The turquoise waves crashed against the jagged coast of Bloodstone, sending plumes of spray into the air.
Rhaegar watched from the back of the Silver Emperor as the island came into view. It was a harsh, unforgiving rock, stripped bare by centuries of storms and pirate occupation. But to Rhaegar, it looked like opportunity.
Below, the soldiers of the Iron Throne cheered as the three dragons descended. They were the Prince's dragons, the Guardians of the Narrow Sea.
Bloodstone was transforming. What had once been a chaotic pirate nest was now a disciplined military encampment.
The fortress of Dragonroar was taking shape on the central stone ridge. It was a double-ringed fortification: an outer wall of earth and timber palisades, and an inner keep carved directly into the living rock.
Between the rings lay the tents of the high lords. Prince Aerys, Tywin Lannister, Steffon Baratheon, and Mace Tyrell all had their pavilions here, creating a temporary court of silk and steel amidst the dust.
Rhaegar landed the dragons in the designated pen near the main camp. He dismounted, dusting off his hands.
"Perfect timing," Ser Barristan said, greeting him. "Your father is holding court. They are... trying on clothes."
Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "Clothes?"
He walked to the royal pavilion. Inside, it looked less like a war room and more like a tailor's shop.
Prince Aerys stood in the center, preening in a doublet of black and red silk with ruby buttons. He wore a matching cape that trailed on the floor.
"Ah, Rhaegar!" Aerys beamed, spinning around. "Look at this! Dornish silk. Breathable, yet regal. We must look our best for the Princess."
Mace Tyrell, stuffed into a lime-green doublet with a gold rose broach, nodded enthusiastically. "Magnificent, Your Grace. Simply blinding."
Tywin Lannister stood to the side, wearing a somber black tunic with a red cloak, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Steffon Baratheon looked equally uncomfortable in green and gold.
"Why are you dressed like a peasant?" Aerys asked, frowning at Rhaegar.
Rhaegar was wearing a simple, fitted black tunic made of spun silk, with short sleeves and a silver dragon embroidered over the heart. It was practical, allowing freedom of movement for work or combat.
"It is hot, Father," Rhaegar said. "And I have been working."
"Working?" Aerys sniffed. "A prince does not haul stones."
"A leader shares the burden," Rhaegar replied calmly.
"Well," Aerys waved a hand dismissively. "Did the Princess mention a betrothal?"
The tent went quiet. Prince Lewyn Martell, standing in the corner, stiffened.
"No, Father," Rhaegar lied. "We spoke only of friendship and trade."
"Good," Aerys sighed, relief washing over his face. "I've seen her daughter. Flat-chested, flat-bottomed, and smells of sick. She wouldn't give you strong sons. Too much Dornish blood."
Lewyn's hand tightened on his sword hilt, but he said nothing. Rhaegar caught his eye and gave a subtle nod of apology.
"We will depart for Sunspear in two days," Aerys announced. "I want everything ready. We must show these sand-dornish what true royalty looks like."
Rhaegar left the tent, glad to escape the suffocating vanity.
He went to the construction site of Dragonroar Keep.
Two thousand men were working here—his Royal Guards, landless adventurers, and second sons who had sought glory in the Stepstones and stayed for the coin.
They cheered as Rhaegar approached. He didn't just watch; he grabbed a stone block.
"Heave!" Rhaegar shouted, lifting the stone into place alongside a burly sergeant.
The men roared their approval. They had started calling his fitted tunic the "Rhaegar Shirt," and already half the camp had cut the sleeves off their own tunics to mimic him.
As he worked, a new window popped up in his mind.
[Destiny Claim Updated]
[Westeros (High Rank):]
Legitimacy: Dragon Hatcher, Silver Hair/Violet Eyes, Victorious General, Loved by Smallfolk, City Builder.Missing: Aegon the Conqueror's Crown, Blackfyre (Sword).
[Old Valyria - Smoking Sea Ruins (High Rank):]
Legitimacy: Relic of 40 Dragonlords, High Fire Blood.
[Rhoyne - Mother River (Low Rank):]
Legitimacy: Faint Rhoynar Blood, Low Water Blood.
Rhaegar wiped sweat from his brow. His claim to the Iron Throne was strong, stronger than any heir in generations. But the missing artifacts gnawed at him.
Aegon's Crown is lost in Dorne, he thought. Blackfyre is with the Golden Company.
To truly unite the realm, to be the King of Prophecy, he needed them back.
One day, Rhaegar promised himself, looking at the setting sun. I will have them all. The sword, the crown, and the kingdom.
Dragon is destiny.