"I'm actually this strong?!"
To be honest, even Dany hadn't expected her coordination with Big Black to be this seamless.
The Citadel was extremely familiar with dragon habits, capabilities, and weaknesses. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of anti-dragon ballistae and hundreds of elite crossbowmen lay in ambush below. If Dany had been brutally killed on the spot, her dragon would surely sense it and come looking for her corpse, unleashing brutal revenge on the enemy (similar incidents have occurred multiple times in Targaryen history).
In that case, the Citadel would easily turn the dragon into a pincushion.
So Dany never even considered bombing runs while riding her dragon. Oldtown wasn't her turf, and she couldn't produce firebombs in such a short time. Instead, she decided to test out her "Great Fireball Spell."
The range of a dragon's flame breath was about the same as the length of its body— even for Big Black, the flames only extended two to four meters. Any farther, and the fire lost its lethality.
But the Fireball Spell was different. When Dany used fire control magic to shape the dragon's flame into a sphere, it could remain stable for a long time—like last time in the Dornish desert, when she kept Little White's dragon flame burning for three hours until her magic was drained.
Dany had long suspected that her soul fusion with Big Black would make their coordination even stronger than with Little White. But she never imagined that the nine-colored vortices in both their consciousness seas would begin spinning in sync, and that their magical energies would gradually link and merge in dragon-spirit mode.
Then Big Black transformed into something like a Tailed Beast. Threads of visible fire element began to gather in his mouth—such an over-the-top scene, reminiscent of a Tailed Beast Bomb, nearly made Dany lose control of her magic in shock.
The fireball quickly swelled from the size of an egg, growing for about forty seconds—the duration of Big Black's flame breath (which used to be only twenty seconds before Dany helped him condense a meditation rune). A dark red fireball the size of a child's bathtub formed at his mouth.
The heat and weight were so intense, Dany was scared out of her wits.
Her fire control magic gave her ten times greater control over dragonflame than ordinary fire. Normal fireballs would dissipate after flying a meter or two away from her, but dragonflame fireballs could fly freely within a hundred meters.
Even so, the fireball in front of her was too massive— the larger it was, the harder it became to control. She could barely move it.
Helpless, Dany could only leave it to fate. She had Big Black dive vertically at full speed, and at five hundred meters above ground, he forcefully "spat" out the fireball.
As Big Black arced through the sky and circled back over the Seneschal's Tower, Dany watched with a mix of shock and acceptance as the unbound fireball rapidly expanded midair. Its color shifted from dark red to increasingly bright, like a falling sun.
The indigo twilight sky was dyed red.
By the time the fireball neared the rooftop of the Seneschal's Tower, it had grown to the size of a small house—an irregular sphere with a ten-meter diameter.
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
Rubble flew everywhere as a large section of the rooftop collapsed inward. The deafening roar of burning flame overpowered the panicked screams of the ambushed soldiers. And once the fireball hit an obstacle, it grew even more unstable.
When it could no longer maintain even a basic spherical shape—
"BOOOOOM!"
The Seneschal's Tower was 40 meters wide and 100 meters long, the largest building in the Citadel. But now, nearly half the roof had been blown off. Dany even saw a circular shockwave rapidly spreading outward, mixed with roof tiles, wooden beams, twisted corpses, and shattered anti-dragon ballistae.
"Oh my god! Am I really this unstoppable?!"
Dany was stunned with joy.
Though it lacked the high penetration power of a battle axe missile, the blast radius rivaled that of a full bomb load.
By the time Barristan pushed aside rubble and broken beams to finally reach the top floor, Dany had already switched to riding Little White and was soaring through the sky, clearing out scattered soldiers.
Yup, she was still throwing fireballs at the ground—small ones spat by Little White. Though less powerful than grenades, they were enough to terrify the already demoralized soldiers into dropping their weapons and running, screaming, "Seven save us!" and "Mother help me!"
Half an hour later, on the central island at the mouth of the Honeywine River, atop the Hightower, the upper echelon of Oldtown had gathered.
"Damn it, what the hell happened? It looks like half the Citadel is on fire!" Baelor Hightower leaned out the window, eyes fixed on the Citadel, face full of anxiety.
The elderly man in the High Seat opened his eyes and stared directly at the calm young man beside him.
"Earl Garlan, have you considered a contingency plan?"
"Didn't we already agree? The Ironborn snuck into the Citadel to sabotage it," Garlan said, confused.
"No, not the excuse for the townsfolk," said Earl Leyton, his bald head mottled with liver spots. He shook his head and sighed, "I mean, how will we deal with the Mother of Dragons' wrath?"
"W-what? Grandfather, you think she's still alive?" Garlan's pupils shrank, and his voice trembled. "That's impossible, isn't it? She was completely unguarded—she should've been poisoned to death. Isn't the Citadel burning now? Isn't that just the dragon venting its rage?"
"We failed," the old man said bitterly.
"How do you know that?" Garlan asked, eyes flickering.
The old man explained with a bitter smile, "There wasn't even the slightest fluctuation in the magic tides."
"Uh, magic tides? Is that reliable?" Garlan looked at the old man like he'd gone mad.
"Report!"
At that moment, a guard rushed into the hall with a maester wearing a lead ring.
"Archmaester Theobald, what's the situation?" Baelor quickly stepped forward to ask.
Hmm, since Archmaester Walgrave was unable to handle affairs, Archmaester Theobald had been acting as the de facto Seneschal. However, since he wasn't a master of economics or history, he hadn't presided over the conference two days ago regarding the trade deficit reduction plan for the Seven Kingdoms.
"Uncertain," said Archmaester Theobald, his expression grim.
"Bang!"
Garlan slammed the wooden armrest in anger and shouted, "What do you mean 'uncertain'? You swore up and down that the plan was flawless—she was unsuspecting, and there was no way it could go wrong!"
"Sigh… Daenerys was extremely perceptive. She noticed something wrong with the food. And just at that moment, the apprentice delivering the meal had sneakily eaten part of it on the way..."
Archmaester Theobald proceeded to recount the entire incident in full detail.
There's been someone eavesdropping in the room next door all along, but they didn't dare drill a hole to spy. When someone harbors ill intentions, even the most powerful knights can sense it.
Garlan asked again, "The poisoning failed, but what about the dragon crossbow? They almost had no way to escape."
"We were all wrong," the scholar said with a shake of his head, looking dejected. "Barristan wasn't trying to disguise himself by wearing shabby armor. That was a rare Valyrian steel armor. Even that blackened longsword of his is an incredibly sharp Valyrian steel blade."
"What? So extravagant?!" Baelor's eyes nearly popped out.
"But I remember—wasn't Rhaella, no, Daenerys's armor bought in Oldtown?" Garlan asked with confusion.
(Original post from Six9 Book Bar!)
"Only Barristan wore Valyrian steel armor. Daenerys seemed to have been hit by a crossbow bolt, but her condition is still unclear. However, since the dragon was able to carry the two of them away, it means she's not dead—at least not yet."
"What was that red sun earlier?" the old man asked.
"No idea. Maybe it was dragonfire?"
"Dragonfire?" Baelor shouted so loudly his voice cracked. "You've studied dragons for thousands of years—have you ever seen dragonfire like that?"
"But we examined the burn marks, and they do match the characteristics of dragonfire. 'Mage' Marwyn believes it was a fireball-like form of dragonfire. He says the dragon used fire manipulation to turn it into a fireball and spat it out."
The old man stroked his snowy white beard, pondering. "Like how the dock pyromancers control flame into beasts for theater?"
"Exactly."
"Dragons can use magic too?" Garlan and Baelor were both stunned.
"We don't want to believe it either, but this isn't unprecedented," said Scholar Theobold, forcing a bitter, hopeless smile. "A dragonlord isn't necessarily a great mage, but a great mage is always a dragonlord.
According to ancient texts, the dragons of Valyrian archmages could breathe fire rings, firebirds, fire dragons, fire serpents—even fire giants. Compared to that, Daenerys's dragon spewing a fireball is nothing extraordinary."
"Valyrian archmages…" The old man's eyes gleamed with sudden realization. He glanced at his grandson, then fell silent.
"Sigh, what now?" Baelor slumped back into his chair, speaking numbly to himself. "I was against the assassination from the start. Leaving aside the breach of guest rights—we got along quite well with her, didn't we?
Daenerys is gentle and courteous, wise and intelligent, brave and skilled in battle, and beloved by the people. Even if the Targaryens were to reclaim the throne—so what? All this just to secure Margaery's place as queen—is it really worth it?
You've all seen Cersei's attitude. The Lannisters would never agree to share the Iron Throne with the Tyrells. The Lannisters have a blood feud with the Targaryens, but we only have conflicting interests with her. Was all this really necessary?"
"This has nothing to do with House Tyrell!" Garlan Tyrell's expression hardened. He looked around the room and said with firm emphasis, "Grandmother only agreed to cooperate with the Citadel's plan. Our Tyrell family did not participate."
"Then who's responsible? I was against this from the beginning. And when Gars planned to sneak out to warn her about the assassination, you locked him in the fourth-floor holding cell!" Baelor's eyes were bloodshot as he stared at his nephew.
Unlike Garlan Tyrell, who seemed to be distancing himself from the matter, Baelor spoke from the heart. House Hightower had no investments with the Lannisters; whoever sat on the Iron Throne made no difference to them.
Moreover, on a personal level, both Baelor and Gars had admired the beautiful "champion warrior Rhaella"—even harboring a quiet fondness for her.
If "Rhaella Waters" had just a slightly higher status, Gars might have even considered courting her. Well… now that they knew her true identity, it seemed her status was far too lofty—Baelor might be worthy, but he already had a wife. Gars, on the other hand, was merely a second son with no inheritance.
Thinking of this, Baelor cast a resentful glance at his father: if you've been studying magic at the top of the tower all this time, then just stay there and keep practicing. Why get involved in such a messy and thankless affair?
The old man stood up, face blank, and said to his grandson, "Garlan, go ask Lady Olenna. This matter has gone beyond what House Hightower can handle. Whatever results she negotiates with the Citadel, I'll fully support them. But for now, it's late. Everyone—dismissed."
"Oh, one more thing," the old man said, walking a few steps with the help of a maid before turning back. He addressed Scholar Theobold: "Lord Steward, when you return to the Citadel, please have Archmaester Marwyn visit. I want to ask him about the dragonfire fireball."
"Understood."
Baelor glanced at his staggering old father, then at Garlan calling a maester to send a letter. Shaking his head, he went downstairs.
(End of Chapter)
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