Chapter 632: The Heir Prince’s Temporary Team

Golden Fields, Chroyane.

Rushing and roaring...

The waters of the Rhoyne flowed from upstream to downstream, shrouded in gray mist at its heart. A city lay in the shadows, veiled by the heavy fog.

This was once the most prosperous and majestic city of the Rhoynar, the site where the Valyrians fought a devastating battle with three hundred dragons. After the conflict, Chroyane was swallowed by the rising mists of the Rhoyne, its glory reduced to ruins and left with only the Stone Men—those stricken by grayscale.

Boom.

The sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly.

Through the mist soared a huge black creature, its hideous maw spewing endless torrents of green Dragonfire.

"Be careful, Cannibal," Rhaegar said, frowning slightly as the howls echoed below. It was the cry of the Stone Men, even though they had long since lost the ability to feel pain or think.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal's green eyes gleamed fiercely as it swooped down, stirring the thick fog. Dark green Dragonfire ignited vast swaths of the shadowed ruins.

Chroyane had once been a city built on the water, nestled along the Rhoyne, the mother river of the Rhoynar people. Now, Dragonfire, tinged like falling ash, illuminated the land beneath.

Rhaegar watched it all, patting the dragon's back. "That's good, friend."

"Roar..."

Cannibal flapped its dark wings and soared higher, its nostrils flaring in disgust at the stench rising from below—as if something foul and unclean still lingered there.

...

After a short while, the man and the dragon returned to Dagger Lake.

"Roar..."

Caraxes circled in the air, its scarlet body writhing like a serpent, occasionally spraying sheets of Dragonfire in playful bursts. Its long, slender neck curved as it moved, and deep within its belly, an endless supply of flame churned. Flying and spewing fire seemed to be its way of relieving boredom.

With a rumble, the Cannibal landed with a heavy thud. The dark dragon, pale horns standing erect, lifted its head, watching the slender reptile in the sky.

"Quiet, partner," Rhaegar murmured his usual reassurance, rolling off the dragon's back.

Dragons were always fierce, but Dragoneaters were even more cunning and unpredictable. They were calm enough most days, but when exposed to cursed places like the Smoking Sea or Chroyane, they became aggressive.

Next to the tent, Daemon, looking disheveled, stumbled out and yawned. "So, what did Your Grace find in The Sorrows?" He looked like he had just woken from a hangover, clearly irritated.

Rhaegar shook his head helplessly. "Wreckage and Stone Men everywhere. If I could have swept it all away, I would have, but all I found was a lot of ruined stone."

"Just rotten stone?" Daemon wasn't impressed.

Rhaegar walked to the lake, stripped naked, and waded into the cold water, washing himself off as he spoke: '"Not only that, I saw the skeleton of a dragon."

Daemon glanced at him, then averted his eyes. "Then there's no mistake. At least three dragons from ancient Valyria fell there."

To build a Dragonstone castle, you need tons of stone—stone touched by dragonfire. The Golden Fields are deserted, and the nearby towns and markets refuse to answer commands. The fastest way to get the castle built is to use the best source of materials along the lower Rhoyne: Chroyane. There are endless stones and the bones of fallen dragons...

"Haha, who knows, we might even unearth the bones of Prince Garin," Daemon snorted in contempt. Even if Garin's tale was tragic, it seemed unimportant to him. After all, the destruction of the Triarchy and Volantis was no small thing either.

Rhaegar, unwilling to engage, shifted the conversation. "Otto sent word that the combined forces of Bravoos and Lorath attempted a sneak attack on Norvos."

He didn't say the result. There was no need—the attack had obviously failed.

Daemon, now washing his face in the lake to refresh himself, added, "A letter from King's Landing says your precious son has tamed an old, nameless dragon and has already rallied the Riverlands lords to strike back at the Basilisk Isles."

His eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke. "I heard it was a green dragon, no smaller than Vhagar?"

Rhaegar was startled by the news, letting the cold lake water reach his neck. His eldest son... had tamed a dragon? And now he was organizing the Riverlands lords to launch an attack across the Summer Sea?

"Strange..." Rhaegar paused, unsure whether to be proud or worried.

Daemon gave a knowing look. "The boy's not doing too shabby, eh? He's not so different from you when you were young." His tone was calm, but his words carried weight. "Who managed to find an untamed dragon without drawing any attention?"

The lake rippled softly as Rhaegar climbed out, dripping water as he walked. "I also heard Baela is nearly here. Your good daughter burned down two thousand Sellswords in one swoop."

"Huh?" Daemon frowned, caught off guard. Baela was no pushover, and her personality was fiercer than her mother's or grandmother's.

"Better get ready to welcome my dear cousin," Rhaegar said with a wry smile, picking up his clothes and heading for the tent. 'Strange or not, who doesn't act strange at times?'

Under all the skies, the only person who could control Daemon was Baela—fearless, bold, and afraid of nothing. She would scold him if need be, and Daemon, for all his bravado, would endure it. After all, she was her father's daughter.

...

Three days later...

The green grasslands by Dagger Lake.

"Roar!"

A young dragon with dark green scales streaked with gray stripes flew overhead, its movements as graceful and quick as a butterfly. Below, a group of pale-faced Sellswords trudged along, their hands bound with thick ropes. In front of them, seven or eight war elephants marched heavily, their trunks swaying as they moved.

"Roar!"

The young dragon soared above the heads of the elephants, startling the largest creatures on land. In a moment of fear, they urinated and defecated in unison.

"We're here, Moondancer," Baela said with a grin, her eyes on the tents by the lake.

She tugged on the reins, expertly guiding the energetic Moondancer down toward the camp in a swift descent.

They had crushed a mercenary force of two thousand, captured fifteen hundred men, and seized seven war elephants.

Let's see if Daemon still thinks of me as a child now, she thought, her smile widening.

...

Compared to the peaceful continent of Essos, the situation across the Narrow Sea was turbulent.

Sunspear, Tower of the Sun.

"Hurry, hurry, the council is about to convene."

Prince Qyle hurried, his short legs pounding against the stone floor, anxiety clear in his every step.

"Prince, there is still time," said Beric Dayne, Steward of Dorne and Kingsguard, with a complex expression. He took three steps for every one of the prince's.

For some reason, Prince Qyle had grown unusually slowly. Though he was already fourteen, he had never grown taller. The Maesters at the Citadel suspected childhood trauma had stunted his growth.

"There is no time to lose. Today is the first day," Qyle insisted, his old-fashioned demeanor for a teenager making it clear how much he valued first impressions.

Boom—

The great doors of the hall swung open, revealing the gathered assembly. The room filled quickly.

At the large conference table, Baelon stood, discussing battle strategies with serious intensity.

"Prince, I'm late," Qyle said, maintaining his polite manner and keeping his gaze alert.

"No, we're early," Baelon responded, raising his eyes slightly to acknowledge him. They exchanged a pragmatic glance.

Knock-knock!

Baelon rapped his knuckles against the white marble table, his expression stern. "Everyone, take your seats."

After nearly a month of waiting, the vassals from all corners had finally gathered.

"Yes, Prince." The lords and attendants answered in unison, taking their places as Prince Qyle watched them closely. Some were familiar faces, others not, but none were unknown to him.

Baelon, ever meticulous, began introductions in his typical plain manner. "This is Johanna Swann, the former Black Swan of Lys. She will be in charge of the rear in the coming campaign."

"Prince," Johanna greeted with a bright smile, dressed in a flowing black gauze dress.

One by one, the others followed. Among them was Maester Munkun, who had hurried from King's Landing to oversee logistics and offer counsel. Master Syrio of Myr, an old man skilled in assassination and intelligence gathering, had been forcibly conscripted into their service.

In addition to these, there were the lords of the Riverlands. Kermit Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Warden of the Three Rivers, was a seasoned commander well-versed in the art of war. His younger brother, Oscar Tully, a capable knight, was skilled in management and logistics, making him an excellent second-in-command. Then there were Benjicot Blackwood and Black Aly, the niece and nephew of House Blackwood, both formidable warriors.

Prince Qyle exchanged greetings with each of them, secretly impressed. For someone so young, already the heir to the Iron Throne, he was gathering a core team of remarkable talent. You wouldn't find such a capable assembly anywhere else in Dorne.

Boom—

The doors opened once more, and two figures entered the hall.

Baelon looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alyn, you've finally arrived."

Alyn was a handsome young man with short silver-blonde hair and deep purple eyes, his posture upright and commanding. The two were old friends. Alyn, born a bastard to a family of shipwrights in Hull, had once been recommended as a squire by Lord Corlys Velaryon. After his brother Addam's exile, Alyn had been recalled, and though years had passed, he now served as the first mate in the Velaryon fleet.

Dressed in fine clothes, Alyn bowed and said, "Prince, I was ordered by Lord Corlys to bring twenty warships and 1,800 sailors from Hull."

"Is that all?" Baelon stepped forward to greet him, clearly expecting more.

Alyn, ever precise, replied, "The numbers may be small, but I assure you, they are the finest ships and sailors on the seas."

"When will Lord Corlys arrive?" Baelon asked, slightly relieved but still seeking the presence of the Master of Ships and Admiral of the Navy. A campaign against the Basilisk Isles could not succeed without a seasoned veteran of great prestige.

Lowering his voice, Alyn whispered, "Prince, your mother is against the war, and Lord Corlys is keeping watch against Pentos." His departure with this fleet nearly alerted the Prince of Pentos to launch an attack. "King's Landing is now under full martial law, and the Red Queen patrols the Gullet all day."

Baelon fell silent at the news. "All right," he said at last. He understood that hasty decisions could bring disaster. Yet putting down the rebellions in the Iron Islands and the Basilisk Isles was urgent—it wasn't just about revenge or winning favor with the Riverlands lords. This was his chance to prove himself and gain the prestige that came with victory.

His father had united Westeros through a series of relentless victories, won through blood and fire. Though battles like the Stepstones hadn't made much impact in Westeros, they were famous across Essos. The war that truly marked Westeros' rise was the obscure "War of the Two Bones." In that conflict, Cannibal stormed into Stone Hedge and burned all the male heirs of House Bracken.

The shock of this battle resonated through the noble class, serving as a stern warning against challenging the royal family.

Baelon knew the importance of such a message. If no one in the Riverlands could serve as an example, the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands would. The descendants of the ancient rulers who had dominated the Iron Islands for centuries were ungrateful, driven by nothing but plunder and chaos. Just as the Conqueror had wiped out House Hoare at Harrenhal, the Greyjoys of Red Kraken Dalton would meet the same fate.

"Prince, the Stepstones are still recovering. It would be wiser to move our forces to Lys," Alyn said, with the confident tone of an aristocrat. He had only just arrived, yet he was already offering tactical advice. Sunspear, after all, was too far from the Basilisk Isles. Lys was much closer.

Of course, the best staging grounds were Volantis or Slaver's Bay, but both territories were too sensitive for a royal heir to visit.

Baelon's eyes flashed with amusement. "No rush. The Iron Islands haven't been dealt with yet."

Alyn hesitated for a moment, opening his mouth as if to say more. But before he could speak...

"Prince! Prince!" another voice called out, loud and frantic. "I've fed all the dragons—more than ten goats!"

Baelon turned and blinked in surprise. Nettles, wearing a rough gray robe with a bamboo staff tucked under her arm, came rushing toward him. Her black hair had been shaved into a crew cut, her face round, her nose crooked, and freckles scattered across her cheeks. Dressed like a Dragonkeeper, the girl's tomboyish appearance was hardly flattering.

"Roar!"

Suddenly, a gray dragon flew past the Sun Tower, its excited, slender cry piercing the air. It circled slowly, joining the other dragons already hovering above.

(Word count: 2,200)