Game of Thrones: Rise of the Supreme Dragon Queen

"Brightroar is a two-handed greatsword, while my family's Longclaw is a bastard sword," said Mormont.

"A...bastard sword?" Dany asked, surprised.

Mormont glanced around but couldn't find an example on the ship. With a metallic clang, he drew the sword from his waist and demonstrated, explaining, "This sword can be used with one hand, but it's more effective when gripped with both hands for greater force. That's why it's considered a two-handed sword."

The sword in Mormont's hand was about 1.5 meters long from tip to hilt, fitting for someone of his towering 1.95-meter stature.

"In addition to two-handed swords, there are one-handed swords, which are shorter by about a quarter to a third. A bastard sword falls somewhere between the two and is also called a hand-and-a-half sword—or colloquially, a bastard sword."

"Haha! A bastard sword born from a union of a two-handed and one-handed sword!" the burly Bevors laughed heartily. "What a name, bastard sword!"

Mormont gave him a sideways glance and said evenly, "Whether in Westeros or Essos, bastard swords are actually the most practical. One-handed swords are poor for hacking, and most people can't handle the heft of a two-handed sword, let alone use one effectively in combat."

Turning to Dany, he added, "So, do you understand now? Brightroar is so valuable because it's heavier than Longclaw and uses significantly more Valyrian steel.

If Ned Stark had sold his ancestral sword, Ice, to Tywin, it might have fetched three million gold dragons. Ice is taller than most knights when upright, standing at 1.85 meters."

"1.85 meters—a high-end model among Valyrian steel swords!" Dany thought sarcastically, inwardly lamenting that this prized weapon was handed over to the Lannisters for free, with not a single gold dragon in return.

It was as Mormont had said—most people couldn't wield a greatsword. Tywin melted down Ice to forge two bastard swords: Widow's Wail and Oathkeeper.

Hmm, Ned Stark had brought his ancestral sword to King's Landing, only to lose both his head and the sword to Tywin.

Unaware of her thoughts, Mormont continued, "I can't say for certain what a Valyrian steel sword costs today. The Lannisters are rich, and their world is different from ours. But it's safe to assume that my family's ancestor, who acquired Longclaw 500 years ago, didn't pay the equivalent of 850,000 gold dragons for it."

"How much did the Starks pay for Ice?" she asked.

"I don't know," Mormont replied, shaking his head. "Perhaps the Starks, like me, have long forgotten the price their ancestors paid for their ancestral sword."

At this point, Whitebeard interjected, "Your Grace, the classification of swords as two-handed, hand-and-a-half, or one-handed isn't just about length. The balance of the hilt plays a crucial role.

For instance, the greatsword Dawn is a two-handed sword for most people. But Arthur Dayne, being tall, strong, and exceptionally skilled, could wield it single-handedly with ease.

By adjusting the weight of the pommel at the end of the hilt, he transformed it into a one-handed sword. After his death, however, the knights of House Dayne restored it to its original two-handed form."

Mormont looked at the old man in surprise but nodded. "The old man isn't wrong. A sword should feel like an extension of its wielder's arm. True knights rarely buy off-the-shelf weapons. They measure their arm span and strength to have a sword custom-made."

"Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning!" Dany exclaimed, deeply impressed. "Viserys always said he was the greatest swordsman in the world, rivaled only by Rhaegar."

Whitebeard's face reflected a wave of nostalgia as he said with great emotion, "Arthur Dayne truly was unmatched in skill. He could eat roasted meat with his right hand while fending off seven Kingsguard with his left. As for Prince Rhaegar, he..."

Sensing hesitation in the old man's tone, Dany waved her hand dismissively. "I know Viserys exaggerated. Rhaegar couldn't even defeat Robert.

But the Sword of the Morning wasn't a prince, and there's no need to embellish his reputation. His strength was undoubtedly real. But why did he die at the hands of Eddard Stark, who wasn't known for his martial prowess?"

The old man pondered before answering, "Any warrior, no matter how strong, fast, or precise, has limits. He might win a tough duel one day and lose a simpler fight the next.

I've witnessed countless duels and fought in many battles. Many factors determine the outcome of a fight—a hidden pit in the grass, bad food at dinner, or even a sudden change in the wind could mean defeat.

Conversely, a lucky gust of wind could grant you victory."

He glanced at Ser Jorah and added, "Perhaps even a lady's token tied to one's arm could awaken the spirit of a god of war."

The Bear did not appreciate the remark. His face darkened as he snapped coldly, "Watch your tongue, old man!"

In the tournament at Lannisport, Mormont had worn a scarf gifted by Lynesse tied around his arm and won the jousting competition.

But since then, he had never won another match.

It was an apt, albeit cutting, example.

The conversation ended on an awkward note, with everyone parting unhappily. Dany left with her maidservants.

Groleo adjusted the ship's course slightly, sailing northwest for two days. Dany finally saw the fabled Sea of Storms at Doom.

The gray skies on the horizon seemed to collapse into the sea, forming a seamless blend of sky and water. Or perhaps massive tornadoes formed a barrier surrounding the northern Valyrian Peninsula, like a seal—keeping ships out and the demons of ancient ruins trapped within.

"We can't go any further. The storm will tear us apart!" Groleo shouted to Dany, his wild black hair whipping in the gale.

"Then stop here!" Dany shouted back.

Shouting was necessary—the distant, towering storms brought with them swirling winds, dense mist, and a thunderous roar akin to rolling thunder.

Curiously, in most cases, a massive sea storm would churn up waves even in its periphery. Yet here, the waters remained strangely calm.

The seas near the Valyrian Peninsula were unlike any other.

Ahead, the sky loomed dark and oppressive. Winds howled, and waves surged violently, blurring the boundary between the heavens and the ocean. The sky became the sea, and the sea fused with the sky.

Yet, a mere dozen kilometers away, the sun shone brightly, and the sea remained calm. Apart from the deafening noise and occasional gusts of wind, there was little indication of the storm.

It was as if an invisible wall separated two worlds: inside was a stormy hell, outside a serene paradise.

Dropping anchor into the sea, the three ships temporarily stabilized on the water. Leaving Grole at the helm on the bridge, Dany joined Jorah and Barristan in the lower cabin to discuss their next steps.

"Your Grace, you must act quickly," Blackbeard warned before leaving the bridge. "The sea may seem calm now, but in a few hours, this spot could become the center of the storm. The storm wall isn't fixed—it can expand or contract. Either way, it triggers violent weather nearby."

"I understand," Dany shouted back.

Once below deck, the roar of the storm softened slightly, allowing normal conversation.

Upon seeing her, Barristan immediately advised, "Your Grace, we should leave. I didn't expect the conditions near Valyria to be so treacherous. Even dragons cannot pass through that storm wall!"

"Ugh, I didn't expect this either," Dany replied helplessly. "It defies reason—it's not natural. A storm of this scale needs massive amounts of energy to sustain. How has it lasted for centuries without dissipating?"

Jorah, unfamiliar with her reference to "reason," understood her intent and said, "Valyria's rise and fall were miracles in themselves. A phenomenon like this near such a place is not surprising."

Dany shifted the topic. "What about the conditions in the Smoking Sea?"

The Valyrian Peninsula had been built on the Summer Sea. After the Doom, volcanic eruptions shattered the peninsula, turning its central region into a boiling strait known as the Smoking Sea.

Valyria broke into countless pieces. To the north, the land became a fiery inferno with blazing waters; to the south, the seas were shrouded in perpetual storms. The environment was utterly inhospitable.

Jorah shook his head with a sigh. "The Smoking Sea is just as dangerous. Underwater volcanoes boil the ocean, while the exposed reefs smolder with heat. The skies are darkened by volcanic ash, and the sea glows with a red hue. It's said that demons and sea monsters dwell there."

The harsh environment of underwater volcanoes could transform any surviving creature into a demon.

"Dragons aren't afraid of heat," Dany said hesitantly.

"But thousands of Valyrian dragons perished in the volcanic eruptions," Barristan countered, dousing her hope.

Though unpleasant, his words were true.

"Fine. Let's send Drogon to test the storm," she relented.

Drogon, perched on the bare mast with the sails furled, had his wings folded as he rested quietly like a stone carving alongside the other two smaller dragons.

At her command, Drogon's crimson eyes snapped open. With a mighty leap, he spread his wings, gliding towards the storm.

Dany entered a state of spiritual connection with Drogon, observing the storm wall through his eyes as he flew closer.

"Climb higher, Drogon," she instructed.

Drogon spiraled upward, climbing higher and higher, until the ship below became a mere dot on the vast blue canvas.

The moment Drogon neared the storm, turbulence struck. The wind battered his leathery wings, sounding like whips cracking against rawhide.

"Steady, steady—follow the wind," Dany guided him.

Before she could finish, Drogon had already adapted to the storm, angling his wings to reduce surface area and using his tail like a rudder for balance.

Gliding like a paper plane, Drogon bobbed and weaved through the storm, moving with remarkable stability.

"Wow, Drogon! You're amazing!" Dany cheered in encouragement.

Suddenly, a silver-blue web of lightning crackled through the storm, one branch striking Drogon's neck.

Dany let out a muffled groan as her vision darkened, her ears ringing. Time seemed to slow; what lasted only a second felt like hours.

"Khaleesi, are you alright?" a handmaiden cried in alarm.

In the spacious cabin, Dany, who had been sitting silently with her eyes closed, suddenly gasped in pain. Two thin streams of blood trickled from her nostrils, staining her pale pink lips and white chin. Her body slumped to the side, but Doreah quickly caught her.

"Ah, just my luck. Drogon was struck by lightning, and I shared part of the damage," Dany said, waving off their concern.

Her words were light, but the situation was anything but.

(End of Chapter)

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