Hearing the cries of a newborn, all the servants of the Red Keep breathed a sigh of relief.
No matter what they were doing, they clasped their hands together in a sincere prayer of blessing.
Princess Rhaenyra was hailed as the "Light of the Realm" and had been deeply loved by the people since childhood.
Rhaegar had cleaned the streets of King's Landing, recruited the poor to cultivate wastelands, and taken in orphans so they wouldn't have to wander the streets…
The accomplishments of the siblings were remarkable, and those who had benefited from their kindness sang their praises.
The birth of this child represented the continuation of a great bloodline, worthy of the favor of both the Old Gods and the New.
Inside the princess's chamber, upon the bed…
Rhaenyra was deathly pale, her body completely drained of strength, her eyes dazed and uncertain.
It seemed… she had become a mother.
As this thought settled in, the pain momentarily faded, and she instinctively turned her head, searching for the two little troublemakers she had just brought into the world.
She needed to see them carefully.
Rhaegar had told her bedtime stories before—about villains who would swap a king's child with their own, tricking the royal family into raising an imposter.
She had no intention of raising someone else's child while her own suffered cold and hunger.
"Mmm..."
Rhaenyra whimpered, straining to lift her head and peer past the circle of maids gathered around.
"Don't worry, the babies are born safe and sound."
Lanael wiped the sweat from Rhaenyra's forehead, her voice gentle and reassuring.
She understood that new mothers often experienced anxiety.
Unfortunately, she wasn't aware of her friend's unique concerns—that someone might swap her babies.
Snip! Snip!
Orwell picked up a pair of sharp scissors and snipped twice before swiftly getting to work.
Rhaenyra watched in alarm, her throat too hoarse to shout. She shoved her friend, urging her to check what was happening.
"Relax, it's just a necessary step," Lanael said with a chuckle.
Orwell was cutting the umbilical cords of the two newborns, tying them off neatly at their tiny bellies.
A midwife brought in two basins of warm water and carefully took the newborns, gently washing them clean.
Afterward, she cradled them in her arms, meticulously checking them over.
Rhaenyra was on edge, desperately waiting to hold her children.
The midwife murmured her observations as she examined them:
"Arms are normal, legs are normal…"
After a thorough inspection, which lasted no more than two minutes, she beamed and handed the babies to their eager mother.
Smiling brightly, she declared, "Praise the Mother! These are two strong, healthy children."
"Thank you," Rhaenyra whispered, tears of joy glistening in her eyes. The weight on her heart finally lifted as she reached out impatiently.
One in each arm—a perfect pair.
Rhaenyra grinned foolishly, first glancing at the swaddling cloths, then bashfully looking at her friend. "They're healthy, right?"
"Of course!" Lanael reassured her warmly, brushing a few silver strands away from Rhaenyra's forehead.
"Let me have a good look at them."
Rhaenyra couldn't stop smiling as she carefully unwrapped the swaddling cloths, revealing two tiny, fair-skinned faces.
"Waaah, waaah~~"
The baby in her left arm hadn't opened their eyes yet, squirming in the blankets, tiny chubby hands grasping at the air.
The baby in her right arm was drowsy, their two little legs exposed, kicking gently.
"Why are they so pale?"
Rhaenyra asked in surprise, rubbing her chin against the fine silver-gold hair on their little heads.
Their eyes were still closed, but their hair was unmistakably silver-gold.
There was no doubt—they were her children.
The midwife, a plump woman, chuckled, "This is the first time I've ever seen newborns so fair-skinned. They're absolutely adorable."
Most newborns were wrinkled and reddish at birth, but Rhaenyra's twins were surprisingly smooth and rosy.
"Mwah! Mwah!"
Rhaenyra couldn't get enough of looking at them. She kissed each baby on the cheek, one after the other.
The newborns didn't cry or fuss, simply nestling against her warmth as if sensing their mother's love.
Lanael watched enviously and said softly, "Rhaenyra, you've given birth to two wonderful children."
Rhaenyra's lips curled into a smile as she inhaled the sweet scent of her babies. "When Rhaegar sees them, he's going to be absolutely overjoyed."
"Screeeech!"
Just as she finished speaking, a loud dragon's roar echoed through the air.
A dull thud sounded from the balcony, accompanied by a rush of hot air.
"Rhaegar?!"
Rhaenyra quickly turned, hoping to see the one she had been longing for.
Instead, her eyes landed on an orange-yellow dragon head peering through the window, its round, vertical pupils blinking curiously.
Lanael froze for a moment before chuckling, "Looks like someone is more responsible than their rider."
Outside the window…
Syrax was crouched against the stained-glass window, peering in sneakily. Its wings were raised high, blocking the sunlight, while its hind legs pressed against the balcony floor, keeping it awkwardly suspended.
It looked exactly like a giant yellow gecko climbing a wall.
"Screeeech…"
Noticing its rider, Syrax's eyes lit up, and it let out an excited cry.
It lived in the godswood garden behind the castle.
Sensing its rider's distress during childbirth, it had rushed over, ready to help.
It seemed, however, that it had arrived too late.
Rhaenyra gazed at the dragon outside the window, both amused and touched. "Good girl, I'm a mother now too. Go get some rest."
Even though it wasn't Rhaegar, Syrax's presence still filled her with warmth.
It truly was the dragon that had accompanied her since childhood.
"Screeech…"
Syrax's eyes flickered with understanding, as if realizing its rider had just laid eggs, and it flapped its wings, soaring back to the godswood garden.
Lanael wrapped an arm around her friend and gently reassured her, "Lord Laenor has already sent a message recalling Rhaegar. You'll see him very soon."
"Mm."
Rhaenyra nodded and leaned into her friend's embrace, closing her weary eyes.
…
At that moment, Rhaegar was on his way back.
"Hiss—screech—"
Glutton soared at full speed, rushing straight toward the Mander River region without stopping.
Rhaegar's gaze was resolute as he lay flat against the dragon's back to reduce wind resistance.
He guessed that Rhaenyra had gone into labor and was racing back under the stars.
…
Late at night.
Beyond the Narrow Sea, in Braavos.
At a secluded port, a small group of people was transporting specially crafted barrels into a deep underground corridor.
The barrels were pulled on wooden carts, with a layer of soft, fine sand lining the bottom.
A strong, pungent smell wafted from them upon approach.
They were filled with rare wildfire.
Before long, a carriage slowly arrived, and a tall figure with silver curls stepped out.
The moment he landed, he began cursing incessantly: "Damn the Iron Bank's administrators! If they won't grant me enough funds, how am I supposed to challenge the Iron Throne?"
The moonlight illuminated his face.
It was King Ferrego of Braavos.
Accompanying him was a strikingly handsome swordsman who remained close by at all times.
Ferrego's eyes were bloodshot, his expression irritable. "Have all the fire mages and blood sorcerers been arranged?"
"They're all involved in the plan," the swordsman murmured in a low voice.
"Good!"
Ferrego's frustration turned to elation, his emotions shifting dramatically as he walked. "This is our one chance—it all comes down to tonight!"
After months of planning, the dragon egg hatching was finally reaching its conclusion.
Ferrego entered the underground palace, the swordsman following closely behind.
After a long while, the massive doors of the underground chamber shut, sealing inside not only Ferrego and his men but also the guards who had transported the wildfire.
The hatching of young dragons—such intelligence must never leak.
Ferrego was determined to keep it a secret, even from his own wives and concubines.
Thus, a long-planned ritual was set into motion.
Time passed, minute by minute.
Outside the port, a carriage arrived on a violet-colored bridge.
It stopped at one end of the bridge, far from the port.
Suddenly, the curtain of the carriage lifted slightly, revealing a young and handsome face.
He had violet curls and heterochromatic eyes—one yellow, one green—gleaming with sharp intelligence.
"What is that bastard Ferrego secretly plotting?"
The young man with mismatched eyes stroked his chin, gazing toward the concealed entrance of the underground chamber.
From the outside, it was nothing more than a crumbling stone wall—impossible to detect without inside knowledge.
His name was Spandam, a representative of one of the many families backing the Iron Bank from the shadows.
Since Ferrego's election as Sealord of Braavos, he had accomplished little of note. Instead, he had involved himself in war, leading to the near-total decimation of the Purple Sails fleet.
The powerful families behind the Iron Bank were growing increasingly dissatisfied, resenting a Sealord who brought neither wealth nor trade.
"I'll wait and see."
Spandam leaned back in the carriage, patiently waiting for Ferrego to make a mistake.
Midnight fell, and silence blanketed the city.
Braavos was shrouded in darkness, with only a few areas illuminated, dividing the nightlife of the wealthy from that of the common folk.
A tranquil night—just like any other.
BOOM!!
Suddenly, disaster struck. A deafening explosion resounded for miles.
The underground chamber's entrance—nothing more than an old, decrepit wall—shuddered violently as cracks spread across its granite surface.
The next moment—
BOOM!
The walls collapsed in an instant, unleashing a torrent of eerie green wildfire that surged upward like a volcanic eruption.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The explosions didn't stop. The entire port quaked as the ground trembled and caved in.
Inside the carriage, Spandam had begun to doze off while waiting. The sudden blast jolted him awake.
"What the hell—"
As he lifted the carriage curtain to look outside, a scorching wave of putrid air slammed into him.
BOOM!
The horses neighed in terror, their screams piercing the night as the heatwave flipped both the carriage and its steeds, nearly sending them tumbling off the bridge.
Spandam's vision blurred, his face seared by the scorching heat. In an instant, he lost consciousness.
BOOM—
The underground palace collapsed completely, with wildfire continuously spewing out, reducing everything in its wake to ashes.
On that pitch-black Braavosi night, a lone, blindingly bright green flame burned.
Devouring. Consuming.
…
At dawn, the sky turned pale.
The inferno had swallowed everything, leaving the port in ruins.
The sight was nothing but shattered walls, severed limbs, and charred corpses.
No one in Braavos had slept that night. Every resident remained huddled indoors, fearing that the legendary "Wings of Death" had come to claim them.
Deep within the collapsed underground chamber—
Or rather, buried beneath the rubble—
A massive, jet-black dragon skeleton lay in the dust.
Even without its skull, its full length was still utterly imposing.
Near the skeleton, charred corpses lay scattered in disarray.
These were the skilled individuals Ferrigo had invited to hatch the dragon eggs.
Ferrigo had misunderstood the words of the alchemist and attempted to incubate the dragon eggs using wildfire.
It was obvious—he had failed.
And he had paid for it with his life.
Crack!
Suddenly, a crisp sound rang out.
Beneath the skeleton, three oval-shaped dragon eggs lay buried in the ashes.
As if responding to an unseen force, the three pitch-black eggs, their original colors obscured, began to tremble. Cracks started appearing on their shells.
Crack!
The egg in the middle shattered, revealing a small black dragon head.
The dragon's head was about the size of a fist, still wearing a piece of charred eggshell like a helmet. It glanced around curiously.
Crack! Crack!
Two more cracking sounds followed. The other two eggs split open, and two small creatures, about the size of house cats, emerged.
One had red scales covering its entire body, with slightly grayish wing membranes. It tentatively spread its wings.
The other had blue scales, adorned with deep, intricate stripes. Its back scales and wing membranes were a pale red.
"Sssgaa..."
A faint hissing sound came from the black hatchling still stuck in its eggshell.
It was the first to make a noise. Opening its small jaws, it bit through the remaining shell, fully revealing its tiny frame.
Its scales were jet black, its back scales and wing membranes tinged with red. Small, delicate horns adorned its head, and its amber slit pupils gleamed with lively curiosity.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
A loud rooster's crow echoed through the ruins as the sun began to rise.
"Sssgaa!"
The black hatchling seemed startled. Flapping its wings in panic, it squeezed out of the cramped, ruined space.
"Sssgaa..."
"Sssgaa..."
The red and blue hatchlings mimicked their sibling, flapping their wings and taking off.
They had just hatched. Forget breathing fire—they could barely manage to fly.
Yet, against all odds, the three wobbly hatchlings managed to stay airborne, instinctively adjusting their balance.
"Sssgaa!"
The black dragon instinctively rejected the ruins of its birth. Sniffing the air, it chose a direction—toward the vast ocean—and began flying.
The other two hesitated for a moment before letting out defiant cries and choosing their own paths.
Had anyone been there to witness it, they would have noticed the distinct directions each dragon selected.
The red dragon, wild and unruly by nature, chose the east, soaring along an empty canal toward the rising sun.
The blue dragon, more timid, spotted a farmland and darted southward.
The black dragon, repulsed by the island beneath it and the crowing rooster, fled in the opposite direction of the sunrise.
Across the Narrow Sea lay Westeros, the western continent.
(End of Chapter)