In Rhaegar's small chamber, he stood before a map of Westeros.
Many regions had already been marked in color.
Dragonstone and the Pale Mountains were places where dragon eggs might still be lost to time. A wooden sword rested atop the map, serving as a paperweight.
Sessa watched Rhaegar quietly.
He truly was a young dragon, focused, relentless. If Sessa himself had been born into a dragonlord's family, he suspected he would have been just as obsessed with dragons.
"Your Highness, your stamina is extraordinary," Sessa said.
"Any ordinary child subjected to my water training would already be exhausted and fast asleep."
He was genuinely shaken by the boy's vitality. Some people, he realized, were simply born warriors.
The Water Dance was the sword discipline practiced by Braavosi water dancers.
Braavos regarded Westerosi warfare as a Dance of Steel, a brutal collision of courage and raw strength, defined by heavy blades, armored knights, and thundering warhorses.
Braavosi warfare, by contrast, was a Dance of Water, flexible, swift, elusive, built on movement, precision, and sudden strikes.
Rhaegar, however, saw it differently.
To him, it was a balance of hardness and softness.
The shadowed blades of Lys were fierce and ruthless in their own way, while Sessa's water dancing flowed like a river, smooth, adaptable, lethal.
"You flatter me, Ser Sessa," Rhaegar replied calmly.
"The blood of the dragon is no different from that of ordinary men. It does not burn endlessly with fire, nor can it grant ceaseless strength."
As the days of training passed, Sessa's impression of Rhaegar deepened.
He sensed an intense fire within the boy, and in turn, Rhaegar began to grasp the gentleness of water. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could shape Rhaegar into an unparalleled warrior, one who dared to merge fire and water, surpassing all who came before.
Rhaegar would fuse the martial traditions of Braavos and Westeros into one.
"Your Highness," Sessa said after a pause,
"forgive my bluntness. Dragons have been gone for centuries. Everyone knows they vanished forever, like fleeting dreams. You should devote your precious time to martial mastery, not to chasing illusions."
He had heard the madness of dragonlords attempting to revive dragons, ironwood dragons fed with wildfire, and most recently, King Aegon V, who perished in flame.
He did not wish his pupil to walk that same doomed path.
"Thank you for your concern, Ser Sessa," Rhaegar said gently.
"The extinction of dragons is a fact, I do not doubt it. I am merely interested in the history."
Though the swordsman appeared cold, Rhaegar knew Sessa possessed a kind heart.
Seeing the boy's composure, Sessa said nothing more and turned to leave.
Night fell.
Under the cool, cloudless sky, Rhaegar felt as though every muscle in his body had been torn apart. The pain was unbearable.
Yet Sessa claimed this was not even rigorous training, merely routine sparring.
In Braavos, elite swordsmen were trained by chasing a specific cat through a swarm of cats, or dancing atop spiraling stairways slick with water.
Rhaegar was utterly drained.
How much effort did the Dance of Fire and Water truly demand?
Across Westeros, few warriors had ever dared such a fusion.
Half-asleep, Rhaegar drifted into another dream.
Once again, he saw the Silver Dragon.
It hovered silently in midair, its gaze fixed upon him. Its scales were beautiful, its form elegant, power and grace perfectly intertwined. Anyone who beheld it would marvel at its majesty.
The Silver Dragon was an omen of good fortune.
Those who saw it believed themselves blessed.
It neither breathed fire nor smoke, it only stared at Rhaegar.
Time seemed to freeze.
Rhaegar tried to speak, but no sound emerged. His body was immobile, crushed by fear and loneliness. His consciousness drifted freely, yet his flesh would not respond.
Slowly, the Silver Dragon began to turn to stone.
Faster and faster, until it became a flawless statue.
Rhaegar could endure it no longer.
He shattered the paralysis and charged forward.
Flames erupted from within him, beginning at his heart, spreading across his torso and face.
His silver hair ignited. Fire poured from his mouth and nose.
The heat filled him with strength and vitality.
The flames purified him, reforged him.
Wrapped in fire, Rhaegar rushed toward the Silver Dragon, and the flames reached it as well.
The petrification shattered.
The Silver Dragon awakened.
It roared, its voice shaking the world.
Then it moved, lowering itself, beckoning Rhaegar onto its back.
Mounted upon the dragon, Rhaegar soared into the sky, riding wind and storm, gazing down upon all creation.
Perhaps I am the only true dragon.
"Silver Dragon… where are you?" Rhaegar gasped as he awoke.
"How do I awaken you?"
This dream was stranger than the last.
It was his own fire that had revived the dragon.
His body had ignited, true spontaneous combustion.
No external flame. His body itself had burned.
What did this fire represent?
Dragonlords claimed true dragons were immune to blades and flame, but that usually meant little more than heightened resistance. True spontaneous combustion was exceedingly rare.
And this fire came from within.
At that moment, the system panel changed.
A new entry appeared under his identity.
〈Flame-Born Blood〉
Identity:
The Last Dragon , Dormant Blood of Fire
(Some flames come from without. Others rise from within. To become a true dragon, the sleeping fire must be awakened.)
"Perhaps this fire is not literal," Rhaegar mused.
"Perhaps it is willpower. Vitality. Fighting spirit."
During the age of magic, even ordinary dragonlords could hatch dragons. But after magic waned, perhaps only those whose lives burned the brightest, whose will was strongest, could awaken dragons.
Ice and Fire.
Ice was conspiracy.
Fire was passion.
Ice was the Night King.
Fire… might be R'hllor.
Fire flowed within the blood of dragonlords, but for many, it was sealed away.
Then he thought of someone.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Born of the dragon, yet forced to wander.
Forged by suffering, tempered like steel by endless hardship.
Though a woman, she endured trials that would break men.
Other dragonlords were raised safely behind palace walls, cared for by servants and women.
But Daenerys was truly a child of fate, exile, humiliation, the annihilation of her family, the death of her husband and child.
Her resilience would put most men to shame.