Chapter 38: The Book of the Dragonlords
The conflict in the Westerlands had, at last, reached its conclusion.
The treason of the Red Lion of Castamere could no longer be ignored.
King Jaehaerys II Targaryen dispatched Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, westward under the banner of royal mediation. In truth, his mission was clear: to formally declare House Reyne of Castamere and their allies, House Tarbeck, guilty of high treason and to stand openly behind Tywin Lannister.
If necessary, three hundred royal soldiers would accompany him.
Once the three-headed dragon banner was unfurled, Tywin's path would be far smoother.
The bond between House Lannister and the royal line traced back generations. Lord Gerold Lannister had once been a staunch supporter of King Aegon V, and now his grandson Tywin maintained a close relationship with Prince Aerys Targaryen. More importantly, the Iron Throne could not afford to lose the financial support of the Westerlands.
"Brother-in-law," King Jaehaerys II said softly, his voice suddenly hoarse, "do you think I have become twisted?"
He stared at the flickering candlelight, as if gazing into the past.
"Do you remember me when I was young? I once wished only to serve my brother Duncan—as his Hand, or a councillor at most. I never dared dream of being king. That boy was bright, untainted, sharp as a blade." His lips trembled. "Now I walk alone, buried in schemes and compromises. How could I ever face him?"
Tears slid down the king's pale cheeks.
His father Aegon V, his mother, his elder brother Duncan, his younger brother Daeron, and Ser Duncan the Tall, who had been both guardian and brother to him—all were gone.
Only he remained, like an old horse dragging the weight of the realm forward.
To the smallfolk, it must have seemed that House Targaryen was nearing its end.
Rhaegar reached up and gently wiped away his grandfather's tears.
Jaehaerys II was a great king—one who lived simply, had no indulgences, and bore the burdens of the realm without complaint. He ruled not for pleasure, but out of duty.
"Your Grace," said Lord Ormund Baratheon, the Hand of the King, speaking quickly, "you must not think so. The Seven watch over you. You have resolved the Blackfyre threat and stabilized the realm. King Aegon and Prince Duncan would be proud."
The Hand's concern was genuine. Jaehaerys's health was frail, and ruling the Seven Kingdoms was a crushing burden.
"The Seven grant me strength enough to do my duty," Jaehaerys murmured. "I must not fail my father… nor the legacy of the kings before me."
His gaze settled on Rhaegar.
This child was hope itself.
Rhaegar understood his grandfather's sorrow. Without dragons, the Targaryens had lost their greatest advantage. Their lands were few, their treasury thin, and their rule depended on careful balance.
Gold required House Lannister.
Grain required House Tyrell.
Power required compromise.
He briefly considered using the dragonlord ring to extend his grandfather's life—but such things were not so simple.
Even the ancient Dragonlords of Valyria had not lived unnaturally long lives. Aegon the Conqueror himself had died of a stroke. Among the forty dragonlord families, there were no immortal kings.
For Targaryens, seventy years was already considered a long life.
"A king must never expose his weakness," Jaehaerys said, regaining his composure. "If others sense it, they will no longer fear you. They will manipulate you. Remember this well."
He pinched Rhaegar's cheek lightly.
"I rule with ink and parchment. But you… I hope you will become both a great warrior and a great king."
Rhaegar nodded.
I will be neither lion nor fox, he thought.
I will be a dragon.
That night, Rhaegar closed his chamber door and sat upon his bed.
The dragonlord ring shimmered faintly.
He confirmed once more that no dragon egg rested within it—though there was space. Plenty of space.
Perhaps… one day.
The ring glowed, and a collection of ancient books appeared before him.
They were treasures beyond price—records passed down from one of the most powerful dragonlord families of Old Valyria.
Rhaegar ignored treatises on Valyrian politics and internal Freehold struggles. His attention fixed on several volumes of particular importance.
The pages were strange—thin as parchment, yet hard as steel, untouched by time.
"The True Dragons of Valyria: A History of House Belaerys."
The arrogance was unmistakable.
House Belaerys, the foremost dragonlord family of Valyria, had never concealed its pride.
The book recorded the age when over a hundred dragons lived at once, the Belaerys family standing at the pinnacle of Valyrian power. Their ancestors rode fearsome dragons, guided wars, shaped laws, and expanded the Freehold's dominion.
They called themselves purple-clad dragonlords, descendants of a legendary purple-scaled dragon—much as House Targaryen revered Balerion the Black Dread.
Yet even they could not clearly explain the origin of dragons.
Nor did they possess a reliable method for hatching eggs.
"Blood and destiny," the text claimed vaguely.
Rhaegar frowned.
In an age where magic fades, that will not be enough.
Next came a far more fascinating work:
"Explorer: The Journals of Jaenara Belaerys."
Jaenara Belaerys—a legendary female dragonlord.
She had ridden her dragon across Sothoryos, vanishing for three years and returning laden with wealth, knowledge, and scars. She never married, living freely and fiercely, becoming the pride of her house.
Rhaegar read with rapt attention.
Her writings mentioned The Book of the Dragonlords, a foundational Valyrian compendium studied by noble dragon families.
The Belaerys divided Valyrian mastery into four pillars:
Dragons
Fire and Blood Magic
War and Combat
Craft and Creation
Binding rituals. Dragon-horns. Valyrian forging arts.
Rhaegar's heart pounded.
House Targaryen had been a lesser dragonlord family. They had never possessed such complete knowledge.
But now, he thought, it belongs to me.
He continued reading deep into the night.
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