She carefully sucked the drop of Dragonblood.
The moment the Dragonblood touched her throat, Daenerys's eyes flew wide open.
A violent, searing power surged through every fiber of her being in an instant.
It felt as if her body had been thrown into a furnace. The intense pain forced a stifled groan from her, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably.
Lo Quen steadied her, channeling a gentle flow of Magic into her to help guide and adapt her to the power.
The pain gradually faded, replaced by a sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced before.
The process lasted about fifteen minutes.
"How does it feel?" Lo Quen asked with a smile.
Daenerys, feeling the strange power within her, answered, "I feel a peculiar force beginning to grow inside me."
Her gaze toward Lo Quen deepened with affection and gratitude.
Seeing her sweet, endearing expression, Lo Quen found it hard to maintain his composure.
So, the two of them shared a brief moment of intimate pleasure.
After dressing, Lo Quen led Daenerys to the secret chamber where the dragon eggs were kept.
In the center of the room, on a stone pedestal, lay five dragon eggs of various colors.
"Pick an egg that belongs to you, Dany," Lo Quen gestured. "It will be your companion and mount."
Daenerys eagerly approached, her eyes scanning the eggs.
Some were bronze, speckled with dark spots, others a soft green like jade...
In the end, her gaze settled on an unremarkable gray-brown egg.
Its color resembled ash, and its surface was rough and dull.
Yet, Daenerys could sense a quiet, resilient strength emanating from it.
She reached out and gently touched the egg's shell.
"I choose this one."
She said with determination.
Lo Quen nodded, not questioning her choice.
He placed his palm on the gray-brown egg.
Seventy thousand units of Magic slowly flowed into it.
Hum—!
The dragon egg quivered slightly. The gray-brown hue began to fade, revealing deeper, more intricate patterns beneath the surface. The shell's temperature rose sharply, glowing faintly with a red light.
With the magic revived, the awakening of the dragon egg was happening far more swiftly than usual.
Over the following days, Daenerys hardly left her dragon egg, staying by its side and feeling the life within it grow.
Lo Quen visited frequently.
Finally, on the fifth morning, the sound of cracking filled the air.
The egg's shell split open, and a wet, squirming dragon emerged.
It was small, with scales of a dull gray-brown, as though perpetually covered in a layer of soot.
But its eyes were bright, alive with the intensity of burning coals.
Most unusual of all, two small bumps had sprouted from the top of its head.
The young dragon let out a soft growl and staggered toward Daenerys, nuzzling her fingers affectionately.
Overcome with joy, Daenerys wept, gently cradling her new dragon.
"Greysmoke..." she whispered softly, choosing a name that felt right.
"You shall be called 'Greysmoke.'"
The dragon seemed to approve of the name, emitting a pleased squeak in response.
...
Meanwhile, at Duskendale.
This castle, located northeast of King's Landing, had become the center of the storm.
Kevan Lannister, the Hand of the King, stood alongside his equally fair-haired nephew Jaime on the parade ground of Duskendale.
Sixty thousand men were assembled here, banners waving, spears and swords like a forest, but the atmosphere was heavy with tension.
Among the ranks were twenty-five thousand elite soldiers from the Westerlands, well-equipped and in decent spirits.
Twenty thousand newly recruited Braavos sellswords, undisciplined but eager for their pay.
And fifteen thousand hastily conscripted, gaunt and emaciated displaced peasants, their eyes mostly filled with confusion and fear.
Kevan Lannister, the veteran commander known for his steadiness, now wore a face marked by exhaustion and worry.
He was giving his final instructions to Lord Renfred Rykker, lORD of Duskendale and Master of Coin.
Kevan's voice was low: "My lord, the king has entrusted him to you. You must safeguard Duskendale and keep a close watch on the Queen Mother."
His tone became especially grave at the last words.
Ever since he learned that Cersei had secretly ordered the Mountain to bloodily sack Gulltown and Runestone, Kevan had completely lost patience with his niece's madness.
He had publicly denounced her as a "madwoman" in the Small Council and forcibly stripped her of all power, expelling her from the meetings.
Yet, the twenty thousand sellswords brought by Cersei's madness had now become a critical asset in their current struggle.
This contradiction left Kevan with a bitter, conflicted feeling.
He gave a few more instructions regarding the defense before finally patting Jaime on the shoulder: "Jaime, the defenses at Sow's Horn are yours. Remember, hold firm. Don't engage recklessly."
Jaime nodded. "Understood, uncle."
Kevan sighed, preparing to lead his forces toward Rosby.
The reason he wasn't staying at Duskendale but was instead heading to Rosby personally to arrange the defenses was because the situation was incredibly unfavorable for House Lannister.
Young Aegon's coalition forces were formidable, and the Lannisters' sixty thousand troops needed to be split to guard key passes, supporting one another to barely form a defensive line.
He had to personally secure Rosby Castle, creating a pincer movement with Jaime's Sow's Horn defenses, hoping to halt the advance of the Targaryen-Dorne alliance.
Kevan and Jaime led their main forces away from Duskendale.
Unbeknownst to them, shortly after they left, Queen Cersei had secretly relayed orders through the Kingsguard—men she had bedded and sworn to her loyalty.
When Lord Renfred Rykker of Duskendale went to inspect the granaries, a massive, terrifying figure, like a mountain, blocked his path.
"The Mountain," Gregor Clegane.
Dismissed by Kevan for the massacre in the Vale, but kept by Cersei.
"The Queen wishes to see you, my lord."
The Mountain's voice left no room for argument.
Soon after, Renfred Rykker was captured and imprisoned.
...
After some time of marching, Young Aegon's army was heading directly toward the Lannister-controlled strongholds of Sow's Horn and Rosby.
Under his command, the army quickly deployed, firmly securing both fortresses.
Harry Strickland led the elite veterans of the Golden Company, serving as the main force for the siege of Sow's Horn.
Jon Connington, the seasoned veteran, oversaw the overall strategy from the central command, coordinating the assault on Rosby.
Daemon Sand led the fierce Dornish spearmen, responsible for mobile operations.
The Sand Snakes each commanded a detachment, patrolling key points along the defensive lines.
Inside Young Aegon's royal tent, alongside the core commanders, sat a striking figure.
A priest wearing deep crimson robes.
He was Moqorro, from the Red Temple of Volantis.
"The guidance of R'hllor, Lord of Light, is like a flame in the night—clear and searing."
Moqorro's voice was deep and magnetic, tinged with an exotic accent.
"He revealed the prophecy to me in the sacred flame, Your Grace. You are the prophesied heir, the continuation of Prince Rhaegar's bloodline!"
He went on to describe how Volantis had fallen to the man from the East.
The Free Cities were reduced to torches under Dragonfire, their black walls crumbling under the claws of the Dragon.
How the proud Tiger Cloaks had knelt in surrender.
"He relied on dark magic and the power of blasphemy."
Moqorro asserted. "But you, true dragonblood, shall be favored by the Lord of Light."
Young Aegon sat in his chair, brow furrowed slightly.
Raised from childhood by Jon Connington in the faith of the Seven, he instinctively felt some discomfort at this Red Priest's preaching.
However, the intelligence Moqorro brought regarding the Eastern threat was crucial, and his claimed identity as the "Prophecy's Child" was undoubtedly a powerful banner to rally the people.
He glanced at Jon Connington beside him, who gave a subtle nod, signaling that the benefits outweighed the risks.
"Envoy of R'hllor."
Young Aegon finally spoke: "Thank you for journeying this far to bring news and the blessings of the Lord of Light. My cause welcomes any loyal aid."
He neither fully accepted nor outright rejected the offer, simply permitting Moqorro to remain in the camp.
The Red Priest bowed deeply, a smile on his face, before retreating outside the tent.
...
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