Dusk, the afterglow of the setting sun.
Two massive dragons—one pale silver, the other light gray—soared above Lys, playfully weaving through the crimson-streaked clouds.
The towering city-state lay in ruins, with collapsed buildings scattered everywhere as thick black smoke billowed skyward.
The harbor had fallen. Armies bearing banners of the three-headed red dragon, the seahorse, and the fierce tiger had landed, surging into every corner of the city.
A piercing screech echoed through the air.
The Devourer dragon craned its neck forward, its massive wings propped against the surrounding high-rises, while its hind legs scraped through a pile of rubble.
Beneath the debris lay the remains of Mogul.
The Devourer had only ever feasted on young dragons and dragon eggs, occasionally scavenging the corpses of adult dragons. Hunting a fully grown dragon by itself was a first.
A long-awaited, precious feast.
The street had been reduced to ruins, charred marks covering the ground.
Standing amid the wreckage, Rhaegar rested a decapitated dragon's head at his feet.
"Prince, spare us!"
"We are innocent…"
The elite soldiers of the Second Sons encircled the street, forcing dozens of lavishly dressed nobles to kneel in unison, their tear-streaked faces pleading for mercy.
Rhaegar ignored them, instead weighing a freshly acquired dragon egg in his hand.
The egg was covered in diamond-shaped scales. The top was completely black, but streaks of silver shimmered down its surface.
Two Second Sons stood by, restraining a silver-haired, unshaven middle-aged man.
"Balerion be praised, at least Mogul left behind a dragon egg."
A soft smile curled at Rhaegar's lips.
Mogul had come from the Smoking Sea, his bloodline distinct from the dragons of House Targaryen.
Once the battle began, there was no way Mogul would have survived.
But the fact that he had laid an egg before his death meant a rare-blooded dragonling would soon hatch.
A young knight from the Second Sons stepped forward and reported, "Prince, this dragonseed was captured in a nearby building, clutching the egg."
Rhaegar turned his clear gaze toward the man.
"Prince, I wasn't stealing the egg—I was protecting it!"
Trystane shook his head desperately, revealing his handsome yet haggard face, repeatedly pleading his case.
He had simply been hiding inside, trying to avoid the chaos.
But the Iron Throne's soldiers had noses like hounds. After a thorough search, they found him, seized his hard-won dragon egg, and hauled him out.
Hearing his frantic plea, Rhaegar smirked, seemingly in thought. "I remember you—Trystane Velaryon. A descendant of Maegor I's bastard line. You have an eight-year-old daughter."
Mogul laying an egg was an unexpected yet reasonable outcome.
Before attacking Lys, Rhaegar's spies had blockaded every port and kept a constant watch over the domed dragon pit.
Even if Trystane had harbored ulterior motives, he wouldn't have made it out of Lys.
For him, this was a desperate gamble—a lifeline.
Trystane, growing even more anxious, nodded quickly. "Yes! The egg was hidden by Baler out of selfishness. I took it from Xho Fhys and wanted to present it to you, my prince."
Dragonseeds were tasked with taming dragons.
Even if he had never bonded with one, a dragon egg alone was enough to secure a lifetime of wealth and status.
Rhaegar remained noncommittal, merely waving a hand. "Take him away for now. Do not mistreat him."
The dragon egg was an unexpected prize, but he had no interest in interrogating a bastard at the moment.
With a nod, the young knight led Trystane away.
Still holding the egg, Rhaegar strode toward the kneeling nobles.
He swept his gaze over them—each one sobbing and begging for their lives. Not a single one showed defiance.
"These people—all of them supported Bambaro?" Rhaegar asked curiously.
"Yes, my prince," Ser Syrio confirmed, his face alight with amusement.
Rhaegar nodded, considering his options.
Syrio, not one to waste time, signaled for soldiers to drag over a corpse—an elderly man in red robes, riddled with stab wounds. He also handed Rhaegar a book bound in sheepskin.
"The blood mage in service to the Governor of Lys," Syrio explained, raising an eyebrow. "He was carrying this book filled with strange symbols."
The old fool had tried to flee but was cut down by the soldiers.
Intrigued, Rhaegar let out a soft "Oh" and carefully took the book.
With his bloodline evolving, he was eager to absorb as much knowledge as possible.
But before he could flip through the pages, two groups of bloodied soldiers arrived.
"Prince, the harbor is fully secured," said the Sea Snake in a deep, commanding voice.
The other group consisted of foreign soldiers, their faces tattooed with tiger stripes.
Their leader, the Tiger Party Triarch of Volantis, Tesrio, stepped forward and bowed. "Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, it has been too long."
After exchanging a few words, Rhaegar instructed them to clear the streets and restore order to the city.
The elite troops of the Second Sons seized the kneeling nobles and followed Rhaegar toward the heart of Lysian power.
—The Governor's Palace.
Someone was waiting for him there.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature plummeted.
Led by two enchanting women, Rhaegar arrived at an elegant tower within the palace, its windows facing the setting sun.
Creak—
The door swung open. A slender figure in a white silk gown stood by the tall window, gazing at the crimson sky.
Rhaegar remained composed, saying nothing.
It was this woman who had secretly informed him and orchestrated the city's downfall from within.
According to Syrio, she had requested to meet him in person, claiming she could help him solve a pressing problem.
Slowly, the woman turned around, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful face. She smiled and curtsied.
"Johanna of House Svarn greets you, my prince."
Rhaegar's brows knitted slightly as he studied the woman before him.
Her voice was familiar. Her face was familiar.
But he couldn't remember where he had seen her before.
Johanna's enchanting eyes sparkled as her black curls cascaded down her chest. She swayed her slender waist gracefully as she approached.
Every gesture exuded an irresistible feminine charm—intelligent yet alluring, with the sophistication of a mature woman.
A sudden memory flashed through Rhaegar's mind, causing his brows to furrow deeply. Without hesitation, he asked, "Were you that prostitute from three years ago?"
During the First Battle of the Stepstones, he had led his army in sacking Lys.
While searching for the Rogare Bank, a bold courtesan had dared to give him directions.
A glimmer of light flashed through Johanna's beautiful eyes, but she didn't deny it. Instead, she replied playfully, "Counting this time, I've helped you twice now."
She closed the distance between them, stopping just under two meters away, her long, fair legs coming to a halt.
Rhaegar's brow relaxed slightly as he stepped past her toward the floor-to-ceiling window. With a smirk, he said, "Aside from my men, tell me what you want."
He had heard of Johanna before—the daughter of House Swann, taken during a raid. Her uncle, a count, had refused to pay for her ransom, forcing her into a life of servitude.
He had to admit, for a courtesan to rise to the point of influencing Lysian politics, she was an impressive woman.
But that didn't mean she could seduce him.
Faced with his blunt rejection, Johanna was momentarily stunned, silently realizing she had miscalculated.
From what she knew, the Targaryen heir was fond of mature women. By all accounts, he should have been interested in her.
"Hmm~"
She smiled warmly and admitted honestly, "Your Highness, you will soon rule Lys. I could serve as a competent steward."
"You don't want to return to Westeros?"
Rhaegar sat on the windowsill, gazing at the setting sun. Half-jokingly, he said, "I could eliminate Count Swann and make you a lady in your own right."
Johanna gently shook her head. "I'm a black swan—an outsider. I wouldn't be accepted."
Rhaegar chuckled but said nothing.
Johanna ran her fingers through her hair, her pale fingertips brushing over her ample chest. In a soft, persuasive voice, she said, "Let me stay. I can help you govern Lys and ensure the nobles pledge their loyalty to you."
"Fine."
Rhaegar nodded, then suggested, "Start by dealing with the unruly ones. Then, negotiate on my behalf with Volantis and House Velaryon."
With Lys under his control, only Tyrosh remained vulnerable, surrounded on all sides.
Three city-states—one ruled directly by the crown, one granted to Daemon, and the last to be divided among the factions.
That was the initial strategy. The finer details would need to be discussed back in King's Landing.
The Black Swan was a capable woman. If she secured Lys in advance, it would give him a stronger position in negotiations.
"No problem."
Johanna agreed readily. Leaning lazily against the doorframe, she teased, "Shall I send in a few beauties for you?"
Rhaegar didn't even bother looking at her. With clear disdain, he said, "Leave. Get to work."
Johanna wasn't offended. She simply smiled and curtsied before retreating.
Smart people made for easy negotiations.
Bang—
The door closed, and the sky darkened further.
Rhaegar stretched and gazed at the massive black dragon curled among the ruins.
The Glutton had satisfied his hunger, having dug up Morgul's remains and leisurely chewed them to pieces.
In less than two hours, all that was left in the ruins was a shattered skeleton.
Now full, the Glutton sprawled out on the ground and drifted into a light slumber.
"Digestion." Rhaegar mused to himself.
Since his transformation into a dragon-blooded being, the bond between him and the Glutton had grown stronger.
The beast conveyed a feeling of being "stuffed," and through sleep, it would "convert" the energy.
Resting his chin on his hand, Rhaegar muttered, "It took ten years, but the Glutton finally had a real feast."
However, such a feast had come at a steep price.
Rustle, rustle…
Resting a dragon egg on his lap, he pulled out a blood mage's parchment book and began flipping through it with one hand.
An old blood mage's book—potentially filled with valuable knowledge.
The sun had completely set, plunging the world into darkness.
Rhaegar's violet eyes gleamed as he pored over the book under the dim light.
The pages contained notes on herbs and medical theories, as well as discussions on the geography and customs of Essos.
Scattered throughout the book were mysterious symbols and diagrams—records of unknown blood magic theories.
Halfway through, the text changed.
Written in High Valyrian, a few distinct words stood out:
"Silence," "Halt," "Loyalty"…
A spark of excitement flashed in Rhaegar's eyes. "A Flight Spell?"
Reading further, he realized the spell was incomplete—it lacked the crucial word for "flight."
Rhaegar sighed in disappointment.
Without that key term, the spell was useless for flying. At best, it could help in taming dragons.
No wonder Morgul had been subdued. This spell likely played a role.
Licking his lips, Rhaegar eagerly continued flipping through the pages.
There were theories on dragons, knowledge from an obscure dragonlord family, and extensive notes on dragon-taming methods.
He flipped faster, reading until the very last page.
"Hmm… This unknown dragonlord family had some interesting insights into dragon-rearing."
Rhaegar smiled in satisfaction.
The book detailed dragon habits, volcanic landscapes, and dragon egg preservation.
House Targaryen had some knowledge on these topics, but not nearly as much detail as what was written here.
"Dragon eggs… hatching."
Setting the book aside, Rhaegar picked up the silver-and-black dragon egg beside him.
Holding it up to the hazy moonlight, he examined it closely.
A sudden idea struck him. He focused the fire magic in his blood, channeling it little by little into the egg.
According to the book, dragon eggs needed to be kept in volcanic terrain—like the dragon lairs of the Fourteen Flames.
Higher Dragon Egg Hatch Rate, Faster Growth for Hatchlings
Rhaegar, with a serious expression, muttered, "Dragon egg, dragon egg, hatch quickly."
Suddenly, a childhood memory surfaced.
Rhaenyra had chosen a black Dreamfyre dragon egg and placed it in his cradle.
All these years had passed, yet that dragon egg still remained unhatched in the Dragonpit.
Watching Baenyra and Rhaenia successfully hatch their dragon eggs, he couldn't help but feel a little envious.
Crack!
Out of nowhere, a crisp sound echoed as a silver-black scale flaked off the egg.
"Hm?" Rhaegar's eyes widened, and he instantly sat up straight.
The sea breeze scattered the clouds, revealing a bright full moon that bathed everything in a soft glow.
Through the large floor-to-ceiling window, the moonlight coincidentally fell upon the dragon egg—and on Rhaegar's face.
Crack, crack…
The egg trembled slightly, and the cracks began to spread wider and wider.
Pop!
Like a thin membrane bursting, a small dragon's head poked out from the shell, its silver-black sheen shimmering under the moonlight.
Rhaegar held his breath, his hands frozen in place.
He could hardly believe it—he had personally hatched a dragon.
"Hissss-gaa…"
The hatchling's dark, slit-like pupils darted around as it sluggishly crawled out of the shell, stretching lazily like a little black kitten.
At first glance, the young dragon was almost an exact replica of Moghul.
Its slender silver-black body was tiny, yet its pitch-black head was as large as a goose egg, making its head-to-body ratio a staggering 1:3.
With its thin neck barely supporting its oversized head, the hatchling struggled to move, while its broad gray wings flopped onto Rhaegar's arm.
Thud!
Caught off balance by its heavy head, the little dragon wobbled and toppled over.
Rhaegar reacted swiftly, cupping his arms together just in time to catch it—preventing a tragic accident where the newborn dragon might have perished moments after hatching.
"Hissss-gaa…"
The young dragon let out a weak cry, using its wings to prop itself up on Rhaegar's arm while curiously tilting its head to examine him.
Chirp, chirp!
Rhaegar's face lit up with joy as he chuckled, "Hey there, little one. How are you?"
(End of Chapter)