Tyrion's bond with the wyvern was not that of a dragon-soul. Dragon-souls cannot be created through blood magic. If they could, everyone in
Tyrion's bond with the wyvern was not that of a dragon-soul.
Dragon-souls cannot be created through blood magic. If they could, everyone in Valyria would have been a grand sorcerer.
Likewise, Tyrion was not a skinchanger.
In fact, ordinary skinchangers could not control wyverns.
It was like how Gisela's animal companion was merely a goat.
Did the spearwives among the wildlings not desire terrifying beasts like direwolves or shadowcats?
Of course they did, but strength did not permit it.
In truth, talent did not permit it.
Without question, wyverns were stronger than shadowcats, and nearly impossible to tame—except for greenseers and the Stark family, who were walking anomalies.
The Dragon Queen had added runes from greenseer meditations into the contract seal, making it far stronger than Balerion's.
This was not because Balerion lacked ability compared to Daenerys, nor because his knowledge was inferior—on the contrary, Balerion's knowledge was perhaps the greatest in the world.
After six thousand years of dominion, Balerion had mastered nearly every meditation and occult art in human history, including some from the greenseers and the priests of R'hllor.
But possessing knowledge does not mean one can use it.
Every middle schooler learns Newton's laws, but can they perform Shinra Tensei or Banshō Ten'in?
Clearly not.
Balerion lacked the talent to become a greenseer. Even if given their meditation methods, he could not cultivate them.
It was the same with Laresa, the dark-haired apprentice. Daenerys had poured great effort into teaching her, hoping she would one day help her control the Royal Mage Corps.
Yet Laresa could not even grasp one percent of the great sorcerer's meditation techniques.
Daenerys was different.
That was why she could surpass Balerion, who was not adept in the soul's mysteries, and create a contract seal that allowed spiritual communion with wyverns.
"Hahaha! I've become a dragonrider! My dream has come true! Uncle Gylian, Brother Jaime, Father—do you see this? I'm riding a dragon!"
Tyrion was overjoyed, shouting uncontrollably.
Was this an Otherworld version of Fan Jin's hysteria after passing the imperial exam? Daenerys twitched at the corner of her lips as she watched the dwarf wriggling wildly on the wyvern's back.
After hollering for a while, Tyrion called out to Daenerys, "Your Majesty, could you take off the chains? I can control it."
The wyvern's legs were shackled with anchor chains taken from a sea vessel, the iron anchors buried seven or eight meters deep into the ground.
Daenerys trusted her rune of control, convinced the wyverns would not flee. But she feared Balerion's return—he might seize a wyvern that lacked a bonded rider.
Now that Tyrion had formed a partnership with it, the wyvern would be far harder to take away.
"Can't you see? Its wings are torn to shreds. It can't fly," Daenerys reminded him.
Yesterday's dragon battle had been brutal. Twenty-three wyverns died miserably, while the six captured survivors had steel bolts lodged in their bellies and wings tattered like beggars' rags.
Some had been pierced by crossbow bolts, some mauled by the little green one, and others burned by Daenerys's fire control.
Before, Tyrion hadn't thought much of their suffering. But now that one of them was his companion, the sight of holes in its wings, the bleeding wounds on its belly, and its cracked scales made his heart ache so much he nearly wept.
"Seven hells! Your Majesty, you were far too cruel, wounding my dragon like this," he wailed.
"Hmph, make no mistake. This is my dragon," Daenerys sneered.
"Uh…" Tyrion gave an awkward smile. "I… am yours too."
Daenerys's lips twitched again.
"The wounds are so severe. Can it even be healed?" he asked anxiously.
"Don't worry. Once my little green is recovered this afternoon, I'll begin treating the others," Daenerys said confidently, her eyes flashing.
"How will you heal them?" Aegon asked curiously.
"Blood magic. You wouldn't understand," Daenerys brushed him off before turning back to Tyrion. "Now that this wyvern has become your partner, give it a name."
"A name…" Tyrion was taken aback.
"How about Tywin? Wouldn't it be exhilarating to ride Tywin into the skies?" Daenerys teased.
"Is my dragon male or female?" Tyrion bent to examine the wyvern's hindquarters.
First he looked at his own, then at the wyvern beside it.
After a long while, he straightened up with an odd expression. "It seems mine is female.
Strange… true dragons have no gender. They can be both male and female, reproducing without mating.
Aren't wyverns their kin? The difference is huge."
Indeed, true dragons did not need sexual reproduction. Before laying eggs, they had only a single vent for waste.
Their life imprint came as a divine gift, unrelated to any parental bloodline. Dragon eggs were merely a medium through which they entered the world.
Wyverns were powerful, but they remained magical beasts. True dragons, however, could be considered incarnations of divine embryos.
"How about… Tessa? Perhaps the Tessa I've always searched for has been here all along."
Tyrion stroked the wyvern's head, a complex expression of longing and tenderness rising on his face.
But as the wyvern shook its head in response to his touch, the dwarf's sorrow faded, replaced with a brightness and release he had never felt before.
The real Tessa was likely long dead, lost in some forgotten corner. The hellish ordeal of those years would have killed anyone. His question of "where is Tessa" had always been more a confession of guilt than a genuine search.
Even if, by some miracle, he found her today, would she still be the Tessa in his heart?It was time to let go.
Tyrion told himself so.
After lunch, the corpse of the last wyvern in the bay was dragged onto the pier.
The twenty-three dragon corpses stretched across nearly the entire length of the docks. Freedmen of Tolos, under the command of the Targaryen army, gathered firewood and piled it onto the carcasses.
At the same time, an open field was cleared on the western side of the city, where the bodies of mercenaries, soldiers, and civilians who had died in the battle were heaped together.
One-third of the mercenaries were killed—over ten thousand men. Civilians too numbered in the thousands.
The Targaryen host, by contrast, had taken almost no losses—fewer than a hundred casualties, half of whom had been crushed to death by falling wyverns.
Yes, when wyverns were struck down by bolts, they plummeted like crippled aircraft from the sky, smashing directly onto the ships below and killing or maiming the crossbowmen hidden in their holds.
The army had seized Tolos before dawn two days ago, endured the wyvern assault yesterday, and only today managed to gather all the corpses.
"It should be the Long Winter now, shouldn't it?" Tyrion asked the old knight beside him.
The bodies had already begun to rot and stink, and he wore a linen mask over his face, his voice muffled as he spoke.
"Yes. The year 300 after Aegon ended a week ago. By Westerosi reckoning, winter is here," Clinton replied, tugging at the uncomfortable mask pressing against his cheeks, his voice just as muffled.
He was unaccustomed to the feeling and did not understand the queen's notion of "epidemic prevention" with masks. To him, it was needless torment of her subjects and a waste of precious linen.
"Look at this weather. The temperature has hardly dropped. After only two days, the bodies reek and seep with rot. Does this look anything like the coming of the Long Night?" Tyrion pointed toward the piles of corpses.
The two men stood atop a watchtower on the western wall, gazing as the Dragon Queen commanded the white, black, and golden dragons to breathe fire upon the dead.
Smoke billowed, flames roared skyward, and a grotesque stench—half scorched flesh, half roasting meat—spread across the city.
In that regard, at least, the masks shielded them from the worst of it.
"What are you trying to say?" Clinton asked.
"Perhaps the Others are real, but the Long Night will never come. It is likely they have always remained in the Lands of Always Winter. The queen herself has said as much," Tyrion replied.
Clinton's heart stirred. After a moment of thought, he asked, "So?"
"So tell me, Ser. Are you a sworn man of Prince Aegon—or of the Dragon Queen?" Tyrion whispered.
Clinton's lips moved a few times before he said, low and firm, "They are both Targaryens. I serve House Targaryen."
"Heh." Tyrion chuckled softly.
Clinton's face hardened. "The queen gifted you a wyvern this very morning, did she not? And this is how you repay her?"
That's because you don't know what she asked me to do!Tyrion cursed inwardly, his mocking smile fading. With a serious tone he said, "I'm not trying to sow discord between the queen and the prince. I only mean for you to see clearly: the prince and the queen are not walking the same path. You should already be preparing for the prince's future, lest his ten years of calling you 'godfather' amount to nothing."
"Alas, it's all fate!" Clinton sighed heavily and shook his head. "When Illyrio sent us here, none of us knew her grace would sail for Westeros, or that the Others lay beyond the Wall, or that she would swear this oath of 'the one who ends the Long Night shall be king.'
Even if I hope the queen will carry the prince to Westeros on dragonback, I cannot force her to break a sacred vow. She would never perjure herself for the prince's sake."
"What you say, we all know. The real question is: what should the prince do next?" Tyrion pressed.
Clinton had thought long on this. Without hesitation he answered:"The prince is still young. He can wait a few years—wait for winter to pass, wait for the next summer, wait for the wars in Slaver's Bay to end.
By then, the queen's vow will be fulfilled, her dragons stronger. In those years, the prince may also tame a dragon of his own.
Then, together, we can march on Westeros. After all, the queen has already promised to recognize the prince's prior claim to the Iron Throne."
"A pleasant vision. But you've made one fatal mistake," Tyrion said.
"What mistake?"
"Placing all your hopes on the queen."
Clinton answered with conviction: "Her grace is of noble character—honorable, just, merciful. She is nearly the ideal sovereign, the very model of a knight. I see no reason to doubt her."
"Perhaps," Tyrion shrugged lightly. "But if he gains the throne solely through her power, what will the lords and people of the Seven Kingdoms think? How will they look at the prince who sits the Iron Throne?"
"This…" Clinton hesitated. "What is it you're planning?"
Tyrion smiled faintly, leaned close, and whispered in his ear: "While the Seven Kingdoms are in chaos, seize a stronghold. Storm's End, for instance.
Then ally with Dorne—they have a marriage pact. Add Dragonstone, and with three powers combined we'll have a force to rival the Iron Throne. No matter what the queen in Slaver's Bay thinks, Dragonstone will never stand with my uncle.
Thus, Prince Aegon will no longer be a beggar living off his aunt's charity, but a king in his own right."
"And what do you gain from this?" Clinton asked coldly.
In a low voice Tyrion replied, "I want to leave Slaver's Bay in a way that is lawful, proper, and justified. Make me Prince Aegon's Hand of the King. You've seen my wisdom and experience.
Now I am even a wyvern rider. I can craft wildfire. With me, the prince could seize most castles of the Seven Kingdoms with ease."
"Why? This morning the queen named you a wyvern knight, and you swore her your loyalty. Why come to me with this in the afternoon?" Clinton pressed.
(End of chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09