Dragonstone.
"Prince, thank you for seeing me off. Braavos will always be your loyal ally."
On the beach, the envoy Bels appeared moved and bowed respectfully.
Rhaegar stood with his hands behind his back, smiling faintly. "Give my regards to the Sealord. I will visit Braavos when I have the time."
"It would be an honor."
Bels bid farewell, reluctantly boarding his ship.
Rhaegar merely smiled, shifting his gaze to Doris Dayne, who represented Dorne.
Doris maintained a solemn expression and bowed. "Prince, Prince Quentyn sends his regards."
With Sunspear under the Iron Throne's control, Quentyn Martell, just a child, harbored no thoughts of rebellion—only deep fear and unease.
Rhaegar swept his gaze over the Dornish nobles standing behind Doris, then gestured slightly.
"Your Highness."
An elderly dragonkeeper, covered in dust and dirt, stepped forward, holding a milky-white greatsword with both hands.
Rhaegar took the greatsword, carefully examining it before speaking calmly, "Returning it to its rightful owner."
He flicked the blade lightly, causing it to hum, then extended it forward with both hands.
Thud—
Doris immediately dropped to one knee, his face flushed with emotion. "Prince, House Dayne will always remember your kindness."
"You serve me, and I will not treat you unfairly."
Rhaegar looked down at him, his gaze deep and unreadable. "In the name of the Targaryen Regency, I name you the Sword of the Morning and Warden of the Torrentine."
The Torrentine was one of the main rivers in the Red Mountains, with its mouth opening into the Summer Sea.
Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne, was located upstream along the Torrentine.
"I will serve you with my life!"
Doris's voice trembled as he accepted the ancestral sword, Dawn.
Ever since Sunspear fell and news of his cousin's death reached him, Doris had chosen to submit on behalf of House Dayne.
The wise know when to yield.
With six dragons taking turns burning everything to the ground, refusing to surrender was the same as waiting to die.
Besides, Dawn had already fallen into Targaryen hands.
Rhaegar waved his hand. "Go now. Give Quentyn my regards, and make sure he learns well from the maesters."
A child should have an education that fills every moment of his youth.
Doris, deeply moved, held Dawn tightly and led his men away by ship.
The fleet gradually disappeared into the horizon.
"Screeeech—"
A massive black dragon roared, circling the island over and over as if surveying its long-lost domain.
Rhaegar stood against the wind, watching the two departing fleets, his fingers subtly rubbing behind his back.
The peace treaty was complete.
The Iron Throne and Braavos had both won, while the Three Daughters and Dorne had become the sacrifices.
"Not bad. The Iron Bank was quite generous with the loan."
Rhaegar chuckled to himself, considering how best to spend the money.
As for repayment?
He had borrowed it through skill—why should he have to pay it back?
And if Braavos wanted to collect?
They could ask themselves: How many fleets does the Sealord have?
Let them try if they dared.
"Roar!"
The gluttonous beast sensed its rider's emotions, baring its fanged maw in a cruel grin, letting out a series of guttural growls.
Rhaegar clapped his hands and turned back.
His feet sank slightly into the soft sand, the vast blue sea and sky stretching behind him, white clouds drifting lazily above.
A man and his dragon—each the other's greatest arrogance.
As he stepped through Dragonstone's iron gates, Rhaegar remembered his purpose and asked, "Have any new hatchlings emerged on Dragonmont?"
He spoke in High Valyrian, his words brief and to the point.
The elderly dragonkeeper, trailing a step behind, wore an expression of deep frustration. "None, my prince. Dragonmont has been quiet."
Rhaegar frowned slightly. If Dragonstone had no new hatchlings, that left only the Smoking Sea.
Also known as the Wild Dragons.
Wild dragons were difficult to capture—especially young ones, which were small and hard to track.
"Perhaps Braavos? Or Sothoryos?"
As Rhaegar walked, his thoughts drifted back to his interaction with the Braavosi envoy, Doris.
A shrewd politician.
Rhaegar had caught a fleeting glimpse of guilt in his eyes.
Guilt over what?
His expression darkened. "There must be a hidden truth behind the previous Sealord's death."
Between the Smoking Sea and Sothoryos producing a new hatchling...
He was far more inclined to believe that the three missing dragon eggs of Dreamfyre had hatched.
"I must visit Braavos soon and plant more spies."
Countless thoughts raced through his mind. He had no intention of alerting anyone prematurely.
The idea of Braavos secretly hatching dragon eggs was questionable at best.
If hatchlings truly existed, the news could not have been kept secret.
With the previous Sealord dead, any young dragons would have immediately become prime targets for the forces backing the Iron Bank.
It shouldn't be this quiet.
Unless…
Rhaegar's mind suddenly clicked as he speculated, "The young dragon is not in their hands."
A wildfire consumed an entire port, leaving few witnesses in the vicinity.
Unless someone had set things up in advance, the young dragon would have certainly escaped.
Speaking of setups, the former Sea King had already been blown to pieces.
Even if there had been preparations, they should have perished in the wildfire as well.
The elderly dragonkeeper hesitated as he saw the prince deep in thought. "There are many dragon eggs in the greenhouse."
Not just dragon eggs—there were also wyvern eggs.
Under the meticulous care of the dragonkeepers, the wyvern eggs had been well-preserved, though it remained uncertain whether they could hatch.
Rhaegar snapped out of his thoughts and murmured, "Inform the Dragon Guard to intensify patrols around Dragon Mountain. Keep a close watch on Vermithor and Silverwing."
Only those two great dragons remained on the island—they had to be carefully guarded.
The elderly dragonkeeper dared not delay and humbly replied, "As you command."
At Rhaegar's signal, the team set off toward the towering Dragon Mountain.
---
Stone Drum Tower, the Greenhouse.
Despite its name, the "greenhouse" was actually a specially heated underground chamber.
Click!
Rhaegar lit an oil lamp on the wall, its dim glow guiding him through the deep tunnel.
The greenhouse was vast, resembling an underground palace.
The surrounding walls had been carved with alcoves, each holding a heating device.
"All dragon eggs…"
Rhaegar lifted the lid of a heater, releasing a puff of sulfur-scented white smoke, revealing a pitch-black dragon egg.
Apart from this, every other heater also contained a dragon egg.
Green, blue-white, dark red…
Rhaegar counted them carefully—sixteen healthy dragon eggs in total.
Among them were the three eggs laid by Syrax for the first time.
One green, one gray, one orange-red.
Syrax had laid two clutches of eggs, three each time.
The second clutch had almost simultaneously hatched into Moondancer and Dawn.
The last bronze-colored egg had been placed in his eldest son Baelon's cradle.
"Our family is small in number… otherwise, we could always hatch a few more dragon eggs."
Rhaegar gazed at the pitch-black egg with hopeful eyes, lifting it and gently rubbing it against his cheek.
"Old friend, when will you hatch?"
Feeling the familiar rough texture, Rhaegar smiled and asked softly.
Pitch-black dragon egg: …
This egg had come from Dreamfyre and had been personally chosen by Rhaenyra to be placed in Rhaegar's cradle.
Unfortunately, fate had not favored the bond between the two.
The black dragon inside had never hatched, eventually becoming a wasted feast for the great black dragon that fed on unhatched hatchlings.
After playing with the pitch-black egg for a while, Rhaegar reluctantly placed it back into the heater and murmured, "I'll keep it safe… for a future child."
Speaking of which, Jeyne had been pregnant for months now—her due date was expected in early summer.
Rhaegar thought about it and shook his head. "Better to pick a different egg."
As he wandered around the greenhouse, he searched for an egg that felt right.
Rhaenyra and Jeyne had completely fallen out. If he gave Jeyne's child an egg that Rhaenyra had chosen for him…
Tsk tsk, he wouldn't live to see another day.
As he continued picking, Rhaegar gradually adapted to the dim lighting of the greenhouse. A wave of drowsiness crept over him.
Yawn~
After inspecting the last wyvern egg, he let out a long yawn.
"So sleepy…"
Rhaegar murmured, feeling an unusual sensation.
He needed to sleep!
He walked to one side of the greenhouse and picked up the pitch-black dragon egg.
Laying out a blanket, he hugged the egg close and drifted into slumber.
Clang—
The warning bell tied to his waist fell, trapped beneath the weight of both him and the egg.
Slowly, he sank into dreams.
---
Outside, the stone bridge.
Whoosh—
A massive, jet-black dragon burst through the clouds, its green slit pupils scanning the vast mountain range below.
Its nostrils flared, sniffing furiously.
It had caught a scent…
A very special scent.
"Hissss—Gaaahhh!"
Suddenly, the glutton's green pupils flashed with a fierce light. It let out an excited, frenzied roar, and strands of dragon saliva dripped from its maw.
It remembered what that taste was.
It was the taste of prey!
With a powerful flap of its pitch-black dragon wings, its massive body immediately turned around, swiftly diving into the mist before soaring into the sky.
Its target—Dragon Mountain.
...
As evening fell, inside the greenhouse, Rhaegar hovered between sleep and wakefulness.
His handsome face was clouded with confusion, his half-lidded eyes dazed, like a lost and broken youth.
As expected, he was dreaming again.
Continuing from the dream of the previous night, fragmented images overlapped—mist, waves, a young dragon—flashing through his mind.
It was as if compressed knowledge was being forcibly crammed into his brain.
Rhaegar passively endured it until the images finally froze on a single scene.
Mist, a mountain, a black hatchling...
"Hiss... Gah..."
The black hatchling, panicked and frantic, broke through the layers of mist and dove straight into Rhaegar's arms.
Yes, into Rhaegar's arms.
Rhaegar's eyes widened in shock as he instinctively caught the hatchling.
Thud—
The immense force crashed into his chest, nearly knocking the air out of him. He lost his footing and tumbled to the ground.
Then, his head hit the floor.
A voice suddenly echoed.
"Exploration complete. Please retrieve the lost treasure."
Rhaegar jolted awake at the sound, looking around in bewilderment.
He reached out instinctively, grasping a hard, solid dragon egg and a light, floating purple glow.
Pop—
The purple glow burst at the slightest touch, dissolving into tiny violet specks that drifted like cotton and seeped into his hand.
"Relic successfully retrieved. Analyzing..."
"Analysis complete. Identified as an epic-grade relic—The Prophet's Legacy."
Rhaegar froze slightly, then smacked his forehead, fully waking up.
"An epic relic... A prophet's?"
Muttering to himself, he attempted to summon the relic.
A treasure of the Prophet, guarded by the vigilant Haital family.
As expected of a top noble house with a thousand-year legacy.
Buzz—
As Rhaegar sat up, a stone compass materialized out of thin air.
The compass was entirely grayish-white, covered in fine cracks, and about the size of two adult palms.
It was remarkably smooth, with intricate carvings of more than a dozen ferocious dragons on its surface.
"Inscriptions?"
Rhaegar turned the compass over, faintly making out a circular arrangement of inscriptions.
Unfortunately, time had worn them down, leaving them blurred and indistinct.
With anticipation, Rhaegar checked the system panel for any updates.
"Dragon Compass—crafted by a prophet yearning for dragon bloodline. It awakens in the presence of dragons."
"In the presence of dragons?"
Rhaegar murmured, his eyes locking onto the key words: "bloodline" and "dragon."
Sizzle!
With a swift motion, he sliced his palm with a small knife, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the compass.
(End of Chapter)