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(Note: Chapter 35 was uploaded after this one. Please go to the next page to read Chapter 35 first!)
Seven days had passed since the battle of dragons over King's Landing. Now, on the southwestern shores of Bloodstone, an air of solemn purpose filled the salty sea breeze.
Coleman stood at the forefront, his face flushed with excitement as he commanded his eight hundred men to cleanse the battlefield of its lingering scars.
They toiled with relentless efficiency, sweeping away the remnants of the battle against House Velaryon. Not a single ill-omened relic would be allowed to tarnish this most momentous day.
If surrender had once been an act of necessity, dictated by the cruel hand of fate, Coleman's allegiance now burned with newfound conviction. The sight of the charred ruins of Pryr Town had seared into his heart a deep and unwavering loyalty.
Power. Strategy. Ruthlessness. A will to embrace others, yet the heart to raze a city without hesitation.
If such a man was not fit to wear the crown, then who was?
With many hands at work, the battlefield was swiftly stripped of its broken weapons and scattered white bones. As time passed, the horizon beyond the sea began to fill with the dark silhouettes of approaching warships.
They gathered upon the waters outside the southwestern shores—great vessels flying banners of silver seahorses, their numbers a testament to their power.
Among them, fewer yet no less imposing, were ships bearing the black three-headed dragon, their ominous presence undeniable.
Scattered between them, like whispers of a changing tide, were a handful of ships displaying a roaring tiger and, most curiously… the golden sun, pierced by a spear.
Then, the drums began.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The deep, rhythmic beat thundered from Bloodstone, rolling across the waves like the heartbeat of war itself.
Then, the horns joined in.
Ooooh—ooooh—
A solemn, haunting call that carried far and wide, chilling in its resonance.
SHING!
More than seven hundred soldiers stood at attention along the shoreline, their posture rigid and proud.
In perfect unison, they unsheathed their longswords, each blade catching the noonday sun as they angled toward the same direction.
Between their ranks, several dozen men had already formed two precise rows, their swords raised and crossed high above their heads, forging a path—a king's path.
And from the threshold of that path, a figure stepped forth.
Jacaerys Velaryon strode forward, clad in regal black robes embroidered with the three-headed dragon. A rich, wine-red cloak cascaded from his shoulders, its silken folds rippling with each measured step.
Flanking him were Rhaenyra and Daemon, both adorned in formal attire befitting the gravity of the occasion.
Behind the three of them, moving with solemn purpose, were Stone and Rudy, their vigilant presence a living shield around their charge.
Further beyond, Lord Corlys Velaryon and Baelor followed in measured steps, accompanied by a striking young noblewoman—beautiful and poised, her figure a vision of elegance.
And high above, the sky was torn asunder.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
Three mighty dragons, each hued in different colors, descended through the clouds, their vast wings churning the air as they hovered over the ceremony.
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd. Most had never before witnessed such a spectacle—three dragons, soaring in unison above their soon-to-be king.
Jacaerys advanced without hesitation, stepping onto the king's path as the others veered aside, allowing him to walk alone.
SHING!
The moment he reached the end, every raised sword was lowered in synchronized precision.
Daemon took a step forward, reaching for the object cradled in Rhaenyra's hands—a crown, fashioned from driftwood and adorned with bleached bone.
Jacaerys dropped to one knee, head bowed in reverence.
Daemon turned, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men before his voice rang out—strong, unwavering.
"Here, where the Narrow Sea meets the Stepstones, we bear witness to the birth of a king! The sea shall bless him, the islands shall shield him. He shall ride the winds and stand unshaken!"
"He shall ride the winds and stand unshaken!"
As Daemon's voice faded, a thunderous roar erupted from eight hundred throats upon the shore, their cry a declaration of allegiance.
From the warships beyond, thousands more took up the cry, their voices merging with the rolling waves in a deafening chorus.
And amidst that sea of voices, Daemon placed the pale crown upon Jacaerys' brow.
"I proclaim Jacaerys Velaryon the King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones!"
"Long live King Jacaerys!"
"Long live the King of the Narrow Sea!"
*ROOOAR!!!*
Above them, three dragons bellowed in unison, their cries tearing through the sky like thunder, shaking the air and sealing the moment in fire and fury.
---
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting its golden light upon Bloodstone, Jacaerys found himself bidding farewell to his parents.
"Mother, Father, won't you stay a few more days?"
Rhaenyra shook her head, her voice gentle yet firm.
"I came not only to witness your coronation but also to finalize the talks with Lord Corlys regarding your betrothal to Baela. Now that both matters are settled, there is little reason for me to linger. Besides, I must return to Dragonstone to tend to Baela—I pray she awakens soon."
"And I only came to place a crown on your head," Daemon added with a smirk. "Gods, I've had my fill of the Stepstones. I ruled as King of the Narrow Sea for years, and this place was a bloody mess. Jace—no, King Jacaerys—I trust you'll do better than I did."
"I will."
With those final words, Rhaenyra and Daemon mounted their dragons and took to the skies, their figures soon vanishing beyond the clouds.
Shortly after, Lords Baelor and Corlys also departed.
Jacaerys could feel it—the shift in Lord Corlys' demeanor. A cold distance had settled between them.
Was it because he had lost his inheritance? Was it because of something Rhaenys had written in her letters?
Or… had Lord Corlys discovered what truly happened to Vaemond?
Whatever the reason, it was evident that Corlys no longer intended to lend him his strength. The proof lay in his departure—taking with him the entire Velaryon fleet and all of his forces, leaving Bloodstone with only its own meager garrison.
Jacaerys' remaining strength lay in Coleman's eight hundred men, the two hundred Dornish soldiers who had surrendered, and his personal guards, led by Stone and Rudy.
At the very least, their fleet remained intact—seized from the Kingdom of the Three Daughters and now bearing the black banners of House Targaryen.
Four large warships, eight medium-sized vessels, and twelve smaller ships.
It was enough to form a respectable mid-sized fleet, but to operate at full capacity, they would need at least two thousand one hundred men.
While Jacaerys was in the underground fortress hall, tending to the daily affairs of Bloodstone, an unexpected visitor arrived.
A noble maiden—poised, radiant, and strikingly beautiful.
Aliandra Martell, eldest daughter of Prince Qoren Martell.
She had been sent on behalf of her father to present Jacaerys with a coronation gift along with a personal letter.
This was why the golden sun-and-spear banner of House Martell had appeared at his coronation.
And the contents of the letter were nothing short of explosive.
Prince Qoren began with formal apologies for past misunderstandings, then extended a grand gesture of atonement.
And that gift… was Aliandra herself.
The final lines of the letter made his intentions clear—should Jacaerys wed Aliandra, House Martell would pledge the full strength of Dorne to his cause, aiding him in securing absolute control over the Stepstones.
But that was not all.
If Jacaerys accepted the offer, House Martell would go even further, helping him reclaim the Iron Throne that had been denied to him.
In return, once Jacaerys solidified his rule over the Stepstones, he would have to "lend" Grey Gallows to Dorne.
And in the future, should he ascend the Iron Throne, he would be bound to formally acknowledge Dorne's independence as a sovereign kingdom.
Now, Aliandra stood before him, awaiting a clear answer.
Now, Aliandra stood before him, awaiting a clear answer.
"Your Grace, King of the Narrow Sea, I have been waiting for days… Can I finally receive your answer today?"
Aliandra, already possessing the allure of a great beauty even at such a young age, let her gaze cling to Jacaerys like molten silk.
Though she was here to discuss matters of war and politics, her voice carried a delicate, teasing lilt—like a lover's playful whisper.
Jacaerys chuckled at her words, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, my apologies. I could have given you my answer long ago, but I've been contemplating how best to phrase it."
Aliandra arched a brow, intrigued. "Oh? And what is your answer, Your Grace?"
His smile sharpened, the warmth in his gaze vanishing.
"Go back and tell Qoren Martell this—I am not a man who takes handouts from others."
His voice dropped, laced with quiet menace.
"If he does not wish to see all of Sunspear reduced to ash beneath my dragon's flames, then he should crawl before me and beg for my forgiveness."
The seductive expression vanished from Aliandra's face in an instant.
Her lips parted, as though she wanted to lash out, but she bit back her fury, remembering her father's strict instructions. Suppressing her rage, she forced out her words through gritted teeth.
"I will deliver your message word for word."
Then, her voice darkened with warning. "Jacaerys Velaryon, you will regret this decision."
With that, she turned sharply, preparing to leave.
"Wait."
Aliandra halted mid-step. Hope flickered in her eyes for a brief moment as she turned back.
"Have you changed your mind?" she asked.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Jacaerys rose from his throne and strode toward her, his boots clicking against the stone floor.
SMACK!
A resounding slap struck across Aliandra's right cheek, the force whipping her head to the side.
A crimson handprint bloomed against her fair skin, the sting spreading like fire.
"You dare—!"
SMACK!
"You—!"
SMACK!
Three brutal slaps in quick succession.
Aliandra's vision swam, her ears rang, and she stumbled to her knees, gasping.
Blood trickled from the corner of her split lip, pooling at the edge before dripping onto the cold stone floor.
She clutched her throbbing cheek, her fingers trembling as she lifted her gaze to Jacaerys. Her eyes burned—not with pain, but with raw, undying hatred.
But she did not utter another word.
Jacaerys looked down at her with cold, indifferent eyes, his expression devoid of remorse.
"The only reason you're still breathing is not because you are a messenger," he said, his tone smooth yet merciless.
"It is because today is my coronation, and I will not let the stench of death taint my mood."
His gaze swept over her trembling form, lingering on the angry red imprint on her cheek.
"It seems you have learned your lesson. Now—get out."
He turned away, dismissing her as though she were nothing more than dust beneath his feet.
"Take my words back to your father."
A pause. Then, in a voice as sharp as Valyrian steel:
"He can either kneel and live…"
"Or stand and die."
..
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[Chapter End's]
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