Rhaegar finished reading and couldn't help but admire the "honest and straightforward" nature of the Dragon King family.
"No wonder the murals are filled with so many depictions of men and women coupling."
It seemed to be an instructional guide left by their ancestors.
Rhaegar mused, "Such a mysterious family tradition—no wonder House Targaryen can't compare."
Just look at the Targaryens.
Aegon married both of his sisters and only had two sons.
Hard to comment!
Aerys I had four sons and two daughters.
Maegor never had any children his entire life—and he even killed his brother's three sons.
The wicked kin-slayer!
Jaehaerys I fathered thirteen children, yet not one survived to inherit the Iron Throne.
He could produce children, but he couldn't raise them!
His father, Viserys, had four sons and two daughters.
Even without any great military achievements, he still lived up to his reputation as the "Young King."
Being able to father children is an achievement in itself!
Daemon had two daughters, and one son who died young.
Rhaegar sneered, "Karma!"
For an uncle, he sure had no shame—lusting after his niece and scheming against his nephew.
Rhaegar thought it over carefully. "Rhaenyra gave me two sons—just barely up to standard."
Remembering the fate of his late mother, Aemma, he didn't want Rhaenyra to bear too many children.
"I'll have other wives anyway," Rhaegar muttered to himself.
There were young dragons in the Dragonpit—Blizzard and Srax. On Dragonstone, the unclaimed Silverwing and the wild dragon, Grey Ghost.
And more than twenty dragon eggs still unhatched on Dragonstone.
With more children, there would be enough dragons to go around.
His thoughts paused, and Rhaegar murmured, "That boy Aegon is perfect for fathering children."
The continuation of Targaryen blood couldn't rest on his shoulders alone.
Aegon spent every day whoring around, brimming with energy—might as well put that to good use.
Aemond and Daeron needed to grow up fast as well.
Restoring the glory of House Targaryen was their duty!
"That's what younger brothers are for," Rhaegar said, clenching his fist and striking his palm.
With one thought, he had determined his younger brothers' future paths.
His father had gone through great effort to give him three brothers—he wasn't going to let them go to waste.
Use them! Use them well!
---
As dusk approached…
Rhaenys stood at the edge of the deep pit, waiting for her nephew to emerge.
"Rhaegar has been in there for a long time," she said, her eyes filled with worry.
Grey Worm approached, his raspy voice asking, "Princess, should we imprison the captured rioters first?"
His abdomen was wrapped in bandages, stained with fresh blood.
Rhaenys glanced behind her at his words.
Hundreds of Unsullied had formed a tight circle, with a crowd of kneeling rioters trapped in the middle.
Beyond the ruins, more than a thousand knights from the Vale patrolled the streets, maintaining order.
The appearance of the Devourer had crushed the rioters' morale, gradually quelling the unrest.
Rhaenys pondered for a moment. "Let's wait a little longer. Rhaegar should be coming out soon."
There was no danger in the pit, which likely meant he had found something valuable.
Taking time to retrieve it was expected.
"Roar…"
Suddenly, the Devourer let out a low growl, its green, slit-pupiled eyes fixed on the pit.
It had sensed something it didn't like.
Rhaenys and Grey Worm noticed the dragon's agitation, their hearts skipping a beat.
Rustling…
The sound of climbing echoed, and a figure emerged from the pit.
"It's me!"
Rhaegar was covered in dirt but wore a broad smile.
He was clearly in a great mood.
Rhaenys examined him closely, noticing that he was carrying a few new items.
A scroll was strapped to his waist, its thin, translucent outer layer faintly glowing.
In his right hand, he twirled a silver-gray steel necklace.
In his left hand, he held a black whip.
Judging by his expression, his haul was considerable.
Rhaenys let out a breath of relief and stepped forward with concern. "You took so long—I thought something had happened to you."
If her nephew had gotten into trouble right before her eyes, her usually timid cousin would surely have fought her to the death.
"Good things take time to find—can't rush it," Rhaegar said, raising both hands, making his meaning clear.
Rhaenys hesitated for a moment, then her expression turned serious.
The necklace had a clasped ring structure, its surface rippling with wave-like patterns.
"Valyrian steel?"
Rhaenys gave him a questioning look before taking the necklace into her hands.
There was no doubt—it was a Valyrian steel necklace, made from the same material as Dark Sister.
Holding it up against the setting sun, the round pendant exuded an ancient aura in the reddish glow.
One side of the pendant was engraved with two crowned dragons coiling together.
The other side bore intricate, cryptic Valyrian inscriptions, difficult to decipher.
Rhaenys looked again and again, her gaze shifting to the bracelet Rhaegar was wearing.
A Valyrian steel bracelet, engraved with similar inscriptions.
Rhaenys wasn't a fool; she stroked the necklace with fascination.
After a while, she reluctantly returned it to her nephew.
With a resigned tone, she said, "The gods truly favor you—every good thing ends up in your pocket."
Rhaegar beamed and wrapped the necklace around his wrist.
The murals, books, containers, and treasure chests within the half-ruin were all distractions—the real treasure was buried underground.
Facing a royal family with ancient dragon blood, Rhaegar did his best to search thoroughly.
He possessed a mysterious scroll capable of detecting ancient Valyrian relics, so he naturally took it out and used it.
Beneath the stone floor of the palace's columns, he unearthed the Valyrian steel necklace now in his hands.
Inside the pendant was a storage space measuring five feet square—significantly larger than his spatial bracelet's mere three feet square.
Within the space lay a small mountain of gold, along with various rare and difficult-to-mine ores.
Rhaenys shifted her gaze to the pitch-black whip and asked bluntly, "Is this a treasure as well?"
"Sharp as ever," Rhaegar replied, his smile growing even brighter.
In terms of value, this pitch-black whip surpassed even a spatial artifact.
The whip was entirely black, as deep and unfathomable as the night sky.
Its material was unknown, seemingly the tendon of some creature, with a surface covered in fine, scale-like barbs.
The handle, one foot long, was forged from Valyrian steel and engraved with inscriptions even more mysterious than those used in spatial enchantments.
Just looking at it for a moment could cause dizziness and discomfort.
Crack!
With a flick of Rhaegar's wrist, the black whip danced like a serpent, striking the ground with force.
The whip was incredibly flexible, kicking up a cloud of dust and leaving a deep groove in the earth.
Hiss—Gaaah!
Suddenly, the Devourer let out a piercing roar, supporting itself on its wings as it stood, its entire body exuding a pungent scent of ashes.
This smell, derived from cannibalism among its kind, was something only dragons could typically detect.
But now, the ash-like scent spread, making it feel as if disaster loomed.
Crack!
Rhaegar lashed out with the whip once more.
Hiss—Gaaah!
The Devourer's green slit pupils flickered with fury before it finally lost control and spewed a blast of dragonfire.
Rhaegar's expression remained unchanged as he suddenly spoke:
"Attack upwards!"
His command, spoken in High Valyrian, carried an undeniable, mysterious authority.
In the next moment—
The Devourer's green pupils cleared instantly. It raised its neck high and unleashed a torrent of eerie green dragonfire into the sky.
Crack!
Rhaegar struck the whip a third time, the corners of his mouth lifting in satisfaction.
"Suppress your aura!"
The Devourer complied obediently, silently closing its dragon maw.
It then lowered its massive head, its green eyes filled with curiosity as it sniffed Rhaegar intensely.
The rider's command had been crystal clear in its mind, and after years of training together, obeying had become second nature.
But that unpleasant scent still lingered, unchanging.
As the dragon's massive snout nudged closer to his chest, Rhaegar offered an apologetic smile.
"Good boy, sorry for scaring you."
With that, he wrapped his arms around the dragon's rough, scaly snout, rubbing it affectionately.
Roar!
The Devourer snorted in annoyance, shaking its head to free itself from Rhaegar's touch.
Its massive, bell-sized pupils locked onto the whip in his hand.
It was certain—that thing was the culprit.
The sound of the whip had startled it, triggering an instinctive blast of dragonfire.
Rhaegar, slightly swaying, tucked both the mysterious scroll and the black whip into his spatial necklace before embracing the enormous dragon once again.
"Don't be mad—it's just a dragon-taming tool."