Chapter 622: The Dragons of Dragonstone Island.
"Gather your clothes and tell the Dragonkeepers to calm Syrax, who laid its eggs not long ago."
"Let's go too," Rhaegar said, taking Rhaenyra's hand. He was in excellent spirits. The House had gained two young dragons and several eggs. It was perfect timing for the House to flourish, as he had been worried there wouldn't be enough dragons for his descendants. But as it turned out, he could always count on the Goddess of Abundance, Syrax.
"Your Grace, someone is here to see you," Erryk said, guarding the entrance to the Dragonpit, reporting at the first opportunity.
"Who?" Rhaegar asked, curious.
Erryk's face was solemn as he leaned closer. "It's best if you see for yourself."
Puzzled, Rhaegar looked down the steps. A carriage bearing banners of a "Leaping Trout" and "Crows Surrounding a Weirwood" was pulling up, and inside were two short, unshaven boys.
"Your Grace, Benjicot Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, sends his regards," the boy with black hair cautiously stepped forward, his voice trembling with fear.
The other, a redhead who appeared slightly older, bowed forcefully. "Oscar Tully of Riverrun. May the light of the old and new gods shine upon you, Your Grace."
The two boys were dusty and travel-worn, without a single servant or knight accompanying them. At first glance, they seemed miserable and out of place, evoking sympathy from those who saw them. However, Rhaegar caught the key detail in the boy's words and looked at the Blackwood boy in surprise.
"You say you're the Lord of Raventree Hall?" Rhaegar asked, bewildered. Everyone knows Samwell Blackwood is the Lord of Raventree Hall
"My father is dead," Benjicot said quietly, his eyes vacant, before straightening his posture. "He died protecting the heir prince. His throat was cut by the Ironborn during the chaos."
Rhaegar's face went cold, his mind unwilling to accept what he'd just heard.
The two boys then recounted the grim events. Baelon had been traveling through the Riverlands with the Hand of the King, Lyonel Strong, along with the Lords of Riverrun and Raventree.
They were attacked in the dead of night by an unknown force, no fewer than 500 men, including Ironborn, Riverlands locals, and Sellswords.
The new Lord of Riverrun, Elmo Tully, was struck by a stray arrow and killed instantly. Lord Samwell Blackwood died heroically defending the rear of the "boys."
"And Ser Harwin Strong," Benjicot added, his head hanging like a guilty child. "Lord Harwin led the charge and fell under the Sellswords' blades. He was a brave Lord, but he had never seen true battle before. He rushed in recklessly and lost his life in the first wave."
"He was Commander of the City Watch," Rhaegar muttered, still in shock, unable to fully process the tragic news.
"Your Grace, there's also this," Benjicot nudged Oscar.
Without a word, Oscar reached into a bag and pulled out a small box, handing it over to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"Your Grace." Erryk opened the box and held it up for the King to see.
Rhaegar leaned in, his gaze locking onto the contents—a bloodied Hand of the King brooch. His pupils contracted sharply.
"Your Grace, Lord Lyonel is still alive," Oscar blurted, his voice trembling. "The Hand of the King was captured. The Ironborn cut off his hand, trying to force him to reveal our whereabouts."
Rhaegar's stomach twisted with both relief and uncertainty. "Why didn't Lyonel return to see me?" he asked, unsure if he should feel grateful or devastated.
Oscar sniffled, sympathy creeping into his voice. "Lord Lyonel instructed us to offer his resignation as Hand of the King. He also said that without a Hand of the King, no one can assist the King... and you must not be called the Handless King."
"Seven hells!" Rhaegar cursed, closing his eyes as his hand balled into a fist behind his back. He had anticipated resistance to his attempts to centralize power and suppress the aristocracy, but he hadn't expected the first blow to come so swiftly.
"Haha, is this meant to intimidate me?" Rhaegar's eyes flashed with cold determination. "Where is Baelon? What is his condition?"
Having sacrificed so many skilled advisers and generals, he could not afford to lose his last valuable asset.
"The Prince is fine," Oscar said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "He led us in quelling the rebellion and used my father's funeral to solidify the Riverlands."
Rhaegar's expression remained stern as he pondered. "Riverrun is now inherited by your brother Kermit Tully?"
Oscar nodded, managing a faint smile. "Yes, Your Grace."
Rhaegar thought for a moment, recalling the wild and rash reputation of Kermit Tully. His father and grandfather had been lackluster, but the great-grandchildren were surprisingly capable. 'Good from bad,' Rhaegar mused.
Though momentarily satisfied, Rhaegar's concern for Baelon lingered. "Where is Baelon? Why hasn't he come to see me?" he asked again, worried that the battle had drained his son's courage.
"The Prince is not with me. He's returned to Dragonstone," Benjicot answered, his breathing quickening. "He is the Prince of Dragonstone, and he will lead our revenge."
Oscar quickly added, "There are dragons on Dragonstone, and the Prince set sail from Rook's Rest three days ago."
A damned attack had taken their fathers, and now the heir prince had sworn to ride a dragon and bring justice.
Rhaegar fell silent, feeling a glimmer of comfort. At least Baelon was taking action. There was some hope left in the tragedy.
Seeing that the King had no more questions, Erryk motioned for the boys to head to the inn and rest. A calamity had struck the Riverlands—the heir prince had narrowly escaped death, and the Hand of the King had lost his hand. Someone would surely pay.
As the boys descended the steps, they glanced back repeatedly. After a moment, Benjicot gathered his courage and called out, "Your Grace, the Prince asks that you don't go to war recklessly on his behalf. He vows to repay blood with fire himself."
Rhaegar froze, contemplating the words. The thought of using the Iron Islands as an example vanished from his mind.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Good. I'll wait," he said, his voice filled with satisfaction. 'If this lights a fire within my eldest son, the losses in the Riverlands will be worth it.'
The boys departed, and Rhaegar and Rhaenyra walked together, exchanging a meaningful glance. Rhaenyra's eyes shimmered with worry, unable to fathom the horrors her son had endured.
"Don't worry," Rhaegar said, his voice calm as he stroked her fair cheek. "Everything is turning for the better. Sending the two young dragons to Dragonstone might help."
"Mmm," Rhaenyra murmured, leaning into him in silent agreement.
...
Midday.
The waters of Blackwater Bay were calm, a deceptive tranquility before the storm.
An imposing armada cut through the sea, a dozen large ships sailing abreast, each surging toward King's Landing with the weight of a thousand tons of momentum.
"Roar!"
A silver-gray dragon soared through the sky, its mist-colored wings cutting through the clouds as it ascended, leaving the waves behind. The Great Council of the Targaryens had been called, summoning back bloodlines long scattered.
"Roar..."
A royal ship, flying the banner of three red dragons, sliced through the gaps in the mighty fleet, heading straight for the capital.
Below deck, the cabin was dimly lit by a flickering campfire.
"Roar..."
From the shadows, two newly hatched dragons strained against their cages. Their ferocious instincts were already evident as they slammed into the bars, eyes wide with wild fury, sparks flickering in their gaze.
The campfire swayed with each violent thud, casting long shadows that danced with the increasing noise.
One young dragon, covered in gray-green scales, had scarlet wing membranes and jagged dorsal fins, its mouth brimming with sharp teeth.
The other was black and purple, its scales marked by deep purple stripes, while two sharp, pale horns jutted from its forehead, completing its menacing appearance.
...
Outside, the majestic fleet sailed past, its grandeur commanding the sea.
Trailing discreetly behind was an inconspicuous three-masted ship, clinging closely to the fleet's shadow.
On its deck stood rows of slave soldiers, their faces branded with the unmistakable mark of Slaver's Bay. The sails, flapping in the wind, revealed a striking image—a pair of green dragons entwined, forming a unique totem of two dragons standing side by side.
At the bow of the ship stood a silver-haired figure, her face partially obscured by a silk scarf. She watched the royal ship pass, her gaze unwavering and intense.
Her delicate white ears twitched slightly, as though she had just heard a sound that filled her with ecstasy.
A slow, satisfied smile crossed her face as she narrowed her eyes in happiness.
...
Across the sea, at Dragonstone.
A ship flying the banner of Rook's Rest docked at the island, and a group of people disembarked, making their way ashore.
"This is Dragonstone?" a tall, black-haired woman with a bow slung across her back murmured, her voice filled with awe as she took in the surroundings.
"This is my territory; no need for formality," Baelon said, walking ahead, unconcerned.
Clad in a black robe, the teen Prince had changed noticeably since a month ago.
His eyes now carried a depth and sharpness beyond his years, and his entire demeanor exuded newfound maturity. The most visible mark of this transformation was the horizontal scar on his left cheek, a finger's width long. It had marred his once-childish face, replacing innocence with an air of determination and resolve.
The black-haired woman glanced at him briefly before following in silence. Her name was Alysanne Blackwood, younger sister of the late Lord of Raventree and now aunt to the current Lord, Benjicot.
During the chaos of the War of the High Heart, she had shot and killed several Ironborn in the skirmish that claimed her brother Samwell's life.
Her thick, dark curls had earned her the nickname "Black Aly." Though not beautiful—her skin neither fair nor soft, her face long and horse-like with prominent cheekbones—Alysanne was a skilled archer and had since become the personal bodyguard of the heir prince.
"Let's go, Aly," Baelon said quietly, each step he took on the sandy beach heavy.
...
The group, led by the Dragonkeepers, bypassed the Drum Tower and headed straight for the jagged, towering peak of Dragonmont.
At the foot of the mountain, the elderly Dragonkeeper looked troubled and kept asking for confirmation. "Prince, are you truly planning to live here?"
"Yes," Baelon replied firmly, his gaze fixed on the smoky cave above. "It doesn't matter how long it takes—I'll wait forever if I must."
The elderly Dragonkeeper hunched over, trying to reason with him. "Vhagar is old and ugly, Your Grace. A young Prince like you should choose a more fitting dragon."
"Sorry, I'm not much for advice," Baelon said, shaking his head, his pride unmistakable. "I want it—the founding dragon that fought alongside the Conqueror."
Seeing no way to convince him, the Dragonkeeper sighed in resignation and retreated. After giving orders for the Dragonkeepers to patrol the area, Baelon unsheathed his sword and began chopping down a tree trunk, intent on building a cabin.
"Tasks like these should be left to the servants," said Alysanne, setting down her bow and offering to help with the firewood.
"If I'm going to live here, I need to be self-sufficient," Baelon replied, swinging his sword with practiced precision. He glanced back at her, adding, "Keep your bow ready. We're not safe here."
"Who would dare attack the crown prince of a kingdom on Dragonstone?" Alysanne asked, crossing her arms as though the notion were absurd.
"You'll see," Baelon muttered, unwilling to elaborate.
For years, he had avoided setting foot on Dragonstone, not out of fear of the island itself, but because of a lurking threat—a relentless foe driven by vengeance, haunting him across the island.
Meanwhile, high above, at the summit of Dragonmont...
"Roar!"
A young dragon with dark, glistening scales and scarlet dorsal fins lay on the rocky ledge, its menacing eyes locked on the silver-haired boy below. Even from a distance, the malice in its gaze was unmistakable.
(Word count: 2,035)