"How do you know that?" Morola sobered up immediately upon hearing that Rhaegor's wife, Daenyra, was pregnant again. Until recently, the real power within House Vaelarys had shifted from Draezell to Rhaegor over the past five years. While Draezell still took charge of key matters, the rest of the responsibilities of their domain had slowly been handed over to Rhaegor.
And it turned out, he handled them quite well—judging legal disputes, resolving conflicts, overseeing daily affairs. In the borderlands of the Prince's Dominion, Rhaegor's rule was widely praised. Among the common folk, he had practically become synonymous with "justice", and the lords, too, respected his clear sense of reward and punishment—especially the rewards—and, combined with Draezell's authority, both the old and new nobility accepted his governance.
This was the matter that concerned those who remained in the Prince's Dominion the most. Draezell, godlike in stature, had gradually stepped away from his obsidian throne. Now that his once-absolute rule had been passed down to Rhaegor, would cracks begin to show?
Morola didn't know—but that didn't stop him from constantly seeking intelligence from Dragon's Nest.
The more, the better.
Ideally, the master of Dragon's Nest would stop paying attention to their little island altogether—that would be their only slim chance.
It wasn't that the eastern continent lacked dragon eggs. Rather, it lacked eggs that could be hatched. In the auction houses of Pentos, in the depths of the Iron Vaults, hidden deep behind the Black Walls, in the unknowable shadows of the Shadowlands, fossilized dragon eggs still lay buried. The youngest among them were the three once taken to Braavos—but even they had turned into lifeless stone.
The Sea Lord and countless high-ranking Keyholders of the Iron Vault had made repeated attempts to hatch them. They had tried all manner of esoteric religious rituals—even resorted to blood sacrifice, strictly forbidden in Braavos.
They paid dearly for it: three Keyholders and a Sea Lord dead, twelve more forced into hiding. And the three eggs? Still lifeless.
In the end, through the mediation of Jaehaerys I's Hand, Barth, Braavos and Westeros reached a secret agreement. The three dragon eggs were put into eternal slumber—turning into nothing more than lifeless, albeit dazzling, stones.
But if they could obtain dragonblood—following the example of the Draezell brothers—they were filled with hope once more.
This was why they'd always dreamed of borrowing seed from Maelor.
"Lady Daenyra's pregnancy spread quickly through Summerfield," said Ayar with a sigh. "You understand how beloved Lady Daenyra and Lady Diana are among the people of Summerfield, don't you?"
"I do."
"But something feels off this time." Ayar stroked his beard, puzzled. "The people of the Prince's Dominion regard House Vaelarys as divine. Lady Diana is revered as the embodiment of a holy mother. Normally, when a lady of theirs becomes pregnant, she would be shown to the public."
"Yes, I remember seeing Lady Diana once during her pregnancy, touring the Summer Market. What a sight that was," Morola recalled sneaking into Dragon's Nest back then. Diana had indeed seemed like some sacred figure from Westeros' Faith of the Seven. She appeared divine.
Even those of them who scoffed at the gods couldn't help but be swept up in that fervor.
Neither man could figure out the reason behind the silence this time.
"Forget it," said Ayar at last. "If Lady Daenyra truly bears the Arbiter's heir, we'll hear of it eventually." He took away the wine and cups. "Alright, Morola. You've had enough for tonight. Any more, and you'll end up like Maelor—ruined in body at a young age. Best know your limits with drink."
"Shit, mind your own damn business." Morola cursed with a wry smile as he looked up at the brick-and-stone ceiling. "Should've stayed in Oldtown. There were more than a few dragonblood descendants there... too bad none of their mothers are ours."
"It's only a matter of time before something goes wrong," Ayar said calmly. "A matter of time."
At that moment, in Dragon's Nest—
Beneath the castle, in Rey's laboratory—
"Aaah!"
A chilling scream pierced the basement, freezing the air for a second. But the people moving through the dim corridors—marked with teardrop tattoos—paused only briefly before calmly returning to their work.
Though over fifty, Rey still appeared remarkably young. She stood calmly before the torture rack, where a silver-haired young man lay bound and unconscious, his mouth gagged. He had already extracted his name, his background, and his mission.
Balerion Bellerys, heir to House Bellerys, and companion to Morola Ulnar. He was responsible for transporting supplies to Ghaston Grey and relaying messages from the outside.
House Bellerys had suffered the worst during the purge within the Black Walls. It was also the house that had contributed the most to that internal reckoning. In truth, their ancestors had not come from the famed Bellerys line but were a subordinate house—one that had never ridden a dragon. They had ruled over Valantis by wielding the faintest trace of maternal dragonblood—until the Doom.
The Balerion family disappeared from the stage of history, and this minor house took the place of the former main branch.
Because their bloodline was in doubt, they pursued dragon blood with even greater fanaticism.
Unfortunately, even Morola and Ayar had already been discovered by Hegon's snakes—how could he have remained safe?
And so he ended up here.
Extracting information through torture was no challenge at all for Ray.
But for Ray, simply interrogating a dragon thief wasn't enough. As one of Draezell's key supporters, Ray was thinking far beyond that. Even though Draezell had no ambition to claim the Iron Throne, both he and Ray were acutely aware of one thing:
The harmonious relationship between House Vaelarys, founded by Draezell, and House Targaryen would not last forever. The future held too many uncertainties.
So, the things Draezell was unwilling—or perhaps didn't see the need—to do, Ray would handle himself.
Ray waved a hand. The man with the teardrop tattoos, tasked with the torture, nodded slightly and pulled a bloody implement from Balerion's chest, removing a small piece of flesh.
Balerion's exposed body trembled slightly, but nothing more.
His blood-soaked form had already spoken volumes of his suffering.
Ray slowly approached the unconscious young man, broken by his orders, and smiled faintly.
Hate us.
Hate House Vaelarys.
One day, that hatred will grow into a towering tree.
Too bad... it was all within Ray's design.
Ray narrowed his eyes.
"Father... is it really that serious?"
Rhaegor looked in disbelief at his silent father, then at his sleeping wife. Her belly, which should have shown the first signs of swelling, was now as flat as ever.
"If we hadn't discovered it in time," Draezell said calmly, "Daenyra might have died."
Rhaegor lowered his head. He didn't understand why Daenyra had survived childbirth once, yet now this child—
"Just wait a little longer," Draezell comforted his struggling eldest son. "Soon, when the magma settles, Daenyra will conceive again. Then, she will give birth to a healthy child for our house."
"A true heir."
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