Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 236: The Ambition to Rebuild the Dragonpit

After reading the description of the system, Rhaegar’s face changed dramatically.

“Flames hidden deep underground… isn’t that magma?” he murmured. The volcano on Dragonstone Island was filled with magma.

Boom…

A small patch of earth mixed with carbon ash suddenly exploded, forming a round pit the size of a face. Rhaegar quickly backed away, thinking the magma was about to erupt.

But he was wrong.

The Isle of Faces, in the center of God’s Eye Lake, was an island. No matter how much underground flame gathered, it couldn’t erupt magma here. But something else appeared.

Water.

A small pool quickly formed at the bottom of the pit. Rhaegar stood guard, unsure of what was happening. The water in the pool bubbled and hissed.

Whoosh…

A misty mist rose from the puddle, warm and damp. Rhaegar sniffed the air and detected a strong smell of sulfur. He stepped closer and boldly dipped his hand into the water.

“Hot!” Rhaegar murmured, plunging both hands into the water. A word came to him: Hot Springs!

Rumble…

The trembling of the Isle of Faces continued, gradually lessening in intensity. The weirwood trees shook and shed their red leaves. Moments later, the trees stood bare, and the small puddle was surrounded by fallen leaves.

Rhaegar sat on the ground, gazing at the puddle, red leaves covering his silver hair and shoulders.

“Is this the [Earthbreaking Fire] effect? A small hot spring?” Rhaegar mused, resting his chin in his hand.

On second thought, hot springs relied on underground heat. The presence of a hot spring indicated a significant change in the island’s underground structure.

His eyes fell on the system’s description again, noting the phrase “transforming the land”.

Rhaegar scooped up some warm spring water and tasted it. The taste of sulfur was strong, pungent, and astringent.

The taste sparked many thoughts. The Dragonlords of Valyria lived amidst the Fourteen Flames, a perfect environment for dragons because of the active volcanoes. The island of Dragonstone also had a volcano, where Vermithor and Silverwing slumbered.

Volcanic landscapes were rare in Westeros. The only other known place with hot springs was Winterfell, home of the Starks, with a significantly higher underground temperature.

Considering this, Rhaegar speculated, “At the very least, the geothermal temperature beneath the Isle of Faces is high enough to make it a better place for dragons than the Dragonpit in King’s Landing.”

This revelation rekindled his old idea to rebuild the Dragonpit. Staring at the steam-filled spring, Rhaegar felt elated. “What a precious piece of land, worthy of a legendary relic.”

He began to consider claiming the Isle of Faces for himself.

“Roar…”

A dragon’s roar interrupted his thoughts. Rhaegar looked up to see Rhaenyra riding Syrax, dressed in a black gown.

“Rhaegar, there’s been an earthquake on the Isle of Faces. Come with me,” Rhaenyra urged, looking worried as she guided Syrax to land.

“Roar..”

“Roar!”

Two dragon roars echoed through the sky as the sunlight was blocked by massive, charcoal-black dragon wings. Cannibal had taken to the skies and was circling low over the Isle of Faces, clearly fascinated by the island.

Helaena was riding a panicked Dreamfyre, approaching from the direction of the beach on the Isle of Faces. Dragons have sharper senses than humans, and the three dragons were immediately alarmed by the island’s tremors.

Seeing Syrax hesitating to land, Rhaegar shouted, “I’m fine, don’t worry!”

He was indeed fine; he had caused the commotion and knew its source. If anything was wrong, it was the few remaining Weirwood trees. The hot spring had appeared right next to them, where the underground temperature was highest. He hoped they could withstand the heat.

As the aftershocks subsided and calm returned, Syrax and Dreamfyre landed first, allowing their riders to dismount. Rhaegar pointed to a small puddle on the ground and grinned. “Look, a hot spring!”

“Huh?” Rhaenyra looked confused as she stepped over the thick carpet of red leaves.

“Brother, are you all right?” Helaena’s eyes were filled with concern as she trotted over to Rhaegar.

She and Rhaenyra had been up early. Dreamfyre had wanted to play, so Helaena had accompanied the dragon to the shore of the Isle of Faces. Rhaenyra had been uneasy and had called Syrax to keep watch, still debating whether to wake Rhaegar when the earthquake startled them all.

Seeing the concern in Helaena’s eyes, Rhaegar ruffled her hair and smiled. “I’m fine, really.”

He had explored a Legendary Tier Relic and activated it, resulting in the unexpected bonus of a hot spring. Over time, the geothermal heat on the Isle of Faces would only increase, enhancing the Targaryen family’s domain.

“It really is a hot spring,” Rhaenyra remarked, stirring the puddle with her fingers, her surprise evident.

She did not dwell on the high underground temperatures. As Princess of Dragonstone, she was accustomed to volcanoes and the conditions necessary to raise dragons. To her, the hot spring merely indicated high underground temperatures, not the extreme environment dragons required.

Rhaegar laughed, “The hot spring appeared out of nowhere and seems to be expanding.”

Rhaenyra frowned slightly, still puzzled by the sudden appearance of a hot spring on the Isle of Faces. Unable to figure it out, she decided not to worry. When she felt the warm spring water, her eyes lit up with excitement. “If the hot spring gets bigger, we could build a pool exclusively for the royal family.”

Hot springs were a rare luxury, inaccessible to most.

Rhaegar agreed, “Yes, I’ll provide the labor and you can finance the construction of a great pool.”

He had thousands of slaves outside King’s Landing, perfect for the task.

Rhaenyra nodded eagerly, “Uh-huh.”

The thought of having an exclusive hot spring bath in the future filled her with happiness.

…

The Free Trade City-State of Lys

In the dilapidated Perfume Garden, a group of conspirators were plotting something significant. Tyrosh was represented by a lean young man with fiery hair, playing with a skull-shaped wine glass.

His name was Baromy Strode, the current Archon of Tyrosh. As for the former Archon, an elderly man in brocade robes, he now lay dead at Baromy’s hands.

The only remaining representative from Myr was a fat, dark-skinned man with a whip at his waist. He had been the first to flee when their city was attacked. Myr’s forces had been decimated, with only five hundred Unsullied surviving the assaults of the slaves and the wealthy.

In Lys, the Rogare family had been destroyed, leading to a slave uprising.

In the midst of the chaos, a strong man with curly black hair and dark brown skin, Bambarro Bazanne, emerged. Once a smuggler, Bambarro had saved enough over the years to build a fleet. He seized the opportunity during Lys’ turmoil to steal power and become the new leader.

The fat Myrish man spoke first. “News of the dragon’s attack on the Triarchy has spread throughout Essos. The Sea King of Braavos has only agreed to send a letter condemning the King on the Iron Throne and has refused to send troops.”

“It’s the same everywhere,” Baromy scoffed. “Other city-states have retreated as well, only daring to send letters of condemnation.”

Baromy had risen from the ranks of mercenaries. His rise to Archon was due to his daring during the dragon attack. He had plundered the wealthiest merchants and hired more mercenaries. His audacity had paid off.

Bambarro of Lys took a small bottle from his pocket and said in a deep voice, “The mastermind of the attack has returned to Westeros. We must take action to show the people that we are doing something.”

They weren’t the last desperate fools gambling their lives. They needed to set an example for the high-ranking magisters and rich merchants who felt persecuted, demonstrating their resolve.

The small vial contained Lys’ Tears, a poison that could take a life without the victim knowing.

“Who should we target?” asked the Myrish representative.

“There are two other dragon riders on the Stepstone Islands,” Baromy suggested.

“I agree…”

…

A few days later.

The northern shore of the God’s Eye.

Swish swish…

Four hundred Unsullied and five hundred Second Sons marched in, forming neat rows.

“Greetings, Prince!…”

A thousand voices cried in unison.

In front of them stood a massive black dragon, as imposing as a small mountain.

“Roar…”

Cannibal roared, its feet firmly planted on the ground, wings spread wide, generating powerful gusts of wind.

Rhaegar stood beneath its head, glancing sideways at the assembled army.

His expression remained calm, indifferent to the thousand-strong force before him.

He turned his gaze towards Harrenhal in the distance.

The green wildfire had finally been extinguished.

After the fire, Harrenhal, already in ruins and decrepit, looked even more desolate, like a dying candle.

The five towers were charred black by the flames.

The forest of sacred trees was reduced to ashes, and even the nearby city walls were cracked and burned.

Smoke rose from the ruins, making the twisted towers appear even darker.

Lyonel was seriously ill and Harwin was on patrol.

Rhaenyra had taken on the role of first steward, directing the servants to clean up the towers and move supplies.

“Robb,” Rhaegar called.

Robb, clad in a heavy steel helmet, stepped forward immediately and saluted, “Prince!”

Rhaegar glanced at him and ordered, “Lead the Second Sons to Riverrun. If you meet the Blackwoods’ army on the way, you know what to do.”

Robb, already prepared, replied firmly, “I guarantee a safe arrival.”

Rhaegar nodded and motioned for him to rest before leaving.

Robb led his party to a barracks the Strong House had set up in advance.

Rhaegar’s eyes flickered as his mind wandered.

He should have left for Riverrun days ago.

For some reason, he was waiting for Robb and the Second Sons to arrive.

Most of the soldiers of the Second Sons came from the Riverlands, often the second sons or illegitimate children of noble families.

Robb himself was a favored bastard of Lord Blackwood.

This organization wasn’t just powerful in arms; it was a valuable political asset.

The Strong House’s army passing through the Blackwoods’ garrison and the Second Sons doing the same were two different things.

Dragons were effective in battle, but Lyonel’s advice to win hearts and minds by using internal factions was sound.

Robb and the Second Sons were instrumental in quelling the rebellion in the Riverlands.

As Rhaegar reflected on this, a phrase from his dreams came to mind.

“War is the continuation of politics.”

Wars were caused by political failures.

His thoughts returned to the Unsullied and his gaze fell upon them.

Rhaegar looked at an Unsullied commander with three spikes on his helmet and asked, “What is your name?”

The officer stiffened and blurted out, “Grey Worm.”

“Grey Worm,” Rhaegar repeated, confused. “That’s the name the slave masters of Astapor gave you, isn’t it?”

He knew something of the Unsullied.

Every day, names were drawn from slips of paper with colors and different types of reptiles on them.

Together they formed the name of the day.