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After sending envoys to Illyrio, Oberyn immediately had the news delivered to Sunspear with the fastest speed possible. This whole affair, after all, was something he had stirred up… but now, it was no longer within his control.
Because this matter involved another possible Targaryen, and according to the laws of succession, if Young Aegon's identity was confirmed, his claim would stand above that of Daenerys.
What Oberyn did not know, however, was that Clay and Daenerys had already come to an understanding long ago. So in his eyes, this was something that only Daenerys, as a Targaryen, could properly handle. After all, it concerned the internal affairs of House Targaryen.
When the news reached Sunspear, Daenerys and Prince Martell immediately held council to discuss it.
The young queen was in remarkably good spirits these days in Dorne. She was thoroughly enjoying her role as queen, indulging herself to her heart's content. Whoever met her had to address her as "Your Grace," and every time she saw a dragon soaring across the sky, the shock and envy written all over the Dronish nobles' faces brought her endless satisfaction.
Many nobles had quietly inquired about the matter of Daenerys's future husband. In their eyes, whoever could become the Queen's consort would practically be granted a kingdom for free — what better deal than that, gaining an entire Seven Kingdoms just by marriage?
But as the inquiries worked their way up layer by layer, reaching Prince Doran, he would merely smile and never give a direct answer. All he would say to those persistent, probing nobles was this, with utmost sincerity:
"Settle yourselves. This is not something for you to concern yourselves with. Matters of Her Grace are none of your business. And mark my words — should any of you stir up trouble or provoke the wrong people with your foolish curiosity, not even I, Doran Martell, will be able to protect you."
Gradually, the more astute nobles began to sense that something was amiss. It seemed likely that Her Grace had already chosen a husband — and whoever this man was, even Prince Doran Martell himself dared not cross him.
This only fueled the curiosity of the Dornish nobility further. For the life of them, they simply couldn't imagine who in this world could possibly be worthy of standing at Daenerys's side as her husband.
Later, a rumor began to spread like wildfire throughout Sunspear.
They said that Her Grace, Queen Daenerys's husband, was none other than the rider of the largest dragon.
The rumor was vivid and convincing, with seemingly solid evidence to back it up. After observing for some time, people had indeed noticed that the enormous blue-and-gold dragon did not appear particularly close to Daenerys.
The ones who truly stayed by Daenerys's side, the ones she seemed intimately bonded with, were those three smaller dragons. They looked as though they had all been hatched together.
It did not take long for the more observant nobles to notice something else. As this rumor quietly spread, the person at the heart of it all, Daenerys herself, had never once stepped forward to deny it.
Later on, whispers from within the palace at Sunspear also began to circulate. According to a court maid who wished to remain anonymous, when Queen Daenerys first arrived in Dorne, there had indeed been two people riding on the back of that dragon.
In that instant, everyone understood… and at the same time, they were completely bewildered.
Could there truly be a second dragonrider in this world? Wasn't it said that Her Grace's brother, Viserys, had already perished?
But no one dared to ask. No one knew what exactly Dorne, now with twenty-four thousand troops gathered, was waiting for.
Dorne had always been a land of harsh deserts and sparse population, but its people were fierce and proud, much like those of the North. Their ability to mobilize large armies had always been limited — barely reaching twenty thousand at best, simply because they lacked the population to support more.
But this time was different. The Targaryen Queen had brought them six thousand Unsullied, along with four dragons whose mighty wings stirred the skies. With such formidable strength at their side, the lords who held lands along the borders had long been itching to act. Their greedy eyes had been fixed on the fertile fields of the Reach across the Red Mountains for quite some time.
Back when the Iron Throne's power was still strong, they had to grit their teeth and bear it, forced to smile politely at their neighbors across the mountains. But now? The authority of the Iron Throne had all but crumbled. Everyone knew where the monarch was — staying in Sunspear.
Even so, both Daenerys and Prince Doran firmly rejected the proposals of these lords. Their answer was always the same: they were waiting for news from the North.
As for what news they were waiting for, no one could say for certain. Apart from the two of them, no one knew the details.
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"Your Grace, Drogon is ready for you to ride now," Prince Doran said gently. He stood in the courtyard of the Water Gardens, his eyes following the black dragon as it soared overhead, leisurely circling in the sky after finishing its meal. Then, turning to Daenerys seated opposite him, he spoke with quiet sincerity, "After all, you are a Targaryen. His Grace Clay's situation in the North is complicated. You should master dragonriding as soon as possible."
Daenerys was also watching Drogon. Among her three children, he had grown the fastest. At this point, Drogon was already about two-thirds the size that Gaelithox had been when Clay first found her.
She herself was a woman, lighter than a man. Back then, Clay had been more than capable of riding Gaelithox with ease. Now, Daenerys had decided it was time for her to try as well.
A Targaryen who could not ride a dragon would always leads to groundless speculation. Even though she was close to her dragons, that alone could not silence every whisper.
Daenerys made her way to the large courtyard square. She had already signaled for Drogon to wait for her there.
House Targaryen, descended from the ancient Freehold of Valyria, had once possessed a complete and well-preserved system for hatching, raising, and training dragons. But with the extinction of the dragons and the eventual fall of their dynasty, all of that precious, ancient knowledge had been lost to time.
Now, Daenerys could only fumble her way forward, slowly figuring out how to ride a dragon through her own experience. This was different from Clay. Clay had used magic to establish a deep, two-way bond of mind and spirit with Gaelithox. That was something Daenerys could not achieve.
Clay was not here now. And she was no pampered, delicate princess, locked away in some hidden chamber, waiting for others to solve her troubles. Her dragon was hers alone to master. And for that, she could depend on no one but herself.
Drogon's dark, scaly body lay sprawled across the pale yellow tiles of the courtyard. The Dornish sun blazed high in the sky, its golden light pouring down in waves. The ground beneath him was warm, almost hot, just the way he liked it. The great dragon, always fond of heat, was thoroughly content. His belly was full from his recent meal, and his heavy-lidded eyes were beginning to drift closed with drowsy satisfaction.
But when he noticed his mother approaching, Drogon's usual fierce, wild temper seemed to soften, if only for a moment. He turned his massive head toward her, wanting to snuggle close, longing for a bit of affection. Recently, he'd been bullied by Gaelithox over and over again, and just like a sulking child, he wanted to complain to his mother about it.
What he didn't expect was that his mother, dressed in flowing white robes, lingered by his side for quite a while, hesitating. And then, all of a sudden, she stepped onto his hind leg and climbed right onto his back.
Drogon froze.
Instinctively, he wanted to shake off this unfamiliar weight, but thankfully, he wasn't completely brainless — he knew this was his dear mother.
The dragon's back was scorching hot, but Daenerys barely registered the heat. What she noticed more was how rough Drogon's scales felt beneath her, much rougher than Gaelithox's.
Drogon's sleepiness vanished entirely. As the fog cleared from his mind, he quickly understood what his mother intended to do.
After all, he'd seen Clay flying through the skies on Gaelithox almost every day. Even without being taught, he had already figured out what this was about.
But still…
He hadn't expected this day to come so soon.
His long, sinewy neck curved gracefully, and his crimson dragon eyes flicked toward Daenerys as she fumbled to steady herself on his back, awkwardly adjusting her posture.
Back when it was Clay carrying Daenerys through the sky atop Gaelithox, there were many things Daenerys simply couldn't feel for herself. Now, it was her turn to try riding a dragon — and seated on Drogon's back, she couldn't help feeling nervous and uncertain.
She finally managed to adjust her position, but then sat there frozen for a good while, because she had absolutely no idea how to command Drogon to take off.
Her slender brows twisted and furrowed against her smooth, fair forehead, a faint trace of frustration rising in her heart as she couldn't help but silently curse Clay.
"Let's go… um… I mean… fly…"
Daenerys stammered in High Valyrian as she gave the order.
Twin streams of hot air puffed from Drogon's nostrils. He cast a glance at his mother, his eyes tinged with faint disdain. Dragonriders and their dragons shared a magical bond, though not nearly as strong as the connection between Clay and Gaelithox.
Of course Drogon understood what his mother wanted. He simply felt… well, compared to Clay atop Gaelithox, his mother was still lacking. Had she seen how Clay commanded his dragon?
Gaelithox bullied him all the time. Every time they hunted, even after Gaelithox had eaten his fill, he'd leave the tastiest parts for Rhaegal and Viserion, and whenever Drogon tried to get near for a bite, he's smack him away with a single sweep of his tail, sending him spinning.
Dragons were proud creatures. Naturally, Drogon couldn't stand that kind of treatment. But after suffering several thoroughly humiliating beatings from his elder, he'd learned to be cautious. Pride was one thing, but getting thrashed… well, maybe not worth it.
Even so, deep down, he had always longed to compete with Gaelithox. To see who could fly faster, who could soar higher, whose dragonfire burned hotter.
Suddenly, Drogon's massive body stretched forward. His wings spread wide, the powerful black-and-red membranes cutting through the air as he charged a few steps ahead.
With a mighty beat of his wings, a whirlwind howled through the courtyard. The great dragon shot skyward in an instant.
And so, the world's other Dragonlord… finally took flight.
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[Chapter End's]
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