Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 320: The Imp’s Bounty

“Come here, all of you!” the blue-haired man barked, his voice slicing through the air. The sailors, who had momentarily abandoned their posts to gape at the dragons, snapped back into action and scrambled toward him, quickly repositioning the massive ballista to a more open spot on the deck.

"Boss!" one sailor called out, gripping the crossbow's controls. "The blue dragon’s the closest, but the yellow one's the biggest! Which one should we target?"

The assassin wiped a fine layer of sweat from his brow, his gaze fixed on the blue dragon circling above. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of excitement and ambition. The crossbow bolts mounted on the bed were massive—closer to spears than arrows—and their tips were coated in a strange black material that gleamed ominously in the light. It looked like Dragonbone.

“Go for the blue one,” he said, his voice low and calculated. “Aim carefully.”

The sailors nodded and adjusted the ballista's aim, locking onto the blue dragon. But before they could fire, the dragons began to shift. The yellow dragon soared higher, leading the pack, while the blue dragon dropped back, replaced by the silver dragon, Rhaelarion. The assassin’s eyes widened as the silver dragon flew directly above his ship, its wings stretched wide, casting a shadow like a cloud over the sea. Its shimmering belly was exposed, a perfect target.

“Now!” he hissed, eyes glittering. “Rhaelarion’s the prize, right after the yellow one.”

But there was a problem. The ballista couldn’t elevate to the needed angle. "Lift it!" he shouted at the sailors. "Hurry, raise the crossbow!"

Several men heaved the base of the ballista onto their shoulders, angling it high enough to target the dragon overhead. The assassin’s heart raced; they had the perfect shot. It would be unforgivable to miss at such close range.

Just as they were about to fire, a sudden wave of heat hit them from behind. The assassin turned just in time to see a wall of red flame racing toward them, spewed from one of the other dragons. The flames engulfed the men operating the ballista, their bodies igniting instantly. Screams filled the air as they flailed, writhing like insects in agony before collapsing, lifeless.

Panic rippled through the surrounding ships. Crews scattered, desperate to avoid the fate of their comrades. The yellow dragon, still perched on the bow of Viserys’s ship, unleashed another torrent of flame, incinerating what remained of the ballista and its operators. The ship itself, ablaze, seemed to twist and contort in its death throes as the fire consumed it.

But Viserys’s fleet was already closing in, encircling the burning vessel like predators stalking wounded prey. The surviving sailors were quickly rounded up and brought before him. Among them was the blue-haired assassin, who stood out immediately. Unlike the others, who trembled and begged for their lives, he remained unnervingly calm, his demeanor scholarly, almost dignified.

“A Tyroshi, I see?” Viserys asked, looking the man over. His tone was measured, but there was an edge to it. The assassin’s composed silence stood in stark contrast to the panic-stricken expressions of his fellow captives.

As Viserys stood tall, the massive yellow dragon looming behind him like a shadow, the blue-haired assassin faced him with a smug grin, replying without a trace of humility:

"That's right!"

Viserys didn’t even blink. “Throw him overboard.”

The assassin’s bravado faltered. "What—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Young Connington, already towering at nearly 1.8 meters despite being only fourteen or fifteen, grabbed the assassin by the back of the neck. With no effort, he dragged the man to the edge of the ship, the assassin shouting all the while.

"Viserys! Your reign won’t last! You’ll be overthrown, sooner or later!"

Connington silenced him with a punch to the face before hurling him into the sea. The blue-haired assassin, surprisingly adept in the water, managed to resurface, continuing to scream even as he treaded water.

"Viserys, you bastard of the Mad King—"

A blast of dragonfire from the blue dragon silenced him for good, incinerating him in the water, leaving nothing but steam rising from the sea.

Unfazed, Viserys turned to the next man in line, a dark-skinned sailor trembling before him. "You," Viserys said, pointing, "tell me everything you know. Speak, and you might live."

"I-I... we took the job for the Iron Throne reward!"

Viserys raised an eyebrow. "The Iron Throne?"

The sailor, who was in fact a former pirate, stammered his explanation. He and his crew had been recruited by the blue-haired assassin from Tyrosh, tasked with hunting Viserys’s dragons. The "Iron Throne reward," he explained, was a bounty offered by none other than the current Hand of the King: the Imp.

"Yes, him. A dwarf," the sailor confirmed, his voice shaking. "Tyrion Lannister."

Viserys nodded, his expression unreadable as he processed the information. So, Tyrion had become the Hand of the King. A worthy adversary, Viserys thought, but not one he feared. Tyrion was known for his cunning, always finding unlikely allies to rally against a common foe. In the original timeline, during the Battle of the Blackwater, Tyrion had convinced the Mountain Clans to fight for House Lannister, causing chaos for Stannis Baratheon’s forces. Even imprisoned by Catelyn Stark, the Imp had managed to outwit his captors.

But Viserys wasn’t concerned. It didn’t matter if Tyrion or anyone else sat as Hand, or even if Tywin Lannister returned from the grave to claim the throne himself. As far as Viserys was concerned, might made right, and he had both steel and dragons at his disposal.

Still, this revelation made him realize something important: he lacked an effective espionage network. Even a dragon couldn’t see into the dark corners of the world—the sewers and shadows where plots festered.

"Ronan," Viserys muttered to himself, the name instantly flashing through his mind.

"We'll deal with this when we return," he decided.

To prevent any further mishaps, Viserys had his fleet spread out, keeping the dragons from flying too low or straying too far. This assassination attempt was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, but he would not allow it to happen again. The surviving attackers were hung from the prow of his flagship as a grim reminder to anyone else who might have similar plans.

From that point on, no other incidents occurred. Soon, the fleet approached the looming silhouette of Qarth, a city as grand and prosperous as it was ancient. From his vantage on the back of his dragon, Viserys took in the sight: the city was even more magnificent than King’s Landing. Qarth’s size and wealth were evident in every detail, not just in the vast, bustling port below.

Four major ports lined the waterfront, each teeming with life and color. The largest belonged to the Pureborn of Qarth, while the other three were owned by the city's most powerful merchant guilds.

Flags of vibrant hues, colorful ship hulls, and richly adorned sails fluttered in the breeze, creating a sea of color that seemed to shift with the tide.

The city itself was equally stunning. Rising in the distance, the famous triple-layered walls of Qarth stood tall, thick, and impenetrable, both a defense against enemies and a cage for those trapped inside. It was a fortress as much as it was a monument to wealth and power.

But Viserys knew better than to be dazzled by Qarth’s grandeur. He had learned from Hizdahr zo Loraq that the city, for all its beauty, was not a place of refuge. Like many others, it waited with bated breath for the dragon to fall, eager to strike if given the chance.

Viserys’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene below. He would enter Qarth, but he would not lower his guard.