"My loyalty will be as rich as this summer wine," Old Garin said, offering Rhaegar a goblet. He knelt on the wooden deck of the punt. "In the name of the Mother Rhoyne, the Orphans of the Greenblood are yours."
The wine was excellent—a vintage Dornish red, thick and sweet with the taste of plums and sunshine. Rhaegar drank, hoping the old man's promises were as good as his cellar.
"I have a question," Rhaegar said, lowering the cup. "House Yronwood fought for the Black Dragon three times. How did they survive with their lands intact?"
"You are young, my Prince," Garin replied. "But the answer is simple: distance and necessity. The Yronwoods are the shield of the Boneway. To destroy them would leave Dorne open to the Stormlands. And the Martells... well, they prefer a known enemy to a power vacuum."
"The Bloodroyal supported Daemon, Haegon, and Daemon III," Garin continued. "They despise the Martells more than they love the King. To them, the Blackfyres offered a chance to overturn the board. And make no mistake—they still dream of it."
"The Golden Company," Rhaegar mused. "Bittersteel's legacy. They are out there, across the Narrow Sea. Waiting."
"Watch the Yronwoods," Rhaegar ordered. "If they send so much as a raven to Tyrosh, I want to know."
"It will be done," Garin bowed.
Rhaegar left Planky Town, soaring into the sky on the Silver Emperor. Balerion and Belaerys flanked him, their scales glittering in the sun.
He flew out over the open sea, away from prying eyes. In his pocket, the charred wood fragments felt warm.
The Rhoynar worshipped the river, Rhaegar thought. My ancestors worshipped fire. Can they coexist?
He landed on a small, rocky islet. The waves crashed against the stone, sending spray into the air.
Rhaegar sat down and placed the wood fragments in a circle. He summoned the [Blue Flame], letting it dance in his palm.
Then, he did something dangerous.
He pricked his finger with a dagger and let a single drop of blood fall into the fire.
His blood was Targaryen, yes. But it was also Martell and Dayne. Through Myriah Martell and Dyanna Dayne, the blood of the Rhoynar flowed in his veins, however diluted.
Fire and Blood. Water and Blood.
The drop hissed as it hit the flame. But instead of evaporating, it sizzled and turned into steam that shimmered with a pale, blue light.
Rhaegar fed the charred wood into the fire.
The runes on the wood began to glow. They didn't burn; they liquefied. Blue light flowed from the wood like water, swirling around Rhaegar's hands, climbing his arms.
A vision overtook him.
He saw a river so wide the far bank was lost in mist. The Mother Rhoyne. He saw water wizards raising walls of water to crush Valyrian soldiers. He saw giant turtles rising from the deep to carry messages. He felt the cool, crushing weight of the deep.
[System Notification: Hidden Lineage Awakened - Rhoynar Water Blood.]
[Trait Acquired: Water Blood (Low Rank)]
[Effects: Minor hydrokinesis. Resistance to water pressure and disease. Ability to hold breath for extended periods (15 minutes). Empowered when near large bodies of water.]
The fire in his hands died down, replaced by a sensation of cool, flowing power.
Rhaegar stood up and faced the ocean. He reached out with his mind, not pushing with anger like fire, but pulling with the rhythm of the tide.
Rise.
The water obeyed.
A spout of seawater, thin as a rope but strong as steel, rose from the waves. It twisted and coiled at his command, rising ten feet into the air.
The dragons shrieked in delight. The Silver Emperor blasted the water with a jet of fire, turning it instantly into a cloud of steam.
"Show off," Rhaegar laughed, but his heart was pounding.
He had done the impossible. He had combined the magic of Old Valyria with the magic of the Rhoyne.
He was no longer just the Dragon Prince. He was something new. Something the world hadn't seen before.
He played with the water for an hour, creating spinning vortexes and shields of mist while the dragons chased them.
Fire to burn, Rhaegar thought, watching the steam rise. Water to heal. And blood to bind them.
He looked east, toward the Stepstones, toward Essos.
The Song of Ice and Fire, he mused. Maybe it needs a little water, too.