Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 339: The Burning Seven Gods II

The largest of the dragons, the yellow dragons circled above Dragonstone, its massive wings casting a shadow over the gathered nobles. A series of exclamations erupted from the crowd, many of whom looked terrified.

Robert instinctively placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes blazing with fury as he glared menacingly at the beast above him.

"M-M-Mother! The dragon! It's a dragon!" cried Tommen, his voice shaking.

"King" Joffrey, normally bold and unafraid, stood frozen. It was the second time he had seen a dragon in person, but this one, much larger than the last, left him speechless. It was broad daylight, and the sight of the creature sent a shock through him so intense, he could barely find his voice.

'An attack,' his mind screamed, but his body would not obey.

Tommen and Myrcella huddled against Cersei, desperately seeking comfort in her arms. Cersei, though visibly shaken, spread her arms wide, like a protective mother hen sheltering her young.

Tywin, by contrast, stood like a statue, his face cold and unreadable.

“Don’t panic! Protect the altar!” Jaime’s voice cut through the panic as he stepped forward, trying to restore order. Around the altar, several massive crossbows had been prepared, all aimed at the sky. Longbowmen also stood ready, their arrows trained on the dragon.

The Red Witch, her jewel glinting in the sunlight, gazed upward, her expression calm but intense.

Viserys hesitated. He knew the Red Witch had magic strong enough to protect the altar, and even though his dragon roared furiously, he dared not attack. Yet panic had spread beyond the nobles—many of the soldiers trembled, recalling how they had seen Viserys' dragon a year earlier when it had been no larger than a horse. Now, the yellow dragon's wings stretched so wide, it seemed to blot out the sun.

Ned Stark instinctively moved to shield Catelyn, wrapping his arms around her, but to his surprise, she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t even look up at the dragon. Instead, she gazed at Ned, her face showing a near breakdown of composure.

“Ned, do you have to guard King's Landing?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She knew that when the time came, he would face the dragons in defense of the capital. The thought of her husband, strong as ice, being consumed by dragon fire haunted her.

Ned remained silent, holding her tightly in his arms.

Littlefinger, watching from a distance, felt a wave of revulsion at the sight of their embrace.

Nearby, Renly had instinctively stepped in front of Loras to shield him. Loras, touched by the gesture, felt his heart swell. Renly, however, was lost in his own thoughts, contemplating how dying in the flames alongside the man he loved seemed, in a strange way, romantic.

"Seven Gods, Your Grace, please don't let the dragon attack now... I’m still here!" Ardrian's trembling voice carried through the tension as he knelt on the pile of wood and coals, praying with desperate fervor.

Montford Velaryon, standing nearby, overheard and couldn’t hide his surprise. Ardrian's prayer wasn’t directed at Robert, but at Viserys.

Despite the chaos around him, Viserys had no intention of unleashing dragon fire on the altar. His gaze fell on the twenty or thirty enormous dragon-slaying crossbows that surrounded it, each one primed and ready to fire. He needed his dragons to fight the White Walkers. There was no point in wasting them here.

Moreover, the Red Viper had warned him about Melisandre. She had ways of dealing with dragons, and Viserys had no desire to test her power today.

“Viserys, you bastard son of the Mad King, come down here if you've got the guts!” Robert bellowed, brandishing his sword toward the dragon circling high above. His roar echoed across the crowd, but what Robert didn’t realize was that Viserys wasn’t even up there.

After a tense moment, the dragon still hadn’t attacked, and gradually, the crowd began to calm.

“Where are the men? How far off is that fleet?” Robert shouted again, glaring up at the soldiers on the Tower. Unknown to him, they had already fainted from fear.

Stannis, climbing to a high vantage point, squinted at the horizon, estimating the distance to Viserys's fleet, its black sails standing stark against the sea.

“Sixty to eighty nautical miles!” Stannis called down to his brother.

“Sixty or eighty!” Robert snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. He didn’t appreciate the precision; instead, he rebuked Stannis in a harsh tone.

Stannis's lips tightened, swallowing the insult yet again. He gritted his teeth and looked out at the fleet, now resembling a dark wave approaching the shore. His mind worked furiously, comparing it to the distance between Dragonstone and a familiar reef.

“That reef is about seventy-three nautical miles from Dragonstone. The fleet must be close to—”

“Can you see it or not, fool!” Robert interrupted rudely, his patience wearing thin.

That word—“fool”—ignited all of Stannis's buried frustration. His face flushed with anger as he pulled his sword from its scabbard and, with a swift motion, hurled it to the ground. The blade struck the gravel with a sharp, resounding clang, silencing the chaos around them.

'You weren't there when I was eating belts and rats in Storm’s End. You weren’t there when I held Dragonstone for you. You weren’t there when I did everything in my power to keep Viserys's fleet at bay. And now, even as I try to help you measure the fleet’s approach, you insult me. Why do I deserve this humiliation?' Stannis’s voice shook with anger, though he kept the harshest of his thoughts to himself.

“Since you’re the king, why don’t you gauge the distance? Who’s the real fool here?” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with bitterness.

“How dare you speak to me like that! I am your king!” Robert roared, his face red with fury. To be disobeyed by his own brother, in front of the entire crowd—it was an affront to his authority. He unsheathed his own sword, pointing it directly at Stannis. The two brothers locked eyes, their matching blue gazes crackling with tension as if the air itself was about to ignite.

Nearby, Selyse and Cersei exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of how to intervene in the mounting conflict. Tywin and Jaime stood at a distance, watching with cold indifference, while the Red Viper observed with dark satisfaction, believing the gods were punishing the Baratheons for their usurpation.

Lord Steffon Baratheon had left behind three sons, yet it seemed none of them would leave a lasting legacy. Robert had sired bastards, but no true heir. Stannis had only one daughter, who bore the curse of grayscale, and Renly, despite his charm, seemed only interested in Loras, with no children of his own.

The tension between the brothers hung heavy, freezing the scene in place.

Suddenly, Ned Stark strode forward, cutting through the tension. “Your Grace,” he addressed Robert firmly, “Viserys’s fleet is closing in, and Lord Stannis’s judgment is sound. We should focus on dealing with the enemy at hand.”

Ned had long known the burdens Stannis carried, the bitterness that had festered over the years. Yet now was not the time for grievances. With Viserys’s army nearing, they couldn’t afford internal strife. He looked between the brothers, hoping to calm the storm brewing between them, at least for the moment.