Upon reading the system panel's description, Rhaegar's expression changed dramatically.
"Fire hidden deep underground... isn't that just magma?"
Dragonstone's volcano was filled with magma.
**Boom—**
A small chunk of soil mixed with carbon ash suddenly exploded, forming a bowl-sized crater.
Rhaegar quickly stepped back, thinking magma was about to erupt.
However, he had overthought it.
The Isle of Faces was an island located at the center of the God's Eye Lake.
No matter how much underground fire gathered, magma wouldn't spew out.
But something else did emerge.
**Drip, drip...**
Water seeped from the bottom of the crater, quickly forming a small puddle.
Rhaegar remained on guard, unsure of what was happening.
The water surface rippled twice, releasing a few bubbles.
**Whoosh...**
A faint mist rose from the puddle, warm and humid.
Rhaegar sniffed the air and caught a strong scent of sulfur.
He stepped closer and boldly reached out to touch the water.
"It's hot!"
Rhaegar murmured softly, then submerged both hands into the water.
A word came to his mind—
**Hot spring!**
**Rumble—**
The tremors on the Isle of Faces continued, though they gradually weakened from their initial intensity.
Several weirwood trees swayed with the shaking, and clusters of crimson leaves fluttered to the ground.
In just a moment, the weirwoods had shed all their red leaves.
The small puddle was surrounded by several weirwoods, their fallen leaves covering the ground around it.
Rhaegar sat down cross-legged, gazing at the puddle, allowing silver strands of hair and crimson leaves to settle on his shoulders.
"So this is 'The Fire That Breaks Through the Earth'... just a small hot spring?"
Resting his chin on one hand, Rhaegar pondered.
Then, another thought struck him—hot springs relied on underground heat.
If a hot spring had appeared, it meant that the subterranean structure of the Isle of Faces had indeed changed.
His eyes landed on the system panel, focusing on the description of its effects.
The second half of the sentence: **A gradual and imperceptible transformation.**
Rhaegar scooped up a handful of spring water and took a sip. The sulfur taste was strong—sharp and bitter.
This reminded him of many things.
The Dragonlords of Old Valyria had lived atop the Fourteen Flames.
Those fourteen active volcanoes provided an ideal habitat for dragons.
Dragonstone also had a volcano, where Vermithor and Silverwing had slumbered for years.
Beyond that, the continent of Westeros seemed to have very few volcanic landscapes.
The only one he had heard of was in the North—Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark, where underground heat fueled its hot springs.
As he pieced everything together, a bold idea formed in his mind.
"At the very least, the geothermal heat beneath the Isle of Faces is high enough—higher than that of the Dragonpit in King's Landing. It would be a better place for dragons to live."
As soon as the thought arose, his long-held ambition to rebuild the Dragonpit resurfaced.
Looking at the steam rising from the spring, Rhaegar smiled with satisfaction.
"What a treasure trove... truly worthy of being a legendary relic's creation."
A desire took root in his heart—he wanted to claim the Isle of Faces for himself.
**"Screech—"**
A dragon's roar interrupted his thoughts.
Rhaegar looked up.
Dressed in a black gown, Rhaenyra was riding Syrax as she flew toward him.
"Rhaegar, the Isle of Faces is shaking! Come with me, quickly!"
Rhaenyra's expression was urgent as she urged Syrax to descend.
**"Screech—"**
**"Screech!"**
Two more dragon roars echoed across the sky. The scorching sunlight was momentarily blocked by massive wings as black as coal.
Sunfyre had soared high above at some point and was now circling the Isle of Faces, gliding at a low altitude, clearly intrigued by the island.
Helena, riding the agitated Dreamfyre, was approaching from the direction of the island's shore.
Dragons had keener senses than humans.
The moment the island trembled, all three dragons were immediately alerted.
Seeing that Syrax was hesitant to land, Rhaegar shouted, "I'm fine! Don't worry!"
Of course, he was fine.
After all, he was the one who caused the disturbance and knew exactly why it had happened.
If anything had gone wrong...
Glancing at the now-bare weirwood trees, Rhaegar silently offered his apologies.
The hot spring had emerged right beside the weirwoods, precisely at the hottest part of the underground core.
**Not sure if weirwoods is resistant to high temperatures.**
For a long while, all was still.
The aftershocks on Thousand-Faced Isle subsided, restoring peace.
Syrax and Dreamfyre landed one after the other, allowing their riders to dismount.
Rhaegar pointed at a small puddle on the ground and chuckled. "Look! A little hot spring."
"Hm?"
Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, stepping over thick layers of crimson leaves.
"Brother, are you alright?"
Helena's eyes were filled with concern as she ran up to Rhaegar.
She and her sister had woken up early.
Dreamfyre had come to play with her, so she spent the morning frolicking along the shores of Thousand-Faced Isle.
Rhaenyra, feeling uneasy, summoned Syrax to stand guard.
She had debated whether to wake up the still-sleeping Rhaegar, but the earthquake had made the decision for her.
Noticing the worry in her eyes, Rhaegar ruffled her hair and smiled. "I'm fine—better than fine."
He had discovered a legendary artifact.
Once activated, it had granted them a natural hot spring.
Over time, the geothermal heat on Thousand-Faced Isle would only continue to accumulate.
This place was a true Targaryen stronghold.
"It really is a hot spring!"
Rhaenyra dipped her hand into the small puddle, her mouth agape in surprise.
It hadn't occurred to her that it was caused by underground heat.
As the Princess of Dragonstone, she was no stranger to volcanic activity—it was essential for raising dragons.
Besides, a hot spring simply meant the ground was warm, nowhere near the temperatures dragons required.
Rhaegar grinned. "The hot spring appeared suddenly, and by the looks of it, it's going to expand."
Rhaenyra frowned slightly, puzzled.
A hot spring… on Thousand-Faced Isle?
She couldn't wrap her head around it, so she simply stopped trying.
Feeling the warmth of the water, her eyes sparkled with anticipation. "If the hot spring gets bigger, we could build a royal bathhouse."
Hot springs were rare, a luxury not available in most places.
Rhaegar agreed without hesitation. "Great idea! I'll provide the workers, you cover the costs, and we'll build a massive bathhouse."
He had thousands of hungry slaves stationed outside King's Landing,
Perfect labor for the task.
Rhaenyra nodded eagerly, her smile radiant. "Mm-hmm."
The thought of having a personal royal hot spring for bathing filled her with delight.
---
**Lys, Free Cities.**
In the ruins of the Perfumed Garden, a group of people were conspiring.
Representing Tyrosh was a lean, red-haired young man, absently toying with a goblet made from a human skull.
His name was Balomir Strello, the current Archon of Tyrosh.
As for the previous Archon—the elderly man in fine robes—he now belonged to Balomir.
Myr was represented by a dark-skinned, overweight man with a whip hanging from his belt.
When the attack came, he had been the first to flee.
He had managed to save five hundred Unsullied, surviving thanks to a mix of luck and the chaos of slave uprisings and aristocratic revenge.
Lys had been thrown into turmoil—Rogare's downfall had led to a full-scale slave rebellion.
Amidst the chaos, a tall, muscular man with dark curls and deep brown skin had seized power—Bambaro Bazan.
Once a smuggler, he had spent years building up a fleet.
With Lys in upheaval, he saw his chance to snatch authority and declared himself the new Governor.
The Myrish man spoke first. "News of the dragon attack on the Three Daughters has spread across Essos. The Sealord of Braavos only agreed to send a letter condemning the King on the Iron Throne—he won't send troops."
"The same everywhere. The other Free Cities are all cowards, only willing to send letters of protest."
Balomir scoffed, unimpressed.
He had risen to power through mercenary warfare, securing his position by looting wealthy merchants during the dragon attack and hiring more sellswords.
Strength and action—that was the only way forward.
Bambaro from Lys retrieved a small vial from his cloak and said gravely, "The mastermind behind the attack has already returned to Westeros. We need to take action—to show the people we won't stand idle."
They weren't reckless fools willing to gamble their lives entirely.
But they needed to set an example—to show the aristocrats and officials who had suffered losses that they were doing something about it.
A single drop of *Tears of Lys* could end a life without anyone ever knowing how.
"Who's the target?"
"Aren't there still two dragonriders on the Stepstones?"
"I agree…"
---
**Several days later.**
**North shore of the Gods Eye.**
*Shhh-shhh…*
Over four hundred Unsullied and five hundred Second Sons marched in perfect formation.
They stood in disciplined rows.
"Greetings, my prince! …"
A near-thousand-strong army roared in unison.
Before them stood a colossal, pitch-black dragon, towering like a small mountain.
"Hiss... Grrr..."
The Devourer let out a roar, its two powerful legs digging into the earth as it spread its wings, whipping up a fierce wind.
Underneath the dragon's head stood Rhaegar, his body slightly turned as he gazed at the army with a sidelong glance.
His expression remained calm, showing little concern.
An army of a thousand was merely a formality—it no longer stirred his emotions.
He turned his gaze toward Harrenhal in the distance.
The green wildfire had finally burned out.
After the raging inferno, the already dilapidated castle—weathered like an old man past his prime—now appeared even more desolate, like a flickering candle in the wind.
The five towers, scorched black by the wildfire, stood charred and broken.
The godswood had been completely reduced to ashes, taking part of the nearby city walls with it. The heat had fractured the stones.
Thick smoke billowed into the sky, and the warped towers appeared even more ominous.
Ser Lyonel lay bedridden with illness, while Harwin patrolled the area with his troops.
For now, Rhaenyra had taken on the role of steward, commanding the servants as they cleared out the towers and transported supplies.
"Robb," Rhaegar called out.
A heavily armored knight immediately stepped forward and responded in a strong voice, "Prince!"
Rhaegar glanced at him and ordered, "Take the Second Sons and head to Riverrun. If you encounter the Blackwood forces along the way, you know what to do."
Robb had anticipated this and replied resolutely, "I will ensure our safe arrival."
Rhaegar nodded, signaling him to rest and prepare before setting out.
Robb led the Second Sons away, moving toward a military camp that House Strong had set up in advance.
Rhaegar's eyes flickered as his thoughts drifted.
He should have left for Riverrun days ago.
Yet, for certain reasons, he had waited for Robb and the Second Sons to arrive.
The Second Sons were mostly composed of soldiers from the Riverlands—the younger sons and bastards of noble houses.
Robb himself was a favored bastard of the Blackwood family's lord.
Such a group was more than just a formidable fighting force.
It was also a highly valuable political asset.
A Strong army passing by Blackwood lands and the Second Sons passing by Blackwood lands—those were two entirely different matters.
Dragons were powerful, dominating the battlefield.
But Lyonel's proposal was wise—ally with some, crush others, win hearts while eliminating dissent.
Robb and the Second Sons would be a key force in quelling the Riverlands' rebellion.
A phrase had once appeared in Rhaegar's dreams:
"War is the continuation of politics by other means."
When political problems arise, war inevitably follows.
His thoughts returned to the present, and his gaze fell upon the Unsullied.
He immediately noticed an officer among them, identifiable by the three spikes on his helmet.
"What's your name?" Rhaegar asked.
The Unsullied officer hesitated for a moment before answering instinctively, "Grey Worm."
"Grey Worm," Rhaegar repeated, frowning slightly. "That's one of the rotating names the Astapori slave masters assigned you, isn't it?"
He knew a little about the Unsullied's customs.
Each day, they drew two slips of paper—one with a color and the other with the name of an insect.
Together, those slips determined their name for the day.
(End of chapter.)