Chapter 241 — A Dragon Without Its Knight
King's Landing.
Deep in the stillness of night, only the echo of armored boots on stone broke the silence as patrol guards passed through the corridors.
Within the depths of Maegor's Holdfast, however, the king's private chambers lay wrapped in warmth and quiet. A great hearth blazed brightly, fine oak logs crackling as orange-red flames devoured them greedily.
Tapestries of Targaryen kings hung upon the walls, their woven figures flickering in the firelight.
On a vast feather bed large enough for four grown men, the young king, Viserys Targaryen, slept soundly. His small face was buried in velvet pillows, his breathing slow and even.
Beside the bed, curled atop a carefully arranged nest of velvet and worn blankets, lay his green dragon, Rhaego.
Ever since that harsh "lesson" from Lance Lot, the boy had come to understand the weight of power and responsibility. The childish fear he once held toward dragons had vanished completely. From that day on, he rarely allowed his companion out of sight.
The young dragon had already grown noticeably, its slender neck resting comfortably along the edge of the bed, its head close to the king's dangling hand. From time to time, it exhaled small puffs of warm breath, its tail brushing softly against the carpet with a faint rustling sound.
Then—
The flames in the hearth suddenly shrank inward.
As if something unseen had drained their vitality.
The light dimmed.
The warmth dropped.
And within the flickering shadows of the fire—
A crimson figure formed silently.
As though born from the flames themselves.
Barefoot upon the cold stone floor, her arrival made no sound. Yet despite that unnatural stillness, the sleeping dragon reacted instantly.
Its eyelids twitched—
Then snapped open.
"SSSHAA—!"
A sharp, piercing screech tore through the chamber, filled with warning.
Rhaego raised its head, molten pupils locking onto the red-robed woman. Deep in its throat, a golden glow began to gather.
On the bed, Viserys jolted awake.
He rubbed his eyes groggily, silver-gold hair sticking out in disarray, and instinctively reached out—grabbing a scale on the dragon's neck.
Outside the chamber, the guards reacted with equal speed.
Almost the moment the dragon cried out, the heavy redwood doors—carved with coiling dragons—were thrown open.
Barristan Selmy entered first, hand already on his sword, sharp eyes sweeping the room before locking onto the crimson figure by the hearth.
Close behind him came Jonothor Darry, who strode forward without hesitation, placing himself between the king and the intruder, blade drawn and pointed straight at her.
"Who are you?" he demanded sharply. "How dare you trespass into the king's chambers!"
But the woman did not answer.
She simply stood there, her red eyes fixed calmly on the small dragon baring its teeth at her.
"Answer me!" Jonothor barked again, stepping closer, the tip of his sword nearly touching her robes.
At that moment—
A drowsy voice broke the tension.
"I remember you."
All eyes turned to the bed.
"You're…" Viserys said, hesitating for a moment before certainty dawned. "You're Uncle Lance's friend—the lady in red!"
The words shifted the room.
Barristan's grip on his sword loosened slightly, though his gaze remained sharp. Jonothor paused, glancing between the boy and the woman, uncertainty flickering across his face.
A friend of the Regent?
He had never heard of her.
And yet—
Her manner of appearing here was anything but normal.
Melisandre's lips curved faintly—not warmth, but recognition, as though something expected had just been confirmed.
"Yes, Your Grace," said Melisandre softly.
"You remember well."
She inclined her head, elegant yet distant.
"My name is Melisandre. I am a friend to the Regent, Lance Lot… and a servant of the Lord of Light."
Her crimson eyes flickered.
"And an observer of your kingdom's fate."
Her words did nothing to ease the Kingsguard's vigilance.
Neither knight lowered his blade.
Barristan, especially, studied her carefully—assessing.
No weapon.
No visible strength.
No immediate threat.
And yet—
Something about her was wrong.
Then, abruptly, Melisandre spoke again.
"Ser Barristan Selmy."
Her tone shifted—firm, commanding.
"Go at once and summon the Queen Regent."
Her gaze did not waver.
"I bring urgent news—news that concerns the fate of the entire realm."
The fire behind her flickered.
And for a moment—
The chamber felt colder than the night outside.
The commanding tone made Ser Jonothor Darry frown deeply.
Who did this unknown woman think she was, speaking to the Lord Commander like that?
But Barristan Selmy was not so easily swayed. A veteran of countless intrigues, he neither reacted to her presence nor obeyed her demand.
He stepped forward, steady and immovable, his tall frame like a white fortress interposing itself between her and the young king.
"Lady," he said, formal but firm, "you will first state your full identity and your purpose here."
"This is the Red Keep. The king's private chamber—not a temple in Volantis."
"Explain yourself. Otherwise, I will not hesitate to draw my sword—even against a woman."
His hand rested on the hilt.
A clear threat.
Beside the bed, Rhaego let out a low growl, the golden glow in its throat intensifying.
Melisandre fell silent for a moment.
Then she spoke.
"Ser."
Her gaze pierced through the dim light and settled on Barristan's weathered face.
"Do you not understand?"
"Every breath we waste in suspicion is time we cannot afford. I do not question your duty or your loyalty—but the truth is this: the safety of Lance Lot, and the fate of the Seven Kingdoms themselves, now hang by a thread."
"What did you say?!"
Barristan's grip tightened unconsciously.
Not long ago, a raven had arrived from Sunspear with news of victory—clear and certain. The Regent had triumphed, installed a new prince, even secured a political marriage.
How could that be wrong?
"Your information is outdated, Ser!"
Melisandre's voice rose sharply.
"The Regent is no longer in Dorne. He stands now beneath the darkest shadow in the Westerlands—caught in a peril beyond anything you can imagine!"
"A power far beyond mortal understanding has opened its jaws along the Sunset Sea. I must see the Queen Regent—immediately!"
Her words struck like iron.
"His life is at stake. The fate of the realm is at stake. Every moment of delay pushes him closer to the abyss."
She held his gaze.
"Will you truly waste what little time remains on doubt?"
Silence fell over the chamber.
Jonothor swallowed hard, his eyes shifting between the red-robed woman and his commander.
Barristan's jaw tightened.
As Lord Commander, he had seen countless plots, deceptions, false prophets. Suspicion was second nature to him.
And yet—
This… was different.
The weight of her words pressed against something deeper than caution.
Duty.
Responsibility.
He drew a slow breath.
Then turned to Jonothor.
"Watch her," he ordered calmly.
"Do not leave His Grace's side. If she makes a single move—kill her."
Jonothor straightened instantly, fist striking his chest.
"Yes, my lord!"
Without another word, Barristan turned and strode out, his white cloak sweeping behind him as his footsteps vanished into the corridor.
He did not take long.
Moments later, hurried footsteps returned—faster, heavier.
Barristan reappeared.
And this time, he was not alone.
Two more Kingsguard flanked him, escorting the Queen Regent.
Rhaella Targaryen had clearly been summoned from her bed. She wore a black velvet night robe, hastily covered with a silver-embroidered cloak. Irritation lingered on her face—
Until she stepped inside.
And saw Melisandre.
Everything changed.
Her eyes locked onto the red-robed woman like drawn daggers.
Beautiful.
Striking.
Exotic.
The way the crimson gown clung to her figure, the aura of mystery—it hit like a spark to dry tinder.
Jealousy flared instantly.
Another one…
Of course.
In her mind, there was no doubt—this woman had to be one of Lance's.
Her nails dug into her palms.
Why everyone else—but not me?
The thought burned.
Still, she lifted her chin, forcing composure, masking the storm inside with regal disdain.
But Melisandre paid her no attention at all.
The moment the Queen Regent entered, her focus locked entirely onto her—not with deference, not with fear, but with the calm intensity of someone facing a turning point of fate.
"Your Grace."
She raised her head, her voice steady, her face beneath the hood eerily composed.
"I am a servant of the Lord of Light, a watcher of the Long Night, a messenger of fate. You may call me Melisandre."
"My identity is irrelevant."
"What matters is this—when darkness spreads, I am among the forces upon which Lance Lot relies."
"R'hllor?" Rhaella frowned, though her tone remained sharp. "What is this—has Volantis begun training courtesans to seduce other people's men?"
"You claim to be someone he relies on. Where is your proof?"
Her gaze was cutting.
"To me, you look more suited to Flea Bottom."
Melisandre did not react.
Not anger.
Not even irritation.
Instead, she stepped forward.
Past the guards.
Toward the window.
Her pale, slender hand grasped the heavy velvet curtain.
"You want proof?"
Her voice dropped.
"Then open your eyes… and look."
With a sharp motion, she pulled the curtain aside.
The vast window revealed King's Landing under the moonlight.
A full moon hung high above, casting a cold, pale glow over rooftops and towers, draping the city in silver shadow.
And beneath that moon—
A massive silhouette broke into view.
It flew unevenly.
Unsteady.
Gone was the majesty of a dragon soaring the heavens.
It flew low—so low it nearly brushed the highest spires, the wind from its wings rattling tiles from rooftops below.
The moonlight revealed its form.
"Ilyon!"
Viserys Targaryen cried out.
Everyone rushed outside.
Moments later—
The ash-gray dragon descended.
But what stood before them…
Was no longer a symbol of power.
Its great head was drenched in blood, scales torn and curling at the edges as if ripped apart by something monstrous.
Deep claw marks carved across its belly, exposing bone in places, smeared with dark blue-green residue that reeked of rot and sea decay.
Its molten eyes were dim.
Its breathing labored.
One hind leg dragged uselessly behind it—broken.
Viserys broke down instantly, crying out in fear.
And even Rhaella—
Proud, cold, unyielding—
Went pale.
A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat.
All her doubt, anger, jealousy—
Crushed.
Shattered by reality.
Something had happened.
Something terrible.
Lance…
All eyes fixed on the dragon.
On its wounds.
On the stench of the sea clinging to it like death itself.
The dragon had returned.
But its rider—
Where was he?