Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 344: Packing the Seven Gods

Roth’s voice grew quieter with each word. In his eyes, the Iron Bank was practically asking for destruction. Unfortunately, the Iron Bank of Braavos operated as a largely independent entity, beyond even his influence.

"They think they’ve infiltrated every aspect of society and can use the livelihoods of the common people to blackmail me, is that it?" Viserys asked, his tone sharp.

Though Viserys had recently established the formidable Dragon Bank—a 'central rival bank' of great potential—it still paled in comparison to the Iron Bank’s entrenched power. The balance couldn’t be shifted overnight.

"Your Grace, please don’t act in haste," Roth advised, noticing the dark look on Viserys’s face. "Taking direct action against them might damage your reputation."

Viserys's expression softened slightly as he leaned back. "Let me handle Westeros first. The Iron Bank isn’t worth my full attention right now," he said with a calm, almost dismissive tone.

Dragons, after all, were not omnipotent. Even the notorious Maegor the Cruel, while riding Balerion the Black Dread, couldn’t force the Church to kneel outright. In the end, it was Jaehaerys—through bloodshed and diplomacy—who managed to persuade the Faith to relinquish certain rights.

It made sense that the Iron Bank would struggle against him now, but Viserys wasn’t in a rush. There were larger problems to face, and he knew the importance of patience. As the old saying goes, "Aggression is like fire"—but for now, fire was not the solution.

Viserys had another plan in motion. To further alienate Robert from the people of Westeros, he devised a symbolic strike. He would airlift the statues of the Seven Gods from the Great Sept of Baelor, which had been nearly destroyed in the fires, to the Starry Sept.

After coordinating with his allies, he would launch a full-scale offensive, delivering a devastating blow to Robert—both militarily and morally.

The statues were carefully wrapped in black canvas taken from Viserys’s warships, resembling body bags. They were bound with ropes, leaving just enough slack for the dragons to grip them with their claws. After the fire, the statues weighed less than 300 catties, a light load for the dragons, whose size dwarfed two carriages combined.

Each dragon carried its statue in its own unique way. Some gripped the canvas bundles with their talons, while others slung them around their necks like satchels. Against their massive bodies, the statues looked insignificant—mere trophies of a much larger game.

Viserys and Dany, mounted on their dragons, prepared to depart for Oldtown.

"Ser Regis, Ser Jorah, Dragonstone is my home. I leave it in your hands," Viserys said as he gave his final instructions.

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"Your Grace, rest assured. We will protect Dragonstone!" Jorah pledged, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his valyrian steel sword.

"Don’t worry, Your Grace," Ser Regis added with equal confidence. "No one who comes here will leave alive."

The thought of Robert launching an attack was almost laughable, but if, by some miracle, he managed to do so, Viserys had no doubt in his men’s ability to defend the island. If 40,000 men couldn’t hold Dragonstone, Jorah and Regis might as well climb the Stone Tower and throw themselves off.

"Lord Roth, I entrust you with the coordination of all matters here."

"Yes, Your Grace," Roth responded respectfully, his tone almost familial in its warmth.

"Quentin."

"Your Grace!" Quentin quickly stepped forward, standing at attention as Viserys called his name.

"Vyrgion has a good temperament, so you’ll be coming with us."

Ride a dragon? Me?! For a moment, Quentin was stunned, barely able to process the command. The joy hit him like a wave, almost overwhelming in its suddenness.

Not only Quentin, but those around him were envious. Riding a dragon—an opportunity to soar through the skies! Apart from the Targaryens, only one other person had been granted such an honor: Ronnel Arryn, who traded his crown for a chance to fly with Visenya during the War of Conquest. No one else had ever experienced this.

"Yes, yes! Absolutely, Your Grace!" Quentin stammered in excitement.

Vyrgion, the blue dragon who had received Viserys’s orders, lowered one of its great wings for Quentin to climb aboard. The dragon's cold, vertical pupils betrayed no interest, merely indifference.

Quentin hesitated for a brief moment, giving Vyrgion an awkward smile, before scrambling onto its back, his body hunched low in a cautious crouch.

"Thank you, Vyrgion. I won’t move a muscle. If Your Grace permits, I’ll wash you for a month—no, a year!" he babbled nervously.

The dragon snorted, a deep, rumbling sound that Quentin hoped was a grunt of approval.

Whether or not Vyrgion understood him didn’t matter. Quentin couldn’t stop talking to himself in a nervous stream of promises.

"Let’s go!" Viserys called out, and all seven dragons spread their massive wings.

A thunderous whoosh echoed across the island as their wings beat the air. Quentin felt the tremendous lifting force beneath him, his thighs and back tingling with the sheer thrill of ascending into the sky. No—this is the thrill of flying!

At first, he kept his eyes tightly shut, his heart racing with excitement and fear. But as his body adjusted to the flight, he slowly cracked open one eye.

Quentin looked down and gasped. The people below were nothing more than specks—tiny, insignificant ants. Higher still, he saw Viserys and Dany flying ahead, their dragons gliding gracefully in the lead. The two seemed to be talking, but Quentin couldn’t hear their words over the roar of the wind.

Not that he cared. At this moment, every second was a treasure, more precious than anything he could imagine.

"In the future, there will be more and more dragons," Viserys mused. "After we implement the imperial examinations across the realm, how about allowing the top candidate from each year to ride a dragon to King's Landing?"

"It would be even better," Dany added thoughtfully, "if the emperor or heir to the throne personally rode a dragon to greet them. That candidate will likely become a high-ranking official, maybe even the Hand of the King. This ceremony would not only be an honor but a way to build trust with the emperor, binding them to the crown."

Viserys smiled at her contribution. "That's a brilliant idea. You're my Dany!"

Dany beamed with pride at his praise. This plan would make it much easier to implement the imperial examinations. After all, who could resist the chance to ride a dragon? Whether noble or commoner, the allure of dragon-riding was impossible to refuse.

The speed of a dragon in flight wasn’t quite as fast as an airplane, but it was impressive—about 100 to 200 kilometers per hour, comparable to a high-speed train. A journey from Dragonstone to Oldtown, which would take over a month on horseback, had taken the three of them just a full day by dragon.

Viserys chose not to land directly in the middle of Oldtown, a city second only to King’s Landing in size, with a population of over 400,000. With war looming over the last couple of years, the population of Oldtown had grown to rival that of the capital.

To avoid unnecessary chaos and to gauge the city's attitude toward him as emperor, Viserys had his dragons land along the banks of the Honeywine River, just outside the city.

The arrival of the dragons did not go unnoticed. Word quickly spread, reaching the Hightower household in Oldtown.

"It's floating! It's floating! Father, look—it's floating!" A woman in her thirties, with curly, fluffy hair wrapped in a kerchief, waved a short wooden stick like a sword, her excitement childlike. She shouted as though seeing a rainbow for the first time.

Before her, a feather hovered in midair, following the direction of her wooden stick.