At the break of a freezing dawn, Rhaegar's fleet arrived at Dragonstone, braving the biting cold.
This outermost outpost of Valyria was the cradle of the Targaryen dynasty.
Dragonstone was the hereditary seat of the heir to the Iron Throne; since the extinction of dragons, few thought of this island anymore.
Rhaegar recognized Dragonstone at a glance: the smoking volcano was the island's hallmark from the sea.
He smelled the salt in the air, tasting the sharp tang of smoke and sulfur—unbearable to humans, but supreme enjoyment for dragons. It was said Aegon the Conqueror loved this scent even when King's Landing was just a fishing village.
Floating alone in the vast sea, surrounded by raging storms and murky waters, the island loomed in the shadow of the volcano as if it were all that remained in the world. After the dragons left, Dragonstone seemed to fall into a slumber.
Rhaegar led his men ashore, seeing only desolation and poverty.
The outer islands were strewn with jagged rocks and sparsely populated. The Castellan of Dragonstone came to greet the Prince with a few petty lords, but their numbers were few. The castle's Maester had died long ago and had not been replaced, for the Crown Prince rarely visited, and the realm had almost forgotten this place.
Without dragons, the island reverted to its original barren and cramped state, losing its former luster. The island was too small to support a large army. Yet, fishermen still cast their nets, and warships and galleys still docked at the piers, so Dragonstone retained a shred of its former glory.
Rhaegar arrived in secret; apart from the Castellan and the island's petty lords, neither House Celtigar nor House Velaryon knew of his arrival.
The Prince ordered the war banners furled and hid his silver hair under a hood; while Dragonstone still slept, they quietly went ashore.
Traces of Valyria were everywhere: countless gargoyles, every part of the castle speaking of dragons, impossible to ignore even if he wanted to.
The Stone Drum was the island's main keep, named for the booming sound the ancient walls made during storms. The dungeons below were stifling and damp, rumored to have hidden stairs leading straight to the heart of the Dragonmont. A soaring stone arch bridge extended from the Stone Drum to the dungeon tower.
But Rhaegar did not linger; he had a more important destination. He set out with Barristan and Sessa toward the eastern slope of the Dragonmont. By the Prince's order, the Castellan had found the most reliable guide to lead them into the mountain.
Rhaegar had already chosen the spot: the lair of the Cannibal on the eastern slope of the Dragonmont.
During the Dance of the Dragons, six great beasts nested in the smoking caves of the mountain; the fiercest and oldest wild dragon, the "Cannibal," occupied the highest and best lair.
That wild dragon was brutal to the extreme, the tyrant of Dragonstone. It devoured the corpses of its own kind, diving into nests to feast on dragon eggs and hatchlings, bowing to no rider, proud and terrifying, utterly untameable.
Although the guide remained silent, he was stunned by the Prince's appearance; the smallfolk of Dragonstone revered House Targaryen as gods.
Rhaegar thought that since Dragonstone was Targaryen territory, these fishermen and sailors might be the most loyal army he could find.
As he climbed the Dragonmont, the air grew hotter, the smell of sulfur stronger; the stone path wound tortuously, every step a torture.
The Dragonmont still lived: pale grey steam hissed ceaselessly from its vents.
Near the Cannibal's cave, the heat and stench of sulfur were suffocating.
"We are here, Your Grace!" the guide gasped, pointing to a large black hole in the rock, too exhausted to go further.
Scorching heat, thick smoke, and sulfur poured out together; the air was choking, impossible to enter.
"Your Grace, it is dangerous here... let us turn back," Barristan pleaded.
"Sir, I just want to look." Rhaegar ignored the knight and walked straight into the dark stone maw.
He took two vials of fresh blood from Sessa.
These two fresh dead were unlucky Pirate Kings from the Stepstones; even a King of Fleas is a king, though the results remained to be seen. These pirates killed each other for handsome boys and pretty girls, extorted passing travelers, demanding they hand over beautiful youths to sell to Lysene brothels or pay huge ransoms in gold—notorious across the ocean.
Rhaegar had assigned Loken to the task: in Flea Bottom, such killers were easily bought. The client's request might be odd, but not too outrageous. Across the Narrow Sea, pirate chiefs swarmed, ready to duel and kill at any moment; promising rich rewards brought knives and swords in droves.
The air became scorching and thin, every breath like lighting a fire in his lungs. Barristan and Sessa stopped, watching the Prince continue, the sulfurous heat burning their chests.
Rhaegar ventured into the deepest part of the Cannibal's cave, finding only some dragonbone fragments, but no trace of the ancient dragon that once ravaged the eastern slope and then vanished without a sound.
One could say the Cannibal lived a life of luxury—producing plenty of eggs (wait, Cannibal was likely male or never confirmed, text implies he ate eggs, here it says "producing large amounts of dragon eggs"? Probably mistranslation of "feasting on large amounts of dragon eggs" or referring to the cave's history), feasting on dragon meat, surviving the Dance of the Dragons, and never encountering an enemy who dared challenge him.
Rhaegar placed the Fire Heart Dragon Nest in the Cannibal's cave. As he returned to Dragonstone (context implies he stayed in the cave, maybe "returned to the heart of the cave"?), the Heart Stone began to heat up slowly.
Here, the blood-red Heart of Fire burned brightly; sweat dripped from Rhaegar's skin.
He set up the Purple Dragon Nest and placed the two eggs inside.
"Feed on fire," he thought. "There is no better hatching cradle in the world."
Rhaegar gazed at the Heart of Fire and the twin eggs—blood, fire, life—silently praying for them to awaken.
The wave of heat was like a molten steel hammer, threatening to tear him apart; sweat streamed down his chest and thighs.
But he had swallowed many Fire Seeds and his body was strong, so he endured the torture unyieldingly.
The Heart of Fire burned scarlet, but the eggs lay quiet; even the Purple Nest glowed red-hot, like iron fresh from the forge, the color approaching madness.
"What is happening?" Rhaegar was stunned—where was the dragon promised in the ritual?
He couldn't bear to watch the nest and eggs die together, so he stepped forward.
He reached out to touch the nest—only searing heat answered him.
The next moment, flames erupted from the gem, engulfing the nest, the eggs, and Rhaegar himself.
Roaring flames burned fiercely; helpless frustration seized him.
"No... I came to hatch eggs, not to be roasted!" He tried to shout, but snakes of fire devoured his words, orange and crimson wings burning higher.
Sweat streamed down his cheeks; his gorgeous robes burned red-hot, silver hair turning to ash.
Scarlet lions, golden snakes, pale unicorns, fish, foxes, wolves, birds, flowering trees, and monsters—visions stranger and more beautiful than the last—until the flames coalesced into a three-headed dragon, urging him forward.
Even the cave walls melted; a sea of lava churned around the nest, stones burning in such high heat.
A chunk of black cliff crashed down, and a black-and-red egg fell out—perhaps an egg the Cannibal stole but didn't finish.
But Rhaegar had no strength to stand; the fire tempered him like steel.
Where is the Fountain of Youth? Where is the Eagle God? Where is the Bronze Shield? Someone save me!
He half-remembered the Fire Seeds he had swallowed.
The fountain still gurgled, the Eagle God watched with wide eyes, the Bronze Shield guarded every inch of his life.
Yet, no one helped; sparks and omens vanished, leaving him alone in the crucible, flames licking his flesh.
"If I am truly a dragon... Son of the Dragon, Father of Dragons, King of Dragons... I must endure."
The raging fire surged like an angry tide; Rhaegar clutched the nest like a lone boat on a burning sea, daring not retreat.
Finally, the shells cracked, and small objects tumbled out like chicks.
When the fire finally receded, a dazed Rhaegar found himself naked, robes turned to ash, silver hair gone—but his body was intact.
He groped downward in panic—thank the gods, it was still there.
Three small dragons accompanied him: one on each shoulder, the third hovering over his head.
Dragon eggs were precious as rubies; living hatchlings were priceless.
"I will guard you, my treasures."
A black-and-crimson hatchling with glossy obsidian scales and dark red veins perched on his left shoulder, eyes glowing red like embers.
A deep purple dragon with bronze claws, crest, and belly scales, even its irises a violet twilight.
A silver hatchling perched on his crown; the others tried to knock it down but were powerless.
The Silver Dragon was larger than its kin, possessing dazzling silver scales, pale gold wing membranes, and golden pupils—sitting on the high throne, enjoying imperial dignity alone.
All three were breathtakingly beautiful creatures.
They puffed wisps of white smoke from their noses and mouths, then raised their heads to roar.
For the first time in a century, the song of dragons rang out in unison, echoing through the clouds.