Chapter 229: Honor and Freedom
A sharp dragon's roar pierced the air, growing louder as it approached.
It was not the Devourer but Rhaenyra, who had finally arrived, riding Syrax.
Accompanying her was Laenor, mounted on Vhagar.
Rhaegar cast a brief glance at them before calmly turning away.
Another piercing roar echoed.
Sensing its rider's fury, the Devourer gathered its strength and unleashed a torrent of dragonfire.
"Aahh—!"
"No—!"
The warship was not far from the dragon above. In an instant, emerald flames engulfed the space between them.
Facing the incoming inferno, Jon lost all composure. Gone was his previous bravado—he shrieked in terror, utterly panicked.
Like a peasant woman who had never seen the world.
Earl Boremund Baratheon fared no better. His breeches were soaked as he scrambled to flee, desperately trying to jump overboard.
But dragonfire showed no mercy.
**Boom!**
The front of the warship was engulfed in flames, the eerie green fire swallowing most of the vessel.
Jon, Boremund…
And every soldier who dared to oppose Rhaegar perished in that dazzling inferno.
The deck was wiped clean.
"Abandon ship!"
The soldiers inside the hold, spared from the initial blast, hurried to escape. One after another, they leapt overboard, splashing into the sea like dumplings dropped into boiling water.
A deep, rumbling growl came from the Devourer as its cold, slit-pupiled gaze swept over the churning waters.
"That's enough, Devourer," Rhaegar said flatly, stopping the dragon from hunting down the remaining soldiers.
He only killed those who were foolish enough to challenge him—those who underestimated or defied him.
Slaughtering ordinary soldiers did nothing to prove his authority.
The Royal Fleet had been established by Rhaenyra herself, funded by Dragonstone's taxes.
Jon had repeatedly defied Rhaegar, speaking to him with blatant disrespect.
And considering his surname…
Not to mention his alliance with a spineless opportunist like Boremund Baratheon…
It was clear where his loyalties lay.
Rhaegar's crushing victory over the Three Daughters had just spread across both continents. At the peak of his power, he was now an unstoppable force.
For Jon to challenge him at this moment was nothing short of suicide.
So Rhaegar simply obliged him.
Watching as the Devourer incinerated the warship, Rhaenyra cried out, "Rhaegar, what's going on?!"
If she wasn't mistaken, that ship had been carrying the Lord Admiral and the Earl of Sharp Point.
The Devourer turned, allowing its rider to face the two dragonriders directly.
Rhaegar sighed, his tone indifferent. "The former Lord Admiral is dead. Go back and appoint someone loyal and obedient."
Rhaenyra hesitated, recalling the last time Jon had blocked Rhaegar's path and insulted him.
Even then, Rhaegar had wanted to take Jon's head.
"You fund the fleet, yet they refuse to follow your orders. What's the point of keeping them?"
Rhaegar's voice was edged with frustration.
The Royal Fleet had been built at great expense, an elite force meant to serve their interests.
He had planned to command it during his campaign against the Three Daughters.
But his father's decree had stripped the fleet from Rhaenyra's control.
And yet, it was Rhaenyra who had poured her wealth into building it.
If, at a critical moment, even she could not command it—
What use was it?
To patrol the Gullet? To block the Crown Prince himself?
Understanding dawned in Rhaenyra's eyes as she connected the dots. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she muttered, "I understand. I'll appoint a new Lord Admiral."
She had originally built the Royal Fleet as a military force to protect Dragonstone.
If Jon refused to follow her orders, he was no longer fit to serve.
According to the noble and vassalage system of Westeros:
**"The liege of my liege is not my liege. The vassal of my vassal is not my vassal."**
Jon answered directly to Rhaenyra—yet he defied her commands.
That was a death sentence.
Look at the Brackens and Blackwoods of the Riverlands.
Their lords ordered their bannermen and soldiers to fight against Riverrun's forces, and not a single man hesitated.
That was the true rule of the **Game of Thrones**.
To break an oath of fealty was to invite death.
Seeing that Rhaenyra had grasped the lesson, Rhaegar opened his mouth as if to offer comfort.
Then he reconsidered.
Rhaenyra was far stronger than she seemed—she was not fragile.
Instead, Rhaegar simply said, "Devourer, take me to the fleet."
The dragon roared in response, its vertical pupils sweeping over Syrax and Vhagar before it flapped its massive wings and took off.
As he departed, Laenor guided Vhagar to Rhaenyra's side.
Seeing the confusion in her eyes, Laenor carefully chose his words. "Jon and Borros are cousins. Borros was already humiliated by Rhaegar once."
He left it at that, confident that his friend would understand.
In Laenor's view, Rhaegar's actions were certainly ruthless, but not unjustified.
At the very least, he was far more reasonable than her husband, Daemon.
And besides—
Everyone knew that Rhaenyra's ability to judge people had always been… questionable.
Rhaenyra: …
Her fists clenched at her sides, fury boiling within.
---
**Rhaegar Arrives Above the Fleet, Surveying the Scene**
There were a total of more than twenty ships.
Robb and his men had returned safely, their ships laden with treasures plundered from Lys.
Among them were ten warships.
The remaining dozen or so large vessels carried escaped slaves from Lys and Myr.
The moment they saw Rhaegar, they knelt and bowed, singing his praises in reverence.
However, one medium-sized ship at the rear caught Rhaegar's special attention.
*Swish, swish…*
Hundreds of Unsullied, clad in black armor and wearing spiked helmets, stood in formation. Their rigid postures made them resemble statues carved from the same stone.
Rhaegar frowned in confusion. He had already captured all the Tyroshi Unsullied.
Where had these Unsullied come from?
And why were they traveling by ship?
The leading Unsullied knelt on one knee, removed his spiked helmet, and spoke in a solemn voice:
"Great Targaryen Prince, Breaker of Chains…"
Halfway through his words, he hesitated.
He didn't know how to continue.
To ask for shelter? To offer servitude? To seek freedom?
For the Unsullied, who had little sense of personal identity, such a dilemma was difficult to navigate.
*Swish, swish…*
The rest of the Unsullied knelt in unison, heads bowed, following their officer's lead.
None of them spoke, but an atmosphere of tension and uncertainty spread among them.
Rhaegar quickly understood their predicament.
It seemed they sought freedom but had nowhere to go; they wished to be accepted but feared being enslaved once more.
"Where do you come from, and what do you seek?"
After a brief pause, Rhaegar asked.
The Unsullied officer's expression stiffened. He hesitated before slowly explaining their origins.
They had been purchased in Astapor by the Rogare family.
However, the Rogare family had perished in the Fall of Lys.
With their masters dead, they had no one to command them. Fearing the cruelty of the Astapori slave masters, they had set sail upon hearing of Rhaegar's liberation of slaves.
They had come seeking him.
Rhaegar suddenly understood, recalling the cause behind the **Truth of History** being triggered.
The Rogare family's downfall and the burning of Lys had avenged the Dragon King's blood debt against the Lyseni.
His gaze flickered as he asked, "Where are your whips?"
He knew a bit about Astapor's customs.
The Unsullied only obeyed the one who held their whip.
At Rhaegar's question, the officer's eyes flashed with unease. Truthfully, he answered, "The whips were buried alongside our masters in the ruins."
"Do you still wish to follow the command of a whip?"
Rhaegar pressed further.
The officer froze, unable to answer.
Since their masters' deaths, these past few days crossing the Narrow Sea had been the most peaceful in his and his men's lives.
They had come here precisely to break their chains and serve a master they could trust.
Seeing his silence, Rhaegar understood. With a commanding voice, he declared:
"If you do not wish to be enslaved by the whip, then swear your allegiance to me! Fight for honor, and if need be, die for freedom!"
*Hiss—ROAR!*
At that moment, Devourer let out a deafening roar. A burst of green dragonfire erupted, painting the sky in a fiery blaze.
Beneath the flames, the Unsullied looked up, their eyes flickering with something different—disbelief, perhaps hope.
Above the flames, Rhaegar rode his dragon, overlooking the sea and sky like a true god.
*Swish, swish…*
The Unsullied rose to their feet, striking their spears against their shields, their eyes burning with determination as they gazed upon the silver-haired prince.
He had promised them freedom, and they were willing to become his claws and fangs.
To live with honor, and to face death without fear.
Rhaegar smiled and urged Devourer into a sweeping arc before soaring toward Blackwater Bay.
"Set course for King's Landing!!"
*Hiss—ROAR!*
The dragon's cry echoed across the sea.
---
**Red Keep, Dungeon**
*Tap, tap…*
The sound of footsteps echoed as someone entered a deep chamber within the dungeons.
The prisoners huddled against the bars, watching the approaching figure in fearful silence.
*Cough, cough…*
Viserys coughed twice, his pale face tinged with an unnatural flush. His breathing was slightly labored.
"Your Grace, the foul air of the dungeon is not good for your health."
Ser Elryk, supporting the king, dutifully advised him.
Grand Maester Mellos had warned against it.
*Rhaegar Arrives Above the Fleet, Surveying the Scene**
There were a total of more than twenty ships.
Robb and his men had returned safely, their ships laden with treasures plundered from Lys.
Among them were ten warships.
The remaining dozen or so large vessels carried escaped slaves from Lys and Myr.
The moment they saw Rhaegar, they knelt and bowed, singing his praises in reverence.
However, one medium-sized ship at the rear caught Rhaegar's special attention.
*Swish, swish…*
Hundreds of Unsullied, clad in black armor and wearing spiked helmets, stood in formation. Their rigid postures made them resemble statues carved from the same stone.
Rhaegar frowned in confusion. He had already captured all the Tyroshi Unsullied.
Where had these Unsullied come from?
And why were they traveling by ship?
The leading Unsullied knelt on one knee, removed his spiked helmet, and spoke in a solemn voice:
"Great Targaryen Prince, Breaker of Chains…"
Halfway through his words, he hesitated.
He didn't know how to continue.
To ask for shelter? To offer servitude? To seek freedom?
For the Unsullied, who had little sense of personal identity, such a dilemma was difficult to navigate.
*Swish, swish…*
The rest of the Unsullied knelt in unison, heads bowed, following their officer's lead.
None of them spoke, but an atmosphere of tension and uncertainty spread among them.
Rhaegar quickly understood their predicament.
It seemed they sought freedom but had nowhere to go; they wished to be accepted but feared being enslaved once more.
"Where do you come from, and what do you seek?"
After a brief pause, Rhaegar asked.
The Unsullied officer's expression stiffened. He hesitated before slowly explaining their origins.
They had been purchased in Astapor by the Rogare family.
However, the Rogare family had perished in the Fall of Lys.
With their masters dead, they had no one to command them. Fearing the cruelty of the Astapori slave masters, they had set sail upon hearing of Rhaegar's liberation of slaves.
They had come seeking him.
Rhaegar suddenly understood, recalling the cause behind the **Truth of History** being triggered.
The Rogare family's downfall and the burning of Lys had avenged the Dragon King's blood debt against the Lyseni.
His gaze flickered as he asked, "Where are your whips?"
He knew a bit about Astapor's customs.
The Unsullied only obeyed the one who held their whip.
At Rhaegar's question, the officer's eyes flashed with unease. Truthfully, he answered, "The whips were buried alongside our masters in the ruins."
"Do you still wish to follow the command of a whip?"
Rhaegar pressed further.
The officer froze, unable to answer.
Since their masters' deaths, these past few days crossing the Narrow Sea had been the most peaceful in his and his men's lives.
They had come here precisely to break their chains and serve a master they could trust.
Seeing his silence, Rhaegar understood. With a commanding voice, he declared:
"If you do not wish to be enslaved by the whip, then swear your allegiance to me! Fight for honor, and if need be, die for freedom!"
*Hiss—ROAR!*
At that moment, Devourer let out a deafening roar. A burst of green dragonfire erupted, painting the sky in a fiery blaze.
Beneath the flames, the Unsullied looked up, their eyes flickering with something different—disbelief, perhaps hope.
Above the flames, Rhaegar rode his dragon, overlooking the sea and sky like a true god.
*Swish, swish…*
The Unsullied rose to their feet, striking their spears against their shields, their eyes burning with determination as they gazed upon the silver-haired prince.
He had promised them freedom, and they were willing to become his claws and fangs.
To live with honor, and to face death without fear.
Rhaegar smiled and urged Devourer into a sweeping arc before soaring toward Blackwater Bay.
"Set course for King's Landing!!"
*Hiss—ROAR!*
The dragon's cry echoed across the sea.
---
**Red Keep, Dungeon**
*Tap, tap…*
The sound of footsteps echoed as someone entered a deep chamber within the dungeons.
The prisoners huddled against the bars, watching the approaching figure in fearful silence.
*Cough, cough…*
Viserys coughed twice, his pale face tinged with an unnatural flush. His breathing was slightly labored.
"Your Grace, the foul air of the dungeon is not good for your health."
Ser Elryk, supporting the king, dutifully advised him.
Grand Maester Mellos had warned against it.
The king was weary and exhausted from excessive worry. He needed to clear his mind and focus on recovery.
Viserys covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, his breath slightly labored. "Don't listen to Melos' nonsense. Maesters from the Citadel love to exaggerate."
Ser Erryk walked ahead, head lowered, holding a torch to light the way.
The ruler and his knight made their way deep into the dungeons, stopping before a particular cell.
Inside, the damp stone chamber was surprisingly clean and tidy. Viserys' gaze was melancholic as he panted, "Daemon, your brother is here. Aren't you going to show some respect?"
A figure lay on the wooden cot, head buried beneath a thin blanket.
He remained motionless at the sound of Viserys' voice.
"Your Grace," Erryk cast a questioning glance.
Should he wake the prisoner?
Viserys waved his hand dismissively. "Daemon, don't make me say it twice."
Finally, there was movement inside the cell.
"Sigh, is it time for another lecture already?"
The blanket was thrown aside, revealing Daemon sitting up abruptly, grumbling without the slightest care for appearances.
He was doing just fine in his cell—food, drink, and all the time in the world to sleep like the dead.
There were only two things he wasn't happy about.
One, there was no wine and no women. Two, his brother kept coming to scold him.
Seeing Daemon's disheveled state, Viserys frowned and said irritably, "I'm not here to scold you this time, so don't push your luck."
He only reprimanded Daemon for his own good—to help him change his ways.
"Then what do you want to talk about, Your Grace?"
Daemon climbed off the cot, staggering slightly as he approached the iron bars.
He hadn't moved much in so long that his body felt stiff.
As he drew closer, Daemon studied Viserys from head to toe, his brows unconsciously furrowing.
His brother looked frail, weak.
Even from a few meters away, the scent of medicine cut through the dungeon's usual stench.
"Brother, are you sick?"
Daemon's expression stiffened as he leaned against the bars, finding a comfortable position.
The last time Viserys visited, aside from berating him, he also mentioned that his wounds were healing.
His health should've been improving.
(End of Chapter)