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Legacy of the Dragon Ch. 03

LUCAS

A comet appeared in the sky. Lucas first saw it on a clear morning, after he managed to pull himself from his wife's warm body and walk to the window. It was bright red, and it slashed across the otherwise pale blue heavens like fresh-spilled blood. Lucas couldn't be certain, but ... it looked a great deal like the bleeding star he had so often seen in his dreams.

Peaceful days became a rarity in the manse. Such was fatherhood, Lucas figured. And he wouldn't have changed it for anything.

Jace was a mostly mild-mannered babe. Only rarely did he cry inconsolably in that way newborns did. He began babbling three months after his birth, speaking in ways one could almost understand. He often grasped at anything around him, whether it be a wood-carved toy or one of Daenerys's breasts. Those rare bouts of wailing aside, Jace was nearly always smiling, and whenever Lucas saw him, he couldn't help but to smile with him.

The dragon whelps, who fatefully came to the world the same hour Jace did, were beautiful little beasts, with shining scales and golden eyes. Daenerys named two of them, the diamond dragon and the sapphire dragon, but asked for Lucas to name the third, the ruby dragon, as she had always dreamt of Lucas astride him. Daenerys named the diamond she-dragon Dreamwing, from how often she had dreamt of her, as well as the brilliant, dreamlike colors of her milky scales and violet wings. The sapphire dragon she named Skyshark, from how she had foreseen that he would love soaring the seas. As for the ruby dragon, Daenerys had told Lucas that she foresaw him as the biggest and mightiest of the brood. Lucas knew immediately what he would call him. He named him Rhaegon, because his ruby scales called to mind Daenerys's eldest brother Rhaegar and how his armor had rubies embedded into its breastplate, something that Lucas had marveled at as a young boy whenever he saw him wearing it. Rhaegon would be Rhaegar's vengeance.

When Lucas began training the dragons, Daenerys made the suggestion to train them in High Valyrian, using an old book of the ancient language shelved in Lucas's study. Lucas agreed. There was no more fitting a tongue to train them in. Dragons were not slaves, and nor were they pets, but they could be taught. If the legends were to be believed, only a Valyrian or their descendants, those with the dragon blood, could bond with or command a dragon. Lucas and Daenerys both carried that blood.

Following Jace's birth and the dragons' hatchings, there were times when the manse sounded like a pit of the seventh hell. When Jace's squalling and shrieking rang through the halls, it was usually alongside the similarly shrill screeches of dragons. One often heralded the other. Whenever Jace distressed, the whelps cried out with him, as though calling for his aid. The sound was horrifying at first, but Lucas soon grew accustomed to it. As for other troubles, more than once embers of dragonfire had set ablaze a piece of furniture or a rug, at which times Lucas was grateful that the manse was built of stone and not wood. The occasional moments of peace and quiet were valuable, and Lucas used them well. Whenever Jace and the whelps both napped, Lucas would either grab Daenerys's hand and take her to their bedchamber, or he would spend some alone time in his study.

In those hours in his study, Lucas worked tirelessly. There was much to do. He didn't read often, not like he had before. The time for that had passed. Now was the time for preparations. Plans needed to be made. When they were grown and mighty, Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark would see Lucas and Daenerys returned to Westeros, but they wouldn't be able to do it alone. Lucas needed an army, he needed ships, and he needed allies. Lucas would not stumble upon those resources, nor did he have the coin anymore to simply purchase them. He would have to acquire them by other means. How exactly, he wasn't yet sure.

A letter came one day, penned by Lord Varys, the spymaster in King's Landing who had again and again reinforced his claim to support Lucas's and Daenerys's cause, most notably by ensuring Daenerys was given to Lucas and no other, and then by sending Colton and Ser Barristan to Lucas after the former was condemned and the latter was stripped of knighthood. The letter bore bittersweet news. Varys's little birds had learned that Viserys was found dead in a field between Braavos and Pentos. He was alongside scores of other corpses in what looked to be the aftermath of some clashing of sellsword companies. Varys speculated in the letter as to how and why Viserys had been killed, but in the end, it didn't matter. When Lucas had told everyone the news in the parlor, the others all looked to Daenerys, who held Jace in her arms. Daenerys put on a brave face in front of the others in a show of strength, but later that night, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she wept into Lucas's shoulder. She had never stopped loving her brother. Viserys was a truly cruel creature, and he didn't deserve his sister's love, but he had it, to the very end.

There was gravity to Viserys's death. Before, Lucas's and Daenerys's claim to the Iron Throne was strong only in his absence. Now, in his death, it was absolute. By all rights and all laws of the land, Westeros was theirs.

But then, a few months after Jace's birth, Lucas realized something alarming. The dragons' growths had halted.

Like the last living dragons two hundred years ago, who had remained caged or cooped up in dragon pits and never grew to the size of the majestic dragons of millennia ago, Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark were stunted by their confinement. They grew only to the size of small hounds, weighing a little under two stone. Lucas realized with dread that they would not grow another inch if they were not free to roam. But he simply couldn't allow that. They were too young, too helpless. If they were allowed to roam Volantis, they would've been killed in fear or captured as exotic pets. But if he didn't free them, they would never become the great beasts they needed to be. Lucas remained unsure of what to do for weeks ... till events forced his hand.

Those events came on a calm morning. Silent, for once. Last Lucas saw of them, the dragon whelps were all curled into glittering, scaly balls alongside Daenerys on the couch in their bedchamber. Jace was with them, nursing at Daenerys's breast. Tobas was attending her. Clare and Elayna were in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Ser Barristan was standing guard in front of the manse. Colton was out.

Lucas stood in the parlor, before the room's tall, middlemost window. He wore his typical attire: a dark doublet, linen trousers, and his bejeweled sword. He held his hands behind him, at his waist. The rising sun bathed him in its warm light and cast his long, slender shadow far behind him. He stood there for some time, gazing at the Summer Sea, watching ships dock in Volantis's ports. It was a frequent ritual of his. He liked the sight of seafarers, of ships and sails, decks and docks. He liked the sight of seas too, of their crashing waves and glittering waters. Lucas had spent all his life in port cities, and he was glad that hadn't changed. As much as Lucas misliked Volantis, their slavery and savagery, he was at least grateful that his father had decided to transplant them to a city by a sea, rather than a landlocked one.

Lucas heard steel and mail clink behind him. He did not need to look over his shoulder to know who it was. It was Ser Barristan, standing in the nearby doorway. He wore one of the three full suits of armor that Lucas had paid a local smith to produce. He wore the largest of them. As a Kingsguard knight, Ser Barristan wore his armor at nearly all times, save only for when he slept, and even then it was nearby and ready to be equipped at a moment's notice. The suit was fashioned of shining, silvery steel, complete with a greathelm, gorget, pauldrons, rerebraces, gauntlets, greaves, basset, sabatons, and a silken, teal-colored cloak that cascaded smoothly over his shoulders and down his back. At Lucas's request, the smith who crafted the armor fashioned the gorget, rerebraces, and basset like the scales of a dragon, much like the other Kingsguard knights in Westeros. But the teal color of Ser Barristan's cloak differentiated him from those false counterparts, who wore cloaks of white. The only piece of armor Ser Barristan did not often wear was his greathelm, which usually dangled from his belt, ready to be donned in an instant.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said. "I wish to speak with you, if I may."

"What of?" Lucas asked coolly, not having moved an inch.

"I have an apology."

"Another?" Lucas asked. He still remembered Ser Barristan's fervent apology from when he first came to them, when he expressed his shame of failing Daenerys's family and then swearing his sword to those that replaced them. Though Lucas respected Ser Barristan, and even trusted him, his opinion of the old knight would always be slightly soured for those mistakes.

"Another," Ser Barristan said.

Lucas turned around and faced the knight. He unfurled his hands from behind his waist and gestured to a small table nearby. "Sit," he commanded. When the knight promptly obeyed, Lucas sat opposite from him. "What is it you wish to apologize for?" Lucas asked.

"When King Robert—"

"—The Usurper," Lucas corrected Ser Barristan, leering at him.

Ser Barristan nodded. "When he died to that boar and Joffrey blamed me for it, when they tried to strip me of my knighthood ... I wasn't sure what I ought to do, or where I ought to go. I'd heard rumors of Princess Daenerys being here in Essos, and a part of me wanted to serve her, if I could ... but so too did a part of me fear that she carried the taint."

Lucas cocked an eyebrow. He hadn't a clue what the old knight was talking about. "What 'taint?'" he asked.

"The taint of madness," Ser Barristan said gravely. "It's in the Targaryen bloodline. I'm not the sort to quote history, Your Grace. I'm a man of swords, not books. But every man in the Seven Kingdoms knows the Targaryen blood suffers a taint. The Mad King made sure they know it now more than ever. Many years ago, King Jahaerys told me, 'every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.' He said that of his own family."

Lucas shook his head, bristling with disgust. "Nonsense," he said. "There is no 'taint,' Ser Barristan. Westeros has had cruel kings and unworthy kings, but there's only ever been one Mad King. And Daenerys is nothing like her father. I would know. My father was King Aerys's master of ships, as you remember. I met Aerys many times alongside him. I saw the man's madness with my own eyes. Ser Barristan, Aerys's madness was his and his only. Even Viserys wasn't the madman he was."

"I remember your father well," Ser Barristan mused, nodding again. "He was a wise man. An honorable man."

"And he would've said the same as I. There is no taint." Lucas sighed, letting his anger fade and his glaring gaze soften. When he had calmed, he spoke again. "I understand your concern, Ser. I wasn't taught to be a man of blind loyalty. My father wasn't one. His loyalty was to the realm. He wanted Aerys to abdicate to Rhaegar." Lucas paused. He considered telling the knight something that he had never told anyone, and then decided that he would. Now was as good a time as any. "When I arranged to meet Viserys, I was considering swearing fealty to him and serving him. He was a Targaryen, he was my liege. It would've been my duty. But then I saw what he was like, and I saw how fearful Daenerys was because of him. So I made my decision. I took Daenerys from him and never looked back."

"You have your father's mind, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said. "I see much of him within you. And ... whether the bloodline carries the taint or not ... Daenerys doesn't have it. She's a good, sweet young woman, and it's a dishonor that I ever thought otherwise."

"If you should be apologizing, it should be to her, not me."

A small smile curled along Ser Barristan's lips, with a sort of wryness Lucas didn't often see from the humble knight. "I already have. I spoke to Her Grace first."

"Ah," Lucas said softly, feeling suddenly foolish. "Very well then."

Behind Ser Barristan, Colton entered the parlor. There was an evident satisfaction in his smile. He was whistling a jolly tune. His shirt had become unbuttoned while he was out, and he hadn't bothered to fix it. He wasn't even attempting to hide his activities. He timed his return perfectly, at least.

Lucas turned his gaze back to Ser Barristan. "Leave us," he commanded him. The old knight obeyed and took his leave. As he went to the doorway, Colton passed him by and came to Lucas.

"Need something?" Colton asked.

"Yes," Lucas said, staring at him from his seat. "Sit."

Colton sat down across from Lucas, in the chair that Ser Barristan had just left vacant. He sat in it much more languidly than the knight had. He sat sideways, put an arm over the chair's backrest, and lazily examined his fingernails.

As close as they had always been, Lucas and Colton had also always been very different. Colton had a noticeably harsher wit. He had often used his words like a whip, even as a boy, lashing with biting insults anyone who displeased him. When they were young, he could break other boys into tears without laying a finger on them, though he was no stranger to fights either. Colton was more vindictive of the two, and he held grudges longer and deeper within himself. That penchant for grudges was what had sent Colton to Essos, as Lucas had learned after they reunited. For years, Colton had plotted to take revenge on the Crown and the Lannisters for Tywin Lannister giving his father the ultimatum of either being executed or taking the black with the Night's Watch at the Wall. When Colton learned that his father died during a ranging beyond the Wall, the plan to take revenge was set in stone. Then, when the War of the Five Kings broke out following the Usurper's death, as one of Robb Stark's rebelling northern armies was to meet Randyll Tarly's loyalist army on the field near Duskendale, Colton plotted to turn his family's men against Randyll's and aid Robb to victory. But Colton's uncle betrayed his plot to Randyll Tarly, and Colton was slated by Randyll for execution. Colton's younger brother Renfred then freed Colton in secret and put him on a ship sailing for Essos. But his penchant for grudges wasn't what Lucas needed to speak to him about.

Being two years older than Lucas, Colton took after girls sooner, and far more fervently. Even as a boy as young as twelve, Colton had possessed an unending desire for them. He would often trade a favor with a girl to have her kiss him on the cheek, only to then whip his head and then steal a kiss from that girl's lips. And now that unending desire had seemed to have translated into an unending lust as a man grown. For the past month, Colton had been leaving the manse nearly every day with a few silver coins, coins he did not return with. He always left around the same time, and it was always for an hour. It wasn't the expenditure that bothered Lucas. It was where he was spending it. Colton hadn't said where he went, but he didn't need to. Lucas knew.

"We need to talk," Lucas said.

Colton let out his typical laugh: a two-note chuckle beneath his breath. "I can tell," he quipped.

"You've been purchasing the services of bed slaves."

"So I have," Colton openly admitted.

"You won't be anymore."

That finally drew Colton's full attention. He looked away from his fingernails, to Lucas. "What, you're serious?" he asked. When he saw no sign of jest in Lucas's expression, he hurriedly sat straight and faced him. "Oh, come now, Lucas," he said. There was almost desperation in his voice. "We're not boys anymore. We're men grown, and men have needs. Surely your father explained that to you. What does it matter if I spend some time with whores? We weren't all so lucky to have been exiled into the arms of a gorgeous little Targaryen maiden."

"I wasn't exiled into Daenerys's arms. I was here for years before I took her from her brother."

"And you mean to claim that, in all those years, you never once took the pleasure of a whore?"

"Never," Lucas said. "Those girls aren't Westerosi whores, Colton. They're bed slaves. They work against their will. They don't wish to serve you. They do it because they have no choice."

"If I weren't using them, someone else would be," Colton argued.

"That doesn't make it right."

Exasperation colored Colton's face. He shook his head with wild disbelief. "What, are you worried that my proclivities will delegitimize you?" he asked. "Lucas, no one will remember what we do in this city. People will sing of your 'Dawn of Dragons,' not of me spending time with some slaves in Volantis. No one will care—"

"—I won't abide by it, Colton," Lucas cut him off. "If you insist on this, you'll be sleeping in the street."

That broke Colton's defiance. A short, broken sigh left his lips. His look of disbelief faltered.

"You're the Hand of the King," Lucas said, speaking more gently now, hoping to restore Colton's spirit. "You'll be the second most powerful man in our kingdom. It shouldn't be hard for you to find a woman who's willing. The Colton I remember loved a challenge. He loved hunting for a girl's affection. There's no challenge in bedding a slave."

Colton put up his hands and bowed his head, surrendering. "Very well, you win," he said tiredly. "You're right. I'll not touch another slave." When he lowered his arms and raised his head, he smiled at Lucas. "You're very much your father's son, you know that? You may not have his hair or his eyes, but you're a shade of that stubborn cunt, sure as shit."

Lucas smiled with him. "I know."

Colton stood from his chair. Lucas did the same. When Colton turned around, Lucas heard clinking steel and mail, just as he had minutes earlier. But the clinking was faster this time.

As Lucas and Colton watched, Ser Barristan appeared in the doorway, clutching a disheveled man by the arm. Ser Barristan threw the man down before them. He landed on his hands and knees with a thud. "Your Grace, I found this man spying on the manse," Ser Barristan said. "He was hiding in shrubbery outside the kitchen window."

The man was dressed in rags. He had brown skin, a bald head, and a gaunt face. His eyes were wide with terror. Lucas could not be sure of his age. He could've been twenty or forty. When Lucas saw the jet-black tattoo of a coin upon the man's cheek, he knew he was a slave. All Volantis slaves bore tattoos upon their face to signify their status.

Lucas walked to the slave slowly, taking his time. He spent a moment considering what this meant, and what he ought to do. When Lucas came to stand over the slave, he leered down at him. "What did you see through the window?" Lucas asked, speaking in Bastard Valyrian, the tongue spoken in all the Free Cities. It was a tongue Lucas had practiced for years but was still not truly skilled in. Ser Barristan and Colton had a working understanding of it, but they were not as fluent in it as him.

"Nothing," the slave professed breathlessly. "I saw nothing. I swear it."

"The most he could've seen was the maids in the kitchen," Ser Barristan noted. "I don't believe he was in the shrubbery for long before I found him."

"What is your name?" Lucas asked the slave.

"Deros," he answered.

"Who is your owner?"

"Haraph Ara."

Lucas's heart sank. There was no name he had desired less to hear.

Haraph Ara was one of the Triarchs, the three men who ruled Volantis. They were selected in an election every year by Volantis's unenslaved residents who could prove their descent from Old Valyria. Haraph was the longest tenured of the three. There was no one in Volantis with more power than him. Lucas's father had to be approved by the Triarchs before he was able to purchase the manse from its previous owner, but the Triarchs owed Lucas no loyalty. Beyond his coin, he was nothing to them. For one of them to suddenly send a slave to spy on him did not bode well. The Triarchs could do as they pleased with Lucas and everyone else in his household. If they learned of Lucas's dragons, they might decide that they were better owners for them, or that such dangerous creatures deserved only death. Lucas did not know the Triarchs well. He had only spoken to them a handful of times in his life. But they were slaveowners, and thus Lucas considered them capable of any cruelty.
"Ser Barristan, draw your sword," Lucas commanded.

The old knight obeyed without question. Steel hissed as his blade slipped free from its sheath.

Deros's head whipped about, from Ser Barristan to Lucas. "No, please," he begged.

Lucas went down onto one knee, to the slave's eye level. "Deros, I want you to tell Haraph the truth: you saw nothing. I also want you to tell him this lie: we never had this conversation. Can I trust you to do that?"

Deros nodded furiously. "Yes, yes, I'll tell him."

"Are you mad?" Colton asked with disbelief. "We have to kill him."

"He doesn't know anything," Lucas said in the Common Tongue, still staring at the slave. "He hasn't seen them."

"But he knows we have something."

"And what of it? Every wealthy household in every city in the world has secrets. We're not taking a man's life for knowing we do too."

"And if he's lying to you? If he tells Haraph about this little talk of ours?"

"Then he tells Haraph, and they still don't know anything more. They're still where they started." Lucas stood and gestured upwards with his hand. "Rise," he said to the slave in his tongue. Deros slowly did as Lucas bid, joining him on his feet. He was trembling. Lucas looked to Ser Barristan and nodded. "Send him on his way."

"At once, Your Grace." Ser Barristan took Deros by the arm again.

"Thank you, thank you," Deros babbled as the knight took him away.

Colton shook his head. Lucas left his side and started off towards the manse's master bedchamber. "Where are you going?" Colton asked.

Lucas stopped in the doorway. "To speak with my wife," he said.

"This isn't good, you know."

"I know. That's why we're leaving."

"What?"

Lucas looked to Colton over his shoulder. "We're leaving," he repeated. "All of us. On the morrow, at dawn."

"Where are we going?" Colton asked.

Lucas looked ahead again. "I don't know yet."

The next morning, at dawn, while the others packed, Lucas and Colton went down to the city proper and purchased a large cart, two healthy horses, three crates for pigs, an assortment of fishing equipment, and a tiny tincture of milk of the poppy. When Lucas and Colton returned, they loaded the cart with all their belongings. They locked Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark in the pig crates and concealed them with blankets. The whelps slept silently during the trip, sedated by the sips of the milk of the poppy Lucas had them drink.

After looking over his map of Essos, Lucas chose for their new homestead a grassy plain alongside the smallest and most secluded mouth of the Rhoyne river that poured into the Summer Sea. There wasn't a town for many miles in any direction, and the closest road was a fifteen-minute walk away and was almost never traversed by travelers. Those venturing west from Volantis to the Orange Shore were almost certain to either choose a more secure road or simply sail there. The homestead's location wasn't so secluded that Lucas couldn't have someone ride out for provisions, but there was more than enough privacy to field three growing dragons. The river meant fresh water, and it and the sea meant easy access to fish and mollusks for food. It was perhaps not perfect, but it was the best that Lucas could've chosen.

With every grown pair of hands pitching in, with Colton, Tobas, Ser Barristan and Lucas managing the handiwork and heavy lifting, and with Clare, Elayna, and Daenerys sewing the fabrics and furs, the homestead was built with an impressive swiftness. Lucas and Daenerys spent only a fortnight in a tent, as he had commanded for their bedchamber to be the first room to be finished and furnished. Ironically, it was Clare who was the most knowledgeable of construction in the group. Her father and brother were both builders who had constructed countless scores of smallfolk's homes in Driftmark.

There were a few injuries in the building of the homestead, but nothing was serious. The worst Daenerys suffered was a finger poked by a sewing needle. The worst Lucas suffered was a hammered thumb, which hurt horribly for about a week, but was fine soon after.

With everyone's combined efforts and a fair few trips to Volantis and back for supplies, the homestead was finished in a month and a half. It was only two buildings, a moderately sized house and a stable just large enough to shelter the two horses. Both were framed with timber, walled with plaster, and rooved with wooden shingles. It was the first home Lucas ever resided in that didn't have a study or a dining hall. Instead, the kitchen was an eating space as well as a food preparation space, and Lucas spent his desk hours in his bedchamber. Overall, the homestead certainly wasn't much, but it was cozy enough. It would do, for the time. Lucas knew their next home would be the one they truly deserved. He would make sure of it.

In the following months on the open homestead, freed from their confinements, the dragons grew rapidly in size and strength. Their voices deepened, from shrieking screeches to fearsome roars. As whelps, they could only spit embers of flames, but as they grew to adolescence, as drakes, they could spout shimmering streams of dragonfire, each with flames made up of their own unique colors. Rhaegon's dragonfire was blood red, Skyshark's was bright blue, and Dreamwing's was pale white. Rhaegon remained the biggest of his brood. Before long, he was nearly as tall as a warhorse, and far lengthier. He wasn't yet large enough to take a man to the sky, but he was more than large enough to kill one. Lucas had once seen him tear apart an elk after bathing it in a gout of his red dragonfire. The dragons roamed as they pleased, but they always returned to the homestead to sleep. They often slept in the hay in the stables, much to the terror of the horses. In his occasional trips to Volantis to purchase provisions, Lucas learned that rumors were spreading of dragons in the skies. But that's all they remained: rumors. None believed those few who claimed to have seen their shadows or heard their roars. Dragons had been extinct for generations, after all.

Lucas continued sparring with Ser Barristan. It was even more important now that they were as isolated as they were. No city guardsmen would save them from Dothraki raiders if they were misfortunate enough to be happened upon by them. The dragons certainly would, but they weren't always home. And Lucas's sword was his father's before it was his. It would be a disservice for an unskilled man to wield it.

Four months after the move, after a supper in which he only barely spoke, Lucas retreated to his and Daenerys's bedchamber and sat at his desk. The room was aglow from the setting sun's reddish rays that glared through the window. Scrolls were strewn about in front of him. Some were blank, some were fully scribbled upon, others were only partly so. His quill rested motionless in its inkwell. Lucas's hands were in his lap, entwined together finger between finger. He was deep in thought.

Some time after Lucas sat down, how much time he couldn't have been certain, Daenerys appeared in their bedchamber, and she appeared with a purpose. She wore a sleeveless gown of pale pink silk, a few shades lighter than the violet of her eyes. She came to Lucas's side and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Jace is taking a nap," she said. "Clare has him." There was a suggestiveness to her words.

Daenerys was good at that, at making time for Lucas to take his pleasure, and at letting him know when each time had come. However, in that moment, Lucas scarcely noticed her tone. He was entranced, lost astray somewhere in some far corner of his mind.

"What're you doing?" Daenerys asked as she looked over his messy pile of hastily scribbled scrolls. She must've thought his desk looked like that of a madman's.

"Thinking," Lucas said.

"Of Westeros?"

"Yes." Lucas drew his quill from the inkwell and readied it over a blank scroll, but then stopped. He lightly tapped the tip of his quill, creating a growing blot of ink on the parchment. He began to think aloud. "If I can make it to High Tide, the castle ... if my family still recognizes me, if they're still the family I remember ... they should restore me to Driftmark's throne ... seeing you and the dragons should make their decision all the easier ... I could write them first, see what their reply is ... or perhaps that would be showing my hand too soon ... if we can return Colton to his little brother, he'll restore him to Duskendale ... if all goes well, that's two houses, their men, and all the smallfolk they rule ... but that's not enough ... even with three dragons, that's not enough ... we'd be slaughtered like the Starks ... and with the Usurper's brother breathing down our neck from Dragonstone ... but perhaps I could bring Randyll Tarly to our cause ... he's my uncle, I'm his blood ... he might see our cause as just ... he was a loyalist in the rebellion ... but he ordered Colton's execution, and that could pose a problem."

It was a flurry of thoughts, a few certain, but most very much not. To Lucas, it was all nearing to be overwhelming ... till he felt girlish fingers cup his cheek and gently turn his head.

Daenerys's lips awaited his. She kissed him sweetly and lovingly, gracing him with one soft stroke of her lips after the other. Her next words came in the natural pauses of their kiss. "You've worried enough for today ... the dragons are still young ... you've still plenty of time to plan."

Lucas sighed deeply into their kiss. "And what would you ... have me do instead?"

"If it would please you ... I would comfort you now."

Daenerys's lips parted for the final time. Lucas opened his eyes and met hers. Her violet gaze was adoring and affectionate, innocent but not chaste, submissive but not fearful. Lucas loved that look. He knew it well. In their early days together, Daenerys had possessed a strong shyness, but now, roughly a year and a half since they had wedded, on some occasions it was her who initiated their lust. Sometimes, when Lucas lay on his back relaxing in bed, it was Daenerys who crawled atop him. And sometimes, when they lay on their sides together, it was Daenerys who reached behind herself and grabbed Lucas's manhood to guide it into her moist slit.

"It would please me very much," Lucas said with a smile.

Daenerys smiled with him. Then she paused for a moment, her eyes gazing into Lucas's. "Lucas ... I have news."

"What news is that?"

Daenerys paused again. "I haven't bled," she said. "It's seven weeks gone."

That took Lucas by surprise.

Before, when Daenerys and the maidservants had told him together that she carried his child, Lucas had already known the day would come. He had foreseen it. But he didn't expect her to bear him a second one so soon.

Lucas opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

"We'll have another," Daenerys said.

Lucas's smile returned to him, wider than before. His words soon followed. "Then I say we ought to celebrate."

Daenerys's smile mirrored his, widening and shining with joy.

"Take off your gown," Lucas told her.

Daenerys stood straight and raised her arms to pull her gown over her head. Lucas helped her, tugging upwards on it. When it was off, she cast it aside with a flick of her wrist. Her body was then bared to Lucas. Daenerys was tight and lithe, girlish but womanly, with a flat stomach, narrow waist, and flared hips. Her breasts were pale and pert, with little pink nipples. She did not often wear a brassiere, as there wasn't much purpose to it with how often she was nursing Jace. Her breasts were no less perfect a sight now that she was a mother. They were no less perky, no less shapely. They were a hint larger and their teats often leaked trickles of milk, but that only enticed Lucas more.

With her gown discarded, Daenerys wore only an underskirt spun from a white silk. Her cunt was mere moments away from Lucas's sight, and he was craving it. Heeding his unspoken desire, Daenerys tugged down her underskirt and kicked it away. As soon as it was gone, Lucas wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her closer. Being seated, his head was roughly level with her crotch, and thus it was all too easy for him to stare. Daenerys's cunt was plump and puffy, and the little slit within her cleft was already shining with moisture. Lucas loved the contrasting colors at her crotch: the pale white of her smooth thighs, the silver-blonde of her cunt hairs, and the bright pink of her slim slit.

Lucas leaned towards Daenerys, nestled his nose in the soft hairs of her mound, and gave her little cunt a loving kiss. He smooched her puffy cleft and pushed his tongue into her slit. Her sodden inner flesh was hot on his tongue. It had a somewhat salty taste, almost metallic. Lucas delighted in it. He let Daenerys's wetness gather on his tongue for a moment, soaking it with her strong taste. Then he twisted his head and sucked one of the slim lips of her labia. He rolled her labia in his mouth, pleasuring it with his tongue, and pulled on it till it slipped free.

Lucas tasted Daenerys's cunt in every way he could think of, kissing, licking, sucking. The room soon filled with the usual lewd sounds that came with him devouring her wettest of flesh. Daenerys breathed sweet moans as Lucas pleasured her. She gently grabbed Lucas's head, curling her fingers through his wavy hair. Lucas straightened his head and brushed the flat of his tongue upwards through Daenerys's slit, stroking the little button of her clitoris and its slim hood at the apex of every lick.

Lucas could've spent hours enjoying Daenerys's taste, till the sun fell and rose anew. But he knew there was something even better than tasting her.

After giving his wife's cunt a parting kiss, Lucas reared back. He clutched the arms of his chair and stood for a moment, lifting his chair as he stood. He turned his chair to face Daenerys and then dropped and sat again.

Daenerys went down to her knees before Lucas and began fiddling with his belt. When it was unfastened, she tugged his trousers and breeches down to his feet, where she slipped them off along with his shoes. The moment it was freed, Lucas's manhood sprung out. It was tall and stiff and flush with hot blood, fully erect and eager for flesh. When Daenerys closed a soft, girlish hand around his manhood and gave it a few strokes, it hardened further, growing almost achingly stiff.

Daenerys ran her tongue over her lips. Once she'd moistened them, she lowered her head and smooched a loving kiss onto the crown of Lucas's stiff cock. More kisses followed as Daenerys shifted her mouth around his length, leaving a kiss at every inch she passed. Each brought Lucas a pleasant tickle of pleasure.

"Dany," Lucas said.

Daenerys's violet eyes flicked up at him, curious of his desire, as she froze in place. Her lips were mid-kiss atop his crown.

"Mount me."

Lucas always enjoyed her mouth, but that wasn't what he was craving. He wanted to be inside her, truly inside her, and he didn't want to wait.

Daenerys stood and straddled Lucas in his chair, putting her knees down at each side of him. She reached below herself and again closed a girlish hand around his manhood. She pointed it directly upwards, aligning it with her cunt. She lowered herself till they felt the first touch of their flesh, till his thick, aching crown prodded her moist, warm slit. Another tickle of pleasure wormed through Lucas's loins.

Daenerys released her hand from Lucas's cock and grabbed his shoulders. Then, as she gazed into his eyes, she eased herself downwards. His swollen crown slowly parted her soft slit, making her puffy cunt gape around him. As Daenerys sank, Lucas's crown disappeared inside her, enveloped within her slick, swelteringly hot flesh.

When Daenerys lowered herself the last of the way, the rest of Lucas's towering manhood rose inside her, gliding upwards with ease, despite her tightness. Her sopping wetness gave his large cock easy passage through her little cunt, allowing her closed sheath to open around him. She slid down till all of his length was inside her, till her groin met his and the pink lips of her gaped slit kissed his crotch. Her well-groomed cunt hairs and his coarse and unwieldly ones formed a messy thicket where their groins met, with some hairs scraggly and brown, others soft and silver-blonde. Daenerys's tight cunt enveloped the entirety of Lucas's long length, sheathing every inch from crown to root in heat and wetness. Lucas sighed at the feeling of it. Daenerys's cunt was the same great pleasure it had always been. Motherhood hadn't changed that.

It was still incredible to Lucas that Daenerys's small body and even smaller cunt were ever able to take all of his cock. Such were the wonders of a woman.

With his cock satisfyingly sheathed to her hilt, Lucas leaned forward and took one of Daenerys's pink nipples between his lips. When he suckled it, it promptly awarded him a squirt of milk onto his tongue. Daenerys's milk was remarkably warm, almost hot, as though it were fresh from a pot above a fire. The intense inner heat of Daenerys's body, her pure blood of the dragon, was evident throughout her. The taste of her milk was sweet and sugary, like a cream. It was a treat. With more suckling, more squirts followed. Lucas could've filled his belly with Daenerys's milk, but he figured it was best not to, as he feared he could leave little of it remaining.

Lucas let Daenerys's nipple pop from his lips. Her teat leaked a trickle of milk down her pale breast, eager to continue being suckled. Lucas thumbed the milk away.

Daenerys began swiveling her hips in Lucas's crotch. The hot, wet flesh of her tight tunnel rolled around his stiff cock, swirling it with slow, smooth pleasure. Lucas groaned. He held Daenerys's hips and threw his head back against the cushioned backrest of his chair. Daenerys languidly ground her groin into his, swiveling and twisting, shifting up and down and left and right.

"Gods that's good," Lucas said. He hadn't realized how badly he needed this.

Lucas knew Daenerys would've readily ridden him to his finish entirely on her own if he asked it of her. She would've bounced on his groin like she was in the saddle of a horse. She had done it before. But Lucas didn't want that, not this time. He was finished being idle. He'd been idle enough that day. He wanted her cunt, and he wanted to take it himself. He wanted to ravage her.

Without warning, Lucas firmly grabbed the cheeks of Daenerys's arse. Her rump was not large, but it was cute and shapely. Motherhood seemed to have made it a little more squeezable than before. Lucas could sink his fingers further into the soft flesh, and with greater ease.

Using those cheeks like a handhold, Lucas pushed Daenerys's arse down, impaling her slit cunt onto his cock. The friction of her cunt swiftly sheathing his length graced him with a warm bloom of pleasure in his loins. Lucas brought Daenerys's arse back up and then promptly pushed it back down, just as sharply as before. He made a rhythm of that. He fucked her almost violently, audibly slapping her arse into his crotch at the bottom of every downward thrust. Daenerys's little cunt was slick but gripping, and its lips and inner flesh visibly clung to Lucas's cock every time he raised her up.

Lucas gazed into Daenerys's violet eyes as he fucked himself with her arse. He leered at her with a fierceness. She mewled and panted as he had his way with her. Her hot breath puffed out from her pouty lips. Lucas leaned forward and buried his face between her breasts, savoring their warmth and softness against his shaven cheeks. He continued bouncing her arse in his groin, stroking his manhood with her cunt.

When Lucas withdrew from Daenerys's breasts, he gazed at her face again. Her sweet moans drew his gaze to her mouth, to her moist, slightly parted lips. Lucas decided that he would have them. He wrapped an arm around Daenerys, pulled her down, tilted his head, and took her into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, to claim her with it as his cock claimed her cunt. Daenerys obliged his greedy tongue and greeted it with her own. It was a sloppy kiss. Soon the saliva in their mouths was as much the other's as it was their own.
Lucas reached up and sank his fingers through the tresses of Daenerys's long, silver-blonde hair. Her hair was so smooth and soft to the touch, more so than any silk. His other hand stayed fastened to her arse, squeezing it tight. His lust only grew as time passed. Lucas began thrusting his hips upwards, as much as he could while seated. He met Daenerys halfway every time, clapping his crotch into her jiggling arse.

Soon Lucas wanted to see Daenerys's nakedness again, to watch her flesh as well as feel it. He pulled away his tongue and gave her a final, pulling kiss so fierce that their lips smacked sharply as they parted. Lucas shifted his hands, grabbed Daenerys by the small of her waist, and brought the entirety of her body down with every thrust, making her perky breasts bounce wildly before his eyes.

Lucas's pleasure grew like flames in a furnace. He was soon grunting. He would not last long. His manhood thickened inside Daenerys's snug sheath, swelling as it prepared to spill its seed inside her. "I'm close," Lucas said.

"Where do you want it?" Daenerys asked breathily.

A good question. In the time they'd been together, Lucas had spilled his seed just about everywhere in or on Daenerys at least once. On her face, inside her mouth, between her breasts, on her belly, on her bush, inside her cunt. Had he not just learned that she now carried his second child, he likely would've insisted on inseminating her, squirting into her womb and hoping his seed quickened inside her. But that job was done, and Lucas had utterly free reign to spill his seed wherever he saw fit. And thus, this time, he decided to let Daenerys make the choice. "Surprise me," he said.

Daenerys bounced in Lucas's crotch a little longer, her gaping cunt continuing to take his manhood to her hilt. Heat roiled within Lucas as pressure built within his loins. For a moment, Lucas was convinced that Daenerys would have him finish like that and shoot off inside her. But she was simply waiting, as he would soon realize, till the last possible moment. Daenerys had been bedded by Lucas often enough to know exactly when the last moment was. His was the only manhood she ever knew, the one that had deflowered her, the one that slid inside her nearly every night. She knew his cock as well as he did. Perhaps even better. After all, she knew its taste. And she was about to know it again.

When only a few thrusts remained before his end, Daenerys hurriedly dismounted from Lucas. His throbbing manhood slipped from her wet cunt with an audible shlick and swayed when it came free. Moving fast, Daenerys kneeled before Lucas, looked him in his eyes, and closed her mouth around his cock. Her cheeks hollowed as she took his manhood further between her sucking lips. As that seal of snug suction glided downwards, the sensitive underside of Lucas's cock brushed against Daenerys's tongue, and he was pleasured by suction, heat, and wetness all. Daenerys took Lucas far into her mouth, much farther than the first time he had her fellate him. Her nose soon touched the coarse hairs of his crotch as her moist, plump lips sealed around the throbbing base of his cock. Then, with his cock submerged in the hot mess of saliva in her mouth, with his crown in her throat, Daenerys began swiftly sucking Lucas off, bobbing her head up and down his cock.

Lewd sounds occasionally slipped from Daenerys's lips as she worked, and Lucas's cock was soon sloppy with a glossy and bubbly sheen of her saliva. Daenerys's sealed lips sucking and stroking Lucas's stiff cock was an intense pleasure, and his finish arrived only moments later.

Lucas groaned as the pressure in his loins burst. An inferno of hot pleasure rushed outwards from his core, leaving a blissful tingling in its wake. His cock visibly pulsated between Daenerys's lips in orgasm, shooting what felt like thick ropes of seed into her maw. By some primal instinct, Lucas grabbed the back of Daenerys's head to ensure that she kept her mouth on his cock, but it wasn't needed. Daenerys's big, violet eyes shone sweetly up at his as she kept her full lips sealed around his manhood, ensuring that he spilled every spurt, string, and drop of seed inside her mouth. Lucas's chest heaved with ragged breath, frazzled by the incredibly intense pleasure.

When Lucas's orgasm finally faded, Daenerys's head slowly and sensually rose. She gently glided her mouth up his softening length, till his spent cock finally slipped from her puckered lips in a way that looked and sounded like the end of a long and loving kiss. Messy strands of saliva stretched from his crown to her lips till they broke and fell.

Daenerys opened her mouth wide and showed Lucas the mess within. Her tongue swam within a sea of white, bathed in his seed. She was certainly tasting it. Then, without a word, Daenerys closed her mouth, cocked her head back, and let Lucas see her throat bob. When she opened her mouth and showed him it again, no white remained. Her pink tongue was clean. His seed was gone, swallowed in one gulp.

Daenerys knew exactly what Lucas liked. When he took his pleasure between her legs, he liked seeing it inside her. When he took it inside her mouth, he liked seeing it go away.

Daenerys rose up and kissed him. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," Lucas replied. "Consider me comforted," he quipped with a smile.

That evening would be the last lighthearted one for many nights.

The next day began deceivingly calm. At midday, Lucas, Daenerys, Jace, Colton, Ser Barristan, Tobas, Clare, and Elayna all shared a chatty communal meal in the homestead's kitchen. Jace had recently begun eating solid foods in addition to nursing from Daenerys. The lunch was seared fish freshly caught from the sea, the easiest food for them to acquire. It was cooked to perfection. It was flaky and moist, and it melted in one's mouth when chewed. Meanwhile, the dragons were presumably hunting, as they usually did in the middle of the day. Rhaegon and Dreamwing most often preyed upon whatever large wildlife they found in the temperate lands around the less-traveled branches of the Rhoyne river. Often it was elk or boars, creatures that could perhaps defend themselves well from many predators but were helpless against dragonfire. Skyshark primarily preyed over the Summer Sea, tearing chunks of scorched flesh from any mammals that came to the surface, whether they be sea lions, dolphins, or even some small whales. Occasionally his siblings would join him.

Later that day, while the maids prepared supper, Lucas took and carried Jace at his side and went out. Something had spurred him into seeking a moment alone with him, father and son. They hadn't had enough of those as of late.

Lucas sat on the beach by the homestead, close enough to the water that the scent of the Summer Sea could be deeply breathed, but far enough that the waves licking out over the sand could not touch him. It was a sickeningly sweltering day, almost as humid as it was hot. It was the sort of heat that made one's clothes stick to their flesh. The Summer Sea's breezes were a merciful, much-needed respite.

Lucas sat Jace in his lap. The heat never seemed to bother that boy much. His light attire aided that. He wore only a cloth diaper and shirt, both sewn by Clare's hand. He was still a small boy, but he was plump and robust. He was a little over eight months of age. His shock of silver hair was wild and messy. Daenerys combed it every day, but Jace would often somehow manage to tousle it not hours later. His hair was noticeably paler than his mother's. It was less blond and more silver. It was identical to Lucas's father's hair, Jace's namesake.

At first, Jace sat facing Lucas, smiling and swaying from side to side, pawing at his father, touching his face and his hair. They played a game where whenever Jace pulled at Lucas's face, Lucas warped his expression into something goofy and exaggerated. Each time, Jace burst into giggling laughter. Lucas laughed with him.

Not long after they sat down, a few gusts of wind were the only warning before Rhaegon landed loudly behind them. The red dragon crawled forward on his wings and claws till he stopped beside them. Rhaegon then lay at Lucas's side, with his scaly brow touching his shoulder. Rhaegon was breathing rather heavily at first, doubtless fresh from a vigorous hunt. When Jace reached over and began petting his head, the dragon soon fell calm and quiet. That calmness was a rarity for the fierce and prideful beast. Jace brought that calmness out of Rhaegon like no one else could.

Jace cooed as he stroked the ruby-like scales of Rhaegon's forehead. A low rumbling came from deep in the dragon's throat, something Lucas could only liken to the purring of a cat, only much lower and much more menacing. With the bright sun shining upon his face, the pupils of Rhaegon's yellow-gold eyes slimmed into razor-thin slits. Rhaegon's wings were folded against his body. The sinewy, golden flesh that stretched between them seemed to be one of the few vulnerable places on his body. His scales felt as hard as steel; it would take a strong man to drive a spear between them. It was staggering how fast Rhaegon and his siblings were growing now that they were roaming free. Rhaegon seemed noticeably bigger than even the day before. He was almost twice as big as a warhorse now. Lucas would need to begin riding him soon. The thought made him both nervous and thrilled.

"Dagan," Jace babbled happily. It had been the first recognizable word he'd ever spoken, not long ago.

"Dragon," Lucas said, smiling. "That's right."

Lucas found himself gazing at the pale silver of Jace's hair. It called to Lucas's mind memories of his father.

His mother Marlaya, second child and eldest daughter of Lord Randar Tarly, had been eighteen when Lucas was born, a typical age, but his father Jacaerys had been eight-and-thirty at the time. The lack of what was considered a worthy wife for the king's master of ships had prolonged his bachelorhood. Thus, Lucas had never known his father as a young man. When Lucas had come to the world, his father was already learned and accomplished. Nothing was a mystery to him. He could read others as simply as one reads a book, he had a tongue as silver as his hair, and he could wield a sword as well as any knight. To Lucas, everything had seemed so easy to his father. And that made Lucas's early struggles with young manhood much more frustrating. But with enough effort, by learning from his father while he still lived and then continuing his teachings after his death, Lucas had shaped himself like a smith shapes steel. He wasn't quite as calm or as wise as his father was, and he wasn't sure if he ever could be, but he was 'steady and strong,' as his father had said on his deathbed. That would have to be good enough. And just as Lucas was able to learn from his father, Jace would be able to learn from his. The deep satisfaction of that thought seemed to Lucas to be the sweetest fruit of fatherhood.

Lucas wondered if his father was watching him. If he was, was he proud? He must've been, surely. Lucas had seen one of his father's greatest wishes come true. He had taken a Targaryen wife, just as the Lord of House Velaryon was meant to, as was so often done before. Dragon was wedded to dragon. And yet ... so much else remained uncertain. Had Lucas taken the right path? Had he acted too rashly? Had he acted too slowly? Lucas didn't know. What he did know was that there was still a critical test he had yet to face. A test that proved some men and showed craven the others. Lucas's father would've reserved judgement till his son had seen that test through. But when would it come?

Some time later, Skyshark roaring from somewhere above the ocean far in the distance stirred Lucas from his thoughts. The sapphire dragon's call must've been a sort of challenge, because it instantly roused Rhaegon from his relaxation. Rhaegon rose on his legs and wings, brushing off Jace's petting hand, and launched from the ground with a great gust that made Lucas's and Jace's hair flutter. Jace clapped happily as he watched Rhaegon beat his wings and fly off into the distance. The dragon roared as he soared away.

Not long after that, Jace grew fussy and restless. Lucas figured that he had likely grown hungry. Lucas clutched his son against his side and stood to his feet.

As Lucas walked back to the homestead, he saw that Colton had for some bizarre reason lit the campfire between the house and the stable. He was gazing into the flickering flames. Ser Barristan stood nearby. The old knight took a sip from his waterskin, and then abruptly poured it out atop his head to cool himself.

Daenerys was standing by the house's open door. She was waiting for Lucas. It seemed she had suspected that Jace would have grown hungry by then. She smiled as Lucas carried their boy to her. "Is he hungry?" she asked.

"Seems so," Lucas said.

"Here, my sweet," Daenerys cooed lovingly as she took Jace from Lucas's arms. She pulled open the deep neck of her gown and brought Jace to the pink teat of her pale breast. Lucas saw that her breast was glistening with beads of sweat. It wasn't much cooler inside the house than it was out. "Awfully hot today," Daenerys noted as she looked to Lucas.

"Like the seventh hell," Lucas said. "Go on inside and have Tobas fan you both. I don't want either of you ill from the heat."

"Alright," Daenerys said.

Lucas sent her on her way with a quick kiss on her lips and a gentle pat on her arse. Then he turned to Colton and the burning campfire. "Are you mad?" he asked, partly amused and partly angered. "Put the fire out. It's sweltering out here."

Colton wiped the sweat from his brow. "The red priests say they can see visions in flames," he said. "I think they're full of shit. I can't see anything."

"Of course they're full of shit. There's no such thing as their 'Lord of Light.' Now put the bloody fire out."

Colton rose and stood to his feet. He grabbed the handles of the large cauldron of water above the fire and upended it. The flames let out an angry hiss as the water crashed over it. After poking the ashes around some with a stick, the fire was fully dead.

Then, when Colton turned to face Lucas, figures appeared behind him, coming out from behind the stable. Lucas's eyes bulged a bit when he saw them. Colton noticed something was wrong from his expression. "What?" he asked. Then he turned around and saw the same that Lucas did.

A party of nine men with an enclosed cart drawn by two horses approached. All had olive skin, black hair, and brown eyes. Some had bald heads or bald faces, but most had thick, curly hair and scraggly, wiry beards. A few had connected eyebrows. They all looked to be young men, and they were all around the same average build and height, not tall but not short, fit but not muscular. They were lightly dressed in simple garb of linen vestments, linen trousers, and leather boots. All nine of the men wore swords at their left hips, and theirs were strange in shape. The blades were curved, not straight.

When they came to a stop, the man atop the cart's right horse stepped out of his saddle and came down. His curls and beard were close-cropped, and his eyes were hazel, not dark brown like the others. He was perhaps the eldest of them. He approached Lucas with a smile that seemed genuine, and the brief bow he granted Lucas seemed no less so. "Greetings, friends," he said. "My name is Khrazar mo Dhazak. My companions and I are men of Meereen." There was a strange crudeness to his words. His Bastard Valyrian accent was different from those in the Free Cities. Lucas presumed it was the accent typical to his people. He had never spoken to a man of Meereen. But he knew enough about the city to fear its men's intentions. Meereen's mastery of slavery made Volantis's pale in comparison.

Lucas considered readying his hand atop the hilt of his sheathed sword, but he decided otherwise. He thought it best not to, yet. "You're a long way from Slaver's Bay," Lucas replied, speaking in Bastard Valyrian as well.

"Yes, but we're needed far and wide. Our mission is a very important one," Khrazar said.

"What mission would that be?" Lucas asked.

"Our wondrous city suffered a plague not long ago, as you may know. Our stock of slaves is now rather meager. I and others have travelled to the Free Cities to replenish it." Khrazar pointed a finger to the east, in the direction of Volantis, and then to the west. "My party and I were riding from Volantis to the Orange Shore when we happened to see the smoke from your fire."

"And what do you want with us?"

"We seek bed slaves," Khrazar explained. "Our brothels were hurt most of all during the plague. We're paying good coin, mind you. Thirty honors for any female of childbearing age. Sixty if they're young. A hundred if they're young and pretty. You three look to be wealthy, and unless you're all intimate with each other, I'm going to guess that you've some females in that home behind you. So, come now, trade us them for our coin. You'll never receive a better offer than this, that I assure you."

"We're Westerosi," Lucas said, speaking both sternly and pridefully. "We keep no slaves. Now turn around and leave this place."

Just then, behind Lucas, the house's door swung open. "Lucas?" Daenerys called out as she appeared in the doorway, wearing a smile. When she saw the unfamiliar men, her smile vanished.

Lucas whipped his head towards her. "Go back inside," he said.

Daenerys swiftly retreated and shut the door.

When Lucas looked back to Khrazar, he saw a sinister glimmer in the slaver's hazel eyes. Khrazar's lips curled into a wide grin. "And who is that young beauty?" he asked. "Can't be older than eighteen. That silver hair of hers is a rare sight in my city. Quite the delicacy. Yes, that girl would be very popular. One of the Great Masters might even take her as a personal pet."

A heat flashed in Lucas's face. His chest tightened.

"Mind your tongue, slaver," Ser Barristan growled.

"I say we cut the savage's tongue from his mouth," Colton suggested.

"Easy now, friends," Khrazar said, briefly raising his hands. "I trust that you all can count, and as you can see, there are nine of us, and only three of you. And I have just decided that we will not be leaving your home empty-handed. Now, I enjoy business much more than bloodshed, so, please, allow me to pay you for that silver-haired girl. Three hundred honors is more than fair, yes?"

Lucas's brow lowered, his expression hardening. "Leave this place. I won't ask you again."

"No, see, you've only two choices," Khrazar said, as though it were a matter of utter fact. "You can live to see the morrow as richer men, or you can die here today, in vain."

Colton laughed. It was one of his typical closemouthed chuckles, smug and certain. "You're the ones that'll die here today, and it won't be pretty," he told them. "At least you'll all be part of history."

"'History?'" Khrazar said with a single raised eyebrow, mildly confused but largely uncaring.

"History," Colton repeated. "A new dawn. The world's changed. You just don't know it yet."

Khrazar pointed at Colton as his gaze returned to Lucas. "This one thins my patience. I suggest you make your decision now."

"As you wish," Lucas said. Then, all at once, Lucas drew his sword from his scabbard to the sound of singing steel, cocked back his head, and shouted "Rhaegon, Dreamwing, Skyshark!" into the skies, roaring their names as loudly as his voice could muster.

A hissing symphony filled the air as everyone else drew their steel. Colton and Ser Barristan came forward and joined each of Lucas's sides, their swords readied same as his. Ser Barristan had donned his helm.

"That was a mistake, my friend," Khrazar said as he and the other slavers stared them down. "Three more men aren't going to save you."
Lucas shook his head as he brought his sword to his hip. "They're not men."

Khrazar arranged his fellow slavers around himself with his commands. "Qazdol, Meisnan, Gezlok, and Gighdas, kill the old one in the steel suit. Erdas, Ozhal, kill the skinny one with the long hair. Ondas and Mazdiq, with me. We'll kill the leader."

"Thought it would be a little longer before we spilled blood together," Colton said softly, quiet enough that the slavers could not hear.

"Afraid not," Lucas replied.

"These aren't great odds."

"For now. Just need to bide time."

"Stay on the move," Ser Barristan said. "Don't let yourself become surrounded. Keep them in front of you."

That was the last they were able to speak. The slavers shouted and charged them.

Steel crashed and clanged as sword struck sword. Men yelled and hollered as droplets of spittle and sweat flung about. Lucas and the others managed to fend off that first clash, but only that. The swarm of slavers and swinging steel forced them to separate and retreat. True to Khrazar's commands, four slavers pursued Ser Barristan, two pursued Colton, and the final three, including Khrazar, pursued Lucas.

Lucas fought as he fled and fled as he fought. The grass crunched beneath his feet with every backwards step. Sweat dripped from his hair onto his face. He kept his head on a constant swivel, ensuring the slavers stayed in his vision. There were three swords to his one, and it was all he could do to backpedal and parry each strike as it came. His steps were smooth and swift, and his hands no less so. Each moment a sword came his way, his own sword was there, meeting it in the air, creating a song of steel.

Lucas greatly wished he was wearing his armor, but he wasn't about to try to run inside the house and bring the slavers with him. He would have to manage as he was. Caution would have to rule him.

When Lucas spotted what looked to be an opening, he chanced a lunge at one of the slavers, the shortest one, Mazdiq. The slaver only barely managed to bring his curved sword up against Lucas's, redirecting his strike to slice the air beside his head. In the short moment of that one lunge, the other two slavers had circled to Lucas's sides. Lucas darted away and brought his sword back just before Khrazar's blade could bite into his outstretched arm.

Moments later, Lucas had retreated to the side of the stable. The wall was a shield, an angle he could not be attacked from. The slavers were still upon him, never slowing. "Fight like a man, cunt!" the third slaver, Ondas, shouted at him. Ondas lunged and brought his blade in a heavy sideways swing. Lucas avoided it with ease, and the edge of the slaver's curved sword bit deep into the stable's plastered wall with a crunch. Ondas yanked once on his sword, but it did not come free.

What came next happened in a flash of motion. Lucas shot forward and brought his sword down hard. The sharp steel of his blade cleaved through the wrist of Ondas's right arm, splitting both flesh and bone. Blood sprayed out from his stump limb, painting the pale plaster of the stable bright red. Ondas screamed, but when Lucas swiftly brought his blade again and bit it into the side of the slaver's neck, he quieted.

Lucas stepped away as Khrazar and Mazdiq swiped the air where he once was. Ondas collapsed onto the grass, dead. His severed hand still clutched the stuck sword.

Khrazar gave his slain companion only a brief glance.

The slavers rushed Lucas with a renewed vigor. Lucas's eyes flicked from side to side as he defended their onslaught, his sword shooting left and right to meet steel with steel. Some parries were much too close, and when the clangs of steel were by Lucas's ear, they were almost deafening.

Before long, the slavers had forced Lucas onto the beach. Soft sand rustled around his feet. The angry Summer Sea's strong waves rushed noisily nearby, grasping as far over the sand as it could reach. Still Lucas retreated, waiting for an opening, parrying the strikes that had to be and dodging those that didn't. He was pouring sweat. His shirt was damp against his back, and his hands were soaked.

Then, in one of his steps backwards, Lucas's foot caught on a small rock hidden in the sand, and he fell onto the flat of his back. He hit the sand with a thud that took the breath out of his lungs. The slavers rushed forward and thrusted at him. Lucas tucked his sword flat against himself and rolled as fast as he could. Twice he heard the sound of steel sticking into sand.

Lucas scrambled onto his feet. As he arose, he held the grip of his sword in only one hand. The two slavers fast approached. When they drew near, Lucas threw into Khrazar's eyes the fistful of sand he'd grabbed when he was on his back. Khrazar clutched at his face and staggered away, grunting in pain. He fumbled for the waterskin at his belt. Mazdiq looked at Khrazar. When he looked to Lucas again, he found Lucas charging him.

Lucas unleashed an assault upon him, flush with feints and furious thrusts and cuts. Now it was the slaver who backpedaled. When Lucas brought a slashing, diagonal cut, Mazdiq swiftly met his sword. Their sharp blades crossed and stuck as edge caught against edge. Lucas let his arms fold as he went forward, bringing his body to Mazdiq's. Mazdiq spat at Lucas's face when he came close. The saliva hit his cheek. A waste of an attack. Lucas had a better one.

Lucas released his left hand from his locked sword and wrapped the freed arm around Mazdiq's hands, trapping them. For as long as the slaver held his sword, he was ensnared. Lucas spun away and twisted Mazdiq's sword till the slaver's wrists could not bear to bend any further. Mazdiq dropped his sword onto the sand, and the moment Lucas felt the weapon fall free, he spun around to face Mazdiq and slashed the slaver below the navel.

The blade cut deep, slicing Mazdiq's shirt and splitting open his belly. His innards spilled out from the gaping wound. Mazdiq clutched at them with both hands as if to keep them inside, but he could not. He collapsed, falling first to his knees, and then to the flat of his back. Lucas wiped the spit from his cheek.

When Lucas heard boots stamping in the sand, he spun around and parried the coming blow from Khrazar. It wasn't a clean parry. The sharp edge of Khrazar's blade found the smooth broad of Lucas's, and steel then hissed as the slaver's sword slid downwards. When Khrazar's blade arrived at Lucas's crossguard, the slaver tilted his sword forward and drew the blade across the back of Lucas's right hand. Pain shot through Lucas as Khrazar's steel opened his flesh.

Lucas stepped away and glanced at his hand. Blood rushed from the wound and seeped down to his wrist. Lucas opened and closed his injured hand on his sword, testing it. He could still feel it, could still grip with it. He could still fight.

Lucas's eyes flicked up at the slaver. Khrazar wore a wicked grin, pleased with his work. He played with his curved sword, effortlessly spinning it about. Then, at the end of one of his sword's spins, he abruptly charged.

Lucas didn't let his wound slow him. He fought with the same speed and ferocity he had before. He met the slaver's sword with his own each time the slaver struck at him. Steel sang over the sound of the Summer Sea's waves as Lucas and Khrazar danced across the beach.

Then, for the first such time in the battle, Lucas feinted a lunge but then took an extra step and twisted his strike into a horizontal slice. Khrazar had sidestepped the lunge and the lunge only. The farthest few inches of the tip of Lucas's sword cut across the side of Khrazar's torso, rending cloth and flesh. Blood welled from the wound. It wasn't deep enough to disable him, but it was deep enough for him to feel it.

Khrazar winced as he clutched at his wound. His grin was gone. "You should've taken the coin, Westerosi," he hissed at Lucas between gritted teeth. "I'm going to make that girl suffer after I've shackled her. She'll remember me for the rest of her life. I'll bleed her for every drop of mine you've spilled." He took his hand from his wound and showed it to Lucas. His palm was slick with a sheen of red. "Blood for blood," he said.

Lucas slowly shook his head. "She won't even know your name when you're dead. You're nothing. You'll die as nothing."

Khrazar's face twisted into something awful, a hideous and horrific scowl that only a crazed fiend from a nightmare could create. He let out a manic shout and charged.

When Khrazar came upon Lucas, he attacked with a frenzied speed he hadn't yet shown. Khrazar's curved sword flicked out at Lucas like the tongue of a snake, with slices and thrusts that a blink would've missed, coming high, low, from the left, from the right. When Khrazar slowed and winded up a mighty strike from Lucas's right, Lucas readied himself for it, but when the slaver's arm uncoiled, his sword dipped down and sprang at him from below.

Lucas shifted his sword to parry it, but for the first time, his hands weren't fast enough. The middle of Khrazar's blade caught hard under Lucas's crossguard. Lucas's hands, slick with sweat, could not keep hold of his sword, and the force of the strike tore his sword from his grip and flung it far away.

Lucas began to backpedal, but he was already leaning from the force of the disarm, and he tripped and fell flat on his bottom. Khrazar came down on him in an instant, shouting from that hideous scowl, bringing his blade.

But Khrazar's shout was drowned out by a roar, and a blur of red and gold tackled him to the sand. Lucas whipped his head to the left. A few yards away, Khrazar was on his back. Rhaegon stood atop him, his ruby scales shining under the setting sun, his golden wings spread far and wide. One of Rhaegon's muscular claws pinned Khrazar's chest. A low growl rumbled from the dragon's throat as he looked over the slaver. A rope of saliva drooled from between his tall, sharp teeth.

Khrazar's eyes were wide. There was true terror in them.

Lucas gave the command. "Dracarys." It was High Valyrian for: 'Dragonfire.'

Rhaegon opened his maw. A red light glowed at the back of his throat, like the first flicker of a furnace. Then came the flames.

Khrazar screamed as a stream of blood-red dragonfire rushed from Rhaegon's maw and poured over his face. His curly hair burned away, incinerated to ash. His olive flesh scorched into a charred black. His eyes boiled till they burst.

The charred flesh smelled same as any rack of meat roasting over an open flame. But the burnt hair smelled rotten.

When Khrazar fell silent, Rhaegon darted his maw down, sank his teeth into the slaver's head, and then twisted and pulled. With a series of sickening pops, Rhaegon beheaded him. No blood flowed from the blackened stump of his neck. The veins and arteries were cauterized, burnt shut. Rhaegon cocked back and opened his maw, letting the scorched, severed head fall down his throat, swallowing it whole.

In the distance, at the homestead, Dreamwing and Skyshark descended from the sky, breathing gouts of their colorful dragonfire, spewing streams of white and blue. The screams of slavers rang out across the land.

Lucas's heart was racing, and his stomach felt like a knot of twisted flesh, but somehow, he kept some amount of presence of mind. When Rhaegon looked his way, Lucas pointed to the homestead. "Sēnagon tolvys!" he shouted. It was High Valyrian for: 'Kill them all.'

Rhaegon promptly launched and took to the sky. The dragon flew to the homestead and descended there. He disappeared behind the stable as he joined his siblings in the slaughter.

As Lucas's nerves settled, he felt a blazing anger arise in its place, burning hot in his chest. He was trembling with rage. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his sword from the sand nearby, and stormed over to the man that dared to try to take his life and enslave his wife. He stabbed the corpse again and again, grunting with each thrust.

When his crazed anger abated, Lucas kneeled and cleaned his blade of blood with the slaver's shirt. "Headless cunt," Lucas muttered. "Died too quick. Deserved worse." He stood to his feet again. When he remembered the others, he turned and hurried off.

The slavers' screams had been hushed to a deathly quiet by the time Lucas came to stand in the middle of the homestead, between the stable and the house. The dragons picked at a few charred corpses, tearing away the occasional limb to devour. Ser Barristan and Colton stood at each other's side looking over the carnage. Their chests heaved with breath. Their swords were sheathed. Colton's clothes were darkened with sweat, and his long hair was slicked against his neck. Ser Barristan looked only slightly less ragged. His armor had earned some scratches and dents. Lucas was thankful that they both seemed unharmed.

When Ser Barristan saw Lucas, he hurried over to him. "Are you injured, Your Grace?" he asked.

Lucas sheathed his sword in his scabbard and showed Ser Barristan the cut on his hand, his only wound. "I'll have Clare clean and dress it," he said. Then he lowered his hand and met the old knight's eyes. "I'd be dead right now if you hadn't been training me," he said.

Ser Barristan smiled at him. "Then it's good that you were wise enough to ask it of me."

Lucas shook his head, suddenly stricken with gloom. "He beat me," he admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. "Their leader. He was going to kill me when Rhaegon saved me."

Ser Barristan put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Eight months of sparring isn't much, Your Grace. We'll keep at it. We'll have you sharper yet."

"Gods that was great!" Colton whooped, laughing heartily. "The smug savages were so bloody confident. I warned them it wouldn't be pretty, didn't I?" When Colton turned around, Lucas saw a split in the back of his shirt that bared a tall, bright-red cut. The blood that had oozed from the cut was smeared with a sheen of sweat.

"You're wounded," Lucas said. The cut looked like it should've been abominably painful.

Colton turned to face Lucas again. "Am I? I can't even feel it. I imagine I will next morning though."

Lucas let out a weak laugh. "I imagine we'll all be feeling a lot next morning." He looked over the corpses strewn about. "Gather them in a pile," he commanded. "I've a plan for disposing of them."

Ser Barristan and Colton obeyed and joined Lucas in piling the corpses and spilled viscera into a large heap, including those that had been cut down away from the homestead. It was a grisly sight. Lucas's stomach turned as he looked upon it.

"Rhaegon, Dreamwing, Skyshark," Lucas called out for them. They approached and faced the pile of corpses. Dark blood dripped from their maws. "Dracarys," Lucas said.

Shimmering streams of dragonfire poured over the pile of corpses. It was a dazzlingly colorful inferno, shot with red, orange, yellow, white, and blue. The combined blaze was hotter than all the seven hells. Lucas could feel the heat of it upon his face, even standing from afar like he was.

When the dragonfire finally ceased and the last flame flickered away, all that remained was a pile of black ash. Then, without a command, Rhaegon stretched his wings and beat them in one great flap. The resulting gust blasted the ashes and sent them sailing far into the wind.

Lucas strode to the slavers' cart. The two horses attached to it had whinnied wildly when the dragons breathed their fire, but they had since calmed. Lucas was not sure what should be done with them. At the side of the cart, near the front, was a pull-down door with a latch. It was fastened shut with a steel deadbolt. Lucas pulled the deadbolt aside, grabbed the latch, and yanked it down. The door came free vertically and thudded into the grass. There were descending rungs on the back of it, and it formed a sort of staircase when opened. Lucas climbed the steps and entered the cart.

Inside were no fewer than a dozen terrified women in chains, shackled at their wrists and feet. Their chains connected them all. When they saw Lucas, they chattered fearfully in a tongue he didn't understand. It wasn't Bastard Valyrian, nor the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. It was perhaps Dothraki. They indeed looked like women of those horse people, with their copper skin, almond eyes, and black, very long hair. A few looked to be around thirty, but the majority were much younger. The youngest looked to be twelve. They all wore tattered rags. They stunk of body odor and of things even fouler, of urine and feces.

How long have they all been chained in here? Lucas wondered. He wouldn't let himself imagine Daenerys in those chains, stewing in her own filth. He would slaughter thousands more slavers if it would mean that fate never befell her.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Lucas assured them in Bastard Valyrian. He spoke both gently and loudly, ensuring his voice could be heard over theirs. "I'm here to free you. Come on out." He gestured towards himself with his hands. They quieted somewhat when he spoke. Likely understanding his hands better than his words, they slowly arose and cautiously stepped towards him, following him out of the cart. Their chains rattled noisily as they walked.

Lucas went and stood in front of the dragons. As the women and girls stepped out of the cart, one by one they saw the dragons, and one by one they fell to their hands and knees. They bowed their heads and began babbling again in their tongue. Eventually, they were all bowed in a line in front of Lucas.

"What are they saying?" Colton asked as he came to Lucas's side.

"I don't know," Lucas said, glancing his way. "I don't speak their tongue. I think it's Dothraki." Lucas looked to the women and girls again. "Do you any of you speak Bastard Valyrian, or the Common Tongue?" he asked as he alternated languages at the end.

One of the bowed heads finally looked up from the earth. "I speak Bastard Valyrian," the woman said. She was the eldest among them. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. She was a plain, homely woman. Her hair was rough and wiry, and her eyes were small and sunken. When she spoke, the others soon hushed themselves.

"What is your name?" Lucas asked her.

"Charri," she answered.

"Charri, stand to your feet." She did as Lucas asked, watching the dragons with nervous eyes. On her feet, Lucas saw that she was a short woman, noticeably overweight, with a soft, sagging swell in her belly that did not seem to be carrying a child. "Tell the others that the dragons will not harm them," Lucas said. "They're the reason you've all been freed."

Charri turned to those around her and spoke to them in their tongue. Then, slowly, the others joined her and stood to their feet. Many of them continued to gaze upon the dragons, awed by the sight of them.

"Where are the harpy men?" Charri asked as she glanced at the various splatterings of darkened blood on the grass.

"Ash on the wind," Lucas said.

Charri looked to the north, where the Summer Sea's breezes were blowing. Then she looked to the dragons. When her eyes finally returned to Lucas, she nodded.

"I'll have your chains struck from you. It might take some time, but when that's finished, you'll all be free to leave," Lucas explained. "I suggest you take the cart and horses with you. We've no need for them. We might have some fish to send you on your way with as well."

"You have our eternal thanks, dragonlord," Charri said. "If there is anything we could gift you in return for this, you shall have it."

"No repayment is needed. All I ask is that you tell no one of this place. We want no more company here. Will you swear that to me?"

"I swear it on the sun, the moon, and all my ancestors in the night lands," Charri said. She spoke again to the others in her tongue. They all looked to Lucas and nodded.
Then something came to Lucas's mind. "Actually, there is something else I would ask of you. Are you planning to head to Volantis?"

Charri shook her head. "They will chain us again if we go there. And if we return to the Great Grass Sea, many of the Khals there will do the same. We will make our way to Braavos. There are no slaves in Braavos. It is known."

Lucas nodded thoughtfully. It was a wise course of action, though it made them less useful for his request. Still, they could perhaps help during their journey. "I want you to spread a whisper to any slaves you meet on the way there," Lucas said. "Tell it to as many as you can. Keep it from their master's ears if you can, but it's alright if they hear it."

"What is the whisper?"

"Tell them ... 'when the dragons dawn, our chains are broken.' Remember that. Now say it exactly as I have."

"'When the dragons dawn, our chains are broken,'" Charri repeated. Then she spoke to the others in her tongue again. Eventually, they began repeating a translation of his words, till they'd all learned it. Charri looked to Lucas again. "When will this dawn come?" she asked.

"You just saw it."
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