After testing the peculiar properties of the dragon remains, Rhaegar began exploring the canyon.
The canyon was not large, overgrown with tangled shrubs that made walking difficult.
After searching for a while, he discovered a cave resembling a nest beneath the left ribcage of the dragon's remains.
Waving his Trueflame sword to clear away obstructing shrubs, the dark blade quickly ignited with fire.
Holding the blazing sword, Rhaegar cautiously stepped into the cave.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
The cave was deep and spacious, with occasional gusts of wind carrying a faintly rotten stench.
Looking around as he walked several meters in, Rhaegar spotted a pile of old dragon dung.
"As expected, a dragon lair."
He muttered to himself and continued forward.
The cave extended in a straight line, and the glow from Trueflame was enough to illuminate most of the space.
Soon, Rhaegar discovered a hollowed-out pit filled with dragon dung and stones.
Inside, there was a pile of fragmented scales.
Stabbing Trueflame into the ground, he moved closer to examine it.
"Fossilized dragon eggs!"
What he saw was a layer of shattered eggshells, each piece weathered by time.
There were quite a few fragments, and beneath them, something dark red was faintly visible.
Brushing the pieces aside with his hand, he uncovered a dark red, stone-like dragon egg covered in fossilized scales.
Just by looking at it, he could tell that the egg had long since turned to stone, completely devoid of life.
Frowning slightly, Rhaegar murmured, "A clutch of dragon eggs?"
Dividing the scattered eggshell fragments into two equal halves, he estimated that they had once belonged to two whole eggs.
Which meant there had originally been three eggs here, and two had successfully hatched!
Crack!
After exerting some effort, Rhaegar pried the fossilized dragon egg from the hardened dragon dung and continued searching the abandoned lair.
Thinking of the dragon remains in the canyon, it was likely that this clutch had been left behind by that very dragon.
By comparing the fossilized eggs, Rhaegar estimated that the dragon had been dead for at least a hundred years.
In other words, before the Doom of Valyria, that dragon had lived for over a century.
A massive wild dragon roaming the coasts of Sothoryos—there was no way the royal Valyrian dragonlords wouldn't have known about it.
Records mentioned that a female dragonrider from House Balerion, Janina Balerion, had once traveled across Sothoryos on her dragon for three years.
If there were dragons in Sothoryos, the dragonlords would have noticed them.
That left only one possibility.
This dragon had a rider—at least, it once did.
For some reason, it had come to Sothoryos, deliberately hidden from the world.
After a long silence, Rhaegar walked out of the lair, carrying the fossilized egg.
"Screeeech..."
Glutton, his dragon, fixed its emerald-green, slit-pupil eyes on him, its wings supporting its weight as it patiently waited.
It sensed its rider's heavy mood.
Rhaegar exhaled deeply before swiftly climbing onto Glutton's back and giving the command: "Fly!"
"Roar..."
With a deep growl, Glutton spread its dark wings and launched into the sky.
There was no need to investigate the canyon or dragon remains any further.
On the cave walls, Rhaegar had found some ancient, weathered inscriptions written in High Valyrian.
They contained fragmented knowledge about a Valyrian dragonlord family.
For instance, by studying a dragon's size, they had estimated its age and growth stages.
The classification of a dragon's life cycle was generally vague.
Typically, dragons were categorized as hatchlings, juveniles, adults, and elders.
But this dragonlord family had created a more detailed classification:
Beyond juveniles, there were adolescent dragons, young adults, prime dragons, and declining dragons.
A dragon hatched from an egg, growing into a hatchling.
Once a hatchling reached about thirty feet in length—around ten years old—it entered the juvenile stage.
Juvenile dragons grew rapidly, usually reaching around a hundred feet in ten to twenty years, with their scales and claws maturing.
At that stage, they were considered adolescent dragons.
After another thirty years or so, depending on their innate potential, their size could range significantly, marking their transition into young adulthood.
Upon reaching a hundred years old and about a hundred meters in length, a dragon was considered a fully grown giant.
Rhaegar pondered this briefly—it aligned closely with his own estimations of a dragon's peak.
Among his family's dragons, both Glutton and Vermithor were ninety years old, already exceeding a hundred meters, making them full-grown giants.
Dreamfyre and Silverwing were of similar age, but their sizes differed slightly.
Silverwing was about one-fifth smaller than Vermithor, measuring under ninety meters.
Dreamfyre was the oldest but had been imprisoned during its prime, wasting much of its potential, barely surpassing eighty meters.
Neither of these two had reached the standard of a fully grown giant.
The declining stage was easy to understand—once a dragon exceeded 150 years, its massive size began to hinder its stamina and speed, signaling the start of its decline.
Even so, Vhagar remained an incredibly formidable force despite entering this stage.
Riding on Glutton's back, Rhaegar felt the wind in his face as he tossed the heavy fossilized egg in his hands.
Aside from these impractical bits of knowledge, the dragon lair contained a damaged carving.
Rhaegar couldn't discern what the image originally depicted.
But he noticed a crucial detail.
There were faint symbols along the edges—part of some kind of blood magic ritual.
"Glutton, continue the hunt," Rhaegar commanded, stowing the fossilized dragon egg in a sack.
The dragon remains and unknown blood magic were unsettling.
At least the dragonlord family responsible for such things had perished in the Doom.
And the two hatched dragon eggs already had masters—there was no need to worry about wild dragons roaming free.
Sunrise and sunset came and went, and two days passed in a blur.
The Archipelago of Stone Steps – A Small Island
"Attack!!"
Under the vast blue sky, several warships bearing the flag of the Three Daughters surged forward, cutting through the waves toward a patrol ship flying the red three-headed dragon banner.
Scorpion ballistae mounted on the warships locked onto their target, launching bolts in rapid succession. The deadly projectiles tore through the patrol ship's hull, leaving gaping holes.
The ships drew closer. The battering rams struck the patrol vessel with a thunderous crash—battle was imminent.
Above, the sky remained clear and bright.
Whoosh!
A shadow streaked across the heavens—a massive black dragon, its silhouette fleeting as it sliced through the clouds, swift as a shooting star.
Below, the Three Daughters' warships had the patrol ship completely surrounded. Pirates swung across on iron chains, leaping onto the deck to begin their merciless slaughter.
"Hiss—Gaaah!"
Suddenly, a deep, resonant dragon roar echoed across the battlefield. The black dragon plunged from the clouds, its ferocious head tilting downward as it dove straight toward the chaos below.
Boom!
A torrent of eerie green flames erupted from its maw, sweeping across the enemy fleet in a searing arc. The masts and decks ignited instantly, engulfed in the ghostly blaze.
"Aaaah!!"
Screams filled the air.
Caught in the dragonfire's wake, the pirates of the Three Daughters didn't even have time to throw themselves into the sea. Their bodies blackened and crumbled to ash as the inferno consumed them.
Some unfortunate souls, shoved by their panicked comrades, had mere embers brush against their clothing. Those tiny green sparks clung to the fabric like parasites, rapidly expanding into an uncontrollable blaze that seared through flesh and bone.
Atop the dragon's back, a young man clad in black robes remained expressionless. He uttered a single command:
"Dracarys."
"Hiss—Gaaah..."
The massive black dragon swooped lower, releasing another wave of dragonfire upon the warships below. Within moments, the sea was ablaze with an eerie green inferno.
The patrol ship was beyond saving. Its crew scrambled into lifeboats, rowing frantically toward the shore.
"Prince!"
A desperate voice rang out from below. Survivors, gazing up at the dragon and its rider, cheered with newfound hope.
Rhaegar spared them a glance before guiding his dragon into another circle above the battlefield, ensuring no enemy survived the onslaught.
It had been five days since he returned to Westeros.
He had to admit—Sothoryos had some very interesting cuisine.
Glutton had devoured over a dozen long-winged drakes in a single feast, finally sating its insatiable hunger.
Rhaegar could sense it—his dragon had grown even larger.
Not that it was particularly noticeable when dealing with a beast of such immense size.
"Hiss—Gaaah!"
As the last of the enemy ships burned and sank, a piercing dragon cry shattered the night. The shriek was sharp and relentless, making his ears ring.
Rhaegar turned his head, his gaze locking onto a massive crimson dragon slicing through the sky like a serpent.
Blood Wyrm – Caraxes.
Atop the beast, clad in black steel armor, was Daemon.
"Rhaegar, you're back from Sothoryos," he remarked, his voice tinged with surprise.
"The journey was smooth. I came and went quickly," Rhaegar replied, scanning the wreckage below. "What happened here? Have we gone to war already?"
Daemon tilted his head slightly, smirking with satisfaction. "Not yet. This was just a skirmish—a test of strength. But trust me, war is coming."
Lys had captured a wild dragon.
The Iron Throne had sent emissaries to negotiate with the governor of Lys, only to be turned away.
Every kingdom in Westeros and the Nine Free Cities knew the truth:
War was inevitable.
Hearing this, Rhaegar's gaze darkened. He had already begun to strategize in his mind.
He patted Glutton's black scales, preparing to return to Dragonstone.
Daemon called out just in time: "You're back at the perfect moment. A Braavosi envoy is meeting with the king today."
"Appreciated," Rhaegar responded with a nod before taking off into the night sky.
Dragonstone
"Hiss—Gaaah!"
Glutton flew at full speed, cutting through the wind before landing gracefully on the cliffside overlooking the sea.
Rhaegar dismounted with ease, slinging a large sack of dragon eggs over his shoulder as he slid off the beast's back.
As he approached the entrance to the Stone Drum Tower, he happened upon Ser Stefan of the Kingsguard, who was welcoming a delegation of finely dressed foreign envoys.
"Prince," Stefan greeted him with a respectful nod.
Rhaegar glanced over the dark-haired, bronze-skinned visitors. "Ser, are these the envoys from Braavos?"
"Yes, Your Highness. His Majesty is expecting them."
Stefan's response was straightforward.
"Then let's go together," Rhaegar said, handing his sack to a dragonkeeper. "See that these eggs are well cared for."
Inside the sack were over a dozen patterned long-winged swamp dragon eggs.
And one particularly rare treasure—an egg belonging to a Shadow Long-Wing, a species capable of growing up to sixty feet in length, its scales jet black.
The Shadow Long-Wing was vastly superior in power to its lesser kin, yet incredibly rare.
Hunting multiple adult specimens had yielded just one of these precious eggs.
Rhaegar stepped through the grand doors of the Stone Drum Tower, heading straight for the council chamber.
On the way, the Braavosi envoys attempted conversation, speaking fluent High Valyrian.
After exchanging a few pleasantries, Rhaegar learned the purpose of their visit:
The Sealord of Braavos was offering to mediate a summit between the Targaryens and the Three Daughters.
A grand negotiation between Westeros and the Free Cities.
Under a sky of scattered stars and a waning moon, the small council convened.
King Viserys sat at the head of the table, surrounded by his assembled advisors. Also present were the Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon, and Daemon.
Rhaegar sat alone on one side of the stone table, his younger siblings, Aegon and Helaena, standing beside him.
The candlelight flickered.
The first voice broke the silence.
Viserys' expression was stiff as he deliberated, "Should we go to the negotiations in Braavos? And who would be the most suitable envoy?"
Braavos had close ties with the Three Daughters, making it hard not to see this as a potential trap.
"The negotiations concern the relationship between Westeros and the Free Cities. It is necessary to attend," someone responded.
Corlys remained composed, idly toying with a seahorse-shaped stone carving in his hand. After a moment of contemplation, he said, "If you trust me, I can lead the fleet and accompany a member of the Small Council."
He had many business partners in Braavos and across the Free Cities.
At sea, he had absolute confidence in his abilities.
Leonor hesitated briefly before agreeing. "Your Grace, I am your Hand. I can negotiate on your behalf."
The king could not risk his own safety—it was best for him to go.
"There's no need, Lord Leonor," a voice interjected.
Rhaegar spoke calmly, "This is not a question of your abilities, but this negotiation is of great importance. You may not have the necessary leverage."
Leonor was momentarily stunned before asking, "Prince, are you planning to go yourself?"
"A Targaryen negotiation should naturally be led by a Targaryen," Rhaegar declared with unwavering determination.
His gaze swept across his four younger siblings before he made his decision. "I will lead the delegation myself. Aegon will accompany me on dragonback!"
Braavos was often called the bastard daughter of Valyria, but in truth, its people were mostly descendants of Valyrian slaves.
This time, he would remind Braavos what it meant to face a true dragon.
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