Bang!
Rhaegar casually threw a book, hitting Aegon's head with perfect accuracy. He scolded, "Get to work, or I'll break your legs!"
His tone was harsh, clearly showing his genuine anger.
Aegon let out a dramatic howl as a large bump swelled on his forehead. Reluctantly, he got up to search for books.
"Serves you right!"
Aemond sneered, obediently placing a parchment book at his elder brother's feet.
Rhaegar's face darkened as he flipped through ancient tomes, his expression so grim it looked like he could wring water from it.
"So, the Citadel is truly full of hidden dragons and crouching tigers."
He picked up a yellowed ancient book and opened it. The title on the first page read three large words: Orion Family.
Rhaegar's gaze grew serious as he carefully read the text.
Ancient Valyria had forty Dragonlord families, and the Orion family was one of them.
According to the history of Qohor, after the Doom, a male member of House Orion became one of the surviving Dragonlords.
Among the Qohoric colonists, he gathered soldiers and proclaimed himself the first Emperor of Valyria.
Riding an adult dragon and leading thirty thousand infantry, he marched toward the ruins of Valyria, intending to rebuild the Freehold.
But no one ever saw this so-called "Orion Emperor" or his army again.
The ancient tome in Rhaegar's hands was a biography of House Orion.
It primarily described the breathtaking scenery of the Fourteen Flames, the nesting and breeding of dragons, and even contained a brief binding spell.
"House Orion was truly wealthy and powerful," Rhaegar remarked with genuine admiration.
Without needing the historical records of other Dragonlord families, the sheer strength of House Orion was undeniable.
Even the Targaryen Family Chronicles recorded the comprehensive power of this Dragonlord lineage.
Among the oldest and most prestigious Valyrian Dragonlord families, House Orion consistently ranked in the top ten and often competed for a spot in the top five.
At their peak, they controlled an astonishing twenty adult dragons, always serving as the vanguard in the Freehold's external expansion.
"That's insane!"
Rhaegar gritted his teeth with envy.
When the exile Aenar crossed the Narrow Sea and migrated to Dragonstone, his family had only five dragons.
Four of them died soon after, their ages unknown.
The only confirmed fact was that Balerion was a very young dragon at the time.
In the present day, House Targaryen had a total of eighteen dragons, but only three were adults—Vhagar, the Cannibal, and Vermithor.
It was hard to fathom the sheer dominance of House Orion, commanding twenty fully grown dragons.
If they had used them against the Free Cities, they could have crushed them effortlessly.
Rhaegar took a deep breath and continued browsing through the other ancient books.
Among them were biographies of House Baeloris, House Daenlygar, and several smaller Dragonlord families.
Surprisingly, there was even a Targaryen Family Chronicle buried in the pile.
It was personally compiled by Aenar the Exile, recording the locations of the family's ancestral holdings sold in the Lands of Long Summer and the hidden corners of the Fourteen Flames where dragon eggs were once stored.
Fearing that their exile to Dragonstone would hinder dragon breeding, Aenar had left behind contingency plans for his descendants to reclaim their legacy.
Rhaegar read carefully, sensing the deep worries embedded in the text.
In some passages, there were subtle hints that the family's decline and migration might have been a wise choice.
It was clear that the old ancestor feared making the wrong decision and dooming the entire Targaryen lineage.
"Sigh, who would have thought that Targaryens would flourish even more after migrating to Dragonstone?"
Rhaegar let out a sigh, unwilling to let his ancestor's foresight go to waste.
Comparing it with a map of the Smoking Sea, he pinpointed the approximate locations of their former lands.
Most had been reduced to ruins, swallowed by the Smoking Sea.
Due to their relatively weak influence in the Freehold, some Targaryen properties were located away from the core of the Fourteen Flames, instead surviving on the remaining peninsulas of the Long Summer region.
As he scrutinized the map, Rhaegar suddenly noticed something unusual.
In the southeastern part of the Sea of Sighs, a relatively well-preserved section of the Long Summer region remained.
There, a remote town built by House Targaryen had once housed a large population of war slaves and was used for mining a special mineral that enhanced mental strength.
This mineral contained a unique substance that, when ground into powder and refined by fire sorcerers, was used to create a mystical elixir.
Rhaegar's eyes flickered as he muttered to himself,
"The supply of resurrection orchid is insufficient… Father needs something to boost his mental strength."
He had considered venturing into the Smoking Sea again, but various constraints made it impossible.
His father was in poor health, and as the heir, he could not recklessly endanger himself.
With that in mind, Rhaegar marked the location for future action.
After his previous expedition into the Smoking Sea, he had gained a rough understanding of the dangerous area.
There were safe zones—provided one stayed far from the ruins of the Fourteen Flames and avoided areas covered in dense toxic fog.
Rhaegar continued flipping through the ancient books of other Dragonlord families.
Many contained records flaunting their family's industries and wealth.
Surprisingly, these locations were not deliberately hidden and could be traced on a map.
As he read, Rhaegar chuckled coldly.
"The Citadel is truly remarkable… Hoarding so many secrets."
These ancient books had been collected by the Citadel, hidden deep within its vaults, accessible only to Maesters.
Oh, right.
Maester Vaegon the Dragonless likely wasn't among those with access.
"Big Brother, I found a weird book,"
Aemond, buried in a sea of books, poked his head out and called.
Rhaegar put away a dozen rare Dragonlord tomes and stepped forward.
It was a thick leather-bound book, greasy to the touch, its original material indistinguishable.
The cover depicted a dark, eerie city, and the text was written in a strange script.
Rhaegar recognized it instantly and frowned.
"High Valyrian? No… This is Asshai'i script."
He had encountered it before—during an expedition to the ruins of Balaerys, where he had killed a group of Shadowbinders and retrieved a book written in the same language.
After multiple Maesters translated it, the book turned out to be a copied compendium of forbidden sorcery.
It contained numerous dark rituals involving blood sacrifices and slaughter.
More importantly, the costs of these spells were immense, yet the rewards were pitiful and highly unpredictable.
Rhaegar burned it to ashes and returned it to the Shadowbinders of Hell.
Aemond leaned in, full of curiosity. "What's written in Asshai's book?"
Lacking education, he was illiterate.
Rhaegar flipped through the pages, his brows suddenly furrowing.
Bang—
He snapped the book shut, flames igniting in both hands, reducing it to ashes in an instant.
"Hey, why did you burn it?" Aemond exclaimed in regret.
Rhaegar's face darkened as he scolded, "It's not a good book. You can't read it."
The very first page contained a dissection of necromancy.
Damn that Citadel—what kind of nonsense were they studying?
Turning to Aegon, who was slacking off, Rhaegar kicked him and ordered, "Find all these dark arts from Asshai and destroy them completely."
He was nothing if not a hypocrite.
Targaryens could study fire magic and blood sorcery, but no one else was allowed to dabble in dark magic.
No wonder Westeros outlawed magic. This kind of harmful, pointless filth belonged in the trash heap of history.
"Stop kicking me, I'm looking!"
Like a workhorse pulling a millstone, Aegon moved only when whipped, grumbling as he searched for books.
Rhaegar snorted coldly, determined to seize every valuable ancient tome.
---
Dusk fell, and the sun sank below the horizon.
In front of the Citadel's gate, beneath the gaze of two towering green sphinx statues, a mountain of books, stacked several meters high, swayed in the evening breeze, pages rustling.
A crowd of maesters gathered at the entrance, their expressions ranging from shock to indifference to deep regret as they watched.
Rhaegar stood before them, casually picking up a book titled On the Sacrifices of Alchemy.
Aegon and Aemond's gazes turned icy as they surveyed these so-called scholars, their hearts full of hidden motives.
Who would have thought the Citadel didn't just study medicine and astronomy but also theories designed to harm others?
Archmaester Lewyn's face darkened with shame. Standing at the front of the maesters, he closed his eyes in pain.
"The Citadel's mission is to seek the truth. We do not believe in the existence of magic," he muttered.
Rhaegar stepped forward, slapping the book against the old man's face with a smirk. "You don't believe in magic, yet you collect these books?"
Lewyn stood there in silent humiliation, as if his last shred of dignity had been stripped away and exposed under the harsh sunlight.
The Citadel's dark underbelly had been laid bare—how ugly.
Rhaegar flung the book back onto the pile and spoke with icy finality: "From now on, if the Citadel ever keeps books on necromancy again, there will be no need for it to exist."
Lewyn lowered his head, his voice bitter. "Yes, my prince."
Those books weren't even his doing—they had simply accumulated over generations.
Rhaegar's gaze was sharp as a blade. He turned and called out, "Dragonfire!"
The Devourer crouched before the Citadel's gate. Hearing the command, the beast slowly lifted its massive body, its terrifying maw aimed at the mountain of books.
"Hiss—Gaaah!"
A roar like thunder shook the air, followed by a torrent of eerie green dragonflame.
Boom—
Thousands of books were instantly engulfed in fire. Burning scraps, still flickering with ghostly green flames, danced into the air before disintegrating into ashes.
The maesters remained silent, bearing witness to this book-burning purge.
Rhaegar mounted his dragon, scanning the crowd until his eyes locked onto Lord Hightower. He spoke coolly, "I'll be visiting the Hightower tomorrow. Be ready, Lord Hightower."
Mund's expression was strained. "I will not disappoint you, my prince."
Here it comes.
After dealing with the Faith of the Seven and the Citadel, the executioner's blade had finally fallen upon House Hightower.
Mund forced a flattering smile, but inside, he was nearly in tears.
"Hiss—Gaaah!"
The Devourer let out another roar, its wings scattering the lingering ashes as it carried its rider back to Starfall.
Rhaegar looked down at the uneasy Mund, a glint of calculation flashing in his eyes.
After all this intimidation, the fish was finally about to take the bait.
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness crept in.
The Citadel, Crying Dock.
On the dimly lit pier, several torches flickered as the sound of waves lapped against the shore.
Mund, holding a torch, scanned his surroundings warily as he led a hooded figure to the dock.
A small boat was tied to the pier, manned by several sailors wearing House Hightower's sigil as they loaded supplies.
Mund sighed. "Alicent made a bad move. Sooner or later, they'll come for you. Leave while you still can."
The hooded figure gazed at the vast, open sea and spoke in a low voice, "If I leave, what will happen to House Hightower?"
"Don't worry about that. I wasn't involved, so Rhaegar can't touch me."
Mund reassured him.
The hooded figure said, "I have no weaknesses for them to exploit. I could stay and fight alongside you."
Mund shook his head furiously. "Who can even have weaknesses against the Targaryen madmen? The Faith and the Citadel both fell without a single flaw in their armor. He slaughters without hesitation."
Out of ten members of the Council, only two remained alive. One had even switched sides.
And before that—
The Dornish Rebellion had been crushed in just a few months. The Wrath of the Dragon had claimed over a thousand nobles and knights, with countless commoners caught in the bloodshed.
More ruthless than the Conqueror. More brutal than Maegor the Cruel.
Hearing this, the hooded figure remained silent for a long time before stepping onto the boat.
Mund let out a sigh of relief. "Sail to Pentos. I've spoken with the prince there."
"Alright."
The figure agreed, then looked up at Mund and slowly removed his hood.
Beneath it was a middle-aged man with a thick beard, his hair neatly combed, his gaze deep and brooding.
Mund panicked and snapped, "Keep your identity hidden! No one can know you were here!"
Otto Hightower smiled faintly. "Brother, you've always been the practical one."
"Obviously!"
Mund scolded, "You were always buried in books. How many times did Father warn you to learn the family business? But you never listened."
Otto listened attentively, a strange glint in his eyes. Then, he asked, "Do you know why I devoted myself to studying?"
Back then, he had studied day and night, determined to rise above his station.
During the reign of King Renrui, he was among the most learned individuals in the kingdom.
Otherwise, he would never have become the Prime Minister.
Mund waved his hand dismissively, uninterested. "Set off quickly. We can catch up later."
Otto remained unmoved and said calmly, "I'm afraid there won't be a later."
"Don't say such foolish things."
"Heh, just joking."
Otto smiled sincerely and said in a deep tone, "Take care, brother."
With that, he stepped into the cabin.
Mund was left bewildered. As he watched the ship sail out of the harbor, he scratched his head and headed back to the Sky Tower.
(End of Chapter)