Maynard reluctantly agreed, ordering the Dragonkeepers to separate the two young dragons before leading the little Prince into a dragon pit.
...
The passage outside was lined with rough masonry, and soon the surroundings transitioned into a cave. Maekar looked closely, stepping carefully over the broken stones.
Click!
Steffon lit a torch and walked ahead, carefully clearing a path. Maynard, with a bitter expression, cautioned, "That young dragon is sleeping. It's best not to disturb it."
A young dragon, though not fully grown, was still formidable. When angered, it was a force to be reckoned with.
Maekar said nothing, his big blue eyes filled with curiosity about everything around him.
Crack!
Steffon froze, having stepped on a bone resembling a sheep's rib. Maekar wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air. "I smell dragon."
The scent of sulfur mixed with the stench of dragon dung was unmistakable and hard to describe.
"We need to be more careful from now on," Maynard advised, grabbing the little Prince and cautioning Sir Steffon. "Young dragons are fierce. Don't go near them."
He could already see that the little Prince was eager to tame a dragon, reminiscent of the first time His Grace had entered Dreamfyre's lair many years ago. Maynard, now in his middle years, did not want any more accidents.
Steffon's muscles were tense, his long sword half-drawn at his waist. He kicked the skeleton blocking his way aside. Maekar, caught between the two, promised obediently, "I won't disturb it."
Before long, the stench of dragon permeated the air, and the torches flickered in the oxygen-deficient underground. Maekar held his breath and stared intently into the depths of the dark cave.
Clang!
A dragon's silhouette emerged, and the chains rattled. Through the dim light, a large figure could be seen lying on the ground, surrounded by various leftovers. Nearby, piles of dried excrement lay hard and dry, resembling stalactites, protecting the young dragon in the middle.
"Don't be nervous," Maekar said, taking out a torch and boldly stepping forward.
"Prince..." Steffon was shocked and tried to reach out to stop him.
"Shh!" Maekar whispered, ducking to the side.
He felt it—the big dragon, the sleeping giant, had awakened.
"Roar!"
As if receiving some kind of guidance, the shadow of the dragon in the depths suddenly burst forth, pulling at the chains and making them rattle. Maekar stopped in his tracks, looking hopefully at the angry beast.
A young dragon with silver and black scales, green scales on its side, and a misty coloration on its wing membranes emerged. The young dragon was not small, over seven meters from head to tail, and it had grown faster than its peers.
At that moment, the young dragon poked out its huge head and opened its mouth, spraying Dragonfire at the stone wall.
"Roar!"
The gray Dragonfire, like smoke or mist, clung to the charred stone wall, scraping off a layer of stone skin. Maekar raised his hand to shield his eyes, watching with one blue eye, unblinking.
"Stay calm, Tyraxes!" Maynard stepped out from behind, picked up the little Prince in one arm, and spoke to the dragon in High Valyrian. Steffon waved a torch to protect the two behind him.
"Roar..."
Tyraxes growled, the sound of chains scraping against the ground as the dragon crawled out of the crypt, using its wings to support itself. The gray Dragonfire clung to the stone ceiling above, intensifying the light in the confined space.
Tyraxes' pupils were cold and unfeeling, its fangs jagged, staring at the three intruders. Maekar, held under Maynard's arm, struggled to get a better view. Soon, he saw clearly—a silver-black dragon with rare sticky Dragonfire.
Most importantly, the young dragon's head was huge!
Maekar's eyes widened as he repeatedly examined the unusual young dragon. Tyraxes' head was large and wide, like a steel gate with a spear inserted. Dense thorns and horns grew from the back of its head, lower jaw, and neck, giving it a formidable appearance. At first glance, this young dragon was born to fight.
Maynard and Steffon looked at Tyraxes nervously, stepping back with each cautious movement. Suddenly, Maekar shouted, "Tyraxes!"
The two men were so scared they were sweating, bracing themselves for the young dragon's wrath. Fortunately, the dragons in the pit were all chained to prevent them from fighting each other. Only when His Grace tended to the dragons were the shackles removed.
Maekar's shout startled the aloof Tyraxes. It blinked slightly, its ferocious dragon head facing Maekar, and its amber pupils revealing a hint of doubt.
Maekar broke free of his restraints and trotted towards the young dragon, extending a hand. "Tyraxes, you belong to me!"
"?" Tyraxes, cautious by nature, backed away slightly. Maekar, displaying extreme bravery, approached the young dragon and looked up at it. "Come with me. Leave the Dragonpit."
Tyraxes lowered its head, and their pupils met. The dragon and the boy looked at each other, and a faint bond gradually formed. Maekar clenched his lower lip, his eyes glowing. His father had said that to tame a dragon, one must be bold. Either you ride the dragon, or the dragon rides you.
Tyraxes relaxed its guard, lowering its head until it was parallel with Maekar. Inheriting the bloodline of Morghul, its dragon head was exceptionally large—three times the size of an average young dragon. Maekar stood in front of it, and with its mouth slightly open, Tyraxes could have swallowed him whole.
But Tyraxes didn't. Sniffing the familiar scent, Tyraxes was overcome by a sense of memory, and the irritability that had awakened in it disappeared. The amber pupils, representing the anger and cruelty of the beast, softened.
Instead of a fierce creature, Tyraxes saw a cute boy with platinum hair and blue eyes.
Maekar involuntarily shuddered, feeling an inexplicable connection in his heart. The strength of this connection rose rapidly as he and Tyraxes locked eyes.
"Tyraxes," Maekar muttered, his eyes glazed over.
"Roar!" Tyraxes stood up, its huge mouth approaching, fangs piercing Maekar's clothes and gently lifting him up.
Plop!
The dragon's neck turned, and Maekar's legs spread apart, firmly seating him on the dragon's back.
"Wait, the chains..." Maynard's expression changed as he saw the young dragon about to leave the pit.
"Roar!" Tyraxes ignored him, spitting a mouthful of gray Dragonfire at the chains holding its hind legs.
Zilalaa~
The Dragonfire quickly melted the thick chains into molten iron. Then, Tyraxes spread its misty wings.
Maekar clung to the dragon's back, his little legs straining, his face flushed with excitement. "Tyraxes, fly!"
The command, given in a pure accent of the binding spell, was immediately understood. Tyraxes knocked Maynard and Steffon aside as it flew through the narrow tunnel, its wings flapping wildly, dislodging loose rocks.
Maekar clutched his head, feeling the strain against the scales on his small chest, but he wasn't afraid. He laughed, his mouth wide open.
"Tyraxes, go!"
"Roar!"
Tyraxes burst out of the tunnel, its silver-black body like a chariot, crashing into the brazier in front of the dragon pit. Stormcloud and Iragaxys, whose emotions had calmed, held their ground. The appearance of Tyraxes instantly broke the stalemate.
Without waiting for the two young dragons to react, Tyraxes flapped its wings and flew out of the Bronze Gate, ignoring the Dragonkeepers' attempts to stop it.
The night was dark, the moon bright.
Tyraxes soared into the sky, with Maekar's cries of joy and surprise echoing behind. Maekar giggled, instinctively hugging the dragon's neck, looking down at King's Landing bathed in moonlight.
"Dracarys!" he commanded. Gray Dragonfire spewed forth.
Maekar was so excited that he circled the Dragonpit several times with Tyraxes. He knew Balerion would not lie to a child. If the dark red dragon egg couldn't hatch a dragon, he would tame one himself.
From now on, he would also be a great dragon rider.
...
Dragonpit
The Dragonkeepers were alerted and ran out of the gate, looking at the young dragon soaring in the night sky.
Maynard, leaning on his walking stick, hopped out and sighed in relief, "Thank the gods, the little Prince is safe and sound."
His last lesson from His Grace matter had cost him a leg, but he couldn't afford to lose another.
Steffon clutched his chest, his face pale. "Hurry and inform the Red Keep. Don't let the queen worry." Tyraxes's impact had been forceful, and it was a close call—he almost threw up his dinner.
...
Red Keep
Rhaenyra had said goodbye to Elinda and was lying in bed, tossing and turning. A piercing dragon roar caught her attention. She rolled out of bed and stood at the window, looking out.
On Rhaenys's Hill, clusters of firelight lit up. A dragon, perfectly blending into the darkness, soared through the clouds, carrying a little boy with silver hair.
"Maekar!?" Rhaenyra's eyes widened as she immediately recognized her child.
...
The Next Day in Myr
Rhaegar, shirtless, sat at his desk, facing the first rays of the morning sun, and wielding his brush. The huge glass floor-to-ceiling windows in front of him offered a clear view of the beautiful landscape outside the Magister's Palace.
After years of renovation, Myr had officially entered a period of vigorous development. Various crafts flourished, and the port collected a significant amount of tax revenue. With the fertile land of the Disputed Lands as a backdrop, large and small plantations, farmland, and fruit groves had been developed, making it easy to support the millions of people living in the Free Cities.
Fruit farmers and vendors could be seen everywhere on the streets, haggling and conducting business—a stark contrast to the slavery and oppression of the past.
Rhaegar glanced at the bustling scene, not particularly interested, and continued writing his message. He opened the letter he was writing and found three more letters waiting to be sealed.
...
Swish, swish, swish...
The quill stopped, and Rhaegar signed the letter with a flourish. Slipping it into the envelope, he smiled with satisfaction. In total, there were four letters, each destined for a raven heading to Winterfell in the North, White Harbor, The Eyrie in the Vale, and Gulltown.
In the letters, he requested White Harbor and Gulltown to send patrol ships to monitor Braavos' every move. As lords of Winterfell and The Eyrie, it was imperative they paid attention to this matter. A war against Volantis was imminent, and sometimes, agreements were worthless. Braavos, rich and potentially dangerous, needed to be watched.
"White Harbor and Gulltown will contain Braavos, which should have a greater deterrent effect than a real one," Rhaegar analyzed, replacing his quill with a graving knife.
He selected a piece of stone and carefully began carving an inscription resembling the one on the Spatial Necklace. His skill in stone carving had never waned. On the round wooden desk in his office, various sculptures were meticulously arranged.
The most conspicuous set was a damaged map of The Lands of the Long Summer. The collapsed Fourteen Flames were clearly visible, as well as the vast, fertile plains. In a corner by the sea, a stone carving of a dragon stood out. Upon closer inspection, the dragon's head resembled Balerion.
The area beneath the stone sculpture marked the Targaryen territory, once claimed by the exiled Aenar. Rhaegar had repeatedly surveyed it. That remote area, adjacent to The Gulf of Grief, might not have been completely destroyed. If necessary, it could be possible to return to the ancestral lands and retrieve some of the treasures left behind by their ancestors, such as special minerals and Soul Restoring Orchids.
Hum...
The engraver carefully carved the stone, the inscription glowing faintly. Rhaegar became more serious, holding his breath and concentrating. With each stroke of the knife, he ensured his pressure was neither too light nor too heavy. The magic of fire transmitted in a steady stream.
(Word Count: 1,978)