hotmtlnovel Chapter 659: Dragon Eggs!
Chapter 659: Dragon Eggs!
Chapter 659: Dragon Eggs!
Night falls, and all sound ceases.
The Wall.
Snow blankets the top of the city walls, and the cold wind howls, whipping up the campfire and enveloping the Night's Watch in the bitter night air.
"Keep warm, everyone, and don't let the fire die out," Cregan called out, his voice firm as he patrolled the battlements, carrying his house sword, Ice. Wind and snow lashed at him as he made his rounds.
He feared the watchmen on duty might succumb to the cold and hunger, drifting off to sleep—never to wake again.
"My lord, our food reserves are running low."
The voice came from a middle-aged man with a straight posture, streaks of white in his black hair. He led the patrol with a commanding presence that set him apart from the others.
Cregan glanced back and reassured him, "Commander Benjicot, just wait a little longer."
The heir prince had already returned south along the same route, and royal reinforcements were on their way.
"My lord, perhaps you should call on your advisers once again for help."
Benjicot Blackwood's face was grave, his tone leaving no room for debate. The wildlings watched the Wall with hungry eyes, and darker, unknown forces lurked beyond it. If the North couldn’t stand united, how could the southern lords be expected to give their best?
Cregan fell silent, his mind churning. He hesitated, pondering Benjicot's words.
The current Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had once been the Lord of Raventree Hall. The father of the late Lord Samwell and the grandfather of the current "boy," Benjicot, had seized a rare opportunity during the Bracken rebellion to block the way for Lord Bracken's counterattack. When House Bracken was destroyed, the elder Benjicot confessed his crimes and took the black, choosing to guard the Wall. His wealth of experience and keen abilities eventually led him to the position of Lord Commander. Approaching sixty, he was now known as the "Old Man of Castle Black."
"My lord, prepare as quickly as possible," the elder Benjicot urged. He tugged at the black cloak around his shoulders and sighed, turning to leave.
Whoosh——
A rough horn blast shattered the silence of the night. Flames erupted from the Haunted Forest, a dense wall of fire closing in on the Wall.
Dum dum dum!
The bells of Castle Black rang out in alarm. Scouts shouted, "The wildlings are here, hurry!"
Amidst the chaos of battle, three times the usual number of bonfires were lit along the Wall.
"I'll go down to command Castle Black. The castle keep is yours," Cregan said, his face pale as he hurriedly descended the Great Wall. The only breach in the Wall was the tunnel gate, guarded by Castle Black.
On the other side...
Beyond the Great Wall, firelight spread across the wasteland.
"Roar! I'll go first!"
A towering giant, eight meters tall, pounded his chest and roared, each step carrying him forward several meters.
Withstanding a rain of arrows, he barreled toward the outer steel fence of the tunnel gate.
Clang! Clang!
He smashed his massive shoulders into the iron fence, dislodging chunks of ice and snow, but the gate held firm.
"Bring the mammoths!"
The giant shouted at another equally imposing giant, whose face was so frozen stiff he could make no further expressions. In each of his enormous hands, he gripped a mammoth covered in long, matted fur, dragging thick tree trunks as they charged.
Behind them, the horde of wildlings surged forward, emboldened by the sight of the giants and mammoths leading the assault. They stormed the Wall like a tidal wave.
To survive. To live.
They had to cross the Great Wall and reclaim the fertile lands their ancestors had lost.
...
The next day, at Winterfell.
It was a rare, beautiful, sunny day.
The dragons roared anxiously, their walls marred by scratches and scorch marks, chains rattling with tension. A low rumble echoed through the Dragonpit as a massive, coal-black creature burrowed its way inside. The roars fell silent.
Rhaegar, who had just returned after a long journey, looked puzzled. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Roar!"
A light gray dragon climbed onto the iron bridge, its slender tail swaying back and forth. With a powerful beat of its wings, it soared towards Blackwater Bay. Flying alongside it was a young dragon, covered in black scales, with scarlet dorsal fins and wing membranes.
Rhaegar didn’t try to stop them. He slid down from his dragon’s back, still confused by the scene.
Earlier that morning, they had spotted Silverwing, an ownerless dragon, circling over Blackwater Bay before retreating to the smoky caves of Dragonmont.
"Thank the gods, Your Grace, you’ve returned safely."
Maester Maynard limped over, his pale face even paler than usual. Not only was one of his legs lame, but the other was wrapped tightly in bandages.
"Your Grace," came another voice, as the elderly Dragonkeeper approached, leading several of his wounded colleagues. Each bore fresh scars and bandages that had yet to fully heal.
Rhaegar scanned the scene in surprise. "A riot in the Dragonpit?" he asked. He had only been gone a month—how could things have devolved so badly?
The Dragonkeepers had tended the dragons for years. It was unthinkable for them to be in such a miserable state.
Maynard, looking pitiful, spoke up, "The dragons have been like this lately, attacking anyone who tries to feed them or clean up after them."
Sometimes it was a dragon wing striking out, other times a tail lashing dangerously. The Dragonkeepers were constantly getting injured. "It’s really hard on the bones," Maynard muttered under his breath.
Rhaegar frowned and turned to the elderly Dragonkeeper, whose face was full of grief. He had been among the first of the Dragonkeepers, working in the Dragonpit for decades.
"The temperature has dropped suddenly, Your Grace. There’s frost at night." The old Dragonkeeper’s voice was low, and he murmured in High Valyrian: "The dragons are the last sacred magic of ancient Valyria. They sense danger—they are migrating to habitable places in advance."
Rhaegar fell silent, digesting the words. The three ownerless dragons—Silverwing, Grey Ghost, and Iragaxys—had all returned to live on Dragonstone. It seemed the dragons knew something the men did not.
He hadn’t noticed the chill while riding on dragonback, but the air in King’s Landing was undoubtedly colder than it should be. It was only August, the time of the scorching sun. Yet the temperature in the Crownlands, which usually bathed in the warmth of Blackwater Bay, had dropped significantly. It felt more like autumn than summer.
"Roar!"
Suddenly, a strange dragon's roar echoed from deep within the Dragonpit, followed by the sound of something massive slapping the ground.
Rhaegar turned just in time to see his brother, Aemond, covered in dirt, climbing out of one of the pits.
"Brother?"
"Aemond?" Rhaegar called, startled.
Aemond’s single eye widened in surprise. His already sallow complexion darkened even more as he saw Rhaegar.
"What is that in your hand?" Rhaegar asked, noticing the odd object Aemond was holding.
It was round, squishy, and covered in a brown, leathery shell. Barbs like briars jutted out from its surface, and it looked like a stinking, hardened lump of rotten meat.
"A dragon egg," Rhaegar said, eyes widening in realization. "The Sheepstealer’s?"
The egg’s unsightly, drab coloration could only belong to the wild and untamed Mud Dragon, known as the Sheepstealer.
"Yes," Aemond grumbled, his face as black as the bottom of a pot. He was clearly reluctant to speak. "I always thought the Sheepstealer was a male dragon. But here we are—she laid a big one."
It had been a surprise. When the Dragonkeepers opened the pit, they found the ugly, brownish dragon egg hidden inside. There was only one, but it bore the unmistakable hue of the Sheepstealer’s scales. Small and compact, it was nonetheless a dragon egg.
"Wow..." Rhaegar blinked, tilting his head with amusement. "Looks like you won’t need the royal family to produce dragon eggs anymore."
He hadn’t expected the Sheepstealer to lay eggs at all. That wild, unruly dragon was having a second spring, it seemed.
"Roar!"
The Sheepstealer slowly crawled out of its pit, its sly, vertical pupils dilating as its thin tail swished back and forth.
'Where’s the egg?' its gaze seemed to ask. There was a faint, uneasy scent in the air—perhaps a trace of Dragoneater. Hopefully, it hadn’t been eaten.