King's Landing, Dragonpit
"Roar..."
Sunfyre lay on the ground, one wing pinned beneath a steel plate, devouring the charred remains of wyverns. Judging by its ravenous hunger, it had clearly endured a great deal on the journey here.
"Take good care of it. Watch closely for any worsening of the wound," Rhaegar instructed the Dragonkeeper, removing his black robe with care.
"Yes, Your Grace," the Dragonkeeper responded quickly.
"That's good," Rhaegar said with a nod, feeling a sense of relief. Then, in a more casual tone, he called, "Daeron."
"Coming," Daeron replied, climbing out of the Dragonpit and tossing aside the bundle he had been carrying.
Bang!
Rhaegar caught the bundle firmly, opened it, and placed it in front of the Dragonkeeper. "A newly laid egg from Silverwing. Special care is needed," he said seriously.
The Dragonkeeper looked puzzled but chose not to question the command. He signaled to his fellow keepers, who carefully took the dragon egg and placed it in a pre-prepared incubator.Rhaegar smiled but said nothing. In today's world, dragons were the symbol of House Targaryen. The birth of the Smoking Sea wild dragon Morghul had caused a huge stir. The wild dragon Uragax, a living fossil, had hidden itself as much as possible before finally regaining the freedom to soar once more.
"Roar..."
Sunfyre had nearly finished its meal. The dragon stretched its neck toward Rhaegar, cooing and nudging him playfully. Rhaegar hesitated for a moment, then reached out to rub the golden scales, silently apologizing to his younger brother Aegon. 'Your dragon is no longer pure,' he thought.
"Roar..."
Sunfyre's clear pupils reflected the dragon's contentment as it licked its sharp snout before curling up beside the wyvern's corpse. When it wasn't around its own kind, it behaved like a well-mannered creature.
Rhaegar noticed this and glanced at the wyvern's charred, pale pink tail. "Aegon is a fool with good fortune," he remarked admiringly, "to have a dragon that is loyal, brave, and handsome."
Among the four generations of dragons in the House, each one possessed remarkable talent. Syrax and Tessarion had yet to reveal their full potential, but they had already proven themselves in battle. Grey Ghost was a wild dragon and thus, better left unmentioned. Seasmoke and the fierce Sunfyre, both battle-hardened, were the finest of their generation.
"Sunfyre is beautiful, even with its burns," Daeron said sincerely. Tessarion was proud and striking in appearance, but its temperament was too wild.
"You're right," Rhaegar agreed, nodding as he turned to leave the Dragonpit.
If Sunfyre and Seasmoke grew strong, they would be the House's mainstay for decades, even if they never reached the status of fully mature dragons.
"Roar..."
Sunfyre opened its eyes, watching the two brothers' retreating backs. A soft sound escaped its throat, almost as if it were bidding them farewell.
...
Red Keep
"Your Grace, Prince Aegon's second wedding went ahead as planned, causing quite a stir among the nobility," Lyonel reported in a low voice, his expression serious and weighted with concern.
"As expected, the Andals aren't accustomed to multiple marriages," Rhaegar remarked as he walked into the opulent Red Keep, always vigilant of the shifting attitudes among those around him.
The wedding had only recently concluded, and many nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms were still present. Rumblings had already begun among the nobility, who harbored strong opinions about the king's multiple marriages. Even Daemon, the king’s uncle across the Narrow Sea, had found himself embroiled in controversy when he attempted to marry Mysaria, the White Worm. As the king’s half-brother and Prince of the Stepstones, Aegon openly taking two wives was seen as a direct affront to the Seven Kingdoms' nobility.
"Your Grace, it would be wise to offer some explanation," Lyonel suggested patiently, though with a hint of exasperation. The tension between the Faith of the Seven and the Protestant faith was already straining relations with the more devout nobles. If the royal family began normalizing multiple marriages, it could easily be perceived as a provocation.
Rhaegar paused, his expression hardening. "Lord Lyonel, when does a king need to explain himself to his vassals?"
"There must be some reassurance to ease the nobles' concerns," Lyonel replied helplessly.
"They'll have to adjust," Rhaegar said, shaking his head. "Father has been too lenient with them, and they've developed bad habits as a result."
With that, he left Lyonel standing there, anxious and uneasy, and ascended the stairs.
"Your Grace..." Lyonel called after him, but his voice trailed off in frustration. The king was admirable in many ways, but his youth and impetuosity were apparent. With House Targaryen at the height of its power, commanding more than twenty dragons of various ages, the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms felt increasingly suffocated. The Targaryens and their dragons had become "gods" in the eyes of the world, their dominance unquestioned.
'Alas, Your Grace seems intent on suppressing the nobility,' Lyonel sighed deeply, his heart weighed down with unease.
...
Red Keep
Rhaegar glanced at his father resting in his chambers, then took a bath before stepping out of Maegor's Holdfast. He bypassed the throne hall, slipping through a back door into the Godswood.
Under the Weirwood, the ground was blanketed in red leaves, like a soft crimson carpet. Helaena stood beneath the ancient tree, her gaze fixed on its rough, white trunk and the tortured face carved into it.
"What are you doing?" Rhaegar asked softly, careful not to startle her.
Helaena flinched slightly, turning her head just enough to acknowledge him. "The people of the North have taken the supplies to the Wall."
"I know," Rhaegar replied with a smile, thinking, 'The caravan was like a long dragon, and Lord Lyman was beside himself with frustration.' But there was nothing to be done—the promised support for the Wall couldn't be reduced by even a penny.
Helaena lowered her eyes, speaking quietly, "This is right. The Wall protects us." As she said this, her thin frame trembled slightly.
Rhaegar's smile faded as he noticed the subtle tremor. He looked her over carefully and saw that her silver hair hung loose and flowing, and she wore a light blue velvet dress, far less elaborate than her usual attire. Her posture was relaxed, almost lazy.
Taking her hand, Rhaegar gently stroked the small but noticeable bulge in her stomach. "Did you see anything?" he asked with concern. He had known since childhood that Helaena's ability to see the future was stronger than his own. Even with his enhanced dreamwalking abilities, he could only glimpse the dreams of specific people, not peer into them at will.
"I see winter," Helaena whispered, her voice trembling as she suddenly closed her eyes.
"What else?" Rhaegar asked, lightly touching his forehead, attuned to the mention of winter.
"And..." Helaena's eyes fluttered open, catching sight of her brother's serious expression. She hesitated, swallowing the words she couldn't bring herself to say. She wasn't sure if what she'd seen was real, and she couldn't tell her brother.
"Can't you tell?" Rhaegar's brow furrowed, trying to gauge the gravity of the situation.
"I'm not sure," Helaena replied nervously, quickly turning away. "But it's going to be very cold."
"Don't worry, it hasn't happened yet," Rhaegar said, pulling her close and whispering reassuringly, "Don't be afraid of things that haven't come to pass, or you'll suffer three times over when they do." Facing problems head-on was the best way to overcome them; fear solved nothing.
"Sorry, I'm just a little overwhelmed," Helaena admitted, snuggling into his arms and clinging to his shirt with a fierce grip. Rhaegar glanced down, noticing her fingers had turned white from the pressure. The tighter she held on, the more secure she seemed to feel.
Rhaegar's eyes darkened, sensing the seriousness of her vision. "I plan to explore the Smoking Sea soon to retrieve the Dragon's Horn. Do you have any suggestions?" he asked, his mind already turning to possible dangers. Daemon had ventured into the Smoking Sea and survived. If trouble was indeed brewing, he needed to act swiftly.
At the mention of the Smoking Sea, Helaena's timid eyes brightened, and she nodded eagerly. "You should go where the flame of your homeland still burns."
"The Lands of the Long Summer?" Rhaegar asked, pressing for clarity.
"I don't know. I can't see it," Helaena replied quickly, offering her opinion. "But a strong flame can better withstand the winter."
Rhaegar hesitated, thinking over her words. "I see," he said at last. The winter Helaena had foreseen was not yet upon them. He had time to prepare. Returning to the Lands of the Long Summer was the first crucial step.
As they discussed, the two siblings began to outline the framework of a looming disaster with their prophetic gifts. Rhaegar’s thoughts drifted, and he tightened his strong arms around her. Helaena remained silent, closing her eyes and sinking deep into thought. They leaned on each other beneath the watchful eyes of the Weirwood, time passing slowly.
Suddenly, Helaena's eyes snapped open, and she spoke with certainty. "Call Aemond back. He can help you."
"Him?" Rhaegar turned to her, surprised. "I exiled him to make his name in Qohor." Truthfully, he was reluctant to contact the boy now. Qohor, an ancient Free City, had formed an alliance with Braavos and Pentos. Aemond's attack on Qohor would attract the attention of all three Free Cities and potentially bring peace to both sides of the Narrow Sea.
"You don't know, do you? Qohor has already surrendered," Helaena whispered, blinking. "You need a capable assistant to make your life easier."
"That boy is indeed capable," Rhaegar admitted, raising an eyebrow as he detected a hint of pride in Helaena's voice. It seemed Otto and House Celtigar had invested considerable effort.
"You smell of jealousy," Helaena teased, tilting her head to look up at him from his solid chest, her large, watery eyes sparkling with amusement.
"No way," Rhaegar replied with a smile. "I'm going to fly to Lys. You take care of this."
Helaena bit her lower lip, thinking for a moment before agreeing. "Okay." It was part of her duty to manage her brother's affairs.
...
Time flew by, and a few days passed in the blink of an eye.
In the vast forest to the east of the continent of Essos lay the ancient city of Qohor. Its towering walls, built into the mountains, now served as a grim display of conquest. Dead bodies dangled from the gallows, eyes wide open in eternal horror. The city's defenses had been overtaken by Dothraki warriors clad in animal skins, their cold eyes watching the terrified residents below.
"Whining...”
“My child!”
...
On the broad streets paved with red and yellow bricks, rows of old women and children knelt in anguish, their eyes fixed on the skeletal remains of their loved ones swaying in the wind. The Dothraki had promised to spare the lives of their captives if the gates were opened. But as soon as the barbaric cavalry entered, they unleashed a bloody and ruthless massacre. Any man who dared to resist, or even showed a hint of defiance, was killed without mercy.
...
In the eastern district, masked priests gathered in the temple. The statue symbolizing the Black Goat faith had been burned to the ground, collapsing into rubble. Hundreds of these priests were now bound and forced to kneel in the ruins, awaiting their punishment. Behind them loomed a majestic temple constructed entirely of wooden wedges.
"Creak, creak..."
A skinny monkey swung down from the canopy, darting away in a burst of energy. Aemond, seated in front of the temple, caught sight of the creature with its large, round eyes and stroked his chin. "What an ugly thing. Helaena would like it," he mused. The monkey’s silver fur glimmered in the sunlight, and its fist-sized purple eyes were lively and curious. This was a small lemur, known in Qohor as a “little Valyrian.”
"Prince, we should kill them all," Bartimos suggested, his voice laced with malice.
"No, religion is the cultural foundation of a nation. Killing them all would provoke widespread civilian opposition."
"Who cares about those low-lifes? We have a dragon!" Bartimos retorted, his tone dismissive. He and Otto glared at each other, their confrontation drawing fearful glances from the nearby nuns and female slaves draped in gauze.
Otto frowned deeply, warning once more, "Religion must not be undermined. We want a Free Cities that can be ruled, not one in chaos."
"Lord Hightower, you've spent six years shoveling manure in the countryside. Has your courage been buried in the muck as well?" Bartimos mocked, his words dripping with scorn. Noticing Aemond’s distant expression, he added, "Prince, are you even listening?"
Aemond snapped out of his reverie and met Bartimos’s gaze directly. "Are you done spewing nonsense?"
"Prince, you—" Bartimos stammered, taken aback by the sharp retort, his face flushing with anger as his mustache bristled.
"That's enough. I don’t want to hear any more of your drivel," Aemond said dismissively as he stood to leave. 'Listen to my grandfather, you stinking crab,' he thought to himself, his patience wearing thin.
"Prince!" Bartimos called out, unwilling to let the matter drop as he moved to follow. But two Dothraki guards quickly intervened, crossing their scimitars to block his path.
Otto, adjusting his disheveled collar with a self-satisfied smirk, said, "Lord Bartimos, heed the Prince’s orders."
"Hmph!" Bartimos grunted in frustration before turning on his heel and storming off.
...
Qohor, Back of the Mountain
"Roar!"
Sheepstealer lay sprawled on the ground, a large patch of scorched earth in front of it, littered with charred remains. Several similar scorched patches dotted the area, where the dragon had feasted. Among the burnt remnants of goats, a few blackened, spiked helmets lay melted and deformed.
"Baa~~"
A goat’s agonized cry pierced the air as its half-chewed body lay twitching. Without hesitation, Sheepstealer unleashed another blast of Dragonfire, reducing the creature to cinders before extending its withered head to swallow the remains whole.
The dragon was absorbed in its meal when a figure appeared in the distance. Aemond's expression hardened as he approached, preparing for his usual patrol. But as he reached the top of the hill, his single eye darkened with suspicion.
A man was standing next to the ugly Mud Dragon.
"Who are you?" Aemond demanded, his voice cold as ice, while slowly drawing his Scarlet Forger from its sheath. From his vantage point, he could see the Mud Dragon—skinny, with folded wings that looked like a pair of devilish hands. Beside it stood a slender figure, dressed in a colorful gauze gown, with silver hair flowing freely.
The figure was barefoot, standing on the grass. At the sound of Aemond's voice, she slowly turned to reveal a fair, maidenly face. Aemond’s heart sank at the sight, and he reluctantly sheathed his sword.
“You’re in trouble,” the silver-haired maiden said suddenly, her voice clear and ethereal.
Aemond’s single eye flashed with cold light as his face darkened. "You’re the one in trouble," he retorted, striding toward the hillside with menacing intent.
The maiden remained indifferent, her tone flat as she spoke again. "Someone will soon bring you a message—to stand against the darkness and the winter together."
"What did you say?" Aemond growled, taking another step closer, his expression growing more ominous.
"Darkness and winter, like the Doom of Old Valyria," the maiden replied, tilting her head with eerie calm. "As a descendant of Old Valyria, you should be familiar with the Doom."
Aemond paused, his wariness growing. "How much do you know about Old Valyria?" he asked cautiously. A woman with silver hair and blue eyes could very well be of Valyrian descent. But it was rare for such a descendant to hail from Qohor.
"To be honest, not much," the maiden admitted, her demeanor unruffled. "My ancestors were soldiers recruited in Qohor. All that remains are stories passed down through the generations, aside from a few pregnant prostitutes."
"Are you of the Dragonblood?" Aemond’s eyes flashed with a hint of murderous intent as memories of Dragonlords in Qohor surfaced.
"Roar!" Sheepstealer responded to Aemond's unspoken command, a fiery glow simmering in its throat. The stench of burnt sheep filled the air, and the maiden’s silver hair fluttered in the breeze.
Facing the fearsome man and dragon, the maiden remained composed. She pulled a stack of wooden tablets from her collar and offered calmly, "I can tell you the fortune of your journey."
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