Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 269: First Visit to Volantis

Leaving the throne room, the servants quickly summoned Grand Maester Mellos.

In the king’s chambers, Maester Mellos arrived with a satchel and several young auxiliary maesters. Viserys leaned back on a bench, one hand covering his forehead, the other resting on the round table for the maester to examine.

“Your Grace, the wound is deep this time,” Mellos said, his old face creased with concern as he carefully inspected the cut and prepared medicine to clean it.

Viserys endured the pain and sighed, “Thank you, Grand Maester.”

Despite his words, he was troubled inside. Not having been cut by the Iron Throne for some time had made him complacent, and now this open wound was a stark reminder of his vulnerability. He feared it would be conspicuous to the courtiers, adding to his burdens.

With few words, Mellos dried the blood and applied crushed herbs to the wound.

“Grand Maester, the bandages you requested,” an assistant said, handing him a roll of sterilized bandages.

Mellos glanced at the young man and silently began to bind the king’s hand. The attendant, a dark-skinned young man with short stubble and a gray robe, watched intently.

As the bandage was being applied, the attendant couldn’t help but suggest, “This herb may not be effective for His Grace. I have a new idea-”

“Silence, Orwyle!” Mellos scolded, his eyes flashing a warning.

The young man, Orwyle, quickly bowed his head and fell silent.

“Your Grace, avoid getting the wound wet and abstain from greasy or spicy foods,” Mellos advised, packing up his supplies and leading his assistants out of the room.

Viserys forced a smile, trying to hide his irritation as the door closed, leaving the room in silence.

Outside the chambers, Ser Erryk, clad in silver armor and white robes, stood guard. After Cole’s departure, he had been appointed Commander of the Kingsguard, charged with the King’s personal security.

Suddenly, a choking cough erupted from the chambers, the sound harsh and desperate.

Erryk’s face darkened with worry. The king’s health was failing, and he often found it difficult to sleep without the aid of wine.

The coughing subsided after a while. Viserys’ irritated voice broke the silence, “Erryk, get me some wine. My chest is suffocating!”

“Yes, Your Grace!” Erryk replied, bowing before finding a servant to carry out the order.

…

The Summer Sea

The Summer Sea, a vast ocean south of Dorne, stretches eastward to the southern coast of Essos and the northern coast of Sothoryos. The Stepstones mark the boundary between the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea.

On the undulating sea, beneath a clear sky, a warm breeze blew gently. High above the clouds, a colossal dragon as black as charcoal streaked by like a dark meteor. After a day’s flight, the Cannibal crossed the scattered isles of the Stepstones and officially entered the Summer Sea.

“Cannibal, fly southeast,” commanded a firm voice.

Rhaegar reclined on the broad spine of the Cannibal, clad in a black robe, his eyes half-closed as he basked in the sunlight. Compared to the still-chilly eastern part of Westeros, the tropical climate of the Summer Sea was a welcome change, warm and pleasant.

The sunlight bathed his bare skin, spreading warmth throughout his body. The air was warm and humid, but not oppressively so. This comfortable environment allowed Rhaegar, who hadn’t relaxed in a long time, to shed his usual tension and stretch out contentedly.

“Roar…”

Sensing its rider’s joy, the Cannibal let out a low growl and slowed its pace. Man and dragon soared through the sky, savoring the fresh breeze and the rare moment of leisure.

A smile played at the corners of Rhaegar’s mouth as he reminisced about the freedom of dragon riding in his youth. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed such peace.

The Cannibal, with its dark wings and green eyes, surveyed the distant land of Essos, flying in the correct direction with ease. Having roamed several continents during its century-long life, the dragon knew these waters well.

Time passed quietly. As the sun rose to its zenith, the temperature of the Summer Sea increased, and the air became hot. The Cannibal crossed the sea and flew over a barren coast, entering the land of Essos.

“Quick, grab the cart! We need to get the goods to Volantis by nightfall…”

“The wheels are stuck! Push harder…”

From the sky, Rhaegar heard voices speaking in Valyrian. Stirring from his half-sleep, he opened his eyes and surveyed the scene below. A bustling town lay beneath him, with many carriages moving in and out through towering white walls.

The sounds he heard came from a small caravan of traders traveling south along the river. The men were dressed in a variety of garb, shielding themselves from the burning sun as they pushed a muddy cart.

“Push, you slaves!”

A fat merchant, decked out in gold and silver, cursed and waved his whip at the struggling crowd.

From the snippets of conversation, it was clear that the merchants were headed for Volantis. Rhaegar watched the city and the wide, swiftly moving river beside it, recognizing the place as Volon Therys, a city in the interior of Volantis. The river was the famed Rhoyne.

Following the Rhoyne south would lead to Volantis. Realizing this, Rhaegar understood that the Cannibal had brought him to Essos.

“Cannibal, fly south and find a place to land,” he instructed, forming a plan.

He had two main goals for his visit to Volantis. First, to contact the Triarchs of the Tiger and Elephant Parties and understand their movements. Second, to negotiate a diplomatic agreement to ease tensions with the Free Cities.

Daemon had warned that the people of Volantis were likely to reject the Targaryens. Rhaegar planned to keep a low profile, avoiding undue attention with the Cannibal, and conceal his visit to Volantis to avoid provoking the Triarchy. These were standard diplomatic tactics, and he expected nothing less.

…

It was dusk. A caravan of merchants carrying food entered the western part of Volantis. At the head of the caravan walked a tall, silver-haired young man in black robes. This was Rhaegar, who had separated from the Cannibal and used the caravan as a guide to enter the city-state.

“So this is Volantis,” Rhaegar muttered, disappointment evident in his voice. The crowded harbor assaulted his senses with the pungent stench of rotting fish, flowers, feces, and decay. It was no better than King’s Landing before the street reform program.

He mingled with the crowd, listening to the vendors’ shouts along the filthy streets, wandering aimlessly. Volantis, once an outpost of the Freehold, bore the marks of its Dragonlord heritage. The city, situated at the mouth of the Rhoyne River, was divided into two districts by the fast-flowing waters.

Rhaegar found himself in the western district, a place of squalor. Everywhere he looked, there were signs of poverty—feces, urine, garbage, beggars. The harbor was teeming with ships from across the world, and the clamor of sailors and porters filled the air.

He soon learned that the western side was home to mercenaries, foreigners, slaves, and commoners, and that law and order was abysmal. “Out of the way, out of the way, the Tiger Cloak Army is patrolling, everyone out of the way!” a loud voice suddenly shouted. The already chaotic street became frenzied as slaves and civilians scurried to the corners.

Rhaegar blended into the crowd, using his height to peer over their heads. A common city guard marched through the street, brandishing short clubs and boasting loudly. Each guard bore a tiger tattoo on his cheek, the likely origin of their name, the Tiger Army.

Volantis was a city rich in tattoo culture. High officials, merchants, commoners, and slaves all had tattoos on their faces and bodies. High-ranking individuals had tattoos that symbolized their accomplishments and strength, while slaves were marked to indicate their roles, branding them with a lifetime of shame.

Daemon had often spoken of the harsh life of slaves in Volantis. From what Rhaegar observed, slaves far outnumbered free citizens in the city.

“I need to find a place to stay before nightfall,” Rhaegar thought, shaking off his thoughts. He made his way to the eastern district, guided by a passerby. The eastern district was home to old nobles, warriors, and wealthy merchants.

The walk felt too slow, and he feared he wouldn’t make it in time. Just then, he saw something promising ahead.

Half an hour later, a carriage drawn by dwarf elephants made its way through the Western District and arrived at a long, wide bridge. The bridge spanned the fast-flowing River Rhoyne, supported by massive pillars, and stretched out as flat as a continent.

At the entrance was an arch of black boulders decorated with monstrous designs-dragons, lion- and scorpion-tailed beasts, sphinxes, and other fantastic creatures.

The dwarven elephant caravan paid the toll, and a slave with wheel tattoos on his head led the elephants onto the mighty bridge. Rhaegar poked his head out of the curtain, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

The bridge, constructed by the Valyrian consuls centuries ago, connected the Old Town and the West Town. Seeing this impressive structure for the first time, Rhaegar was captivated by its scale. The bridge was wide enough for two carriages to pass each other comfortably.

“It’s not as grand as Harrenhal, but it’s one of the Nine Wonders of the World,” Rhaegar mused, his tone serious. Comparing it to his own giant castle, he found himself pondering the significance of the long bridge.

Westeros boasted many legendary structures: House Arryn’s Eyrie, House Baratheon’s Storm’s End, House Lannister’s Casterly Rock, and the Great Wall that had stood for thousands of years, protecting the realm from the cold threats of the north.

Each of these wonders, Rhaegar thought, was more majestic than this long bridge.