Chapter 363: Red Sowing

"Roar--"

Atop the towering Dragonmont, a colossal dragon, black as charcoal, soared through the sky. It flexed its burly frame, stretching its vast wings.

As it elevated its wings, the dragon dipped its head and swooped down, its green eyes fixed on the open space below.

Rhaegar stood with his arms crossed, his black robe billowing in the wind.

A few meters behind him, a group of ragtag bastards, clad in coarse linen, huddled together for warmth.

"Roar..."

Cannibal circled the sky, gradually folding its wings before landing heavily on the ground with a thunderous thud. Debris scattered and dust billowed in all directions.

Cannibal emitted a low growl and rose, wings bracing against the ground, its formidable head obscuring the figure of its rider.

"Well done."

Rhaegar smiled, reaching out to stroke the dragon's pitch-black scales, cold as steel under his touch.

He slowly turned, eyeing the dozen or so bastards, and asked softly, "Do any of you desire a dragon?"

Awe-struck, the bastards gasped, their eyes locked on the immense, mountainous form of Cannibal, their longing almost tangible.

This was a dragon!

For bastards born to fishermen and herders, it represented the ultimate power and wealth.

Yet, this symbol of ascendance was usually out of reach, merely a distant dream.

They weren't even deemed worthy of touching it.

Rhaegar's expression remained impassive, waiting for a volunteer.

Knowing well what this opportunity meant, the first to step forward did so without hesitation.

"Prince, I want a dragon!"

From the crowd emerged a towering, silver-haired man with broad shoulders. His stride was confident as he made his way forward.

This man bore the visage of youth, his arms thick and scarred from years of blacksmithing.

"What is your name?" Rhaegar asked, scrutinizing him.

The man approached, kneeling before Rhaegar, his voice gruff: "My name is Hugh Waters, a humble blacksmith from the town."

Rhaegar nodded slightly and surveyed the others, asking flatly, "Is he the only one?"

Rhaegar nodded gently and looked at the group of bastards once more, saying blandly, "Is he the only one who wants a dragon?"

"And me!" shouted a dry, thin man with silvery blond curls, struggling to push his way out of the crowd despite his unkempt beard.

With him was a pale-haired, wobbly-footed young man.

Rhaegar looked at the man and asked for his name.

The skinny man kneeled on one knee, lifted his slightly handsome face, and said excitedly, "Prince, my name is Silver Denys, and I participated in the Second Stepstones War."

He tapped his somewhat sloping left leg, proving, "This is the injury I received from fighting with the pirates of the Triarchy, and I was left with a disability."

Rhaegar looked him over and frowned slightly.

His body was dry and thin, reeking of alcohol. His left hand was missing his ring finger and pinky, and his right hand was missing its pinky. He did not look like a respectable person.

Tormund whispered in Rhaegar's ear, "An old gambler with debts and chopped-off fingers, but with a respectable battlefield performance."

Rhaegar nodded and turned to the other white-haired youth.

"Prince, my name is Ulf. I also participated in the Second Stepstones War," the youth introduced nervously, gulping with trepidation.

Tormund continued, "A drunkard who went to war for money."

Rhaegar remained impartial. Regardless of the bastards' characters, as long as they could bring back the wild dragon Morghul, he would give them their reward.

Rhaegar surveyed the group one by one and said sternly, "I believe you have heard that the kingdom is once again at war with the Triarchy."

The bastards looked at each other, unsure of how to react.

Without hesitation, Rhaegar said loudly, "There is a Targaryen masterless dragon in Lys, and your task is to bring that dragon back to me!"

Didn't you want Red Sowing?

Then he also included some bastards with stronger bloodlines, giving them the same probability of taming Morghul. The difference between the Valyrian descendants of the Triarchy and the bastards was not much.

At least the bastards were still beholden to the Targaryens, who provided them with shelter and money. If successful, titles and fiefs could be awarded.

All he had to do was wait for one of the bastards to return with dragons to claim his reward. Just one thing: the moment the dragon landed in Westeros, its lair was to be secured immediately.

When the bastards heard that they could tame a dragon openly and honestly, with gold, silver, and treasure waiting for them, their eyes lit up.

Not only the three who introduced themselves, but a dozen bastards fell to their knees and eagerly volunteered to go to Lys. A bastard's life was cheap, and they did not care whether they lived or died. Whoever could tame the dragon would immediately become famous. This deal was worth it!

The corner of Rhaegar's mouth curled into a smile. He signaled Tormund with his eyes to proceed, and then he stepped onto the soft ladder and climbed onto the dragon's back.

"Roar..."

Cannibal roared with its head held high, its wide, pitch-black wings spreading out hundreds of meters as it leapt into the sky.

In front of a group of bastards, it perfectly demonstrated what a true dragon was.

...

Time passed and three days passed.

Stepstones, Gray Gallows Island.

"Roar..."

A dragon's roar, as loud as a bell, echoed across the entire island. A pitch-black dragon soared in the sky, swooping down to spray ethereal green Dragonfire.

"Dracarys!"

At the young man's command, the Dragonfire flowed continuously, splashing like ink.

Beneath the Dragonfire, a dozen pirate ships flying the flag of the Triarchy suffered a destructive blow, instantly igniting in a forest of green flames.

On the beach, the pirates who had landed earlier swarmed. Fortunately, the island had a watchtower and stationed archers, who briefly held off the pirates with a barrage of arrows.

"Dracarys!"

Rhaegar, riding on the dragon's back, gave the command with an expressionless face.

"Roar..."

Cannibal turned back, its pitch-black body swooping down against the steel spears launched by dozens of scorpion crossbows. It unleashed another torrent of Dragonfire, turning iron into molten slag.

Occasionally, a steel spear would strike its pitch-black scales, but they crumbled away upon impact, failing to penetrate the dragon's defenses.

The green Dragonfire incinerated the pirate ships in a series, burying the pirates and scorpion crossbows in a sea of flames. The dragon's thick, long tail snapped a ship's mast, sending waves crashing as it smashed into the sea.

Head held high, the dragon soared over the beach, sweeping the pirates' remnants away with dragonfire.

After half a dozen sweeps, it began to clean up the battlefield.

Cannibal landed on the beach, and Rhaegar, still on his back, overlooked the busy soldiers below.

Robb, dressed in silver and gray armor, approached.

Rhaegar asked, "How many men do we have left?"

"Less than five hundred on the two large islands combined," Robb replied, his face heavy.

If it weren't for the  Prince and Cannibal, this amount of manpower would never have been able to repel the relentless attacks from the Triarchy.

Rhaegar exhaled and said, "It doesn't matter. Daemon is attacking Tyrosh, and Lord Corlys is leading the main fleet to attack Lys. We'll soon see the results."

"I hope so," Robb nodded heavily and turned to command the nearby soldiers to carry away the corpses.

...

In Lys, white and gray stone buildings dominated the landscape, giving the city-state a stark, fortified appearance. Watchtowers were spread strategically across the city, adding to its defensive posture.

On the west side of the harbor stood a domed structure, originally an arena, now repurposed and sealed off with bronze gates.

Inside, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the bustling city outside. The space was dimly lit, illuminated only by a series of bonfires, creating an enclosure where the wind scarcely entered.

A low, resonant roar echoed intermittently, each time sending waves of scorching air mixed with a pungent sulfur stench through the space. At the heart of this enclosure lay Morghul, a behemoth of a dragon nearly sixty meters in length. Its immense body sprawled across the stone floor, huge head drooping, nostrils flaring with heavy breaths. The dragon's scales shimmered silver and black, its wing membranes a misty gray.

The creature's head was adorned with two backward-curving grayish-white horns, and its long, thick tail was notably missing a piece. Despite its majestic appearance, the dragon was restrained; dense chains encircled its neck and limbs, tethering it to the ground and rendering it powerless.

A middle-aged man with flowing silver hair, visibly nervous, approached the dragon with a goat in tow, hoping to curry favor by feeding it.

"Morghul, heed my command," he murmured in a shaky voice, trying to get the dragon's attention.

Unmoved, Morghul lay still, eyes closed, ignoring the man's advances.

"Good dragon... let me touch you," the man whispered, moving closer.

At that moment, a shadow suddenly loomed over him. The air stirred violently, and he froze, slowly looking up.

Above him hovered Morghul' massive head, black vertical pupils staring down indifferently. With a heavy snort and an ominous growl, the dragon opened its jaws wide.

"Roar!!"

A blast of grayish Dragonfire engulfed the man in an instant, incinerating him along with the unfortunate goat that had managed to flee a short distance.

Outside the building, a man and woman watched the scene unfold, blocking a dozen mercenaries at the entrance.

The man, Bambaro Bazane, a magister of Lys, had a stern look. "Bring another dragon seed," he commanded.

A mercenary quickly ushered in a skinny teenager with short silver-blonde hair, visibly frightened, holding a raw fish as an offering to the dragon.

The only beautiful woman present turned away and murmured, "Another snack for the dragon."

She was delicately built, her slender form enveloped in a flowing silk robe that subtly outlined her petite curves.

Her hair, a cascade of waist-length black curls, contrasted starkly with her pale, tender skin, framing an ethereally light and pure visage.

Bambarro chuckled. "Hard to believe the Black Swan still harbors any tenderness."

Johanna gave him a fleeting glance and said quietly, "The Iron Throne's fleet has split in two. The formidable Velaryon fleet is making a beeline for Lys. It's time you devised a strategy."

Bambarro's eyes hardened as he responded, his voice deep, "Scorpion crossbows stand ready both inside and outside the city-state. A hundred warships wait beyond the harbor, and with the fortune I've borrowed from the Iron Bank, I must tame that wild dragon!"

To conquer a dragon, he had invested heavily, spilling blood money.

Seeing her words were in vain, Johanna smiled wryly and said, "I'm returning to the Perfume Garden. The Archon of Volantis awaits my company."

"Very well," Bambarro dismissed her, gesturing impatiently.

With a graceful curtsy, Johanna exited the building with poise.

As the bronze doors closed, faint, mournful cries echoed from within.

Shaking her head slightly, Johanna stepped into her elaborate carriage.

Inside, a voluptuous woman in a diaphanous veil knelt on the floor, her head bowed in submission.

Johanna reclined on the plush couch, idly twirling a black and white rose. "Can you reach Dragonstone Island?" she asked quietly.

Johanna Swann, once captured by pirates before the initial Battle of the Stepstones Islands, had been abandoned by her uncle, Lord Swann, who refused her ransom. Taken to Lys's Pleasure House, her beauty and cunning soon allowed her to navigate and eventually dominate the elite circles of Lys, earning her the moniker "Black Swan."

(Word count: 1,936)