Chapter 22: Fleet Ambushed

The Summer Sea, westbound shipping lane.

At this moment, the sea lay under a blanket of oppressive storm clouds. The leaden sky pressed low, seemingly within arm's reach, its heavy gloom suffocating.

The wind howled across the waters, carrying a biting chill—but more than that, a sense of restless foreboding.

More than ten cargo ships of House Targaryen moved in a long, snake-like formation across the waves, their sails snapping loudly in the gusting wind.

High atop the prow of the lead dragon-headed ship, the lookout was scanning the weather—when something caught his eye. Amid the swirling clouds, two unfamiliar red dragons were approaching fast.

The lookout immediately raised his horn and blew a warning signal for the Dragon Knights guarding the skies.

Jehettys Targaryen and his dragon were the designated escorts for this fleet. His mount—a white adult dragon nearly forty meters long—soared above the ships. Jehettys was not only a dragonrider; he was also Daenylis's father and Aenar's brother.

Just as he was preparing to descend and investigate the warning...

Suddenly—

A deafening roar rolled through the skies, like the scream of death itself.

Jehettys looked up in horror to see two red dragons—each over fifty meters long—diving down from the storm clouds like phantoms. Their massive bodies streaked through the sky like burning meteors, plummeting with unstoppable force.

The sheer weight combined with their diving momentum gave them catastrophic power. Before Jehettys could react, the first red dragon struck him with devastating impact, pulverizing him into a mist of blood. His remains sprayed across the sky in a fine red mist.

The white dragon screamed in agony as the sudden assault sent it plummeting from the sky like a falling star.

It was clear now—House Aurélion's dragon warfare tactics were ruthless, precise, and terrifyingly effective. They had chosen the eve of the storm with perfect calculation, using the wind's howl to mask their approach and the storm clouds to conceal their presence, striking before their enemies could even grasp what was happening.

Their first move: eliminate the dragonriders.

At that moment, the fate of the fleet was sealed. Without their airborne protectors, the crew descended into chaos and panic.

Before the white dragon could hit the water, the two red dragons showed brutal coordination. They lunged in with razor claws, tearing at the white dragon's wings. With a sickening rip, the wings were shredded midair.

After that savage blow, the red dragons beat their wings and pulled away, leaving the crippled white dragon to fall.

A thunderous crash followed, striking everyone like a blow to the chest.

The white dragon's colossal body slammed into the sea, sending up a towering wall of water that surged toward the fleet. The resulting wave rocked the Targaryen ships violently.

Lymond Aurélion, astride his dragon, let out an ecstatic roar.

"Wooo! Hahaha!!"

From high above, he looked down at the wounded white dragon struggling in the sea, a wicked grin curling at his lips.

The navigators and captains aboard the fleet turned pale, their eyes fixed on the two crimson beasts blotting out the sky. Horror and despair filled their gazes.

"The red dragons of House Aurélion…"

"It's over…"

They murmured in near unison.

The two enormous dragons circled lazily over the fleet. Every beat of their wings sent howling wind down upon the ships. Their hungry, feral eyes watched the vessels below like predators stalking prey.

Then, a lone crossbowman, driven by desperation, mustered his courage. He pulled the trigger, launching a bolt toward one of the red dragons. The arrow tore through the thick air and struck the wing membrane, lodging itself firmly.

The dragon let out a furious roar, pain flashing across its face. Its jaws opened wide, and it unleashed a torrent of molten fire upon the cargo ship below.

The wooden vessel—more than twenty meters long—was engulfed in flames within seconds. The scorching breath blackened and warped the hull almost instantly. In mere moments, the entire ship had become a floating inferno, fire crackling as it licked up the wood, devouring everything.

Inside the hold, gold began to melt from the intense heat, turning to liquid that slowly streamed into the sea along the slanted deck.

"Damn it! Don't destroy the ship!" Lymond Aurélion bellowed from his dragon, watching the scene unfold in fury.

The other dragonrider, seeing the result, gave an apologetic gesture before urging his dragon higher into the sky.

...

Roughly fifteen minutes later, the horizon darkened again—not with dragons, but with a swarm of small boats converging like black ants toward the Targaryen fleet.

Warriors clad in red armor surged forth, grappling hooks in hand. They hurled them over the rails of the cargo ships and climbed aboard with practiced ease, scaling the hulls using both hands and feet.

The fleet's crew—mostly servants and enslaved soldiers—were paralyzed by fear. Few dared to resist. They were stranded in the vast open sea, utterly alone. The sight of other ships sinking after failed resistance had already served as a deadly warning.

Only a few among House Targaryen's members chose to fight to the death, attempting to set their own ships ablaze in a final act of defiance.

But terrified slaves on board held them back with all their might.

Before long, the entire fleet was under Aurélion control.

Lymond flew alongside one of the seized ships. He dismounted, grabbing a rope ladder dangling from his dragon's body and swung down to land cleanly on the deck.

He raised a hand high in the air.

The other dragonrider saw the signal and immediately ascended, his dragon circling higher to keep watch for any possible Targaryen reinforcements.

Old Brus came trotting over, hunched and grinning obsequiously.

"Master, there were fifteen dragon-headed ships. Two were sunk, the rest are all ours."

Lymond gave no reply, simply walking straight toward the cargo hold entrance on deck.

He bent slightly as he stepped into the dark hold. Brus hurried after him, sticking close.

Inside, crates made of wood and reinforced with bronze frames were stacked neatly.

Lymond drew the Valyrian steel sword at his waist and brought it down on a lock with a sharp crack. The lock clattered to the ground. He kicked the lid open.

The box was filled to the brim with gold bars.

A brilliant smile spread across Lymond's face.

"The Targaryens think they can slip away? Not that easy—hahaha!" Lymond burst into raucous laughter, full of arrogance and triumph.

Just then, a soldier in ornate armor, upright and imposing, strode into the room. Seeing Brus blocking the doorway, the man frowned slightly and casually shoved him aside. Caught off guard, Brus stumbled and fell to the ground.

"My lord, word just came from the Dragon Taming Tournament. All preparations are complete, and the Mother of Evil Dragons has been properly arranged as well," the soldier reported respectfully to Lymond, though with a mocking tone. "If the Targaryens want to preserve their house's legacy, they'll have no choice but to try taming the Mother of Evil Dragons. For all we know, his son is already nearing the Abyss of Flames."

Lymond nodded. "We've gone as far as leveraging the authority of the Breath of Fire's ruling house just to plant our agents in the Fourteen Flames. 'Mother of Evil Dragons'—don't you dare disappoint me."

The captain's brows drew together in a frown as he grumbled, "We only left a few Dragonkeepers at the Abyss of Flames, and yet the main branch wants two-thirds of the take without even shedding a drop of blood. Isn't that a little greedy?"

Though Lymond shared the sentiment, he quickly raised a hand to stop his subordinate's complaint.

"If the main branch wasn't covering for us, I wouldn't dare sink my teeth into this Targaryen prize. The main and cadet branches are one. No more discussion."

Outside, the sea wind howled, and the long-brewing storm finally began to arrive.

As sailors moved swiftly about the decks, the ships began adjusting their sails. The fleet, once headed west, slowly turned back toward the Valyrian Peninsula.

...

...

Within the Fourteen Flames, deep in the shadowed Greenveil Gorge.

A thin mist clung to the canyon like gauze, gently veiling the early morning landscape.

Aegon and Daenys were already prepared, seated together on Dreamshade's saddle.

"Dreamshade is so obedient, nothing like my father's Balerion. His temper was awful—just getting near him was dangerous," Daenys said softly as she stroked Dreamshade's hard, sleek scales.

"Rrr~" Dreamshade responded gently.

Aegon held Daenys tightly by the waist, sitting just behind her.

The saddle had been designed for a single rider. With both of them squeezed into it, some bodily contact was inevitable.

Daenys's cheeks flushed as she adjusted her posture, trying to make them both a little more comfortable.

"Fly, Dreamshade," she called out, her voice clear and crisp.

Dreamshade slowly spread its massive wings—like two great emerald sails. With a powerful beat, the air around them churned into turbulent currents. As Dreamshade ascended, the buildings below shrank quickly in their view, becoming no more than miniature models.

Aegon looked down at the shrinking scenery. For a moment, he felt almost like he was on an airplane—except this was open air. The roaring wind cut across them like knives, stinging their skin as it rushed past.

They soared toward the Abyss of Flames.

"Um, Aegon... you're pushing..." Daenys murmured, her voice tinged with both embarrassment and annoyance as she shifted her hips slightly.

"..." Aegon said nothing. Neither of them wore underclothes beneath their riding gear, and pressed so tightly together, the turbulence was causing... involuntary reactions. "Daenys, don't squirm—it just makes it worse."

"It's uncomfortable," Daenys muttered, frowning as she pinched him hard at the waist.

"There's nothing I can do. Just hold on. We'll be there in a few hours," Aegon said with a helpless sigh.

"Like this... mm, I think it's not pressing anymore," Daenys bit her lip as she adjusted again...

"..." Aegon screamed internally, I'd rather be dead right now.

Dreamshade tore through the sky at incredible speed.

Aegon was stunned to realize that Dreamshade flew far faster than any adult dragon he had seen in Valyria. It was like a streak of silver lightning cutting through the sky. There was no doubt—Dreamshade was a high-speed, high-mobility dragon. Its sleek body sliced through the air like a finely honed blade.

But that aerodynamic design, which minimized wind resistance, also meant the riders were exposed to the full wrath of the wind.

Aegon had no choice but to crouch as low as possible, trying to reduce drag.

He pressed himself tightly against Daenys's back, pinning her closer to the saddle.

Their bodies were completely aligned, locked together.

Each time Dreamshade banked or shifted in flight, the turbulence rocked them violently.