A piercing dragon roar echoed through the skies, growing louder as it approached. It was not Cannibal, but Rhaenyra, arriving on her dragon, Syrax, with Laena following on Vhagar.
Rhaegar glanced at them briefly before turning his attention back to the matter at hand.
"Dracarys!" he commanded.
In response, Cannibal unleashed a torrent of dragonflame.
"Ah! ... No!"
Jon, who had been defiant moments ago, now screamed in panic, his confidence evaporating in the face of the oncoming dragonfire. Lord Bar Emmon, terrified, wet himself and tried to leap off the ship. But the dragon's flames were swift and inescapable.
The green dragonfire engulfed the front of the ship, consuming it in a blaze that quickly spread. Jon, Lord Bar Emmon, and the soldiers who had dared to defy Rhaegar were soon enveloped in the flames, their screams fading as they succumbed to the flames.
Soldiers in the cabin scrambled to escape, leaping into the sea in a desperate attempt to avoid the fire, falling into the water like panicked dumplings.
Cannibal growled lowly, its cold eyes scanning the water for any survivors.
"Enough, Cannibal," Rhaegar said calmly, halting the dragon's intent to hunt down the remaining soldiers. He only wanted to punish those who had directly defied him.
Slaying common soldiers did not demonstrate his majesty, and Rhaenyra built the royal fleet at the expense of the taxes on Dragonstone.
But Jon has disrespected him on several occasions, and his words and behavior have been rude.
Considering his family name and his friendship with an opportunistic man like the Lord Bar Emmon, one can only imagine how unreliable he is as a commander.
News of Rhaegar's defeat of the Triarchy has just spread across the continents, and if he is looking for trouble at this time, it is no different than asking for death.
Then let him have his way.
Rhaenyra, witnessing the destruction, called out, "Rhaegar, what happened?"
Unless she was mistaken, the Governor of the Navy and the Lord of Sharp Point were on board.
Rhaegar, his expression stoic, replied, "The former governor of the fleet is dead. You'll need to appoint a new one, someone loyal and obedient."
Rhaenyra paused, recalling the last time Jon had blocked and offended Rhaegar. She knew how deeply Rhaegar resented Jon's insubordination.
"What's the point of having a fleet that you pay for if it doesn't listen to you?" Rhaegar continued.
The King's fleet was an elite force built at great expense, and Rhaegar had hoped to command it during his campaign against the Triarchy. Instead, his father had stripped him of this resource with a single decree. Rhaenyra, having funded the fleet's construction, found herself powerless to aid him when he needed it most.
So what's the point of keeping it? To patrol the waters and to intercept the heir to the throne?
Rhaenyra, taking in her brother's words, nodded solemnly. "I understand. I will select a new Navy Commander."
She had organized the royal fleet to strengthen the defenses of Dragonstone Island. Jon's blatant disregard for her orders was unacceptable.
In the feudal system of Westeros, the loyalty of bannermen was paramount. A bannerman's allegiance was to their liege lord, and any insubordination was intolerable. Jon's disobedience had sealed his fate.
Reflecting on the loyalty displayed by Houses Blackwood and Bracken in the Riverlands, where their bannermen stood firm against Riverrun's forces, Rhaenyra realized the importance of unwavering loyalty. In the Game of Thrones, violation of the Oath of Allegiance was punishable by death.
Seeing Rhaenyra's understanding, Rhaegar decided against offering further comfort. He knew his sister was stronger than she appeared.
"Cannibal, take me to the fleet," Rhaegar commanded.
The Cannibal's eyes flicked over Syrax and Vhagar before it spread its wings and soared into the sky.
As soon as Cannibal departed, Laena guided Vhagar closer to Rhaenyra.
Noticing Rhaenyra's puzzled expression, Laena explained, "Jon and Borros are cousins and Borros received a lesson from Rhaegar."
She added, "I'm sure my best friend understands what I'm saying, right?"
To Laena, Rhaegar's approach may seem harsh, but it was necessary. And it's certainly more reasonable than her husband, Daemon's methods.
Laena's words stung, highlighting a painful truth. Rhaenyra clenched her fists, silently cursing her poor judgment in choosing Jon.
...
Rhaegar approached the fleet and surveyed the scene. There were two dozen ships in all.
Robb and his men had returned safely, laden with treasure plundered from Lys.
Ten were warships, while the remaining dozen were large ships filled with escaped slaves from Lys and Myr.
Upon seeing Rhaegar, the freed slaves bowed and sang his praises.
Rhaegar's attention was drawn to a medium-sized sailing ship at the rear of the fleet.
Swoosh...
Hundreds of Unsullied in spiked helmets and black armor stood in perfect formation, their expressions as lifeless as carved stone statues.
Rhaegar was puzzled. He had already eliminated the Tyrosh Unsullied. Where had these Unsullied come from? And why were they on a boat?
The lead Unsullied dropped to one knee, removed his spiked helmet, and spoke in a hushed tone: "Great Targaryen liberator, the Breaker of Shackles...". He paused, unsure how to continue. Begging to be taken in, enslaved, or freed—it was a difficult concept for the Unsullied with their weak sense of self to rationalize.
Swish...
The rest of the Unsullied knelt in unison, their heads bowed low, following their commander's lead. An atmosphere of nervousness and apprehension spread out.
Rhaegar could see their struggle. They seemed to seek freedom but had nowhere to go, seeking acceptance yet fearing slavery.
"Where did you come from, and what do you want?" Rhaegar asked.
The Unsullied commander's face stiffened, and he hesitated before explaining. They had been bought in Astapor by the Rogare. When the House Rogare was destroyed in the Doom of Lys, they lost their masters. Fearing the brutality of Astapor's slave masters, they heard of Rhaegar's liberation of the slaves and came to him seeking refuge.
Rhaegar's eyes flickered with realization. The destruction of House Rogare and the burning of Lys had triggered the arrival of these Unsullied. He asked, "Where are your whips?"
He knew the Unsullied only obeyed the master who held the whip.
The Unsullied officer's eyes flashed with worry as he replied, "The whips were buried in the ruins along with our buyers."
"Do you still wish to follow the whip's commands?" Rhaegar pursued.
The Unsullied officer froze and fell silent, unable to respond.
The past few days of being free from the control of the buyers and crossing the Narrow Sea by ship from Lys had been the most reassuring for him and all the Unsullied.
Their journey had been fueled by a desire to break the bonds of slavery and serve a worthy master.
Seeing the Unsullied commander's silence, Rhaegar understood. He said solemnly, "Since you do not wish to be enslaved by the whip, then serve me. Fight for glory and die for freedom!"
"Roar--"
The Cannibal roared on cue, and green dragonfire gushed out, creating a curtain of flames.
Beneath the fiery display, the Unsullied's eyes glowed with newfound hope and determination.
Above the dragonfire, Rhaegar rode the dragon, looking down upon the sky and sea like a true god of the world.
Swish, swish...
The Unsullied rose one after another, their spears striking their shields, eyes burning with fervor as they looked up at the silver-haired prince.
He promised them freedom, and they were willing to serve him. Honor or disgrace, they would follow him to the end.
A smile curled on Rhaegar's lips as he directed the Cannibal to hover in a circle, then flew towards Blackwater Bay, his voice booming: "Return to King's Landing!"
"Roar!"
The dragon's roar echoed loud and clear.
...
Red Keep, Dungeon
Tread...
A burst of footsteps echoed through the depths of the dungeon. The prisoners, lying on their stomachs at the cell doors, stared at the approaching figure, too fearful to make a sound.
"Ahem..."
Viserys coughed twice, an unnatural flush appearing on his pale face, his breathing slightly labored.
"Your Grace, the stench of the dungeon is not conducive to your recovery," Erryk advised, assisting the king in his duty.
Grand Maester Mellos had explained that the King was overly worried and exhausted and needed to clear his mind and rest.
Viserys used a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose, his voice slightly gasping, "Don't listen to Mellos. The Grand Maester loves to raise all kinds of alarmist talk."
Erryk bowed his head, holding a torch for illumination. The king and the knight walked to a cell deep in the dungeon.
As they reached the damp stone cell, which was still clean and tidy, Viserys' eyes grew sad. He gasped, "Daemon, your brother is here. Why don't you come to greet him?"
Inside the cell, a figure lay on a wooden bed, his head covered by a thin blanket. Hearing Viserys' call, he did nothing.
"Your Grace," Erryk asked, "should we wake him?"
Viserys waved his hand faintly. "Daemon, don't make me say it again!"
Finally, the prisoner responded. "Alas, it's time for another lesson!"
With one hand, Daemon lifted the blanket and sat up straight, muttering complaints. His stay in the cell had been quite comfortable. He had food and drink and spent much of his time sleeping. There were only two things he disliked: the lack of wine and women, and his brother's constant scolding.
Viserys looked at him, his eyes softening. "I won't scold you this time. Don't be ungrateful."
He had always scolded Daemon for his own good, hoping he would change his ways.
"So, what would you like to talk about, Your Grace?" Daemon stepped off the wooden bed and staggered towards the bars. It had been so long since he'd been active that his body felt rusty.
As he got closer, Daemon looked Viserys up and down, frowning. There was a sense of weakness in his brother's body. The smell of medicine stood out from the stench of the dungeon even two to three meters away.
"Brother, are you sick?" Daemon's expression stiffened as he found a comfortable angle to lean against the iron fence. The last time Viserys had visited him, he'd done nothing but scold him and tell him his wounds were healing. He should be in pretty good shape.
(Word count: 1,725)