Chapter 33 – Bathed in Flame
"Thank you for your generosity, Ser. What boon would you ask in return?"
King Jaehaerys II watched Rhaegar turn the ring slowly between his fingers and knew at once that the boy was delighted.
"Rhaegar thanks you as well, Ser," the prince added quickly.
It was a ring from the age of the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords, worth a fortune even without its deeper secrets. Only the lack of a key to the Sea Snake's vault had kept it hidden all these years. Even so, the gift was priceless—any Valyrian relic would fetch a king's ransom wherever it appeared.
Corlys Velaryon bowed deeply.
"I would never presume to ask for reward, Your Grace. It is merely a token of loyalty."
Sometimes, refusing to ask was the wisest course. With King Jaehaerys II's favor secured, high office would come of its own accord.
Fire burned in Lord Monford Velaryon's eyes. Sycophants like Corlys were exactly the sort the stubborn old lord despised. The original Sea Snake had been a hero of the realm—how had he sired such a smooth-tongued creature?
Still, Corlys had not crossed the line today. For the sake of House Velaryon and the crown, Monford swallowed his displeasure.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood motionless at the king's side, the very image of a Kingsguard sentinel.
Yet inwardly, he sighed.
A prince adored by thousands, Rhaegar Targaryen truly had the world laid at his feet.
House Hightower of Oldtown was among the wealthiest in Westeros, yet even its vast fortunes paled before royal splendor. To command such riches at so young an age—Gerold could only pray the prince would not lose himself to temptation. Power granted glory, but it also bred corruption.
Aegon IV had once been the same: handsome, charming, brilliant in lance and sword, beloved by the realm. Then he surrendered himself to indulgence, surrounded by flatterers, until women, food, and luxury ruled him entirely.
Rhaegar turned the ring again, utterly enchanted.
Explorer—
(Young Explorer, congratulations on crossing the river of time and touching a relic of the dragon-kings. Within this ring lies not only their wealth, but their laughter, tears, blood, and memories.)
The unknown beckoned—and this was the ring of an ancient Dragonlord.
Corlys the flatterer had his uses, but he was too shallow to be a true pillar of the realm or the court.
Night fell like spilled ink. Moonlight washed the world pale and cold.
Rhaegar traced the bronze Dragonlord ring again and again.
His Collection Panel stirred.
Only the truly great and radiant deserve a place among your treasures.
The system was discerning, favoring relics steeped in glory.
Once he had a dragon, he would claim the dragon horn as well.
With resolve hardened like steel, Rhaegar pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the ring.
Emotion surged.
The Tree of Life Template blazed into being once more.
The bronze band pulsed as veins of fire awakened within it, bathing Rhaegar's face in warm crimson light. Lines of scarlet flowed endlessly across its surface.
Unease.
Hope.
Dread.
Only a corner of the ring's inner space revealed itself; the rest lay buried beneath darkness he could not yet pierce.
Something bound itself to him—an invisible tether.
Dormant for ages, the ring rejoiced.
Dragon-blood, reunited at last.
Treasure: Rhaegar Targaryen's Dragonlord Ring—dust-laden through countless ages, reawakened by Rhaegar Targaryen. Yet young dragon, your flame is still weak. Only part of the ring answers your call.
Once worn by a Baelarys Dragonlord, its blood-pact had long since faded. Now, Rhaegar's blood had earned its recognition anew.
Before him unfurled several purple banners, iron-hard yet light as wood, untouched by rot. Each bore a snarling violet wyrm breathing flame.
First among Valyrian Dragonlords—
The Purple-Clad Dragon-King,
Scion of the Glorious Blood of Fire,
Great House Baelarys.
The pride of House Baelarys eclipsed even that of House Targaryen. Among the dragon houses of old Valyria, they had stood near the very pinnacle.
Beneath the banners lay a seal marked by a purple drake. Piled around it were heaps of dragon-minted gold, glittering gems, towering stacks of wheat and rice, and crates of ancient books.
Gold. Jewels. Grain. Knowledge.
His first harvest.
Even princes needed coin—but wealth could wait. Stranger wonders had already seized his attention.
Fist-sized orbs of flame drifted through the vault, illuminating it. Each flame took the shape of a living creature.
A black flame formed a six-barbed fish.
Grey flame shaped itself into a mammoth.
Green flame became a stalk of wheat.
Gold flame carved the likeness of a god.
Every detail was perfect—mammoth lashes, fish scales, even grain fibers.
The fire was warm, not scorching.
"Not true flame… but sorcerous fire?" Rhaegar murmured.
Legends claimed the Dragonlords wielded magic strong enough to melt stone with dragonfire. Their greatest art was Blood-Fire, the union of flame and blood magic.
The greatest Dragonlords were titans of both sorcery and war.
By comparison, the Targaryens had ranked low among Valyria's houses—possessing little more than fire resistance and prophetic Dragon Dreams, enough to rule a few centuries after the Doom.
Rhaegar watched as the flames drifted like living things.
Suddenly, the black-flame fish darted toward him.
"I'm finished," he thought.
Too late.
The flame struck—but there was no pain. Only warmth flooded his body.
Fire coiled around him, sinking through skin and sinew.
It devoured.
It embraced.
It purified.
His blood boiled without burning. Strength surged through him—his body sharpened, his mind cleared, his senses heightened beyond mortal limits.
Like a blade in the forge, impurities burned away and the edge was honed to lethal perfection.
Still mortal—yet faster, stronger, keener than before.
Bathed in flame, his power rose.
Bathed in flame, base iron turned to gold.
Body the vessel. Spirit the water. Only when both were refined could flame be truly mastered.
"They used fire to steal life-force…" The realization chilled him.
Common fire destroyed life.
Dragonlord sorcery plundered it and made it nourishment.
The Tree of Life Panel glowed brighter, richer green.
Awakening: Blood of Fire
(In the twilight of magic, dragon-kings despair. Blood of Fire tempers flesh and soul alike. Store power, and flame may yet be awakened.)
Understanding dawned.
All Targaryens carried the Blood of Fire—the seed of flame command.
But it varied in strength and timing. Only the strongest could awaken it fully.
Worse still, this was the Ebb of Sorcery, an age far removed from Valyria's glory. Perhaps only those supreme in will and body could now ignite the fire within.
In these twilight years, most of House Targaryen would live and die never knowing the spark they carried.