Chapter 387: Rhaenar Gives Birth
"Rhaenar!"
Daemon called out his wife's name instinctively, his voice filled with disbelief and concern.
Rhaenar's gaze never wavered as she sharply commanded, "Dracarys!"
"Roar!"
Vhagar dove from the sky, unleashing a torrent of dragonfire that shattered several watchtowers. With a powerful beat of her wings, she ascended swiftly back into the air.
Rhaenar sat firmly in the saddle, her shoulders bound by chains to secure her position. Her silver hair danced in the wind.
Despite being heavily pregnant, she wore no armor — only a simple, flowing white gown.
Like a protective mother, Vhagar flew with remarkable speed and stability, shielding her rider from harm.
Daemon stared, frozen for a moment, before understanding the message in his wife's actions.
"Screech!"
Caraxes, sensing his rider's will, soared into the sky with a fierce cry, following closely behind Vhagar and spewing dragonfire.
During their eight years of travel across the Free Cities, the bond between the dragons had grown as deeply as the one between their human riders.
Vhagar and Caraxes often flew together, performing mesmerizing displays of synchronized flight.
Decades ago, their previous riders — Aemond and Baelon — had fought side by side in countless battles, including the legendary "Battle of the Hundred Candles."
"Dracarys!"
Rhaenar's eyes gleamed with resolve as she commanded Vhagar to charge through the port's defenses, carving a fiery path of destruction.
Vhagar roared repeatedly, her slitted pupils radiating indifference toward the chaos of war. Her massive body moved like a merciless engine of destruction.
Even Caraxes dared not fly too close, instead circling at the flanks, providing support.
Despite Vhagar's age and the growing burden of her aging body, she remained a force of unparalleled devastation on the battlefield, living up to the name given to her by the God of War.
"Attack!"
"Surround the city!"
The sight of two dragons together ignited a surge of morale among Daemon's forces, who stormed into the city along the scorched path Vhagar had left behind.
In mere moments, Tyrosh descended into chaos.
Squadrons of defenders scrambled up watchtowers, aiming scorpion bolts at the dragons.
"Roar!"
Vhagar's battle instincts kicked in. Her head snapped toward the nearest tower as she unleashed a torrent of thick, black smoke and searing dragonfire.
Rhaenar leaned low against Vhagar's back, protecting her unborn child.
She had received secret letters from her cousins, warning that Daemon had launched the war recklessly.
Each passing day filled her with greater anxiety and depression.
Only now did she fully understand Vhagar's longing.
To correct her husband's mistakes, she mounted Vhagar's back and fulfilled her duties as both wife and dragonrider.
Gone were Vhagar's mournful cries. The old dragon carried her rider across the Narrow Sea, returning at last to the battlefield she had yearned for.
"Rhaenar, help the troops with street combat!"
Daemon's face was tense as he urged his wife to move away from the scorpion bolts' range.
There were too many towers, and Vhagar's massive size made her an easy target.
"Roar!"
Vhagar's only response was a furious roar.
The ancient dragon glided just above the rooftops, her massive green wings blotting out the sun as she rampaged through the city.
Scorpion bolts shot toward her, only to ricochet harmlessly off her scales like pebbles thrown at a giant.
At 170 years old, Vhagar's scales had hardened over time, becoming more impervious than steel.
Even before her enhancements, her scales had been thicker than those of other dragons.
Time had not merely weakened her body — it had also fortified her defenses.
Daemon watched in awe before shaking his head with a wry smile.
His wife had inherited her cousin's sharp wit and was far more clever than he was.
The two soared above the city on their dragons, destroying tower after tower.
With the dragons leading the charge, the army surged forward with unstoppable momentum.
Within an hour, they had crushed the last remnants of resistance and surrounded the Great Lord's mansion on the western edge of the city.
Caraxes landed boldly in the courtyard, his weight shaking the ground beneath him.
Daemon surveyed the silent mansion, its emptiness palpable.
Bang!
The doors were violently smashed open as soldiers poured inside.
Daemon's face darkened as he commanded coldly, "Search every corner. Leave no one alive!"
Lord Milov had insulted him repeatedly in letters — Daemon intended to roast him alive.
On a secluded beach on the eastern edge of Tyrosh...
"Move faster!"
"Hurry, or it'll be too late!"
A group of several hundred well-equipped mercenaries fled, led by the defiant-eyed Lord Milov himself.
The mercenaries carried crates of gold, silver, and jewels, while seven or eight captured nobles were bound in the center of the group.
Milov glanced back at the city, where the massive green dragon loomed overhead like a mountain crushing Tyrosh beneath its weight.
"Gulp."
Milov swallowed nervously, muttering with envy and hatred, "Damn it, why do the Targaryens have so many dragons?"
He had thought Daemon was the only one attacking, a threat he could barely resist.
The Sea Lord of Braavos had even sent him a letter, urging him to hold the city, promising reinforcements from a hidden fleet in the Narrow Sea.
Nonsense!
The Sea Lord had clearly deceived him, using him as bait to distract the Iron Throne.
As a former mercenary, Milov knew when it was time to flee.
The tide washed over the beach as several small sailboats waited, hidden among the rocks.
"Get on the ship! Don't lose my treasure or the hostages!"
Milov drew his sword and shouted, using his last shred of authority to intimidate his subordinates.
"Hiss—Screech—"
Suddenly, a pair of pitch-black wings obscured the sky, and a thunderous roar echoed across the beach.
From above, Rhaegar immediately recognized the mercenaries' attempt to escape.
Looking toward the city, thick smoke billowed in the aftermath of the fire—signaling that the war was nearing its end.
"Dracarys."
Rhaegar's voice was cold.
The dragon, Devourer, narrowed its green, slit-pupiled eyes, its expression devoid of emotion. From its maw erupted a torrent of raging dragonfire.
Sizzle...
The eerie green flames descended like mist, and the moment they touched flesh, the victims were engulfed. Their bodies burned, their flesh searing away bit by bit until only charred corpses remained.
The mercenaries shrieked in agony, rolling on the ground in a desperate but futile attempt to extinguish the flames.
"Ah! It burns!"
One mercenary, his upper body ablaze, ran blindly, wailing in pain—only to crash into Milov.
The impact sent Milov stumbling, and in an instant, the dragonfire latched onto his leather armor, spreading rapidly to his face.
"You bastard! What kind of fire is this?!"
His once-tight skin blistered and burned, holes forming as he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Writhing on the ground, his body convulsed violently.
Moments later, the flames ate through his skull, and the twitching ceased.
Boom!
Devourer landed, kicking up a massive spray of sand and gravel.
The remaining dozen or so mercenaries trembled, their legs shaking uncontrollably as they gazed up at the monstrous dragon before them.
The wealthy captives had long since collapsed to the ground, their bodies limp. Men and women, young and old alike, had all wet themselves in terror.
Screams filled the air, the ghostly green flames flickering in their vision—like a scene from the seventh layer of hell.
Rhaegar glanced at them and spoke indifferently. "You are Tyroshi merchants?"
At this moment, the only ones able to flee were the Archons of Tyrosh.
And those taken along in the escape? Naturally, the wealthiest of the city.
A burly man with a thick beard nodded frantically. "Great Dragonlord, we have money!"
"We also swear allegiance to the Black Swan!"
Another man quickly added, fearing he would miss the opportunity.
The rest of the wealthy captives scrambled forward, prostrating themselves in terror and submission.
Before such a colossal dragon, dignity and honor became laughably fragile.
Rhaegar's eyes flickered, and he said, "Fear not. If you swear loyalty to me, blood and fire will not befall you."
His gaze swept over the trembling mercenaries, and his tone turned icy. "The same goes for you. Abandon your past sins, protect these people, and I will pardon your crimes."
"Yes, merciful Targaryen Dragonlord!"
The remaining mercenaries, overjoyed, knelt as if reborn.
"You will stay here. I will send someone to retrieve you later."
Rhaegar had no time to waste. He patted the dragon's back and soared toward the city.
As he flew over the beach, he couldn't help but smirk.
He had thought all his pigs had been slaughtered—luckily, a few had managed to survive.
...
Meanwhile, the entire western district of Tyrosh had fallen.
The remaining six thousand troops split into three forces.
Three thousand marched on the southern district, two thousand on the northern district, while the last thousand remained stationed in the west.
The Grand Army's Headquarters.
Vhagar had reduced most of the high towers to rubble before landing in the front courtyard of the stronghold.
"Laenor!"
Daemon swiftly dismounted, his armor clanking as he strode toward the dragon.
Laenor, sweating, unfastened the chains from his shoulders and began descending the soft ladder.
Before his feet touched the ground, Daemon reached out, gripping his legs and back, smoothly catching him.
Staring at his wife, whom he hadn't seen in so long, Daemon yanked off his helmet and asked urgently, "Laenor, why are you here?"
Laenor's expression was complicated. She said nothing, only staring at her husband.
"Why aren't you speaking?" Daemon was confused.
Laenor's eyes dimmed with disappointment. She demanded, "Daemon, Rhaegar's orders were to besiege, not attack. How dare you disobey and start a war on your own?!"
Daemon frowned slightly, displeased. "I blocked all communications. Who told you?"
"Daemon, I am your wife!"
Laenor exploded, furious at his evasiveness. "My family fights and dies for you. Did you think you could keep this from me?"
Daemon grew impatient and said in a low voice, "I fight for honor—to claim a land for myself, for you, and for the child in your womb!"
"You only care about your honor and pride! Don't use me and our child as an excuse!"
Laenor's voice trembled with rage. "For your pride, you are willing to sacrifice the soldiers who follow you! This is all just for your own selfish desires!"
After years together, she knew her husband better than he knew himself.
Beneath the exterior of the proud, noble rogue prince was a selfish, stubborn, and reckless man.
Sometimes, even a child had more sense than he did.
Daemon's temper flared, but seeing his wife's heaving belly, he forced himself to restrain it. "Say what you want—I have already conquered Tyrosh."
"You finally made peace with the king. Have you thought about how you'll face your brother after this war?"
Laenor clenched her teeth in anger, her breathing growing rapid.
She was exhausted from their years of wandering, yet her husband continued to act like a spoiled child demanding sweets.
Suddenly, a warm trickle ran down her legs.
Laenor's face paled. Forgetting the soldiers around her, she reached beneath her skirt.
When she withdrew her hand, her fingers were coated in blood.
Daemon froze in place.
Laenor's lips trembled. "I think I'm going into labor."
For the past month, she had been unable to eat or sleep well, her body drained and weak.
After a heated argument with Daemon, Laenor's water suddenly broke.
Daemon's face changed dramatically. Without hesitation, he lifted Laenor into his arms and rushed toward a nearby pavilion, shouting anxiously, "Call the maester! Hurry!"
The soldiers, not daring to delay, immediately sprinted out of the estate.
...
Before long, Devourer soared above Tyrosh, overlooking the chaos below.
"Roooarrr..."
Suddenly, a mournful wail filled with emotion echoed in the distance.
Devourer's cold green vertical pupils narrowed as it locked onto the sound's origin — the lord's mansion in the western district.
Rhaegar paused, frowning in confusion. "Vhagar?"
He would never forget Vhagar's sorrowful cries, having heard them once before.
"Devourer, head over there."
Sensing that something was wrong, Rhaegar furrowed his brow.
Devourer shifted direction and soared swiftly toward the mansion.
In no time, man and dragon descended at the estate's gates.
"Prince!"
The soldiers standing guard brightened up at the sight of him, quickly saluting and greeting him.
Rhaegar gave a slight nod and marched straight into the estate.
The moment he entered, Vhagar's massive form became immediately apparent. The dragon lay atop a pile of ruins, letting out endless mournful cries.
From several hundred meters away, Rhaegar instantly spotted Daemon in front of the pavilion door.
Daemon's expression was grim as he paced around helplessly.
Rhaegar strode toward him, just about to speak—
"Ah! Get it out... hurry!"
A heart-wrenching scream of agony burst forth from the pavilion, carrying Laenor's unmistakable pain.
Rhaegar shuddered violently, his words catching in his throat.
Only one thought filled his mind:
"Giving birth... hurts so much!"
Chapter 388: First Encounter in the Mirror
In the brief moment of distraction, Lady Laena's screams grew even more agonizing.
The sheer pain was palpable just from hearing the sound.
Creak—
The attic door opened, and an elderly maester with a face full of wrinkles hurried out in small, shuffling steps.
Daemon's expression shifted subtly as he stepped forward to meet him.
The elderly maester, drenched in sweat, lowered his voice anxiously: "A full-term pregnancy takes ten months. Lady Laena is only eight months along. It's extremely difficult for a premature baby to be born safely."
Lady Laena had conceived at the beginning of the year. It was now late July—exactly eight months into her pregnancy.
With Westeros' primitive medical conditions, there was little distinction between a premature birth and a difficult labor.
Daemon was momentarily stunned. He glanced toward the attic and asked, "Is there any way to ensure a safe delivery?"
"I learned a massage technique for assisting childbirth during my time at the Citadel, but it doesn't work for every mother," the maester admitted helplessly, though he promised to do his best.
Daemon was dazed for a moment before patting the maester's shoulder heavily. "Go. Protect my wife and child."
"I will keep you informed of any developments."
The maester wiped the sweat from his brow and quickly returned to the attic, closing the door behind him.
Daemon stood frozen, staring blankly at the door before turning around and ruffling his long hair in frustration.
Lady Laena's first childbirth had gone smoothly—she had delivered twin daughters without complication.
Having already experienced childbirth, the second time should have been much safer.
"Uncle,"
Rhaegar's grave voice interrupted as he approached.
Daemon cast him a brief glance, shrugged off his cloak, and tossed it aside before continuing to pace restlessly in front of the attic door.
He had noticed his good nephew's arrival long ago but chose to ignore him deliberately.
Seeing Daemon's irritated state, Rhaegar took a deep breath and decided to ignore him as well.
He had come with much to say but realized it was inappropriate given Lady Laena's labor.
"Childbirth is a dangerous ordeal for women," Rhaegar sighed quietly, stepping back to give Daemon space.
Neither uncle nor nephew spoke further, each finding a corner to pace in silence.
Daemon's thoughts were consumed by Lady Laena's premature labor, his mind blank with worry.
Rhaegar, meanwhile, was haunted by the memory of his mother Rhaenyra's difficult delivery.
Rumble...
The vast courtyard echoed only with the sorrowful, angry growls of Vhagar.
The old dragon sensed its rider's anguish and let out mournful roars tinged with fury.
Time passed slowly.
The labor was far from over, and Lady Laena's screams grew increasingly faint.
Bang!
The elderly maester burst out of the door again, his thin hands covered in blood.
Daemon's face was filled with worry, but he hesitated to speak.
The maester's expression was somber as he apologized, "I've done all I can, but the child refuses to come out."
Daemon's heart sank. He bypassed the maester and headed toward the attic but stopped halfway.
He stood at the corner by the door, turning slightly to peer inside.
"Push... my lady... push harder..."
"Ahh... ha..."
In the spacious hall, a large bed had been temporarily set up. Several garishly dressed women held basins of water, assisting with the birth.
Lady Laena knelt on the floor with her legs spread apart, leaning on the bed. Her hands clutched the sheets as she let out heart-wrenching screams.
The loose white dress she wore was soaked in blood from the waist down, making her cries seem all the more desperate.
The elderly maester caught up, speaking sorrowfully, "My deepest apologies, Prince."
Daemon said nothing, his gaze fixed intently on his wife as he murmured, "My brave wife."
Lady Laena had helped him win the war to conquer Tyrosh.
Now, without even catching her breath, she was fighting alone on the battlefield of childbirth.
Rhaegar quietly approached, leaning against the wall to listen.
Lady Laena was his acknowledged kin and the rider of Vhagar. He had no intention of simply walking away.
"My lady... you must push harder..."
"Ahh... come out, please..."
Lady Laena's voice grew hoarse from screaming. Her entire body trembled, taut with pain, as tears streamed down her face uncontrollably.
The pain was excruciating—beyond anything imaginable.
The women anxiously encouraged her, wiping her sweat and checking on the birth progress.
The Great Lord's estate was deserted. Civilian healers nearby hid away, unwilling to help invaders in distress.
The only available assistants were prostitutes and female slaves who had previously given birth.
After much hesitation, the maester finally spoke: "We could cut open the womb and extract the child through a cesarean, but I can't guarantee the baby's survival."
Rhaegar's head snapped up, his eyes fixed on Daemon and the maester.
His mother had died from a cesarean.
Daemon clearly thought of this too, casting a quick glance at his nephew in the corner.
Without further deliberation, Daemon asked with hope in his voice, "Would the mother survive?"
To him, his wife's safety mattered more than the uncertain fate of an unborn child.
The maester lowered his gaze, shaking his head helplessly.
In cases of difficult childbirth, both mother and child were likely to perish.
With a cesarean, at least the child might have a slim chance of survival.
Daemon's mind buzzed, leaving him utterly dazed and disoriented.
He subconsciously looked at his wife, who was wailing in pain. His eyes were filled with helplessness, and he couldn't say a word.
"Prince, please make a decision as soon as possible."
The old maester urged, knowing that every passing second increased the danger.
Daemon was overwhelmed with turmoil. He leaned against the wall, shaking his head in silence.
He was not a man who placed great importance on childbirth.
To him, a woman's birthing bed was a battlefield dictated by nature.
And on this battlefield, he had no right to make choices for Laena.
"Prince…"
The old maester wanted to persuade him but found himself at a loss for words.
"Why won't you choose?"
Rhaegar suddenly spoke.
Daemon turned to look at him, licking his dry lips.
Rhaegar's expression was solemn as he stepped forward and said, "Laena is running out of time. You have to make a decision."
"No!" Daemon shook his head. "I can't decide her life and death."
"But she needs someone to."
Rhaegar responded decisively.
Daemon still shook his head, his voice low. "My brother once made a choice. Maybe he won, but I refuse to gamble."
Rhaegar had only cried once at birth before falling into a deep sleep that lasted three years.
If not for the healing of a foreign witch, he might never have woken up.
His brother was born before him, became a king, married the woman he loved, had heirs to inherit the throne—he was always luckier.
Daemon considered himself an unlucky man. He refused to step onto this gambling table.
Rhaegar's expression was complicated. He lowered his head and chuckled. "You're right. No one has the right to decide another person's life or death."
He clenched his fist and lightly punched Daemon's shoulder before walking past the corner and into the hall, speaking in a deep voice, "Then let's ask the one involved what she wants."
"Ah… get out… ha…"
Laena was drenched in sweat, her screams growing weaker and more exhausted.
Hearing footsteps, she took deep breaths, lying on the bed in a daze.
When she saw Rhaegar, dressed in black, she forced a bitter smile. "I don't want to die in such a miserable way."
She had heard the conversation from around the corner and understood her condition clearly.
The baby refused to come out, and the experience was nothing like her last childbirth.
This child… most likely wouldn't survive.
Rhaegar walked to her bedside and said softly, "The choice is yours. I'll do my best to ensure your safety."
With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out a glass candle.
Extending his right hand, he made a deep cut in his palm. The bright red blood quickly dyed the seven-colored glass crimson.
"Watch carefully. You only get one chance."
Rhaegar reminded her before extending his unharmed left hand.
"Hisss…"
Thin wisps of black smoke emerged, accompanied by the eerie sound of a serpent hissing.
Laena's eyes widened as she saw a strange, dark serpent slither out of the air, landing on Rhaegar's bloodied right palm.
Sizzle…
Black smoke rose from his hand as the serpent opened its grotesquely large, toothless mouth and devoured the smoke at an astonishing speed.
When the black smoke was completely consumed, the wound on his palm vanished without a trace.
"Blood magic?"
Laena stared in a daze, momentarily forgetting her pain.
As the descendant of the most ancient bloodline, a scion of the kingdom's most powerful family, she had a clear understanding of blood magic.
Having traveled through the Free Cities for years, she had seen countless strange people and sorcery.
Rhaegar said, "Make your choice."
"Cut me open."
Laena gritted her teeth, making her decision instantly.
Either way, she was going to die—better to take the risk.
"Good."
Rhaegar nodded and signaled to several women nearby. "Move her onto the bed."
The women were still in shock over the blood magic. Snapping out of it, they hurriedly lifted Laena onto the bed.
"Ah… ha…"
The movement caused excruciating pain. Laena clenched her teeth and lay back, lifting her blood-stained gown herself.
There was no modesty in childbirth.
Rhaegar turned his head, his gaze falling on the two men standing at the corner. In a calm voice, he said, "Come do it. Do you think I know how to cut open a woman's womb?"
"I'm on it."
The old maester's eyes gleamed as he swiftly prepared the tools for the procedure.
Daemon stood frozen for a moment before hesitantly stepping forward.
He was deeply shaken.
It seemed that the fiery sword technique from the tournament was merely the tip of the iceberg.
But none of that mattered—what mattered was that his wife survived.
After a brief preparation, everything was ready.
Laena lay on the bed with her legs spread apart, while several women held down her arms and legs.
Rhaegar gripped the glass candle in one hand while placing the other on her stomach.
Sizzle…
The glass candle ignited, and the ouroboros serpent etched into his right hand began to writhe restlessly.
He possessed two glass candles—one infused with enhancement spells made of crystal, and another used to cast Mirage illusions.
A cesarean section would require cutting into the uterus itself. The pain and blood loss could be fatal.
The ouroboros serpent alone wasn't enough; it needed the enhancement spell's power.
As the old maester readied the blade, Rhaegar commanded in a deep voice, "Do it!"
"AHH!!"
A piercing scream filled the tower.
…
Ten minutes later.
Blood soaked the bed, and the screams had long faded into silence.
Laena lay motionless, despair in her eyes as she stared blankly at the ceiling.
Rhaegar's face was pale as he continuously urged the ouroboros serpent while staring intently at the candle's flame.
It turned out that a cesarean section was far more brutal than he had imagined.
He had intended to save both Laena and the child.
But now, it seemed that saving even one would be a miracle.
Sizzle!
As his mind wavered, the candle flame suddenly flared up as if a drop of oil had ignited it.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as his consciousness was abruptly pulled elsewhere.
The blood staining the glass candle was rapidly absorbed, and Mirage and Dream Sight activated simultaneously.
…
"Ah… no… please…"
As his mind cleared, a woman's screams rang in his ears.
The voice was unfamiliar yet inexplicably familiar at the same time.
Rhaegar hesitated for a moment before opening his eyes.
He found himself in a dimly lit chamber, and the murals of intertwining figures on the walls looked strikingly familiar.
Surveying his surroundings, he froze in place.
On a birthing bed, a woman with silver-golden hair let out a piercing, heart-wrenching scream as a deep, bloody incision was made across her round belly.
A group of familiar maids surrounded the bed, firmly restraining the woman's arms and legs.
At the head of the bed, a younger version of the father waited anxiously, his head lowered with a conflicted expression.
At the foot of the bed stood Maester Mellos, long dead and buried under grass three feet high. His face was grim as he reached into the woman's abdomen to extract something.
"Viserys... no..."
The woman wept bitterly, her head thrashing violently from the pain.
Viserys, utterly lost, closed his eyes and prayed desperately to the Seven.
Rhaegar witnessed the scene, his gaze fixed on the woman's face.
Silver-golden hair, delicate features, sweat streaming from her face in terror.
Her eyes were almost identical to Rhaenyra's — and bore a slight resemblance to Rhaegar's own.
With just one glance, Rhaegar recognized her identity and murmured softly, "Aemma... Mother."
Chapter 389: One-Day Crown Prince?
"Ah... Rhaegar... come out quickly..."
Suddenly, Rhaenyra's agonizing scream echoed again, calling out the name chosen for the child in her womb.
Rhaegar heard this cry, though none of the others in the vision did.
No, wait—someone seemed to hear it.
"Rhaegar~~"
On the birthing bed, Emma Arryn stopped screaming. Her pupils rapidly dilated as she repeated that name.
Rhaegar's heart trembled; he almost lost the distinction between reality and illusion.
The next second—
The vision shattered like a pane of glass, crumbling in an instant.
The final image was the cry of a newborn baby.
Rhaegar didn't want the vision to break. He stared blankly at Emma Arryn.
This was his mother—the mother he had never seen, not even once.
There were no portraits of her in the Red Keep, nor were there traces of her in the Eyrie.
Every glance in the vision had been a blessing.
"Rhaegar?"
"Emma, are you saying the child's name is Rhaegar?"
"..."
A familiar voice, filled with sorrow, marked the end of the vision.
In the Real World
"Waaah~~"
A baby's cry echoed, waking Rhaegar, who had been staring intently at the flickering candle flame.
"He's here! The baby's born!"
The old maester's face was filled with excitement as he held a blood-covered, wrinkled newborn in both hands.
The baby's limbs dangled limply, with only the head and torso supported by the maester's large palms.
After that initial cry, the baby fell silent.
The old maester seemed unaware of this and used scissors to cut the umbilical cord.
Rhaegar, coming back to his senses, pressed his hand against the cold abdomen, channeling what little fire magic he had left.
Rhaenyra's eyes were vacant, her breathing barely perceptible. Her entire body was soaked in sweat.
The old maester handed the baby to a prostitute nearby and, pulling out a trembling needle and thread, asked, "Your Highness, do you want me to stitch the wound closed?"
Both the abdominal wall and the uterus had been cut open, making proper stitching nearly impossible.
Rhaegar glanced at the pale-faced prostitute and nodded. "Stitch it. The Ouroboros will speed up the healing process."
At this point, hygiene and infection risk no longer mattered.
The immediate priority was closing the wound and accelerating tissue regeneration.
Stopping the bleeding was critical.
The old maester nodded and began stitching with great difficulty.
Blood had poured out during the cesarean, and sterilized cloths were used to wipe the area before the wound was sutured with cotton thread.
"Hissss..."
The Ouroboros serpent squirmed chaotically on Rhaenyra's abdomen, its swollen body engorged from devouring black smoke as it continued to absorb more.
After several minutes—
The uterus was stitched, and the wound began healing rapidly.
The maester cut the cotton thread, wiped away the blood, and continued stitching the abdominal wall.
With skilled hands, he confirmed the method was feasible and quickly closed the wound.
The Ouroboros wriggled twice more, swallowing the last wisp of black smoke.
"Huff... huff..."
As the wounds healed in succession, Rhaenyra suddenly regained consciousness. The intense pain had significantly subsided.
"Is the baby alive?"
Rhaenyra looked around blankly, her lips drained of color.
"Rest well. You're severely anemic," Rhaegar instructed quietly before rising and walking out.
The cesarean had been a massive psychological shock to him, leaving his mind muddled.
And then there was his mother in the vision—something seemed to have triggered a special reaction.
Perhaps his mother, a bearer of Targaryen blood, was also a dreamwalker and had collided with his dream realm.
"Rhaenyra!"
Daemon, who had witnessed everything, hurried to his wife, brushing past his nephew.
Rhaegar stepped out of the tower and found a pavilion to rest.
He emptied his mind, seeking relief from the pressure.
"Rooooar..."
Vhagar raised its massive body, using its broad wings to support the ruins, and let out a deep, sorrowful wail.
The dragon had sensed its rider's emotions—profound sadness.
Rhaegar glanced at it briefly, then closed his eyes again to clear his mind.
Perhaps because of being kept inside too long, or due to the premature birth, the baby hadn't survived.
About fifteen minutes later, Daemon emerged from the tower, holding a bundle in his arms.
Rhaegar, still sitting with eyes closed, heard the approaching footsteps and said softly, "I did my best."
He wasn't speaking to Daemon but to Rhaenyra.
"Rhaenyra has fallen asleep," Daemon said, glancing down at the bundle in his arms. "You saved the child's mother."
Rhaegar opened his eyes and replied indifferently, "Congratulations. You didn't lose everything."
Rhaenyra's situation mirrored that of his mother.
The difference was that one husband made a choice, while the other left the choice to his wife.
By helping Rhaenyra, Rhaegar was, in a way, helping the mother he had never met.
"Rhaegar, I want to thank you," Daemon said with a sorrowful expression. "But this child wasn't as fortunate as you."
Both were named Rhaegar, and both had cried only once at birth.
But Daemon's child would never open his eyes.
"Heh~"
Rhaegar shook his head and chuckled, then said bluntly, "Daemon, you've spent your whole life acting recklessly. Perhaps he is your retribution."
Daemon remained silent, tightening his grip around the swaddled infant.
Rhaegar, relentless, tilted his head and asked, "Do you remember when you called me the 'One-Day Heir'?"
Daemon's expression turned cold.
Rhaegar was unfazed. Pointing toward the raging battlefield outside the manor, he said, "Look at what you've done—you disobeyed orders and destroyed an entire city-state."
"I conquered it," Daemon replied icily.
Rhaegar scoffed dismissively. "It was your greed and arrogance at work."
"My father promised me a city-state. I took it by my own strength," Daemon said, his gaze darkening.
"If you knew he promised it to you, then why take matters into your own hands?"
Rhaegar let out a short, sharp laugh, finally speaking his mind. "Every city-state's ownership must be carefully allocated. I had planned to persuade Father to grant you Lys, but you seemed to prefer Tyrosh."
"My brother never explicitly promised me a city-state—he just kept stringing me along," Daemon said, his long-held resentment finally surfacing.
"When has your brother ever denied you what you wanted?"
Rhaegar's voice rose with frustration.
Other than the Iron Throne and Rhaenyra, was there anything Viserys hadn't given Daemon?
Gold cloaks, honors, wealth...
Even if Rhaegar had died at birth and Daemon had never uttered the words "One-Day Heir," the throne's succession might not have gone to Rhaenyra.
Daemon glared at him, his expression filled with scorn.
This brat knew nothing.
Daemon had never wanted to inherit his brother's throne—he had wanted to serve as Hand of the King.
To that end, in the first few years of Viserys's reign, he cycled through nearly every position on the Small Council.
Yet, one after another, he was scrutinized, criticized, and ultimately cast out, demoted to the City Watch.
After all, even the Commander of the City Watch was merely a subordinate under the Master of Laws.
He had been systematically pushed aside.
Rhaegar stared directly at his uncle, unwilling to say more.
He had a general understanding of the past conflicts between his father and uncle.
Daemon was unpredictable—arrogant, willful, and difficult to control.
For certain reasons, Otto Hightower, the former Hand of the King, had become his adversary, and the two frequently clashed.
In the end, Daemon lost the political battle and was forced out.
Rhaegar rubbed his temples and said seriously, "You conquered Tyrosh. I will report to Father and recommend that he grant it to you as your fiefdom."
"I took the city myself. Don't speak as if it's a reward," Daemon said, displeased.
"Your army came from the Iron Throne. Your dragon belongs to House Targaryen," Rhaegar shot back.
"I'll ensure your lands are secured. I will petition Father to formally name you a Prince and bring Tyrosh into the Targaryen dynasty's domain."
Daemon was momentarily stunned—he hadn't expected his dear nephew to be so agreeable.
He had assumed there would be more obstacles to claiming Tyrosh.
Rhaegar glanced at the infant in Daemon's arms and struck where it hurt the most. "Uncle, you're a prince, and you have your own domain. But it seems your heir is the true 'One-Day Heir.'"
Though improper, the meaning was clear enough.
The words Daemon had once spoken had now come back to haunt him through his own child.
"I won't be attending the funeral," Rhaegar said flatly. "Make sure you guard House Targaryen's lands well."
With that, he turned and walked away without looking back.
His stubborn uncle had spent a lifetime fighting for what he wanted—he could only hope Daemon would finally grow from it.
Daemon had been berated like a fool. He tightened his hold on the infant, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.
He had gained a city-state.
But he had lost a son.
The son he had always longed for.
"Screeeech—"
The Devourer let out a thunderous roar, soaring into the sky with its rider.
Rhaegar's expression remained calm. Inwardly, he thought, You brought this upon yourself.
"Roar!"
Vhagar let out a deep, rumbling growl, lifting her head to gaze at the dragon above, its scent thick with ashes.
It was a dangerous scent, the kind that replaced the stench of decay with something restrained yet lethal.
The Devourer spread its wings wide, its massive body gliding over the manor.
For a brief moment, the two great dragons passed over each other, their sizes nearly matching.
Rhaegar's mind worked quickly, assessing. After devouring another dragon, the Devourer's size has surged.
Originally, the Devourer had been about one-fifth smaller than Vhagar, a difference of roughly ten meters.
But after Rhaegar's bloodline transformation and absorbing Mogul's power, the Devourer had grown wildly in its slumber.
Now, at its peak of 90 years, it had reached the same size as Vhagar, who was already in her 170-year decline.
Perhaps it was a difference in natural talent.
After all, the Devourer was unique—it had the rare trait of consuming its own kind.
Vhagar had spent a lifetime waging war, yet among the three original dragons, her potential ranked last.
Given another twenty or thirty years, Vermithor could likely reach a similar size.
"Roar!"
The Devourer let out a low growl, its emerald eyes gleaming with pride.
At this moment, it no longer feared the old dragon below.
If a fight broke out, it wouldn't even give Vhagar the chance for mutual destruction.
Rhaegar chuckled. "Let's go, buddy."
It seemed the Devourer's ambition wouldn't stop at being the King of Wild Dragons.
Stormlands, Rainwood.
During the time of the Children of the Forest, the continent of Westeros was covered in vast woodlands.
Then came the Andals, who used iron weapons to drive the Children back, cutting down countless trees in the process.
Now, only a few forests remained—the Kingswood in the Crownlands and the Rainwood in the Stormlands.
From the coastal fortress of Stonehelm in the Cape of Wrath, a winding road skirted the Rainwood's edge, leading to Storm's End.
Along the way stood the ancestral castles of noble houses:
House Morrigen's Raven's Nest, House Caron's Nightsong.
For days, Dorne's forces had laid siege to Stonehelm with ten thousand men, while even more soldiers lurked in the Rainwood, ambushing reinforcements from nearby city-states.
Fifty miles from Raven's Nest, within a dense stretch of untouched forest...
A large contingent of Dornish soldiers, clad in yellow-brown battle armor, marched forward at a slow pace.
Creak... creak...
The sound of wooden wheels echoed as the soldiers pushed several massive scorpion ballistae.
"Hurry up! The reinforcements from Storm's End will be passing through here. We'll ambush that Valyrian dragonrider in advance," a young commander with dark hair and brown eyes ordered loudly.
His armor bore the emblem of a golden quill on a green checkerboard pattern—symbolizing House Jordayne of Dorne, whose lands lay along the southern shores of the Dornish Sea.
In this invasion of the Stormlands, House Jordayne was one of the main forces.
Rumble...
Suddenly, the ground trembled, and the distant sound of warhorses neighing could be heard.
Ser Barth Jordayne immediately dropped to the ground, pressing his ear against the earth to discern the vibrations. His eyes lit up with excitement.
"Prepare for battle! Heavy cavalry is approaching!"
There was no doubt—it had to be the Storm Knights of Storm's End riding to the rescue.
Five thousand Dornish soldiers swiftly scattered, taking cover in the dense forest with bows drawn and arrows nocked.
The ballista operators adjusted their scorpion bolts, loading long steel-tipped spears onto their firing mechanisms, aiming toward the vast blue sky.
The moment enemy cavalry or a dragon appeared, they would strike without hesitation. Chapter 390: Lys—The High Tower System
Soon, hundreds of elite cavalry charged forward, hooves pounding against the ground, raising the banner of the crowned stag high.
A murderous glint flashed in Bart's eyes as he raised his arm, signaling his troops to wait.
He was waiting for the dragon to appear.
This invasion of Stormlands involved more than twenty thousand Dornish soldiers.
The strategy had two primary objectives:
Attack Stonehelm and seize it as a strategic base. Harass Raventree Hall and the Eyrie, intercepting Storm's End's main force from sending reinforcements.
He had sent separate detachments to raid mills and villages within the territories of both castles, only to encounter Valyrian dragonriders in an ambush.
Hundreds of soldiers had died in vain.
"Hissss—screech!"
A sharp cry echoed from the sky as a flash of silver passed overhead.
"Get ready!"
Bart's eyes widened, locking onto the dragon above.
Seasmoke wasn't flying very high. Its vertical pupils scanned the surroundings, surveying the terrain.
The dense foliage of the forest provided cover, concealing the Dornish soldiers from view.
Click…
Crossbowmen felt their hearts race as they aimed the scorpions at the dragon, their fingers slick with sweat.
Dragons were untouchable magical creatures, symbols of power and conquest.
Yet, during the time of the Conqueror, Dorne had once slain a dragon and driven back the Targaryen invasion.
"Hissss—screech!"
Suddenly, Seasmoke climbed higher, tilting its body and veering off into the distance.
Bart's expression darkened. Without hesitation, he shouted, "Fire on my command!"
If he could kill a dragon, his name would be remembered for centuries.
At his order, two thousand archers released their bowstrings. Arrows rained down like a storm.
Scorpions fired in unison, locking onto the silver dragon in midair.
At the same time, hundreds of Storm Knights slowed their march as arrows clattered against their heavy armor.
"Whoa—"
A few unlucky knights had their horses struck. The animals screamed as they collapsed, only to be trampled into pulp by the advancing army.
"It's an ambush! Shields up!"
The knight commander shouted, raising his massive oaken shield.
The Storm Knights, elite among elites, quickly adjusted their formation, forming an impenetrable shield wall.
"Hissss—screech!"
In midair, Seasmoke let out a startled cry, swiftly maneuvering to dodge the incoming steel-tipped bolts.
A young dragon's scales couldn't withstand scorpion bolts, but its smaller size and agility gave it an advantage.
Laenor turned his head in surprise, narrowing his eyes at the forest where the bolts had been fired.
The surrounding terrain was mostly open fields, with a wide road stretching unobstructed ahead.
Only to the east did a dense forest grow, with thick shrubs concealing its edges.
Inside the forest, Bart stomped his foot in frustration. He grabbed hold of a scorpion ballista, shouting furiously, "Archers, cover fire! Infantry, encircle the Storm Knights!"
"Yes, sir!"
Archers took cover behind trees, providing suppressing fire, while three thousand spear-wielding infantry charged forward.
Bart kept his eyes fixed on the dragon, gripping the wheel of the ballista tightly as he growled, "Let's see if I can shoot you out of the sky!"
Click!
The steel-tipped bolt fired, slicing through the air like a command of death.
Dornish soldiers surged forward, pressing the attack under the cover of the arrow storm.
Seasmoke let out an enraged shriek, soaring high above to avoid the steel-tipped bolts.
At a glance, it seemed as though the Storm's End forces were in a deadlock.
"Hissss—screech!!"
Suddenly, a piercing roar shattered the sky, startling birds from the dense forest.
A massive, mud-colored dragon with brown wings came diving down.
"Dracarys!"
A youthful voice rang out, filled with excitement and triumph.
In an instant, clumps of thick, mud-like dragonfire rained from above, crashing through the dense canopy.
Bart looked up in alarm, only to see the brownish firestorm descending upon him like a hailstorm.
Boom!
The dragonfire struck like heavy stones, shattering bones upon impact. The flames carried a putrid, earthy stench as they consumed everything.
Men and scorpions alike were engulfed in an inferno.
"Hahaha!"
Aemond cheered, leaning forward on his dragon's back. "Burn them all!"
"Hissss—screech…"
Vhagar's slit pupils gleamed with satisfaction as he increased his speed, unleashing wave after wave of scorching flames.
"Aemond, watch out for the scorpions!"
Laenor shouted from afar, attacking the Dornish infantry fleeing from the forest.
Aemond, however, was too elated to care. "Don't worry, Vhagar will protect me!"
Vhagar roared in agreement. Its thick scales rendered the crossbow bolts useless as it fearlessly skimmed the treetops.
Its slitted eyes locked onto the remaining scorpion ballistae, and with another blast of its thick, muddy dragonfire, obliterated them in a precise bombardment.
Two swift dives later, five scorpion ballistae were completely destroyed.
"Run! We can't fight two dragons!"
"Into the jungle!"
With their general dead and no leadership, the Dornish forces became a scattered, disorganized mess.
Not that they could be blamed for it.
The vanguard had barely emerged from the forest when Seasmoke incinerated their formation with a single blast of dragonfire, leaving them scrambling in panic.
Storm Knights galloped through the chaos, effortlessly carving through the disoriented enemy ranks.
"Hissss—screech…"
Vhagar, as excited as its rider, took on the role of an arsonist, setting fire to the forest.
Thick smoke billowed for miles as the flames spread.
The hidden Dornish soldiers in the forest were brutally slaughtered, fleeing in panic and disarray.
The scene shifted abruptly to the fiery destruction caused by an ugly, rampaging dragon.
...
Time passed, and the sky gradually darkened to dusk.
"Clean up the battlefield—leave no survivors!"
The forest burned with raging flames, and the hills and roads were littered with charred corpses and wreckage.
The Sun Spear banners of House Martell lay in the mud, riddled with burnt holes.
Royce Caron led a few hundred Stormlanders on horseback, riding through the field, their lances piercing the corpses one by one.
"Hiss—screech!"
The Sheepstealer soared over the smoke-filled forest, arrogantly descending in front of the cavalry.
Atop the dragon, Aemond's face was alight with excitement, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.
Seasmoke circled twice before landing smoothly with its rider.
Lannino removed his helmet, his voice tinged with excitement. "We've repelled the ambush. It's time to gather the main force and ride to the aid of besieged Stonehelm."
News of the Dornish raids on Raven's Nest and the Eyrie had already reached Storm's End.
There were no fortresses between the two castles, meaning the Dornish were bound to set up ambushes along the forested paths.
Count Caron himself devised and executed this counteroffensive strategy.
Riding atop his horse, Count Caron mused, "These soldiers were only half of their ambush force. First, we need to clear the route from Raven's Nest to Stonehelm."
Mobilizing troops took time. Storm's End had hastily assembled thousands of soldiers, but being attacked en route could lead to devastating losses.
Aemond agreed wholeheartedly, reporting, "Sheepstealer burned a lot of them alive, but many fled into the woods."
These scattered remnants would regroup into small guerrilla bands.
When fighting the Dornish, one must never underestimate even the smallest groups of stragglers—doing so could be a grave mistake.
After a brief hesitation, Count Caron made his decision. "Then let's first station ourselves at Raven's Nest and wait for reinforcements."
Stonehelm was a stronghold—surely, it could hold out for now.
Lannino nodded, approving the plan.
"A good idea. I'll patrol daily on Sheepstealer."
Aemond agreed without hesitation.
But when he heard the mention of Stonehelm, a flicker of shadow passed through his eyes.
...
Late Night – Lys
In the governor's courtyard, a massive black dragon lay crouched, its towering back as high as the surrounding buildings.
Under the moonlight, its green slit pupils silently opened as a crimson dragon streaked through the night sky.
The beast descended at an incredible speed, landing on the other side of the courtyard.
Inside the governor's palace, the upper floors were brightly lit, bustling with movement.
On the open-air balcony, several bonfires flickered.
Rhaegar sat slumped in a golden chair, his hand resting against his forehead.
Before him, the Sea Snake and Tessario of Volantis stood on either side.
Bang—
The rooftop door was pushed open, and a familiar voice followed.
"Rhaegar, I received the news and came immediately."
Rhaenys strode in, her expression grave.
"Aunt, you're here."
Rhaegar lowered his hand, forcing a smile.
Daemon's conquest of Tyrosh signaled the end of the Narrow Sea War.
Though the three Free Cities were not yet fully under control, real power had already fallen into Targaryen hands.
The Three Daughters, once dominant in the Disputed Lands, were completely destroyed!
Rhaenys glanced around the room, relieved. "I first went to Tyrosh to check on Laena's condition. Fortunately, she's unharmed—thank the gods."
As soon as Rhaegar returned to Lys, he sent word of Daemon's conquest of Tyrosh to King's Landing and Myr.
With the fall of the Three Daughters, the challenge now was rebuilding and establishing a new order.
The Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon, wore a tense expression. "Daemon acted on his own. What's the situation in Tyrosh?"
He and Daemon were allies in the campaign against the Three Daughters.
Now, Daemon had defied the king's orders and seized the city behind his back—an act that felt both offensive and threatening.
Rhaenys looked at her nephew seriously. "Tyrosh is still in chaos. Daemon is leading the forces to suppress the resistance, which could take a few more days."
"That reckless fool," the Sea Snake muttered under his breath.
Everyone knew that once Daemon occupied a city, he would never give it up.
Rhaegar waved a hand dismissively. "Gentlemen, Tyrosh has fallen. The Three Daughters and the Disputed Lands are in our grasp. We should focus on securing the sea routes and restoring trade."
At the start of the Narrow Sea War, their main concern had been the capture of Mogul.
Now that Mogul was dead, their remaining goal was to dismantle the Three Daughters.
With that achieved, they now controlled three war-ravaged Free Cities—cities that needed capable leaders to govern them.
One thing remained clear in Rhaegar's mind:
The Iron Throne had conquered the Three Daughters, and Targaryen blood had once again set foot on Essos.
"Prince, before that, I believe we should first discuss the spoils," Tessario said in a gruff but calculating tone.
The Sea Snake's gaze deepened as he made a suggestion. "Daemon has seized Tyrosh. This should be reported to His Majesty and brought before the Small Council for discussion."
Rhaegar didn't even lift his eyes, his voice calm. "Daemon's actions can be addressed later. Tonight, we focus only on these two matters."
How could he not understand their intentions? They simply wanted to divide the benefits.
The chaos in Myr had yet to subside, Lys was in ruins, and Tyrosh was engulfed in the flames of war.
Before the Targaryens had secured control over the three city-states, did these vultures really think they could get a share?
Rhaegar had only one response: "Impossible!"
"Prince..."
The Sea Snake was unwilling to accept this and was eager to claim his share.
"Screeech—"
A sharp cry pierced the night sky, followed by a flash of dim firelight.
Everyone looked up.
Slax soared through the air, wobbling slightly before landing on Rhaegar's shoulder. Its slit-pupiled eyes glared fiercely at the others as it let out another cry.
The Sea Snake froze for a moment, instinctively taking a step back.
Tesrio's expression tightened as his left hand gripped the curved blade behind his back.
Rhaegar stroked Slax's dragon head with a smile. "Relax, the little one is just a bit unruly."
As he spoke, his gaze swept over the two men.
It was unclear whether he was referring to the young dragon—or to certain individuals.
"Grrr..."
Slax obediently crouched down, its large snout letting out a contented purring sound.
It seemed to be expressing its submission.
Rhaenys remained composed and praised, "So this is the young dragon hatched from Moghul's egg. Truly a unique breed."
"It will help extend the family's draconic bloodline."
Rhaegar's smile widened as he called for Johanna. His expression turned serious. "The three city-states remain in chaos. I've decided to use Lys as a model to implement an independent High Tower system."
Johanna walked over gracefully, handing out several blueprint-like documents.
Rhaegar continued, "The Three Daughters previously operated under an elective system, which differs from Westeros' structure. I plan to establish the title of Prince, overseeing two or more councilors, forming a High Tower Council with a singular leader and multiple subordinates."
Rhaenys carefully examined the documents, then asked in confusion, "Is this modeled after the Iron Throne and the Small Council?"
"Not exactly. The councilors will have greater authority than the Hand of the King."
Rhaegar responded casually, his gaze flickering toward the Sea Snake and Tesrio.
The Sea Snake didn't seem to notice. He scrutinized the proposal, his brow gradually furrowing.
As a seasoned politician, he immediately recognized the unusual nature of the High Tower Council.
The "one leader" referred to the Prince—or rather, the Targaryen bloodline.
The "multiple subordinates" referred to the councilors, whose power would be distributed, effectively limiting the Prince's authority.
Council-based governance had existed since ancient times, with the most famous example being Valyria's Freehold Empire, ruled by forty dragonlord families.
All free citizens of the empire voted to form a massive ruling council.
Myr's multiple-governor system also evolved from this council structure.
Such councils were designed for power-sharing.
But the High Tower Council placed a Prince—a figure of greater authority—above the councilors.
This ensured that Targaryen blood would continue to reign.
The Sea Snake read from start to finish, then looked up and asked, "Prince, do you intend to extend the High Tower system to Myr and Tyrosh as well?"
As he spoke, his gaze flickered toward his wife, his eyes gleaming with calculation.
"No!" Rhaegar rejected the idea outright. "The High Tower system will only exist in Lys."
Among the three Free Cities, Tyrosh had essentially fallen under Daemon's control—Rhaegar had no intention of interfering.
Myr, a valuable land-based city, was destined to become a full-fledged colony under direct royal rule.
Lys, however, was a diverse city with vast potential for development.
With House Velaryon, Pentos, and Volantis all watching closely, Rhaegar had devised the High Tower Council.
By maintaining Targaryen lineage at the top and distributing power to councilors from the three allied factions, they would share both the gains and burdens of governing the city.
Although there was a risk that future Princes might be politically sidelined, this only underscored the importance of having the Iron Throne as their backing.
It would prevent future rulers of the city from turning against the Iron Throne once they inherited their positions.