"Compared to Aunt Dany, my personal charm falls far short. 'Gray Iron' Gars, Ilys Seltigar, my foster father Jon Connington, 'Duck'
"Compared to Aunt Dany, my personal charm falls far short. 'Gray Iron' Gars, Ilys Seltigar, my foster father Jon Connington, 'Duck' Duckfield, even my cousin Quentyn all admire her, willing to give their lives for her cause and ideals. Yet I can hardly even earn their trust."
"Tyrion asked me to win over Dorne, but he's always suspicious of my identity."
"Aunt Dany treats me well. She even planned to send me to Meereen as a sheriff, to hone my military and civic skills. I want to try, but Meereen has no dragons, and no you."
"Even Tyrion has his 'Tessarion.' My foster father prays in the Sept. Soon, after completing his baptism and being anointed again, he will become the second 'holy knight.'
They all have dragons, wyverns. But I only have you, Black Dread. Are you asleep? Fine then, I should sleep too."
Aegon muttered endlessly, treating Black Dread as his emotional trash bin.
The troubles of youth, the uncertainty and fear for the future, the gloom cast by the shadow of greyscale whenever he faced women, and the struggles of managing relationships—all these he whispered late at night to Black Dread.
After hearing his misfortunes, even Dany felt a trace of sympathy.
"Hiss—" From the distant southern sky came the cry of a wyvern.
Just as Aegon was about to return to his room, he froze. He looked up. Out of the night sky, heavy as if filled with lead, emerged a deep black cloud.
The black cloud hovered in the air, stirring the wind with a sharp crackling sound.
Black Dread opened his blood-red eyes, a human-like indifference flashing across them. He gave the sky a single glance, then closed them again, feigning sleep as the nine-colored vortex spun in his mind.
With a soft whoosh, the black cloud seemed to gain some unspoken permission and slowly descended onto the wall opposite Black Dread. It landed lightly, without a cry, without the violent flapping of wings.
It gave Aegon the impression of caution and restraint.
He knew it wasn't an illusion. The wyvern feared Black Dread.
"Ah, finally back."
From the wyvern's back came Tyrion's weary voice.
"Is riding a dragon so exhausting?" Aegon asked sourly.
"Ah—"
Tyrion, in the middle of unbuckling the saddle straps, was startled. He hadn't expected anyone to still be awake at this hour. But as soon as he recognized the voice, he understood. Aegon was once again out here trying to train the dragon.
He had seen this many times. Nearly everyone knew of Aegon's nightly diligence.
At first, they had found it strange. But over time, they grew used to it.
"Your Highness, you're still awake at this hour?"
Sliding down Tessarion's broad wing like a child on a slide, Tyrion landed on the grass of the garden.
Making casual small talk, he explained, "Riding a wyvern isn't tiring. But today I flew far too long. I set out at two in the morning, caught up with the first fleet around ten, fought until dusk—around seven—and then flew back all the way until now.
The entire day, I ate, drank, pissed, and shat on Tessarion's back. Sleeping was a joke. War itself is exhausting."
"My aunt returned much earlier," Aegon remarked.
Tyrion removed his helmet and shrugged. "Wyverns fly at about 120 to 180 kilometers per hour. Dragons average over three hundred. There's no comparison."
Then, standing under Tessarion, Tyrion beckoned, and the wyvern obediently lowered its head.
Affectionately rubbing his cheek against the wyvern's snout, Tyrion said, "Go on. Fetch a cow from the arena in the back. You've flown all day. You must be hungry."
The wyvern let out a low hiss, turned, and leapt into the darkness.
"It really listens to you," Aegon said enviously.
"Yes, Tessarion is very obedient." Tyrion's smile was one part fatigue, nine parts satisfaction.
Aegon turned away, glancing at Black Dread, who had never once responded to him, and sighed inwardly. When would he be able to share such closeness?
"How went the battle today?" he asked.
Tyrion cast another glance at Black Dread, his face grave. That dragon, without words or roars, could command Tessarion.
"The queen didn't tell you?" he asked.
"I didn't get the chance."
With a sigh, Tyrion replied, "We won. A grand, exhilarating victory. The allied fleet fought bravely, but we had dragons—more than one.
To be honest, the enemy's first fleet was stronger than the royal navy under Robert. Yet in the face of dragons, they didn't last a single day."
As they spoke, they arrived at the second-floor common hall.
Summoning a night-duty Unsullied trainee, they waited until he brought food and wine, then sat opposite each other, eating and talking.
After Tyrion finished recounting the battle, Aegon asked with eager envy, "What's it like, riding a wyvern to burn ships? Is it thrilling?"
"It's exhilarating. Tessarion can't breathe fire, but her strength is immense. One lash of her tail can split a thirty-meter warship clean in two. Splinters everywhere, enemies screaming as they're flung into the air. Very thrilling!" Tyrion said proudly.
Aegon suddenly slumped with a sigh, his face full of dejection. "Hearing you say that makes me want to bond with a wyvern myself."
"Black Dread still ignores you?" Tyrion frowned. "Your Highness, I'll speak plainly. Don't be offended."
"Go ahead," Aegon muttered.
"Even among Targaryens, not everyone can tame a dragon. You know that, don't you?"
Anger flared on Aegon's face, but he quickly forced it down. His violet eyes gleamed coldly. "I am not like them. The dragon has three heads. That is prophecy."
"Words are like wind," Tyrion sighed. "Think about it. Could your aunt alone conquer Westeros? If one person could do it, why would prophecy demand three heads?"
"I am not dead weight," Aegon replied icily.
You are nearly as useless as dead weight.
Tyrion thought it but bit into a chicken leg instead, speaking through a full mouth, "Suit yourself. Either way, there aren't enough wyverns to go around."
A sudden anxiety seized Aegon. He asked urgently, "What do you mean, not enough? Aren't there still four left?"
"Garth is the Queen's White Knight. He wants one, and the Queen agreed. Jorah Mormont has followed Her Majesty all these years, he should have one too, right?
Then there's Ser Barristan, Irys Celtigar, Quentyn Martell, Jon Boton of Meereen, and… ah, I nearly forgot the Queen's bloodriders, my blood of my blood. Shouldn't they get one as well?"
"This… this—" Aegon was dumbfounded.
"There aren't enough!" he blurted anxiously.
"Exactly. That's why the Queen arranged for me to take part in 'The Old Dragon Knows the Way.' But I fear death. Let Ser Clinton finish his baptism first. Honestly, I don't think he'll succeed. Sothoryos is a purgatory."
"Aunt, I need at least one wyvern as insurance!"
The next morning, just as Dany walked out of her chambers with her sword, Aegon rushed up to her and said this in a panic.
"What do you mean by insurance?" Dany frowned.
"Of course I want a true dragon. But to be realistic, not every Targaryen can tame one. I need a backup plan," Aegon said seriously.
"There's no time to raise spares. I need battle strength right now. Why don't you keep working on bonding with Drogon, while Tyrion searches the rainforest for a wyvern nest?" Dany suggested.
"He's too afraid to go. He won't risk it."
"Afraid of death? And that means he won't die?" Dany sneered.
"If he dares refuse, I'll take back his Tysha. Or maybe I'll hand her over to you instead?"
"This—" Aegon remembered the story Tyrion had told that night about Tysha. His face grew uncertain. He shook his head. "No. That can't be done. Tysha holds special meaning for him."
"Then what do you propose? There are only six dragons. Irys, Quentyn, Clinton, Garth, Barristan—they're already allocated."
"Quentyn and Irys have one, but not Ser Mormont?" Aegon asked in surprise.
"Not everyone can be a 'Holy Knight.' It requires devout faith in the Seven. The Great Bear once worshiped the Old Gods. He hasn't had time to change his faith. Give it a little longer."
Dany had already received word: the High Sparrow had indeed been swayed by "Holy Mother Dany." He was now summoning craftsmen to add stone dragon mounts to the statues of the Seven.
Even the text of The Seven-Pointed Star was altered again. The Grand Protector had been promoted, rising from the "Twin Red Clubs" to the "Kingsguard."
It wasn't quite the "Hand of the Seven" Dany had envisioned, but it was close enough.
The Kingsguard represented the king and could exercise royal authority.
That was sufficient for Drogon to usurp part of the Seven's divine power.
With divine office and the strength of faith, Drogon's usurpation would succeed.
He would be the Seven!
Clinton, Garth, and Barristan were all devout followers of the Seven, and thus also believers in Drogon. Through the threads of faith, he could grant them the Seal of Covenant—like a dark god rewarding his cultists for their sacrifices.
"Is Tyrion devout? I've never seen him pray in the Great Sept," Aegon asked doubtfully.
"His devotion is no less than yours."
"Impossible!" Aegon refused to believe it.
Dany shrugged. "Believe it or don't, it makes no difference."
Neither Aegon nor Tyrion was truly devout. Aegon's faith measured 0.4, Tyrion's 0.5—far below the average 1.0 of an ordinary person. They could never obtain the Seal of Covenant through faith alone.
But they, like Quentyn and Irys, carried true dragon blood. In that case, devotion was not as important.
Dany had no time to waste arguing with Aegon. After breakfast, she immediately mounted Drogon, bringing Rhaegal and Viserion with her, and flew 700 kilometers south to Old Ghis.
Old Ghis had been the capital of the Ghiscari Empire five thousand years ago, separated from the main island of Ghis by a strait more than two hundred kilometers wide.
After the Valyrians destroyed the Ghiscari Empire, they spread salt and sulfur over every inch of the capital's soil.
Since then, not a blade of grass grew in once-prosperous Old Ghis. The land was barren and lifeless.
Now, Old Ghis still lay desolate like a vast wasteland, but the war against New Ghis had breathed some vitality into it.
The 300-meter-high Great Pyramid had collapsed long ago in dragonfire. In the past five thousand years, only weathered stones and tufts of weeds and vines growing between the cracks remained.
When Dany arrived, Irys was directing prisoners to haul great blocks from the ruins of the pyramid.
The captives would use those stones to build a new fortress.
It didn't need to be large, only strong enough to support this war.
From Old Ghis, New Ghis was only five hundred kilometers away by air.
Old Ghis was to New Ghis what South End Town was to Tolos—a strategic bridgehead.
That very afternoon, Drogon, along with his two brothers and six hatchlings, dropped nine massive clusters of wildfire bombs on New Ghis's harbor.
Dany used over a ton of fire oil to declare one thing to the whole world: from this day forward, all maritime trade between East and West was suspended.
(End of Chapter)
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