Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 270: Descendants of Valyria

The sun was setting.

The caravan of dwarf elephants crossed the long bridge and arrived in the eastern part of the city, where the environment markedly improved.

The carriage slave bowed humbly, his voice rough, “My lord, there’s a black wall ahead. I can’t go any further.”

“Understood,” Rhaegar replied. He lifted the curtain and stepped down from the carriage, casually tossing two gold dragons to the slave.

“Thank you, my lord,” the slave said, bowing even lower as he hastily accepted the coins.

Westeros and Volantis had different coinage systems. Westeros used gold dragons, silver stags, copper stars, and copper pennies, while Volantis minted gold coins with engraved images and accepted coins from various lands.

As Rhaegar walked forward, he saw by the moonlight that the area was dotted with flower gardens, statues, and fountains. Most of these fountains, however, were dry or filled with stagnant water, and the air still carried a nauseating odor.

It was getting late. Rhaegar decided not to rush to find the city Triarchs; securing a place to stay first was the best course of action.

Soon, he spotted a towering building surrounded by parked carriages. It was a four-story structure made of stone, a real monstrosity.

“The Merchant’s House,” Rhaegar read aloud, grinning. “Found a place to stay.”

…

The next day, within the black walls of the east city district, the streets were neat and orderly. Wealthy residents reclined on sedan chairs carried by slaves, accompanied by dainty slave girls.

Everything exuded a sense of natural corruption.

At the entrance of the Tiger Party’s Residence, a black-robed figure stood and knocked on the closed door. A slave hurriedly opened it and respectfully welcomed the visitor inside.

The mansion’s interior boasted a three-story pavilion with carved beams and intricate paintings. Rhaegar sat on a velvet stool, indifferently observing female slaves playing in the courtyard fountain.

Before long, a tall, robust man entered the pavilion, flanked by two slave girls.

“Hahaha, welcome, Prince of House Targaryen! It is truly an honor to have you in my humble abode!” the man exclaimed, arms spread wide.

Rhaegar turned and replied politely, “Lord Malaquo, please forgive my unannounced visit.”

Maintaining his noble demeanor, Rhaegar exuded elegance and grace.

Malaquo Maegyr, with his rough face and bushy beard, responded boldly, “I was a good friend of your uncle. You, of the great Dragonlord bloodline, are always welcome here.”

As a member of Volantis’s old nobility, Malaquo believed deeply in the importance of bloodlines. Most Volantenes prided themselves on their Valyrian descent. The Targaryens, as the last Dragonlord family, held an undisputed noble lineage.

After exchanging pleasantries, Rhaegar got to the point, inquiring about the Tiger Party’s views on the Triarchy and their relationship with Daemon.

Malaquo did not mince words. He explained that the Triarchy was in a weakened state, and the long-suppressed old aristocracy of Volantis saw an opportunity to reassert themselves. However, the Tiger Party was not the sole ruling faction. The Elephant Party, consisting of merchants and moneylenders, showed no interest in war. The struggle for power between the two parties had already resulted in casualties.

Malaquo openly admitted his correspondence with Daemon. Daemon had established a friendship with Malaquo and the Tiger Party, promising to suppress the Triarchy’s trade routes.

Even without explicit details, Rhaegar understood the implications. If the Tiger Party gained the upper hand, they would likely form a stronger alliance with Daemon.

After a lengthy discussion, Malaquo ordered a sumptuous meal. Rhaegar accepted the invitation, and the two dined together, solidifying their newfound friendship.

As the meal ended, Malaquo’s eyes gleamed with purpose. “Prince, why not stay at my residence for a while? I will treat you with the utmost courtesy.”

Rhaegar’s reputation, known throughout the Nine Free Trade City-States, carried the title of the Maker of Ruins. Recognizing Rhaegar as a war-advocating Dragonlord like Daemon, Malaquo saw an opportunity to gain the upper hand against the Elephants with Targaryen support.

Seeing through Malaquo’s intentions, Rhaegar politely declined. “No, I must visit the other two cities and experience more of Volantis.”

“Prince, the members of the Elephant Party are stubborn and might offend you,” Malaquo cautioned. “I have the most beautiful, voluptuous slave girls. Stay and enjoy their company.”

“My journey is not yet over, and I must respectfully decline your offer,” Rhaegar replied, rising to leave. He was uninterested in the slave girls, preferring to explore Volantis and absorb its unique customs.

…

After leaving the mansion, Rhaegar pulled up his hood and stepped into the bustling streets. In that moment, he understood Daemon’s wanderlust. The feeling of being alone was invigorating.

He wandered the crowded streets, the passersby indifferent to his presence. Finding the residence of the ruler of the Elephant Party proved to be a challenge, as they were even more xenophobic than the hospitable Tiger Party.

Inspired by a beggar, Rhaegar thought of a place where information would be abundant—the Long Bridge. Lined with countless restaurants, brothels, and shops, it was the best place to gather news.

“I missed it last night, so I’ll make up for it today,” he murmured, hurrying towards the bridge.

The black wall that separated the rich and poor in the East City District loomed ahead. Rhaegar easily passed through the massive barrier, built from black dragonstone, and stepped onto the Long Bridge. The environment shifted dramatically—from the cold indifference of the affluent area to the vibrant hustle and bustle of the marketplace.

Without the elephant cart, Rhaegar moved between the stores on either side of the bridge, the air filled with noise. He noticed a latrine cleaner with a fly tattoo on his face, a blacksmith with a hammer tattoo. They were all slaves, closely monitored by their masters, laboring tirelessly.

“O Lord! Give us light!” a loud woman’s voice suddenly rang out, reciting a prayer. More voices joined in, men and women repeating the chant.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Intrigued, Rhaegar followed the sound to an open corner. A striking woman in red robes stood on a raised platform of hay bales, passionately preaching to a group of ragged, collared slaves. They listened intently, their eyes filled with hope.

Rhaegar watched the scene, drawn to the Red Woman’s presence. He had encountered followers of the Lord of Light before, including two red-robed women he had killed. Though once blessed by the Lord of Light, those encounters had soured his perception of the deity, whom he now suspected to be an evil god with malevolent followers.

“The God of Light listens to your prayers, regardless of who you are…” the Red Woman continued, her voice stirring the slaves’ spirits.

Bored, Rhaegar turned away. The faith of the Lord of Light was widespread in Essos, and Volantis housed the largest temple of R’hllor, beloved by the commoners and slaves. The rich and powerful, however, scorned and dismissed it.

As Rhaegar walked, the tiles of the brothel overhead blocked the sunlight, narrowing the path.

“Quickly! Grab that slave girl, don’t let her get away!”

“Damn it, I’ll sell her to the lowest brothel…”

Suddenly, a burst of yelling and cursing erupted nearby. Rhaegar pulled back his hood and lowered his eyes, watching the commotion.

On the crowded street, a passerby was knocked over in the chaos, and a woman with disheveled hair darted out. Her face was obscured, but her skin was strikingly white, almost translucent like pure milk pudding. The most eye-catching feature was her long, dirty hair—silver-gold, a color Rhaegar knew well.

“Valyrian descendant,” he murmured, observing like a disinterested passerby.

He didn’t intervene. Volantis, the first colony of the Freehold, had spread Valyrian blood for centuries. Just moments ago, he had seen a whore with silvery blonde curls among the slaves.

“Stop her, she’s a runaway!” The pursuing slave trader yelled, closing in on the woman.

The white-skinned woman struggled to escape, darting past Rhaegar and carrying a faint, not unpleasant breeze. This breeze lifted Rhaegar’s hood, revealing his own prominent silver-blonde hair.

The fleeing woman glanced back and saw Rhaegar. She froze, tripping and falling heavily onto the muddy bridge.

The slave trader caught up, punching and kicking her, pulling her collar, and dragging her like a dead dog. Hearing her screams, Rhaegar was about to leave, uninterested in the spectacle.

“My lord, help me, please!” The woman’s clear, miserable cry rang out.

Rhaegar ignored it, silently putting on his hood.

But the woman kept struggling. She bit the slave trader’s hand and broke free, flinging herself at Rhaegar’s feet in a panic. “My lord, please help me,” she begged.

Surprised, Rhaegar looked down at her. “Why should I help you?”

His right hand, wearing a spatial bracelet, retracted into his black robes, though he felt inclined to assist.

The woman tugged at his trouser leg, panic-stricken. She pushed back her hair, revealing a beautiful face, and spoke quickly. “My name is Daella, and you are a Targaryen descendant. Please help me for the sake of the name.”

“Daella?” Rhaegar’s eyes widened slightly, his mind reeling. Daella was his grandmother’s name—Daella Targaryen, the eighth child and fourth daughter of his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys the First.

“Get out of the way, boy!” Several slave traders surrounded them, grimacing.

One of them, a sharp-tongued man, pointed at Daella and said coldly, “She’s a slave girl from the brothel, and she cost us a hundred gold coins.”