Chapter 65 – Rhaeseryon Targaryen!
"Careful, ser."
The flame of Bonifer Hasty's torch flickered against the narrow rock walls as he led the way through the cramped passage. Every few steps, he would turn his head to warn Lance not to hit his head.
Though Bonifer was tall himself, he clearly knew this place like the back of his hand. Lance, a head taller and far broader, had already cracked his skull against the stone ceiling more than once.
Fortunately, his head was as hard as the steel he once forged—so he ignored the pain, though his patience was wearing thin.
They had been walking for what felt like half an hour now, twisting through tunnels like a pair of rats beneath the Red Keep. And ever since Bonifer had uttered those maddening words — "your true name" — curiosity had gnawed at him.
Had the man not claimed to have come from Duskendale, Lance would have already drawn his sword and forced the truth out of him the fast way.
"According to the records," Bonifer said, voice echoing off the damp stone, "this passage was ordered built by Maegor the Cruel. He wanted to ensure that if ever surrounded by enemies, he and the royal family could escape unseen."
His tone was oddly reverent, even as he chuckled lowly. "Look closely at these walls, ser. They may seem young compared to the keeps of other great houses, but they've stood for more than two centuries."
He laughed quietly to himself. "Irony, isn't it? The blood of dragons — conquerors of the world, rulers who once flew upon the might of Balerion the Black Dread — yet Maegor feared men enough to dig tunnels beneath his throne."
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Men, ser… men are far more terrifying than dragons."
Lance gave a dry snort. "Dragons may be powerful, but they're still beasts — tamed, ridden, broken. Even the Targaryens couldn't tame men's hearts. People bow on the surface, but underneath? They're always plotting to replace their kings."
He paused, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Besides… dragons have died by human hands before. Many times."
Bonifer slowed, surprised by the sharpness in the younger man's words. He hadn't expected such insight from someone raised as a blacksmith's son in Duskendale.
And he was right. Even Aegon the Conqueror, astride the mightiest of dragons, had never truly bent the Seven Kingdoms in spirit. The lords had submitted — outwardly — but rebellion had always lingered in their blood.
Even among the dragonlords themselves, civil war had slaughtered their own kin and beasts alike.
When the first dragon fell to mortal weapons, the world learned a grim truth: the great monsters bled just like any other creature. Steel could pierce their scales. Fire could burn them.
And now, more than a century had passed since the last dragon had died.
"The Seven-Pointed Star says," Bonifer murmured as they walked, " 'The heart of man is deceitful above all things. Even the Father, who weighs all souls, cannot teach men to know the hearts of others.' "
He lifted the torch a little higher, voice low and devout. "Only through pure intent can one triumph over corruption."
Lance gave a short, derisive laugh. "I'll trust the steel in my hand over the words of a priest. If a man's heart turns against me, I'll carve the truth from his chest."
His tone sharpened. "Like this — right now!"
He lunged forward to seize Bonifer — but the flame ahead suddenly winked out.
Darkness swallowed the tunnel.
Lance cursed under his breath and hurried ahead — and then, all at once, light flooded the world.
Torches along the walls ignited in sequence, a line of fire bursting to life in every direction, connected by some hidden trail of oil. The entire cavern blazed bright as day.
Only then did Lance realize where he was.
The tunnel had opened into a vast underground chamber — an enormous hollow carved beneath the Red Keep itself.
The red stone walls shimmered in the flickering light, giving the place an eerie, blood-colored glow.
"By the gods…"
He turned slowly in awe. The chamber stretched far beyond what the human hand could easily shape — part architecture, part the work of nature's fury.
And then, from behind him, came a voice — soft, unmistakable, and hauntingly familiar.
"Welcome home…"
The words echoed through the cavern, multiplied by the walls until it sounded as though the stone itself spoke them.
Lance spun around — and froze.
Towering before him was the skull of a dragon.
Its maw hung half-open, lined with fangs like rusted spears. Even its smallest tooth was longer than a knight's sword. Three twisted horns reached up toward the cavern ceiling, their surfaces etched with spiraling ridges.
A faint draft whistled through the empty sockets, making a sound like a ghostly roar. The twin torches reflected within the hollow eye sockets, giving the illusion that the beast still watched from beyond death.
"Balerion… the Black Dread."
Even without being told, Lance knew the name instantly. It was a name known to every child across the Seven Kingdoms — the greatest of all dragons, the mount of Aegon the Conqueror.
To stand before the skull was to feel small, insignificant, mortal.
And yet — awe wasn't all he felt. There was something else. Something familiar.
"Yes," the voice said again — feminine, poised, and coldly regal.
Lance turned sharply.
A figure stood beyond the dragon's skull, draped in a black cloak. Her hood shadowed her face, but her posture was unmistakably noble.
Recognition flickered through his mind.
"Queen… Rhaella."
The woman smiled, slow and deliberate, then lifted her hands to pull back the hood.
Silver hair spilled over her shoulders like moonlight, and her violet eyes gleamed with a strange mix of sorrow and triumph.
Her lips curved into a soft, almost tender smile.
"Welcome home," she said again — her voice echoing against the dragonbone walls.
Then, arms spreading as though to embrace him, she spoke words that shattered the world he knew.
"Welcome home… Rhaeseryon Targaryen."
---
Meanwhile, in the royal bedchamber above, King Aerys sat on the edge of his bed, unmoving.
His violet eyes were bloodshot, glassy — staring at nothing.
On the table before him rested a helmet: black as night, forged with three curling horns that traced along its spine.
The metal gleamed faintly, dark and crystalline — dragonsteel mixed with obsidian.
Its visor was shaped like a dragon's jaw, and the overlapping neck plates were carved with scaled reliefs, each joint pinned with rubies that glowed like dying embers.
The symbol of a dragon reborn.
The mark of a name long erased — and now returned.
On one side of the fallen helmet, faint letters had been carved in the flowing script of Old Valyria — the ancient words of House Targaryen:
"Fire and Blood."
The craftsmanship, the dragon-scale engravings, the gemstone studs — every detail proclaimed one truth:
this helmet had once belonged to a Targaryen of royal blood.
Perhaps even an heir to the Iron Throne.
Or rather… a former heir.
King Aerys II sat motionless before it, his violet eyes vacant and bloodshot.
He said nothing.
He only stared — as if the black helm itself stared back.
In his mind, the same image played again and again — the white knight, towering on horseback, his lance flashing like lightning as he lifted his opponent high into the air.
Too familiar.
Far too familiar.
"Duncan… Targaryen…"
The name left his lips as a trembling whisper — a name he had not spoken aloud in decades.
Slowly, he rose from his chair, his movements stiff and unsteady. His thin hand reached forward, brushing against the cool, dark metal of the helm.
"For you, the throne meant nothing beside love, did it?"
His voice was soft, almost mournful. But it soon began to rise — cracking, trembling — as the old madness returned to his eyes.
"But why… why!"
His tone twisted into a shriek. The soft violet glow in his gaze ignited into fire.
He snatched up the helmet and hurled it against the marble floor. It struck the stone with a sharp clang, rolling away.
"You were burned alive — and still they call you a dragon?!" he screamed, spittle flying.
"You were never the true dragon! Never!"
His breath came ragged, his voice breaking into madness.
"The true king — the real dragon — is me!" he howled.
"Aerys Targaryen the Second! I am the one! I AM THE DRAGON!"
Then, abruptly, his chest convulsed. His face twisted in pain — and he collapsed to the floor with a sickening thud.
---
"Your Grace! Your Grace!"
Outside, the muffled shouts of armor-clad men broke the silence.
Hearing the crash, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, burst through the doors, his white cloak billowing. He froze at the sight before him — the king spasming on the ground, limbs jerking uncontrollably.
"Your Grace!" Gerold dropped to one knee, lifting Aerys's shoulders, his voice steady but urgent. "Stay with me, Your Grace!"
He turned sharply toward the doorway.
"Ser Jonothor! Fetch Grand Maester Pycelle — now!"
Within minutes, the old maester was dragged in, half-awake and blinking behind his spectacles, still fumbling with his robe.
But the moment Pycelle saw the king's condition, all trace of annoyance vanished. His expression turned grave.
"Step aside!" he barked, surprising even the Kingsguard with his sudden authority. He pressed his fingers beneath Aerys's eyelids, checking the pupils, then reached trembling into his robes.
From within, he drew out a small porcelain vial, popped the stopper, and poured a milky-white draught down the king's throat.
The chamber fell silent — the only sound was the rasp of the king's ragged breathing.
Then, slowly, the convulsions stopped.
Aerys lay still. His chest began to rise and fall evenly once more.
Pycelle let out a long, wheezing sigh. "The dose will only hold for a short while," he said. "Watch over His Grace. I will prepare a stronger milk of the poppy."
He shuffled toward the door, stooped and muttering, the scent of herbs and rot trailing behind him.
The two white knights exchanged glances — relief in their eyes, but no ease in their posture. They resumed their stations at either side of the bed, swords still at their hips, silent and alert.
After a time, Aerys stirred.
He blinked, dazed, his gaze wandering from the vaulted ceiling to the blurred shapes before him. Then his eyes landed on the black helmet lying quietly on the floor — and all at once, his pupils contracted.
"Gerold… Gerold…"
His voice was dry, broken, but the commander leaned close, straining to catch each word.
"Do you wish for water, Your Grace?" Gerold asked softly. "The maester will return shortly with—"
But the king ignored him.
Instead, his frail, bony hand shot out, gripping Gerold's arm with surprising strength. His lips trembled as he hissed hoarsely into the knight's ear:
"Find… that eunuch."
"Bring him to me…"
"I must… confirm the truth."