"I thank you for your generosity, Ser. What return do you seek?" King Jaehaerys asked. He watched Rhaegar turn the ring over in his hand, seeing how the boy was taken with the trinket.
"Rhaegar also thanks you, my lord," Rhaegar added quickly.
It was an ancient Valyrian dragonlord's ring, a thing of immense worth in its own right. It had only remained hidden because the key to the Sea Snake's vault had been lost. Even so, the gift was a fortune; any Valyrian relic, no matter where it appeared, would command a king's ransom.
Corlys bowed low. "I would never presume. This is but a gesture of my fealty."
Sometimes, refusal was more profitable than a request. Once he had the king's favor, high office would follow as naturally as the tide.
Lord Munford's eyes smoldered. A sycophant like Corlys was exactly the sort of creature the stubborn old stag despised. The Sea Snake himself had been a hero, how had he sired such a groveling descendant?
But Corlys had not overstepped today. For the sake of House Velaryon and the king, Munford would let it pass.
Ser Gerold stood beside the king, calm as a stone sentinel.
inwardly, however, he sighed. Rhaegar was a prince loved by thousands; he held the world in his palm.
The Hightowers of Oldtown were among the wealthiest lords in Westeros, yet even they could not match the casual extravagance of royalty. To possess such vast fortune at such a young age, Gerold prayed the prince would not be led astray. Power brought glory, but it also bred sin.
Aegon IV had been handsome and gallant in his youth, the most dazzling prince of his time, skilled in dance, lance, sword, and hunt. But he drowned in pleasure, surrounded by flatterers, lacking all discipline, until women, food, and luxury mastered him completely.
Rhaegar turned the fire-ring, utterly entranced.
Explorer, (Young explorer, congratulations on crossing the river of time to touch the relic of a powerful dragonlord. Within this ring lies not only their wealth, but their laughter, tears, blood, and memories.)
The unknown held hope, and this was the ring of an ancient dragonlord.
The flatterer Corlys had his uses, though his vision was short. He was neither a pillar of the realm nor a prop for the court... The night was black as ink, and a bright moon washed the world in silver.
Rhaegar stroked the bronze dragonlord ring, examining it again and again.
His collection panel stirred; a line of text flashed into existence: Only the truly great and radiant are worthy of a place in your collection.
The system was picky. It favored relics steeped in glory.
Once I have a dragon, I will take a dragon horn as my treasure.
Rhaegar's heart hardened with resolve. He let a single drop of blood fall onto the ring.
Emotion surged like a tide; the Life Tree template flared with sudden fire.
As the blood touched metal, the fiery patterns on the bronze band pulsed. A warm red light spilled over Rhaegar's face.
Crimson lines rushed out, dazzling and endless.
Unease! Hope! Fear!
A flash illuminated only a corner of the ring's internal space; the rest remained shrouded in darkness he could not yet pierce.
He felt bound by something, an invisible tether.
The long-silent ring rejoiced. Dragon blood, reunited at last.
Treasure: Dragonlord's Ring of Rhaegar Targaryen. Dusted by time, reawakened by Rhaegar Targaryen. Yet, little dragon, your fire is weak; only a fragment of the ring answers your call.
The blood pact once held by the dragonlords of Belaerys had faded; Rhaegar's blood pact had won new recognition.
Before him hung great purple banners, stiff as iron, yet light as wood, showing no trace of rot.
Each was emblazoned with a roaring purple dragon breathing fire, proclaiming: "Head of the Valyrian Dragonlords, the Purple Dragon, Descendant of the Glorious Blood of Fire, the Great House Belaerys."
The arrogance of House Belaerys overshadowed even the pride of House Targaryen; among the ancient dragon families, they had been one of the mightiest.
Beneath the banners lay the seal of the Purple Dragon: piles of dragon-minted gold, gems, towering sheaves of wheat and rice, and chests of books.
The sigil of ancient Belaerys was clearly a purple dragon.
Gold, jewels, grain, books, this was his first windfall. Who would scorn gold? Even a prince needed a treasury.
Yet wealth could wait; a stranger sight drew his eye.
Fist-sized balls of fire floated in the air, illuminating the vault, each flame shaped like a living creature.
Their forms stunned him.
A black flame took the shape of a six-barbeled fish; a gray flame became a mammoth; a green flame twisted into a stalk of wheat; a golden flame formed a divine idol, each wisp of fire looked like life stolen and imprisoned.
They were carved in exquisite detail; he could see the mammoth's eyelashes, the fish's scales.
The fire was gentle. It did not scorch, but radiated a soft warmth.
Not real fire? Magic fire? Rhaegar wondered in awe.
Legends said the dragonlords could melt stone with dragonflame; their pinnacle art was blood and fire, the mastery of flame and blood magic in unison.
The supreme dragonlords were titans of both magic and war.
House Targaryen had been lesser among the dragonlords; they possessed almost no true magical ability, contenting themselves with a little heat resistance and the aid of dragon dreams while they ruled for centuries.
Rhaegar stared; the flames drifted like living things.
As he mused, a fish of black fire lunged at him.
I'm done for, he thought.
It was too late; the black fire-fish struck, but he felt no burn, only a warmth that washed him from head to toe.
The flame circled him, penetrating skin and sinew.
There was no escape; the fire swallowed him, embraced him, cleansed him, honed him.
His blood boiled but did not burn. There was no pain.
Energy flooded him. He felt stronger, faster, his mind sharper, his limbs more limber.
A blade being forged, impurities purged, the edge ground to a razor's sharpness.
Though still mortal, his sight, hearing, and smell far surpassed ordinary limits.
Bathed in the fire, his strength burned brighter!
Under the flame, base iron turned to gold. The flesh is the vessel, the soul is the water, only when both reach their peak can one truly master the fire.
They used fire to steal vitality and turn it into nourishment? The thought sent a chill through him.
The ancient dragonlords were terrifying indeed.
Ordinary fire took life; their sorcery plundered life to serve themselves.
The Life Tree panel turned a deeper, more vibrant green after the baptism of fire.
Awaken the Blood of Fire! (In the twilight of magic, Dragonlords felt despair. The Blood of Fire tempers flesh and soul. Gather strength, and the flame may one day wake.)
The truth was laid bare: all Targaryens possessed the Blood of Fire, the seed of controlling flame.
But the blood ran thin in some, thick in others, and the time of awakening varied; only the strong could truly command it.
Worse, this was an era of magical decline, a world far removed from the glory of the Valyrian Freehold. Perhaps only those of extraordinary will and physique could rouse the fire within them now.
In the twilight of House Targaryen, most would live and die without ever knowing the spark they carried.