Chapter 225: The Mysterious Blackstone Magic

Upon learning that Rhaegar had acted on his own, Viserys was furious.

Days had passed since their last meeting, and his worry grew heavier with each passing day.

Had he known Rhaegar was this stubborn, he never would have revoked his military authority.

"Rhaegar, you're starting to make me worry too," Viserys muttered, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

**Knock, knock—**

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in!" Viserys responded without looking up.

The door opened, and Otto walked in.

Viserys glanced at him and asked, "What is it?"

Right now, he just wanted a moment alone to calm down.

"Your Grace, news from the Riverlands," Otto said with a solemn expression. "House Blackwood and House Bracken have defied the royal decree. Ser Harwin, alongside House Tully, led troops to intimidate them, but instead, they were met with insults from both houses."

"Endless trouble!" Viserys spat angrily.

Otto continued his report. "A skirmish broke out. Ser Harwin fought valiantly and crushed both armies, establishing dominance in the Riverlands."

"That's good. It significantly weakens their arrogance," Viserys remarked in surprise.

Otto, however, shook his head, his tone complicated. "After the victory, old Lord Tully insisted on holding a celebratory feast. But during the event, House Bracken launched a sneak attack. His eldest son was killed in the chaos."

"Damn it! What's the situation at the front now?" Viserys was shocked. He hadn't expected House Bracken to be bold enough to assassinate a liege lord.

Otto sighed. "The army at Riverrun suffered heavy losses. Lord Lyonel was gravely injured, and Ser Harwin had to lead his troops in retreat, falling back to defend Harrenhal."

The battle had taken place in the wilderness between Riverrun and Harrenhal.

After the ambush, House Bracken had blocked the army's path back to Riverrun.

With no other options, Ser Harwin led his troops to Harrenhal, only to be besieged by the Brackens.

Meanwhile, the Peasant Guild was also causing unrest in the Riverlands, gaining momentum by the day.

This was undeniably terrible news.

As Viserys processed the details, rage surged through him, and he roared, "Damn those Brackens! They're outright rebelling!"

Slamming his hand on the table, he stood up abruptly, intending to summon a Small Council meeting.

But after just two steps, his face turned unnaturally red, and a wave of dizziness flooded his mind.

His legs gave out beneath him, and he was about to collapse.

"Your Grace, be careful!" 

Otto reacted swiftly, catching him in time.

"Otto..." Viserys gritted his teeth, barely managing to stay conscious. "Summon the Small Council. We must discuss the campaign against Houses Blackwood and Bracken."

He, Viserys I, would make sure the rebellious houses paid the price.

---

### One of the Three Daughters: Tyrosh

"Fire! Aim for the dragon!"

"Run for your lives!"

In the vast sky above, two dragons soared, spewing torrents of dragonfire.

Tyrosh's defenses were well-prepared—over a hundred scorpions were mounted on various towers to counter the dragons' aerial assault.

**"Screeeech—"**

The gluttonous dragon roared furiously, its agile body gliding over the city-state as it unleashed precise blasts of dragonfire, obliterating the towers one by one.

Shadowflame followed closely behind, continuously spitting fireballs that exploded among the city's soldiers below.

Tyrosh was known for its mercenaries, and its inner city was surrounded by an impregnable black wall.

Among the Three Daughters, it was the most militarized city-state.

But unfortunately for them—

Neither mercenaries nor city guards could withstand dragonfire.

And even the black walls couldn't stop flying dragons.

The bombardment lasted for two hours.

Tyrosh was cleansed in fire and blood.

Merchants who hadn't made it to the bunkers ran in terror, driving their slaves ahead of them to clear the way.

**Boom!** 

A blast of dragonfire struck a nearby tower. It collapsed instantly, sending rubble crashing down.

"Ahhh—!"

The falling stones crushed both slaves and the cursing merchants alike.

Blood and fire left their mark on every corner of Tyrosh.

Rhaegar sat atop his dragon, gazing down at the carnage below.

Tyrosh was different from Lys and Myr. Its formidable defenses meant he couldn't simply charge in alone.

All he could do was destroy as much of the city as possible—but freeing the slaves was beyond his ability.

"Glutton, let's go!"

The city lay in ruins, and Rhaegar, satisfied with the destruction, prepared to leave.

He steered his dragon toward the sea.

As they passed over the inner city's black walls, a unit of soldiers in black armor shouted loudly.

"Ready! Throw the spears!"

From his high vantage point, Rhaegar watched as the black-armored soldiers hurled their spears with all their might.

The spears barely reached a hundred meters before they lost momentum.

None of them even came close to touching his dragon before falling weakly back to the ground.

Yet, the soldiers refused to give up.

"Prepare bows! Fire the second volley!" they bellowed, their voices filled with determination.

It seemed their only weapons were spears and round shields.

No one knew where the bows and arrows had come from, and the soldiers' posture when drawing their bows was completely incorrect. 

Rhaegar watched with disinterest and said flatly, "Dragonfire." 

The Devourer changed direction and dove, unleashing a torrent of dragonfire. 

Boom— 

Under the eerie green flames, the black-armored soldiers were reduced to ashes. 

Just as Rhaegar thought it was over, another wave of black-armored soldiers appeared. 

This time, there were over a thousand of them, dragging along more than a dozen scorpion ballistae. They swiftly loaded steel-tipped spears, aiming at the Devourer, ready to fire. 

"Hiss—" 

A gray shadow emerged from the side, and another wave of dragonfire rained down mercilessly, instantly incinerating hundreds of soldiers. 

What was strange, however... 

The survivors did not flee. Instead, they raised their round shields fearlessly, buying time for the soldiers operating the ballistae. 

Seeing such an unfathomable scene, Rhaegar frowned deeply. "Unsullied?" 

Only the Unsullied, trained in Astapor, could be so emotionless—war machines that felt neither pain nor fear. 

"Losing oneself from childhood... they are pitiable." 

Rhaegar murmured to himself, then gave the order, "End this quickly. Dragonfire." 

The Unsullied had already suffered enough in life. 

It was best to end it now. 

"Hiss—" 

The Devourer hovered over the Black Wall, jaws wide open, spewing torrents of dragonfire. 

In the blink of an eye— 

Over a thousand highly trained Unsullied were engulfed in flames, leaving behind nothing but charred corpses. 

Drip, drip... 

The dragonfire continued to burn, and the solid Black Wall gradually melted, with dark molten liquid dripping from its highest point. 

Rhaegar observed carefully, intrigued by the wall's composition. 

According to ancient texts, during the old Valyrian era, the Dragonlords mastered blood magic and fire sorcery. 

Structures such as Dragonstone's castle, the inner Black Walls of Tyrosh, and the massive Black Walls of Volantis... 

All were built from a black stone created through Valyrian magic. 

Thus, during the Freehold's reign— 

The Dragonlords' architecture was magnificent, unmatched in both resilience and grandeur. 

Rhaegar felt a hint of envy and murmured, "If I knew this magic, rebuilding the Dragonpit would be effortless." 

"Hiss—" 

The Devourer's roar shattered his fantasy, pulling him back to reality. 

Rhaegar smiled helplessly. "Let's go, my friend." 

With all three Queens' lands reduced to ashes, it was time to return in triumph. 

The Devourer snorted, circled once, then flew toward the Stepstones. 

The gray shadow playfully spit out more dragonfire, attempting to damage the Black Wall. 

Seeing that it barely left a mark, it quickly followed the Devourer's path, hastily retreating. 

… 

Lys. 

After a long night, Lysandro Rogare, who had secretly fled Tyrosh, finally returned to Lys. 

Even from the sea, he could see black smoke rising over the city. 

As he entered the harbor, he gazed at the burning wreckage of ships. 

Lysandro stood in stunned silence, as if he had lost his mind. 

Lys was destroyed! 

The demon dragon had not attacked Tyrosh but had instead invaded Lys. 

"Dock the ship! My family! My bank!" 

Lysandro roared, veins bulging on his forehead, consumed by fury and terror. 

The Rogare Bank was his family's legacy. 

The vault stored wealth from all over the world. 

If it was gone, the Rogare family was finished. 

He would be lynched by the people of Lys, and depositors from every corner of the world would seek revenge. 

Everything would be lost! 

As soon as the ship docked, Lysandro bolted ashore, sprinting toward his family's estate. 

Along the way, countless slaves fled the city, scrambling onto the surviving ships in the port. 

"Look! It's the Governor of Lys!" 

"The Governor is here!" 

The disheveled Lysandro was quickly recognized and surrounded by slaves, driven by hatred. 

"Kill him! Kill them all!" 

Lysandro had long lost his former composure. He raised his whip and lashed out at the Unsullied protecting him. 

The Unsullied bowed their heads and responded dully, "Yes." 

Swish, swish, swish… 

Five hundred Unsullied landed one after another, forming a tight phalanx of spears and round shields around Lysandro. 

Any slave who dared to attack was slaughtered without hesitation. 

It was in this moment that the true power of the Unsullied was revealed. 

No matter how many slaves charged at them, they were merely marching to their deaths. 

Protected by the Unsullied, Lysandro carved a bloody path back to the Rogare Bank and his family's estate. 

But the bank had already been looted by vengeful slaves. 

After finally making his way inside, he found the vault completely emptied—his voice echoed through the barren chamber. 

Lysandro collapsed instantly, clutching his face, wailing in despair. "No!!" 

At that moment, he saw his own inevitable demise. 

"Brother, you're finally back." 

Rosander Rogare ran in, his face streaked with tears as he looked at Lysandro. 

He had been hiding in a bunker all this time. 

Only after Rhaegar and his army had left did he dare to come out and assess the situation. 

What he saw— 

The family estate had been thoroughly ransacked. Anything of value was taken, and anything worthless was burned to ashes. 

Even the horses in the stables had been slaughtered. 

Not a single asset was left intact. 

After narrowly escaping the pursuing slaves, he rushed to the bank as fast as he could. 

And the first thing he saw was his brother, writhing in agony. 

"Brother, the demon dragon attacked Lys. The whole city is in rebellion. What… what do we do now?"

Sandro screamed and cried out in desperation. 

Hearing this, Lissandra blankly lifted his head and let out a bitter smile. "What else can I do? I might as well be dead." 

At this moment, life was worse than death. 

*Click—* 

As soon as he finished speaking, a strange noise came from above. The stone ceiling had loosened. 

Lissandra heard the sound and dumbly looked up. 

The next second— 

*Boom—* 

A stone slab, about a meter square, dislodged and fell, striking Lissandra with eerie precision. 

With a sickening *crack*, his bones shattered instantly, and his body was crushed into a pulp. 

Blood splattered onto Sandro's face. His eyes widened in shock as he trembled in disbelief. "Brother!!" 

Suddenly, a group of slaves burst into the bank, shouting at the top of their lungs: "Fight for freedom! Kill Rogar's oppressors!" 

Sandro immediately turned around, scrambling on all fours to pick up a whip from the pile of flesh that was once his brother. He then ordered the Unsullied to retaliate. 

"Kill them! Kill these damned slaves and lowly scum!" 

The Unsullied remained expressionless, their gaze fixed on the whip in Sandro's hand. 

That was the training of Astapor. 

The Unsullied obeyed whoever held the whip. 

"Hurry! Kill them!" 

Sandro swung the whip furiously, roaring at the Unsullied while pointing at the slaves. 

*Swish, swish…* 

The Unsullied followed orders, forming a shield wall and blocking the slaves' path. 

The slaves flinched, hesitating to charge forward. 

Seeing this, Sandro let out a breath of relief and cracked the whip again, lashing at the Unsullied. "Move! You eunuchs are as worthless as these slaves!" 

The whip lashed against their bodies with sharp *cracks*, tearing flesh and drawing blood. 

The Unsullied stood motionless, enduring the strikes without a single expression. 

The slaves stared in shock before shouting, "Why are you listening to him?! The Breaker of Chains has given freedom to slaves—you should fight back too!" 

*Squelch…* 

The response was cold steel. 

The Unsullied advanced in formation, thrusting their spears into the frontline of the slaves. 

Against the disciplined, battle-hardened Unsullied, the slaves had no chance. A single assault left a large number of them dead. 

Realizing they were outmatched, the slaves immediately retreated. 

"Hahaha! Kill them all!" 

Sandro laughed maniacally, whipping wildly. 

*Crack—* 

Once again, a strange noise came from above. 

Sandro's body stiffened as a chill ran down his spine. Slowly, he looked up. 

Another stone slab had loosened. 

It wobbled, on the verge of falling. 

Sandro turned and ran for his life. 

*Thud!* 

The slab crashed down, striking him directly. 

With a loud *smash*, his skull burst open. 

The slab crushed Sandro's upper body, grinding him into a pile of flesh. 

Coincidentally, it landed right next to the slab that had killed his brother. 

And just like that— 

The Rogar brothers both died under the ceiling of their family's bank. 

With Sandro dead, the whip was buried beneath the rubble, lost in the remains. 

The Unsullied noticed the change. 

They stopped in their tracks, maintaining their shield formation, but fell into an eerie silence. 

The Unsullied were soldiers who had lost their sense of self. 

Without a master to give orders, they froze in place. 

Like machines that had lost power. 

The slaves noticed this, cautiously picking up weapons and approaching the Unsullied, testing their reactions. 

Until— 

A slave swung an axe, shattering an Unsullied soldier's skull. 

The slaves erupted in joy. "These mindless puppets are useless! Without a master, they can't move—kill them all!" 

One by one, the Unsullied fell to the slaves, offering no resistance. 

"Hah! If they won't even fight for their own freedom, they might as well die." 

A burly slave slit an Unsullied soldier's throat and sneered. 

*Squelch—* 

A spear suddenly pierced his chest, ending his life. 

The slaves gasped in horror, thinking the Unsullied were retaliating. 

Their eyes locked onto the one who had struck. 

Sensing their attention, the Unsullied soldier withdrew his spear and shifted from a defensive stance to standing tall and rigid. 

**Swish, swish…** 

The other Unsullied followed suit, standing neatly in formation. 

They waited for a moment. 

The punishment for acting without orders did not come. 

The leading Unsullied rested his spear against his chest, freeing one hand to remove his black iron helmet, revealing a young man's deep brown face. 

Three sharp spikes adorned his helmet. 

This signified that he was a high-ranking officer among the Unsullied, capable of leading those with one or two spikes. 

Ignoring the fearful slaves, he walked toward Sandro's remains. 

The stone slab was massive, crushing the flesh beneath it into pulp. 

The Unsullied gazed down at the gruesome sight, his face emotionless. 

His eyes swept over the scene again and again, but the familiar whip was nowhere to be seen. 

After confirming this multiple times, he slowly turned around and resumed his upright stance. 

The only difference— 

A flicker of emotion finally appeared on his otherwise numb and indifferent face. 

A mixture of confusion, relief, and fear… 

His rigid mind turned, contemplating what to do next. 

No master. No buyer. No orders. 

He did not want to stand still, waiting to be slaughtered. 

From the very beginning, the greatest threat to the Unsullied had been life itself. 

Eventually, he recalled a title he had heard along the journey. 

**"The Breaker of Chains."** 

"Westeros…" 

His voice was hoarse as he uttered the word. 

It was another piece of intelligence gathered along the way. 

For freedom, they had to go to Westeros and find the Breaker of Chains. 

The struggle in his eyes gradually transformed into an unprecedented determination. 

Tucking the spiked helmet under his arm, he struck his spear against his shield, his voice trembling: **"Breaker of Chains!!"** 

The other Unsullied heard their officer's voice, and the numbness in their eyes wavered. 

They understood what this title represented. 

**Swish, swish…** 

As if they had found a new purpose, they stood tall, striking their shields with their spears. 

Echoing their officer's resolve. 

The Unsullied commander donned his spiked helmet once more, his gaze turning cold as he issued the order: **"To the port! We sail for Westeros!!"** 

In perfect unison, the Unsullied marched forward. 

The slaves dared not stand in their way and stepped aside, clearing a path. 

*(End of Chapter)*