Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 212: Helaena’s Resolve

Chapter 212: Helaena’s Resolve

The sound of footsteps echoed as Rhaegar and Rhaenyra entered the Great Hall.

Viserys' eyes lit up as he beckoned, "Rhaegar, come to your father."

Rhaegar smiled and approached, catching a glimpse of Mushroom and the other performers as they hastily retreated.

Viserys' smile widened and he unconsciously placed his hands on the armrests of the Iron Throne. When his palm touched the sharp edge of a sword embedded in the throne, he winced in pain as a bloody gash appeared.

"Damn it!" Viserys hissed, sucking in a breath and shaking his hand in annoyance. In his haste, he had forgotten the treacherous edges of the throne.

"Father!" Rhaegar and Rhaenyra exclaimed, their faces filled with concern.

Rhaegar quickened his pace, ascending the steps to the Iron Throne. "Are you alright?" he asked, examining the wound.

The cut was small, but blood was already dripping steadily.

Viserys cupped his bleeding hand and forced a smile. "It's nothing. I'll have the Maester bandage it."

Rhaegar remained silent, troubled by the sight. His father's wounds never seemed to heal properly, a troubling sign of lingering illness.

Rhaenyra, quick to action, pulled out a cloth and threaded it through the dense swords beneath the throne. "Here, let me help," she said, offering the makeshift bandage.

Viserys shook his head with a weary laugh. "It's just a small wound, no need to fuss," he said, taking the handkerchief and pressing it against the cut. Despite his words, he felt a pang of vulnerability.

"Rhaegar, what do you think of Dorne's proposal?" Viserys asked, bringing the conversation back to more pressing matters.

"Father, I don't agree with it," Rhaegar replied, his voice steady. "Dorne shows no sincerity. They wage war on one hand and seek peace through marriage on the other."

Viserys sighed. "I understand. The kingdom and Dorne are on a collision course."

The conflict with the Triarchy, supported by Dorne, had only escalated tensions. Qoren's envoy seeking a marriage alliance seemed more a strategic maneuver than a genuine gesture of peace. If the Targaryens agreed, it might buy some time. If they refused, war was inevitable.

"I'll think about it," Viserys said, his voice heavy with resignation. He leaned back, pressing a hand to his forehead, burdened by the weight of his decisions.

...

A room in the Red Keep.

The window of the room creaked open, revealing a pair of large, dark-skinned hands holding a raven.

"Go, bring the news back to Sunspear," a deep voice whispered.

The hands released the bird, which flapped its wings and soared away from the Red Keep.

Setyl poked his head out, cautiously scanning the surroundings before closing the window. He had already heard about the defeat of the Triarchy and witnessed the stance of the Royal Court advisers. Most were firmly against any alliance with Dorne, effectively ending the marriage proposal. He needed to relay this news to Prince Qoren to help him make an informed decision.

Outside the Red Keep.

The raven flew steadily towards the Dornish domain, its path untroubled until a small stone shot up from the ground.

With a sharp thud, the stone struck one of the raven's wings.

"Gahhhh!" the raven cried, plummeting to the ground.

From the shadows emerged a man with brown curly hair and a sly smile—Syrio.

He approached the struggling bird, quickly retrieving the message capsule attached to its leg. "As I thought, you're carrying a message," he murmured.

Syrio pocketed the letter, then mercilessly broke the raven's neck and tossed the lifeless body into the moat.

...

Tyrosh, In a luxurious garden.

In a lofty pavilion surrounded by exotic flowers and plants, several individuals sat around a round table.

The Archon of Tyrosh, a brocade-robed old man, presided over the meeting. To his right sat a young Myrish man with black curly hair and olive skin. Beside him were three others: a tall, fat man with dark skin and expensive clothes, a tall, thin old man with blonde hair, and an ordinary young man with short black hair.

Across from them, Drazenko Rogare and his brother, Lysandro Rogare, both with silver hair and blue eyes, presented a facade of calm. Lysandro, with his kind face and gentle smile, looked like a young and talented philanthropist.

The old man in the brocade robe slammed his hand on the table, his face gloomy. "The mercenaries were wiped out, and we lost the Stepstones."

"It's all because you underestimated the enemy," the fat man from Myr growled, his anger palpable. "Dragonfire decimated our forces."

"The army is gone, we lost the war!" the thin old man from Myr growled, clutching his scepter tightly.

Drazenko's face was equally grim. "We need to decide our next move. Should we lay down and give up the Stepstones in disgrace?"

The room fell silent. The wealthy magnates bowed their heads, calculating their gains and losses. The last war had been disastrous for the Triarchy, resulting in heavy casualties and financial ruin for many.

The brocade-robed old man had assassinated the previous Archon and bribed officials to secure his own election. Similarly, the Myrish governors had seized power through ruthless means. Lysandro Rogare had been thrust into his position not out of desire but necessity—his immense wealth made him the only candidate the other affluent citizens of Lys trusted.

Now, all the people present were the losers of the previous conflict, aware of the severe repercussions of another loss. The free trade city-state's election system was unforgiving. Failure could mean political death, or worse.

They knew this well. The stakes were high, and the consequences of failure were dire.

"Fight! At this point in the war, we can't afford to back down," declared the dark-skinned fat man, slamming his fist on the table.

His family's assets were all tied up in the war effort; bankruptcy loomed if they failed.

The young Myrish man looked despondent. "How can we fight? The mercenaries are all dead, and no amount of money can hire more."

"We don't need mercenaries," Lysandro said calmly. "We can't rely on them, but we can turn to the Slaver's Bay."

"Buy slaves?" the fat man asked, his face darkening at the thought of spending more money.

"No, buy Unsullied," Lysandro clarified. "I've contacted the Great Master of Astapor. We can purchase 3,000 Unsullied, more than enough to handle Westeros' forces."

Slaver's Bay was home to three cities: Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen, known for their vast slave markets. Astapor, in particular, was famed for its Unsullied, elite slave soldiers trained from boyhood to be emotionless, obedient, and deadly effective.

These soldiers were known for their discipline and combat prowess, famously having defeated 50,000 Dothraki riders with just 3,000 men.

The suggestion hung in the air as each man calculated the potential costs and benefits.

"The Unsullied are extremely expensive," the brocade-robed old man mused. "Even I would need to liquidate significant assets to afford 3,000 of them."

"Quality comes at a price," Lysandro said evenly. "We can share the cost."

The young Myrish man reluctantly interjected, "Against dragonfire, even the Unsullied are vulnerable."

There was no denying the dragon's power. In a direct confrontation, no number of soldiers could withstand the flames.

"After the Battle of Bloodstone Island, Westeros' forces don't exceed 5,000 men," Lysandro pointed out. "The Unsullied can take advantage of the night to land on the lightly defended Grey Gallows Island and use the terrain to prolong the conflict."

Lysandro knew that a direct battle against a dragon was folly. In the last Stepstones campaign, the Crabfeeder had used the terrain to delay the battle indefinitely, almost bringing Velaryon and Daemon Targaryen's forces to ruin.

"It's a sound strategy, but the Targaryens have several dragons. We're still at a disadvantage," the brocade-robed old man said, wary of the dragons.

Lysandro produced a letter and tossed it onto the table. "A personal letter from Qoren Martell. He's willing to send troops to help, threatening the Targaryen rear from the Prince's Pass."

"The Dornish love war," the brocade-robed old man considered. "We'll buy the Unsullied and enlist some mercenaries."

"What tactics should we use?" Lysandro inquired, not wanting to waste the costly soldiers.

"We'll have the mercenaries infiltrate Grey Gallows Island and wait for word from Dorne," the brocade-robed old man strategized. "If Dorne sends troops, we'll deploy the Unsullied. If not, the Unsullied will serve as our shield."

Securing their lives was the priority.

The others contemplated the plan and agreed. Some had enough wealth to survive a defeat; others were desperate enough to gamble everything.

The brocade-robed old man's plan, supported by Lysandro, balanced risk and reward, and was acceptable to all.

...

The Dragonpit, King’s Landing.

A few Dragonkeepers, armed with sticks and whips, coaxed Dreamfyre out of the crypt, speaking in High Valyrian.

Dreamfyre moved slowly, her body gleaming like polished jasper, her long tail swaying gently.

"Dreamfyre, I'm here!" Helaena called out, standing on tiptoes.

Dreamfyre turned her head, her eyes locking onto the familiar figure of the little girl.

Today, Helaena looked different. Instead of her usual fluffy white dress, she wore a loose blue gown. Her gaze was firm as she approached the senior Dragonkeeper and spoke in rusty High Valyrian, "Saddle Dreamfyre."

"Princess, Dreamfyre is not yet tamed and cannot be ridden," the old Dragonkeeper cautioned humbly.

Helaena clenched her fists, her tone resolute. "I will tame Dreamfyre and saddle her."

She had left the Red Keep early in the morning, determined to tame Dreamfyre. Summoning enough courage had not been easy, and she could not let this opportunity slip away.

The elderly Dragonkeeper hesitated for a moment before bowing respectfully. "As you wish, Princess."