Game of Thrones: Starting by Escaping with the Mad King

Chapter 217 217: True Dragons Do Not Fear Fire

In a pitch-black space, a torch cast a small circle of light.

Drops of water fell from the inverted ceiling, striking the slick puddles below with a hollow, monotonous tap… tap….

The light moved forward silently.

"Seven save us—you finally came!"

A trembling voice, equal parts relief and lingering fear, suddenly rang out.

A bloated figure stumbled out from around a corner, rushing toward the torchlight. It revealed a fat face filled with both wild joy and lingering terror.

Upon his head sat a tall, heavy crystal crown. A luxurious crimson robe draped his body, embroidered with gold and silver threads forming intricate patterns of stars and suns.

Rubies, turquoise—

all manner of expensive jewels glittered faintly in the dim firelight.

It was as if he had tried to adorn himself with every shining thing in the world.

Yet the contrast was almost laughable.

His posture was hunched and timid, his eyes shifty and full of cowardice.

Such extravagant attire—enough to make most nobles of the Seven Kingdoms envious—looked absurd on him, like a monkey dressed in a nobleman's robes.

Sweat slicked his oily face, causing the crystal crown atop his head to slip slightly askew.

"Why aren't you inside guarding it?"

A cold voice cut through the damp air.

The torchlight steadied, illuminating the newcomer's gaunt, sharply defined face.

His gaze was sharp, his sorrowful, ascetic eyes tinged with displeasure.

A man of the Faith—yet so obsessed with worldly luxuries.

Utterly lacking in devotion.

At the question, the fat septon shrank back nervously, as if reminded of something terrifying.

His fearful gaze drifted toward the depths of the cavern.

From within, faint, broken hissing sounds echoed—growing sharper, as if responding to his fear.

The fat man shuddered again.

"Th-that thing—it's been screaming all night!"

"Seven have mercy, it's terrifying!"

"It feels like it's trying to pull my soul out through my ears—and it keeps baring its teeth at me!"

He rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers heavy with jeweled rings, complaining nonstop.

"It's like a thousand needles stabbing into my brain—I can't take it anymore!"

"No! It must be the Seven guiding me to keep my distance, that's why I came out here to wait for you!"

He spoke with forced conviction, but his darting eyes betrayed him as he craned his thick neck to peer into the dark tunnel behind the man.

"Where are the buyers?"

"Why didn't they come with you?"

His voice carried a hint of urgency—almost expectation.

The man's expression did not change. In the flickering firelight, his eye sockets seemed even deeper, his face colder.

"The plan has changed."

He paused briefly, his tone utterly flat as he looked toward the cavern's depths.

"I'm taking it away now."

"What?"

The fat septon's excitement vanished instantly.

His eyes widened in disbelief.

The fear, anticipation, and flattery from before were replaced by furious outrage.

"What kind of joke is this?!"

"I took such a risk persuading that idiot king to convert to the Faith—do you know what will happen to me if that Prince Regent finds out?!"

He flailed his arms wildly, his crimson sleeves whipping through the air, the jewels on his rings flashing chaotically.

"That man conquered the Stormlands with just eight hundred riders—and he has a damn dragon!"

"And now you're telling me you're taking that beast away by yourself?"

"You people run off, and what happens to me?!"

The more he spoke, the more agitated he became, his entire body trembling.

"Without the dragon, what happens to our plan?!"

"How are we supposed to rebuild the Warrior's Sons and let the Holy Sword's light shine over the Seven Kingdoms again?!"

The man listened to his hysterical outburst without interruption.

Only after he finished did he narrow his deep-set eyes slightly and lower his voice.

"It doesn't matter."

"From now on… you won't need to worry about any of that."

Thud.

A dull, wet sound.

The fat man's furious expression froze instantly.

He looked down—

at his chest.

The crimson robe darkened rapidly, soaked through by spreading blood.

A plain longsword had pierced straight through his back, through the seven-pointed star embroidered on his robe, and into his heart.

He tried to turn—

but could no longer move.

His massive body tilted, the crystal crown slipping from his head as he collapsed heavily to the ground.

Warm blood spread quickly beneath him.

"You're lucky."

The man didn't even spare a glance for the corpse still twitching faintly on the ground. His voice was low and hoarse, carrying a trace of almost pitying mockery.

"You're fortunate… because you will serve the Seven forever."

He stepped forward again, bare feet treading through the still-warm pool of blood, leaving footprints with every step.

"We will one day tear down the false king's crown…"

"Return the authority that belongs to the Seven… and pass judgment upon the blasphemers."

"Not today—but that day will come."

Another voice, however, responded with open disdain.

"I've never believed in any gods."

"I only want my dragon."

The torchlight flickered as they ventured deeper into the cave.

The closer they got, the clearer and more frequent the strange hissing became—mixed with a scraping sound, like metal grinding against stone.

"Oh… there you are."

The firelight tore through the darkness.

A green dragon, less than six feet long, was bound by thick iron chains around its neck and wing roots, the other ends embedded deep into the rock wall.

At last, a faint smile appeared on the septon's usually expressionless face.

But the young dragon grew even more agitated—hissing, struggling harder, its claws gouging deep furrows into the stone floor.

"Easy… relax…"

The septon's tone softened as he reached out a hand.

What he got in return was a weak burst of sparks—hot, foul air that nearly set his plain robes alight.

He jerked his hand back, stumbling half a step, a flicker of irritated helplessness flashing in his cloudy eyes.

"Your turn."

Seeing he couldn't handle it, the septon shrugged.

From the deeper darkness, a tall figure stepped forward, steady and composed, a blood-dripping sword in hand.

The dim firelight reflected off his silver hair, making it gleam. His pale violet eyes radiated arrogance and pride.

"Graaah—"

The young dragon—Rhaego—drew its wings in slightly, bronze pupils locked onto him, emitting low, threatening growls.

It sensed something—something etched deep within its blood—drawing closer.

"Quiet. (Valyrian)"

The tall man spoke in strange syllables.

As if struck by an invisible hammer, Rhaego's entire body stiffened!

The hostility in its eyes vanished, replaced by submission.

It shook its chained head, breathing gradually calming—only the tip of its tail still twitching nervously against the ground.

"I told you."

The knight curled his lips into a victorious smile, glancing at the silent septon.

"For someone like me, with the blood of the Dragonlords… this is easy."

"We never needed to cooperate with that stinking ironborn."

The septon replied flatly, "Redundancy is safer."

"An octopus with more tentacles is always more stable than a lone ship braving a storm."

"Tch."

The knight snorted, clearly unconvinced.

His gaze returned to Rhaego, madness flickering in his violet eyes.

"I just had a brilliant idea…"

He stepped forward, nearly stepping on the dragon's tail, voice rising with excitement.

"What if I drag this dragon right into that ridiculous 'Dragon Festival'…"

"Let everyone see it clearly."

"Do you think that Targaryen brat would piss himself?"

"And those high-and-mighty nobles… their faces would be priceless, hahaha—"

His breathing quickened, his expression twisting with manic excitement.

"You'd better not."

The septon's calm voice cut him off like cold water.

"From what I've heard, Lance's dragon is several times larger than yours."

"And… they say he alone can cut down hundreds."

"He conquered the Stormlands with eight hundred riders. Even the Sword of the Morning wasn't his match…"

He glanced at the knight, leaving the rest unsaid.

Can you beat him?

The implication was obvious.

The knight's handsome face flushed red with humiliation. He glared, barely suppressing his anger, and finally just snorted.

He strode forward, as if to prove himself through action.

"Come here, little thing…"

He reached out, trying to stroke the dragon's tense scales.

But just as his fingers neared—

Crack!

Rhaego's neck snapped forward, and his index finger was bitten clean off at the root!

"AHHH—!"

He staggered back, clutching his hand in agony.

Meanwhile, the dragon let out a series of strange, high-pitched hisses—mocking, unmistakably so.

It lifted its head proudly, almost smug.

"You damned beast!!"

Rage consumed the knight. The noble façade shattered, replaced by raw brutality.

He threw a punch.

"Roar!"

Rhaego tried to dodge, wings flaring—but the chains hindered it.

The blow struck its hind leg.

The small dragon crashed down, its leg twisted unnaturally, dragging uselessly behind.

"Grr…!"

It whimpered in pain, propping itself up with its wings.

But the knight showed no mercy.

He lunged forward, gripping the dragon's throat tightly.

"Look at me!!"

Aegon Blackfyre leaned in close, forehead nearly touching the dragon's snout.

"Remember these eyes!"

"I am your master!"

"You exist to obey—to be nothing more than a stepping stone for my greatness!"

"Remember this—I, Aegon Blackfyre, am your eternal master!"

He forced the dragon's head toward his gaze, as if branding it.

But the dragon resisted fiercely, flapping wildly.

"Then die, you mongrel!!"

He raised his sword—

"Wait!"

Even the septon rushed forward, grabbing his arm in panic.

If the dragon died, everything would collapse.

They struggled—chains clattering, the dragon screaming—

Then—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Clear applause echoed through the cavern.

Everything froze.

Both men turned.

From the darkness, a tall figure stepped forward—calm, unhurried.

Even without armor, his cold, striking face was unmistakable.

"Lance!"

The septon cried out in shock.

How was he here?!

Wasn't he supposed to be tied up at the festival?!

"You've got more courage than Viserys."

Lance ignored them, his gaze settling on the restrained dragon with faint approval.

"Not bad."

"Don't panic!"

Unlike the septon, Aegon shoved him aside and sneered.

"He doesn't have a sword."

The septon's lips trembled.

He knew—this man didn't need one.

"Do you really think…"

Lance smiled faintly.

"…that gives you a chance?"

An invisible pressure filled the chamber.

Aegon felt cold dread surge through him.

No… I can't falter!

He gripped his sword tighter.

"I have the advantage!"

He yanked the dragon forward, blade pressed to its throat.

"Your dragon is in my hands!"

"Get out—or I kill it!"

Lance didn't even react.

He took a step forward, gaze locking onto the dragon's eyes.

"You can do it, Rhaego."

His Valyrian carried far more authority.

"Remember…"

"That power is in your blood!"

"Dracarys!"

The moment the word fell—

It was like a volcano awakening.

Rhaego stopped struggling.

Then—

"ROAR!!!"

A burst of red flame shot out—small, but precise.

It engulfed Aegon instantly.

"AAAHHH!!!"

He screamed, swinging wildly—

But a powerful kick slammed into his face.

He flew back, crashing into the wall, collapsing in flames.

Rhaego scrambled free, climbing onto Lance's shoulder, chains rattling.

It nuzzled him affectionately.

Lance gently touched its head, then looked at the burning body.

Unconscious already.

A pity.

"You will never be true dragons."

His voice was calm—no anger, no pity.

Just fact.

"True dragons do not fear fire."

(Valyrian --> High Valyrian: Spoken by the Targaryens and used to command dragons.)