Chapter 271: A Fallen Targaryen
"Everyone, calm down."
Rhaegar removed his hood, revealing his handsome face and maintaining an air of composed confidence.
The group of slave traders hesitated, not daring to step forward.
People have different auras.
Rhaegar's pure Valyrian features, combined with his noble demeanor, left no doubt about his extraordinary status.
Seeing their hesitation, Rhaegar spoke calmly, "Stay quiet for a moment and let me ask my questions."
The slave traders exchanged glances before silently stepping back, enclosing both of them in the center.
They assumed he was a wealthy man who might be interested in purchasing the slave girl.
Only then did Rhaegar take the time to carefully examine the girl kneeling at his feet.
She had slightly wavy hair, fair and radiant skin, and a petite, delicate figure that evoked a strong sense of protectiveness.
At this moment, she lifted her face high, her entire body barely covered by two tattered pieces of cloth.
Rhaegar was momentarily stunned when he saw her face.
To be honest, she bore a striking resemblance to Rhaenyra—about thirty percent alike. Her beauty was astonishing.
On her cheeks were two teardrop-shaped tattoos, marking her as a prostitute.
Rhaegar frowned, feeling a deep sense of displeasure. "Who gave you that name? And how do you know where I come from?"
Many people share the same name.
But the name "Danyla" was a variation of an ancient Targaryen name, not a common Valyrian one.
Moreover, her immediate recognition of his Targaryen heritage was knowledge far beyond what a prostitute should possess.
"My lord, my mother gave me this name. Many of my relatives share similar ones," Danyla answered honestly, tears brimming in her eyes. She knew that the young man before her was her only hope.
She pointed to the collar of Rhaegar's black robe, where a button was faintly visible. With a trembling voice, she said, "Your button bears the emblem of a three-headed red dragon."
Hearing this, Rhaegar loosened his collar and glanced at the insignia on the button.
Targaryen attire was always luxurious and distinctive.
He hadn't expected a prostitute to recognize his heritage from such a detail.
Realizing she was not as simple as she seemed, Rhaegar crouched slightly, locking eyes with her striking blue ones, and repeated his initial question:
"Why should I help you?"
Danyla's pale face was covered in bruises, her large eyes filled with fear. She trembled as she spoke:
"I apologize for saying this, but I might share the same bloodline as you."
The moment she uttered those words, she instinctively shrank back, afraid of being scolded or beaten.
Her status was far too low to claim any connection to a noble bloodline.
Rhaegar was taken aback, his expression shifting unpredictably.
After a brief moment of contemplation, he stood up and pulled a bulging pouch from his sleeve, tossing it toward the slave traders.
They quickly caught it and, not fully trusting him, opened it to check its contents.
Instantly, they were captivated by the glimmer of gold coins.
Rhaegar fixed them with a sharp gaze and said coldly, "Take the money and get lost."
Regardless of whether Danyla's words were true, her origins could not be discussed in public.
She had asked him for help, which meant he could not allow these slave traders to take her away.
One of the traders picked up a gold coin and bit down on it hard, confirming its authenticity. His expression turned obsequious.
"She's yours, my lord."
With that, they secured the pouch, warily scanned their surroundings, and hurried away.
In the Free Cities, wealth was power.
Rhaegar ignored them, kicked Danyla's hand aside, and turned away, his voice cold.
"Follow me."
"Yes, my lord."
Overjoyed, Danyla clutched the rags on her body and quickly followed.
---
Rhaegar found a decent inn and chose a secluded table by the window.
He tossed her a robe to cover herself and got straight to the point.
"Whose bastard are you?"
Danyla was young—she appeared to be around his age.
Rhaegar suspected she might be the illegitimate child of either his father or Daemon in their younger years.
Wrapping herself tightly in the robe, Danyla lowered her head and timidly replied,
"I'm no one's bastard. My mother was just a prostitute. She never knew who my father was."
"Your bloodline comes from your mother?" Rhaegar asked, puzzled.
Danyla nodded and spoke in a barely audible voice.
"My bloodline comes from my mother, and hers from my grandmother."
"Your grandmother?" Rhaegar latched onto the key detail, his expression growing uncertain.
A woman of grandmotherly age should be quite old.
For her to still pass down strong Targaryen traits was unusual.
Danyla shrank even further, trembling.
"You've probably heard my grandmother's name before… her name was Saera—"
She hesitated before whispering the rest.
"Saera Targaryen."
---
That night.
Rhaegar crossed the Long Bridge and arrived in the bustling eastern district, where numerous brothels stood side by side.
"This is the place?"
He pointed at one of the largest, busiest brothels.
Danyla, hidden under her black hood, her silver-gold hair tucked away, nodded firmly.
"Yes, this is the place. I grew up here—I wouldn't mistake it."
"Lead the way."
Rhaegar's gaze was complicated as he blended into the crowd of clients entering the brothel.
The establishment was massive, spanning three floors and adorned with all manner of provocative paintings and carvings.
The moment he stepped inside, an overwhelming scent of perfume assaulted his senses.
Everywhere he looked, bare-skinned women entertained eager customers, lost in their own indulgences.
Beyond the walls, muffled moans and laughter filled the air, thick with desire.
Danyla led the way, drawing surprised glances from the other prostitutes, though none approached her.
Rhaegar followed her up to the third floor, where the atmosphere grew quieter, replaced by the sound of music.
As they stepped forward, a door down the hallway suddenly opened, and a middle-aged man with silver-gold hair emerged.
The moment Danyla saw him, her body visibly trembled, and she came to an abrupt stop.
A middle-aged man walked up to the two of them, sizing up Danira from head to toe before remarking in surprise, "I just heard someone report that you had returned. Truly unexpected."
As he spoke, his gaze shifted to Rega, and he asked, "Kid, did you buy Danira?"
Rega lifted his head, removed the hood that concealed his face, and countered, "I'm looking for a woman named Senila. I heard she's here."
"She's here, all right. She's my mother and the madam of this brothel," the middle-aged man responded, studying Rega's silver-gold hair and violet eyes. After a moment of contemplation, he chose not to conceal the truth.
"Take me to her," Rega said, his voice turning cold, unwilling to waste time in the hallway.
"She hasn't taken clients in a long time, even for someone as young and handsome as you," the man replied, momentarily stunned before decisively refusing.
Danira's voice trembled as she interjected, "Uncle, this lord is from Westeros."
Upon hearing this, the middle-aged man's expression changed slightly. In an instant, he recalled the distant land he had traveled to in his youth.
He took a closer look at Rega and suddenly understood a great deal.
A pure Valyrian descendant, from Westeros…
There was no need to think further—he must be from that family.
Panic flickered across the man's face as he quickly said, "Please, come with me. Mother is resting in her room."
With that, he turned and strode swiftly down the corridor toward a room.
Rega took a deep breath and followed.
Upon entering the room, he saw that the white walls were adorned with various decorations.
By the window stood a velvet bed, draped in sheer gauze.
Kneeling on either side of the bed were two young male slaves, their muscular upper bodies bare.
"Gaedel, who is it?"
A lazy female voice emerged from behind the sheer curtains, where a figure could be seen reclining.
"Mother, a true dragon has arrived," Gaedel—the middle-aged man—stood by the doorway, hesitating before revealing the truth.
"A true dragon! A Targaryen!"
The woman's voice suddenly rose in pitch, and she sat up in bed.
The curtains parted from within, revealing her face.
Rega remained silent, his gaze fixed on her.
The woman sitting half-upright on the bed appeared to be in her forties or fifties. She had long silver-gold hair and violet eyes.
Her skin was pale and well-maintained, hinting at the beauty she once possessed in her youth.
As Rega looked at her, she, too, took notice of the young man who had entered her room.
Her expression was complex—disgust, nostalgia, indifference…
After a brief silence, she pulled a thin blanket over her exposed legs and asked calmly, "Whose child are you?"
If she remembered correctly, the only two surviving male Targaryens at the time had been Viserys and Daemon.
This boy before her was likely a son of one of them.
"My father is Viserys, the King on the Iron Throne," Rega said in a tense voice, feeling uneasy. "My name is Rega, Great-Aunt Senila."
That's right—the madam of this brothel was, in fact, his great-aunt.
A pure-blooded Targaryen.
Senila Targaryen, the ninth child and fifth daughter of his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I.
From what Rega knew, of all Jaehaerys' twelve children, Senila was the one who had angered and disappointed him the most.
From a young age, Senila had been rebellious and competitive.
She often played excessive "pranks" on her siblings and the courtiers.
Because of this, she had been ostracized by several of her sisters, including Rega's grandmother Alysanne and his maternal grandmother Danira.
As she grew older, Senila gathered a group of female and male companions, indulging in debauchery.
She eventually lost her virginity to one of her three male lovers and had relationships with all three.
When the scandal was exposed, Jaehaerys imprisoned her companions and personally sentenced one of the men to death in a trial by combat.
Furious, he then sent Senila to Oldtown, placing her under the strict supervision of her sister, Septa Magna Targaryen.
Under rigorous discipline, Senila could not bear the nun's harsh beatings and eventually escaped.
She found a ship in Oldtown and sailed to Lys.
There, she began working in a brothel, posing as a newly arrived maiden of the Faith, entertaining clients.
It was half a year before this news reached King's Landing.
Jaehaerys was enraged and disowned her as his daughter.
The scandal caused heated disputes between him and Queen Alysanne, leading to the Second Quarrel.
From that moment on, Senila completely abandoned herself to her new life, becoming a true courtesan.
In 99 AC, she left Lys and moved to Volantis, where she established her own brothel.
During the Great Council of 101 AC, Jaehaerys, having lost his heirs, sent envoys to retrieve his last remaining daughter and bring her back to King's Landing.
Senila refused.
She declared that she had her own "kingdom" in Volantis and had no need for the Iron Throne's inheritance.
However, she did send her three illegitimate sons—each from a different father—to Westeros to participate in the succession vote.
Of course, all three of them were rejected.
No one would ever accept the bastard sons of a whore.
Senila ran a hand through her silver hair, her movements slightly flustered. Irritated, she asked, "Why have you come to see me?"
It had been so many years since she last had contact with family.
Seeing Rega so suddenly stirred up old memories she had long buried.
Chapter 272: The Unknown Curse
Faced with Senira's indifferent attitude, Rhaegar merely smiled without comment, his hesitation vanishing.
Just a few words were enough to confirm that the rumors in Westeros were true.
This great-aunt of his truly had no affection for her family.
With that discomfort gone, Rhaegar calmly said, "You are my great-grandfather's only surviving child. As the heir to the family, it is only right that I come to see you."
No matter what, Senira was still his great-aunt.
If he had never known about her, it wouldn't have mattered.
But since he had come to Volantis and learned of her whereabouts, he ought to meet her.
"What's there to see? I'm just a disgrace to the family," Senira scoffed, her expression shifting between pale and sallow before she suddenly began coughing heavily.
A male slave kneeling by the bedside hurriedly got up, grabbed the wine bottle from the nightstand, and poured a drink before respectfully offering it to her with both hands.
"Get out," Senira snapped.
She took the bottle, took a swig, and then waved dismissively, ordering the two male slaves to leave.
Rhaegar observed coldly, stepping aside from the doorway.
Gaidel turned his head slightly and whispered, "Mother is getting old. Her health isn't what it used to be."
Rhaegar kept his gaze steady, indifferent.
If he remembered correctly, Senira should be 54 years old this year.
That was certainly an advanced age.
With a sigh, Rhaegar stepped forward, pulled up a chair, and sat down. He then voiced the question that had been on his mind:
"Great-aunt, why didn't you return to Westeros back then?"
Senira had many chances to go back, yet she never did.
"I built my own life in Volantis," Senira replied, suppressing her cough and breathing heavily. "King's Landing is nothing but a rat-infested hole. If I went back, I'd have nightmares."
Rhaegar frowned slightly. There seemed to be something deeper hidden in her words.
After a moment of thought, he deliberately said, "Great-grandfather used to curse you, but in his heart, he always missed you."
"My step-grandmother was Lady Alyson of House Hightower. She took care of Great-grandfather in his final days."
"The reason he chose Alyson to care for him was that he often mistook her for you."
Watching Senira's reaction carefully, Rhaegar added seriously, "When he was taking his last breath, he clutched Alyson's hand, calling out your name, thinking it was you who had crossed the sea to see him one last time."
He wasn't lying; these events were recorded clearly in the family's historical records.
When he was younger, Alyson had also told him stories about his great-grandfather.
His words carried weight—anyone with a heart would be moved.
As expected, Senira's face darkened, her breathing growing heavy.
Rhaegar pressed on. "You are the oldest surviving Targaryen. Do you not wish to return to the family?"
"Enough nonsense. If I wanted to go back, I would have done so long ago," Senira replied in a low voice. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened as if she were reminiscing. "I had so many brothers and sisters, yet in the end, only the most despised two outlived our father."
"Great-grandfather was called the Long-Lived King. During his reign, the kingdom was peaceful," Rhaegar remarked with a shrug.
Across Westeros and Essos, the average lifespan wasn't high.
Since people married and had children early, it was true that his great-grandfather had outlived two generations by the time he reached 69.
Senira glanced at Rhaegar and muttered, "Boy, don't you find it strange?"
Rhaegar's heart stirred as his gaze sharpened.
As expected, there was a hidden meaning in her words.
Senira's expression grew melancholic, and she murmured, "The Targaryens come from fire… Westeros is too cold."
"Great-aunt, could you explain that in more detail?"
Rhaegar couldn't quite grasp her meaning.
"You're so slow!"
Senira gritted her teeth in frustration. "Westeros doesn't welcome the Targaryens. It's full of parasites waiting to prey on us."
Rhaegar's eyes flickered in shock. "Are you saying… someone conspired to eliminate Great-grandfather's children?"
His great-grandfather had thirteen children. Apart from those who died young, most of them had perished unexpectedly in adulthood.
The thought was indeed unsettling.
Senira shook her head decisively. "I don't know. I have no proof. It's all speculation."
"Then why did you—"
Rhaegar paused, about to mention how she had spent her life drifting between Lys and Volantis.
"I simply didn't want to be under my father's control. He was too rigid. He never valued me as his daughter," Senira said bitterly, finally revealing her true thoughts. "King's Landing is a rat's nest, unfit for true dragons to live in."
Rhaegar remained silent.
Now that she had opened up, Senira continued ranting as if releasing years of frustration.
"My sisters… one died of childbed fever, another in childbirth, another fell from a horse, and another drowned herself in the river…"
"And then there were Aemon and Baelor. They were Father's favorites—great dragonriders."
"But in the end? They all met untimely deaths. Not a single one ever sat on the Iron Throne."
Rhaegar listened quietly, his mind racing.
From Senira's words, he could tell that even though she lived in Volantis, she had always been secretly keeping tabs on the family.
And she wasn't wrong.
His grandmother Aelyssa had died in childbirth. His maternal grandmother, Daenela, had succumbed to childbed fever.
Then there was Sister Magna Targaryen, who had cared for children suffering from greyscale and had ultimately died after contracting the disease herself.
Visanrya Targaryen had tried to climb into his grandfather Baelor's bed after his grandmother Aelyssa's death, hoping to become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Baelor had rejected her and arranged her betrothal to the Lord of White Harbor instead.
To escape the engagement, she had disguised herself as a maid and fled on horseback at night—only to break her neck along the way.
---
Rhaegar's great-grandfather's youngest child was also a daughter—Gaerai Targaryen.
She was seduced and impregnated by a wandering singer. Overcome with sorrow and fear, she drowned herself.
That made six daughters who had died.
Among the male heirs, Aemon was assassinated, and Baelor was suspected to have been poisoned.
Counting the three children who died in infancy, the only surviving descendants were the woman before him, Saenyra, and Vaegon the Dragonless.
At this thought, Rhaegar shuddered, a chill running down his spine.
He finally understood what Saenyra had meant when she said the "most annoying thing" was outliving their great-grandfather.
If there truly was some conspiracy at play, Saenyra was much safer staying far away from Westeros.
Vaegon the Dragonless was a renowned maester, entirely devoted to his studies, and had distanced himself from the family.
He had died a natural death the year after their great-grandfather passed away, meeting a peaceful end.
Saenyra murmured to herself, "That cold-hearted brother of mine… He didn't like his sister, didn't like dragons, and insisted on becoming a maester."
Rhaegar remained silent, his mind racing.
Vaegon Targaryen—one of the only three surviving male heirs of their great-grandfather.
He had refused to marry his sister, Daenella, as he was supposed to, and showed no interest in Saenyra, who was closer to his age. Instead, he resolutely chose to go to the Citadel.
"He passed away over a decade ago, I think. I can't quite remember… I haven't paid much attention to Westeros for a long time."
Saenyra irritably ran her fingers through her silver hair, coughing again, and muttered, "After the Great Council of 101, we exchanged letters. Even back then, he was bedridden, in terrible health."
"You should stop worrying about me and go to the Citadel in Oldtown. Vaegon must have left behind plenty of research."
Rhaegar blinked, a sense of suspicion rising within him.
"Go to the Citadel…"
Vaegon the Dragonless had earned maester's chains in various fields, proving his vast knowledge.
Saenyra's coughing grew worse, leaving her gasping for air. She took a few gulps of wine, but it didn't help. Lying back on the bed, she clutched her chest, her face flushed red with discomfort.
Seeing this, Rhaegar grew concerned about his great-aunt's health.
Gaedal spoke softly, "My mother's old illness is acting up. I'll arrange a room for you to rest in."
Rhaegar shook his head. "No need. Just take care of your mother."
With that, he prepared to leave.
Meeting this blood relative from his grandmother's generation had given him access to secrets few knew.
It had been a worthwhile visit.
As Rhaegar walked out of the room, Gaedal and Daenella followed closely behind.
Gaedal grinned, trying to please him. "It's late outside. Let me find you a few beautiful girls to keep you comfortable for the night."
Rhaegar's expression turned cold. He glanced at Daenella but said nothing.
Daenella was of Targaryen blood, yet she had ended up in a brothel. The thought filled him with anger.
Even if she was a bastard, he saw it as a disgrace to their lineage.
Gaedal was quick-witted and immediately realized his mistake. He hastily explained, "Daenella's mother was a prostitute. After she died, the brothel took care of her. Just a few days ago, a Lyseni merchant paid a high price to buy her."
Rhaegar turned to Daenella, waiting for her to speak.
Lowering her head, Daenella nodded slightly. "I never wanted to be a prostitute, but that Lyseni merchant gave my grandmother a lot of gold."
She was making her stance clear—she had been sold against her will.
Rhaegar's expression remained cold. "She was sold like livestock because of your greed."
Gaedal fell silent, unable to justify it.
The merchant had simply offered too much money.
Rhaegar ignored him and stepped outside.
Daenella hurried forward and tugged at his black robe, whispering, "I have a younger sister. Can you take her with you too?"
Rhaegar stopped in his tracks and turned to glare at Gaedal.
Gaedal's face paled in panic, and he quickly explained, "Rhaela is still young. She just works in the kitchen at the brothel."
Rhaegar took out a pouch of gold coins and tossed it to Daenella. "Go get your sister. Any other Targaryen bastards—take them too."
There were plenty of bastards on Dragonstone. If necessary, he would find a place for them there.
"There's no one else. My mother only had two daughters. The other one is already married," Gaedal interjected quickly, afraid of further misunderstandings.
Daenella also nodded, hurrying off with small, quick steps to find her sister.
Once she left, the dimly lit corridor was filled only with the muffled sounds of pleasure coming from the nearby rooms.
After a moment of silence, Rhaegar asked, "You have two bastard brothers?"
Gaedal hadn't expected him to speak first and was flattered. "Yes, my eldest brother is a merchant, and my younger brother has a father who's a magistrate. They've both left the brothel behind."
Rhaegar's eyes flickered with thought.
He recalled the two magistrates of the Elephant Party.
Chapter 273: The Temple of R'hllor
Before long, Danira hurried back.
She was pulling along a young girl, around twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in coarse cloth.
The girl had distinct Valyrian features—wavy silver-gold hair, light purple eyes, and skin as fair and delicate as milk.
Rhaegar glanced at her briefly.
She had a pleasant appearance, with a small, round, and adorable face. She clung timidly to Danira's hand.
Danira led her forward and said gratefully, "Rhaella, this is the lord who saved me. Quickly, thank him."
Rhaella was an honest child. With a soft thud, she dropped to her knees, her voice trembling slightly. "Thank you, noble lord."
"Get up."
Seeing that the girl was about the same age as Helena, Rhaegar furrowed his brows slightly and softened his tone.
He had always been objective about bastards—neither particularly biased nor particularly accepting.
"Let's go."
Ignoring Gaedel's awkward expression, Rhaegar pulled his hood over his head and led the two illegitimate girls out of the brothel.
---
### The Next Day
A figure in a black robe slipped past the Black Wall and entered an unassuming inn.
Pushing open the door to a room on the second floor, he was immediately greeted by a girl's delighted voice. "My lord, you're back!"
Danira's face lit up with joy. She was still holding a rag, having just been wiping down a table.
She quickly pulled over a freshly cleaned stool and said, "Please, my lord, sit down and rest. I'll go get some food."
"No need—I brought some back."
Rhaegar pulled down his hood, revealing his face, and placed the food he had bought on the table.
Danira and Rhaella hesitated to take it, looking at him timidly.
Rhaegar waved his hand. "I've already eaten. You two go ahead."
The two girls had lived difficult lives, growing up in fear and uncertainty.
They were both respectful and afraid of him.
Muttering her thanks, Danira took the food and shared it with her younger sister.
As she chewed on her bread, Danira asked quietly, "My lord, did you meet with the Triarch?"
She knew Rhaegar had gone out early in the morning for that purpose, but judging from his expression, he had gained nothing.
Rhaegar nodded. "The two Triarchs from the Elephant Party weren't at their residences."
Last night, he had learned from Gaedel where the Elephant Party's Triarchs lived.
Unfortunately, neither of them was home.
"Triarchs are all terrible," Rhaella muttered while nibbling on her ham, lowering her head timidly.
"Because they encourage the slave trade?" Rhaegar asked.
Volantis had preserved the Freehold's traditions, maintaining both an electoral system and the institution of slavery.
Rhaella nodded vigorously, her small frame leaning against her sister.
She was still heartbroken over Danira being sold.
"Hurry and eat. I have to go out again later."
Rhaegar ruffled her hair, seeing a hint of Helena in her.
"Can we come with you?"
Rhaella tilted her small face up, looking at him pitifully. "My sister and I have spent our whole lives working in the brothel. We've never seen the outside world."
"Rhaella, be quiet!" Danira gasped, scolding her bold little sister.
Rhaegar chuckled. "It's fine. You can come. There's no harm in seeing the city."
As he spoke, he handed Rhaella a black robe.
Since he hadn't been able to meet the Elephant Party's Triarchs, he had no intention of waiting around.
Instead, he planned to take in the sights of Volantis, purchase some local specialties as gifts, and then leave.
Hearing that they could go outside, the sisters beamed with excitement and quickly swallowed the rest of their food.
Under the blazing midday sun, three figures in black robes walked through the streets of the eastern district, drawing some attention.
"The Long Night is dark, and danger lurks everywhere…"
As they strolled along, a woman's voice filled the air, preaching the faith of the Lord of Light.
Rhaegar adjusted his hood, catching sight of the same red-robed woman he had seen on the Long Bridge yesterday. She was once again passionately addressing a crowd of commoners and slaves.
"Avoid her."
Rhaegar had no patience for red priests and quickly led them into a narrow alleyway.
After walking for some distance, they emerged to find themselves in front of a grand building.
Its architecture resembled a temple—white walls adorned with tattered red cloth, and flame symbols painted in dye.
At the temple's entrance stood two massive stone torches, both ablaze with fire.
Rhaegar observed for a moment and noticed a group of warriors nearby, dressed in red robes and armed with short clubs and spears.
"My lord, this is the Temple of R'hllor. Those men are the Lord of Light's guards," Danira explained helpfully.
"So we've stumbled right onto the doorstep of the Lord of Light," Rhaegar remarked with an amused shake of his head and turned to leave.
"Wait, honored guest!"
Suddenly, a rich, magnetic female voice rang out.
Rhaegar halted, his eyes scanning his surroundings warily.
There were few people near the temple entrance. If she was calling out, it was most likely to him.
---
Rhaegar's eyes flickered as he calmly turned his head.
In his view, a graceful woman in a red robe emerged from the temple, walking toward him with measured steps.
The red-robed sorceress had striking features and carried herself with poise and dignity. Her red lips parted slightly as she spoke, "Honored guest, the High Priest invites you into the temple for an audience."
"An audience with me?"
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes slightly, his tone cautious. "Who is your High Priest, and how does he know who I am?"
Followers of the Lord of Light always seemed a bit mysterious.
He preferred to stay out of their affairs.
The red-robed sorceress chuckled softly. "The High Priest prophesied that an esteemed guest would arrive soon. The Lord of Light guided me to you."
"Speak plainly," Rhaegar said, unmoved. He had no faith in divine revelations.
The sorceress's smile faltered for a moment before she sighed. "I saw your silhouette in the flames. It must be you."
Rhaegar frowned, feeling a hint of doubt.
If he remembered correctly, three years ago in Stoney Sept, a red-robed woman had used fire-induced illusions to deceive the Brecken family.
He had learned about it later from the city's soldiers.
Suddenly, he sensed a gaze upon him.
He looked up sharply. At the temple entrance stood an elderly man clad in red robes, watching him with a calm expression.
The red-robed sorceress followed his gaze and respectfully said, "Honored guest, that is the High Priest—the one who wishes to see you."
"I know."
Rhaegar replied flatly and strode toward the temple.
Since the other party had already revealed himself, there was no reason for him to hesitate.
At worst, he could summon the Devourer—there was nothing dragonfire couldn't solve.
Soon after—
Rhaegar stepped into the temple.
He took a sweeping glance around. The temple's interior was vast and empty, its walls painted with flame motifs, and a stone carving of a blazing heart stood prominently.
Clusters of braziers lined the hall, illuminating the dim space with flickering light.
The red-robed elder had already returned to the temple's center, kneeling before a large bonfire, warming his hands over the flames.
Rhaegar approached, observing the wall carvings.
"Great Dragon King, I have seen you in the flames," the elder said slowly, opening his clouded eyes.
Rhaegar remained expressionless. "What prophecy has the Lord of Light given you? What does it say about me?"
As he spoke, he scrutinized the old man.
The elder had a benevolent face, a bald head, and a long white beard.
"The Lord of Light has given no prophecy. I simply saw you in the flames," the old man said, shaking his head.
Rhaegar sat down by the fire, quietly watching him.
The elder continued in a measured tone, "The tides of magic are surging. In recent years, they have grown more turbulent, leaving me troubled."
"The tides of magic?"
Rhaegar's interest was piqued.
He had heard the term before—from the lips of a Shadowbinder's severed head.
"Indeed. Magic exists in the world, fluctuating like the tides—never truly stable."
The elder explained, "The flames have foretold that these tides will manifest through your bloodline."
"The Targaryens do not have the sorcerous heritage of the Freehold," Rhaegar said gravely.
Among the Forty Dragonlord Families, some were known to have practiced fire magic and blood sorcery.
The Targaryens, however, were never among the most powerful and had no such traditions.
The elder remained composed. "Dragons are the most powerful magical creatures. They carry magic within them."
Rhaegar fell into deep thought.
Dragons were, without a doubt, magical beings—otherwise, they would not be so formidable.
Rhaegar pondered aloud, "Is the number of dragons related to the tides of magic?"
At present, the Targaryens had fourteen dragons, both mature and young.
"I do not know. I have never studied dragons," the elder admitted cautiously. "Ever since the Freehold was destroyed in the Doom, the tides of magic have been receding. But in recent years, they have begun to return."
"So, it's not dragons affecting the tides of magic, but rather the tides of magic affecting dragons?" Rhaegar speculated.
When the Targaryens first settled on Dragonstone, they brought six dragons with them.
For reasons unknown, five perished, leaving only the young Balerion, the Black Dread.
Over the next several decades, Meraxes and Vhagar hatched.
It was not until many years later that the fourth dragon, Silverwing, was born.
This alone showed how rare and difficult dragon hatchings were.
During his great-grandfather Jaehaerys's reign, the number of dragons began to increase.
On Dragonstone, the eggs of Dreamfyre and The Cannibal hatched.
Cradled eggs produced Vermithor and Silverwing.
Two decades later, Sheepstealer, Meleys, and Caraxes were born.
In more recent years, Sunfyre, Syrax, Moondancer, and Grey Ghost had emerged.
From the time of Aegon the Conqueror to now—over a century—the Targaryens had accumulated just fourteen dragons.
It seemed likely that as the tides of magic rose, the rate of dragon hatchings increased as well.
The elder did not respond directly but said with concern, "The tides of magic are highly unstable. If they are rising now, it is possible they may recede even further in the future."
From his perception, the world's magical energy was already very weak.
If it receded further, magic might vanish entirely.
For a follower of the Lord of Light, that would be a catastrophe.
Rhaegar understood the gravity of the situation.
The Targaryens' dragons relied on magic to exist.
A decline in the tides of magic would undoubtedly affect them.
"Do you or the Lord of Light have a way to stop the retreat of magic?" Rhaegar asked curiously.
The elder shook his head with a wry smile. "The tides of magic are part of the world's natural order. No mortal can control them, and I dare not speculate about the will of the gods."
"So basically, we just have to accept fate?" Rhaegar sighed, rubbing his forehead.
The elder's expression turned solemn. He reached into his robes and said, "In the flames, I have seen a great catastrophe. Perhaps it is a trial brought by the tides of magic."
"You certainly see a lot in those flames," Rhaegar muttered, half skeptical.
First, he had seen Rhaegar. Now, he claimed to have seen a disaster.
Rhaegar was beginning to doubt how much of the elder's words were truth and how much was embellishment.
The elder remained silent and, from within his robes, retrieved a glass candle.
Chapter 274: The Dragon Arrives in Volantis
The glass candle was a foot long and as thick as a baby's arm, made entirely of a translucent, glass-like crystal.
The red-robed elder hesitated before saying, "The Dragonlords of Old Valyria could use glass candles to tap into magic and see visions of places thousands of miles away."
At last, he handed the glass candle over and softly said, "This glass candle was found among the ruins of Valyria. It cannot be replicated in the modern age. I give it to you."
In his view, the visions in the flames were not enough to convince a Targaryen Dragonlord.
It was better to give the glass candle to its rightful owner so that it could create the value it was meant to.
Perhaps it could solve many problems.
Rhaegar took the glass candle, turning it over in his hands, examining it from every angle. Confused, he asked, "How do you use this thing?"
He had heard of glass candles before.
The Citadel in Oldtown possessed similar alchemical artifacts.
According to the dismissed maester Toru, he had unintentionally lit a glass candle in a secluded chamber, which led to him being granted a Valyrian steel link—symbolizing mastery in the esoteric arts.
The red-robed elder's eyes held a distant look as he said uncertainly, "Glass candles might require magic. The rest, you'll have to figure out on your own."
"I'll give it a try."
Rhaegar closed his eyes, calming his mind as he focused on sensing the glass candle in his hand.
After speaking with the red-robed elder for so long, he was convinced the man bore no ill will—just an old priest burdened by worry.
Holding the glass candle flat in his palm, Rhaegar silently channeled the magic within his blood.
He was a fire sorcerer, possessing the ability to wield magic.
Suddenly, a familiar sound echoed in his ears—a notification from the **Explorer** system, one he hadn't heard in some time.
**"Exploration mission activated. Objective: The Blood Mage's Secret Candle."**
Rhaegar's eyes snapped open in shock as he stared at the glass candle.
**Whoosh!**
In an instant, the glass candle flickered, and its crystalline wick ignited with a flame.
Rhaegar felt a sudden shift—his blood's magic was being drawn into the glass candle at a slow but steady pace.
"So it really does require magic to activate…"
Muttering to himself, he ignored the red-robed elder's astonished gaze and checked his **Explorer** system panel.
**[Blood Mage's Secret Candle]**
**Exploration Progress: 0.3%**
**Note: This relic is an alchemical artifact. Maintain magical absorption.**
Rhaegar understood at once and deliberately stopped channeling his magic.
**[Blood Mage's Secret Candle]**
**Exploration Progress: 0.3% (Paused)**
"Magic is the key…"
His eyes gleamed as he speculated.
**A secret candle? Could it contain the inheritance of a blood mage?**
The mere thought of an ancient sorcerer's legacy sent a thrill of excitement through him.
"Honored guest, it seems you truly are the rightful owner of this glass candle."
The red-robed elder had witnessed the candle flickering between light and darkness in Rhaegar's hands, filled with deep emotion.
In all his decades of possession, the candle had remained dormant.
It only ever flickered to life during ceremonies worshiping R'hllor, leading believers to see it as a divine miracle, increasing their devotion.
With a sigh, the red-robed elder stood up and left the temple hall, giving the Dragonlord of House Targaryen the space he needed.
Perhaps this man could truly unlock the candle's secrets…
Perhaps he could foresee the calamity that the coming tides of magic would bring.
---
Hours passed in the blink of an eye.
Rhaegar sat cross-legged in front of a dying campfire, fighting off drowsiness.
The glass candle rested between his legs, its wick flickering with a small, unsteady orange flame.
"Hand of the Sacred Fire! Defend the temple!"
"The Tiger Cloaks have gone mad! Get inside the temple—quickly!"
Suddenly, a terrified woman's voice echoed outside the R'hllor temple, frantic and desperate.
"What's going on?"
Rhaegar groggily opened his eyes, confused.
Everything had been calm—why the sudden chaos?
**Crash!**
Before he could react, a dozen red-robed monks and priestesses rushed into the temple entrance.
The monks were bald, varying in age.
The priestesses were all young, most of them dressed provocatively, their cheeks adorned with tattoos of teardrops or flames.
Rhaegar knew that even within the R'hllor temples, there were slaves.
The **Hands of the Sacred Fire**, the temple guards, were enslaved warriors purchased as children and trained for battle.
Likewise, the temple acquired young girls as lifelong slaves.
Only the most devout among them could one day become red-robed priestesses, spreading the faith of the Lord of Light.
"Honored guest, please come with me. There's an uprising inside the Black Walls—rebel forces have overrun the entire eastern district!"
The red-robed priestess who had invited Rhaegar earlier in the day had lost all composure. She ran toward him, speaking in a panicked rush.
"An uprising? What happened?"
Rhaegar frowned, his gaze shifting to the temple's entrance, where the **Hands of the Sacred Fire** were rapidly assembling.
Hundreds of temple guards surrounded the wide entrance, their spears pointed at the chaotic streets beyond.
The priestess's eyes were full of fear as she spoke hastily.
"The two Triarchs of the Elephant Party assassinated the Tiger Party's ruling Triarch. Now the commander of the Tiger Cloaks has risen in revolt!"
As she ran, her loose robes slipped open, revealing a glimpse of soft, pale skin that bounced with each hurried step—though she seemed completely unaware.
Rhaegar blinked, momentarily distracted, before muttering in disbelief.
"Volantis is in civil war?"
No wonder the two Consuls from the Elephant Party couldn't be found earlier — they were busy conspiring to commit assassination.
The Red-Robed Witch was frantic. "The streets are filled with Tiger Cloak soldiers setting fires, looting, and killing. Even many slaves have joined in the chaos. Come with me to hide in the temple's cellar."
Rhaegar didn't respond immediately, hesitating as he glanced at the glass candle.
He opened the system panel.
**[Blood Mage's Arcane Candle]**
- Exploration Progress: 56%
- Note: This relic is an alchemical product. Maintain magical absorption.
The exploration of the glass candle was only halfway complete and needed more time.
Rhaegar fiddled with the glass candle, his mind racing.
He wasn't afraid of the chaos outside.
But he remembered his original purpose for coming to Volantis:
To discern Volantis' stance toward the Three Queens' Kingdom and establish preliminary diplomatic ties with the three Consuls.
The Tiger Party Consul was undoubtedly a hardliner, coveting the Three Queens' Kingdom and aligning closely with the Targaryens.
Now that the Tiger Party Consul had been assassinated, all initial efforts had come to nothing.
The two Consuls from the Elephant Party clearly opposed all Tiger Party policies.
Otherwise, this bloody conflict wouldn't have broken out.
Given the circumstances, what decision should Rhaegar make?
Narrowing his eyes, Rhaegar ignored the Red-Robed Witch's urging. The glass candle in his hand had somehow extinguished.
The Three Queens' Kingdom had always been an enemy of the Targaryens.
A Volantis hostile toward the Three Queens under the Tiger Party's rule was the most favorable situation for the Targaryens.
"Tiger Party... internal strife..."
Rhaegar murmured to himself, unsure of his next move.
**Boom!**
While deep in thought, a thunderous explosion erupted at the temple entrance, accompanied by horrifying screams.
A burning wooden beam crashed into the temple's massive torch, causing a surge of flames.
The sacred flame guards near the temple were caught in the blaze, engulfed in fire as they wailed and ran wildly.
Rhaegar quickly surveyed the scene and asked urgently, "Where are the two girls who came with me and the High Priest?"
Only the Red-Robed monks and the Red-Robed Witch had fled into the temple.
Danella and her sister, along with the High Priest, were nowhere to be seen.
The Red-Robed Witch fell silent for a moment before muttering, "The High Priest went out with followers to preach, and the two girls followed."
Hearing this, Rhaegar rolled his eyes and cursed inwardly, "Terrible timing."
"I'll go find them. You hide."
The flames at the temple gate continued to rage. Rhaegar tucked the glass candle into his sleeve and strode out without looking back.
He needed to assess the situation and find Danella and her sister.
The Red-Robed Witch wanted to stop him, but the screams of the sacred flame guards paralyzed her. Kneeling before the bonfire, she prayed to the Lord of Light.
---
**East District**
Tiger Cloak soldiers with fierce tiger tattoos on their faces rampaged, looting money and possessions from civilians.
Among them were siege catapults aimed at merchant residences, launching fiery projectiles.
If they were going to rob, they would rob the wealthy.
Collateral damage?
That wasn't the Tiger Cloak soldiers' concern.
"Run!"
"Hide! Get to the cellar!"
Dressed in a black robe, Rhaegar walked against the tide of fleeing civilians.
After some distance, a group of well-equipped mercenaries appeared ahead.
Their armor was mismatched, clearly cobbled together from various sources.
The moment they stepped onto the street, they clashed fiercely with the Tiger Cloak soldiers.
Hiding behind a stone pillar, Rhaegar listened closely to the heated exchanges:
"Damn Elephant Party! You assassinated our Consul! You've betrayed Volantis!"
"The Tiger Party tried to provoke war. They got what they deserved!"
"Enough talk! Our Consul is dead—kill the Elephant Party Consuls, and we'll take control ourselves!"
It was clear that reconciliation was impossible.
"Volantis is on the brink of complete chaos..."
Rhaegar's eyes flickered as he silently summoned the devourer that roamed outside.
A plan was forming in his mind.
Dodging the chaotic skirmish, Rhaegar made his way toward the Long Bridge.
The High Priest often preached around the Long Bridge, encouraging enslaved individuals to seek freedom.
**Boom!**
Suddenly, a flaming wooden beam hurtled through the air, smashing into a nearby building.
Rhaegar narrowly avoided being hit. The scorching blast flung him backward, slamming him to the ground.
"Cough, cough—damn Tiger Cloak soldiers."
Struggling to his feet, Rhaegar choked on thick smoke, his arm throbbing with pain from the impact.
"Run!"
**Splat...**
A group of slaves, disheveled and desperate, dashed around the corner, pursued by a squad of soldiers clad in tiger-patterned robes. Their curved blades slashed wildly in pursuit.
One soldier caught sight of Rhaegar, shrouded in a black cloak, and sneered maliciously. "Look! A kid with Valyrian blood—no tattoos on his face. He must be rich!"
It turned out that Rhaegar's hood had slipped back, revealing his long silver-gold hair.
"Don't waste time! This is our chance to strike it big!"
Greed gleamed in the eyes of the tiger-robed soldiers as they surrounded him from all sides.
Unable to hold back any longer, one man gripped his curved blade tightly and charged forward, aiming a strike directly at Rhaegar's head.
*Clang!*
Sensing the danger, Rhaegar sidestepped nimbly and, with a swift motion, drew his sword—Dragonclaw—from his waist. In an instant, the descending curved blade was severed cleanly.
"You've got some nerve!"
Rhaegar's eyes gleamed coldly as he retaliated, sweeping his sword in a wide arc.
*Slash!*
The razor-sharp edge of Dragonclaw sliced through the air, cutting the soldier in half at the waist before he could react.
"It's a Valyrian steel sword! Everyone, take him down together!"
Someone recognized the distinctive material of Dragonclaw, igniting their greed and ruthlessness.
"Heh, it seems I'm simply destined to be at odds with the Free Cities."
Despite being outnumbered ten to one, Rhaegar showed no fear. Cold laughter played on his lips as he skillfully spun the sword in a flourish.
The enemy soldiers, mistaking his composure for terror, charged at him with even greater frenzy.
Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed over the ruined district, blotting out the sky and casting everything into darkness.
*Skreeee!*
**Chapter 275: The Prophecy Before Death**
The dragon's roar echoed through the chaotic city, and a torrent of emerald flames rained down from the sky.
In an instant, the dilapidated alleyway where Rhaegar stood was engulfed.
*Sizzle...*
Under the dragon fire, the rebels didn't even have time to scream before their flesh burned and turned to charcoal, leaving only piles of ash.
"Hiss…"
Beneath the bright daylight, the Devourer spread its wings and circled above. Its massive, jet-black body loomed like a mountain in the sky.
The ghostly green flames, like misty water, slowly faded as they lost their fuel.
"Cough, cough… The storm is getting stronger."
Rhaegar covered his mouth and nose, stepping out from the ashen alley. His black robe, scorched with holes, fluttered as he emerged.
His sharp eyes swept across the scene—fires raged across the eastern district, smoke billowing into the air.
The only sounds he could hear were screams and wails of despair.
Holding a dragon claw in one hand, Rhaegar shook his robe, snuffing out the remaining embers clinging to the fabric.
Muttering to himself, he said, "Volantis has completely fallen into chaos."
After a brief pause, his gaze hardened with resolve.
Chaos was good.
It meant he could add more fuel to the fire—turn the flames into an inferno.
"Hiss…"
Above him, the Devourer let out a piercing screech, its green, slit-pupiled eyes surveying the turmoil below.
For the past two days, it had been roaming the wilderness outside Volantis, and now, at last, it could unleash its fury.
After circling twice, the Devourer selected an open space and beat its massive wings, descending slowly.
*Boom!*
As its scaled, black claws struck the ground, the earth cracked, sending sparks flying.
"Devourer, we're leaving!"
The tattered black robe billowed in the wind as Rhaegar sprinted forward, swiftly climbing the makeshift ladder onto the dragon's steep back.
Both dragon and rider, reunited at last, felt their blood surge with excitement.
"Hiss!!"
The Devourer lifted its head and roared, its claws digging into the ground before launching itself skyward.
Perched on the dragon's neck, Rhaegar gazed down at the city below, his long hair wildly whipping in the wind.
Spotting the trebuchets scattered near the Black Wall, he immediately issued a command.
"Devourer, destroy those trebuchets."
The dragon, possessing high intelligence, flashed a cruel glint in its green eyes before unleashing a torrent of dragon fire.
"Hiss…"
The rebels barely had time to react before a monstrous roar shook the sky, and scorching flames engulfed them.
"Fire… Fire!"
"It's the demon dragon! The demon dragon of the Three Daughters is here!"
As one trebuchet after another was consumed by fire, the nearby Tiger Cloak soldiers were caught in the blaze, screaming as they perished.
Volantis, a city that had long imitated the traditions and culture of Old Valyria, was no stranger to dragons.
But the moment they saw the Devourer—a beast as colossal as a mountain—fear gripped their hearts, and the city erupted in panic.
The agonized screams carried far, reaching Rhaegar's ears as he sat atop the dragon's back. He chuckled indifferently.
He had hoped to keep a low profile, but reality wouldn't allow it.
The Devourer, sensing his thoughts, let out a series of triumphant roars, soaring toward the great bridge over the Rhoyne.
Rhaegar hadn't forgotten his objective upon leaving the temple.
First, he had to find the people he had lost.
---
Meanwhile, chaos had erupted on the Long Bridge.
The brothels and shops lining both sides shut their doors, their owners ordering slaves to barricade them.
The Tiger Cloak soldiers from the western district, having heard of the Triarch's assassination, charged onto the bridge in a frenzy, rushing toward the eastern district's turmoil.
As they passed, they overturned stalls and violently cleared any obstacles in their way.
Some slaves, still tethered to posts, were unable to escape. Trembling with fear, they fell to their knees, heads bowed.
Then, someone knocked over a stall, sending a drawer full of coins clattering onto the bridge.
The metallic jingle cut through the chaotic noise.
For a brief moment, everything fell silent.
Then, a rough voice shouted in excitement, "Gold! There's gold!!"
Leaderless and undisciplined, the Tiger Cloaks immediately descended into mayhem, scrambling to snatch up the fallen coins.
But a handful of scattered coins wasn't enough. Soon, their greedy eyes turned toward the tightly shut shops on either side of the bridge.
Glancing back at the burning eastern district, they all came to the same conclusion—this was an opportunity.
Volantis had an extreme divide between the rich and the poor, and social status was worlds apart.
Once chaos erupted, it was like oil poured onto fire—unstoppable.
"Loot it all!"
The Long Bridge became a battlefield of plunder. Shop doors were broken down, their contents ransacked.
Time passed.
Then—
"Hiss—!!"
A piercing dragon's cry shattered the air.
The Devourer, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun, dived toward the burning bridge.
Seeing the chaos below, Rhaegar's heart sank. His voice turned ice-cold.
"Devourer—dragon fire."
If he wanted to find his people, he couldn't let these rebels live.
*Rumble—*
The Devourer whipped its thick neck, unleashing a torrent of flames, sweeping from the east side of the bridge to the west.
The moment the fire touched down, its force sent debris flying, and the searing heat followed right after.
In just a dozen breaths, the entire Long Bridge was ablaze in ghostly green flames, as if it had been swept clean.
None of the Tiger Cloaks touched by the fire survived. They were reduced to ashes.
Those who had sought refuge in the shops were paralyzed with terror, not daring to step outside.
"My lord! Lord Rhaegar!"
As the Devourer circled the bridge, a small figure emerged from a hidden outdoor stable—a young girl with wavy silver-gold hair.
Rhaegar looked down at the voice and saw Lyra, wrapped in a black cloak.
Seeing that she was unharmed, his icy expression softened slightly.
After all, she was one of his own.
---
As Leila appeared, numerous barely clothed slaves ran out from stables, warehouses, and corners of walls, dropping to their knees on the scorching bridge without a word and kowtowing fervently.
"Great Dragon King..."
"..."
The Devourer ignored these insignificant insects. Its pitch-black wings spread wide, blocking much of the sunlight, casting the long bridge into deep shadow.
Both commoners and slaves knelt, gazing reverently at the dark dragon in the sky. Their faces flushed with excitement, their hearts filled with both awe and fear.
They bowed devoutly, shouting in unison, "Dragon King!"
"Devourer, descend."
Seeing the gathering throng of slaves below, Rhaegar's eyes flickered with thought as he issued the command.
At the sound, the Devourer lowered its altitude, its massive claws crashing down onto buildings on both sides of the bridge. With a thunderous noise, its colossal body barely landed on the narrow surface.
The long bridge, wide enough for two carriages to pass side by side, was hailed as one of the city's miracles.
Yet under the Devourer's claws, it seemed as fragile as a narrow beam.
Sliding down the dragon's neck, Rhaegar headed straight toward Leila.
"Where are your sister and the high priest?"
The red-robed old man, despite his cryptic mannerisms, had real knowledge — especially since he had gifted Rhaegar a glass candle that triggered an exploration mission. He was clearly someone of importance.
"My sister is in the stables."
Leila excitedly rushed forward, pointing toward the stable behind her, stumbling over her words. "The old priest..."
"I'll take a look."
Seeing her expression, Rhaegar's gaze darkened as he mentally prepared himself.
He pushed open the stable's gate. The horses being sold inside had collapsed to the ground, terrified by the dragon's presence, defecating in fear.
In a corner piled with hay, Danila knelt on the ground, cradling the blood-covered red-robed old man in her arms.
Rhaegar approached and examined the injuries.
A curved blade had pierced the old man's abdomen, exposing his intestines.
"He's beyond saving," Rhaegar sighed.
With his internal organs destroyed and severe blood loss, not even the Ouroboros rune could save him now.
Danila sobbed, "The Tiger Cloak Army is looting everywhere..."
There was no need for her to finish. The rest was obvious.
The old priest and the followers of R'hllor had clearly met with violence.
"Cough, cough..."
Suddenly, the red-robed old man regained consciousness, coughing up clotted blood.
Seeing Rhaegar before him, his expression turned determined as he summoned his last strength, struggling to speak.
Rhaegar crouched down, drawing closer to hear him better.
The old man weakly repeated a single phrase:
"The flames foretold disaster... flames and winter together..."
Rhaegar's eyes sharpened. "A Song of Ice and Fire?"
"Flames... the long night..."
The old man's face turned crimson as he strained to utter his final words.
As soon as he finished speaking, his head tilted, and he breathed his last.
"The Long Night... so it really is Ice and Fire," Rhaegar murmured, unease rising within him.
Aegon the Conqueror's prophecy, the hidden meaning within the Dragonhorn Dagger — a Song of Ice and Fire.
The old priest had previously mentioned seeing a magical tidal disaster in the flames.
Now, coupled with his dying words, Rhaegar couldn't help but connect the dots, feeling a chill in his heart.
"Sir, I heard the city-state is at war. What should we do?"
Danila trembled all over, her hands stained with blood.
"Don't be afraid. We'll just delay our departure a bit."
With complex thoughts swirling in his mind, Rhaegar summoned the slaves gathered outside the stable to carry away the old priest's corpse.
Emerging from the stable, Rhaegar mounted the dragon, his gaze falling upon the hopeful eyes of the commoners and slaves.
In their eyes were fear, reverence, and a desperate yearning for survival.
Drawing his sword with a sharp sound, Rhaegar stepped onto the Devourer's back and shouted loudly:
"Those who wish to live, go to the Temple of R'hllor. The dragon will quell the chaos!"
"Screeeech!"
The Devourer roared on cue, flapping its massive wings and soaring off the bridge, changing direction toward the eastern district.
Witnessing this, the commoners and slaves were deeply shaken. After some hesitation, they began to rise.
"Follow him, follow the Dragon King!"
Someone among the slaves shouted, immediately rallying the crowd.
The homeless masses began moving, chasing after the dragon's silhouette.
...
When the Devourer returned to the eastern district, the chaotic rebel forces had shifted tactics.
The mercenaries retreated behind the Black Wall, shutting the gates tight.
The Tiger Cloak Army gathered beneath the Black Wall, bringing in battering rams to breach the gates and avenge their fallen leader.
The sudden appearance of the dragon had quelled the previous disorder.
The Tiger Cloak Army commander sounded the horn, rallying his troops to focus on the siege.
Atop the Black Wall, two corpulent, richly dressed middle-aged men paced anxiously, their faces pale with fear.
"Governor, the Tiger Cloak Army keeps growing in number!"
A mercenary, gasping for breath, delivered the report.
These two white, rotund figures were the governors of the Elephant Party.
One had short silvery-gold hair and blue eyes, clearly a Valyrian descendant.
The other had dark hair and brown skin, his background rooted in moneylending.
"Idiots! Forget the Tiger Cloak Army — where's the dragon?!"
One governor's face twisted with rage as he roared furiously.
That was a real, genuine dragon — enough to destroy an entire city-state!
The mercenary grimaced, unable to provide an answer.
"Screeeech!"
Suddenly, a shadow loomed over the Black Wall, and a familiar dragon roar echoed for miles around.
The two Elephant Party governors looked up in terror, only to see a pitch-black dragon hovering above them.
On the dragon's back, Rhaegar's expression was cold as his gaze locked onto the two distinctively dressed governors in the crowd.
"Devourer, give them a warning."
Rhaegar's voice was icy as he made up his mind to intervene.
(Chapter End)