Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 463: Sealord’s Sacrifice, Young Dragon’s Hatching

Chapter 463: Sealord’s Sacrifice, Young Dragon’s Hatching

Upon hearing the newborns' cries, the servants of the Red Keep breathed a collective sigh of relief. No matter their duties, they paused to join their hands in a sincere wish for the well-being of the children.

Princess Rhaenyra, beloved since her childhood and known as "The Realm's Delight," along with her brother Rhaegar, who had cleaned the streets of King's Landing, mobilized the homeless to cultivate wastelands, and provided shelters for orphans, were held in high regard. Their deeds had earned them the affection and praise of the people.

The birth of Rhaenyra's children was not merely a familial joy but a momentous occasion celebrated by all, seen as the continuation of a noble lineage deserving the attention of both old and new gods.

In the princess's bedroom, Rhaenyra lay on the bed, her complexion pale and her eyes reflecting a mix of confusion and awe as she embraced her new role as a mother. The pain of labor receded as she eagerly looked to see the infants she had just brought into the world. She remembered the stories Rhaegar told her about infants being switched at birth, and she was determined not to let such a fate befall her children.

"Don't worry, your children are right here," Laena reassured her, wiping the sweat from Rhaenyra's forehead with a gentle touch.

Meanwhile, Grand Maester Orwyle efficiently performed the necessary post-birth procedures. He swiftly cut the umbilical cords and secured them with knots. Rhaenyra watched anxiously, her throat hoarse from exertion but her mind somewhat eased by Laena's reassurances.

The midwife carefully washed the newborns in warm water, inspecting them thoroughly before finally handing them to Rhaenyra. "The arms are normal, the legs are normal," she reported, confirming their health.

Rhaenyra's face lit up with joy as she held her children for the first time. "Praise the Mother, they are lively children," she exclaimed, her laughter filling the room. Holding one baby in each arm, she looked to Laena, her expression one of both pride and relief. "They are healthy children, right?"

"Absolutely!" Laena responded, her smile broad as she brushed away a silver strand of hair from Rhaenyra's forehead.

Rhaenyra couldn't contain her laughter as she opened the swaddling clothes to better view her sons. The infant in her left arm wriggled, his tiny hands reaching out as if to grasp the world, while the one in her right lay quiet but alert.

"Why are they so pale?" Rhaenyra wondered aloud, gently stroking the silvery-gold fuzz atop their heads.

"They are certainly your children!" the midwife chimed in, her voice warm and cheerful. "I've never seen such fair babies at birth. They’re absolutely adorable."

Unlike the typical newborn's red and wrinkled appearance, Rhaenyra's twins were surprisingly pristine and rosy.

"Pop! Pop!"

Rhaenyra gazed lovingly at her newborns, kissing each on the cheek.

The two infants remained calm, nestled in their mother’s arms, absorbing her warmth.

Laena watched with a mixture of envy and admiration. "Rhaenyra, you truly have two wonderful children," she whispered.

Rhaenyra's smile widened as she inhaled the sweet scent of the newborns. "Rhaegar will be overjoyed when he sees them."

"Roar..."

A loud dragon roar suddenly echoed from the balcony, followed by a thud and the smell of something burning.

"Rhaegar!?" Rhaenyra turned swiftly, eager to see her beloved.

She saw a yellow-orange dragon head peering through the window, its large, round eyes fixed on her.

Laena, momentarily stunned, then chuckled. "It seems someone's dragon is very responsible."

Syrax crouched at the window, wings raised to block the sunlight, hind legs planted firmly on the balcony, resembling a giant yellow lizard clinging to the wall.

"Roar..."

The dragon's vertical pupils dilated with excitement as it spotted its rider and let out a joyous roar.

Syrax lived in the backyard of the Godswood and had sensed Rhaenyra's emotional turmoil during childbirth and rushed to her aid.

Rhaenyra sighed, looking fondly at her dragon. "Good girl, I'm a mother now. Go rest."

Although it wasn’t Rhaegar, Syrax's presence brought her immense comfort. The dragon had been her loyal companion since childhood.

"Roar..."

Syrax blinked with an almost comical understanding before flapping back to the garden.

Laena hugged her friend gently. "Lord Lyonel has sent a letter to recall Rhaegar. You’ll see him soon."

"Mm."

Rhaenyra nodded, leaning into Laena's embrace, closing her eyes in exhaustion.

...

Meanwhile, Rhaegar was flying back at breakneck speed.

"Roar!"

The Cannibal soared through the skies, crossing the Mander River basin without slowing.

Rhaegar leaned against the dragon’s back to reduce wind resistance, his eyes fixed ahead.

He guessed that Rhaenyra had given birth and was racing back to her side.

...

Late at night, beyond the Narrow Sea in Braavos, a clandestine operation was underway. A small group of men discreetly transported wooden barrels deep into the underground corridors of a remote harbor, the bottom of the carts cushioned with soft sand to muffle their passage. These barrels, filled with rare and potent wildfire, emitted a strong, pungent odor that hung heavy in the air.

Soon, a carriage approached slowly, and a tall figure with silver curls stepped out, cursing under his breath. "Damn the management of the Iron Bank. Without sufficient funds, how can I compete with the Iron Throne?" he grumbled. The moonlight revealed his face—the Sealord of Braavos, Ferrego.

Accompanied by a handsome swordsman, always at his side, Ferrego's bloodshot eyes and impatient expression betrayed his tension. "Have you arranged for the pyromancers and bloodmages?" he demanded.

"All are involved in the plan," the swordsman replied in a low voice.

"Good!" Ferrego’s mood shifted to excitement. "This is our last chance. Everything depends on tonight!"

For half a year, Ferrego had meticulously planned the incubation of a dragon egg, and now, at last, the moment had arrived. He entered the underground palace, followed closely by his loyal knight. As the heavy doors closed behind them, sealing in the guards with the wildfire, Ferrego vowed to keep the operation a secret, not even confiding in his wives and concubines.

Thus began the long-awaited sacrificial ceremony. Time ticked by slowly.

Outside the harbor, a carriage stopped on a purple bridge, far from the port. A curtain lifted to reveal a young man with purple curls and mismatched eyes—one yellow, one green—peering shrewdly at the hidden entrance to the underground palace. "What is Ferrego up to? He's so secretive," he mused.

The young man, Sparda, was a representative of the powerful families behind the Iron Bank. Since Ferrego's election as Sealord, his failures had only fueled their dissatisfaction and disgust.

"Let's wait and see," Sparda muttered, settling back in his carriage, waiting for Ferrego to falter.

Midnight descended, and Braavos lay in near-total darkness, the quiet punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city’s nightlife. Suddenly, a deafening explosion shattered the silence. The ground shook, and the granite walls of the underground palace cracked.

A second blast followed, and then a third. Greenish fire erupted like a volcanic inferno, lighting up the night sky. The harbor quaked as explosions continued, the earth collapsing beneath the force.

Sparda, jolted awake by the noise, lifted the curtain just in time to see a torrent of foul-smelling heat rushing towards him. The carriage and horses were thrown back, nearly toppling off the bridge as the horses screamed in agony. Sparda felt a burning heat on his face before losing consciousness.

The underground palace collapsed entirely, the wildfire’s relentless eruption consuming everything in its path. Braavos, plunged into chaos, was illuminated by an eerie, bright green fire that burned with an insatiable hunger, devouring all in its wake.

...

The next day dawned, still cloaked in darkness. The fire had consumed everything, leaving the harbor in smoldering ruins. Broken limbs and charred corpses littered the landscape, a grim testament to the night's devastation. The entire population of Braavos had not slept, huddling in their homes, gripped by fear of the rumored Deathwing attack.

Deep within what remained of the underground palace, now a pile of rubble, a massive dragonbone lay in the dust, its impressive length undeniable even without its skull. Surrounding the skeleton were the charred bodies of those whom Ferrego had hired to hatch the dragon eggs. Ferrego had misunderstood the alchemist's instructions, using wildfire to incubate the eggs—a fatal error that cost him his life.

Suddenly, a crisp sound broke the silence. Beneath the bones, three oval dragon eggs, buried in ashes, began to shake as if drawn by an unseen force. Cracks appeared in their shells.

Click! The middle egg broke open, revealing a small black dragon head. The dragon, its head no larger than a fist, looked around curiously, the charred shell still clinging to its top.

Click! Click! Two more cracking sounds followed, and the remaining eggs split open. Two small creatures, each the size of domestic cats, emerged. One was completely red with slightly gray wing membranes that it tried to spread. The other had blue scales with deep stripes, its back scales and wing membranes tinged with light red.

A faint hissing sound came from the black dragon still partially stuck in its shell. It was the first to hiss, biting through the remaining shell to reveal its entire body. Its black scales were highlighted with red on its back and wings, and its head bore small horns and lively amber pupils.

As the sun began to rise, a rooster crowed. The black dragon, startled by the sound, flapped its wings in panic and burst out of the cramped ruins. Its siblings, the red and blue dragons, followed suit, imitating their brother with shrill cries. Though they struggled to fly and couldn't yet breathe Dragonfire, they managed to stabilize themselves in the air.

The black dragon, driven by instinct, resisted the ruins of its birth and flew toward the sea. The other two dragons hesitated, snorting at each other in defiance before choosing their own paths. The red dragon, wild and unruly, headed east towards the rising sun, flying along a deserted ditch. The blue dragon, timid by nature, spotted a field and flew south.

Had anyone been there to witness, they would have noted the significance of the dragons' chosen directions. The black dragon, repelled by the rooster's crow and the island beneath, fled west, opposite the rising sun. Across the Narrow Sea lay Westeros, the fabled Western Continent.