Daenerys finished speaking, her voice trembling with emotion, leaving everyone present in stunned silence.
"You?" Lord Mace looked at her, puzzled.
Despite his unreliable nature and lack of wit, Mace Tyrell could keep a secret. Ever since his daughter gave birth and received a dragon egg, Lady Olenna had confided in him about their grandson. His daughter was a renowned beauty, known as the Rose of Highgarden. How many schemes had she devised to capture Wright's heart? Women surrounded Wright like stars around the moon—what made Daenerys think she was special?
"She does have a scar on her stomach. If I didn't know Wright better, I might have actually believed her!" Andrew Estermont was first angered by her words, then found them amusing.
Varys, the Spider, merely shook his head in silence. There was admiration in his eyes, but also disappointment. He admired her courage, her willingness to sacrifice herself to avenge her family. Those who had died for the Targaryen children could finally rest. But he was disappointed that, despite executing her plan so well and crafting a story designed to implicate others, she had chosen to blame Wright. Even accusing Stannis would have been more convincing.
Whoosh!
The massive Valyrian steel warhammer Discord left Robert's hand, spinning through the air with a deep, ominous sound as it hurtled toward Daenerys.
The Kingsguard had been holding him back, but Daenerys had not expected Robert to break free just enough to hurl his warhammer with one hand.
There was no time to dodge. She could only watch as the spinning hammer closed in.
Boom!
His aim had been slightly off—the hammer's head brushed past her face and smashed into an ornate wooden cabinet behind her, shattering it into splinters.
Robert was certain he had aimed for her head.
"Step aside, all of you!"
The rage that had fueled him as he threw the hammer subsided slightly, bringing him back to reason. He immediately commanded the Kingsguard to release him.
Once they stepped back, Robert strode over to the shattered cabinet, picked up his warhammer, and advanced toward Daenerys, towering over her with an expressionless face.
"Do you know what I think of you?"
Daenerys did not answer. She was terrified.
She had long prepared herself for death. She had envisioned countless scenarios—being publicly beheaded in the streets of King's Landing, hanging from the gallows, or drinking poison in her chambers. But never had she imagined having her skull crushed by a warhammer.
Robert now stood before her as the warrior of his youth—towering, broad-shouldered, gripping his massive Valyrian steel weapon. His long, unkempt hair and thick beard framed a face devoid of emotion. He was like a lion ready to pounce.
"Pathetic."
Robert did not look at her but spoke to himself as he stared into her eyes.
"I have always followed the code of chivalry. War among men should not involve children. I have known your every move since you were born. Never once did I think of hunting you down. I watched as you and your brother fell from royalty to exile, suffering scorn and ridicule, surrounded by those who sought to use your name for their own gain, until you grew old enough to dream of reclaiming the throne."
"Adorable."
His tone softened slightly.
"The one responsible for the past is dead. My heart softened, and I wanted to grant you mercy, to let you have a peaceful end. After you arrived at the Red Keep, your intelligence and attempts to ingratiate yourself made me, for a brief moment, find you… adorable."
The gathered nobles exchanged looks—this confirmed that Robert had likely contracted the disease from her in King's Landing.
"Hateful!"
Robert's voice rose.
"I had already let go of old grudges and did not trouble you. Aside from keeping you within the Red Keep, I never restricted your freedom! You could read, and I even allowed you to receive visitors! And yet you sought to kill me by infecting me with this disease! Your old maester must have been involved—I will have him executed immediately!"
"No!"
Daenerys finally spoke. "It was all my idea! Maester Aemon knew nothing! We only spoke of history and curiosities. The Red Keep's assistant maesters can testify!"
Daenerys truly respected the hundred-year-old maester and did not want him implicated because of her.
"Pathetic! Adorable! Hateful! Now, I find you laughable."
Robert continued as if she hadn't spoken.
"I know Wright. And I know women. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and when it comes to women, I am also the foremost authority in Westeros! Every woman vying for Wright's attention must compete among themselves first. He is surrounded by women of every kind, yet he never gives them a second glance. You—just a pretty face, small and scrawny—if not for your last name, Wright would never have spoken more than a word to you!"
He gestured for the Kingsguard to dress her.
"When we were young, Wright often told me that a man who cannot control his lust will never achieve greatness and will eventually fall because of a woman. I would smack him on the head and laugh at him for lacking passion. I always believed a man's life should be about conquering women. But now, I finally understand. I envy him for his self-control."
Two Kingsguard knights draped a robe over Daenerys and seized her arms.
"Lock her and her handmaids in the dungeons. Tomorrow, Wright will arrive in Highgarden. He will use magic to interrogate her. Once her crime is confirmed, all involved will face justice! And now—"
Robert pointed at Daenerys.
"For daring to slander my brother, the Lord of Tyrosh, Wright—cut out her tongue!"
Two Kingsguard knights grabbed her arms and forced her to her knees. One of them clutched her jaw while the other yanked out her tongue.
Barristan's hand had barely touched the hilt of his sword when his lingering devotion to House Targaryen flared up again. He froze where he stood, his hand beginning to tremble.
Ser Lyn Corbray, another Kingsguard, shook his head at the sight of him. He drew his Valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn, and strode forward. With a single swing, the razor-sharp blade flashed before Daenerys's eyes, and a fresh, pink tongue landed in Lyn Corbray's hand.
"Find a mage to stop the bleeding. She mustn't die before Wright arrives!"
Robert had been watching Barristan's reaction, but he said nothing. Aside from the Kingsguard assigned their duties, no one dared pay any attention to Daenerys as she wept in agony.
Robert's demeanor had stunned the gathered lords and ministers. None of them had expected that his illness would turn him into such a calculating ruler. If he continued this way, he might truly become a great king. But then they glanced at his sickly frame beneath his robes—his body had already been ravaged by disease. How long he could hold on was entirely up to fate.
---
In the Dornish desert, the cavalry had returned to Hellgate Hall and were resting. The commanders had just finished discussing their next move inside Nymeria's tent and were now preparing for supper.
Meanwhile, two unofficial members of their war band, Tyrion and Jorah, had found themselves a task—feeding the dragons.
"Odahviing, Wright and I are good friends. Will you take me for a ride in the sky?" Tyrion asked, sitting astride a sheep.
"You need to speak High Valyrian, like Nymeria does, if you want to talk to a dragon," Ser Jorah grunted as he struggled with a rope tied to several sheep. The animals balked, refusing to approach the dragon.
"If I spoke dragon-tongue, would I need sheep at all?" Tyrion wiggled his body, trying to get his mount to move, but the sheep remained frozen in place.
Sheep reacted strongly to danger. Earlier, when Tyrion had removed its blindfold, it had nearly died of fright. Now, it stood stiff-legged, paralyzed.
Jorah, standing nearby, commented, "You don't have to be a dragonrider to take to the sky."
"Oh? You have a way?" Tyrion was skeptical. Everyone who had seen a dragon knew they only bonded with Targaryens and Baratheons.
Jorah gestured at Tyrion's diminutive frame. "It wouldn't be that hard. Odahviing could just grab you in his jaws. Given his strength and your weight, one good toss of his neck, and you'd be soaring past the clouds."
Tyrion chuckled. "Not a bad idea, though it wouldn't be the most dignified way to fly. I'd prefer a proper seat—perhaps a couch."
He went along with Jorah's joke without offense. With those he considered friends, he had no problem exchanging jests.
The oppressive heat of Dorne suited Odahviing well. He had dug a shallow pit in the sand to rest. As Tyrion and Jorah led the sheep around the pit to where the dragon's head lay, it felt as though the walk took an eternity.
They toyed with the sheep while chatting about absurd ways to ride a dragon. But then, Odahviing abruptly lifted his head and turned eastward. The movement sent a cascade of sand falling like a golden waterfall from the sky.
"Move!" Jorah shouted. The avalanche of sand was too much—Tyrion was already half-buried.
Tyrion panicked, unable to gain any footing in the shifting sands. "Forget the damn sheep, pull me out!"
Jorah threw down the rope and scrambled over, grabbing Tyrion's breastplate and hauling him free.
"Pah! Pah! What the hell was that?" Tyrion spat out sand.
Jorah coughed. "How should I know? All he did was stretch his neck."
The dragon now stood at full height, his massive wings unfolding. His mouth opened, and he let out a thunderous roar.
The deep, powerful bellow echoed through the ruins of Hellgate Hall, carrying unmistakable rage. Tents trembled under its force, terrified horses and sheep collapsed, and even the scorpions scuttling across the sand drew in their pincers and tails.
Chaos erupted in the camp. Nymeria rushed out of her tent, her eyes locking onto the dragon as he prepared to take off. She sprinted toward him.
"Odahviing, what's wrong?" she called. Her voice barely carried in the clamor, but the dragon understood her perfectly.
"Wright is calling me. He is furious!" Odahviing growled, his breath already crackling with sparks.
"Then go!" Nymeria knew something serious must have happened. She immediately turned to calm the panicked horses.
Odahviing seemed to realize he had caused quite a commotion. Instead of taking off on the spot, he ran a considerable distance before leaping into the sky.
Tyrion watched the dragon vanish eastward, kicking up a storm of sand in his wake. "He's heading to Tyrosh. Wright's going to kill someone again, isn't he?"
Jorah shrugged. "Not necessarily. Dragons aren't just weapons—they're also excellent transport. Just very expensive to feed."
Tyrion smirked. "You say that like you have one yourself."
"I'm just stating facts."
Wright was truly furious when he received Andrew's letter in Tyrosh. Robert had contracted a severe illness, and neither the maesters from the Citadel nor the Children of the Forest could cure him. Their magical knowledge stemmed from the same origins as his own—not particularly powerful, but well-grounded in theory. If they said it was incurable, then it truly was.
Odahviing returned to Tyrosh, carrying Wright and Renly toward Highgarden. The only other companion on this journey was Renly's young dragon. Neither Wright nor Renly dared to dwell too much on the situation; the more they thought about it, the worse it seemed. The only thing they could do now was hurry to Highgarden as fast as possible.
This was Odahviing's first flight over the Reach. Due to his enormous size, his presence anywhere without an invitation was bound to be perceived as a threat. That was why Wright never allowed him to roam freely across Westeros, restricting his movements to the Stepstones and the Stormlands. Even in the Crownlands, the dragon would not venture without Robert's explicit command.
Taking Odahviing away from the battlefield meant that Nymeria would lose her greatest protection. Wright couldn't allow that to happen without doing something in return. So, after departing from Tyrosh, he flew to Dorne, crossing over every castle held by enemy forces from east to west.
He soared over Ghost Hill and Godsgrace before reaching Wyl, where the rebel forces had made camp. There, he commanded Odahviing to descend, flying a mere ten meters above the ground as they passed over the encampment.
At over 150 meters long with a wingspan nearing 200, Odahviing's shadow completely blotted out the sun. The wind from his wings sent tents toppling, while his tail, with the slightest flick, shattered wagons that took two horses to pull. The faint glow of fire flickering in his maw sent soldiers into a state of dread.
Some of the troops in the camp had fought in the siege of Tyrosh, where the dragon had been an ally, burning city walls and enemy ranks to their delight. But now, Odahviing belonged to their foe. The scorpions mounted on their war wagons, once thought powerful, now seemed utterly useless against the thick scales of the beast passing overhead.
Wright and his dragon did not attack—they merely flew past. But that alone was enough to make the soldiers' legs tremble with fear and despair.
Wright had promised that Nymeria would be the one to conquer Dorne, and he would not break his word. His role here was intimidation alone.
After Wyl, they reached Yronwood, where Odahviing circled the skies a few times before moving on. However, when they passed over friendly territory, the scene changed entirely.
As they flew over Skyreach, the entire city—nobles and soldiers alike—rushed into the streets, cheering toward the sky.
And at the westernmost edge of Dorne, in Blackmont, where House Dayne and House Manwoody were laying siege, Odahviing's arrival shifted the course of the battle.
The red-and-white dragon circled above, striking wherever the enemy's defenses were strongest. He would dive at key positions, then swoop low, unleashing bursts of fire.
In less than an hour, after holding out for twenty days, Blackmont's defenders lost control of one of their gates. Yet, despite his presence, Odahviing had not destroyed so much as a single stone of the city itself.