Chapter 1: The Tragedy of Summer Hall
259 AC, Westeros — Summer Hall
Summer Hall lay nestled in the Dornish Marches, far removed from the bustle of King's Landing. Unlike the capital, it was a place of peace and quiet comfort, a haven for the Dragon Family and the seat of fragile unification across Westeros. Here, the hard-won peace between the Targaryens and the Dornish had endured, a symbol of what once had been a realm stitched together by fire and blood.
Dragons, flames, and Scorpion Crossbows were now relics of a bygone age. Magic lingered only in whispers, and the world had grown tired of legends. Yet, even in this calm, the air of Summer Hall this evening was electric, filled with anticipation.
The people within the castle waited for one thing: the birth of Prince Rhaegar, the heir who would carry the Dragon's legacy forward. Within the palace, members of the Dragon Family had gathered, answering the call of the old king, alongside knights, maesters, and servants.
In a quiet chamber on the left side of the first floor, Princess Rhaella Targaryen, her silver hair cascading over pale shoulders, labored through childbirth. The heir had not yet arrived.
King Aegon V, his eyes reflecting both hope and exhaustion, observed the waiting crowd. Among them, Prince Aerys, still boyish and untested, fidgeted nervously. Aegon's resolve hardened.
"The Prince That Was Promised shall be born from the line of Aerys and Rhaella."
Beside him stood Ser Duncan, the White Knight, a towering figure over two meters tall, streaked with white but unyielding in strength. The knight's usual caution faltered as he followed the King's lead, though he had privately counseled Aegon many times against such obsession with dragons.
Time had eroded the King's temperance and clarity. Trust in his descendants had faded; only dragons consumed his mind. His days were few, and his obsession with the creatures of legend overshadowed all else.
Aegon and Ser Duncan entered a secluded chamber leading to a hidden cellar. Candlelight flickered over the gathered Pyromancers, who had prepared the wildfire for the ritual. Some bore the darkened skin of Asshai, others the pale countenance of King's Landing.
Prince Duncan supervised them carefully. Seven dragon eggs lay before him, each aligned with one of the Seven Gods. These were no ordinary relics—each egg contained the potential to birth dragons of immense power, creatures that could command the skies. Maester Goldan dutifully recorded the proceedings, noting the reverence each egg demanded.
"Shall the ritual begin?" Aegon V commanded, his gaze unwavering.
Whispers rippled through the room—The King Without a Dragon… The Mud King…—but Aegon ignored them. To the old king, the past judgments of nobles mattered little. He had one aim: to hatch dragons and restore the dignity of his house.
"My great-grandson shall see the dragons rise, and through them, the legacy of our house will endure. You shall surpass the deeds of your ancestors." His voice was almost a prayer.
Septon Barth, frail but fiery, approached, breathless. "Your Grace, this wildfire will destroy, not create. You imperil all for a folly."
Aegon's patience snapped. "Septon Barth, pray for the child. Do not meddle where you are unneeded." Ser Duncan stepped forward to guide the septon away.
"This is madness… yet I must serve," Duncan thought. Even he, loyal and steadfast, could feel the weight of the King's obsession.
The Pyromancers proceeded, their faces glistening with sweat as green flames licked the edges of the dragon eggs. Still, the eggs remained inert. The heat swelled, the wildfire leapt, and soon the cellar became a furnace. Flames climbed walls and curtains; the air crackled with lethal energy.
Ser Duncan tried to shield the King, but the fire spread too quickly. "Your Grace! Move!"
Aegon, his noble garments now deadly shackles, whispered with his last strength, "Save… my great-grandson…"
The knight obeyed without hesitation, carrying the old king away as the wildfire devoured Summer Hall. Timber crashed, floors gave way, and the castle became a pyre of legend and memory.
Ser Duncan's final thoughts were of duty fulfilled, of honor kept, before a burning beam struck him down. His eyes closed, a life of loyalty ending in flames.
Meanwhile, Princess Rhaella escaped to a courtyard, cradling a newborn. The infant, crying against the smoke and ruin, opened blue eyes that reflected the silver of his hair—the last scion of House Targaryen.
"Rhaegar… Rhaegar Targaryen," she whispered, awe and grief intertwined. Behind them, Summer Hall lay in ruins, a testament to ambition and obsession.
Somewhere deep within the haze of fire and destiny, a strange thought echoed in the newborn's mind, almost mechanical in tone:
I overworked myself by accident? Why did everything change after I woke up?
"Rhaegar, Rhaegar Targaryen." The baby's eyes darted around. *I overworked myself by accident? Why did everything change after I woke up?* A mechanical voice sounded.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Identity: The Last Dragon Family Member
Rhaegar Targaryen — the last of the Dragon Family, had survived the tragedy of Summer Hall.
Hey guys, I decided to add a Rhaegar Targaryen fanfic . Let me know your thoughts about it.