Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen
Chapter 239: Dragon’s Horn

Chapter 239: Dragon’s Horn

Viserys was still puzzled by Valsha’s cryptic words, "I will clear a path for them," until he saw what she meant. To his astonishment, she had rotated the Bridge of Dream, shifting it from an east-west orientation to north-south, allowing his army to cross unimpeded. The Rhoynar’s magical prowess was truly terrifying.

Meanwhile, on the banks of the Lhorulu River, Drogo was still watching the ongoing competition. As the contest progressed, it became clear that Viserys was very much alive, which made Drogo question the reliability of the Faceless Men. Were they really as formidable as their reputation suggested?

On the battlefield, Jorah was relentlessly overpowering Ogo’s son. Though Ogo’s son was nearly as strong as Drogo and broad-shouldered like a tower, he lacked the experience to match Jorah’s might, especially with Jorah in his prime. If not for Viserys, Jorah might have been unstoppable, save for an encounter with a master swordsman like Jaime Lannister or Barristan Selmy. It didn’t take long for Jorah to claim victory.

Lynesse watched Jorah with burning eyes, and their gazes locked as if they had been transported back to the Tournament in Lannisport, where Jorah had won the title of "Queen of Love and Beauty" for her. Tregar, seeing Lynesse's flirtation and her clear disdain for him, felt a surge of disgust but held back, knowing he had his own hidden agenda. He had never felt so suffocated in his life. With frustration mounting, Tregar mouthed the word "Not yet?" as he began to silently blame Cassius for the Faceless Men’s inaction.

After Jorah’s victory, Kambron’s resentment toward Viserys deepened. The outcome of the competition also left Drogo uneasy. He had failed to secure a win twice in a row, and though his main concern was receiving news of Viserys’s death, the prince continued to sit on the other side of the arena, chatting with someone.

“Congratulations, Prince Viserys, on winning the competition,” Mellario said.

Feles, who had assumed Viserys’s identity, used this opportunity to improve his social skills, making connections with the Roth and the Triarchs of Volantis. However, he struggled to recall exactly who Mellario was.

“It’s all thanks to Ser Mormont’s bravery. The key lies in the next competition. Only by winning the final contest can we ensure the safety of the common people,” Feles replied, offering the expected platitudes while trying not to give himself away.

Mellario, believing she was still at some distance from Viserys, didn’t think much of his generic response. She signaled her attendant to bring forth two boxes, which she opened and handed to Feles. Inside were two crowns, forged from black metal that blended seamlessly together. These crowns weren’t just made of any ordinary metal—they were adorned with precious stones and exuded an air of dignity and majesty.

"Prince Viserys, these crowns were made especially for you and the future Queen," Mellario said as she presented the ornate gifts. Feles, posing as Viserys, quickly thanked her.

Just then, a young boy, no more than three years old, approached. "Hello, Prince Viserys. I am Viserys Zalyne."

Before Feles could respond, he noticed the Roth and Methys approaching.

"Brother, it looks like the Triarch of Volantis is coming our way too," Shinnelly whispered, disguised as Dany.

Shinnelly, being taller and more mature in figure than Dany, and Feles, who was shorter than Viserys, both hesitated to stand. The scrutiny from the Horselord in the distance added to their unease, making them feel as though they were being roasted over an open fire. It was an experience neither wanted to repeat.

Meanwhile, in the Golden Fields, the Dothraki encampment stretched across the landscape. Jhaqo had previously settled over 3,000 Dothraki warriors on a single dirt mound. Now, Drogo and several other Khals had brought nearly all their elite forces. Combined with the civilians they had captured, the massive encampment, housing tens of thousands, dotted the golden fields like grey spots, glowing brightly under the night sky.

Drogo’s camp was, of course, the largest of these "spots," dwarfing the others combined. A colossal tent stood at its center, surrounded by torches that emphasized its importance. The other Khals’ camps were similarly adorned, with golden carvings making them easily visible against the night sky.

By now, even the most arithmetic-minded among the Dothraki understood that winning the next match wouldn’t be enough to determine the overall victor. But the question loomed—who would be considered the true winner once all three contests were done?

"Hmph! Do you think Khal Drogo and the other Khals gathered more than 50,000 warriors here just to compete with that Viserys for a mere victory?" scoffed an older Dothraki warrior, his long hair streaked with white.

With his wealth of experience, he had already discerned Drogo’s intentions. Drogo hadn’t even begun to fight yet, likely waiting for the opportune moment. As for what that moment would be, even he couldn’t guess.

At the age of just thirty, Drogo was in his prime, holding an exceptionally high level of prestige among the Dothraki. His warriors placed immense trust in him. However, Drogo’s hesitation to take action had left his Kos and the accompanying Khals uncertain about what to do next. The Dothraki army, having traveled so far, could not afford to waste any more time. Tomorrow’s competition would be the last, but by now, the outcome hardly mattered.

Drogo sensed something was amiss on Kambron’s side. He had initially planned to wait another day, but unsettling news forced his hand.

"I have decided to cross the river and attack at dawn tomorrow," Drogo announced, seated on his broad throne, eyes lowered in contemplation.

He kept silent about the mysterious disappearance of Viserys's nearly 10,000 cavalrymen. By morning, if he launched the attack, the Golden Company would surely not stand by idly. The situation was turning, setting the stage for a pincer attack. Regardless of where Viserys's cavalry had gone, Drogo believed they would be powerless against his forces.

Drogo visualized the terrain surrounding the Golden Fields. To the west lay the Lhorulu River, to the east the Rhoyne, and to the south, shrouded in grey mist and cursed with grayscale, was The Sorrows. For Viserys to navigate around the Lhorulu, he would need six or seven days—if he could. The alternative was crossing The Sorrows, but was that even possible?

'Impossible', Drogo concluded with a sigh. It was a pity that his black goat priest remained unconscious; otherwise, he would have sought guidance on the cavalry's whereabouts.

Suddenly, a faint sound reached the camp—a horn. But this horn was unlike any other, not loud and clear, but eerie, like a howling wind sweeping across the mountains, like the wailing of a lost soul.