[41] A Dragon Among Rats
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The streets of King’s Landing churned with a storm of fear and desperation. Citizens screamed and ran, shoving one another in a desperate scramble for anything of value; scraps of food, clothes, any meager coin. Overturned carts and scattered debris choked the cobblestones, forming makeshift barricades and hazards alike.
Fires flickered in corners where riotous people had smashed lanterns, and the air reeked of sweat, ash, and terror.
Adorned in fine black armor, I walked through the madness with quiet authority, my new crimson cloak trailing behind like a streak of blood across the dirt-streaked stone. Golden swirls etched into my dark armor caught the dim light, hinting at a regal silhouette. My silver-blond hair freely fell over my shoulder, and more than one bewildered onlooker gasped, jumping away or fleeing faster.
“P-Prince Rhaegar…?!” an old man stammered, collapsing on his knees onto the road.
I paused, offering him a brief glance. Rhaegar Targaryen, indeed—that’s who they saw in the pale hair and the calm, almost haunting aura. That was my plan, to wear my late brother's name and haunt the Crown. I patted the man on the shoulder, offering neither correction nor comfort. Some illusions are worth maintaining.
My purple eyes scanned the crowd, cold detachment in their reflection. Lord Mace’s gifted sword rested on my waist, the hilt carved to resemble a dragon’s head. I walked, and the panicked mob parted instinctively, their shock and fear of me surpassing the chaos around them.
Sometimes humans feared the unknown more than a blade, so it was not surprising they’d find the Ghost of Targaryen far more dangerous than the city’s upheaval. Yet, somehow, many of them looked at me with reverence.
Rhaegar Targaryen sure was something else.
A woman shrieked at me, and someone used that chance to yank a loaf of bread from her grasp. She cried, and the thief vanished into the crowd.
I raised a gloved hand, and with barely a thought, a dagger flickered into my palm from within my Inventory. I hurled it, and it found its mark in the thief’s ankle. His scream joined the riotous sea of noise, and the woman rushed at him to retrieve her possessions.
A few startled eyes landed on me, then darted away. “What… Did you all see that?”
I resumed my stride, unbothered. Everyone moved aside until a child stumbled into my path, looked up at me with wide, petrified eyes, and then scrambled away as I continued past him. The riot churned around me like a swirling tide, but I might have been a dragon drifting through a rat's flock, for none of it affected me. I had a destination.
Up ahead, the jagged towers of the Red Keep stood against the gray sky, a grim symbol of false power. But the castle wasn’t my goal today; no, it was the path leading to it. That was where the center of this commotion was.
On and on, I pushed forward, my senses sharp in search of something particular.
I soon found myself at the center of the uproar, an even more crowded area where everyone had gone mad and the riot boiled into raw violence. Shouts and clangs echoed off battered walls as guards and commoners clashed against one another. My attention snagged on a group of city folk cowering, pressed back against a collapsed vegetable stall.
A wedge of royal guards, their armor tarnished and stinking of arrogance, advanced on them, swords in hand. These so-called protectors were using the chaos to impose cruelty rather than order. It was almost as if they didn’t realize that killing was making the situation worse.
Well, what did I care?
A hawk-faced guard struck a trembling woman across the face with the flat of his blade. I drew my sword from its scabbard slowly, and my eyes flashed from the woman to the guards. By then, people had noticed me even amid the commotion, and murmurs of disbelief rippled among the watchers.
“H-hey, who is that?!” One guard gaped at me, and I noticed confusion etched under his helm. When his friends turned to me, he grumbled and lunged at me with a shaky war cry. I easily sidestepped him, driving my sword through the gap in his neck armor.
Hot blood splattered my cloak, the scarlet blending with the fabric’s crimson hue. He collapsed, choking.
[You’ve killed a human - Royal Guard.]
[You’ve received experience points.]
The other guards recoiled, uncertain whether they faced a demon or a savior. Their hesitation ended abruptly when one barked, “Kill him! Don’t be fooled by your eyes. Keep swinging your swords! By the King’s orders, we maintain peace!”
“Your King is worthless,” I said, my voice cold. I swung to meet the next wave of steel with fluid grace. Another guard’s sword swung at my legs—I jumped, spun, and my blade carved a brilliant arc. “You’re swinging at your rightful heir. There’s still time. Flee, and I’ll forgive you,” I said, but they didn’t take my kind offer.
The sword landed, and the guard toppled, clutching a mortal wound. Two more rushed in, but my reflexes outmatched them. I feinted, spinning in a dance of efficiency, each slash leading to a spurt of blood or a muffled scream. They were sliced and battered, and the crowd parted in fright or awe.
[You’ve killed a human - Royal Guard.]
[You’ve received experience points.]
[You’ve killed a human - Royal Guard.]
[You’ve received experience points.]
[You’ve…
…..
You’ve received experience points.]
[Skill Swordsmanship (E) has risen to Swordsmanship (D)!]
Blood rained onto the stone, and the last guard fell. I exhaled softly, then focused on the trembling civilians. Their eyes shone with fragile hope and reverence. A hush crowded the air, broken only by ragged breathing and distant howls of unrest. I forced a smile that was more reassurance than warmth.
“I trust everyone here is alright,” I said quietly.
The civilians exchanged glances. Nobody spoke. Until one of the children who huddled near a cart spotted more movement behind me and yelled in alarm, “L-look out!” I spun, arm snapping up to catch an arrow that whistled toward my back.
The projectile lodged into my gauntlet. I yanked it free, discarding it with a scoff. The new wave of guards weren’t Royal Guards. They were City Guards who stood brave in their numbers at the far end of the street.
“You freak,” one of them said. “This is your grave!”
My sword sang once again. I met their charge head-on, ignoring the stench of blood and sweat. Blades clashed, and though they bore the advantage of numbers, none had faced a Targaryen who had a goddamn [System]. But truth be told, even I was surprised at how well I took care of the group. A deadly rhythm took hold.
My blade found soft spots in the armor. Their attacks, though persistent, failed to do more than graze my cloak or bounce off the hardened plates I wore beneath it.
Cries echoed over the gutted street, and soon the guards lay crumpled, some motionless, others gasping for air. I finished the barely alive ones with a soft swipe. A hush blanketed the chaos as though the world paused. All the civilians stared at me while gaping.
I wiped sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and sighed. Then, my eyes fell on the notifications flashing before me.
[You’ve received experience points.]
[You’ve reached Level 25! Congratulations!]
[Your Old Valyrian blood has strengthened.]
[Your levels have reached a breakthrough…!]
[Your Class ‘The Dragon King’ has strengthened!]
[As a Dragon King, you are a Dragon yourself. What Dragon is limited by a mere mortal human body? You can now choose a draconic trait to evolve yourself.]
I was surprised to see such a development, but I shouldn’t have. This power called itself the Dragon System for a reason, and not some Dragon Tamer System. Four boxes soon floated before me.
[Claws] [Scales] [Eyes] [Wings]
My heart thumped, and adrenaline was still coursing from the skirmish. Four options, I see. I took them all in and considered them while the System urged me to pick my path toward an even more draconic form.
“Why did he fall silent?” One of them asked, prompting me to look up. With one last glance around the battered guards, the wide-eyed civilians, and the riot-churned city, I closed my eyes.
I sighed, opened my eyes, and then raised my finger to the option I wanted.
****
Sansa staggered through the swirling chaos, her breath catching with every jolt of the crowd. Around her, strangers surged in a desperate tide—some frantic with hunger, others consumed by hatred. Overturned barrels and slashed tents choked the muddy cobblestones, creating a treacherous obstacle course. A thick stench of unwashed bodies, rot, and fear pressed against her senses like a suffocating veil.
A donkey brayed close by, entangled reins threatening to trip her. Sansa lurched, catching herself against a toppled cart. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm in her chest. Stay calm. The royal entourage—Joffrey’s guards—had vanished in the stampede, killing civilians and leaving her alone.
She couldn’t help a grim flicker of amusement. What did those fools think would happen if they threw dung at the king?
Panic coiled hot in her belly. No loyal shield stood between her and these rioters, and any cry for help drowned in the uproar. Don’t get me wrong, I loved seeing that dung hit him in the face, but what did they expect? “Oh gods,” Another shove from behind nearly sent her sprawling. She gasped, searching blindly for support, only to find more jostling figures. Where are the King’s Guards? Where is anyone?
A side alley looked promising, but a knot of flailing bodies blocked the way. Gritting her teeth, Sansa allowed the mass of people to push her along, guiding her deeper into the city’s turmoil. Then things grew blurry. In a dizzying rush, the mob spat her out into a grim dead-end alley strewn with shattered crates and a broken door.
The rowdy noise of the main riot felt muffled here, and an uneasy hush enveloped her. She almost breathed relief until she spotted movement in the half-light.
A handful of men stepped into the alley’s shadows, their clothes stained and reeking of sweat and wine. They’d followed her, and their eyes fixed on the embroidery of her gown, on the undone braids in her hair. Sansa felt her blood turn cold.
One man advanced, a grin twisting across his mouth. “Well, look at that… a pretty little bird,” he sneered.
She took a step back, pressing against the damp stone. No. Fear burned tears into her eyes, though she tried vainly to hold them at bay.
His companion’s hands twitched, fingers curling as though already imagining what they’d do. They spread out, hemming her in. Her knees wobbled, her body screaming for flight, but the alley offered no escape. Just my luck. Someone—anyone…
Her prayers died in her throat as the situation advanced too fast. Without warning, the first attacker lunged. Sansa shrieked, arms rising in a weak attempt at defense. “No!”
“Oh, yes~” he crackled.
He gripped a fistful of her hair and yanked. “Argh!” Pain bursting white-hot behind her eyes. “Stop—!” she cried, the word strangled in terror.
Their laughter echoed hollow and hungry, the second man shoving her against the slick wall. She felt her gown tear, felt the burn of rough nails scraping skin. One of her breasts came free, and the man reached out a hand, trying to grab it. This can’t be happening…
Then, right before the man’s hand could feel her breasts, a deep, feral snarl ruptured the alley’s tension. The men froze mid-act, Sansa’s breath catching at the sound. Dazed, she blinked tears from her eyes and risked a look over her shoulder.
A towering figure materialized at the alley’s mouth—a silhouette draped in armor, face shadowed, and posture lethal. Somehow, she recognized that appearance even though she’d been born after his death. He was just that popular in this realm.
“P-Prince Rhaegar…?!” one of the men gasped, and she realized she wasn’t seeing things. Seventeen years… and people still recognized him like it was yesterday. The Prince among Princes, Rheager Targaryen, stood at the alley.
“Pity that I have to kill civilians.”
“W-what is going–” Before the assaulter could speak again, steel flashed in the alley’s meager light, and a gargled cry severed the hush. The Targaryen Ghost moved swiftly. Blood splattered across wet cobbles. The figure moved mercilessly, dismantling her attackers in swift, brutal strokes. Heartbeats later, bodies sprawled motionless on the ground. One man fled, his footsteps echoing in an alley as Rhaeger turned to him. A dagger appeared in his hand, and it found the fleeing man’s neck a second later.
The alley suddenly felt deathly still.
Sansa sagged against the wall, her breath ragged and her mind spinning. She watched in numb disbelief as the stranger, this Rhaegar Targaryen who couldn’t possibly be real, turned toward us, her sword still dripping red.
She flinched as he walked forward, anticipating another threat, but he sheathed his blade and reached into thin air as though tugging on an invisible curtain. A thick blanket appeared in his arms out of thin air.
This cannot be. Am I truly seeing things? She wasn’t sure her eyes believed it, but he draped it carefully around her shoulders, steadying her trembling form with surprising gentleness.
“Lady Sansa,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to the bruises blooming on her skin. “I’m glad I wasn’t too late. Stay put, you’re safe now.”
Sansa just stared. This man’s father burned her uncle, her grandfather, to death. Targaryen cruelty was seared into the pages of Stark history. Yet he—brutal and bloodstained—had saved her from something unspeakable. Gratitude and terror warred in her chest. She didn’t know what to say, so she managed only a watery nod.
“T-thank you…” she whispered, swallowing hard. “But… who-... who are you, truly?”
He fell silent and then opened his mouth to answer. Before he could, however, another voice rang from behind them. It was rough, full of disbelief, and like a howling tiger.
“What in seven fucking hells—?” Sandor Fucking Clegane, the Hound, stood at the alley’s entrance, sword in hand, eyes wide with shock.
Sansa watched in shock as the Targaryen ghost cursed under his breath, turning around to face the new arrival. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword once more.
“My apologies, Lady Sansa,” he said, not looking back, “but you’ll have to wait a bit longer.”
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Author Note: I hope you liked the chapter. We’re getting some actions again and some really important growth. Question: which of the four options would you’ve chosen in Viserys’ shoes?