Lys, the Domed Dragon Pit.
"Hiss... Roar..."
Inside the massive bronze gates, a series of wild dragon roars echoed, filled with resentment yet tinged with exhaustion.
Bamboro's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he muttered to himself, "Soon... It must be soon."
According to the priest of R'hllor, the wild, masterless dragon's energy would gradually deplete, awaiting the arrival of a suitable bloodline.
"Governor, there are messages from Braavos and Dorne."
A stunning courtesan sauntered past the mercenary guards, seductively handing over two sealed letters, their wax seals unbroken.
Bamboro took the letters and asked curiously, "Where is Johanna? Why didn't she come?"
The courtesan lowered her head regretfully. "My lady fell ill after her last negotiation with the Tiger Party's consul. She's still resting at the residence."
"Alright, you may leave."
Hearing that his mistress and trusted aide was sick, Bamboro frowned in displeasure and waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly.
Once the courtesan had left, he tore open the letters and read them carefully.
After a moment, Bamboro's eyes narrowed slightly, and he sneered, "Those two opportunists finally decided to send their troops."
Without hesitation, he ripped the letters to shreds and led his men back to the governor's mansion.
Before leaving, he instructed the dragon pit guards, "Before dawn, do not let a single dragonseed near the dragons."
"Yes, my lord."
The guards immediately complied, not daring to slack off.
The Perfumed Garden.
"Haha… Three boys… A dancing bear…"
A drunken, off-key melody echoed through the night as two silver-haired men staggered into a secluded loft, arms draped around each other's shoulders.
Bang!
As soon as they stepped inside, the loft's doors slammed shut behind them. Several armored guards took their positions outside.
The same scene unfolded at several neighboring lofts.
Each of the occupants had been carefully selected—Valyrian-blooded volunteers participating in the Scarlet Sowing.
Inside one of the lofts, the stench of alcohol filled the air as the two men, both thoroughly drunk, continued their offbeat singing while stumbling toward their beds.
Thud!
The taller of the two, a brawny young man nearly seven feet tall, collapsed onto his bed, laughing foolishly in a drunken stupor.
The other, a handsome, middle-aged man with a limp, bleary eyes, and missing fingers, rubbed his face harshly.
"Trystane, you son of a bitch! You won a fortune tonight. Tomorrow, you're buying the drinks!"
The massive man, Shuv, shook his head and eyed his companion's bulging coin pouch greedily.
Trystane waved him off, stuffing the heavy pouch into his coat. His voice was slurred as he muttered, "I'll buy you a jug of horse piss. I need to bring this money home to feed my kid."
"Hah! You, a degenerate gambler and bastard-maker, think you can afford to raise a little bastard girl?"
Shuv laughed mercilessly as if he'd just heard the world's funniest joke.
"You don't know shit, you lousy blacksmith's apprentice."
Trystane hiccupped, his unsteady steps carrying him toward his bed. He pulled out a handful of gold coins and pressed them to his nose, inhaling deeply.
Shuv refused to drop the subject, still rambling drunkenly. "You were lucky tonight. Winning those rich bastards' money—I thought for sure you'd end up losing a finger or selling your daughter to a Lyseni brothel."
Trystane rolled his eyes in pleasure, mumbling, "I've been gambling since I was a kid. If it weren't for those cheating bastards, I'd be the richest man on Dragonstone."
"Hah! You damn well belong in hell, you rotten gambler."
Shuv mocked him again, though his face soon darkened with a hint of gloom. He grumbled, "Too bad about that drunkard. I heard a dragon burned off his white hair and then chewed him into three pieces."
"A fool who went to his death."
Trystane let the gold coins slip from his fingers, letting them clatter onto his face as he chuckled, "We're fools heading to our deaths too."
They had been smuggled into Lys along with a dozen others.
Since they arrived late, most of them weren't high on the list and had to wait their turn at the Perfumed Garden.
White-haired Ulf had been one of the lucky ones. Within just two days, he bribed a guard with drinks and jumped the line to try his hand at dragon taming.
Unfortunately for him, he was also unlucky—he encountered a dragon that was hungry in the morning. Before he even got a good look at it, he was eaten alive.
Shuv clenched his fist and slammed it against the bed frame. "Do you think if I manage to ride a dragon, I could become a baron back home?"
Though Lys offered generous rewards for taming a dragon, as a native-born bastard of Dragonstone, Shuv still longed to return home in glory.
Trystane shot him a glance and smirked. "If you can ride a dragon, forget being a baron—you'd have the right to marry a king's daughter."
"Would His Majesty allow that?"
Shuv suddenly sat up, eyes widening in disbelief.
At first, he had only hoped to be knighted. Then the prince promised land as a reward.
And now this drunken gambler was telling him he could marry a princess?
"Haha…"
Trystane burst into laughter, then spoke his true thoughts. "Do you really think you have the fate to marry a princess? The moment you land with your dragon, the King's Dragon Guard would have you bound like a pig."
"Fuck off! You're killing my mood!"
Shuv fumed, pounding his fists against the bed in frustration.
Trystane stifled his laughter, carefully collecting his gold coins and tucking them into his pouch before turning away.
Having witnessed firsthand the brutality of the Scarlet Sowing, he no longer dared to dream of becoming a dragon rider.
Winning a few coins at the gambling den and returning safely to Dragonstone was a good enough fate.
Two Days Later.
Dragonstone, Dragonmont.
"Roar…"
The Glutton lay lazily on a clearing, its throat vibrating with soft snores as its slit-pupiled eyes remained closed in feigned sleep.
In the distance, hundreds of ragged workers toiled up and down the mountain, carrying baskets of dragon dung on their backs.
Occasionally, they stumbled upon shed dragon scales, which they treated as treasures, handing them over separately to the bookkeepers.
"Maester Gladys, will the dragon dung from Dragonmont still be enough to sustain two medium-sized castles?"
Rhaegar inquired softly.
Maester Gladys, a kindly-looking man in his fifties, smiled reassuringly. "Rest assured, my prince. The dung has been accumulating on Dragonmont for over two hundred years—this is merely a cleanup."
"Good."
Rhaegar returned the smile and entrusted the task to him.
At first glance, it seemed like a trivial job, but it was of great importance.
The workers were closely monitored to prevent them from wandering around Dragonmont.
Fortunately, there weren't many dragons there—only a lone Silverwing, slumbering far away from its mate.
On the way back to the Stone Drum Tower, Ser Robert, the acting Lord of the city, approached from the front.
Ser Robert let out a quiet sigh of relief and said, "Prince, it's almost lunchtime. The Princess is waiting for you."
"Thank you, Ser."
Rhaegar's gaze was sincere as he brushed past him.
Managing Dragonstone was no easy task, especially when his superior was a heavily pregnant princess.
Upon reaching the top floor, he noticed that the door to the lord's chamber was left open.
Rhaegar's lips curled slightly into a smile. He slowed his pace, stepping lightly as he approached.
When he reached the doorway, he peeked inside.
The familiar layout of the room greeted him—an elegantly arranged dining table filled with an assortment of delicacies, accompanied by two scented candles flickering romantically.
Rhaenyra lay on a soft couch, her body draped in a loose nightgown. She held a letter in her hands, reading it intently.
Knock, knock…
Rhaegar tapped lightly on the door to avoid startling her.
"You're back." Rhaenyra looked up at the sound, a smile spreading across her face.
Rhaegar stepped into the room, curiosity piqued. "What are you reading so intently?"
Rhaenyra's smile faded slightly, and she sighed. "A letter from King's Landing. The Ironborn raided Lannisport, and Father is overwhelmed."
"What the hell was Jason doing to let the Ironborn pull off a surprise attack on the port?"
Rhaegar's brows furrowed in disdain at Jason, a man who had inherited his ducal title simply by being born a few minutes earlier than his brother—yet he was nothing more than an arrogant fool.
Rhaenyra waved him over playfully. "Don't be so angry. The damage to Lannisport wasn't too bad, and they've managed to stabilize the situation."
At that, Rhaegar shook his head and walked over, sitting down beside her on the couch.
Rhaenyra shifted closer, snuggling into his embrace as she held up the letter. "It's suspected that the Ironborn weren't acting on their own. Someone paid them off."
"A bunch of unproductive pirates… It was probably Braavos or Sunspear behind it."
Rhaegar's tone softened as he tightened his arms around her, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder, his cheek pressing against her loose strands of hair.
"Conquering Myr must have been exhausting, wasn't it?"
Rhaenyra's gaze turned gentle as she stroked his hair, just like when they were children.
Rhaegar shook his head, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair deeply.
Other than the constant sleepless nights, poor appetite, and exhaustion, everything was fine.
Rhaenyra nuzzled his forehead with her cheek, murmuring softly, "I want to help you."
"You already are."
Rhaegar's lips curved into a small smile as his large hand rested on the swell of her stomach.
Even through the silk of her nightgown, the rounded shape was unmistakably clear.
Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against his hair as she whispered, "I want to be like Queen Visenya—supporting my brother and consort. But it seems all I can do is serve from the birthing bed."
She hadn't always thought this way.
But after Aegon and Helaena were sent to different regions to hold their posts, and upon hearing that Jeyne was rallying her vassals in the Vale, these feelings of helplessness had begun to fester within her.
Rhaegar, ever perceptive, caught the underlying meaning in her words.
He gently patted her arm, then pulled away from her embrace, kneeling in front of the couch.
Rhaenyra looked at him in confusion, unsure of what he was doing.
Placing both hands on her legs, Rhaegar spoke solemnly, "Rhaenyra, you are already on the most important battlefield. You are more important than anyone else."
Rhaenyra pursed her lips, murmuring, "But your battlefield is far more dangerous. I worry about you."
Rhaegar's gaze was unwavering and resolute. "My battlefield is one of blood and fire, but my dragon will protect me, and ten thousand men would gladly die in my place."
His hand moved to rest gently on her belly as he continued, his voice filled with sincerity. "But your battlefield is even more brutal. No one can bear the pain in your place, and even your dragon cannot protect you from it."
Rhaenyra's eyes glistened with unshed tears. She cradled his head against her stomach, whispering, "Pray to the Mother for me, so I can give you two healthy babies."
"You will. You'll be as incredible as Syrax," Rhaegar said, his tone filled with certainty as his eyes reflected distant memories.
The conversation shifted from power and responsibility to childbirth.
Silence fell between them.
Both were suddenly reminded of their mother, Aemma Arryn—a woman who had died a tragic death on the birthing bed.
Her death had always haunted Rhaenyra.
And Rhaegar, the child born from that fatal labor, carried his own silent burden of sorrow.
For a moment, they simply basked in the quiet.
Then Rhaegar rubbed his cheek against her belly and chuckled softly. "Do you remember the ouroboros? The power of runes?"
Rhaenyra whispered, "I never fully learned it… The bronze runes are only halfway inscribed."
Practicing runes required vast amounts of magical energy, and her own magic was too faint to progress quickly.
Not everyone was like Rhaegar, who could borrow fire magic from his dragon.
"As long as I can use them, that's enough," Rhaegar reassured her.
His gaze landed on a delicate glass bottle on the couch.
Inside was a smooth, transparent liquid. As he uncorked the bottle, a light fragrance filled the air.
Pouring some into his palm, he rubbed his hands together swiftly, warming the oil.
Rhaenyra smiled and undid the buttons on her nightgown, revealing her pale, round belly.
Rhaegar pressed his hands against her skin, gently massaging from the bottom up, spreading the oil evenly.
This was a plant-based essential oil, meant to lubricate and nourish the skin.
Carrying twins had caused her belly to swell rapidly, and without the oil, her skin would tear, leaving behind the stretch marks many women bore after childbirth.
He had specially instructed Orwyle to formulate this blend, and it had cost a fortune.
"After your belly, we need to do your thighs and hips too," Rhaenyra murmured, her eyes closing as she relaxed under his careful touch.
Rhaegar worked patiently, enduring the task as if it were just another childhood chore she had tricked him into doing.
…
The Vale, Gulltown.
At dusk, the sky was ablaze with streaks of red clouds.
A distant cry rang out—screeeech…
A dazzling golden dragon soared out of the port, gliding over the upper part of the Narrow Sea.
On the dragon's back, Aegon slumped his head listlessly, his eyes filled with resentment.
"That damn bitch from the Vale keeps making me patrol on dragonback every day!"
Cursing under his breath, he rubbed his sore back and waist.
Seagard truly lived up to its reputation as one of Westeros' five great ports—the girls in its brothels were fiery and passionate, quite different from those in King's Landing.
Sunfyre, indifferent to its rider's mood, flapped its pale pink wings and soared toward the upper Narrow Sea.
Aegon remained dejected, completely uninterested in his patrol duties.
That was until he reached the vicinity of the Three Sisters Islands and suddenly felt thirsty.
A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as he licked his lips. "Sisterton... I wonder what their brothels are like."
He had heard that this place was a chaotic mess, with smugglers and gangs fighting daily in the port.
Seized by an impulsive idea, Aegon couldn't resist his boredom any longer and gave an order: "Sunfyre, let's change direction."
He was sick of following that Vale bitch's commands.
She was getting too cozy with Rhaegar, using his influence to throw her weight around.
Aegon grinned, finding the perfect excuse to slack off. "Nothing important today—might as well check out a brothel."
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