragonlord family!"

Whether Aethyrys' bloodline was real or not, Dragonlords without dragons were considered bastards.

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow and said, “According to intelligence, a bastard Dragonlord named Aethyrys has received hospitality from the Good Masters of Meereen. It is said he was a former herdsman.”

“Any family members?” Helaena asked, her voice light.

Rhaegar nodded. “Yes, the whole family was admitted to the Great Pyramid in Meereen. A girl from the family became a concubine of the Good Masters.”

“No wonder they're bastards!” Daemon continued to mock.

“Cut the crap,” Laena interjected, irritated. “A fake family is not worth mentioning. The key is the wild young dragon in the Smoking Sea.”

Rhaegar agreed. “The young dragons haven’t yet left the Smoking Sea, but someone wants to seize the area to catch them.”

The warships of Slaver's Bay had already blocked the Smoking Sea, sending the first group of "dragonlords" of unknown origin to find the young dragons.

Daemon proposed, “I suggest we first burn down the Great Pyramid in Meereen and eliminate the threat of a bastard Dragonlord family.”

"The impostors are afraid of death. It's not worth the risk to use the dragons," Laena added. “We don’t have a fleet, so we should first use the dragons to destroy the fleet blocking the Smoking Sea and cut off their access.”

Even if the fake Dragonlord family were real, they would be just like any other human without going into the Smoking Sea to find the dragons.

First, they must eliminate the enemy's wings. Then, they could wait for the naval forces of Westeros to arrive and destroy the enemy in one fell swoop.

Bang!

“Foolish woman!” Daemon slammed his hand on the table, sneering, “Our reputation is more important than a young dragon.”

Helaena flinched at the sudden noise, her pretty face turning pale. She had seen her parents disagree often, leaving her with a psychological scar. The quarrel between Daemon and Laena made her even more anxious.

Rhaegar glared at his uncle and pulled the fragile Helaena into a comforting embrace. He made a decisive call: “Tomorrow morning, we will gather to destroy the defenses of the Smoking Sea.”

“After that, we'll wait for the fleet of House Velaryon to arrive.”

Westeros is far enough from the Stepstones. Beyond the Disputed Lands, the journey would take months each way. And with all the supplies along the way, it would be a real problem. This was one of the main reasons why Rhaegar didn't like fighting across the sea. The front line was in a mess, and half of his advisers were still on their way. If the ships were caught in a storm, the entire crew would be fed to the fish.

Daemon frowned, his expression darkening as he considered Rhaegar's decision.

Rhaegar continued, “Uncle, you don’t want the young dragon to be taken away by some bastard, do you?”

“As you wish,” Daemon finally conceded, his tone bitter.

The tragedy of Morghul was a scar on all Targaryens.

“Very good!” Rhaegar nodded, guiding Helaena out of the tent.

“Oh, you’re so short-sighted,” Laena said, glancing at her husband before walking away with a swagger.

Daemon was left alone in the tent.

...

Outside, on the barren hillside, the wind howled softly.

Rhaegar glanced back and saw Laena entering a separate tent with Helaena. from freewēbnoveℓ.com.

After a moment of silence, Laena headed towards another tent, with Vhagar following close behind.

Four people, three tents.

...

The next day.

The Gulf of Grief.

Located on the southern coast of the continent of Essos, it connects to Slaver's Bay. To the south, it meets The Summer Sea, while its western shore holds the ruins of Valyria, and its eastern shore is home to the ancient Old Empire of Ghis. From above, it resembles an open trumpet, attracting merchant ships from all over the world for trade.

At noon, the weather is clear. A fleet, manned entirely by slaves, sets sail from The Gulf of Grief, passing the almost black Isle of Cedars on its way to the Smoking Sea.

The fleet, flying the golden banner of the Harpy, consists of more than thirty ships, capable of carrying five thousand men.

The lead ship is a three-masted galleon. On deck, a black-armored Unsullied stands straight and expressionless on guard.

Deep in the hold, the dark, cramped space is damp and smelly. A dozen Valyrians with silver-blonde hair and fair skin, dressed in rags, huddle in the corner, shivering.

“Mother, I want to go home,” a little girl sobs softly, her dirty face buried in the arms of a plump woman. The woman's eyes are dull as she mechanically strokes her daughter's long hair, pulling out a few unruly strands.

They are all slaves, crammed into the hold by their hypocritical Good Masters, treated like livestock. Their purpose is to be pushed into the Smoking Sea to die.

"Stop crying!" A scruffy man with a mouthful of hard black bread shouts an intimidating order from the hatch. He has taken over the only dry area, but has defecated and urinated on the others' territory. His hair is dirty and gray, and he has indigo eyes that are unmistakably of Valyrian blood.

The little girl stopped crying immediately, freezing at his command.

The slovenly man spits and curses, "Stop crying. If we find a dragon, we can escape our slave status."

"The Smoking Sea is dangerous. Anyone who goes there is cursed," replies a skinny silver-haired youth from the corner, shyly.

“Hmph!” The slovenly man drops a piece of black bread, missing a back molar, and says indistinctly, “I'd rather die than be a slave.”

Then he changes his tone, his eyes glowing with a sinister light, “If we can really ride a dragon, we would be more noble than anyone living in the Great Pyramid.”

A Dragonlord who emerged from some alleyway would receive special treatment from the Good Masters. If he had known, he would have claimed to be a Dragonlord too, enjoying the privileges of a superior.

In Westeros, those who ride dragons are called Targaryen and Velaryon. He would call himself Dayne Daeryon!

He starts to laugh in a strange way. The skinny youth hears the noise and his face turns pale. He quickly covers his sore buttocks.

...

The same scene is repeated in the hold of every ship.

Hundreds of descendants of Valyria, captured and sold, are kept in the bottoms of the ships as supplies for capturing young dragons. Whether they are useful or not, they are sent to the Smoking Sea first. The Good Masters, who are merciless, do not care if the slaves live or die.

...

Splash... splash...

As the sun sets, the waves grow rougher. The fleet sails out of The Gulf of Grief, around the smoky sea, and into The Summer Sea.

“Steer! Take in a sail!”

The lookout sticks out his tongue to test the wind direction and gives orders to the sailors below. It is getting dark, and the wind is growing stronger. On the moody sea, it symbolizes the approach of danger.

The slave army, lifeless and weary, joins the ranks of those steering the ship. The Unsullied patrol back and forth, monitoring the large slave army, as if they were superior to the slaves.

Hoo-hoo!

A gust of stinking sea wind blows, and the half-hoisted sails shake violently.

“It's windy!”

Someone shouts, warning the fleet to navigate carefully.

However, the wind and waves are not the only threats arriving. The sky has become overcast and dark, with clouds packed tightly together.

Crack!

A silver flash of lightning splits the sky like a silver vase.

“Roar!”

The roar is louder than thunder, and rain begins to fall. A huge figure stirs the wind and clouds, causing countless sailors to look up in fear.

“Dragon!”

“Scorpion crossbow, hurry!”

The commander of the Unsullied shouts, killing the slave soldiers who cower in fear and barely stabilizing the situation.

In the midst of the chaos, the slave soldiers act as if they have accepted their fate. They furiously tear off the huge curtain on the deck, revealing the newly built scorpion crossbow.

Click! Click! The winch creaked, and steel spears were loaded as the crossbowmen aimed at the misty sky.

Whoosh!

A black dragon shadow flashed past, its wings like the scythes of death cutting through the rain-soaked black clouds. The next moment, a cold voice rang out.

“Dracarys!”

The black dragon turned and swooped down, its dark body blending into the storm clouds, leaving only a pair of green eyes gleaming like bronze bells.

“Roar!”

Green Dragonfire rained down, igniting every ship in the fleet. Cannibal's cunning and tyrannical pupils darted left and right, flapping its wings with an agility surprising for its size.

Boom!

Warships caught fire one after another, and screams echoed through the chaos.

“Fire! Hurry!”

“It hurts... run...”

The contrasting voices of commanders and slave soldiers created a symphony of panic and despair. The fleet was in complete disarray, with a few steel spears futilely shooting into the air.

“Roar!”

“Roar...”

The counterattack was met with a series of dragon roars. Dreamfyre plunged through the clouds, its light blue Dragonfire fantastically beautiful as it engulfed lifeboats attempting to flee. Vhagar and Caraxes emerged together, black smoke and red flames in tandem, extinguishing the last vestiges of courage in the slave soldiers.

Crackling... drizzling...

Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and the wind howled. Rhaegar's silver hair flew wildly in the storm, and the rain soaked his handsome face. He looked back and shouted, “Quickly finish the battle! Pay attention to your altitude!”

His voice, amplified by the skill of a binding spell, reached the ears of the other three dragonriders. Daemon's eyes were cold, rainwater flowing down his collarbone and into his chest, his scarlet cloak resembling a tongue of fire.

Caraxes reveled in the thunderstorm, roaring maniacally as it spewed endless Dragonfire. The combined destructive power of the four dragons overwhelmed the enemy fleet.

In no time, the sea was dyed red with blood.

“Go! Return to the base!”

Cannibal skimmed across the blood-red sea as Rhaegar leaned forward to give his orders. In just one day, the four dragons had surrounded the Smoking Sea, destroying dozens of warships and patrol ships from Slaver's Bay.

Exhausted in both spirit and body, they were no longer fit to fight in the rain.

“Roar...”

Caraxes, exhilarated, swayed like a snake across the sea, devouring the surviving enemies. Daemon looked around and saw many silver-haired figures, ordering them to be burned.

Anyone who dared challenge the Targaryens' uniqueness, innocent or not, deserved to die.

Rhaegar watched from afar, signaling Helaena and Laena to go ahead. He had captured some special slaves and wanted to interrogate them for information.

Daemon, meanwhile, could stay and vent his anger.

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