Chapter 369: The Harbinger of a Storm

Lys, Dome Dragonpit

"Roar..."

Inside the bronze gate, a dragon's roar echoed in bursts, filled with a hard-to-conceal exhaustion and indignation.

Bambaro's eyes shone with anticipation as he muttered to himself, "Soon, it must be soon."

According to the Roth Priest, the energy of the masterless wild dragon was waning, just waiting for a suitable bloodline to appear.

"Lord Magister, there are messages from Braavos and Dorn."

A beautiful courtesan crossed the line of mercenaries, gracefully handing over two letters with unbroken clay seals.

Bambaro took the letters and asked, "Where is Johanna? Why hasn't she come?"

The courtesan lowered her head and replied regretfully, "The Lady was infuriated by her last negotiation with the Tiger Party Archon and is still resting at her residence."

"Very well, you may go."

Hearing that his mistress and right-hand aide was unwell, Bambaro's displeasure showed as he waved her away like a bothersome fly.

Once the courtesan was out of sight, he tore open the letters and examined them one by one.

After reading them several times, Bambaro's eyes narrowed slightly and he sneered, "Those two profit-driven men are finally willing to send troops."

Casually tearing up the letters, he led his team back to the Magister's Mansion.

Before leaving, he didn't forget to instruct the Dragonpit guards, "Don't let any of the dragonseeds near the dragons before dawn."

"Yes, my lord," the guards responded promptly, not daring to be negligent.

...

Perfume Garden.

A ghostly song echoed as two silver-haired men, arms draped over each other's shoulders, slipped into a remote attic.

Bang—

No sooner had they entered than the attic door slammed shut. Several armored guards stood watch outside.

The same scene played out in many neighboring attics.

All the participants were carefully screened Valyrian descendants who had voluntarily joined the [Red Sowing].

Inside the attic, the two men stumbled around, drunkenly singing.

Pfft...

As soon as they reached their room, a tall, strong man, over two meters in height, fell headfirst onto the bed, giggling in a daze.

The other, a limp but handsome middle-aged man, with fingers missing, rubbed his face vigorously, eyes glazed.

"Denys, you son of a bitch, you won a lot of money. It's your turn to buy me a drink tomorrow!"

The tall Hugh shook his head and eyed the money bag at his companion's waist.

Denys waved dismissively, pocketed the bulging purse and slurred, "Buy yourself a pot of horse piss. This money has to go home to feed my child."

"Haha, you are a lousy gambler and bastard yourself, and you still want to raise a little bastard daughter."

Hugh mocked mercilessly, as if he had heard the best joke ever.

"Hmph, you know nothing, you stinking blacksmith's apprentice."

Silver Denys hiccupped and staggered back to the bed, grabbing a handful of gold coins and sniffing them vigorously.

Hugh continued his drunken ramblings, "You had a good hand, winning against those rich men. I thought you'd lose your fingers if you couldn't pay up or end up selling your daughter to a brothel in Lys."

Denys rolled his eyes in pleasure, muttering, "I've been gambling since I was a kid. If it weren't for those cheating bastards, I'd be the richest man on Dragonstone Island."

"Haha, a rotten gambler who deserves to go to hell."

Hugh sneered again, but his face fell dejectedly, "Too bad about that lousy drunkard. I heard he was burned by a dragon and his white head was split into three bites."

"An unlucky man who brought it upon himself."

Silver Denys dropped the gold coins on his face and smiled madly, "We're unlucky bastards sent to our deaths, too."

They had been smuggled to Lys, part of a group of about a dozen.

Arriving late, most of them couldn't get in line and had to squat in the perfumed garden and wait bitterly.

The white-haired Ulf was lucky; within two days, he had bribed the guard with drinks and cut in line for dragon taming.

But he was also unlucky, for the next morning he was caught by a hungry dragon and devoured before he could even see it.

Hugh clenched his fist and smashed the bedboard, muttering, "Do you think if I ride a dragon, I can go back and become a lord?"

Despite the generous rewards offered by Lys for dragon taming, the bastard from Dragonstone Island still dreamt of returning home with honor.

Silver Denys glanced at him, smirking, "If you can ride a dragon, not only would you become a lord, but you might even marry the king's daughter."

"Would His Grace agree?" Hugh sat up with a jolt, eyes wide.

He had hoped to become a knight, maybe even get a territory. But now, this lousy gambler was talking about marrying a princess?

"Haha..."

Denys laughed heartily, "Do you have what it takes to marry a princess? I'm afraid the Dragonkeepers would tie you up as soon as you land."

"Scram! Don't spoil my fun." Hugh lashed out, banging on the table in a fit of rage.

Denys stifled his laughter, putting the gold coins back into his money bag one by one, avoiding Hugh's gaze.

After witnessing the cruelty of [Red Sowing], the thought of becoming a dragon rider seemed far-fetched.

Winning some money at the gambling house and returning peacefully to Dragonstone Island was enough.

...

Two days later.

Dragonstone Island, Dragonmont.

"Roar..."

Cannibal sprawled lethargically in a clearing, its throat lightly trembling as it snored, its vertical pupils closed in feigned sleep.

On a distant hillside, hundreds of raggedly dressed laborers climbed up and down, carrying baskets of dragon dung for transport.

Occasionally, they found some faded scales, which they treasured and individually gave to the maester who kept the records.

"Maester Gladys, is there still enough dragon dung in Dragonmont to supply two medium-sized castles?" Rhaegar inquired softly.

Gladys, a half-hundred-year-old man with a kind face, smiled and replied, "Please don't worry, Dragonmont has accumulated dung for more than two hundred years, all used for cleaning and hygiene."

"That's good," Rhaegar said, returning the smile and entrusting the task of carrying the dragon dung to him.

This task, seemingly ordinary at first glance, was actually of great importance.

The laborers were strictly guarded and couldn't trespass into Dragonmont.

Fortunately, there weren't many dragons in Dragonmont, only Silverwing sleeping alone, away from its mate.

...

Two days later.

Dragonstone Island, Stone Drum Tower.

On his way back to Stone Drum Tower, Rhaegar was met by the acting steward lord, Ser Robert, who sighed with relief when he saw him.

"Prince, it's almost lunchtime. The princess is waiting for you."

"Thank you, Ser," Rhaegar replied sincerely as he brushed past him.

Running the island of Dragonstone was no easy task, especially when the highest authority on the island was a late-term pregnant princess.

Climbing to the top floor, Rhaegar noticed the door to the lord's bedroom left open across the corridor.

A slight smile curled the corner of his mouth as he lightened and slowed his steps, quietly approaching.

Standing in the doorway, he peeked inside.

The familiar layout greeted him: a table set with sumptuous food, two elegantly lit candles, and Rhaenyra lying on a soft couch. She wore only a loose nightgown, holding a letter as she read.

Knock, knock...

Rhaegar gently knocked on the door, not wanting to startle her.

"You're back," Rhaenyra said, looking up with a smile.

Rhaegar walked into the bedroom and asked curiously, "What are you reading so intently?"

Rhaenyra's smile faded slightly as she replied, "A letter from King's Landing. The Ironborn attacked Lannisport. Father is busy."

"What is Jason doing? How could he let the Ironborn sneak into the harbor?" Rhaegar frowned, filled with contempt for Jason.

Rhaenyra beckoned him closer and said playfully, "Calm down. Lannisport didn't suffer much damage and can still be stabilized."

Rhaegar shook his head and walked over to sit beside her on the couch.

Rhaenyra moved into his arms, holding up the letter. "The Ironborn aren't acting on their own. They're being bribed."

"A bunch of unproductive pirates, probably instructed by Braavos or Sunspear," Rhaegar mused, tightening his arms around her and burying his cheek in her pinkish-white shoulder where her hair cascaded.

"Isn't it exhausting, having fought all the way to Myr?" Rhaenyra's eyes softened as she stroked his head, just as she had when they were children.

Rhaegar shook his head, taking two deep breaths of her scent. Other than the insomnia and sleeplessness, and eating and sleeping badly, everything was okay.

Rhaenyra rubbed her face against his forehead and murmured, "I want to help you."

"You already are," Rhaegar replied, his large hand caressing her bulging stomach.

The rounded outline was clear through her silk nightgown.

Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around his neck, her cheek pressed against his hair. "I want to support my brother and hubsband like Queen Visenya, but it seems I can only be useful on the birthing bed."

Once, she hadn't thought that way. But after Aegon, Helaena, and the others were sent to various towns and she heard Jeyne was gathering bannermen in the Vale, such thoughts of self-hatred grew.

Rhaegar, sensitive to her underlying meaning, patted her tightly wrapped arm and rose from the embrace, half-squatting in front of the couch.

Rhaenyra looked at him in surprise, unsure.

Rhaegar placed his hands on her legs and solemnly said, "Rhaenyra, you're already on the most important battlefield. You're more important than anyone else."

Rhaenyra flattened her mouth and naively said, "Your battlefield is more dangerous. I'm worried about you."

Rhaegar's eyes were clear and firm. "My battlefield is full of blood and fire, but my dragons will protect me, and ten thousand people are willing to die for me."

He touched Rhaenyra's stomach with true emotion. "Your battlefield is even more brutal. Ten thousand people can't suffer in your place, and your dragon can't protect you."

"Pray that the Mother blesses me and allows me to give birth to two healthy babies for you," Rhaenyra said, her eyes flushed as she pressed his head to her stomach.

"You'll be as great as Syrax," Rhaegar said with unbridled seriousness.

The topic shifted from personal ability to procreation, and they fell silent.

They recalled their mother, Aemma Arryn, a poor woman who had died tragically in childbirth.

Her death cast a shadow over Rhaenyra, and Rhaegar, the baby of that difficult birth, carried the same darkness in his heart.

After a moment of peace, Rhaegar rubbed her stomach and laughed softly. "Remember the serpent rune power?"

"I didn't learn it. And my bronze rune can only be half inscribed," Rhaenyra whispered.

Creating runes required a lot of magic, and with the scarcity of magic in her blood, she was naturally slower. Not everyone was like Rhaegar, who could borrow his own dragon's magic.

"It's enough that I can," Rhaegar encouraged her.

He glanced around and saw a delicate glass bottle on the table.

The bottle contained a clear, silky liquid that emitted a faint fragrance when the cork was removed.

Pouring some of the liquid into his palms, he rubbed them together to generate heat.

Rhaenyra smiled softly, undoing the buttons on her nightgown to reveal her snow-white belly.

Rhaegar pressed his hands to her belly, sliding and pushing from bottom to top, applying the oil evenly.

This plant-derived essential oil had lubricating and nourishing properties.

Rhaenyra, pregnant with twins, had a rapidly bulging belly. Without the essential oil, her skin would tear, and she'd be left with stretch marks.

Rhaegar had specifically instructed Orwyle to make this oil, and it was quite expensive.

"After the stomach, there's also the thighs and buttocks," Rhaenyra said, closing her eyes and enjoying the dutiful service.

Rhaegar obliged, feeling as if he had returned to the days when he had been pampered as a child.

...

The Vale, Gulltown.

At dusk, glowing clouds stretched across the sky.

"Roar..."

A golden dragon soared out of the harbor, gliding halfway across the Narrow Sea.

On the dragon's back, Aegon's head drooped listlessly, his eyes filled with resentment.

"That wretched bitch of the Vale, making me ride a dragon on patrol every day!"

He cursed under his breath, striking his aching back.

Gulltown, one of the five major ports in Westeros, boasted brothels filled with passionate, fiery girls, a different flavor from King's Landing.

Sunfyre, ignoring his rider's foul mood, flapped his pale pink wings, heading across the Narrow Sea.

Aegon hung his head, unable to muster any interest in patrolling.

As they approached the Three Sisters Islands, a sudden thirst struck him.

With a flash of inspiration, Aegon licked his lips. "Three Sisters Islands, I wonder what the brothels are like there."

He had heard that the area was chaotic, with smugglers and thieves fighting daily in the harbor.

Aegon couldn't stand the loneliness and gave the order, "Sunfyre, let's change direction."

He was tired of taking orders from that Vale bitch, as opposed to his constant battles with Rhaegar.

Grinning, Aegon excused his laziness. "Nothing to do today, might as well wander through a brothel."

(Word count: 2,191)