Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 345: You’ve Disappointed Me

The woman with curly hair was Malora, the second daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower. Known to many as "Crazy Malora," she was infamous not only for being a virgin in old age, but also for her obsession with magic, which she shared with her father, Lord Leyton.

At her excited shouts, Lord Leyton stumbled over to her, just as ecstatic. Malora seemed to have achieved something remarkable—the ability to make feathers float through magic.

"We've finally found a way for ordinary people to use magic!" Leyton exclaimed, eyes wide with wonder.

"Yes! Magic is real! Magic exists!" Malora echoed, her excitement as wild as her appearance.

Just as the two prepared to repeat their newfound magic, the door swung open and a man in armor strode in. It was Garth "Greysteel", Leyton’s son and a far more grounded member of the family. He had long been at his wits' end with his eccentric father and sister, but now he had more pressing concerns.

“Father,” Garth said, ignoring the pair's antics, "our soldiers saw a dragon land near the Honeywine. They’ve confirmed it’s Viserys and Daenerys. We need to meet them immediately."

"A dragon?!" Father and daughter exchanged stunned glances. If a dragon had arrived, there could be no doubt about the identity of their visitors. But what was Viserys doing in Oldtown? Shouldn't he be fighting his wars?

“Did he say what he wants?” Leyton asked.

"Our soldiers didn’t get close enough to speak directly with Viserys, but Prince Doran’s son, Quentin Martell, was with them. He said the High Septon should come and meet them with his entourage."

Though still uncertain of Viserys’s intentions, they knew they couldn’t ignore the arrival of a dragon. Hurriedly, they sent word to the High Septon and prepared to meet Viserys themselves.

Down by the banks of the Honeywine, a few boatmen and curious civilians had gathered. But the sight of the dragons looming nearby had driven them to hide at a distance.

Viserys and Quentin, meanwhile, were busy unloading the statues of the Seven Gods, each wrapped carefully in canvas, from the dragons. They arranged them in a neat row, though the canvas coverings remained tied.

"We must seize this opportunity to bind the Faith of the Seven to the power of the dragon," Viserys said, surveying the scene. "This will increase the royal family’s influence over the Faith."

By linking the Faith of the Seven with the Targaryens' dragons, Viserys sought to further legitimize his family’s rule.

"So in the future, the Targaryens won’t need the Church for their coronation?" Dany asked, her eyes thoughtful.

"Not only will we not need the Church for our coronations," Viserys replied, "but the Targaryens must also approve the selection of future High Septons."

He looked out toward Oldtown, the heart of the Andal culture. The most fertile lands in Westeros were largely controlled by the Andals, and with the backing of both the Faith and the Citadel, the Targaryens would be well-positioned to mobilize greater forces to defend the realm, especially against the foreign threats beyond the Wall.

Suddenly, the dragons, which had been either resting or drinking by the river, stirred with a sharp vigilance. Their wheel-sized heads lifted in unison, eyes scanning the horizon.

A large army of men and horses was approaching.

It wasn’t just the Hightowers; the Citadel and the Faith of the Seven had also joined the procession, numbering in the thousands. As the men drew closer, Viserys and Quentin calmed the dragons, who eyed the approaching force with caution. The procession halted two or three miles away, everyone craning their necks to get a glimpse of the seven dragons, whose scales glinted like jewels in the sunlight.

For a hundred years, dragons had existed only in the imagination, described in old books and songs. Now, faced with the living, breathing beasts, excitement rippled through the crowd.

In the distance, Lord Leyton Hightower stood with Theobald, the acting Citadel Archmaester , and Septon Phornas of the Faith.

They deliberated quietly over who should approach the dragons first. Malora, ever the magic enthusiast, was practically bouncing on her toes, her wide eyes fixed on the dragons as if they might vanish at any moment. Dressed hastily in a robe she had thrown over herself, her wild curls bouncing, she strained to get a closer look.

“Father, let me go first,” Malora suggested eagerly, almost pleading.

“No,” Leyton replied firmly, without hesitation. As the Lord of House Hightower, one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, he couldn’t risk his somewhat eccentric daughter making a spectacle of herself.

House Hightower was no ordinary family. In terms of strength and influence, even House Tully paled in comparison. The last thing Leyton wanted was for his "crazy old maid" of a daughter to embarrass them at such a crucial moment.

After some thought, Leyton made his decision. “Garth, you will go.”

“Yes, Father,” Garth replied, his expression composed but respectful.

As Garth prepared to make his approach, Quentin, standing nearby, made his final adjustments to his attire. He ensured that he would bring no shame to either Viserys or House Martell in this meeting.

"I come on behalf of His Grace, King Viserys, and Princess Daenerys," Quentin Martell announced, though his voice trembled slightly. His knuckles turned white from gripping the reins too tightly. "I am Quentin Martell, son of Prince Doran."

"I am Garth Hightower, son of Lord Leyton," Garth responded coolly.

"Ser Garth, His Grace and Princess Daenerys are waiting. Please have Lord Leyton come to greet them," Quentin requested, trying to keep his voice steady.

The Maesters of the Citadel were notoriously arrogant. In private, some believed they truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms, and the Septons—thanks to their veneration of "Blessed Baelor"—maintained an air of superiority. Baelor’s obsession with purity, locking his sisters in the Maidenvault and swearing to remain a virgin for life, had practically stunted the Targaryen bloodline.

Many in the Faith saw Baelor’s reign as a victory over the Targaryens, especially since Viserys had not been crowned by the High Septon. To them, he could not truly claim the title "Your Grace."

But with seven dragons watching them from the banks of the Honeywine, even Garth Hightower knew they had little choice but to acknowledge Viserys.

"Very well," Garth replied. "Please wait a moment, Your Grace."

As Garth turned away, Viserys asked, "What did he say?"

Quentin hesitated before repeating the message. Dany, standing nearby, frowned and snapped, "Quentin, you’ve disappointed me."

"Princess?" Quentin looked at her, bewildered.

Dany’s gaze turned cold. "Do you think there’s anyone in this world worth waiting for?" she asked, her voice edged with indifference.

Quentin’s mind raced. I represent Viserys, he realized, his weakness now glaring. He remembered his time in Tyrosh—how fiercely the nobles and commoners there had defended Viserys’s name. What was I thinking?

If someone like Ser Regis had been in his place, Quentin knew, he would have drawn his sword the moment Garth suggested Viserys could "wait."

Oh gods, what am I doing? Viserys even let me ride a dragon, and I can’t even defend his honor properly! Quentin felt the weight of failure crushing him. His world seemed to spin, and as his eyes drifted toward Vyrgion, the blue dragon, he thought he saw something in its cold, reptilian eyes—contempt.

'I'm sorry, Vyrgion,' Quentin whispered, his heart sinking. 'I’m not worthy to ride you.'

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