Seven days later.
Noon, under a bright and clear sky.
The scorching sunlight poured down, adding to the already humid and stifling atmosphere of King's Landing.
Inside the Dragonpit.
"Hiss… Screech…"
"Hiss! Screech!"
In the dimly lit space, two unrestrained young dragons soared and clashed like streaks of lightning.
One dragon was larger, its body covered in cobalt-blue scales, with a striking orange-red underbelly that extended from its jaw. It was dazzling yet elegant.
The other was only half its opponent's size.
It had pure silver-white scales, golden slit-pupiled eyes, and a fierce, imposing dragon head.
These were Tessarion and the young dragon Blizzard, both raised within the Dragonpit.
"Hiss…"
Tessarion moved with agility, flapping its blue wings and soaring high before unleashing a torrent of cobalt-blue flames mixed with streaks of orange.
Boom!
Blizzard, bold and fearless, charged headfirst into the dragonfire. Wisps of blackened scorch marks appeared on its silver-white scales.
"Hiss…"
Closing the distance in an instant, Blizzard lunged at its opponent, jaws wide, revealing newly formed fangs as it bit down fiercely.
Tessarion, instincts flaring, lashed out with a powerful claw, seizing Blizzard by the throat and blasting its dragonfire directly at its face.
The vibrant flames roared, surging in a violent wave.
Blizzard let out a sharp, agonized cry, its golden pupils squeezed shut as it endured the full brunt of the flames.
In just a few breaths, its head was scorched black, and the two curved, gray-white horns on its head darkened into a deep charcoal color.
The battle was far from over!
"Hiss!"
Unwilling to concede, Blizzard flapped its wings, its dragon maw instinctively aiming at Tessarion's face.
Its throat convulsed, and suddenly, a silvery-white blaze, like fluttering snowflakes, burst forth.
Boom!
Tessarion, caught off guard, took the full brunt of the attack to its open mouth, letting out a pained screech.
Seizing the moment, Blizzard sank its teeth into Tessarion's hind leg, piercing the iron-hard cobalt-blue scales.
Crunch!
The scales cracked under the force, and Tessarion, in pain, released its grip.
Now free, Blizzard swiftly retreated from the mid-air battlefield.
"Hiss!!"
Tessarion, now truly enraged, steadied itself, preparing to give chase.
At that moment, a clear and commanding voice rang out.
"Stop!"
The voice carried an almost magical force, causing Tessarion's rage to dissipate like melting snow.
Standing on the black stone floor, Rhaegar looked up, a worn parchment tome in hand.
"Hiss…"
Tessarion cast him a reluctant glance before withdrawing into a corner of the Dragonpit to rest.
Blizzard, on the other hand, landed boldly on the ground, spreading its gleaming silver wings to display its striking appearance.
"Heh, truly fierce creatures."
Rhaegar chuckled at the sight before him, flipping through the aged tome.
This rare manuscript had been collected by Lys, containing detailed descriptions of the dragonlord families.
Among its contents was information on young dragon training and the benefits of pit-fighting.
Within the Dragonpit, Tessarion had reached adolescence, its thirty-foot-long frame rivaling that of a great elephant.
Blizzard, still young, was only the size of a horse and could barely hold its own in battle.
The fight had clearly favored Tessarion, who dominated with ease.
Yet Blizzard, like an unyielding cub, refused to back down, managing to wound its opponent purely through stubborn defiance.
As Rhaegar continued reading, the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears.
"Hiss…"
A sharp, high-pitched screech echoed.
A massive dragon head bobbed up and down as Srax flapped its misty gray wings, hovering in midair.
Its slender hind legs were bound in shackles, controlled by an aging dragonkeeper with a weathered face.
The young dragon was fiery-tempered, fidgeting anxiously.
Without chains to restrain it, it would have been flying wildly, spewing flames at every living thing in sight.
Rhaegar closed the tome, his gaze shifting from the majestic Blizzard to the peculiar Srax, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smile.
"These are valuable family assets."
Rhaenyra was carrying twins, and they had already selected two dragon eggs in preparation.
However, the hatching process was highly unpredictable, and success was never guaranteed.
Of course, given the purity of the bloodline passed on when Rhaegar fathered Rhaenyra's children, their talents would undoubtedly be exceptional.
Perhaps they would even hatch their dragons quickly.
If, by any chance, their dragon eggs failed, Blizzard and Srax would become the prime candidates for their training.
As the dragonkeeper approached, Rhaegar gave a simple command:
"Take good care of the young dragons, and keep an eye on Tessarion."
His words, spoken in High Valyrian, carried the weight of an incantation.
The languages were similar, their pronunciations alike.
Ever since his bloodline transformed into that of a dragonlord, subtle changes in his demeanor had taken place, unknowingly shaping his bearing into something more otherworldly.
"It shall be done." The Dragonkeeper Nodded Firmly.
Apart from this elderly Dragonkeeper, there were also some younger members of the new generation inside the Dragonpit.
As Rhaegar turned around, he spotted a familiar face in the corner.
Trystane Veywater.
At this moment, this young dragonseed had cut off his silver-gold curls and shaved his head into the standard buzz cut of the Dragonkeepers.
His attire had changed to coarse linen robes, and he held a bamboo staff in his hand, his gaze filled with determination.
Rhaegar asked, "How is Trystane adapting?"
"He's working hard and has talent," the Dragonkeeper answered truthfully.
Hearing this, Rhaegar nodded and did not ask further.
After the Battle of Lys, Trystane had presented the dragon egg that hatched Syrax—a great contribution.
By merit alone, he should have been knighted.
It seemed that no one had paid attention to his situation, and he had been confined in the attic for too long, which must have pushed him over the edge.
When they met again, he had shaved his head and voluntarily sworn himself as a Dragonkeeper.
Dragonkeeping was not an ancient profession—it was founded by Rhaenyra Targaryen, the "Black Bride."
After losing three of Dreamfyre's dragon eggs, Rhaenyra, consumed by guilt, established the first group of Dragonkeepers.
Not just anyone could become a Dragonkeeper—most were Targaryen bastards from distant generations.
These bastards carried Valyrian blood, making them adept at learning the High Valyrian commands used for dragon-taming, which helped temper a dragon's temperamental nature.
This was also why all Dragonkeepers shaved their heads—to conceal their former identities.
Trystane likely did this out of fear of being silenced, choosing to fully commit his loyalty.
Rhaegar didn't particularly care.
But merit must be rewarded—so he had Trystane's daughter brought to the Red Keep, where she would serve as a companion to Helaena.
When she grew older, she would be married off to a promising nobleman.
A way to ensure prosperity for his children.
Leaving the Dragonpit, Rhaegar boarded a wheeled palanquin and headed for the Mud Gate.
As the great doors of the Dragonpit closed, sharp, piercing dragon cries echoed from within.
Rhaegar smiled slightly and continued studying the ancient texts in his hands.
The palanquin moved swiftly, descending from Rhaenys' Hill and passing through the bustling Street of Silk.
With Maiden's Day approaching, nobles and lords from all over had gathered in King's Landing, breathing fresh life into the grand city.
Rhaegar glanced out the window. The entrances of brothels were packed with people, the silhouettes of courtesans swaying seductively.
Whether it was a richly dressed lord or a destitute hedge knight, they eagerly emptied their coin purses to enter.
"Brothels are such a lucrative business… it would be a shame not to tax them."
Rhaegar murmured, his eyes gleaming with thought.
Lys was known for its unique pleasures—brothels flourished, and its courtesans and pleasure workers offered every imaginable indulgence.
He couldn't change people's fascination with brothels.
It was human nature—impossible to suppress.
At the same time, in this world, many women—and even beautiful men—were destitute and had no other means of survival than selling their bodies.
It was unavoidable.
But—it could be regulated.
Creak… Creak…
The palanquin rolled through the Street of Silk, following a wide and bustling avenue toward the Mud Gate.
Along the way, Rhaegar occasionally peeked outside, observing the lives of the common folk in King's Landing.
The three most common types of people were:
Nobles spending money on pleasures Merchants running their shops Commoners trying to survive carefully
"There are hardly any craftsmen…"
Rhaegar's thoughts drifted, analyzing the various professions.
In a city-state, merchants and craftsmen were its true backbone.
As he pondered, time passed.
The palanquin arrived at the Mud Gate, where laborers hauled goods at the docks, and numerous ships floated upon the sea.
Most belonged to nobles arriving for Maiden's Day, while others were merchant vessels taking advantage of newly opened trade routes.
A man in a black-and-white robe, Tormund, stood at the docks, his presence impossible to miss.
Rhaegar called him over to inquire about his assigned task.
Tormund reported, "Five hundred newly registered craftsmen have boarded ships and are on their way to Lys."
"Otto works quickly," Rhaegar remarked approvingly.
Lys and Myr desperately needed skilled craftsmen—this was the perfect opportunity to issue craftsmen's citizenships.
The Red Keep.
A massive influx of nobles poured in, bringing their children to attend the gathering.
The banquet hall, castle courtyard, and godswood—all three reception areas were packed with people.
The heat was stifling, and servants carried barrels of wine, hauling ice from the storage cellars to cool the drinks.
Even so, the nobles were crammed together, sweating profusely.
Yet, in the midst of this heat, their spirits only grew wilder—they drank and sang with reckless abandon.
Alicent rushed about, tending to the many guests who had come from all over.
Sweat soaked her back, and after forcing a smile for hours, she finally retreated to change into fresh clothes.
The Queen's Chambers.
"Green spool... Black spool... Entangled beyond repair..."
The young girl's soft murmur carried an ethereal yet undeniable sense of reality.
Inside the bedchamber, the four walls were adorned with murals depicting the union of men and women. At the center of the room lay a plush Lysian fleece rug.
Three little girls with silver-gold hair sat in a circle, kneeling on the rug as they played.
Helena lowered her head, calmly toying with two spools of thread.
Beside her, the other two girls—one older, one younger—remained silent, not daring to disturb their princess in this state.
The older girl, with milk-white skin, was Laila, the illegitimate daughter of Volantis.
The younger one, only about seven or eight years old, was Molly, the daughter of Tristan.
Snap—
Suddenly, Helena clasped her hands together, pressing the two tangled spools onto the rug.
Little Molly shuddered, her chubby face turning pale.
"Shh!"
Helena hushed her with a solemn gaze. "If he wants a city, he must pay the price."
Laila and Molly furrowed their brows in unison, utterly perplexed by their princess's cryptic words.
They hadn't known her for long, but she often spoke in strange riddles.
Creak—
The door opened from the outside, and in strode Alicent, her face flushed from the sun.
"Your Grace..."
The two little girls quickly stood up and curtsied.
"Ah, it's you two."
Alicent held herself with poise as she glanced at her indifferent daughter, then sighed helplessly. "You two may leave. I need to speak with Helena."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The girls tidied up their scattered toys and obediently left the room.
Even then, Helena kept her head lowered, as if entirely unaware of the outside world.
(End of Chapter)