Chapitre 389: Chapter 389: One Day Heir?
"Ah... Rhaegar... Come out..."
Suddenly, Laena's screams resumed, calling out the name she had prepared for the fetus in her womb.
Rhaegar heard the cry, though it seemed that no one else in the mirrored image did.
No, someone did hear it.
"Rhaegar~~"
Aemma, on the delivery bed, stopped screaming. Her pupils rapidly contracted, and she repeated the name.
Rhaegar's heart trembled, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy.
The next second, the mirror image shattered like glass, falling apart in the blink of an eye.
The last sound was a baby's cry.
Rhaegar didn't want the mirror image to shatter, staring blankly at Aemma. This was his mother, the one he had never seen.
There was no portrait of her in the Red Keep, no trace of her in the Eyrie.
In the mirror image, every glance was a gift.
"Rhaegar?"
"Aemma, are you saying the child's name is Rhaegar?"
The familiar voice was tinged with sadness, and the mirror image disappeared with it.
...
Outside.
"Waaaa~~"
A baby's cry rang out, waking Rhaegar from his intense focus on the candle flame.
"It's out, the baby is out."
The old maester's face was agitated as he held a blood-covered, red wrinkled baby in both hands. The baby's limbs drooped, and only its head and body were supported by the maester's large hands. After a single cry, the crying stopped abruptly.
The old maester, still unaware, took the scissors and cut the umbilical cord.
Rhaegar dazedly returned to his senses, pressing his palms against Laena's cold belly, channeling what little fire magic he had left. Laena's eyes were vacant, her breathing imperceptible, and her body drenched in sweat.
The old maester handed the child to a nearby prostitute to hold, then took out a needle and thread and asked shakily, "Prince, are you sure you want to sew up the wound?"
The belly and uterus had been cut open with little possibility of suturing.
Rhaegar looked at the prostitute, whose face had gone pale, and nodded. "Yes, the Serpent Rune will speed the healing of the wound."
At a time like this, hygiene and potential infection were secondary concerns. Stopping the bleeding was the priority.
The old maester sniffed and moved his hands, sewing with difficulty. There was a lot of blood, and high-temperature washed cotton cloths were used to wipe it away while the cotton thread stitched the wound.
"Hiss..."
The serpent lay on Laena's belly, twisting randomly. Its body swallowed the black smoke and became bloated, continuing to absorb the newly born black smoke.
A few minutes passed.
The cut was stitched up, and the wound began to heal quickly. The twine was cut, the blood stains wiped away, and then the belly was stitched.
The old maester, now more confident that this method worked, quickly sewed the wound shut. The serpent wriggled twice, swallowing the last wisp of black smoke.
"Hoo~~"
Wound after wound healed, and Laena snapped awake, the pain in her body drastically reduced.
"Did the child survive?"
Laena looked around blankly, her lips bloodless.
"Rest well, your body is severely anemic."
Rhaegar admonished her, silently getting up and heading out. The cesarean section had brought him too much mental stimulation, and his mind was muddled. The vision of his mother in the mirror image seemed to produce some kind of special reaction.
Perhaps his mother, who carried the Targaryen bloodline, was also a Dreamer and had collided with his dream.
"Laena!"
Daemon, who had been watching from the sidelines the entire time, hurried toward his wife, brushing past his nephew.
...
Rhaegar exited the attic and found a gazebo to rest, trying to clear his mind and release the stress.
"Roar..."
Vhagar climbed to its feet, its broad wings supporting the ruins, and raised its head to let out a deep, mournful cry. The dragon felt the emotions of its rider—a deep sadness.
Rhaegar glanced at Vhagar but continued to close his eyes and let go. Either it was held in for too long, or due to premature labor, the child didn't survive.
About a quarter of an hour later, Daemon walked out of the attic carrying a swaddled bundle.
Rhaegar tilted his head back, his eyes still closed, and whispered, "I did my best." He wasn't speaking to Daemon but to Laena.
"Laena passed out," Daemon said, looking down at the swaddling cloth. "You saved the child's mother."
Rhaegar opened his eyes and said faintly, "Congratulations, you didn't lose everything." Laena was in the same situation as his mother. The difference was that one husband made a choice, and the other left the choice to his wife. When Rhaegar helped Laena, he was also helping his unseen mother.
"Rhaegar, I want to thank you," Daemon said, looking lost. "But this child is not as lucky as you."
Both were named Rhaegar, and both cried only once at birth. However, his child would never open his eyes.
"Huh," Rhaegar shook his head and smiled sadly. "Daemon, you've lived a life of capriciousness and arrogance; maybe this is your retribution."
Daemon was silent, holding the swaddled cloth tightly.
Rhaegar was unforgiving, tilting his head and asking, "Do you remember calling me the One Day Heir?"
Daemon's face turned cold.
Unconcerned, Rhaegar pointed to the battle outside the mansion and said, "Look what you have done, destroying a Free City against orders."
"I took it," Daemon's voice chilled.
Rhaegar scoffed in disdain, "It was your arrogance that got the better of you."
"Your father promised me a city-state, and I took it myself," Daemon said somberly.
"Why did you take matters into your own hands when you knew he promised you a city-state?" Rhaegar's anger flared. "I intended to persuade Father to give Lys to you, but you preferred Tyrosh."
"My brother did not personally say he would give me a city-state; he just kept appeasing me," Daemon replied, voicing his long-suppressed resentment.
"When has your brother ever treated you badly for something you wanted?" Rhaegar was indignant, his voice rising. Aside from the Iron Throne and Rhaenyra, there was nothing Daemon wanted that Viserys hadn't given him: gold, honor, wealth.
If Rhaegar had died at birth and Daemon had not said he was the "One Day Heir," the heir might not have been Rhaenyra.
Daemon glared at him and scoffed. This brat didn't know what he was talking about. He had never wanted to inherit his brother's throne; he wanted to serve as the Hand of the King.
To that end, he had rotated through almost every position in the Small Council during the first few years of his brother's reign. All were picked on in various ways and were eventually kicked out of the Small Council and reduced to the City Watch.
Keep in mind that even the Commander of the City Watch was a subordinate position to the Master of Laws. He was constantly being demoted.
Rhaegar looked straight at his uncle, not bothering to say more. He knew something about the past of his father's brothers. Daemon was elusive and acted in an arrogant and perverse manner.
For some reason, the former Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, had a grudge against him, and the two often quarreled. Over time, Daemon lost the political battle to Otto and was kicked out.
Rhaegar rubbed his tense brow and said with a straight face, "You've defeated Tyrosh. I'll report to Father and propose that Tyrosh be given to you as a fiefdom."
"I'm the one who conquered the city-state. Don't treat it like a reward," Daemon replied with displeasure.
"Your army comes from the Iron Throne, and your dragons belong to the Targaryens," Rhaegar replied. "The fiefdom is settled. I'll ask Father to formally enthrone you as a prince and incorporate Tyrosh into the Targaryen dynasty."
Daemon froze for a moment, not expecting his good nephew to be so generous. He had thought there would be more complications with Tyrosh's incorporation.
Rhaegar glanced at the swaddling clothes and said bluntly, "Uncle, you are a prince and now have your own territory, but your heir is also a one day heir."
Though what he said was hateful and rude, his meaning was clear. The words Daemon had once spoken now applied to his own child.
"I will not attend the child's funeral. Remember to guard the Targaryen territory," Rhaegar said, venting his frustration before heading out without looking back.
Daemon was left standing, tightening the swaddling clothes in his arms, a flash of confusion in his eyes. He had gained the city-state but lost a male heir—the male heir he had always wanted.
"Roar—"
Cannibal roared loudly, lifting Rhaegar into the air and flying into the sky. Rhaegar's face remained calm, and he silently thought, Daemon has been arrogant and reckless all his life, maybe he can learn something from this.
"Roar!"
Vhagar let out a low roar, gazing up at Cannibal with a mixture of recognition and concern. The Cannibal had a new, dangerous scent, replacing its previous open and pungent odor of decay.
The Cannibal soared on its massive wings, its body casting a shadow over the mansion. The two dragons met in mid-air, their sizes now largely overlapping.
Rhaegar judged silently, "After eating the dragon, Cannibal's size skyrocketed."
Cannibal's original size was less than one-fifth inferior to Vhagar, roughly a difference of about ten meters. But with the metamorphosis of Rhaegar's bloodline and devouring Morghul, it had grown savagely during its slumber, reaching the size of Vhagar's 170-year-old peak at just 90 years old.
There might be a difference in talent involved. Cannibal, different from other dragons, had the unique habit of eating its own kind. Vhagar had fought all its life but was still at the bottom of the first generation of the three dragons in terms of talent. It was believed that Vermithor would also be able to reach this size after twenty or thirty years.
"Roar!"
Cannibal roared lowly, its green vertical pupils revealing loneliness. At this moment, it was no longer afraid of the old dragon below. If it wanted to fight hard, it would ensure it wouldn't give Vhagar the chance to die together.
Rhaegar couldn't help but be proud and said, "Let's go, partner."
It seemed that Cannibal's achievements wouldn't stop at being the King of Wild Dragons.
...
Stormlands, Rainwood
During the time of the Children of the Forest, the continent of Westeros was covered in dense forests. But the arrival of the iron-armed Andals pushed the Children back and led to the decimation of much of these ancient forests.
Today, the Kingswood of the Crownlands and the Rainwood of the Stormlands are among the continent's few remaining woodlands.
From the coast of Stonehelm in Cape Wrath, a major road skirts the edge of the Rainwood and winds its way towards Storm's End Castle. Along this route, several ancient noble castles stand as testaments to generations of lineage, including Crow's Nest Castle of House Morrigen and Griffin's Roost Castle of House Connington.
For days, the Dornish forces had been invading, with ten thousand soldiers besieging Stonehelm Castle and a much larger number scattered throughout the rainforest, poised to ambush reinforcements from the two city-states.
In a lush virgin forest fifty miles from Crow's Nest City, a large contingent of Dornish soldiers clad in yellow-brown armor marched slowly. The clattering of wheels accompanied their progress as they pushed several giant scorpion crossbows.
"Hurry up! Storm's End Castle's reinforcements will pass through here. We need to ambush that Velaryon Dragon rider in advance," a young general with black hair and brown eyes ordered loudly.
His armor bore the emblem of a golden quill on a green checkerboard, signifying House Jordayne of the Tor, one of the main forces in this invasion.
Suddenly, the ground trembled, and the distant neighing of warhorses could be heard. Trebor Jordayne immediately lay down on the ground, pressing his ear to the earth. After listening intently, he excitedly shouted, "Prepare for battle! There's a large cavalry force approaching!"
There was no doubt it was the Storm Riders from Storm's End Castle, galloping to reinforce their allies. The five thousand Dornish soldiers quickly dispersed, spreading out in the forest, bows and arrows at the ready.
Crossbowmen maneuvered the scorpion crossbows, loading the launching pads with steel spears and aiming them at the sky, prepared to attack the moment soldiers or dragons appeared.
(Word count: 2,069)
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone