The night deepened.
The laughter and music of the evening banquet gradually faded as the guests dispersed one by one. More than anything, the royal attendants were mindful of King Jaehaerys II's frail health. He was never a man blessed with abundant vigor.
Had it been Aegon the Unworthy, such feasts in King's Landing would never have ended. The revel would have flowed endlessly. What the king favors, the realm imitates—when a king indulges in wine and pleasure, the nobles inevitably follow.
Cradled by his mother's soft murmurs, Rhaegar soon drifted into sleep.
Princess Rhaella, faced with a marriage she could not escape, continued to play her role with quiet dignity.
Though Rhaegar's vitality far exceeded that of other children his age, he was still only a child—and even he needed rest.
That night, Rhaegar dreamed.
The dream was vivid. Overwhelmingly real.
He dreamed of a vast, desolate wilderness beneath a heavy night sky. He stood alone atop a towering mountain peak, where the air was thin and great mists rolled endlessly.
Not far from him lay a silver dragon egg.
It was like the most exquisite jewel in the world. As one's gaze shifted, different silver flecks shimmered across its surface. In the darkness, it was a silver star that illuminated the night.
Rhaegar approached and laid his hand upon the egg.
It resembled fine porcelain, enamel, or blown glass—yet it was far heavier than any of them, dense as solid stone. Tiny scales covered its shell, and as Rhaegar held it quietly, silver light seemed to ripple across its surface.
Then, within that obsidian-black night—
The silver dragon egg began to hatch.
From the black mist, a silver dragon broke free of its shell.
With nothing more than a breath of wind, the silver wyrm grew.
At first, it was no larger than a bat. Then a kitten. Then a calf. Until it became vast enough to swallow a town whole—large enough to devour an elephant.
The silver dragon danced across the heavens, magnificent and terrifying.
Its molten eyes fixed upon Rhaegar.
Its scales gleamed brighter than countless stars.
It spread its wings with a thunderous roar, its breath reeking of sulfur and magma.
Dragonfire came screaming down.
Flames engulfed Rhaegar—consuming him, cleansing him, tempering him. He felt his flesh burned away, his blood evaporate—yet there was no pain. Instead, his life force surged.
His body felt like forged steel.
Powerful. Unbreakable.
Whoever seemed as light as drifting clouds would one day make the world tremble.
Rhaegar awoke with a sharp breath.
He had dreamed of the return of dragons.
The silver dragon had felt so real that he believed he and the dragon were bound by blood and fire.
Only the mountain remained unclear—its peaks lost to memory. After all, it had been a dream, and only a vague outline lingered.
A silver dragon.
A mountain peak.
Rhaegar's heart raced.
No wonder every Dragonlord had longed to hatch a dragon of their own.
Achievement Unlocked: Dragon Dreamer
(True dragon blood. Prophetic dream. Congratulations, young true dragon—you have opened the gate to dragon dreams. Dragon dreams walk with every generation of dragon kings. They are both a curse and a treasure.)
Dragon… dream?
Rhaegar Targaryen was shaken.
A dragon dream referred to the prophetic dreams possessed by those of true dragon blood. These dreams often involved dragons—but not always.
The most famous example was one of House Targaryen's ancestors, Daenys the Dreamer, the Maiden of Valyria. She foresaw the Doom of Valyria and allowed House Targaryen to escape destruction, becoming the last of the Dragonlords.
Dragon dreams passed down through the bloodline, generation after generation.
For House Targaryen, such dreams were never rare. Their bond with dragons had stirred visions in countless minds.
Maester Aemon once said that his brothers were driven mad by dragon dreams. Some dreams led directly to their deaths.
King Aegon V, Aegon the Unlikely.
He dreamed that dragons would one day return—and became obsessed, until the tragedy at Summerhall, where fire consumed everything. His elder brother, Prince Daeron the Drunkard, dreamed as well. King Aerys II later read the same prophecies.
Each man interpreted the dreams differently.
And it was their misinterpretations that hastened the extinction of true dragon blood.
Each believed he could awaken dragons.
Each believed he was the chosen dragon.
Their arrogance and superstition only accelerated the fall of the Dragonlords.
Sometimes, the dragons in dreams were not dragons at all—but Targaryens themselves.
Once, Prince Daeron dreamed of a great red dragon falling upon Duncan the Tall. Duncan lived. The dragon died.
Only later did they understand—the "dragon" was Prince Baelor Breakspear, the heir to the throne, who died in a trial by combat to protect Duncan and uphold the honor of true knighthood.
Another tale spoke of Daemon Blackfyre II, who once disguised himself as John the Fiddler. He told Duncan that he recognized him immediately—because Duncan had appeared in his dreams.
In Daemon's vision, Duncan wore the white armor of the Kingsguard.
Daemon claimed his dreams always came true. He foresaw the deaths of his two brothers. He also dreamed of a pale castle where a dragon hatched from an egg.
Yet it was not a true dragon that emerged—but Aegon Targaryen, traveling under the name Egg, who revealed his identity at Whitewalls and later became King Aegon V.
"Does this silver dragon mean I will meet a living dragon?"
"Or will I encounter a silver-haired Targaryen?"
"Or… does the dragon represent myself?"
Rhaegar pondered.
House Targaryen did not lack dragon eggs.
What they lacked was the key to awaken them.
And that mountain—could it be the Mountains of the Moon?
Rhaegar's thoughts raced with possibilities.
Or perhaps the dragon eggs in King's Landing, like the dragons themselves, had lost their magic—and the answer lay elsewhere?
The dragonlords had always treasured dragon eggs. Yet many were lost.
Once, a woman stole three dragon eggs, selling them to the Sealord of Braavos to buy ships and pursue her dreams of exploring the world.
Worse still was the Dance of the Dragons. In that brutal war, the safeguarding of dragon eggs became nearly impossible.
Or perhaps dragons were bound to the Red Comet.
Without the comet's return, dragons would never awaken.
Rhaegar clenched his fists.
He had to find the key.
Dragon eggs.
Dragon lore.
Every trace of dragons left in the world.
The last dragon was said to be long dead.
After the Dance of the Dragons, both dragons and their bloodlines were shattered. All claimed the final dragon had perished.
But perhaps… there were exceptions.
There was the tale of Nettles, the shepherd girl, and the wild dragon Sheepstealer, who took little part in the war.
Given Sheepstealer's age, whether that dragon lived or died remained unknown.
Legend claimed they fled into the Mountains of the Moon, entangled with the mysterious Burned Men clans.
Rhaegar's eyes burned with quiet resolve.
If dragons still existed—
He would find them.