Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 447: The Runaway Dragon

Chapter 447: The Runaway Dragon

As the sound of the fire crackled ominously outside, a heavy dread settled over everyone's heart.

The people of Dorne weren’t mere rogues; they were orchestrating an assassination.

Aemond’s mind reeled. Clutching his father’s sleeve, he whispered in a quavering voice, "Father, what do we do now?"

Without his dragon, he was nothing but a frightened ten-year-old boy.

Viserys, gripped by terror, faced a dozen assassins. The gravity of the moment sobered him, and he tried to soothe his son, his voice strained but calm.

It was his first brush with death since claiming the Iron Throne, and he was at a loss.

"Don't just stand there, protect His Grace!" came a desperate shout.

Erryk, his face set in grim determination, wielded his sword like a deity of war, deflecting arrows with expert precision.

While the guards shielded the king with their bodies, Erryk shattered a sturdy chair and armed himself with a hefty wooden shard, ready to defend his king.

"Your Grace, it's chaos outside. We should seek cover," Erryk advised, pulling the king behind the hall's massive stone pillars.

"Don't let them escape," came a cold command from a Dornish assassin, his eyes devoid of life as he loosed bolts from his crossbow.

The guards, vastly outnumbered, fell one by one.

In moments, only five breathless guards remained.

Erryk, both shocked and enraged, scanned the hall for anything that could serve as a weapon, "Your Grace, we must escape," 

Aemond spoke ,his voice trembling yet determined. "The dragons are outside."

Hope flickered in Viserys' eyes.

Not only dragons waited outside, but a well-equipped army.

Erryk faced the assassin and felt the pressure build. "Fourteen crossbowmen are positioned above. They'll cut us down before we reach the gate," he warned.

His eyes then moved to the remaining guards, clad in quality armor. Those who had fallen had been fatally shot in the neck, while the survivors nursed wounds to their limbs, still able to fight.

The three huddled together, discussing their options as the Dornish archers readied themselves above.

Their leader, his face obscured by a hood, his gray eyes wolfish, his voice raspy, commanded, "Move in, spare no one!"

Seven assassins, crossbows drawn, descended without a sound.

The five remaining guards, pale and trembling, drew their swords in a feeble attempt to defend themselves.

The assault was relentless, the archers' coordination impeccable.

"Your Grace, my brother Arryk is outside. He'll come when he hears the disturbance. I'll get you out," Erryk resolved, his face taut with determination.

With only five guards left, they had no choice but to fight desperately.

Further delay would mean certain death.

Viserys, clutching Aemond, sprinted from the room, seeking the protection of a Kingsguard's white robe.

"There! The King of the Iron Throne! Kill him!" an icy voice ordered from above as an arrow zipped through the air.

Clang!

Erryk countered, repelling the nearest assassin with a forceful kick, and yelled, "Run! Don’t look back!"

Aemond’s face was ghostly white as he glanced at the blood-stained Kingsguard, trembling in his father’s embrace.

Stripped of his dragon, a crushing sense of vulnerability overwhelmed him, his sword hanging heavy and useless in his hand.

...

At that moment, fires erupted throughout the castle.

The blaze began in the barn and stables, fanned by the fierce night wind, spreading uncontrollably.

Soldiers shouted and scrambled to extinguish the flames, the scene a chaotic riot of activity.

"Hurry! His Grace is in grave danger!"

Arryk, watching the chaos unfold, was consumed with worry. He led a group of patrolmen toward the tower, his duty as a Kingsguard to protect the king foremost in his mind.

The fire seemed suspicious, a nefarious plot unfolding within enemy territory.

"Roar!"

A thunderous roar shattered the night, followed by a torrent of golden Dragonfire lighting up the sky like a volcanic eruption.

Arryk’s expression shifted as he turned towards the outer walls of the castle, illuminated by the fiery glow.

Under the night sky, a bronze dragon's head emerged from the castle wall, its eyes wild with fury.

Rumbling—

The dragon's claws gripped the wall, and as it rose, sections of the castle crumbled beneath its massive feet.

With its fangs bared and mouth wide open, the dragon spewed golden Dragonfire like molten lava.

"Vermithor!"

Arryk's eyes widened in shock, his heart feeling as if it had been struck by a battering ram.

A dragon, driven mad by rage!

...

Outside the castle, under the vast and boundless night sky, the desert stretched endlessly.

An unsightly mud-brown dragon lay on its back in the sand, gazing vacantly at a blackened hillock. This grotesque mound, composed of the rotting corpses of thousands of sheep and cattle, stood as a grim testament to decay.

Vermithor's Dragonfire had only managed to scorch the surface, failing to reduce it to ashes.

In this desolate scene, the Sheepstealer found himself in a dire predicament. He eyed the charred peak, weighing his options.

The good news was the abundance of fat sheep within the pile. The bad news was their advanced state of decay, crawling with maggots.

Sometimes, the choice to eat or not to eat posed a true dilemma.

Bored and restless, the Sheepstealer hunched over and flicked his tail. For a dragon, eating rotten mutton was a humiliating prospect.

Boom!

A sudden explosion shattered the silence of the night.

"Roar?"

The Sheepstealer snapped his head back, his eyes reflecting the flames consuming the castle. He hesitated for a moment, then another...

"Roar!"

Realization struck. In a frantic scramble, the Sheepstealer sprang from the sand, his body moving with surprising speed and agility. He took to the night sky, almost tumbling over itself in urgency.

...

The Tower, The Hall

"Push, push harder!"

Aemond's face flushed as he leaned his entire weight against the door, straining to force it open.

Viserys growled, pushing with all his might, ignoring the death and destruction behind him.

But the solid wooden door didn’t budge.

In Westeros, castle gates were designed to be impenetrable. The two three-meter-high, twenty-centimeter-thick wooden doors, reinforced with a thick layer of iron plating, were almost immovable.

Father and son, one old and one young, exerted all their strength, managing to open just a crack.

"Damn it, how can this door be heavier than the Red Keep's gate? Is it blocked from the outside?" Viserys shouted, furious, as a wound on his hand burst open, blood streaming down his arm.

Pop!

A hidden arrow struck a guard in the forehead.

Casualties were mounting in the melee.

"Your Grace, the front door won't open. Let's go to the back door!" Erryk shouted, having just dispatched an assassin with his sword.

Viserys, already considering that option, pulled his son away from the door and headed for the back exit.

He realized this was a calculated assassination attempt. The people of Dorne had abandoned the castle, deliberately luring his army in and using secret passageways for their attack.

"Father, there's a dragon roaring outside," Aemond said, regaining his composure. He recognized Vermithor's roar, loud and angry, echoing outside the tower.

It wasn't the Sheepstealer. The Sheepstealer wasn't this close to their location.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Viserys had no time to respond as another volley of arrows shot towards them.

"Run!"

Father and son narrowly escaped, a bolt nearly grazing Aemond's head, cutting a lock of his silver-blonde hair.

Viserys stumbled, panic gripping him. He heard Vermithor's roar, disturbed by the fire and chaos,and its fury growing.

The bond between him and Vermithor wasn't strong enough to calm the dragon from afar.

The situation deteriorated quickly.

The Dornish assassins from above rained down crossbow bolts before joining the melee below. Their leader charged Erryk, slashing at his breastplate, sparks flying as his sword struck the steel.

"Die!" Erryk shouted, slashing an assassin's throat and blocking another blow.

The Kingsguard's armor, some of the finest in Westeros, allowed him to maneuver effectively among the attackers.

The leader of the assassins, eyes blazing with fury, called out to his men: "Go, deal with the target first!"

"Yes!"

Two assassins broke away, heading straight for the Targaryen father and son.

"Father, let's go!" Aemond urged, pushing Viserys to move faster. With the dragons gone and the guards dwindling, he felt the weight of responsibility to protect his father.

Viserys’s forehead was slick with cold sweat, pain etched across his face as he gritted his teeth, struggling to keep up.

"Kill him!"

The two assassins closed in, swords raised.

"Get away from me!" Aemond was small but fearless.

He grabbed a stool leg and hurled it at the assassins, then dragged his father and ran.

The assassins gave chase, and the father and son sprinted desperately.

The back door was blocked, forcing Aemond to pull his father back towards the front door.

Fortunately, the assassins had run out of arrows.

There was no need to worry about being shot in the back, but the price was two relentless pursuers, their curved swords flashing.

A slash across Aemond's back tore his green cloak. His heart pounded in his chest, and he instinctively clenched his muscles in pain and fear.

These Dornish assassins must be mad to dare attack him and his father so openly.

If anything happened to his father tonight, Rhaegar would ascend the Iron Throne by morning.

Given his brother's nature, Dorne wouldn't get away with it.

Had they forgotten Queen Rhaenys' death and the dragon's wrath that had plagued Dorne for years?

The assassins, faces hidden and eyes crazed, clearly didn't care.

The war was on; consequences be damned. Killing a king would be a monumental feat for all of Dorne.

Plop.

Just before reaching the gate, Viserys stumbled and fell heavily to the floor.

"Father!" Aemond cried out.

"One for each," one assassin said to the other as they advanced on the fallen king and his son.

"Stop!"

At the critical moment, Erryk charged in, knocking one assassin aside.

Aemond gasped and reached for his father's waist, feeling the hilt of Blackfyre.

Swish!

A flash of black steel as the ancestral sword was drawn. It didn’t cut the assassin's neck or pierce his chest, but Aemond managed to block the curved blade, buying precious seconds.

"Aemond, leave me. Run upstairs!" Viserys urged, slumped on the ground, dazed and weak from drink and shock. He could no longer run, but he hoped his third son could survive.

"Father," Aemond whispered, tears welling up. He had always believed his father favored his eldest brother, never caring for him.

"Run! Find your brother. Rhaegar will avenge me," Viserys insisted. The whole city of Yronwood was unsafe, and he hoped his son would escape on his dragon.

"No one can escape," the assassin sneered, hearing their heartfelt exchange, and swung his sword again.

Nearby, Erryk was locked in combat with another assassin.

After breaking his opponent's neck, he turned to see the remaining guards slaughtered and more assassins closing in.

"Death to the Targaryens!" an assassin shouted.