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Chapter Text

The soul of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, the chief of the Hairy Hooligan tribe, stood atop a cliff on the island of New Berk. From there, a wide view opened over the bay, where his kin and the entire tribe had gathered to say farewell to him. He watched as his family—his wife Astrid Haddock, née Hofferson, their beautiful daughter Zephyr, who had inherited her mother’s determination and grace, and their brave son Nuffink, now the new chief of New Berk—said their goodbyes. Each of them bore the pain of loss in their own way, but all were united in grief.

Nearby stood his friends: the loyal Snotlout Jorgenson, the stern yet kind-hearted Fishlegs Ingerman with his wife Ruffnut, once known as Ruffnut Thorston, and the ever-rowdy Tuffnut Thorston. They had all been part of his life—the life that now lay behind him. Behind him forever.

On the shore, surrounded by torches and silent warriors, the Vikings prepared for the final rite. His body, placed in a longship, had already been set adrift into the open sea. The people, holding their breath, readied their flaming arrows to ignite the vessel, sending the soul of their chief to Valhalla—the place where those who lived and died with honor would dwell.

Hiccup observed everything with heaviness in his heart. He saw his wife, holding back tears, her hands trembling as she drew the bowstring. Beside her stood their children, their faces marked by the same pain and resolve. The farewell was hard for all of them. He felt his heart tearing apart with the desire to embrace them, to say that all was well, that he had not disappeared, only become part of another world.

Yet even through the sorrow of parting, he knew their separation was temporary. He believed that someday he would meet them again—in Valhalla, in dreams, or perhaps in another life. That hope gave him strength, even if he could no longer stand by their side physically.

His gaze swept over the crowd, over the faces of those who had lived, fought, laughed, and wept with him. He memorized each face, saying farewell with his eyes, silently thanking every one of them. At last, he smiled—a light, warm smile, full of love and acceptance. But deep within that smile was a shadow—the shadow of absence. Among all those gathered, one was missing… one who had meant more to him than most. The absence weighed heavily.

He turned again to the longship, where his lifeless body lay. Inside, everything clenched—he needed to see whose arrow would strike first, who would be the truest. That farewell gesture meant much, not only to him but to the whole tribe.

But before the first arrow could fly, the sky lit up. A thunderous roar came from above, and suddenly bright, violet spheres of plasma fire rained down from the heavens, striking the wooden ship. Flames engulfed the vessel instantly.

"Toothless!" Hiccup exclaimed, barely holding back the surge of emotion. He recognized his faithful Night Fury and friend. Dragons circled above the sea—Toothless, his mate, and their children. They soared over the fire, adding their flames to the farewell pyre, yet kept at a safe distance from the Vikings’ arrows.

Human arrows soon followed, catching fire in midair and raining down into the sea of flames. The ship blazed brighter, and the fire became one—flame of farewell and remembrance.

Hiccup moved closer to his family, his heart filled with sorrow and tenderness. He embraced his children, holding them close for the last time, kissed each on the crown of their head, as though leaving a piece of himself with them forever. Then he stepped toward his wife—Astrid, his steadfast companion, his anchor, and the love of his life. He leaned in and brushed her lips—gently, softly, almost imperceptibly. She shivered and, as if feeling his touch, instinctively brushed her hand over her lips.

"We will meet again, my love…" whispered Astrid, wiping the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I swear it! We will meet again… I will find you!"

Hiccup gazed at her, not looking away. He wanted to remember every feature, every movement, every glimmer of light in her eyes. Everything about her was dear and real. He stepped closer, though he knew she would not feel it, and whispered:

"We will meet again, my love…" his voice was quiet but firm. "I love you, Astrid Hofferson. And I always will. You and I will always be together. Hiccstrid forever. Yesterday, now, tomorrow… and in the next life."

He turned and saw Toothless descending slowly from the sky, landing near his family. Ten long years had passed since they last met. Back then, at the entrance to the Hidden World, he had shown his children for the first time that dragons were not enemies, but friends, allies, and part of their world. That moment was full of hope, warmth, and faith in a future where humans and dragons could live in peace. But now… now everything had changed.

Astrid approached Toothless first. She reached out her hand, stroked his muzzle, and softly told him everything—what had happened, who was gone, why the fire burned on the horizon. Toothless looked at her with sorrow and understanding; his eyes reflected the same pain that lived in her heart. Then he turned his gaze toward the burning longship, where his rider, friend, and brother slowly disappeared.

Hiccup stepped closer, moving as though he were once again part of this world. He stopped beside Toothless, looked into his eyes, and gently placed his hand upon the dragon’s snout. He knew the dragon might not hear him, but he hoped he could feel it.

"We will meet again, brother," he whispered, pressing his forehead against the dragon’s. "But for now, live. Live long and free. I hope your life will be filled with light and freedom. Someday… you and I will be together again. We will soar through the skies once more, as we did before, as we once did. I swear it, my brother!"

He slowly pulled back, letting the farewell reach its end. For a moment more, he lingered on the sight of his family: Astrid, Zephyr, Nuffink… and Toothless. They stood together, united in shared grief.

The time had come to go. Hiccup turned toward the light that called him forward, toward something new, something unknown.

"Until we meet again…" were his last words to them.

And with those words, he stepped into the brilliance, dissolving within it completely—easily, peacefully, without fear. His path here was finished, but ahead a new journey began.

As he entered the radiance, a bright light enveloped him. Everything around shone so blindingly that his eyes stung with pain. Hiccup squeezed them shut, shielding them with his lids, and took a step forward. He moved slowly, uncertainly, as though he were walking through the very fabric of light. But with each step, something began to change. His body grew heavier, as though it was once more bound to the earth. Deep inside, a wave of memories rose—fragments of his life flashed before his mind’s eye as if it had all happened yesterday: the laughter of friends, battles against enemies, the Red Death, Drago, Grimmel—all surged past him and chased after him. The first flights with Toothless, Astrid’s sweet voice and her guiding words, the laughter of Nuffink and Zephyr. All of it flickered brightly and swiftly, leaving no time to grasp it fully.

Suddenly, a new vision began to form before him. Something was happening to his body. He felt something soft, almost weightless, wrapping around him like silk. His skin sensed warm, cozy air. His nose caught a scent—the smell of a warm room, of wood, perhaps of spices. His fingers felt the softness of fabric beneath him. He truly felt something—tactile, physical.

Hiccup opened his eyes sharply.

Before him was not the afterlife’s darkness and not the brilliance of Valhalla. He lay in a luxurious wooden bed, bathed in morning sunlight. The light streamed through thin, reddish curtains, dancing across the floor and furniture. The room looked foreign, unfamiliar—like something out of a fairytale, or some ancient legend.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, not believing what he saw. The ceiling was high, painted in a warm shade of red. Tapestries depicting dragons hung upon the walls, and a heavy wooden chest stood nearby. Against one wall was a fireplace, beside it a round table piled with books and scrolls. In the corner stood a tall wooden wardrobe and a large mirror in an ornate frame. Everything was far too rich, too refined, to belong to his former life.

The feeling was strange and unsettling. He tried to sit up but immediately noticed that his body had changed. His arms felt unusually small, and his legs, sticking out from beneath the light blanket, barely reached the middle of the bed. He sat up with effort, turning sideways, and froze, staring at his hands.

"What… what is this?" he burst out. His voice sounded high-pitched, thin, almost squeaky. The voice of a child.

He lifted his hands closer to his face. The skin was smooth and fair, the nails neatly trimmed, and there wasn’t a single scar or callus—none of the marks that had been part of his grown body. Everything seemed too clean. Too… new.

Sliding off the bed with effort, he stepped barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. And only then did he realize—he had both legs. His left leg, the one he had lost many years ago, was there. He froze in disbelief. He wiggled his toes. They moved. He even gave a little hop. It was a real leg. Short, clumsy legs, tangled in the long nightshirt he was wearing, resisted his control. But they were both there.

Stumbling, he made his way toward the mirror in the corner. When he finally reached it, he stopped in front of his reflection, breathing heavily. What he saw made his heart stop.

From the large, expensive mirror, a child looked back at him. A boy of about three or four years old, with long silver hair, slightly tousled from sleep, fine features, and wide blue eyes. In his gaze there was confusion, fear, and wonder.

He didn’t know who this child was. But he knew: it was his reflection.

The long silver hair softly framed a face—surprisingly beautiful, yet still childlike. His skin was flawless, without a blemish, and the eyes… the eyes were especially unusual. Enormous, deep, dark violet, like none he had ever seen before. They stared from the mirror with confusion and a silent question. Remembering a long-ago conversation with Fishlegs about shades of color, Hiccup slowly named it to himself—dark indigo. Yes, that was it. Indigo-colored eyes.

He slowly touched his face, then his nose, ran a hand through his hair. Everything felt real, yet foreign. This wasn’t him… or was it? The face in the mirror belonged to another person—or rather, a child—no more than three years old. A small, unfamiliar body, smooth hands, childish features. He did not recognize himself, yet he felt he was inside this body.

"Who am I?.. " he whispered, and his own voice made him flinch. It was thin, clear, unmistakably childish.

"Where am I?.. " he asked aloud now, as though expecting the reflection to answer him. But the mirror only repeated his expression—frightened and lost.

He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. His thoughts tangled.

"I died… didn’t I?" he thought with unease, slowly realizing how impossible this all was. "Or is this a dream?" He pinched his arm and felt pain.

"No, this is not a dream."

He slowly returned to the bed and sat on its edge. The enormous, luxurious bed with a soft headboard and carved patterns seemed far too ornate. His gaze wandered around the room with its stone walls.

He buried his face in his hands. Strange images flashed through his mind, as though they weren’t his, and yet were. A vast hall, flooded with light. Richly decorated walls, columns, hundreds of people in fine clothes looking at him. Noise, fanfares, the sound of footsteps and voices calling to him. Suddenly, Hiccup realized that this child, whose body he now occupied, had seen and heard all of this.

"So that’s where all these memories come from. But I still don’t know who I am or where I am. Perfect." He spread his hands.

Suddenly, there was a faint knock at the door. Hiccup didn’t even have time to stand before the massive wooden door slowly opened, and two women entered the room. They were dressed in long, simple but tidy gowns, moving carefully, as though afraid to disturb something important.

Both stopped at the threshold, bowing their heads slightly. The elder of them looked at the boy with a kind smile.

"Our prince has awakened…" she said, and these words echoed inside him, overturning his entire sense of what was happening.

The first of the women was a young girl with chestnut hair neatly braided into a long plait that hung over her shoulder. Her eyes were warm and attentive, her smile soft, though a little timid. She was dressed modestly: a plain gray dress with a white apron, marking her as a servant. She kept her hands folded in front of her, as though she wished to cause no noise or disturbance.

The second woman was noticeably older. Light wrinkles marked her face, especially around her eyes and mouth, speaking of years of care and labor. Strands of gray hair peeked out from beneath a dark cloth cap. Despite her age, she carried herself with confidence and dignity. In her posture and gaze there was a restrained sternness, but also the experience of someone who had cared for children for many years. Her movements were unhurried and assured, like those of a person accustomed to responsibility.

"Good morning, my prince," said the young girl. Her voice was soft and trembled slightly with nervousness, as though she was only beginning to grow used to her new duty.

Hiccup froze in place. His eyes widened, his breath caught for a moment. The title he had heard stunned him.

"Prince? Well, that’s something."

"Who… are you?.. if I may ask," he stammered. His voice sounded uncertain and far too childish, even to himself.

The young girl lifted her head a little, her smile growing slightly wider and calmer. There was kindness in her gaze, as if she understood his confusion, yet was not surprised by it.

"I am Lyra, my prince," she replied with a slight bow. "And this is Mira," she added, gesturing toward the older woman. "We are your new nursemaids. We’ve been appointed to care for you from this day forward."

"Nursemaids?.. " Hiccup could not hide his bewilderment. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared for him. It all felt misplaced… absurd. He felt like a grown man, yet they spoke to him as if he were a small child.

The elder woman, Mira, leaned forward slightly, looking at him with kind sternness.

"Yes, my dear prince," she confirmed in a calm, steady voice. "We are here to watch over you, to help you. If you need anything—just say it. And we will tend to it at once."

Before Hiccup could answer his nursemaids, the door opened again, and another figure entered the room. It was a girl—young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, short and slender, in a long elegant gown of pale gold. Her silvery-golden hair was neatly styled, and her eyes glowed with a warm violet light. Upon her head rested a delicate black crown adorned with crimson gemstones. She moved with ease, and her presence was both regal and comforting.

Her face was gentle and kind, her eyes filled with genuine tenderness directed solely at him. But beyond the love in her gaze, Hiccup noticed something else—something he could not yet recognize. Outwardly she was beautiful—almost otherworldly in her beauty. Even in his imagination, his images of the goddess Freya had never been so dazzling. This girl seemed like the embodiment of perfection from fairy tales.

She paused at the doorway for a moment, then smiled softly.

"Good morning, my little dragon," she said with love in her voice, warm and tender.

Hiccup froze, his gaze fixed on her. His heart told him that she… was his mother. His new mother.

"Good morning… mommy," he answered more quietly, as if testing the words by ear. He tried to remain calm, to conceal his confusion. The feeling was even stronger than the day he had first seen his real mother, Valka, surrounded by hundreds of dragons. Then, he hadn’t known how to react, but now the confusion was deeper. He felt small, vulnerable, and unsure of who he was or where he was.

The girl laughed softly, tilting her head slightly. Yet her smile quickly shifted to concern when she noticed his confused, perhaps frightened expression.

"Rhaegar, my sweet boy, did you sleep poorly?" she asked with care, stepping closer. The two servants quickly placed a carved stool before the bed, upon which she sat, gently holding the folds of her long gown. "You look rather strange, my dear. Has something happened to you?"

The words she spoke echoed in Hiccup’s mind.

"Rhaegar…" that was his new name.

"Rhaegar." He whispered it faintly to himself, testing the sound as if tasting it, to see if it suited him. The name sounded grand, proud, almost solemn. Within it was strength and fire. If names of men were truly tied to animals, this one surely belonged to a dragon—mighty and wise.

His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm.

"Yes, mother… everything is fine," he replied slowly, making himself speak clearly, though the words sounded strange to his own ears.

Just a few minutes ago, he had been a grown man, laid to rest by his family, his friends, and the entire tribe with whom he had lived. And now—he was a small child, sitting on a bed in a luxurious chamber, before an unfamiliar girl calling herself his mother.

The woman gently ran her hand through his hair, smiling tenderly.

"Did you have a bad dream? You look so bewildered, my darling."

"Just a little hungry," he answered, trying to distract her and change the subject. He did indeed feel hunger, despite the fact that he had eaten before his death…

She looked at him, smiling. Perhaps she was surprised and at the same time delighted at how clearly and thoughtfully he had replied.

"Well then, we must certainly get dressed and go down to breakfast," she said, turning to the servants. "Lyra, Mira, help him change. Let my little dragon be ready for the day."

The nursemaids bowed their heads in unison and said with respect:

"Yes, my queen."

"Queen…" The word struck his mind like a blow. His mother—a queen? That meant he was not just a child, but part of the royal family. The thought of it seemed almost fantastical. Only a few hours ago, he had been Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, chief of the Hairy Hooligan tribe from New Berk, leader of the dragon riders. And now he was a prince. The heir of a kingdom unknown to him, a world he had yet to understand.

The servants approached to carry out their lady’s order. They worked smoothly, calmly, as if performing a familiar morning routine. First, they washed his face with warm water, brought in copper pitchers and poured into a carved basin. The cloth with which Lyra dabbed his cheeks and forehead was soft, warm, and smelled pleasantly of herbs.

Then they began to dress him. Everything was done carefully and gently, with due respect, as befitted a member of the royal family. Hiccup, who was now called Rhaegar, felt a little awkward but did not resist.

They put on him a light shirt of fine white linen, decorated with silvery embroidery along the collar and cuffs. The embroidery depicted stylized dragons—curved bodies, outstretched wings, tongues of flame.

Next came a doublet of soft velvet in a deep crimson shade. Upon the chest was carefully embroidered a sigil he had never seen before, yet instinctively recognized: a three-headed black dragon entwined with gold. Everything about this outfit spoke of power, of ancient blood, of an old dynasty.

The doublet was paired with black woolen trousers—comfortable yet formal enough, not restricting movement. The belt was of dark leather, with a silver buckle shaped like a dragon’s head, detailed and heavy.

Upon his shoulders, Lyra gently draped a light cloak of dark gray satin. The lining was of soft fabric, pleasant against the skin. The cloak fastened with a silver brooch, also shaped like a dragon’s head—elegant, with curved horns and ruby eyes.

The look was completed with dark brown leather boots with soft soles, decorated with thin silver inlays. They fit perfectly.

Hiccup—now Rhaegar—studied himself in the mirror with fascination. He had never worn anything like this before. Even his wedding clothes, the most formal in his previous life, seemed coarse and plain compared to this princely attire.

"Will I always have to be dressed this expensively?.. " he murmured quietly, looking at the patterns on the sleeves.

Lyra smiled faintly, but it was Mira who replied—in a warm, kind voice, as she continued fastening the cloak:

"Of course, my prince. It befits your station."

When the maids had finished dressing him, his new mother—the queen—came closer. With a light, encouraging smile, she extended her hand to him. Hiccup looked at her uncertainly, as if hesitating before touching her palm. But at last he carefully placed his small hand into hers.

She immediately lifted him into her arms. He had not expected it, but did not resist. Her touch was warm, steady, and there was something in it that soothed him. In that gesture lay a care he suddenly realized he did not wish to push away.

When they left the room, Hiccup could finally see the walls from a normal height. The corridors of their home—or rather, the palace—stretched out before him like an endless labyrinth of stone, carpets, and luxury. The ceilings were high and vaulted, decorated with carvings and coffers. The walls, made of massive blocks of warm-colored stone, were adorned with inlays and mosaics. On the floors lay carpets woven with complex patterns of dragons.

Hiccup was grateful that he was being carried, not led by the hand. Thanks to this, he could see everything from above and didn’t have to crane his neck to look around. His eyes darted from side to side, studying the details, while his heart beat faster and faster.

"Where am I?.. " he repeated to himself again and again. "What is this place?.. "

On the walls hung tapestries, one after another. On one—dragons soaring over a burning field, below them figures of people kneeling before the symbol of the three-headed dragon. On another—a silver-haired warrior with a sword in hand stood alone among ruins. Beside him were two women with the same silver hair, clad in royal garments.

Hiccup studied these scenes with growing unease. There was something more in these images than mere decoration—something alive, almost speaking. They held memory. History. Legacy.

"This place seems to live on the memory of the past," he thought, clinging to his mother, still holding her by the shoulder. "The memory of dragons… Why am I here?"

For now, there were no answers. Only endless corridors, mosaics, dragons on the walls, and a name he had yet to grow accustomed to.

As they passed one of the vast windows, Hiccup instinctively glanced outside—and froze for a moment. Before him unfolded a breathtaking view. The city, sprawling far below, seemed like a boundless sea of rooftops, streets, and towers, all veiled in the soft haze of morning. From such a height, everything looked like toys—houses, bridges, tiny figures of people and carriages. Beyond the city walls stretched the sea, calm and endless, vanishing somewhere at the horizon, where sky met water.

"How far you can see from here…" he thought, holding his breath.

"What is this place?" he wondered again and again. "Everything here is so rich… Even Valhalla in my dreams looked simpler. There is so much grandeur here. And… power. A lot of power."

Along the walls stood guards. They were clad in heavy armor, adorned with the sigil of the three-headed dragon. Their eyes stared straight ahead, strict and unyielding. But Hiccup still felt them watching him from the corners of their eyes.

The servants who passed by bowed deeply, often without even looking in his direction. Some deliberately turned their gaze aside, not daring to meet his eyes—or his mother’s.

"Are they… afraid?" he thought, feeling his fingers instinctively squeeze the queen’s hand tighter.

At last, they stopped before tall doors of dark wood, carved with scenes of battles and dragons. With a soft creak, the doors swung open, and Hiccup found himself in a new room.

The chamber was spacious, yet far cozier than the palace corridors. It was bright, with windows overlooking an inner courtyard. Morning sunlight streamed gently through silk curtains, filling the room with warmth. On the walls hung paintings: dragons in flight, silver-haired warriors, scenes from the life of an ancient house.

The furniture was dark, carved, clearly expensive, but not excessively ornate. A large table, covered with a snow-white cloth, was laden with breakfast dishes—warm bread, butter, honey, berries, cheese, roasted meat, and even fruits he had seen only in traders’ tales.

The queen, whose name he still did not know, gently seated him at the table. Her movements were caring, free of tension or haste—only warm maternal affection.

"Eat, my dragon," she said with a tender smile. "We have a long day ahead of us."

Hiccup nodded, trying to look confident. He didn’t want to show how lost he felt inside. Carefully, he reached for a piece of bread, broke some off, spread it with honey, and began to eat. Everything tasted delicious—almost too delicious for a morning breakfast.

But the flavor of the food hardly reached him. His mind buzzed with thoughts.

"Why does she call me a dragon?" he wondered. "Is that her way of baby-talking me? If that’s the case—it’s disgusting, even far worse than Astrid’s baby talk."

He looked at her—the queen—who looked at him with such love that it made him feel both pleased and uneasy at once.

"What have I become? And why me?.. "

The food was truly delicious—even the fresh, soft, fragrant bread was wonderful. But every bite was hard to swallow. He couldn’t fully focus on breakfast. His gaze kept wandering across the room, catching on every detail.

"Everything here is different…" he thought, bringing another piece of bread to his lips. "Such magnificence, so much beauty… This place literally breathes power. But why am I here? Why do they call me prince? Could the gods have made a mistake?"

Every glance of his new mother, the woman they called queen, was filled with genuine love. In her voice, in her gestures, in her tone there was a tenderness he could not deny. She truly believed that he was her son. And that both soothed and frightened him.

"She looks at me as if I were her child," he thought, lowering his eyes. "But I am not her son. I am Hiccup. Or… I was. I was Valka’s son. And now?.. If I truly am in this world now…" he thought, staring at his plate, "then I must understand why. And if this body is mine now, I must use it well. Find a way… and return."

He sank so deep into his thoughts that he didn’t notice how quiet he had fallen, how long he had stopped eating. His mother, Rhaella, was watching him closely, and at last she spoke softly:

"You look so thoughtful, my dragon," she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied his face. "Is something troubling you?"

Hiccup flinched, pulled out of his thoughts. He quickly raised his eyes and tried to collect himself.

"No, mother… I’m just thinking," he answered as calmly as he could, trying not to reveal his inner turmoil.

Rhaella smiled warmly, her hand gently brushing through his hair, tucking a lock away from his face.

"You’ve always been so thoughtful," she said. "That is very good. Your mind is your greatest weapon, remember that. You are the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and the future king upon the Iron Throne. To rule, you must be wise, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

The words struck him like a blow to the chest. Hiccup froze at the weight of what she had just said about him—he wasn’t merely a prince, but heir to an entire kingdom… no, to seven kingdoms! The Iron Throne, Dragonstone. Now he at least knew more than before.

He nodded, as if accepting her words, and gave her a faint smile in return. But in his mind, questions still buzzed like bees in a hive.

"Why was it him who ended up here? Where is the real Rhaegar? Where is he now? What will happen next?"

These thoughts circled around him, not allowing him to fully sink into the moment. Even her gentle words and the comfort of the morning could not hide the fact that he now inhabited another person’s body, in an unfamiliar world full of power, legacy, and perhaps danger.

Suddenly the door swung open, and into the room stepped a young man—about eighteen years old. Behind him followed a tall man in gleaming white armor, over which hung a matching white cloak. At his waist hung a sword, and his stride revealed a warrior used to discipline and battle.

The young man seemed confident, his posture straight and proud, his gaze calm and commanding—the look of one accustomed to respect. He wore a long, dark red cloak lined with fur, which emphasized his high station. Upon his head shone a golden crown, finely carved with the shapes of twisting dragons. In the morning light the stones upon the crown gleamed with warm reflections.

Following him strode the man in white armor. He was tall and broad-shouldered, carrying himself with military bearing. His face looked stern but not harsh. Pale blue eyes watched attentively, filled with quiet sorrow and the experience of one who had seen much. His fair hair was cut short. Despite his age, he was handsome in his own way—his face strong, with sharp features, his movements precise and graceful. He was like a seasoned knight who had weathered many battles.

"Good morning, my queen," the young man said respectfully to his mother-queen. His voice was melodic, steady, and deep. There was strength, calm, and confidence in it. "And our little prince is already up," he added, glancing at the boy with a faint smile.

"Good morning, Your Grace," the man in white armor said politely with a bow to his mother.

"And a good morning to you, Ser Barristan," Rhaella replied warmly, giving him a gentle nod.

Now the knight turned his attention to the child.

"Good morning, my prince," said Ser Barristan with a slight smile, inclining his head in respectful greeting.

"Good morning… Ser Barristan," Hiccup replied, stumbling slightly. The name was new and strange to him, one he had never heard before, but he felt respect for this man.

Then he slowly raised his gaze to the one he instinctively took to be his new father. The man stood with unwavering confidence, embodying everything Hiccup had ever imagined a king to be. His long silver hair fell freely across his shoulders, well-kept and gleaming, like something out of legend. His face was strikingly handsome: high cheekbones, a straight, fine nose, features smooth yet masculine. His eyes—bright, purple, piercing, almost mystical.

The king’s clothing matched his appearance. A dark red doublet of expensive velvet, embroidered with golden dragons, fit snugly to his figure, emphasizing both his slenderness and his strength. On his chest shimmered the sigil—a three-headed dragon. The golden crown upon his head was a true masterpiece: delicate craftsmanship, dragon heads rising at the edges, tiny gemstones woven into patterns depicting dragons soaring into the sky. It was not heavy or cumbersome, but it looked impressive and proud.

The king stopped at the edge of the table and, raising an eyebrow slightly, looked at his son.

"Rhaegar," he said with a faint smile. "Will you not greet your father?"

Hiccup flinched at the unexpected words, then carefully set aside the bread he had been holding in his hands and slowly rose from his seat. He tried to speak calmly.

"Good morning, father," he said quietly but firmly.

Aerys smiled approvingly. His purple eyes gleamed for a brief moment.

"Good. I am glad to see that you remember how my heir should behave," he said, and then sank into a chair beside Rhaella.

Hiccup sat back down and secretly began to study the man he now had to call father. Every movement of Aerys was polished, deliberate, graceful. In his voice there was both benevolence and cold superiority, as though behind his soft words there lurked a constant threat. Everything about him spoke of one who was used to power, to being obeyed—not out of love, but out of fear.

"He is handsome… just like mother," Hiccup thought, studying his features. "But there’s something… frightening about him."

The king began speaking with Rhaella, addressing her as "my wife" with a measure of courtesy and outward warmth, but in his voice there was detachment. It was not the sign of genuine intimacy, but rather a formality, a habitual play before others.

"How did our son spend the night?" he asked, raising a goblet of wine and leaning back in his chair.

"Everything was well," Rhaella replied with a gentle, polite smile. "He was a little thoughtful this morning, but that is only natural for such a clever boy."

Aerys turned his gaze to his son, nodding slightly.

"You are thinking, Rhaegar? That is good. A king must know how to think."

Hiccup barely restrained a sigh, trying not to show either surprise or irritation on his face. He nodded, though inside everything was boiling.

"The king…" he thought. "So now I am also the future ruler of these Seven Kingdoms?"

He watched his new parents, at how they spoke to each other: their phrases were flawlessly polite, but devoid of any warmth of closeness. It was more an exchange of formalities than the talk of husband and wife.

"This feels more like a dialogue between two strangers than between spouses," he thought, keeping his expression neutral.

And yet, he could not help but note how much they resembled one another. Silver hair, violet eyes, refined features—as if their faces had been carved from the same noble stone.

"They are beautiful," he mused, "but they are too similar. It’s… strange. There’s something unsettling, unnatural about it. As if it wasn’t coincidence, but by design."

He felt like a spectator, watching a stage play in which all the roles had long been assigned. Everything around him felt alien. He wanted to ask: what is this world, why is he here, how did he come to be in the body of a child?—but he knew that such words, spoken from the mouth of a three-year-old boy, would provoke suspicion or ridicule.

"I must be careful," he decided. "If I am this Rhaegar now, then I must behave as they expect of me."

Inside, however, fear and confusion built up. He felt trapped in a foreign body, in a foreign palace, among people who saw in him someone else. He ate, but his thoughts circled around one thing: who was he now, and what awaited him next?

The room was filled with a strange silence. From time to time it was broken only by short, polite remarks between Rhaella and Aerys.

"You look deep in thought, my son," the king suddenly said, lifting his eyes briefly from his goblet of wine. His purple gaze fixed on Hiccup, studying him, as though trying to see inside.

"I am just thinking, father," Hiccup replied calmly, forcing a strained smile, trying not to betray his unease.

He looked again at his parents’ faces. Their features were like reflections in a mirror: silver hair, eyes in shades of violet, noble faces—too perfect, too symmetrical.

"Why are they so alike?" he wondered. And just as the thought grew stronger, Aerys turned to Rhaella.

"Sister-wife, hand me an apple," he said, pointing to a dish of red fruit.

Hiccup froze. He was sure he had misheard. Sister-wife? He quickly lifted his gaze to his mother. She, as if nothing unusual had been said, calmly took the apple and handed it to her husband. Not the slightest reaction.

"What?.. " slipped from him before he could restrain himself.

Both parents turned toward him at once.

"What is it, my son?" the king asked calmly, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Father, you called mother… sister-wife?" Hiccup clarified, feeling something tighten inside. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to hear the answer, but he couldn’t stay silent.

"Yes, that’s right," Aerys said, leaning back in his chair. His voice carried no sense of strangeness. "Your mother is my sister. We are both Targaryens. The blood of the dragon runs in us."

He took another sip of wine and continued with the same cold calmness:

"In our house, in House Targaryen, we have always preserved the purity of our blood. We are not like the others. We are the legacy of Old Valyria, the descendants of Dragons. To preserve the strength of our blood, we marry brothers and sisters. It has always been so."

Rhaella smiled slightly and nodded, affirming his words.

"It has been our tradition since the days of Old Valyria, Rhaegar," she added. "This is what Aegon the Conqueror did, and what his heirs have done. This is our way."

Hiccup said nothing. He only sat there, staring at his parents, while a single thought rang in his mind:

"This is madness…"

He listened in silence, but with every word his confusion grew into shock. He felt sweat on his palms, and a ringing began in his head. His mind refused to process what he was hearing. Everything about it seemed impossible, absurd.

"Brother and sister?" he thought. "They are real brother and sister? Is this… normal? Is this even allowed?"

He tried to distract himself and picked up a piece of bread from the table, but his fingers shook, and the food tasted like wood in his mouth.

"So… you… are brother and sister?" he forced out, looking from Aerys to Rhaella.

"Yes," Aerys answered calmly, a faint, almost arrogant smile curving his lips. "Exactly so. And this is our pride, Rhaegar. We are the blood of the dragon. And it must remain pure."

The words were spoken with conviction, with pride, as though they spoke of some great deed. But inside Hiccup everything recoiled. He felt nothing but revulsion.

"This… is wrong," he whispered, not realizing he had spoken aloud.

Rhaella instantly turned toward him, her eyes widening, her voice cautious:

"What did you say, my son?" she asked, carefully studying his face.

But Hiccup had no chance to answer. His stomach twisted painfully, and the next moment he vomited right onto the floor, at the very edge of the table. The room froze.

Rhaella leapt up, her face filled with worry and fear. Ser Barristan stepped forward sharply, ready to approach if needed.

"Rhaegar! Are you all right?!" Rhaella cried, rushing to her son. "Someone, call the maester! At once!"

Aerys also rose from his place. His gaze grew colder, his eyes narrowing. He said nothing, but when he reached his son, he lifted him into his arms. His movements were quick, but not rough.

Hiccup, trembling, looked up at his father. His face was pale, his lips quivering.

"I’m sorry…" he murmured, his voice weak, barely audible.

Rhaella knelt beside him, embracing his shoulders.

"You must have overeaten or not slept well," she said softly, trying to soothe him. "Let’s take you back to your room. Everything will be fine."

While his mother gave orders to the servants and summoned knights to clean the mess, Hiccup still could not escape his thoughts. Inside him a storm raged.

"This is not normal! This goes against everything I was taught, everything I believed. Brother and sister? They call it pride? Their custom!? Their tradition!?"

He could barely breathe. His mind refused to accept how such a thing could be justified. He looked at Aerys—now he knew his name—and could not understand how a man could speak of this with such calm, as though it were something exalted, sacred.

"But it’s not! It’s… perversion!"

For a moment his mind painted a revolting, horrifying image—if Ruffnut and Tuffnut had been in such a situation… at the very thought he felt sick again, and he vomited a second time.

When he was finally carried back to his room, he felt worse than at the very moment of awakening in this body. He was lost. Completely. His old world was gone, and the new one was alien, frightening, and twisted.

He sat in bed, staring at his trembling hands.

"If this is their pride… if this is the foundation of their culture… then what am I? What does this make of me? I am their son. I was born of this… this union. I am part of this world. Oh gods, why do you always do this to me?"

And in that moment he realized that living in this world would be far more difficult than he had imagined. If, of course, he survived at all.

The servants watched him quietly and carefully, helping him with everything and gently asking if he needed anything. Beside him on the edge of the bed sat his mother—Rhaella. She had hardly left him since he had been brought back from the hall. Inside, he still felt weak and slightly dizzy. The words "sister-wife" still echoed in his mind, making every new thought crash against them like a wall.

Every time he lifted his eyes to her, something inside tightened. Rhaella sat nearby, worried, asking questions—was his chest hurting, did his stomach ache, was he cold. Her fingers brushed his face, and strangely, the touch brought relief. In it was genuine affection. Warmth. Care.

For a moment the face of his real mother—Valka—flashed before his eyes. He remembered how she had stroked his cheek that day when they had spent the entire day flying on dragons together. Then he had forgiven her everything: twenty years of absence, fears, mistakes. He understood that he could not judge mothers. Neither the one who had given birth and left, nor the one who cared for him now, even if that care was shrouded in the darkness of a foreign world.

He was about to close his eyes and rest for a while when suddenly the door creaked, and into the room stepped an elderly man. His steps were heavy, deliberate. He was stout, with a thick gray beard, his face lined with wrinkles, and his neck adorned with many links of chain.

The old man wore a heavy, overly wide robe of gray. His face, with its hooked nose and watery eyes, betrayed his age, and in his gaze there was a sly watchfulness. White hair circled his head like a crown, and his beard was neatly combed. Despite his weariness, he carried himself with confidence—as one long accustomed to his role.

"Your Highness," he said in a hoarse, drawn-out voice. "The servants reported that the prince was unwell. I came to see if he is all right."

Rhaella nodded without rising from her seat. Hiccup slowly sat on the edge of the bed, feeling his palms tremble. He looked at the maester and, despite the old man’s strange appearance, decided to speak plainly.

"I vomited at breakfast," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Because I learned… that…"

"Ah," the maester drawled, settling into a chair opposite him, raising his brows slightly. "And what revelation could be so astonishing, my little prince?"

Hiccup hesitated, but then decided.

"I learned that my parents… are brother and sister."

For a moment, silence fell across the room. Rhaella, the servants, and even the maester froze. Only after a few seconds did the old man smirk, and something sly glimmered in his eyes.

"And that shook you so badly?"

"Doesn’t it disturb you at all?!" Hiccup burst out, his voice rising with anger and shock. "You’re a grown man! This isn’t normal!"

Maester Pycelle shrugged, maintaining his air of calm irony.

"Your Highness, you are a Targaryen. For your house, such a thing is not only accepted but expected. It is an ancient tradition reaching back to the days of Old Valyria. It is part of your history, your legacy."

Hiccup frowned, his eyes dark with tension.

"You truly think this is normal? Brother and sister… together? That’s disgusting!" His voice cracked into a shout.

Pycelle leaned forward slightly, now looking at the boy with a hint of surprise, as if he had not expected such a sharp reaction.

"Norms, my prince," he said, still calm, "always depend on time, place, and custom. For House Targaryen, this is no whim, but a necessity. You are not an ordinary man. You are the blood of the Dragon. And so that blood must be preserved."

Hiccup shook his head. His fists clenched.

"In my world…" he began, then stopped short. He realized he had said too much.

"Your world?" Pycelle repeated, raising his brows slightly.

"I meant to say… it seems strange to me," he corrected quickly, lowering his eyes.

The old man smirked again, this time indulgently. His voice softened but took on a slightly patronizing tone.

"You are young, my prince. Youth always seeks sharp boundaries, dividing the world into good and evil, right and wrong. But in time, you will come to understand much."

Hiccup stayed silent. Maester Pycelle, seeing that the prince did not wish to continue, slowly rose, adjusting the chain on his chest.

"The prince is well, my queen," he said, turning to Rhaella. "If you need anything else—just call, as always."

Rhaella nodded without rising.

"Thank you, Maester Pycelle," she answered politely.

The old man inclined his head and made for the door, but paused briefly at the threshold, glancing back.

"My queen," he added with a slight bow, "the prince sees the world differently. Perhaps it is a sign of early maturity. And that… is quite remarkable."

With these words he departed, and the door closed behind him. The room once again fell into silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft footsteps of the servants still tidying up. Hiccup remained on the bed, with his mother beside him, sitting just as calmly.

But inside he could not rid himself of the disgust at what he had just heard.

"Blood of the dragon…" he thought with detached anger. "To them it sounds like an excuse. As though ancient words could erase the reality of what is happening. And what does it even mean—‘blood of the dragon’? Why do they use it as if it were something sacred?"

He averted his eyes, unable to look at his mother, despite her gentleness and care. Rhaella, noticing his silence, decided to shift the atmosphere.

"Rhaegar, would you like me to read to you, my son?" she asked softly, pulling a few books from the chest at the foot of the bed.

Hiccup hesitated, then slowly nodded. Maybe through the books he could learn at least something about this place, about its people and their world.

"Yes, mother," he answered quietly.

"Good," she said with a nod, flipping through the pages. "What would you like me to read about?"

"About this place," he answered, trying to speak firmly. "About the Seven Kingdoms. I want to know what these kingdoms are."

Rhaella smiled, her eyes gleaming with joy at her son’s curiosity.

"Wonderful," she said approvingly. "That is a good beginning. I will tell you everything I know."

And she opened one of the books, laying it carefully across her lap. Hiccup leaned back against the pillows and prepared to listen. Maybe in these pages he would find answers. Or at least begin to understand where fate had cast him.

Rhaella nodded and gently spread the book open, beginning to read aloud. Her voice was soft, calm, like a lullaby in the morning stillness. She read about the history of Westeros—the continent where they lived. Once it had been divided into seven independent kingdoms: the North, the Vale of Arryn, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the Reach, Dorne, and the Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers. Each of these kingdoms had its own dynasty, its own rulers, its own culture and ancient history.

She spoke in turn about each of these places, about the great houses that ruled there, about wars, alliances, marriages, and downfalls. About legendary kings and queens whose names were still remembered. About how these lands lived before the coming of one man—Aegon Targaryen, later called the Conqueror.

Hiccup listened intently, trying not to miss a single word. For the first time since his arrival he felt that he was gaining true knowledge about this world. Everything his mother said, he tried to memorize—every detail, every name, every date. But one thought would not leave him. He grew pensive again, and when she paused briefly to turn a page, he asked:

"Mother, why do they call me prince of the Seven Kingdoms if I’m not a Stark, not an Arryn, not a Lannister, and not a Gardener?"

Rhaella looked at him with a slight smile, as though she had expected such a question.

"Because, my son, we are the descendants of Aegon the Conqueror," she explained. "He and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, conquered all these seven kingdoms and founded a new dynasty ruling over all the Seven Kingdoms."

The very sound of the words "sister-wives" made Hiccup uneasy. Even hours after the shocking revelation, that tradition still stirred a deep disgust in him.

"Sister-wives?" he thought with revulsion. "How wretched and twisted must you be to sleep with two of your own sisters? That’s beyond comprehension. And yet they honor him as a hero?"

But despite this, he couldn’t stop himself from asking another question. Curiosity overcame revulsion.

"And how… how did he manage to conquer all these lands? Did he have a huge army?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. In that moment he spoke like a child—captivated and sincerely curious.

Rhaella set the book aside with a smile and looked at him with pride.

"Of course I’ll tell you, my boy," she answered. "Aegon did not have a large army. But he had what no one else possessed—dragons."

Hiccup’s dark indigo eyes widened sharply. For a moment his heart stopped. He stared at his mother.

"Dragons?!" 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

By the age of six, Hiccup's life, now known as Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, had settled into a certain rhythm. Every day began the same way: he would wake at dawn in his spacious and luxurious chambers overlooking the Blackwater Bay, in a room decorated with royal luxury: carved furniture, mosaic floors, tapestries on the walls topped with the crests of his house.

He washed himself without the help of servants, using cold water that had been brought to them beforehand. He combed his long gray hair himself, strand by strand, with a comb left on the table. He also dressed himself, despite the fact that servants were always ready to help. Rhaegar did not like to be touched unless it was truly necessary.

Afterwards, he would go to the hall to have breakfast with his mother, Queen Rhaella. Their conversations at the table were short, mostly about the weather, etiquette, and courtly manners. Sometimes his mother would try to speak to him kindly, as if he were a child, but he had not felt like one for a long time. Immediately after breakfast, he would go to the library, where his daily lessons with Maester Pycelle and Septa Marlena awaited him.

However, these lessons rarely went according to plan. No matter how hard the maester tried to interest the boy – with new scrolls, riddles, even rare manuscripts – it was all in vain. Prince Rhaegar was a real test: uncontrollable, stubborn, lost in his thoughts, his thoughts constantly wandering somewhere far away, as if he was not in this castle, but far beyond the mountains.

Instead of writing down his lessons, he drew constantly. Dragons, maps of unknown lands, strange machines and faces of people no one had ever seen appeared on the margins of the parchments. He wrote down his thoughts, sketched something and only occasionally, when asked, did he raise his eyes. And when at the age of three he first picked up a book, Maester Pycelle naively believed that he saw before him a future scholar, a diligent and attentive student. He had never been so wrong.

The heir to the Iron Throne had no interest in dynastic marriages, genealogical charts, or the intricacies of royal decrees. He was bored by law lessons, lectures on house politics, and recountings of his ancestors' conquests. He made no secret of his attitude, and openly yawned during lectures on House Velaryon, the laws of succession, or the salt and silver tax treaties.

“My prince, you must understand that all of this is of the utmost importance to your future,” Maester Pycelle repeated more than once, adjusting his glasses and frowning whenever he noticed Rhaegar drawing dragons in his notebook instead of taking notes.

One day, unable to bear it any longer, the boy suddenly raised his head from the table and answered:

"What about the future of the city beyond these walls?" he asked, seriously and unexpectedly sharply. "While I sit here and listen to ancient decrees, the people below live in poverty, sleep on the ground, and don't know what they'll eat. Why shouldn't I learn something that might actually help them?"

Pycelle was taken aback, not expecting such directness. He shook his head, finding the boy odd, too brash for his age. But even he had to admit: Rhaegar had a keen mind, and his words often contained meanings that adults simply did not want to hear.

After school, Rhaegar often went out into the courtyard of the Red Keep. The spacious inner garden, surrounded by high stone walls, was one of the few places where he felt relatively free. Here he could breathe fresh air, look at the sky, or simply sit in the shade of the trees. But even there, he was rarely truly alone.

The courtiers almost always watched him, although they tried to do it unnoticed. Glances behind his back, whispers in the corners of the courtyard, rare but caustic remarks - all this became part of his daily life.

Some servants and young knights noted with surprise and even admiration how independent and wise he was beyond his years. He did not allow servants to dress him, taught himself how to handle paper, ink and tools, and managed simple everyday tasks on his own. For many, he was a symbol of discipline and hard work. However, most people around him saw his behavior not as strength, but as weakness.

"This boy has no place as a prince, much less a king," whispered the soldiers in the king's retinue. "He would be better off in a maester's tower or a sept than on a throne."

"What kind of ruler will he be?" smirked one of the high-ranking knights. "I saw him sewing a doll. Imagine - a prince with a needle and thread! I asked him why, and he said that one of the servant's daughters was upset because she did not have a dragon doll like his. So he decided to sew her a new one - bigger and more beautiful. With his own hands!"

"Yes, and he draws all the time," added another. "Maps, dragons, some kind of thing... Maybe he thinks he can make a living from this? We need a warrior, not an artist in a robe!"

Their laughter was loud and cruel. They did not understand, did not want to understand. In their eyes, the heir must be stern, strong, fearless - a warrior with a sword, and not a child who talks to commoners, sews toys and dreams of a just world.

The lords and ladies, in turn, watched the boy's behavior with alarm and bewilderment. Their conversations were more restrained, but no less sarcastic.

"He spends his time with the children of commoners instead of studying politics and court life," they whisper at the evening feasts. "And that strange title... 'Wild Dragon'. Is that what a future king should be called?"

"He's ignoring his role, breaking with tradition," others quietly added. "And sewing dolls for the maids is too much. It's simply humiliating for his position. What kind of mother would allow that?"

Rhaegar knew what was being said about him. Sometimes he overheard, sometimes he heard whispers behind his back. But he kept silent. He did not seek approval from those who considered kindness a weakness. He continued to do what he believed was right: to paint, to think, to learn on his own, and to help those who had neither strength nor voice.

He didn't want to be the king his courtiers imagined. He dreamed of becoming a different king - one who would be respected not out of fear, but out of love.

But the children of the city truly loved Rhaegar. Unlike most of the nobles, he never acted arrogantly, as the prince expected. He did not shun the commoners or consider himself above them by birthright. Instead, he played with the street children, ran through puddles with them, swam in the Frog Pond – a shallow lake on the outskirts of the city – and told them stories and tales of distant lands and dragons. If he saw someone in trouble, he always tried to help.

Over time, he became known as "Aegon the Incredible reborn" - after his great-grandfather, Aegon V Targaryen, who was beloved by his people for his simplicity and kindness. Of all his ancestors, it was Aegon V who earned Rhaegar's true respect. He often read about him, admiring his desire to be a king for everyone, not just the nobility.

One day, Rhaegar witnessed a boy attempting to steal a piece of bread from the kitchen table in the courtyard of the castle. One of the guards spotted him and grabbed him roughly, shouting threats. The people around shook their heads, expecting the prince to order the thief to be punished. But Rhaegar stopped the guard and stepped forward, placing himself between the boy and the man.

"He's hungry, not a thief!" he said loudly, looking the guard straight in the eye. "Feed him. And give him something to take with him. If you touch a hungry child again, I'll call Ser Barristan myself!"

His voice was firm and confident. Those who heard his words could not hide their surprise. But many, especially the servants and common people, were amazed and inspired by his action. A prince protecting a street urchin – such a thing rarely happened even in legends.

In general, Rhaegar was kind and considerate to all children, no matter their background. He treated everyone equally, be they the children of washerwomen, servants, street vendors, or the sons and daughters of lords and knights. But it was the simple children, without titles or privileges, that he was truly close to. He felt a special connection with them. Perhaps it was because he had held a high position in his past life, but he did not remember ever looking down on anyone. More likely, it was because he had grown up among the Vikings, in a society where everyone had a voice and a choice, regardless of rank or background.

But Westeros was different. Here, the common people had no power, no freedom, no right to be heard. And Rhaegar, seeing this, could not remain indifferent.

One day, because of his low grades and obvious unwillingness to learn, the adults decided to teach Rhaegar a cruel lesson. They brought a boy his own age to the castle – a farmer’s son – and made him their “whipping boy.” The idea was simple and barbaric: if the prince disobeyed, let him see others suffer because of his mistakes.

Rhaegar watched as the unfortunate boy was brutally beaten. One of the guards, angry and clearly drunk, lost his rage and lashed the child with a metal chain. The sharp blows were accompanied by cries of pain, and the boy's face was distorted with fear and pain. The prince screamed for him to stop, but his voice was ignored.

Rhaegar could not bear it any longer. He rushed forward, grabbed the boy by the shoulders and tore him from the executioner's hands. Shielding him with his body, he screamed at the top of his voice, calling for Ser Barristan. He arrived sooner than expected and, approaching with a grim expression, "politely" but very firmly ordered all present to leave the prince and the victim alone immediately.

Together they managed to calm the boy down, take him to the maester, treat his wounds, feed him, give him something to drink, and put him to bed. The poor fellow, as it turned out later, had broken ribs and numerous bruises. Rhaegar did not leave him until evening.

The day was drawing to an end, but the prince's anger did not subside. He could not forgive what he had seen. At night, after waiting for the footsteps in the castle to fade, he made his way to the armory. There, among the armor and swords, he found a crossbow and arrows. Too small to carry a sword, he chose a weapon he could wield.

The next day, when the man who had beaten the boy returned to the castle with some knight whose name Rhaegar did not even bother to remember, he was already waiting. In the room they entered, the prince stood with a loaded crossbow in his hand. He held the weapon confidently, as if he had been preparing for this moment all his life. The arrow was ready.

When the door opened and the man who had beaten the boy entered, he froze. An enraged six-year-old prince stood before him, a weapon in his hand and an icy gaze. Without waiting for an excuse, Rhaegar pulled the trigger. The first bolt hit him square in the groin. The next three hit even lower. After the fourth shot, the man collapsed to the floor, screaming in pain.

Rhaegar said nothing. He walked out silently, leaving the bleeding man in the room under the watchful eye of the Kingsguard he had summoned. The guards already knew what to do.

After this incident, much changed in the castle. Everyone understood that Rhaegar could not be broken by force. He could not be broken by threats or fear. Even then, he became a mystery and a source of concern for many. But also an object of respect.

His mother, hearing what had happened, was furious. She shouted at her son, calling him reckless, stubborn, even cruel. But later, after hearing the whole story and seeing that the boy had acted on principle, not on a whim, she softened. There was still concern in her eyes, but pride had joined in.

Ser Barristan and the other members of the Kingsguard, those who truly knew the value of honor and justice, treated Rhaegar's actions with respect. It may have been illegal, but it was certainly fair.

From that moment on, Maester Pycelle and the Septa stopped pressuring the boy. Now, before starting lessons, they would first ask:

"Do you want to study today, my prince?"

If he refused, he was left to his own devices. No one tried to suppress his will any more. And when the story reached the king, he, contrary to expectations, burst into laughter.

"Now that's a Targaryen," he said, wiping away tears of laughter. "A real dragon. No wonder they call him the Wild One. My son has taken his first life," he said, calming down. "At six years old! That's... more than I expected. He deserves a feast!"

The very next day, a banquet was held in the castle. Officially, it was in honor of the harvest festival, but everyone knew that the real reason was different. The tables were laden with food, the wine flowed like a river, musicians played, and jesters acted out a scene where “the little prince with a crossbow punishes the big stupid guard.” The guests laughed, and even the grumbling lords could not hide their joy.

But Rhaegar felt uneasy at the feast. He was not proud of killing a man, even if he deserved it. He remembered the boy's screams, the tears and fear. And though he felt no regret, something inside him twisted. He did not want the killing to become an excuse for dancing.

Chapter Text

(Беззубик и Рейегар (Иккинг))

The Chamber of the Small Council in the Red Keep was filled with soft morning light streaming through tall glass windows. These windows had been installed in the first months of the new king’s reign, when Aerys II Targaryen still strove to leave behind a trace of renewal and power. The light played in reflections on the polished surface of the long table of black wood, around which the members of the council had gathered in full.

At the head of the table, in a carved chair with high armrests, sat the king himself. His face shone with satisfaction, and in his eyes burned the fire of excitement and pride. His silver hair was neatly arranged, and the purple robe with a dragon embroidered on the chest looked especially festive—he wanted this day to be remembered.

Present in the chamber were: Grand Maester Pycelle, gray-haired and ponderous; the king’s Hand, Tywin Lannister, motionless and silent as a statue; the master of coin, the master of whispers, the master of laws, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—Ser Gerold Hightower, majestic and upright, as always.

Aerys impatiently tapped his long fingers on the table. At last, he rose, lifted his chin, and addressed all assembled with a solemn expression.

“My friends,” he began, squaring his shoulders. “A great day has come. The dragons have returned to our world. The sign of the ancient flame has ignited once more! This is proof that the Targaryens will rise above all houses again, that our blood is strong, and that the will of the gods is on our side!”

He paused, savoring the attention and the sound of his own voice.

“This is the glory of my house. This is the glory of my reign. It is I—Aerys, Lord of Dragons—who has returned the former greatness to our line!”

“Accept my deepest congratulations, Your Grace,” Pycelle said with exaggerated respect, inclining his head slightly. “I am certain all of Westeros will take this as a clear sign of your uniqueness. Allow me to propose a title worthy of this age: Aerys—Father of Dragons.”

Some of those present nodded approvingly. A few lords even exchanged animated glances. In the air lingered a mixture of submissive agreement and feigned devotion.

But Tywin Lannister, sitting closest to the king, did not stir. His face remained inscrutable, and his hands lay calmly on the table. He did not utter a word, but in his eyes flickered a restrained mockery.

He knew the truth. The return of the dragon was not the king’s doing, but his son’s—Prince Rhaegar. The boy, whose mind, courage, and delicate soul had from the very beginning stirred in Tywin genuine interest. The more he observed Rhaegar, the more he understood that this child was not merely an heir—he could become the one who would change the fate of all Westeros. And if ever this prince ascended the Iron Throne, the world as it was known would no longer remain the same.

But what shape the new order would take—Tywin could not yet foresee. He felt that within the boy’s soul burned something dangerous and at the same time noble. That was why Lannister did not simply watch the young Targaryen—he sought to win his trust. He needed to be near him, to become, if not an advisor, then at least a shadow beside this possible future king.

Silently, he watched the king exalting himself, and the other lords feeding this illusion. But in his thoughts, planning had already begun. Tywin knew that the future belonged not to the one who shouted loudest of glory, but to the one who understood where true power came from. And that power was not on the throne.

“We must celebrate this event,” Aerys declared with enthusiasm in his voice. His tone grew louder, filled with joy, excitement, and a sense of self-importance. “No, not simply celebrate…” He rose from his chair, stretching his arm forward. “We shall hold the greatest festival Westeros has ever known! A feast that will outshine all before it! A tourney that will gather the finest knights of the Seven Kingdoms, both noble-born and landed! And a ball, where every great and lesser lord, every lady and warrior, shall bear witness to the glory of our house!”

The king’s words echoed off the chamber walls, filling it with a sound that seemed to belong not to a man, but to something greater. Yet behind the grandeur of these speeches, not all could hide their unease.

The members of the Small Council exchanged glances. Tywin Lannister, seated to the king’s right, maintained an impeccably reserved expression, but his eyes grew colder. He already knew where such whims would lead—especially at a time when the royal treasury was strained to breaking.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle cautiously began, leaning slightly forward, “undoubtedly, this event deserves celebration. The return of the dragon is a phenomenon not seen in centuries. However… such a grand festival, a tourney, a ball, the summoning of all lords—all this will bring enormous expense to the treasury. Would it not be wiser…”

“Indeed,” the master of coin supported him, “even one tourney costs a fortune, and if you add a feast and a ball…”

Aerys waved his hand irritably, cutting them both off. His eyes flashed with annoyance.

“Money?” he said with contempt. “You speak to me of money on the day a dragon has returned? This is more than a celebration. This is history. This is the dawn of a new era. We are bound to demonstrate our strength—not only to Westeros, but to the whole known world.”

He took a step forward, toward the windows through which sunlight streamed into the chamber, and looked into the distance, as if seeing beyond the horizon the skies where dragons would once more fly.

“I want every lord, from the greatest to the humblest, to receive an invitation. They all must come here, to the Red Keep. Let there be even guests from across the Narrow Sea—merchants, envoys, magisters from the Free Cities. Let them see that the Targaryens are not a forgotten shadow of the past, but the living blood of ancient Valyria.”

Some silence was broken by the voice of the master of whispers. His words were soft, but carried a note of caution:

“And if some do not come? If certain lords ignore the invitation?”

Aerys turned sharply. His gaze carried an obvious dislike for the very possibility of such behavior.

“I summon them not to war, but to a celebration,” he said, lowering his voice but making it all the more dangerous. “This is not a command one may refuse without consequence. It is an honor—to be invited to a great event, the rebirth of the dragon, the symbol of our house’s power. And if anyone dares reject my invitation, then he rejects the king’s will itself.”

The king paused, then continued, louder:

“This will be regarded as an act of defiance. And if even a great lord dares not to appear, he will show the whole realm that he despises my house, my blood, and my reign. I will not tolerate such disrespect. This shall be a Royal Decree. And they will obey—under threat of consequence.”

The councilors nodded, some sincerely, some out of caution. In the king’s words, however mad they sounded, there was a measure of truth. It was indeed something greater than a simple feast. It was a political declaration. A symbol. The first appearance of a dragon in a century. To refuse an invitation meant to call into question the authority of the Iron Throne itself.

Tywin Lannister was still silent. He gave neither word of support nor of condemnation. He merely observed. As always. And drew his conclusions.

“A great feast is not merely amusement,” he thought to himself. “It is a political stage. An opportunity to show who stands closer to the throne. Who wields resources. Who shapes the future.”

He saw a clear prospect before him: in a world where dragons had once again become reality, the influence of House Targaryen was destined to rise to unprecedented heights. But it also meant that those nearest to their power would grow in influence as well. If young Prince Rhaegar truly became the symbol of a new age, then Tywin intended to be at his side—not merely as an ally, but as the one guiding this new era.

“If the dragon becomes the banner of the Targaryen rebirth, then I shall be the one who, from the shadows, directs the wind beneath its wings,” he thought, slowly folding his hands before him.

After long discussions of all the details of the coming celebration, King Aerys II rose from his seat. His movements were majestic, his face inspired and solemn. He slowly swept his gaze over the Small Council, as though about to say something fateful.

“This celebration,” he proclaimed loudly, his voice echoing under the vaults of the chamber, “shall become the symbol of a new beginning! The return of the dragon is not merely a miracle. It is a sign. It is the rebirth of our greatness, confirmation that the blood of dragons still flows in our veins! All of Westeros, every house, every lord and peasant child must see it with their own eyes—see that the Targaryen dynasty is alive and strong!”

He fell silent for a moment, as if to lend weight to his words, then added with sudden gleam in his eyes:

“Perhaps… it is time we renewed our sigil as well. The three-headed dragon was the symbol of the past. It spoke of mighty Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, of what once was. But now we have a new banner for a new age. We must show that our house is not a frozen legend, but a living dynasty. The Night Fury! It shall be the symbol of the future!”

The councilors exchanged glances. Many did not understand what the king meant. Even Pycelle froze, unsure whether to deliver another panegyric. Only Tywin Lannister, sitting slightly aside, allowed himself the faintest raising of an eyebrow. These words he had not expected. Aerys had always treated his house’s sigil with almost religious reverence, at times with greater piety than his own family.

He slowly rose, maintaining a respectful posture and carefully choosing his words.

“Your Grace,” he said in an even voice. “The three-headed dragon has been with your house since its very founding. It is the symbol of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, the symbol of the unification of the Seven Kingdoms. It is not merely a sigil—it is part of the dynasty’s history, its spirit and its legacy.”

Aerys cut him off, stepping forward, eyes burning with fervor and voice brimming with frenzied conviction:

“The Night Fury is the sign of change, Tywin! This dragon appeared from nowhere, despite the death of its kin. It is proof that our blood can summon miracles to life. It is a new cycle, a new life, granted to us to show that we will never vanish. We are the embodiment of power, eternity, and the will to be reborn! Let the whole world see that the Targaryens are not merely rulers, but nearly gods among men! Why should we not reflect this in a new symbol?”

Tywin listened silently to the end. He understood that to argue now was useless. The king was in a state of rapturous inspiration, bordering on frenzy. He inclined his head slightly, offering a diplomatic concession.

“This is your decision, Your Grace,” he said calmly. “A symbol must reflect the spirit of the age. If you deem the time for change has come, then the Small Council will support you.”

One after another the councilors nodded, some sincerely, others merely from habit. Aerys smiled again, pleased that even so radical an idea had met with no open resistance. He felt himself strong, inspired, and—most of all—heard.

From that moment, a new thought hung in the air: perhaps the sigil of the three-headed dragon would indeed give way to another creature.

King Aerys II ordered the greatest celebration in the kingdom’s history in honor of the dragon’s return. Preparations began immediately after the session of the Small Council. A three-week festival was planned, to include a feast, a tourney, a ball, and other entertainments.

The celebration was to be held in King’s Landing. The tourney would take place outside the city, on a new tournament field built to host thousands of guests. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was chosen as the site for the royal feast and the ball.

The festive decorations of the city included:
Banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen adorning the streets. The sigil itself would be altered in honor of the reborn dragon. Instead of the red three-headed dragon on a black field, there would be depicted a red Night Fury (for Aerys thus named Toothless without asking his son the dragon’s true name). This was to signify a new beginning for the dynasty.

The installation of enormous dragon statues at the entrances to the city.
The decoration of the Kingsroad with flowers and torches.

The tournament became the central event of the celebration, intended to display the power and skill of the knights of Westeros. The tournament program included:

• Jousting — knights competed for the title of the best fighter.

• Weapon contests at the discretion of the warriors themselves — both individual and group combat.

• Archery contest — to demonstrate accuracy.

The victor of the jousting received 60,000 gold dragons, as well as a rare Valyrian steel sword forged by the king’s command.
The best swordsman and the best archer each received 50,000 gold dragons.
Winners in all categories were granted the title “Defender of the Dragon.” And possibly would be accepted into service for the protection of the prince and his dragon—until the dragon grew older.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was adorned with images of dragons and scenes from the history of House Targaryen. At the feast were presented: exotic dishes from across the Narrow Sea and the Summer Islands, dishes of game, a suckling pig baked in honey, pies with golden fruits, and a giant dragon-shaped pie filled with other sweets.

The king invited the finest actors of Westeros and Braavos for performances. A Braavosi troupe was to present a play about the rise of Valyria. Minstrels from Oldtown would sing songs of dragons and the history of the Targaryens. Jesters and acrobats from Dorne would entertain the guests with their skills.

The Ball in the Great Hall
The final day of the celebration would conclude with a ball, at which the king would proclaim the torch dance as the symbol of the Targaryen rebirth.

The king and the Hand intended to use the celebration as a way to strengthen the loyalty of the great houses. Lords and ladies would be given the chance to see the dragon with their own eyes, which was to become the symbol of the crown’s might. Invited guests from across the Narrow Sea, including merchants from Braavos and Pentos, could contribute to the development of trade relations.

At the celebration, the king planned to announce tax relief for lords who supported the crown, and increased tariffs for those who traded without the involvement of the royal treasury.

Economic Gains and Losses

• Gains: Influx of guests and merchants. King’s Landing would receive enormous revenue from trade, lodging, and the sale of goods to visitors. Taxes would rise, as would prices for inns, brothels, and taverns, which would significantly aid the royal treasury. Local craftsmen and merchants would profit from the celebration.

• Political Influence: Loyalty of lords and fear of the crown would intensify, especially once they saw the dragon.

• Trade with foreign powers: Diplomatic negotiations with Braavos, Pentos, and other Free Cities would allow the forging of profitable trade agreements.

By Aerys’ order, a separate celebration for the common folk would be organized in King’s Landing:

• Free food: bread, meat, and wine for the townsfolk.

• Street performances: actors and minstrels would entertain the crowd, telling tales of Targaryen glory and great deeds so that the people would think of them as gods.

For King Aerys, this celebration was a chance to proclaim the rebirth of Targaryen greatness. For the lords, it was an opportunity to strengthen their positions at court, and for the people of King’s Landing—a rare spectacle to be remembered for centuries.

But for the dragon himself and his rider, the celebration meant nothing. They were simply happy to be reunited.

Hiccup had waited for his friend for nearly three years, while Toothless had longed for the reunion for a full 1,235 years. And at last, it had come. He was indescribably happy. Toothless did not leave his friend for a single moment and stayed with him everywhere, doing all he could. He licked his friend’s face and other parts of his body out of joy, leapt on him to be carried in his arms, endlessly drew, ate from his hands, and slept pressed against him, sniffing his slobbered face.

After showing Toothless to the entire court, Rhaegar returned to his room, pressing the small dragon to his chest. Toothless, feeling safe, purred softly, wrapping his tail and wings around his rider’s body like a cat, and looked around with his indigo eyes.

The Red Keep was overly crowded: lords and ladies, each of them trying to speak with the prince and see the dragon. But the loyal protector of both prince and dragon, Ser Barristan, walked at his prince’s side, driving away anyone who tried to approach. Toothless, watching this great warrior, understood that his role was to serve his rider by protecting him from all dangers. In the Throne Room, he had defended him from another bad warrior in iron armor, so Ser Barristan had earned the dragon’s trust.

And this woman in a beautiful gown was his Hiccup’s new mother. Her name was Rhaella Targaryen. The first thing Toothless understood, looking at her, was that she was not Valka and not Astrid.

At first, Toothless did not even recognize Hiccup. He looked completely different from their last meeting. This boy holding him lovingly in his arms looked nothing like before. His legs were whole, a man had become a child, chestnut hair had turned light, green forest eyes had become violet gemstones. He was bewildered and did not want to draw close to this unique-looking boy. But after this child made a gesture of trust and called him by name, introducing himself with a name Toothless had never forgotten, he knew him. Toothless had never been so happy in his life. And now he swore never to be parted from Hiccup again.

As for his name—here they did not call him Hiccup, but Rhaegar Targaryen. Perhaps in this new life, after their deaths, they had not gone to the heavens of Valhalla but somewhere else. Toothless did not see a problem in that. He was glad and ready to explore this world with his brother as in their youth. But now he had one demand—Toothless wanted to die together with him, for it was too painful and too long to wait for his own death.

They returned to the room. Rhaella sat down in a chair, gently watching her son and Toothless, Ser Barristan Selmy stood guard nearby, and two more Kingsguard kept watch at the door. Servants and nurses bustled about, carrying out the prince’s every command.

Rhaegar, feeling responsibility for his friend, lifted his head.
“Bring fresh fish,” he ordered. “Preferably freshly caught at sea by fishermen. Dragons do not eat carrion.”

One of the maids, bowing quickly, rushed to fulfill his command. She soon told other kitchen servants what had happened, they passed the word to fishermen and food sellers, and soon the news spread across the entire capital.

An hour later, servants brought a tray full of fresh fish. Rhaegar wanted to set it before Toothless himself, but he was too weak to hold such weight. So the task fell to a maid whose daughter he had once sewn a Toothless doll for.

“Please enjoy, lord dragon,” the maid said respectfully to Toothless, and in reward received a smile and a purr from the dragon.

“Eat, brother,” Rhaegar said, gently stroking the dragon’s head.

Toothless, first sniffing the fish cautiously, opened his toothless jaws and snapped up a large fish. His jaws clenched, and suddenly small sharp black teeth sprouted from his gums. With one motion he tore the fish apart and quickly swallowed the pieces.

“Amazing,” whispered Rhaella, watching the dragon.

Barristan, folding his arms across his chest, smiled.
“He is clever, kind, a brave protector. Just like his master.”

Rhaegar smiled, watching his friend devour the fish with delight. Rhaella leaned toward her son, gently embracing his shoulders.
“You will be a great man, my boy. House Targaryen will be strong again because of you.”

Barristan nodded, looking at the boy with respect.
“Your Highness, already you show what a true Targaryen must be. Brave, wise, caring, and of course a dragonrider.”

Rhaegar looked at his mother and Barristan, his face flushing at the praise.
“I only want to make this world better,” he said softly, stroking Toothless.

They stayed in the room feeding Toothless, petting him, scratching his neck and chin, playing chase with him. At one moment they were brought a late breakfast—egg with ham and toasted bread. While they ate, Toothless looked at them and decided to share food his own way. He vomited up a piece of fish as he had on their first day in the cove and offered it to Rhaella.

It was a sign of care and acceptance into the family. And Toothless waited for her to accept his gift.

“Mother, you must take a bite. To refuse a dragon’s gift is impolite,” said Rhaegar.

“Oh no, thank you, Toothless. But I cannot,” she replied, unable to bring herself to put it in her mouth. She could swear she would vomit if she did.

Unfortunately for her, her son was terribly stubborn and sweet at the same time. And the dragon began to whine like a puppy, looking at her with such big, adorable eyes that she could not refuse either of them.

“All right,” she said to herself. “This is not the worst thing I’ve ever done. For my son, I will do it.”

With a heavy sigh she placed the piece of fish in her mouth and swallowed. To her surprise, it was not as disgusting as she had imagined. The children rejoiced, especially Toothless. The sweet dragon began to leap at her, licking her face with his warm tongue. Rhaella thanked him for the “breakfast” and kissed Toothless on the forehead like a small child, then embraced her wonderful son, gifting him a kiss as well. She could swear that at that very moment, the happiest moment of her life was happening in that room.

This pleasant moment was interrupted by a servant who entered the room. He bowed and delivered his message:
“Your Highness, my queen, Ser Barristan, I bring news from the king. His Grace has decided to hold a great celebration in honor of the dragon’s birth.”

Rhaella raised her brows in surprise.
“A celebration?”

“Yes, my lady,” the servant confirmed. “A feast, a tourney, and a ball. His Grace wants this to be the most grand event in history.”

“That was to be expected,” said Ser Barristan. “Such an event must not go uncelebrated.”

Rhaegar frowned. He glanced at Toothless, who, full and well-scratched, was curled up at his feet.
“A celebration… in honor of Toothless?” he asked quietly.

The servant nodded, smiling broadly.
“Such is the king’s command,” he replied. “It must be a great event, so said the king. The entire realm must celebrate this occasion.”

When the servant left, Rhaegar remained thoughtful. He knew his “father” saw in Toothless not a friend, but a symbol of power and pride. And the lords saw in Toothless a weapon to be feared.

“He wants to use him,” Rhaegar said quietly, more to himself.

Rhaella placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Do not forget, my son, that he is your dragon. And only you decide what he will be.”

Rhaegar nodded, but in his heart unease was growing.

“I will never allow him to become a weapon,” he said firmly, looking at his mother and Barristan. “I will protect him. He will not die in some cursed war for meaningless things!”

Toothless, as if sensing his friend’s mood, lifted his head and snorted softly, wrapping his tail around the boy’s legs.

And in that moment, Rhaegar understood that the celebration his father was preparing would become not only a festival of the dragon’s rebirth, but also a trial for their future.

Life for Rhaegar Targaryen after Toothless’s appearance became noticeably more difficult and tense. King Aerys ordered the Kingsguard to guard the prince and his dragon day and night, never leaving them without supervision for even a moment. Now in the Red Keep there was not a single secluded corner where Rhaegar and Toothless could be alone.

At every step they were accompanied by knights, servants, and courtiers. To breathe freely or walk through the yard without watchful eyes became impossible. In the halls and corridors he was met by lords and ladies hurrying to express their admiration. Some flattered him excessively, others tried to gain benefit from his new position.

“Your Highness, you are the true embodiment of the greatness of House Targaryen,” said one lady, bowing her head and folding her hands at her chest. “A true god who has descended to earth.”

“Your dragon is a sign of destiny,” added a middle-aged lord, looking at Toothless with a mixture of fear and respect. “A sign that your dynasty will rule forever.”

Rhaegar listened to them restrainedly and almost always remained silent. He understood that behind their beautiful words hid calculation and the desire to approach power. Toothless, sitting nearby, turned his head from one to another, as if also sensing their hidden intentions.

The children of the nobility proved especially intrusive. They sought to attract the young prince’s attention and tried in every way to befriend him. Most often these attempts came from the daughters of influential lords, clearly pushed forward by their parents.

“Prince, may I pet him?” asked a girl of about fifteen, overly dressed, timidly stretching her hand toward the black dragon.

“Let’s play together!” exclaimed a boy of her age, trying to come closer to Rhaegar.

“And what is your dragon’s name?” another girl asked, her hair gathered high in an ornate crown.

Rhaegar smiled faintly but did not give a direct answer. He felt that this curiosity was less childlike than calculated. Behind the young courtiers lurked their families’ ambitions.

Toothless snorted, bristling, and snapped his jaws slightly, making the children recoil at once. Their faces grew tense, but none dared to leave first.

“It is better to keep a little distance,” Rhaegar said calmly, shifting his gaze from the dragon to the children. “He is not yet accustomed to such attention.”

The prince’s words sounded firm but not harsh. The children exchanged glances, and the adults behind them only nodded, not daring to object.

The sons and heirs of noble lords often tried to draw Rhaegar into their entertainments. They called him to practice with wooden swords, as though hoping to show off their “skill” or win the prince’s favor. One day Rhaegar, so as not to appear rude, agreed. But that time became the first and last he spent with them.

From the very start Rhaegar realized nothing good would come of it. The lordlings behaved arrogantly, as if already heroes from old songs. They boasted loudly of their “deeds,” argued over who would become a great knight, and endlessly spoke of Toothless. In their mouths, the dragon was not a friend but a weapon with which they would together repel foes from across the Narrow Sea or fight the Ironborn.

Rhaegar listened silently, but with each clash of wooden swords his irritation grew. At one point he stopped, threw his sword at the feet of one boy, and said coldly:
“Do you really think your loud words or flattery will make us friends? How mistaken you are. Pathetic braggarts like you will never be my friends.”

The boy paled but tried to keep his dignity. The others froze, waiting to see how it would end.

“If it were my will,” Rhaegar continued firmly, “I would drive you all from the castle. But that is not in my power. So stay, if it must be so. Just keep away from me and my dragon. Now get out of my sight.”

He glanced over them and added with clear irritation:
“And tell your sister not to bother me again. She has already wearied me.”

The young lords lowered their eyes and quickly withdrew, realizing the prince was not inclined to play.

After that incident Rhaegar stopped accepting their invitations altogether. One experience was enough for him to understand he had nothing to expect from those people. He felt tired and irritated by the constant attention, while Toothless was even more annoyed by the young courtiers. The dragon met them with suspicion: hissing, lashing his tail on the ground, spreading his wings to make uninvited guests retreat.

Only a few could approach him without fear: servants bringing food, the Kingsguard, and Rhaella herself. Toothless clearly did not wish to tolerate anyone else nearby.

One evening, when Rhaegar finally managed to steal a little time for himself, he met with Ser Barristan. They sat in the garden of the Red Keep. The air was fresh, and only the rare footsteps of guards broke the silence. Rhaegar rested on a stone bench, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. At his feet, curled up, lay Toothless. The dragon seemed calm, but his indigo eyes watched every movement around them intently.

“They give me no peace,” Rhaegar began after a long pause. His voice sounded irritated and a little weary. “Wherever I go, there is always someone near: knights, courtiers, the children of lords. Everyone wants something from me. Everyone tries to use me for their own gain. And their daughters... it is a nightmare!”

Ser Barristan stood nearby, his head slightly bowed. A faint smile appeared on his face, more like an attempt to calm the prince than true amusement.
“Your Highness,” he said in a calm tone, “this is the inevitable price of your station. You are heir to the crown. There will always be those who seek to win your favor. And the girls… they look upon you not only as a man, but as a future king. Each of them dreams of becoming your wife, a queen, the mother of your children. And now, the wife of a dragonrider.”

Rhaegar frowned, clenching his hands tighter.
“I do not want to be their husband, Ser Barristan,” he said firmly. “I do not like them. I do not want to be chosen for the sake of the throne or for Toothless. All I want… is to be left in peace. I want to be free and to fly with him when he grows.”

The knight was silent for a moment, as if searching for words, then said quietly:
“Freedom is a rare thing, my prince. It is never given easily. But if anyone can claim it, it is you. Your station may be chains, or it may be a key. It depends on how you use it.”

Rhaegar remained silent for a long time, gazing into the dark sky above the gardens. Barristan’s words were simple, but in them was a truth he could not deny.

After supper they were left alone. Rhaegar sat on the edge of his bed, and Toothless settled beside him. The prince reached out and stroked the dragon’s head. Toothless let out a low rumble, like a purr, and pressed into his hand.

“You know, brother,” Rhaegar said quietly, staring into the dark sky beyond the window, “it is too cramped here. These walls press on me, as if I were in a cage.”

Toothless lifted his head and looked at him attentively, as if he understood every word.

“I want to show you the world,” Rhaegar continued. “Across the Narrow Sea there are lands that have never seen dragons. There are mountains higher than the clouds, and deserts where the sun almost never sets. We could fly there. Just you and me. And then we’ll fly further west. We’ll find lands where no man’s foot has stepped and no dragon’s wing has touched.”

The little dragon snorted briefly, swished his tail, and seemed to smile with his toothless mouth.

Rhaegar laughed.
“You want that too, don’t you? To fly a little? Let’s try.”

He carefully lifted Toothless in his arms, stood up, and gently tossed him upward. The dragon spread his wings and made a few weak flaps, managing to fly across the room before dropping heavily back onto the bed.

“You’ll manage,” Rhaegar encouraged him. “A little more, and you’ll be able to fly longer.”

Toothless flapped his wings again, flew a small circle around the room, and landed beside his master. The prince lifted him up and smiled:
“Don’t worry. You’ll grow, and then we’ll fly farther than anyone has ever flown.”

Later, when the dragon settled again at his feet, Rhaegar continued telling him stories.
“Once, in another world, we flew over oceans,” he said thoughtfully. “We saw islands no one knew of. We saved people and dragons. We fought monsters others feared even to name.”

He paused for a moment and looked out the window, where distant stars flickered.
“One day we will do it again, Toothless. We will fly away from here. From this castle, from this city. We will be free.”

Toothless snorted softly, curling up into a ball, as if agreeing with every word.

That evening, despite the high walls of the Red Keep and the endless attention of others, Rhaegar felt a little freer. He had a friend he trusted, and together they dreamed of the day they could soar higher than all.

Today I address you with tidings that shall brighten the hearts of every loyal subject. House Targaryen, once renowned for its dragons, rises again from the ashes. A dragon has spread its wings over the Seven Kingdoms, and this miracle has become reality. Within it lies the ancient magic and the omen of the future. And this has come to pass thanks to your king, whose blood carries the fire and strength of ancient Valyria.

In honor of this event, I, your king—Aerys of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name—proclaim a celebration such as neither we nor our forebears have ever known. Tourneys, balls, feasts—all shall serve not only as the exaltation of the great Targaryen dynasty, but as the symbol of the unity of our lands in joy and triumph.

I invite each of you, loyal servants of the crown, to take part in this great occasion. Your presence shall not only be the sign of your devotion, but also the testimony of the peace we are building together. May this day remain in the memory of your houses for centuries to come.

The Targaryen dynasty has always cherished those moments when the people gathered under the fire of one flame. So now may this celebration bind us as firmly as once Aegon the Conqueror bound the lands into one kingdom.

With fire that shall never die, and with greatness that shall not be forgotten, I await you in the Red Keep. Come, and let the name of your house be forever joined with this historic event.

With flame in the blood and honor,
Aerys II Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

This very letter was sent to every corner of the land—from the great houses to the lesser lords. It reached every castle, every stronghold, and every ruler read it by candlelight, realizing that with the return of the dragon a new age was beginning.

House Stark. Winterfell
In the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell, Rickard Stark sat by the burning hearth, slowly reading the letter delivered from King’s Landing. His face remained calm and restrained, but his gray eyes betrayed deep thought. Beside him stood his wife, Lady Lyarra. Her gaze was soft, yet filled with unease.

“‘Unity, loyalty, and greatness,’” Rickard repeated the words from the letter quietly. “Beautiful speeches, hiding a command.”

Lyarra tilted her head thoughtfully.
“We cannot refuse. This is not an invitation, but a demand.”

Rickard folded the letter, rose, and placed it on the small table beside his chair.
“The North remembers,” he said dryly. “We remember how Aegon the Conqueror came with fire and dragons, and before him Torrhen Stark set aside his crown so as not to doom his people. We know when to bow to preserve life and land. We will go. We will be guests in the Red Keep. And perhaps, we will discuss with the king the matter of building a new Wall.”

Lyarra carefully touched his hand.
“You think he will truly agree to build a new Wall? Perhaps this is the beginning of something greater?”

Rickard was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
“I do not know.”

Lyarra pressed his hand slightly.
“And the dragon? What does its return mean?”

The Northman lifted his eyes to his wife. In them lay grim resolve.
“The return of the dragon is not just a weapon. It is a symbol. If the Targaryens begin once more to look down on everyone as subjects rather than allies, it will be a threat to the North.”

“Then we must be cautious,” Lyarra whispered. “Will you go alone?”

Rickard looked toward the door.
“No. I will take Brandon with me. He must see what the South looks like, and how it shows its might. It will be a lesson for him.”

“And Ned?” she asked softly.
“He is still too young,” Rickard answered. “It is safer for him here.”

Lyarra nodded. Relief and worry mingled in her expression.
“Then let the North remain a silent observer. But let it never forget.”

Rickard looked back at the flames. His thoughts were heavy. A journey south promised no good, but refusal was impossible.
“Winter is coming,” he said quietly. “The only question is—for whom.”

House Arryn. The Eyrie
High in the Eyrie, where cold pierced even through the thick stone walls, Lord Jon Arryn stood by the window with the king’s letter in his hands. The frosty wind slipped through cracks, stirring his gray hair, while his gaze rested on the snow-covered peaks surrounding his castle.

“He writes beautifully,” he said softly, rereading the lines of loyalty and unity. “But behind these words lies the same power. Only now it is backed by the flame of a dragon.”

He laid the letter on the heavy oak table beside a goblet of wine and stroked his beard thoughtfully. For several moments he stood silent, as if arguing with himself, then spoke quietly:
“If the dragon has truly returned, the world will change. We live in an age where change moves faster than snow in these mountains. To close one’s eyes to it is to lose the chance to protect house and people.”

Jon turned to his castellan, standing by the door.
“Prepare an escort. We are going to King’s Landing.”

The man frowned.
“My lord, are you certain? The road is perilous, and in winter nearly deadly.”

“It would be more dangerous to stay aside,” Arryn replied, looking directly at him. “The king must see our loyalty. Even if we must march through snow and cold.”

“As you command, my lord,” the castellan bowed and left.

Jon turned back to the window. His eyes lingered on the distant peaks, white with snow.
“This is not just a show of strength,” he murmured. “The dragons have returned. I wonder what awaits us when they fly once more above our lands?”

His face remained calm, but in his eyes gleamed quiet resolve. He was no longer young, but he understood well: wisdom and caution sometimes meant more than strength. Yet in a world where dragons had returned, caution alone might not suffice.

House Tyrell. Highgarden
In the fragrant gardens of Highgarden, among shaded pavilions and blooming rosebushes, Lady Olenna Tyrell sat with the king’s letter in her hands. Her sharp gaze skimmed the lines, and on her lips played her usual mocking smile. Beside her, in a high-backed chair, sat her husband, Lord Luthor Tyrell. He held a goblet of wine, his calm, balanced expression the perfect opposite of his wife’s mood.

Nearby, young Mace Tyrell swung a wooden sword, pretending to be a knight, battling an imagined foe.

“‘Unity,’ ‘great celebration’… ha,” Olenna snorted, not lifting her eyes from the letter. “The king dearly loves to dress commands in fine words.”

Luthor lifted his gaze from the goblet and said calmly:
“But they are not just words. A dragon has returned. That will be spoken of for centuries. We must be there, to show that Highgarden remains loyal to the crown.”

Olenna smirked, set the letter aside, and looked at her husband.
“Oh, of course, we shall go. We shall always be faithful to the dragon.” Her voice dripped with irony, but her gaze softened. However much she mocked him as a simpleton, she did love Luthor.

At that moment, Mace, hearing the word “dragon,” ran to his mother. His eyes shone with curiosity and excitement.
“Are we going to see the dragon, mother?”

Olenna looked at her son and lowered her voice slightly, as if sharing an important secret.
“Yes, my boy. We are going, and you will see a real dragon. One that breathes fire and flies high in the sky.”

Mace nodded joyfully, barely able to hold on to his sword. His imagination already carried him into sky battles alongside the dragon.

Meanwhile Luthor set aside his goblet and told a servant:
“Order the escort to be prepared. We leave for King’s Landing.”

Olenna, watching her son and husband, silently weighed what was happening. Behind the return of the dragon lay new opportunities and new threats. In her thoughts, a plan was forming with clarity: if dragons had returned, then House Tyrell must move as close to the crown as possible.

Now they had a dragon. And that changed everything. Olenna involuntarily recalled her betrothal to Prince Daeron, and for the first time in years she was glad she had escaped that fate. She had refused in time and saved herself from life at court. But now her thoughts turned another way.

“What if I had borne a son with dragon’s blood?” she wondered. A boy with a dragon in the sky would be more valuable than any marriage pact. But she quickly dismissed the thought. The past was past; now she needed to shape the future.

Her focus shifted ever more toward the crown prince. It was Rhaegar who had a dragon, and that made him special. “I must bring him close to Mace,” she reasoned. “Make sure my son befriends the dragon and the prince himself. Let them grow together from childhood.”

Walking through the long halls of Highgarden, Olenna paused, lost in thought. Slowly her idea became a decision: she would leave Mace in the Red Keep, to be raised beside the heir to the throne. This would open new doors for House Tyrell.

Later, speaking with Luthor, she said firmly:
“We shall send Mace to the Red Keep. He will grow beside Prince Rhaegar. This is not merely children’s friendship, Luthor. This is a bond that could secure our house’s future.”

Luthor frowned, clearly hesitating.
“Are you sure, Olenna? The Red Keep is not Highgarden. There are too many intrigues there.”

Olenna smirked with her familiar smile.
“There are intrigues everywhere. But only in the capital is the fate of the realm decided. Our son must be there. And who knows…” she looked intently at her husband, “perhaps, when Rhaegar grows, he will take one of the Roses to wife.”

Luthor said nothing, only drank his wine, trying to hide his doubt. But Olenna had already made her decision. For her, the future of House Tyrell had always stood above personal fears.

House Tully. Riverrun
In the spacious study of the Lord of Riverrun, Hoster Tully sat at a massive oak table. In his hands was a letter bearing the red seal of House Targaryen. He had read it more than once, as though trying to catch the hidden meaning between the lines.

Beside him stood his younger brother—Ser Brynden Tully, known for his sharp tongue and independent spirit. He watched his elder brother with his usual mix of curiosity and mild mockery.

Hoster finally set the letter down on the table and frowned.
“He wants us to come. To swear loyalty again. But this time—before a real dragon.”

Brynden smirked and leaned against the back of a nearby chair.
“What makes you say that? The letter speaks of a celebration. Tourneys, feasts, balls.”

“This is no celebration,” Hoster replied dryly, shaking his head. “It is a display of power. The king wants all of Westeros to see that he has a dragon again.”

Brynden rose and walked to the window. Beyond the castle walls the rivers flowed, reflecting the gray winter sky. His face grew serious.
“Perhaps you are right. But what does it matter to us? We are not traitors. What difference does it make—to swear before a man or before a dragon? An oath remains an oath.”

Hoster crossed his arms and said firmly:
“It means we cannot ignore the summons. Riverrun cannot afford to appear disloyal in the eyes of the king.”

Brynden turned back, smirking at his brother.
“You have always been cautious, Hoster. Sometimes too much so.”

Hoster looked up sharply.
“Caution is what preserves our house and our lands. Too much boldness has too often brought families to ruin.”

Brynden nodded, but in his eyes gleamed defiance. Returning to the table, he said:
“Well spoken. But still, I hope this ‘celebration’ does not turn into yet another gathering of intrigues.”

Hoster looked again at the letter, as though trying to discern more than what was written.
“It is too soon to judge. But we must be there. Riverrun must attend for the sake of our house’s unity.” He paused, then added: “And I hope, Brynden, that in the capital you will finally think about marriage. We need alliances.”

Brynden smirked and retorted sharply:
“Not a chance.”

Hoster frowned but said nothing. Each brother remained in his own conviction. Both understood that the journey to King’s Landing would be more than a celebration. It would be the beginning of a new game, where loyalty, strength, and caution would shape the fate of houses.

House Martell. Sunspear
In the hot hall of Sunspear, where the walls were adorned with bright fabrics and mosaics reflecting the sunlight, the Princess of Dorne held in her hands a letter from King Aerys II. Her face was usually calm and unreadable, but now it showed rare surprise.

Beside her sat her daughter Elia, watching her mother closely. A short distance away stood her sons—Doran and Oberyn—waiting for her to speak.

“A dragon,” the princess said softly, slowly placing the letter on the table. “The Targaryens have regained the power that once made them invincible.”

Elia frowned and tilted her head.
“Mother, do you truly think this will change everything?”

The princess looked at her daughter and nodded.
“Yes, Elia. Dragons have always been their greatest strength. I knew there was something special in Rhaella’s son. Now it is proven.”

Oberyn smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“So soon they will fly above our heads again, like in the old days?”

Doran, more thoughtful and restrained, shook his head.
“If this is true, everything will change for all. The king will surely use it to strengthen his power. Other houses will watch and wait until the balance of power shifts fully to the Targaryens.”

The princess rose, walked to a large window, and looked out toward the lands stretching to the Narrow Sea.
“The king summons us to King’s Landing for a celebration of this event. We must go. There we shall see the dragon with our own eyes.”

Elia stood and gently touched her mother’s hand.
“Shall I go with you?”

Myria smiled for the first time that evening.
“Yes, Elia. You shall go with me. The three of us will travel to the capital. You will meet my old friend, Queen Rhaella, and her son, the crown prince Rhaegar.”

Oberyn tilted his head with mocking eagerness.
“Then let us prepare quickly. I want to be the first to see the dragon.”

House Baratheon. Storm’s End
In the castle of Storm’s End, Lord Steffon Baratheon sat at a massive oak table. His face was lit by the dim glow of an oil lamp, which cast long shadows on the walls. In his hands he held a letter sealed with the red wax of House Targaryen.

Across the room his three-year-old son Robert raced about. The boy, with thick black hair and bright blue eyes, swung a wooden sword recently gifted to him by one of the knights. Every swing was accompanied by loud shouts and stamping—his energy seemed inexhaustible.

Steffon once more ran his eyes over the lines of the letter, then exhaled heavily and muttered:
“A dragon… So Aerys has fulfilled one of his dreams after all. If this is true, much will change.”

He set the letter aside and walked to the window. Beyond the castle walls the sea roared, waves crashing against the rocks, reminding him that Storm’s End had always lived under the sound of storms.

“A dragon…” he repeated aloud, then turned to look at his son. Robert froze, noticing the seriousness in his father’s voice, and raised his eyes to him.

“Robert,” Steffon said firmly, though with warmth, “we are going to King’s Landing.”

The boy at once dropped his sword and ran to his father, seizing his hand. His eyes shone with anticipation.
“Father, what will we see there?”

Steffon knelt to meet his son’s gaze. He smiled slightly and answered:
“They say there is a dragon there again. A real one. One that flies high in the sky and breathes fire.”

Robert’s eyes lit up; he could hardly keep still from excitement.
“I want to see it!” he cried.

Steffon placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You shall see it. But I hope you will behave with honor. Remember, Robert: in King’s Landing there are many eyes and ears.”

The boy nodded seriously, though his gaze still sparkled with childish wonder.

Steffon rose, took his son’s hand, and led him to the door. Robert quickly grabbed his wooden sword from the floor and, without letting go of his father’s hand, walked beside him.

Closing the door behind him, Steffon paused briefly in the corridor. He knew the coming journey to the capital would be significant for all of Westeros. But deep down he felt: for his family and his son, it might mark the beginning of something even greater.

Four months had passed since the birth of Toothless. In that time the dragon had grown noticeably: his body with tail now stretched nearly three meters in length, and his wingspan approached six meters. His wings had strengthened, wide and powerful enough to keep him aloft at a respectable height. Black scales shimmered with a faint violet sheen, while darker patches across his body formed a natural pattern. The dragon’s light-indigo eyes, sharp and watchful, revealed not merely a beast, but a being with character and a will of its own.

Toothless was no longer just a curiosity at court. He had become the full companion and brother of Prince Rhaegar, his closest ally, and in the eyes of many—a new member of House Targaryen.

That day was clear but cool, winter air carrying a light sea breeze into King’s Landing, tinged with the scent of salt and kelp. On one of the towers of the Red Keep stood Rhaegar. His long silver hair flowed in the wind, and in his hands he held a spyglass—a device he himself had invented and perfected over the past months.

Toothless lay nearby, lazily resting his forepaws upon the stone parapet. His long tail coiled around the base of the wall, wings twitching now and then at each gust of wind.

A short distance away stood four knights of the Kingsguard. Among them was Ser Barristan Selmy, ever vigilant for the safety of the crown prince. Their presence had long since become normal to Rhaegar, not hindering him.

There too was Queen Rhaella. She watched her son with a gentle smile, pride and worry mingled in her gaze. Farther back stood maidservants and nurses, whispering among themselves, casting awed looks at the young prince and his dragon.

Rhaegar raised the spyglass and turned it toward the harbor. What he saw made him pause.
“There are so many of them…” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.

Below stretched the bustling port of King’s Landing. Ships of every size filled the harbor, their masts rising like a dense forest. Heavy merchantmen stood beside sleek galleys of the great houses, while humble fishing boats sought space among them. On decks, sailors and rowers bustled, shouts and commands echoing, merchants calling back and forth.

“Ships from the North… from the Stormlands…” Rhaegar listed softly, shifting the glass. “Even from Dorne.”

He swept the view to the roads leading to the city gates. Escorts moved along them—carriages adorned with house sigils pulled by weary horses. Some surrounded by entire companies of knights, others by only a few wagons of baggage. Merchants and lesser lords trailed after the nobility into the capital.

On the city streets the throngs pressed together. Armored knights strode the cobbles, merchants hawked wares, pilgrims muttered prayers, and peasants jostled for space. Vendors shouted prices, minstrels played lutes and flutes, children darted through the crowd laughing and tumbling.

Sensing his friend’s unease, Toothless rose. His wide wings spread slightly, catching the air, and he leaned over the parapet. The dragon gave a quiet snort, light-indigo eyes fixed keenly on the movement below.

Still holding the glass, Rhaegar bent toward him.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” he whispered. “So many people… I cannot even count them all.”

Toothless rumbled in agreement, nudging the prince’s hand with his snout.

Rhaegar smiled, stroking his head.
“They all came because of you, brother.” His voice held both pride and a trace of embarrassment. “You are becoming famous. Each of them wishes to see the dragon.”

Toothless huffed and turned his head away, though his tail thumped the stone parapet, betraying his mood.

Lowering the glass, Rhaegar shut his eyes, inhaling deeply of the sea air.
“It feels strange, Mother,” he said softly, turning toward Rhaella. “I thought I should feel joy. But now…”

He faltered, searching for words.

Rhaella came closer, her voice tender:
“You do not feel well?”

Rhaegar nodded.
“Yes. All these people… they are not here for the celebration. They are here for Toothless. In their eyes I see not only awe. I see greed, ambition, the will to use us for their gain.”

For a moment, an image rose in his mind—Viggo, the dragon hunter, with cold smile and calculating gaze. Something in him recalled Tywin Lannister—equally cunning, equally dangerous.

Rhaella placed an arm around his shoulders, speaking calmly, with assurance:
“This is the burden of power, my son. People are ever drawn to those who hold strength. But only you may decide how that strength will be used.”

The maids, listening nearby, edged closer. One, a young girl named Lyra, dared to speak:
“Your Grace, all this is for you. Your deed gave the common folk hope.”

Another added with a smile:
“Many believe you a god come down from the heavens.”

Rhaegar frowned.
“Why? What is so special in hatching a dragon’s egg?”

Lyra lowered her eyes and whispered:
“Because to men, dragons are almost gods. And one who can ride them seems even mightier.”

Ser Barristan stepped forward then, speaking firmly:
“So it is, my prince. Dragons are the greatest creatures of this world. And you have brought one back to life. It is a great gift and a great honor. Therefore you may rightly be proud.”

He paused, inclining his head slightly.
“And, of course, of your lord Toothless.”

The words stirred mixed feelings in Rhaegar. At first he frowned, then could not help but smile. The thought that even Barristan Selmy called Toothless “lord” amused him.

The dragon, catching the mood, snorted and slapped his tail against the parapet.

Rhaegar stroked his neck and murmured:
“You see, brother? Even Ser Barristan acknowledges your power.”

Toothless snorted again, as if confirming it.

Two months had passed since Ser Barristan had changed his view of the dragon completely. No longer did he look upon him as a mere beast; more often he spoke of him as though of a man. The reason lay in the wit and cleverness Toothless displayed—no less than human, sometimes greater.

Toothless could do much. He painted better than many court artists, knew when silence was required and when noise was allowed. He noticed instantly if something was out of place in a room, and could return objects where they belonged. He often mimicked people, copying gestures and manners deliberately to amuse Rhaegar or others.

Most entertaining were his attempts to walk on his hind legs. At times he imitated the manner of a lady, at others the bearing of a knight. But his favorite was to mimic Tywin Lannister—Toothless copied his stern posture, his expression, even the movements of his lips. When Tywin spoke in the Small Council, the dragon would stand behind and open and close his mouth in time with his words, making courtiers barely stifle their laughter.

Watching, Rhaegar often thought Toothless understood far more than anyone assumed.

Now he looked again at his friend. Sensing his unease, Toothless let out a loud, deep purr, his tail flicking gently against the prince’s leg as if to cheer him.

The prince smiled, whispering:
“You know how to lift my spirits, brother.”

The dragon answered with a short snort and, as if to seal the words, lowered his head to rest upon Rhaegar’s shoulder.

In the Red Keep, life bustled more than ever before. Servants, masters, and craftsmen hurried through the corridors, each fulfilling their duty. Especially crowded was the Throne Room, where dozens of workers hung new tapestries and banners. They now displayed a changed sigil of House Targaryen: instead of the familiar three-headed dragon on a black field, there was the red silhouette of a Night Fury.

"Careful with that corner!" the master craftsman shouted loudly, waving his arms. "The sigil must be visible from every point of the hall!"

When Rhaegar first heard that King Aerys had ordered the family crest changed, he was surprised. The decision came as unexpected to him. Now, standing in the courtyard with Toothless, he watched as workers stretched new cloths across the fortress walls.

"Well, brother," Rhaegar said quietly, turning to the dragon. "Now you have become not only my friend but also the symbol of all House Targaryen."

Toothless raised his head and looked at one of the banners. His tail twitched slightly, as if he was trying to express his opinion about what he saw. A moment later, he gave a short snort that sounded almost like mockery.

Rhaegar smiled.
"Whether you like it or not, you’re on every banner now." He leaned slightly and stroked the dragon’s neck. "I think you look quite worthy."

Toothless purred softly, and it could be taken as a sign of agreement.

Rhaegar pondered. He himself liked the new sigil. He saw it not merely as a nod to symbolism but as a reflection of the changes taking place in the kingdom.

In the kitchens of the Red Keep, work went on without pause. Enormous braziers were filled with meat: boars, bulls, and deer slowly turned on spits; in ovens baked partridges, pigeons, and chickens. The cooks prepared pies, flatbreads, sauces with exotic spices brought from various corners of Westeros and even from across the Narrow Sea. Special attention was paid to fish. In honor of Toothless, it had been decided to prepare a vast seafood dish—a symbol that fish was the dragon’s favorite delicacy.

Rhaegar had warned the cooks in advance to make sure no eels were included. Once, the servants made a mistake and served fish along with an eel. Then Toothless, like most dragons, grew frightened, recoiled, and for a long time refused to touch food. Only when Rhaegar removed the slippery fish from the bowl did the dragon return to eating. Since then, the prince kept a strict eye on what was served to his friend.

In the courtyard and stables, there was just as much commotion. The stables overflowed—lords and knights were arriving from all across the land, bringing their finest steeds. The grooms barely managed to cope with the influx, trying to settle the horses and care for them while their masters went into the castle or searched for lodging in the city.

In the castle gardens, servants decorated trees and bushes with colorful ribbons and lanterns. By nightfall, the Red Keep was to shine so brightly as to impress even the most demanding guests.

Rhaegar tried to stay apart from this chaos. He understood that everyone was busy with their work, and his interference would only distract them. Instead, he spent time with Toothless. Most often, they climbed one of the castle towers, from which there was a view of the city and harbor.

Toothless grew fast and took to the skies more and more often. Rhaegar loved to sit on the parapet and watch the dragon soar above the castle, circling the towers. In such moments, the prince could not help but reflect on how greatly his life had changed with the appearance of this creature.

One day, Toothless, finishing a circle over the city, landed beside Rhaegar. Suddenly, he carefully hooked the prince under the armpits with his claws and tried to lift him into the air. Rhaegar’s feet lifted slightly off the ground, and he laughed.

"Hey, easy there, brother!" he exclaimed, clutching the dragon’s paws.

But Toothless did not yet have the strength and gently set Rhaegar back down.

"Seems we’ll have to wait until you grow a little more," the prince said, smiling and stroking the dragon’s head.

Toothless gave a short snort and swished his tail, as if to confirm his words.

Later, when the dragon landed beside him again and pressed against him, Rhaegar spoke softly:
"We grew up together, brother. And we’ll always be together. Perhaps this castle and this whole world no longer seem so foreign to me."

Toothless gave a low purr and nudged his master’s hand with his nose, as if agreeing with every word.

Toothless settled into the Red Keep as if he had always lived there. He shared the spacious chambers with Rhaegar—the dragon understood that Hiccup now had a new name, but to him it was still Hiccup. The rooms had to be adapted for their new resident. The floors were covered with thick carpets and heavy felt pads: some of them quickly scorched from the warm breath and sparks, but they made it more comfortable for the dragon to rest. One of the walls near the exit was expanded and fitted with a wide arch leading to the balcony, so Toothless could go outside and take off whenever he pleased.

At first, the servants complained about soot and smoke, but soon they grew accustomed: large ceramic bowls with water and sand were placed in the room for stray sparks, with tongs and an iron scoop kept nearby. By the window stood a massive oak bench, where Rhaegar often sat in the evenings, and by the balcony arch a low wooden platform was built—Toothless’s favorite place, from which he watched the courtyard and harbor.

Sometimes, waking at night, the dragon quietly paced through the room, carefully placing his paws so as not to bump into furniture. He already knew where the chests with books stood, where the maps and instruments lay, and moved with almost no noise. If Rhaegar worked at the desk, Toothless would lie beside him, stretch his neck, and listen to the scratching of the quill. Hearing a guard’s footsteps in the corridor, he would lift his head, but soon calm again.

"Getting used to it?" Rhaegar sometimes asked in a hushed voice.

Toothless answered with a short snort and nudged his elbow with his nose, as if saying: "Yes. There’s enough room here for both of us."

So they lived: the prince worked and studied, the dragon grew and mastered his new home. The balcony became their shared door into the sky, and the chambers—a quiet refuge amid the noisy castle.

Toothless fairly quickly decided whom he trusted, and whom he preferred to keep at a distance.

He grew most attached to his rider’s new mother—Queen Rhaella. The young woman, small and gentle in manner, treated him warmly from the first days. Her calmness, kind words, and tender touches soothed the dragon. She often stroked his head and neck, kissed his brow, and called him "my second son" or "my younger son." In response, Toothless purred softly and allowed her to touch even his belly and chin—something he allowed no one else.

Sometimes Rhaella said:
"You’re just as stubborn as my Rhaegar. Two brothers, only one with wings."

To this the dragon gave a gentle snort and pressed against her hand, making her smile.

No less respect did Toothless feel for Ser Barristan. The strong, honest, and loyal knight had once defended him in the Throne Room, when an inexperienced knight, losing his nerve, too sharply drew a sword. Barristan stopped him instantly, and from then on the dragon recognized him as a protector of the family. From that day, Toothless allowed him to keep weapons nearby without showing fear or aggression, but instead—trust.

"He’s smarter than many men," Barristan once said, gazing at the dragon with care.

Rhaegar only nodded:
"I know. Sometimes I feel he understands more than all of us put together."

The servants and nursemaids who cared for Rhaegar also became part of the dragon’s daily life. They brought him fresh fish, meat, and sometimes even toys. Toothless got used to them and allowed them near if he saw baskets of food in their hands.

He especially loved the servants’ and nursemaids’ children. Together with Rhaegar he played with them in the courtyard: tag, hide-and-seek, hunters and prey, and sometimes drawing. The dragon patiently let the little ones stroke his sides and neck, and sometimes even joined in their games.

Often he would take a stick in his mouth and, imitating the children, scratch lines and shapes on the ground. Sometimes he lifted the little ones into the air with gusts of his wings, carefully catching them on currents of air. Their delighted laughter echoed through the yard, and at first the servants gasped, but soon they grew used to it and only smiled, watching the game.

"You’ve spoiled him," Rhaella once said to Rhaegar, shaking her head, when Toothless again allowed children to climb onto his back.

The prince only smiled:
"Let him be not only my friend."

But in the Red Keep there were those Toothless could not stand.

The first was his rider’s new father—King Aerys Targaryen. From the beginning, this man aroused the dragon’s wariness. His harsh voice, nervous movements, fits of anger, and unpredictable behavior made Toothless hiss and back away at his approach. The dragon sensed: Aerys looked at him not as a friend but as a weapon. And that repelled him most of all.

Once, when the king came too close, Toothless narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth. Rhaegar stood beside him and said calmly, but firmly:
"He’s not a toy or a weapon, father. Don’t approach him like that."

Aerys only waved him off, but afterward came closer with more caution. Still, Toothless continued to treat him with disdain, sensing in him the same lust for power and destruction once seen in men who used dragons for war.

No less irritation did the king’s chief aide—Tywin Lannister—provoke. His cold, calculating gaze made the dragon tense. Tywin looked at him not as a wonder or a living being, but as a piece of future strategy. This reminded Toothless of encounters with dragon hunters—like Viggo or Grimmel.

When Tywin once again held his gaze on Toothless during council, the dragon snapped his jaws sharply, and Rhaegar quietly said:
"He doesn’t like you either, Lord Lannister."

Tywin remained silent, but the corners of his mouth twitched—whether in irritation or in acknowledgement that the dragon understood him better than many men.

A particular dislike Toothless felt for Grand Maester Pycelle. His trembling hands, cloying voice, and constant urge to meddle where he shouldn’t irritated the dragon. Pycelle tried to behave courteously, but the expression of hidden dislike on his face said more than words. Toothless always reacted the same: turned away, snorted, and lifted his wings, showing he would not tolerate his presence.

Moreover, Toothless regarded with suspicion many lords and their children who tried to approach Rhaegar. He sensed falseness and hypocrisy in them. He especially disliked young heirs who in the yard tried to "mount" him as if he were a common horse. In those moments the dragon hissed sharply and spread his wings, instantly putting the overbold in their place.

At times, he sensed threat from some knights as well. Their heavy gazes betrayed hostility. In response, Toothless bared his teeth and gave a low growl. That was enough to make the knight avert his eyes and step aside.

Thus Toothless set his own boundaries. And even the proudest nobles quickly understood: this dragon would allow no one to treat him from above.

Toothless’s day began with Rhaegar’s awakening. Usually the servants brought breakfast for the prince and a separate bucket of fresh fish for the dragon. Rhaegar ate at the table, while Toothless lay on the carpets, deftly swallowing fish whole. Sometimes the prince smiled, watching him.

"Have you ever chewed your food?" Rhaegar asked with a light smirk.

Toothless snapped his jaws in response and gave a satisfied snort, as if to say that chewing was a waste of time.

After breakfast they went out onto the balcony. As soon as Rhaegar stepped aside, Toothless spread his wings and soared into the sky. Flying was his favorite pastime. He made several circles over the Red Keep, carefully scanning the surroundings. Sometimes he dipped lower and hovered by the windows, peeking inside. The castle’s inhabitants reacted differently: some grew frightened and closed their shutters, while others laughed and waved at him.

Finishing his patrol, the dragon returned to Rhaegar’s chamber. There they spent time playing. The prince threw him soft toys, which Toothless caught in the air, or the dragon rolled on the floor, flipping onto his back and offering his belly for Rhaegar to scratch. Sometimes they went into the inner courtyard, where Toothless met the servants’ children. At first they were wary, but gradually grew used to him and even tried to play, throwing him sticks or stones, which he brought back like a dog.

By evening, when the castle grew quieter, Rhaegar and Toothless climbed to the top tower. From there stretched a view of the sunset. The prince often told the dragon stories about other lands, distant seas, or what he had read in books. Toothless listened attentively: sometimes tilting his head to the side, sometimes snorting or giving a low rumble to show he liked the tale.

"You understand more than the others think," Rhaegar said, stroking his muzzle.

The dragon closed his eyes and hummed softly in reply, as if confirming his words.

So passed Toothless’s days. He lived beside Rhaegar and felt his moods without words. When the prince was burdened, the dragon always remained nearby, supporting him with his presence.

In the courtyard of the Red Keep there was noise and laughter—children were running and shouting. The lords of the minor houses of the Crownlands had arrived for the feast earlier than others and, of course, seized the opportunity. They wanted their children to spend time near Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the throne, and of course with his famous dragon.

Rhaegar reluctantly agreed to come out to them. He understood that all this had nothing to do with true friendship. It was politics: another reason to strengthen the loyalty of the houses and show that the royal family was not alien to simple joys. But he could not refuse—his mother and Ser Barristan had convinced him to give the children the chance.

Before stepping out, he bent toward Toothless and stroked his head.
"Come on, brother," he said softly. "We’ll endure these brats for a little while."

Toothless snorted as if he understood. His tail twitched, betraying his irritation, but he obediently moved toward the door. Rhaegar knew: if the dragon started to get nervous, it would be difficult to control the situation. Four guards followed them as usual.

In the yard they were already awaited. Several children from noble houses clustered together, eyeing the dragon with curiosity. Two boys of House Frey ran around the yard, laughing loudly. The elder was about ten, the younger about eight. Both had the same weak chins as the rest of their line. One of them even dared wave a branch in front of Toothless, as if to tease him.

A little apart stood a girl of House Stokeworth. She looked about nine: a delicate face, neat braids, but too loud, shrill a voice. Each time she shouted something, Toothless turned his muzzle aside and squinted irritably.

The youngest was a boy of House Merryweather, about seven. He stuck close to Rhaegar, constantly trying to draw his attention. Sometimes telling silly stories, sometimes asking about the dragon, sometimes tugging at his sleeve.

"He’s so beautiful!" exclaimed the girl of House Stokeworth, pointing at Toothless. Her eyes sparkled with delight. "Can I pet him?"

"I’d ride him!" laughed one of the Frey sons. "Like a horse!"

Toothless lifted his head, his pupils narrowing, his tail taut and still, as if ready to strike. Rhaegar noticed at once and raised his hand, signaling everyone to stop.
"No," he said firmly. "Do not touch him. Without permission, he will not tolerate it."

"Why not?" frowned the other Frey boy. "He’s just an animal. He has to obey you!"

At these words Toothless gave a low growl. It wasn’t loud, but in its sound was warning. The children froze, glancing fearfully at each other. Yet the elder Frey, deciding it was a game, smirked and stepped forward, holding the thin branch. He stretched it out as if to prod the dragon.

"Don’t come closer," Rhaegar said calmly but seriously, staring into his eyes.

The Frey only shrugged and kept moving, as if testing boundaries.

"Do you not understand words?" one of the guards barked sharply, his hand on his sword. His voice rang with threat.

But the boy, stubborn and arrogant, took another step, as if purposely challenging the dragon. Toothless lowered his head further, ears pressed against his skull, and only Rhaegar knew the beast’s patience was running out. When the branch came too close to his snout, he lunged forward in a flash and crunched his jaws shut on the dry wood.

The boy screamed, stumbled back in fright. But Toothless decided one warning wasn’t enough. His tail whipped sideways, landing square on the boy’s backside. The blow was strong, leaving a bloody tear on cloth and skin. The child collapsed to the ground, bawling in tears and pain.

"He hurt me!" shrieked the boy.

The guards who saw it burst into loud laughter, mocking the cry of the arrogant child.

"I warned you," Rhaegar said coldly, reaching to stroke Toothless’s head soothingly. Feeling his touch, the dragon ceased growling, though his eyes still blazed with threat.

The Stokeworth girl squealed and ran to fetch adults, while the other children stood frozen, afraid to move. Their eyes darted between the prince and the dragon, whose tail still lazily swayed, as if reminding them: one careless move, and it would happen again.

Satisfied the threat was gone, Toothless returned to Rhaegar and sat beside him, curling his tail around his legs. His light-indigo eyes glimmered with warning, and the children, meeting his gaze, instinctively lowered theirs.

But one of the elder Frey boys, fists clenched, still found courage to step forward. His voice shook, but he forced it loud to show bravery:
"He… he’s a freak! He should be killed, like a mad dog!"

These words struck like a spit, and even the children gasped. Rhaegar’s face changed in an instant: the boyish cheer was gone, his eyes darkened, his brows drew tight. Slowly he bent, picked up a broken branch, and stepped toward the insolent child.

Seeing his resolve, the boy faltered, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, bravado vanishing at once.

"He is no freak," Rhaegar’s voice was low and threatening, "freaks are you and your brother. Toothless is not a toy or a beast for amusement. He is my friend. And if you wish to play with him, you must respect him as you would a person."

The prince raised the stick sharply, swung it.
"And now take this for your words!"

Rhaegar did not remember when he snapped. The stick was in his hands, and he brought it down in fury upon the boy, deaf to his cries and sobs. Toothless, standing nearby, growled as if egging him on, his eyes flashing, his tail lashing the ground, knocking the younger Frey off his feet. The child screamed so piercingly, as though truly about to be slaughtered, and burst into tears at once.

The other children, pale with terror, scattered—some hiding behind nurses and guards. But the guards hesitated to intervene: they only looked at each other in confusion, unsure if they even had the right to stop a prince and his dragon.

The stick soon splintered, and now Rhaegar struck with fists. Dull blows fell one after another, and the Frey’s pitiful sobs turned into pleas.
"Mercy… please," gasped the boy, covering his face with his hands.

"Enough, my prince! He is broken already!" Ser Barristan’s voice thundered above the din, and only then did he step forward. One hand pulled back the dragon, the other seized Rhaegar’s shoulder. With effort he held them both, ending the beating.

At the cries, adults hurried over. The girl of the Reach, who earlier had screamed the loudest, now lifted her chin proudly and declared:
"The dragon should be kept in chains. He is dangerous!"

Rhaegar wiped his bloodied knuckles on his doublet and calmly looked at her, pointing at the sprawled Frey.
"Dangerous only to those who behave like fools. Like you… or them," his voice rang firm and threatening.

The children were quickly led away to be washed and soothed. The injured Freys were taken to the maester, and already the Red Keep buzzed with rumors of the fight in the yard. The king and queen summoned Lord Walder Frey with his whole family.

During the inquiry, the children repeated in rehearsed voices:
"We were playing with the prince and his dragon. But the boys attacked us, and the prince defended us. He was a noble protector, he is not guilty."

Rhaegar listened and suddenly realized a simple truth: when you are a prince, the truth matters to no one. Everyone will say what their parents tell them.

When the king at last ordered silence and addressed his son, Rhaegar spoke without hesitation. That he had not played with anyone, that the children merely licked his boots, that the Freys had mocked Toothless and shouted that his dragon must be slain.
"Toothless," he added aloud, and the whole hall gasped at his boldness. Even the king was struck dumb, hearing the heir name his dragon so.

"Enough," the king cut him off, sharply raising his hand. The hall fell silent.

Aerys flew into fury at what had occurred. His wrath was swift and cruel: he ordered the tongues torn out of all the boys who had dared insult the prince and his dragon. The punishment was harsh and merciless, like the Mad King himself.

To chastise their house, Aerys stripped the Freys of part of their lands, imposed a heavy fine, and raised the taxes on their holdings. Walder Frey, cold and calculating, did not even attempt to defend his sons. He only twisted his face in scorn—not at the king, but at his own foolish offspring, whose stupidity embarrassed the whole house.

By order of Ser Barristan and Queen Rhaella, the guards responsible for the prince’s safety were also replaced. New warriors took their place, while the former, as useless as those before them, followed their predecessors in disgrace.

Rhaegar remembered that day. In his mind grew a firm thought: a bad guard is a black guard. He understood that anyone who failed their duty and did not protect him as heir was unworthy to bear a sword at court.

But a greater revelation awaited the boy. He saw clearly that for many, truth meant nothing. Even had he lied, all—warriors, servants, even the Hand—would have believed him only because he was a prince. His words bore more weight than truth itself. And this realization Rhaegar marked for the future.

Chapter Text

In the year 265 after Aegon’s Conquest, the Red Keep in King’s Landing shone in anticipation of a great celebration. The palace was filled with excitement: guests were arriving not only from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms but also from across the Narrow Sea. Among the numerous delegations, a special place was occupied by the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, led by Lord Tytos Lannister himself, known as the Laughing Lion, and among the people as the Toothless Lion.

Lord Tytos was a man well into his years. His kind face and soft features hardly matched the image of a formidable lord, while his fullness clearly spoke of his fondness for indulgence. He loved merriment, good food, and wine, which often embarrassed the sterner and more austere lords.

He was accompanied by his entire large family. Tywin Lannister, his eldest son, had already shown himself to be a resolute, harsh, and extremely demanding leader. At court he held the office of Hand of the King, and many said that the whole realm was governed by him while his father gave himself to idleness. Beside him stood his younger brother, Ser Kevan Lannister — a calm and loyal man, lacking ambition but known for his steadfastness.

Among the women, Lady Genna Lannister stood out, the only daughter of Lord Tytos. She was married to one of the many sons of Walder Frey, whose name Rhaegar never even bothered to remember. Genna appeared as a large and heavy woman, always clad in rich gowns and adorned with jewels.

Behind them walked the youngest son, Gerion Lannister — still just a boy, full of curiosity, drawn far more to adventure than to politics. And finally, beside Tywin was his wife and cousin, Lady Joanna Lannister. Her rounded belly made it clear that she was soon to give birth, and not to one child. Many at court already whispered that twins were expected. Along with them came representatives of the junior branch of the Lannisters, but their presence was barely noticed — they faded into the background beside their more influential kin.

Yet among this entire golden-haired host was another figure, one that drew uneasy glances. A young woman, Lord Tytos’s mistress, carried herself with her head held high. She flaunted rich clothes and glittering gold jewelry, clearly enjoying the attention. Her provocative and haughty behavior irritated many at court.

Rhaegar, who was watching the Lannisters together with Toothless, could not hide a flicker of displeasure. The dragon, sensing his master’s mood, snorted softly, as if sharing his irritation.

The throne room was adorned with royal grandeur. Torches burned beneath the vaulted ceilings, their light reflected in gilded columns and marble floors. Upon the dais sat King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella. Their faces remained calm, though each new guest drew the eyes of the courtiers.

Standing beside them was six-year-old Prince Rhaegar. He kept his hand on the neck of his dragon, Toothless, who by this age had already grown to the size of a large horse. Though still young, the dragon appeared alert — his indigo eyes carefully followed everything happening around them.

When the Lannisters approached, Lord Tytos stepped forward. His face was lit by the broad smile that had earned him his nickname, the Laughing Lion. He bowed deeply, laying his hand on his chest.

"Your Majesty, it is a great honor for us to be here," he said. His voice was soft, with a playful note.

Aerys answered with a short nod, but his attention quickly slid past Tytos and settled on Tywin, standing a little behind.

"Lord Tywin," said the king, his voice colder, "We are glad to see you and your family in the Red Keep on this momentous day."

Tywin, reserved and stern, bowed briefly but flawlessly.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. "We have not come empty-handed. Allow us to present gifts to your son, Prince Rhaegar."

At his signal, servants stepped forward. On their shoulders rested a magnificent golden saddle. It glittered in the torchlight, inlaid with rubies and decorated with enameled images of dragons.

Tywin took a step toward the prince and said:
"Every man must learn to ride a horse, my prince. But you are no ordinary man. For you a different saddle is meant — one worthy of the beast with whom fate has bound you. May it stand as a symbol of your future victories and deeds."

All eyes turned to Rhaegar. His eyes lit up with delight, but only for a moment. He saw that before him was not a practical gift but rather an ornament, made for splendor and show. The saddle was not suited to Toothless’s form and could never serve as a true tool for a rider.

Still, Rhaegar stepped forward and, striving to be polite, said:
"Thank you, Lord Tywin. This is truly a magnificent gift."

He turned to his dragon, gently stroking his neck.
"Look, brother," he added quietly, but loud enough for all to hear, "now we have money for a proper saddle!"

Toothless gave a pleased rumble, his eyes gleaming with torchlight. Laughter broke out in the hall, and loudest of all laughed Lord Tytos himself, slapping his knee.

Rhaegar’s attention soon shifted to Joanna. Her pregnancy was now undeniable, and the boy could not help but notice. Before she left for Casterly Rock, her belly had not yet shown, and during her absence Rhaegar had grown to miss her greatly.

"Lord Tywin, Lady Joanna," he began, striving to sound confident, "I congratulate you on the coming addition to your family."

Joanna blushed slightly and lowered her eyes, but a warm smile curved her lips. Tywin, standing beside her, raised his brows in surprise, not expecting such words from the boy.

"Thank you for your kind congratulations, my prince," Tywin replied, restrained yet courteous. His tone clearly sought to ignore both his father and Tytos’s young mistress, whose presence and behavior irked many.

Rhaegar continued, looking at Joanna:
"You are expecting twins, aren’t you? If I may, I would like to suggest names."

Joanna smiled more warmly, glancing at her husband.
"And what names would you propose, Prince Rhaegar?" she asked softly.

The boy paused only for a moment, then his face lit up with a broad smile. In his memory rose his old friends — the twins Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston. He would have gladly given away that absurd golden saddle just to hear their laughter, their endless jokes, and their familiar bickering once again.

"Perhaps Ruffnut and Tuffnut?" he suggested, a little shyly, but with a genuine smile.

The hall answered with laughter. Tytos and his mistress laughed especially loudly, their mirth sounding to Rhaegar more irritating than fitting. But Joanna, touched by the child’s innocence and sincerity, nodded gratefully. Even on Tywin’s stern face appeared the shadow of a smile.

"That is very sweet of you, Prince Rhaegar," said Joanna, looking at the boy with more warmth than at anyone else in the hall. "We will certainly think on your suggestions."

Queen Rhaella, who had been watching the exchange all this time, gently added:
"Rhaegar has always been attentive to his friends and loved ones. I am sure your children will grow up just as worthy and kind."

King Aerys too seemed pleased with this short conversation, though his gaze at times lingered on Joanna, and then on Lord Tytos’s mistress. Toward the former he showed visible courtesy, while the latter’s brazen behavior clearly irritated the monarch and seemed out of place in so solemn a setting.

After the Lannisters’ greeting began a long procession of meetings with other lords and guests. Rhaegar and Toothless took little part in it, preferring to remain aside. More often they watched the events from a balcony or descended to the stairs, where they could look down on the crowd with a sweet bun or a piece of fish snatched from the kitchens in hand.

Sometimes, weary of the noise and throng, Rhaegar went out into the courtyard of the Red Keep. He was accompanied by Toothless, long since a familiar part of the court, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who never ceased to guard the prince’s safety.

The celebration in honor of the dragon’s rebirth was an event of great magnitude. Under the castle’s arches gathered representatives of all the great houses of Westeros. In the courtyards and halls their banners fluttered, creating a mosaic of colors. To Rhaegar, these symbols meant little — he knew far from all of them. Truth be told, he often skipped the lessons the maesters tried to teach him, and now he felt the consequences of his inattention.

Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell was the first to approach the prince. A tall man with a stern yet just gaze, he seemed to embody the whole North. His shoulders were broad, his movements calm and measured, and every word he spoke carried confidence. Beside him stood his son and heir — little Brandon Stark, no more than three years old. The boy had the same facial features, dark hair, and gray eyes as his father, but his look was not stern, rather curious. The child’s presence slightly softened the severe appearance of Lord Rickard.

"Prince Rhaegar," said Lord Rickard, inclining his head slightly in respect. His voice was deep and assured. "On behalf of all the North, I congratulate you and your house on the birth of a dragon. It is a great honor for us to meet you and your companion."

Rhaegar tried to respond with equal dignity. He bowed, though the movement was a little awkward due to his young age. Beside him, Toothless watched the Starks closely, his tail slowly swaying from side to side.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," the boy said, trying to speak as Ser Barristan had taught him. "Your presence in the Red Keep is an honor for our family."

Toothless, sensing Rickard’s calmness and goodwill, tilted his head slightly, showing that he did not see him as a threat. Little Brandon could not take his eyes off the dragon. His eyes widened, his breathing quickened, as if he was seeing a miracle he had only heard about before.

"Hello!" Rhaegar suddenly said, addressing the younger Stark with a smile. "What’s your name?"

"Brandon," the boy answered quietly, without even looking away from Toothless.

"This is Toothless," Rhaegar introduced the dragon, patting him on the neck. "He growls a bit when he doesn’t like something, but usually he’s kind."

Toothless snorted softly, as if confirming his master’s words.

Brandon took a step forward and leaned slightly to see the dragon closer. Rickard stretched out his hand and stopped his son, touching his shoulder.

"That’s enough," he said calmly but firmly. "We will not intrude."

"Of course," Rhaegar agreed, understanding that the conversation was coming to an end.

Lord Rickard gave a short nod and, together with his son, stepped aside. He still had many duties and meetings, while the young prince and his dragon moved on, greeting new guests.

The next to approach the prince was Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale. Gray-haired, lean, and reserved, he radiated calmness and confidence. His voice was steady and firm, free of unnecessary emotions.

"Your Highness," he began, inclining his head slightly, "the Vale is in awe of your accomplishment. The return of dragons is an event that will enter the history of the whole realm."

Rhaegar looked carefully at the old man and sensed sincerity in his words. Toothless, standing beside him, tilted his head slightly, assessing Lord Arryn with a wary glance.

"Thank you, Lord Arryn," the boy replied, trying to speak seriously. "We hope that this will bring peace and prosperity to all the lands."

Lord Arryn nodded, satisfied with this answer. The conversation was brief, and Rhaegar, along with Toothless, moved further across the hall.

Less than a minute passed before a boy about the same age as Rhaegar blocked their way. He was dressed in green garments, and his thick chestnut hair fell slightly across his forehead. Behind him walked a woman with a light but watchful smile. Her perceptive eyes slid over Rhaegar and then lingered on the dragon.

"Good day, Prince Rhaegar!" she said. There was a trace of irony in her voice, though the words were polite. "What a joy and honor to meet you in person. Your dragon is a true wonder."

"I am Lord Mace Tyrell," the boy introduced himself, almost interrupting the woman accompanying him. His eyes burned with excitement as he looked at Toothless. "He’s so beautiful! May I pet him?"

Rhaegar smiled politely, looked at Toothless, and shrugged:
"If Toothless allows it."

The dragon stared intently at Mace. For several seconds he seemed to consider, then bared his teeth and snorted sharply, making it clear that he did not want to be touched. After that, Toothless stepped closer to Rhaegar, as if reminding everyone that he only felt safe by his side.

Mace recoiled but was not offended. His excitement did not fade; he only smiled shyly and stepped slightly aside. The woman with him gently touched his shoulder.

"Apparently, the dragon is still too young to endure such boldness," she remarked calmly. "But still, prince, your beast commands respect."

"He does not like it when people reach for him without permission," Rhaegar explained evenly. "But in time, perhaps he will grow used to it."

Mace nodded, though disappointment in his eyes was clear.

Meanwhile, Toothless settled closer to Rhaegar’s legs, and the boy understood: his friend was tired of all the excessive attention from the guests.

Continuing their walk through the hall, they came upon the Dornish delegation. Among them he immediately recognized his mother’s friend — Princess Myriah Martell. Beside her stood her children: the eldest son and heir, Prince Doran Martell, already a grown and serious man, the younger son Prince Oberyn — Rhaegar’s peer, and the young Princess Elia. All three moved with the grace typical of their house, carrying themselves with confidence and calm.

Oberyn, full of energy and curiosity, proved the most impatient. He stepped forward at once, stopping directly in front of the dragon, and exclaimed with delight:
"Wow! A real dragon! What’s his name?"

Rhaegar smiled slightly and, stroking Toothless on the neck, answered in a calm voice:
"His name is Toothless."

Oberyn smirked, raising a brow:
"A strange name for a dragon. Usually they’re called Storm, Terror, or Flame."

At that moment, Toothless slightly raised his wings and snorted in displeasure. Oberyn stepped back, respectfully acknowledging the beast’s temper.

Doran, unlike his brother, was far more reserved. He approached Rhaegar and, inclining his head, said:
"Prince Rhaegar, I congratulate your house on the birth of a dragon. Its return may mark the beginning of a new era."

Rhaegar nodded, striving to appear confident:
"I hope, a peaceful era."

Doran raised his brows in surprise but said nothing, his face remaining calm.

Princess Elia, standing beside them, finally spoke. Her voice was soft and melodious:
"He is wonderful, Prince Rhaegar. I have never seen a dragon."

Rhaegar felt Toothless press closer to him, clearly unwilling to let anyone come too near.

"He is not always welcoming," Rhaegar explained, looking at Elia. "But if you are careful, he will grow used to you."

Elia smiled and nodded quietly, making no attempt to approach.

Rhaegar, though not well-versed in history, still remembered that House Martell had long resisted the Targaryens. Wars had lasted more than two centuries, and only marriage alliances had united Dorne with the rest of the realm. Thus, he understood that Doran’s words about a "new era" might mean more than a simple congratulation.

The feast in honor of the dragon’s birth took place in the Great Hall of the Red Keep. The spacious chamber was decorated with Targaryen banners, now bearing a new sigil — the Night Fury. Under the high ceiling, the light of hundreds of torches and thousands of candles shimmered, reflecting in golden goblets and silver plates.

The enormous tables, set in rows, groaned under the weight of exquisite dishes, the existence of which young Prince Rhaegar (in his soul Hiccup) had never even imagined. At the central dais, at the high table, sat the royal family: King Aerys II, Queen Rhaella, and the Heir Prince. Between Rhaegar and his mother, right on a large soft couch, lay Toothless — the cause of the celebration. The dragon had grown noticeably, and now his supple body stretched across the cushions as if he had deliberately chosen the most comfortable place.

The food at the feast was as impressive as the celebration itself. By order of the king and through the cooks’ efforts, the tables were laden with meat dishes: whole roasted boars and wild pigs, massive cuts of aurochs and venison, baked elk haunches, dishes of ox tongue, and delicate game birds — partridges and pheasants.

No less attention from the guests was drawn by the seafood delicacies. On long trays lay fish — both river and sea, cooked with spices and lemon juice. Separately were served royal oysters, decorated with seaweed, and dishes of crabs, lobsters, and shellfish, laid out in large shells. By tradition, the shells were then given to the guests as keepsakes.

Fruits and sweets completed the feast. On the tables stood pies filled with peaches and plums, flatbreads with honey and thick cream, nut candies, and candied fruits. All this abundance was created with one purpose — to display the power and wealth of House Targaryen.

The servants moved ceaselessly along the tables, filling goblets with red wine and serving new dishes so that not a single guest was left hungry or displeased.

Special attention at the celebration was invariably drawn to the dragon. Toothless sat beside the Royal Family as if he were a rightful member. Before him were placed large platters of fish — specially prepared for him by the cooks. He ate with evident pleasure, swallowing the fish whole, and his appetite was so great that the servants whispered among themselves, wondering how such a beast could eat so much. Some even whispered about the future: what would happen when the dragon grew? And if he had offspring? How much food would be needed then?

When the fish finally ran out, Toothless, satisfied and full, settled more comfortably on his soft couch between Rhaegar and Rhaella. His face took on an almost comical expression — relaxed and peaceful, as though he were entirely content with life at court. He curled up on the cushions, his tail wrapped around his paws, and his eyes slowly closed.

"Look, son," Rhaella said softly, smiling as she looked at the dragon. "He looks like a man who has overeaten. So content and happy."

Rhaegar smiled too and gently stroked his friend’s head.
"That’s because he feels like part of the family."

Toothless responded with a low, rumbling growl, almost like a purr, and drifted into sleep almost at once.

The guests sitting at the other tables could not help but notice. Some whispered, others openly commented:

"He really does live like a king."

"Never have I seen a beast behave so calmly."

"Look how funnily he curled up!"

Several knights and young lords even tried to come closer to look at the dragon. But the Kingsguard stood motionless, blocking the way and allowing no one to disturb his rest. Among the guards themselves a nickname had already stuck — they often jokingly called Toothless "the little prince."

King Aerys, seated at the head of the table, maintained a majestic air, but his gaze often lingered on the dragon.
"Do you see, Rhaegar?" he said, turning to his son. "This is true greatness. This dragon is the future of our house."

Rhaegar nodded but did not voice his thoughts aloud. They were different. For him, Toothless was not a weapon or a symbol of power, but a friend and brother. He understood clearly: his dragon would never be what Aegon’s or Balerion’s beasts had been. Toothless was a living being, bound to him by real friendship.

During the feast, when the noise and merriment reached their height, a group of men and women in crimson garments approached the high table. They were priests and priestesses of R’hllor. Their robes stood out among the colorful costumes of the guests: long red mantles embroidered with fire symbols made their figures visible from afar. Leading them was a tall woman with fiery tattoos on her face. Her gaze was strange — filled with fanaticism, confidence, and something else that six-year-old Rhaegar could not yet understand.

When they came too close to the Royal Family, the Kingsguard tensed at once, almost drawing their swords. The atmosphere at the high table immediately grew more strained. But the priests showed no aggression. They bowed, and the high priestess spoke in a solemn voice:
"Prince Rhaegar, we have come from afar to pay our respects to the Promised Prince, born of the flame of the Lord of Light."

Rhaegar frowned, not understanding her words.
"The Promised Prince?" he repeated, looking at her with sincere bewilderment.

The priestess extended her hand toward Toothless.
"The return of the dragon is a sign. The legend has come true. You are the one who will lead the world from darkness into light. You are Azor Ahai, the Prince That Was Promised, who will banish the Darkness."

Toothless, who had been dozing peacefully, grew alert. He raised his head, spread his wings slightly, and let out a low growl. His eyes narrowed, clearly showing distrust of the strange woman. Rhaegar at once placed his hand on his neck, calming him.

"Thank you for your faith," the boy answered cautiously, not knowing how to behave. "But I am only a child. And he is my brother."

The priestess smiled, but her gaze told otherwise. She snapped her fingers, and the men behind her carried forward two heavy chests. The servants set them on the floor, the lids were lifted — and the hall filled with whispers.

Inside lay what Rhaegar had never expected to see. Upon cushions rested dragon eggs.

"Prince That Was Promised," the priestess intoned, "these eggs belong to you. We swear our loyalty and will serve you as long as life burns in our hearts."

The other priests and priestesses accompanying her all bent their knees at once. The hall filled with noise — some guests whispered, others gasped, others frowned, unsure what to think.

Rhaegar, barely holding back his excitement, ran to the chests with Toothless. Both froze, staring at the contents. Before them lay eggs they seemed to recognize.

A red egg with black stripes. A blue one with golden specks. A green one with dark spots. A light brown one. A purple one. A silver one. An emerald-green one. A reddish-orange one. Another red one with black stripes. And a white one, shimmering in the torchlight.

Rhaegar felt that deep inside, he and Toothless truly remembered them. These were not just eggs — they were their friends, whom they had thought lost forever.

He raised his head, his voice trembling with emotion:
"Thank you very much…"

"We are glad to serve you, Azor Ahai," the priestess replied, her voice echoing through the hall.

After the red priests’ presentation, other guests also began to bring their gifts — whatever they could. Most were jewels, ornaments, and gold. All of this impressed the courtiers, but Rhaegar and his dragon had little interest in such things.

Among the givers was one knight from a minor house. He led forward a horse and respectfully handed the reins to the prince. The animal was strong, with a shining mane, though the gift immediately provoked laughter from the wealthy lords sitting nearby.

"Why does the prince need a horse if he has a dragon?" one smirked.
"It’s ridiculous to give a horse to one who will soar in the skies," another added.

Laughter rolled through the hall. But Rhaegar frowned and, glancing at Toothless, gave a signal. The dragon opened his jaws and released a short, bright stream of plasma flame toward the ceiling. The torches trembled, and the laughter ceased at once.

"Thank you," the prince said firmly to the knight, accepting the reins. "A horse is far more useful to a man than gold or ornaments. That is what Lord Hand Tywin Lannister tells me."

After these words he turned to Tywin, who sat nearby, watching closely.
"Am I right, Lord Tywin?"

Tywin slowly nodded. His thin lips curved into a faint smile, and his green eyes sparkled.
"Quite right, my prince," he said so all could hear. "Gold may be lost, jewels stolen, but a horse serves its master faithfully."

Tywin’s gaze lingered on the lords who had dared to mock. In his eyes was a challenge, a silent question: "Who dares say I am wrong?" None did. Even the proudest of them averted their eyes, realizing that arguing with Lord Tywin was pointless.

Later, when the stream of gifts was nearly at an end, the last giver came forth. He was a tall man in rich garments. His blond hair reached his shoulders, heavy rings gleamed on his fingers. Behind him followed several men, carrying a heavy chest.

The man gave a polite bow.
"My prince, I am Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos," he introduced himself in a loud, confident voice. "I bring you gifts. Though they are not as many as those of the priests of R’hllor, I hope you will find them worthy."

At his command the servants opened the chest, and all present could see its contents. Inside lay three dragon eggs. One was black with crimson patterns, another pale yellow with golden stripes, and the third green with golden flecks.

A whisper spread through the hall. Guests exchanged glances, uncertain what to think: more eggs, another wonder presented in honor of the prince.

Rhaegar stepped forward. His face remained calm, but interest sparkled in his eyes.
"Thank you, Magister Illyrio," he said. "Your gift is truly great."

Mopatis inclined his head, while Toothless carefully bent toward the chest, inhaling the familiar scent of stony shells.

In the height of merriment, when actors and musicians performed for the delighted guests, young Prince Rhaegar began to nod off. His eyes were closing, and he struggled to remain upright on the bench. Beside him, full and lulled by the noise of the feast, Toothless curled up on the soft couch and rumbled softly like a great cat.

King Aerys II, noticing the state of his son and the dragon, turned to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, called the White Bull:
"Ser Gerold, take the prince and the dragon to their chambers. Let them rest."

The tall and stately knight with streaks of gray in his hair bowed respectfully.
"As you command, Your Majesty."

He carefully lifted the drowsy prince in his arms, taking care not to wake him. Ser Barristan Selmy, famed for his valor and loyalty, stepped forward. He stopped by Toothless and, after a brief pause, picked him up. Though the dragon had already grown over three meters long, his weight was not as heavy as one might have expected.

"Quite light for his size," Barristan remarked quietly.

Toothless lazily opened one eye, recognized the knight, then closed it again, trustfully settling in his arms. Guests watching the scene whispered among themselves. Few had ever seen a knight in a white cloak carrying a dragon in his arms. Thus Barristan earned a new nickname — the Dragonbearer. And the bards instantly had a fresh theme for their songs.

The procession headed toward the prince’s chambers. With them went other knights carrying the heavy chests of dragon eggs — the gifts from the priests of R’hllor and Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Each chest was adorned with intricate patterns and seals, reminding all of the value of their contents.

Upon reaching the chambers, the knights carefully laid Rhaegar on the bed, while for Toothless a spacious couch had been prepared in advance nearby. The servants worked quickly and silently: they changed the prince into nightclothes, washed him, and adjusted the pillows. All was done without disturbing his sleep.

When all was ready, Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan took their place by the door, ensuring protection. Torches on the walls softly lit the room, creating a calm and cozy atmosphere.

Rhaegar smiled slightly in his sleep, feeling safe. Toothless, curled at the bedside, let out a pleased rumble and pressed himself closer to the floor.

That night the prince and his dragon rested peacefully. With loyal knights beside them and the chests of dragon eggs at the foot of the bed, they slept without worries, though everyone in the hall knew: greater trials awaited the boy and his dragon than today’s feast.

On the fourth day of the celebration of the dragon’s rebirth, a grand tourney was held. For the event, a new tourney field had been specially prepared outside King’s Landing. It was surrounded by wooden stands decorated with the banners of the great houses of Westeros. Bright fabrics fluttered in the wind, creating an atmosphere of festivity and expectation.

Prince Rhaegar, together with Toothless, occupied a place of honor beside King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella. Even for the dragon a special seat had been prepared — wide and reinforced, next to the royal box. Toothless settled there, curling his tail, watching the events with keen interest. His eyes gleamed, and the tip of his tail twitched in rhythm with the trumpets and drums announcing the start of the tourney.

The tournament opened with a parade of all the knights and warriors. One by one, participants in shining armor passed through the lists. Polished breastplates reflected the sunlight, crests on shields and cloaks reminded the spectators of the nobility and glory of their houses. Among the knights were Lannisters, Baratheons, Martells, and other great lords, as well as many lesser knights and landless men. Hedge knights were especially numerous. Each hoped to prove himself and win service — and, with luck, a place in the newly created Dragon Guard.

At the herald’s signal the first joust began. Two knights, visors lowered, rode to the center of the field. Their horses, draped in caparisons with their masters’ arms, snorted and stamped impatiently. The crowd fell silent in anticipation.

"Begin!" cried the herald.

The knights spurred their horses and charged at each other, lances lowered. The crash of impact rolled across the field as the shafts struck shields and armor. One knight lost his balance, slid from the saddle, and crashed to the ground. The crowd erupted in shouts and applause. The victor, lifting his visor, rode along the stands and, reaching the royal box, bowed his head respectfully.

Rhaegar, watching, felt excitement and awe. His eyes shone, his heart beat faster. He had never seen anything like it. The Vikings among whom he had once lived were not riders and did not breed horses. They fought differently. Had Hiccup not traveled, he would never have seen these noble animals.

"Incredible," he whispered, speaking more to himself than to his mother or father.

Toothless snorted, as if in agreement, though he clearly preferred watching the horses to the knights. He followed them with his eyes, turning his head left and right.

Rhaegar thought. Perhaps one day he would try the lists himself? To be a knight, ready to defend the honor of his house and the weak. The thought was tempting.

King Aerys, noticing his son’s rapt attention, leaned toward him and said:
"One day, Rhaegar, you too will ride in a tourney. Then all will see the strength of our house."

The prince nodded, not taking his eyes off the knights. He knew that long training and trials lay ahead. But the thought that Toothless would always be by his side gave him confidence. He remembered Astrid’s lessons, her advice, and her hard sparring. He still recalled her movements and techniques. And if something was lacking, he knew Ser Barristan would always teach him.

The tourney continued, one joust after another. The spectators reacted to each clash of lances, each turn of the fight — some shouted, some applauded, others argued with neighbors about the knights’ skill. For many, it was more than entertainment. Here future legends were born, here the fate of those seeking place at court or striving for glory was decided.

By evening, as the sun bent toward the horizon, the herald declared a pause in the tournament. Half the knights had not yet taken the field, and they were given until the next day to regain strength and prepare for stronger opponents.

Rhaegar and Toothless rose from their seats. They felt tired from long sitting, but also joy at what they had seen. Returning to the Red Keep for the feast arranged by the king, the prince felt fire in his heart. A desire was growing in him to one day become a knight himself and earn the title of "ser."

The next day the tourney resumed. The sun rose over the horizon and lit the field outside King’s Landing. The atmosphere grew tense: that day more experienced and stronger knights would compete, and none intended to yield. The jousts were harder, the blows fiercer, the falls louder, and the crowd greeted each outcome with resounding cries.

By the end of the second day, after many clashes, the victor of the tourney was Ser Liven Martell. He held the saddle confidently, overcame all opponents, and earned the respect of both spectators and judges. King Aerys personally gave him the prize and announced his acceptance into the Kingsguard.

The crowd greeted the news with approving cries. Rhaegar himself, watching, felt a new surge of inspiration. He realized: his path to sword and lance was only just beginning.

A day later another stage of the tourney was organized. This time the knights fought on foot in hand-to-hand combat. Each could choose any weapon — sword, mace, halberd, or axe.

Prince Rhaegar, together with Toothless, took his place beside his father and mother. The dragon watched attentively, his tail twitching slightly in rhythm with the clash of steel as swords and spears struck shields and armor.

From the very first bouts it became clear: these contests would be far fiercer than the jousts. The knights fought with rage, striving not only to show skill but to crush their opponents. Some even went as far as needless cruelty.

One knight in black armor stood out in particular. His blows were merciless, and with each strike the unease of the spectators grew. In one match his opponent, bleeding heavily, raised his hand in surrender. But the black knight did not stop. Lifting his sword, he prepared to deliver a killing blow.

Prince Rhaegar, horrified by the sight, leapt to his feet and cried to his father:
"Father, this is unacceptable! Order them to stop the fight! This is no war, but a tourney! No one should die at a celebration!"

Aerys, frowning, raised his hand, signaling for the fight to cease. Yet the knight in black had no intention of stopping.

At that moment Toothless, feeling his friend’s fury and the danger, spread his wings and let out a loud, piercing roar. The sound shook the field, and the fighters froze where they stood. The crowd fell silent, watching the dragon warily.

The king seized the pause, stood, and proclaimed loudly:
"These battles must be fought without deaths!" His voice was cold and commanding. "This is a tourney, not a slaughter. Fight, but do not dare leave corpses at my feast."

His words echoed across the stands. Many spectators applauded, expressing approval. Toothless returned to his place beside Rhaegar, and the prince hugged his neck, whispering softly:
"Thank you, brother. You saved me again."

The fights continued, but the warriors grew more cautious. The blows were still hard, but the knights now strove not to cross the line. Yet the knight in black armor seemed not to have learned. In the next duel he once more threw down his opponent, who clearly yielded, but still raised his axe for the final strike.

Before he could bring it down, Toothless’s jaws opened and a bright ball of plasma shot into the air. It streaked straight toward the knight’s head. A flash of light — and the body in black armor collapsed to the ground. The helm shattered, and the man within was killed instantly.

The crowd froze in dead silence. Even the drunkest guests realized they had witnessed not just a tournament, but a judgment.

King Aerys rose and said coldly:
"This is what happens to those who dare disobey the king."

His words rang sharp and clear. No one dared object. The spectators exchanged glances, understanding that a lesson had been given — and a terrible one.

Prince Rhaegar, still shaken by what he had seen, pressed his head against Toothless and whispered:
"You did the right thing. I am proud of you."

The dragon rumbled softly, as if in agreement.

After this incident, the rules of the tourney were changed. It was strictly decreed that battles must end at once when defeat was acknowledged. Judges and squires were to watch closely, and knights were bound to show honor and mercy toward opponents.

After the tournaments and contests were finished, a Royal Ball was held in the Red Keep. This event gathered the finest representatives of Westerosi nobility beneath its vaulted ceilings. The vast halls shone with the light of a thousand candles, their flames reflected in crystal chandeliers and mirrors. The atmosphere was solemn and festive, but not overly pompous — fitting for the king’s court.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, clad in attire sewn specially for the evening, immediately drew attention. He wore a dark burgundy doublet embroidered with silver threads in the shape of dragons — the sigil of his house. A white shirt with neat lace cuffs highlighted his youth and noble bearing. Black velvet trousers and tall boots completed the look. A light cloak of thin silk shimmered with red and black hues, reminding all of his Targaryen lineage.

Toothless, as always beside the prince, attracted no less attention than his master. Caught up in the festive atmosphere, he rose on his hind legs and began awkwardly to dance, mimicking Rhaegar’s movements. His attempts to copy his friend’s steps drew laughter and smiles from the guests. Each time the dragon stumbled and then found the rhythm again, the audience greeted it with applause.

Music filled the hall, and Rhaegar courteously changed partners. He danced with his mother, Queen Rhaella, and then with ladies of the court. His movements, though not yet perfect, showed lightness and attentiveness to each partner.

"Your Highness, you dance with such ease," said one noble lady as he guided her confidently across the floor.
"Prince Rhaegar, you are a true gentleman," added another, smiling openly.

Rhaegar blushed slightly at such words but replied politely and reservedly:
"Thank you. You are too kind to me."

Meanwhile, Toothless, noticing that all eyes were on his friend, tried to draw attention to himself and moved even more energetically. His “dances” caused a new wave of merriment, and many guests now watched not only the prince but also the dragon, clearly enjoying their unusual duet.

The ball lasted late into the night. Music, laughter, and lively talk did not cease. But most of all, the courtiers spoke of Rhaegar and his dragon. Their joint appearance at the ball and Toothless’s “dance” remained long a topic of conversation and jest. Many agreed that the evening would be remembered by all for a long time.

The next day after the royal ball a tragedy struck the Red Keep: Lord Tytos Lannister, head of House Lannister, died in the night. He was found on the staircase leading to his chambers. According to the servants, he suffered a heart attack, and aid came too late. The news of his death spread through the castle before dawn, stirring confusion and rumors at court.

That morning Prince Rhaegar spent time with other children of noble houses. In his company were Mace Tyrell, Arthur Dayne, Robert Baratheon, Brandon Stark, Elia and Oberyn Martell, Jon Connington, and several other young heirs. They watched Toothless’s flights. The dragon rose into the sky, glided easily above the Red Keep, and performed pirouettes, inspiring awe in all the children.

"How he holds himself in the air, like a bird!" exclaimed Robert Baratheon.
"He does not merely fly, he plays," added Arthur Dayne, squinting against the sun.

Rhaegar smiled, proud of his friend. Toothless felt the attention and joy of the spectators, and so he flew with particular grace, sometimes dipping almost to the ground, then soaring back up again.

After the fun outdoors, the children headed back to the castle. And on the way they became witnesses to a scene that shocked them all. Through the streets of King’s Landing a young woman was being led. She was completely naked, desperately trying to cover her body with her hands. She was dragged by the arms and forced to shout:
"I am a whore!"

The townsfolk looked on: some laughed, some hurled insults, and some simply watched in silence.

Rhaegar stopped, paling, and asked one of the knights escorting them:
"Who is this woman? Why is she being treated so?"

"This is the former mistress of Lord Tytos, Your Highness," the knight replied, averting his eyes. "After his death she was sentenced to shame for her conduct at court."

The prince remembered having seen this woman recently. She always held herself arrogantly and provocatively, wore rich clothes and jewels that belonged to Tytos’s wife. This had irritated many and, above all, stirred the hatred of the Lannister children. Rhaegar understood their anger: he himself would never have allowed a stranger to wear what belonged to his mother. But seeing her in such a state was painful.

He thought: who was truly humiliated? The woman herself — or Lord Tywin, whose name was now unwillingly tied to this shameful scene?

"No one deserves this," Rhaegar said quietly, struggling to find words. "This is too much."

His voice carried both compassion for the unfortunate woman and contempt for her past conduct. Toothless, sensing his friend’s feelings, let out a low, drawn-out sound, as if confirming his thoughts.

This scene left a deep mark on the young prince’s soul. For the first time he saw how cruel the court could be, and he realized that behind the splendor and wealth of the nobility often lay humiliation, injustice, and inhumanity.

Chapter Text

For several days following the intense events at the Red Keep after the grand celebration, young Prince Rhaegar found himself deep in thought and contemplation. Seeing how difficult it was for him to cope with the pressures of the royal court, Queen Rhaella approached King Aerys with a request: to allow their son and his dragon to go to Dragonstone.

“Let him grow there, away from the courtly intrigues,” she said gently. “That place will suit Toothless as well, allowing him to strengthen and mature. Besides, Rhaegar now has more eggs; they need to be nurtured in a quiet and safe environment. Dragonstone is the perfect place for this.”

“As the Prince of Dragonstone, he should know his ancestral seat and learn to manage it,” added Lord Tywin Lannister, the new head of House Lannister, who was preparing to return to the Westerlands with his family to address the problems plaguing his lands and bring the unruly lords back in line.

Tywin deeply wished to have the prince and his dragon as his wards at Casterly Rock, to bind the prince to his house. However, he couldn’t afford such a move. The Westerlands were in shambles, and even the magnificent celebration arranged by the king had not resolved the strained relations between the crown and its most loyal vassals. As soon as his father passed away, most of the Westerland lords left the Red Keep, and Tywin now faced the task of "disciplining" those who had misbehaved during his father’s weak rule. Bringing the prince into such an environment could put him in danger. For this reason, Tywin left his pregnant wife behind in the Red Keep.

The king, initially against the idea, eventually agreed, adding, “But he won’t go alone. Let other children, worthy of being raised under the crown, accompany him.”

Thus, it was decided that alongside Rhaegar and Toothless, the following children would accompany them to Dragonstone: Lord Mace Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, a sturdy boy with an endlessly friendly smile and thick chestnut hair; Lord Arthur Dayne, the second son of House Dayne, with striking purple eyes and dark hair characteristic of the Daynes; Princess Elia Martell, daughter of Princess Myriah Martell, a delicate and sensitive girl with a slim build, black hair, black eyes, and olive skin, whose smile was always genuine; and Lord Jon Connington, the son and heir of Armond Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost, a boy with icy blue eyes and auburn-red hair.

All these children were chosen by the queen herself (with Toothless’s implicit approval). The king wanted to add a few more children to the prince’s retinue, but the queen and the Hand convinced him otherwise. The prince spent most of his time with Toothless rather than with people, and the dragon didn’t allow many to approach him. Recently, after the celebrations, several children of the lords had suffered injuries from the dragon. When King Aerys himself tried to pet Toothless, the dragon growled and hissed at him, refusing to let him come closer.

The king didn’t care much about the injuries to the children, but the queen and the Hand were concerned. The dragon was becoming aggressive and irritable around people and might attack anyone except Prince Rhaegar, Queen Rhaella, Ser Barristan, and the servants who fed him. To prevent further accidents, it was decided to send the prince and his dragon to Dragonstone, along with the crown’s wards.

For Rhaegar, this journey was a cause for both excitement and anticipation. Despite Dragonstone being the ancestral seat of his family, he had never been there. He couldn’t wait to visit the place and see the castle built by Valyrians.

“This is where the history of my house began,” he once said to Toothless, sitting in his room and reading to him. “I’ve read that our ancestors came here from Valyria. It’s not just a castle; it’s the ancestral home of the Targaryens, and the heirs of the house bore the title of Prince of Dragonstone. How I wish to see this island.”

The castle, carved from black stone using magic and shaped like a dragon, called to him with its mystery.

“There were dragons there, brother,” he whispered to Toothless. “Real dragons, like you. I want to see those walls, feel how they breathed and lived.”

His mother, Rhaella, was also preparing for the journey. At the prince’s request, she and her ladies-in-waiting, including the pregnant Lady Joanna Lannister, would accompany him to Dragonstone. The queen’s face was calm and joyful; she felt relieved at the thought of her son being far from the intrigues of the Red Keep and herself finally being away from her brother-husband, surrounded by those dearest to her.

“You’ll be happy there, Rhaegar,” she told him one evening before their departure. “It’s a place where you can do what you wish without being bothered by other children.”

She turned to Toothless and stroked his head lovingly. “And you, my youngest boy,” she said with affection. “You’ll be happy there too and can grow into a big and strong dragon.”

Toothless, as if understanding her words, purred softly, leaped onto Rhaegar’s bed, lay beside him, wrapped his tiny brother in his limbs, and coiled his tail around the prince’s legs, protecting him even in sleep.

The children who were to accompany the prince were equally eager for the journey. Mace kept telling everyone how he dreamed of seeing the ocean. Jon silently observed the preparations, but his eyes gleamed with excitement at the thought of visiting Dragonstone. Arthur and Elia were quiet, bidding farewell to their parents and listening to their advice.

For all of them, the journey symbolized something new: for Hiccup, it was a chance to feel closer to his new ancestors, see a new island, and spend time with Toothless; for the other children, it was an opportunity to strengthen their friendship with the heir to the throne and gain new knowledge.

They boarded the ship in the evening and arrived by morning. The day began with the cries of seagulls and the gentle sound of waves lapping against the ship’s hull. The bright sun slowly rose over the horizon, painting the sea in golden-pink hues. The children gathered on deck, marveling at the majestic sight: Toothless soared high in the sky, his wings slicing gracefully through the air as his shadow glided smoothly over the water’s surface.

“He flies so beautifully,” Arthur Dayne remarked, looking up in awe.

“Look at him turning!” added Jon Connington, pointing at the dragon’s intricate maneuver.

Prince Rhaegar stood by the rail, holding a spyglass pointed toward the distance. His eyes sparkled with genuine delight.

“Brother, you look magnificent,” he whispered, lowering the spyglass and watching Toothless circle the ship once more, letting out a satisfied roar.

Moments later, the silhouette of the island began to emerge on the horizon. At first, it was just the outlines of rocks, but as the ship drew closer, Rhaegar directed his spyglass toward the island and fixed his gaze on the magnificent castle carved from black stone.

“There it is,” the prince breathed.

Dragonstone. The castle built by his ancestors, resembling a massive dragon guarding the island. The towers, walls, and even battlements appeared like the scales of the mythical beast.

“It looks alive,” Rhaegar added, passing the spyglass to Elia Martell, who eagerly took it to have a look.

“It looks so... scary,” she whispered, handing the spyglass to Mace, who had been pestering her for a turn.

“Wow, the castle looks like a giant dragon,” Mace Tyrell said, trying to see the details with his naked eyes.

Rhaegar felt a shiver run down his spine, tinged with nostalgia. This was not just a place—it was a symbol of their lineage, their strength, their history. The last island he had called home was Berk. A wave of nostalgia and memories washed over him. Dragonstone would likely become his new Berk, his new home.

Flying above the sea, Toothless suddenly slowed, his wings taut. Lifting his head, he let out a deep roar that echoed across the sky. He felt something extraordinary, something powerful.

His indigo eyes gleamed as though illuminated from within. Flying ahead of the ship, he soared over the island, sensing the ancient magic that infused every stone of the place.

“I can feel something,” Rhaegar said, gazing at the island. “This place is special.”

Toothless, after completing another circle over the port town, dove lower, surveying the island. He emitted soft sounds as though conversing with something invisible—the essence of the place itself—taking in the air filled with sulfurous smoke and a hint of salty sea breeze.

When he rose back to altitude, his movements became more fluid, his gaze more confident. It was the feeling of returning home.

The ship drew closer to the island, and now Dragonstone was visible to all the children. But Rhaegar couldn’t contain his excitement.

“This isn’t just a castle!” he declared to his friends. “This is the House of Dragons.”

Rhaegar lifted the spyglass again, studying the details of the castle, its towers, and the majestic statues carved into the shapes of dragons.

“When we arrive,” he added quietly, looking at Toothless, who was already circling above the castle, “I promise, we’ll make this place worthy of us.”

And the dragon, as if hearing these words, let out a powerful roar, greeting the island that was now their home.

The ship dropped anchor at the Dragonstone dock, and the wooden gangplank clattered onto the shore. Prince Rhaegar was the first to step onto the land, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight, and his dark indigo eyes alight with excitement. Following him, Toothless gracefully landed beside him, his indigo eyes carefully scanning the surroundings, his wings quivering slightly, ready for flight at a moment’s notice.

On the shore, they were met by the local inhabitants and castle servants. Among them were fishermen, guards, and even a few children who watched the ship’s arrival from a distance.

When Toothless landed, the crowd froze. People stood silently, some in awe, others in fear. For a moment, no one dared to speak.

“Is that… a dragon?” one of the guards finally breathed, an older man with a weathered face.

“A real one,” confirmed another, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Gods, I thought they were gone forever,” whispered an elderly woman, clasping her hands to her chest.

Toothless, sensing the attention, tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp and penetrating. He let out a soft growl, almost as if greeting the gathered onlookers.

“He’s not dangerous,” Rhaegar said with a smile, stroking the dragon’s neck. “This is Toothless, my friend.”

One of the children, gathering his courage, stepped forward.
“Is he really toothless?”

The prince laughed.
“Sometimes he shows them, but only to eat fish.”

The crowd broke into tentative smiles, the tension beginning to dissipate, though the admiration in their eyes remained.

Soon, the procession made its way toward the castle. A long stone road wound through cliffs, the air heavy with the scent of salt and sea. Dragonstone loomed ahead, its grandeur overwhelming. The castle, carved from black stone, gleamed in the sunlight, as if covered in an invisible dew. Every tower, every wall resembled parts of a dragon’s body: gaping jaws, claws, scales, wings.

Toothless paused as they passed the castle walls. Slowly, he raised his head, gazing at the carved dragon figures adorning the fortress. He let out a deep sound, almost a roar, though it carried no menace—more like a greeting.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Rhaegar asked softly, stopping as well.

The dragon glanced at the prince and snorted, his expression seeming to reflect his admiration for the construction.

At the massive gates, they were greeted by the castle’s castellan, an elderly man with a commanding posture and keen eyes. He wore a dark red cloak bearing the Targaryen sigil on his chest. Nearby, several servants held torches.

“Your Grace—my queen, and Your Highness—my prince, welcome to Dragonstone,” the castellan said, bowing deeply. His voice was deep and respectful.

“Thank you, my lord,” the queen replied. She turned to her sons.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, boys?”

Rhaegar nodded in response.
“This place… it’s even more than I imagined.”

The castellan raised his head, his gaze lingering on the dragon.
“And we are honored to welcome your companion. He is the first dragon to set foot on this island in many years.”

Toothless, hearing this, proudly lifted his head, as if understanding the significance of the moment.

When they entered, the grandeur of Dragonstone became even more apparent. High vaulted halls, adorned with dragon carvings, gave the impression that the castle itself was alive. Enormous windows let in light that reflected off the black walls, casting a mystical glow throughout the chambers.

“This is incredible,” Rhaegar whispered, running his hand along the smooth surface of the walls. “It’s so unusual and beautiful here.”

Toothless moved slowly beside him, his paws softly touching the stone floor. Occasionally, he stopped to examine the carved figures or looked up, studying the ceilings. He made quiet noises, as if speaking to the castle itself.

“It seems your dragon likes the castle, my prince,” the castellan said quietly, observing the dragon’s behavior. “Dragonstone has always been tied to magic and dragons.”

Rhaegar smiled, stroking his friend’s neck.
“I think so. He likes our new home on this beautiful island.”

The castle seemed to respond in kind with its silence, filled with a power and mystery they were only beginning to understand.

The majestic castle of Dragonstone, built by Valyrians before the Doom, became an endless source of discovery and inspiration for Prince Rhaegar and his dragon, Toothless. Their explorations of the castle led them to the most iconic places in this ancient stronghold.

When Rhaegar and Toothless entered the Great Hall of Dragonstone, their footsteps echoed in the vast chamber. The walls, made of black obsidian, shimmered faintly in the dim light of torches, casting long shadows that seemed to dance as if alive. The entire hall resembled a giant dragon’s maw: the entrance was shaped like an open jaw, and the ceiling’s design depicted rows of sharp teeth.

Rhaegar paused, unable to tear his gaze away from the massive columns carved in the shape of coiling dragons, their scaly bodies spiraling upward toward the ceiling.

“This is… incredible,” he whispered, looking around in awe. “How did the Valyrians create something like this?”

Toothless, sensing his friend’s wonder, raised his head and let out a soft sound, as if also marveling at the splendor of the hall.

“Look at these dragons, brother,” Rhaegar continued, pointing to the walls. “It feels like they might come to life at any moment.”

Every architectural element of the hall was intricately detailed: dragon wings seemed to frame the walls, while claws, carved from obsidian, appeared to grasp the bases of the columns.

On one wall, rising above the floor, was the throne of the lord or heir, also carved from the same black stone. It was massive, with a high backrest and finely etched patterns.

Curious, Rhaegar approached, his fingers brushing the cold surface.
“This must be where my ancestors sat,” he said, his voice thoughtful.

Toothless circled the throne, tilting his head as if testing its strength.

“Well, brother, what do you think? Should I try it out?” Rhaegar asked with a smile, glancing at the dragon.

Toothless snorted softly, as though giving his approval.

The prince slowly sat on the throne, his back straight, his hands resting on the massive armrests. He felt a strange energy emanating from the stone, as if the throne held the memories of those who had sat upon it before.

“I feel… strange,” Rhaegar admitted, frowning slightly. “It’s very uncomfortable, but I bet this throne is much better than the Iron Throne.”

Toothless, as if sharing his emotions, gently nudged the prince’s hand with his nose.

“But you know, brother,” Rhaegar continued, smiling, “I think we could make ourselves worthy of this place.”

They spent a few more moments in silence, soaking in the grandeur of the hall. The massive walls adorned with dragon carvings and the enigmatic atmosphere stirred a mixture of reverence and responsibility in Rhaegar.

“Toothless, we’ll make this place a new beginning,” he said softly. “There will be dragons here again, and we’ll write a new chapter in the history of this world.”

Toothless let out a quiet roar, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight, as if he could already see the future his friend envisioned.

When Rhaegar and Toothless entered the Chamber of the Painted Table, their footsteps echoed in the circular hall. The dim torchlight played upon the black stone walls, creating an atmosphere of mystique. At the center of the room stood the famous Painted Table, commissioned by Aegon the Conqueror himself.

The table, carved from a single massive piece of wood, occupied nearly the entire space of the chamber. Its surface was intricately detailed, depicting the entirety of Westeros—from the North to Dorne, from the Narrow Sea to the Stormlands, with no borders drawn between them.

Rhaegar froze for a moment, awestruck by the magnificence of the artifact.
“This table... it’s a giant map, brother,” he murmured, scanning it with his eyes.

Toothless, intrigued by his friend’s reaction, stepped closer, his claws softly tapping the stone floor.

Rhaegar ran his hand slowly over the table’s surface, tracing the outline of Gulltown, King’s Landing, and other places he recognized from books and lessons.
“This is where Aegon the Conqueror planned his great conquest,” he said, circling the table. “He studied this map, deciding which lands to bring under his rule and where to position his armies.”

Toothless let out a low rumble, as if sensing the significance of the moment.

“Look here, brother,” Rhaegar said, pointing to the northern part of the map. “This is Winterfell, the home of the Starks. Torrhen Stark was the only king to surrender to the Targaryens without a fight. That’s how he saved his people, ensuring they returned home alive and unharmed.”

He walked to another side of the table, gesturing to the south.
“And here is Dorne, the only kingdom that resisted him. But over time, they joined the crown through marriage.”

Toothless tilted his head slightly, studying the table with his indigo eyes. His tail slid slowly along the floor, as if the dragon were trying to grasp the connection between this map and his friend’s history.

Rhaegar paused at the central part of the table, where King’s Landing was carved. Placing his hand on the spot, he began to narrate to Toothless:
“Aegon and his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys, arrived here with three dragons: Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar, and Meraxes. They nearly conquered the entire continent.”

His voice brimmed with reverence and awe.
“Balerion the Black Dread was the largest and most fearsome of them all. His shadow could cover an entire city, and his black flames could melt stone and iron. I wonder how he lived on this island. He was also the only dragon to survive the Doom of Valyria. And Visenya... she was a warrior unlike any other. The Conquerors built their plans of conquest around this very table.”

He circled the map, pointing to places where pivotal events had occurred.
“Here, at Blackwater Bay, they landed on the shore. It was here that the capital was born—first named Aegonfort and later renamed King’s Landing. Aegon understood that to unite the kingdoms, he needed not just power but also a symbol—the Iron Throne.”

Toothless let out a quiet growl, his tail gently thumping the floor as if reflecting the pride and faint disdain he felt through his friend’s storytelling.

“They bore the weight of responsibility for this entire world,” Rhaegar continued, circling the table. “And now, brother, here we stand. This responsibility is ours.”

Rhaegar finished his circuit around the table and stopped in front of Toothless.
“We must remember that this place is the beginning of our story. But together, brother, we will write its next chapter. Just like old times.”

Toothless stepped closer, nudging Rhaegar’s hand gently with his nose, as if in agreement.

In the quiet of this ancient chamber, where plans to conquer the world were once forged, the prince and his dragon felt the strength and responsibility they now shared.

Rhaegar and Toothless curiously approached the Sea Dragon Tower, which rose near the island’s edge. Its architecture was astonishing: it resembled a massive dragon, its curved tail serving as the tower’s foundation, and its open jaws pointing toward the sea as if guarding the island. The stone from which the tower was carved gleamed in the sunlight, and the intricate details—teeth, claws, and scales—gave it a menacing appearance.

“This really looks like a living dragon,” Rhaegar said, running his hand over the cold stone wall. “Imagine, brother, what it must have been like for my ancestors to live here, feeling as if dragons, even stone ones, protected their home.”

Toothless, as if understanding the mention of dragons, tilted his head and let out a low hum. He inspected the tower’s jaws, as if testing whether they were truly alive.

Inside, the Sea Dragon Tower was cold and austere. Narrow windows shaped like dragon’s eyes let in limited light, creating an aura of grim power. Climbing to the top, Rhaegar and Toothless were greeted by a breathtaking view of the endless sea. Waves crashed against the rocks below, and seagulls circled overhead, their cries loud and piercing.

“This must have been where sentinels stood, watching for enemies or passing ships,” Rhaegar said, gazing into the distance. “With dragons, the Targaryens could collect tolls from trade ships passing through this area.”

Toothless spread his wings, testing the wind, and without hesitation, leapt into the air, circling the tower a few times.
“Careful, brother,” Rhaegar called out, laughing. “Don’t scare the gulls, or they might come after you.”

Their next stop was Windspire Tower, located closer to the castle’s center. It stood out for its unique design: its shape mimicked a dragon curled into a ball. The dragon’s claws formed supports, and steam rising from its nostrils added a touch of lifelike vitality.

“They even built towers to look like dragons,” Rhaegar marveled, admiring the intricate details of the façade. “Just look at these wings.”

Windspire Tower was warmer than the Sea Dragon Tower, thanks to underground hot springs that ran beneath the island. Inside, there were carved corridors and chambers adorned with dragon imagery, depicting scenes from the lives of Valyrians.

Toothless entered, carefully examining every detail. His tail slid softly across the floor, and his wings quivered slightly. When he stopped in front of a carved scene depicting a dragon breathing fire, he let out a deep rumble, as if greeting a distant ancestor.

On the upper level of the tower, Rhaegar and Toothless found a small room with a panoramic view. Through the windows, they could see the entire island, from Dragonmont to the castle itself.
“This place feels like it was made to watch over everything,” Rhaegar said, leaning against the windowsill. “Imagine my ancestors standing here, looking out at their dragons flying over the island.”

Toothless, hearing this, raised his head and let out a long roar that echoed through the tower.

The Sea Dragon and Windspire Towers became more than just architectural marvels for Rhaegar and Toothless; they symbolized the grandeur of their house. In every corner, there was a sense of ancient power, and every ornament reminded them of the dragons that once ruled the skies of Westeros.

“You can really feel the history here,” Rhaegar said, stroking Toothless’s neck. “This place doesn’t let you forget who we are.”

Toothless snorted, his indigo eyes gleaming with the reflected majesty of their ancestral home.

The Garden of Aegon on Dragonstone was situated on a small hill behind the castle. Despite the island’s harsh climate, the garden was lush and vibrant, thanks to underground hot springs that warmed the soil and nurtured the plants. Trees with dark foliage, pines, low shrubs, and a variety of rare flowers filled the air with a subtle fragrance unusual for the rocky island.

Prince Rhaegar, along with Toothless and the children of noble lords serving as wards of the Iron Throne, strolled through the garden. Among them were Mace Tyrell, Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell, and Jon Connington.

The children walked along winding garden paths, surrounded by rare trees and bright bushes. At the center of the garden was a small pond bordered by stone benches, and in the distance, they could see a gazebo draped in ivy.

“Such beautiful flowers grow here!” Elia remarked, examining a bright red bloom under a tree.

“It’s all thanks to the hot springs,” Rhaegar explained. “Without them, this place would be just a stony wasteland.”

Elia Martell stopped near a rare bush with silvery leaves, inhaling its fragrance.
“This is so lovely!” she said.

Toothless, never far from the group, followed behind Rhaegar. His attention was caught by bright butterflies fluttering above the bushes. Moving quietly and carefully, the dragon tried to catch one with his tail, eliciting giggles from the children.

“He’s like a big cat,” Elia laughed, watching Toothless’s attempts.

“But much smarter,” Rhaegar added with a glance at his friend. “Sometimes he just likes to be carefree.”

Toothless finally managed to nudge one of the butterflies with his nose. It flew upward, and the dragon watched it go, letting out a contented growl.

They approached the pond, its surface reflecting the gray-blue sky. Ducks floated on the water, and small fish could be seen darting beneath the surface.
“This pond reminds me of one of the gardens at Highgarden,” Mace Tyrell said, leaning down to dip his hand into the water.

Rhaegar sat on a stone bench and began to share with his friends:
“Aegon the Conqueror used this garden for meditation. They say he spent a lot of time here, thinking about how to unite Westeros.”

“He must have loved this place,” Elia said quietly, sitting down beside the prince.

“He definitely had a love for dragons and power,” Arthur added, glancing at Toothless, who was intently watching the fish in the pond.

Soon, the group began playing tag. Arthur and Jon dashed around the bushes, trying to catch each other. Mace attempted to craft a crown from leaves, calling himself the king, while Elia picked a few flowers to give to Rhaegar.

Toothless joined the game, jumping after the children and pretending to catch them with his tail.
“He’s better at this than you, Arthur,” Jon teased, dodging the dragon’s tail.
“That’s because he has wings!” Arthur retorted, laughing.

Rhaegar watched his friends and his dragon, feeling the warmth of the moment fill his heart.

As the sun began to set, its golden rays bathed the garden in warm hues. The children gathered around the pond, tired but happy. Toothless curled up beside Rhaegar, resting his head on the prince’s lap.

“This garden... it’s not like the rest of the island,” Rhaegar said, looking at his friends.

Toothless purred softly, and the children relished the final moments of the day in silence, surrounded by the garden’s beauty and the deepening bonds of their friendship.

The early morning on Dragonstone began unexpectedly for Prince Rhaegar. Before the first rays of sunlight illuminated the black walls of the castle, Toothless, brimming with energy, leapt onto his friend's enormous bed.

The dragon purred softly, like a big cat, and edged closer, nudging his nose against Rhaegar's face.
“Brother... it’s too early,” Rhaegar mumbled, turning on his side and trying to hide from his insistent companion.

But Toothless was relentless. He began licking the prince’s face with his warm, rough tongue, then gave him a playful nudge with his snout.
“All right, all right, I’m getting up!” Rhaegar laughed, opening his eyes and gently pushing the dragon aside.

Rhaegar’s room in Dragonstone was spacious and richly adorned, reflecting the legacy of House Targaryen. The high vaulted ceilings were carved with images of dragons soaring above the lands. The black stone walls were decorated with tapestries depicting scenes from the family’s history: from Aegon’s Conquest to the might of Balerion the Black Dread.

At the center of the room stood an enormous canopy bed draped with soft silk blankets in the red and black colors of House Targaryen. In one corner, large chests held the prince’s belongings, and nearby, on a specially crafted platform, sat incubators containing dragon eggs—gifts from the priests of R’hllor and the Magister of Essos.

Rhaegar approached the incubators, carefully inspecting each egg. They shimmered in the dim morning light, their surfaces glowing with shades of green, gold, black, blue, and silver.

He remembered them all: Hookfang, Stormfly, Barf and Belch, Meatlug, Skrill, Thunderdrum, Cloudjumper, Scullcrusher and Windshear. There was also the red-and-black egg, which brought to mind a dragon he didn’t wish to think about. As for the white egg, it remained a mystery. Could it belong to a Light Fury, Snow Wraith, or perhaps even the great Bewilderbeast? However, the eggs gifted by Magister Illyrio were unfamiliar to him.

“Maybe these eggs are from this world?” he wondered aloud, stroking the black egg.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, touching one of the eggs. “I’m sure they’ll come to life someday too.”

Toothless, sitting nearby, tilted his head, observing his friend’s actions.

Rhaegar quickly dressed in simple attire: a light shirt, comfortable trousers, and boots suitable for exploring the island. He enjoyed the freedom of movement, especially when he was with Toothless.

The dragon, now measuring 3.7 meters in length with an impressive 7-meter wingspan, bounded energetically around the room, knocking over nearly everything in his path and adding to the castle staff’s workload.
“You’re growing too fast, brother,” Rhaegar said with a smile, glancing at his friend. “At this rate, you’ll soon outgrow this room—and the castle.”

Toothless snorted with a satisfied purr, seemingly proud of his size.
“I think you’ll grow as big as Balerion the Black Dread someday,” Rhaegar added, chuckling. “Though I hope I’ll still be able to climb onto you.”

The prince and his dragon descended to the kitchen, where the servants were already preparing breakfast. On the long table lay fresh bread, cheese, fruits, and fish—Toothless’s favorite treat.

The dragon eagerly snagged a few pieces of fish, barely waiting for the prince to quietly gather some supplies.
“You eat faster than I can pack,” Rhaegar teased, grabbing a knife, a couple of apples, and some bread.

After their “breakfast,” Rhaegar and Toothless headed to Dragonstone’s shoreline. The morning breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed, and the sound of waves crashing against the black obsidian cliffs filled the air with nature’s melody. The water was crystal clear, revealing silver fish darting among the underwater rocks.

Toothless, full of energy, approached the water, leaned forward, and watched the fish with keen interest. His tail twitched impatiently, and his wings fluttered slightly.
“Thinking of trying your luck at fishing?” Rhaegar chuckled, seating himself on a flat rock near the water.

Without waiting for an answer, Toothless leapt into the water, sending up a spray of droplets. His agility and speed in the water were remarkable. Within seconds, he surfaced with a large fish in his jaws.
“You’re a natural fisherman,” Rhaegar remarked, biting into an apple.

Toothless, pleased with himself, carefully placed the fish at Rhaegar’s feet, as if offering a gift.
“Thanks, but this one’s for you,” Rhaegar said, smiling as he patted his friend’s head.

The dragon gave a cheerful snort and returned to the water to catch another fish.

Not far from the shore, a few fishermen in a small boat noticed Toothless. At first, they froze, awed by his grandeur, but seeing him peacefully fishing, one of them raised a hand and waved to the prince and his dragon.

Rhaegar stood and waved back enthusiastically.
“Look, brother,” he said, pointing at the fishermen. “They’re greeting us.”

Toothless, without breaking from his fishing, briefly flapped his wing in return. The gesture brought smiles to the fishermen’s faces as they continued to watch the dragon in admiration.
“This must be incredible for them,” Rhaegar mused, watching the boat drift toward the village.

The village on Dragonstone lay a short distance from the shore at the base of one of the cliffs. As Toothless soared into the sky to dry his wings, the villagers paused their morning routines to look up.

“It’s a dragon!” a child exclaimed, pointing at the silhouette gliding through the morning sky.

Elders and young women stepped out of their homes to witness the rare sight. Many bowed in respect, while children jumped with excitement, hoping to catch the dragon’s attention.

Toothless noticed them and circled the village, letting out a loud but non-threatening roar—a gesture of greeting. His shadow danced over the ground, causing the villagers to stand still in awe.
“They love you, brother,” Rhaegar said, watching the scene from the shore.

The dragon soared higher, basking in the freedom and attention.

By midday, Rhaegar and Toothless reached the hot springs nestled among the black obsidian cliffs at the heart of the island. Steam gently rose from the water, creating a soft mist that enveloped the area. The sulfuric scent emanating from the springs was strong but not unpleasant, a reminder of the island’s volcanic origins.

The spring formed a natural pool with crystal-clear water that shimmered in the sunlight. The stones around it were warm to the touch, and the water radiated a gentle heat, soothing both body and soul.

"That's simply incredible," Rhaegar said as he approached the hot spring. He removed his boots and cautiously dipped his feet into the warm water. "It's like stepping into a bath."

Toothless, standing beside him, leaned down to sniff the water. He snorted slightly at the unfamiliar smell but, feeling the warmth, cautiously dipped a paw into the spring.

"Well, brother, ready to give it a try?" Rhaegar laughed as he pulled off his shirt and leapt into the water, causing a gentle splash.

Toothless watched his friend, tilting his head as if assessing the depth, and then made a small jump, sliding into the water. His tail moved lazily from side to side, sending ripples across the surface.

Soon, the tranquility of the spring was filled with the sounds of laughter and splashing. Rhaegar, laughing, tried to dodge the waves Toothless created with his powerful movements.

"Are you sure this is a hot spring and not your personal pool?" the prince joked as the dragon, clearly pleased with himself, purred contentedly.

Toothless played like an oversized kitten, scooping water with his paws and tossing it into the air, creating small rainbows that sparkled in the sunlight. Rhaegar joined in, splashing small waves toward the dragon, who caught them mid-air.

"You'll turn into a sea dragon at this rate, brother," Rhaegar teased, diving underwater to avoid another wave sent his way by Toothless's tail. "You’ll be a Sea Fury!"

Toothless spread his massive wings over the water like a sail, striking a dramatic pose as if declaring, "I am a Sea Dragon!"

After their spirited play, both decided to rest. Rhaegar leaned against one of the large stones at the edge of the spring, the warm water gently rocking him. Toothless, equally tired, lay beside him, resting his head on the stone and lazily letting his tail glide through the water.

"It's so peaceful here," the prince said softly, gazing at the white steam rising from the spring. "This island… it seems harsh, but inside, it's alive—just like you."

Toothless purred quietly, his indigo eyes gleaming in the soft light.

"All right, brother, that's your last splash for today," Rhaegar smiled, stroking the dragon's head.

They slowly made their way into the forest, enjoying the natural stillness and the sense of calm the hot springs had left behind. The springs had become another symbol of the hidden vitality and strength of Dragonstone.

By the time the sun began descending toward the western sky, Rhaegar and Toothless reached a small forest not far from the hot springs. Forests were rare on Dragonstone, and their stark beauty left an impression. Tall pines and shrubs created an unusual landscape, the ground carpeted with soft moss and occasional wildflowers peeking through the roots.

The air was cool, filled with the scent of pine and damp earth. A gentle breeze rustled the branches, creating a soothing whisper that accompanied their walk.

"It's so quiet here," Rhaegar said, glancing around. "I wonder if there are any animals."

Toothless walked alongside him, his indigo eyes studying the surroundings intently. His tail occasionally brushed against the shrubs, scattering a few rare leaves to the forest floor.

After a while, they noticed movement in the bushes. Rhaegar froze and gestured for Toothless to stop. A small rabbit leapt out of the undergrowth, froze for a moment upon seeing them, and then bolted.

Toothless reacted instantly. His tail struck the ground as he sprang forward, quickly catching the prey. Moments later, he proudly raised his head, holding the rabbit in his jaws, and trotted back to Rhaegar.

"You’re incredibly quick, brother," the prince chuckled, patting the dragon’s neck. "I think you’ve earned your reward."

A little later, Toothless caught another rabbit, and they made a small camp in the heart of the forest. With Toothless’s help, Rhaegar lit a fire.

The flames crackled brightly, casting shadows on the tree trunks. Rhaegar skewered the rabbits on sticks and carefully turned them over the fire to cook the meat evenly. Toothless sat nearby, his tail swaying lazily as his indigo eyes followed every move of his friend.

Toothless purred softly, his gaze fixed on the rabbits, which were beginning to emit a mouthwatering aroma.

"Patience," Rhaegar teased, noticing his friend’s eagerness. "It’ll be ready soon."

When the meat was cooked, Rhaegar took the skewers off the fire and handed one of the roasted rabbits to Toothless. The dragon, delighted, grabbed his share and began eating enthusiastically. Rhaegar took a bite, savoring the simplicity of their meal.

"This is our first meal together in the wild," Rhaegar said with a smile. "I think we’ll remember it for a long time."

Toothless, hearing his words, purred contentedly and gently nudged Rhaegar’s shoulder with his nose.

The sunset on Dragonstone was an unforgettable sight. From the top of the towering cliffs, kissed by foaming waves, the view stretched endlessly over the sea. The massive crimson-gold disc of the sun slowly sank below the horizon, painting the sky and water in warm, vibrant hues.

Rhaegar sat at the edge of the cliff, hugging his knees, while Toothless rested beside him. The dragon’s wings were folded, his tail rhythmically tapping the ground, and his indigo eyes seemed to catch every shade of the dying light.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it, brother?" Rhaegar asked softly, stroking Toothless’s neck.

Toothless rumbled low, a sound of agreement and contentment.

The silence and majesty of the sunset drew them both into memories. Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on the horizon, but his mind wandered to another time and place.

"You know, sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday," he began, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "I’m talking about Berk… our home."

Toothless tilted his head slightly, listening intently to his friend.

"I remember flying over its green hills, racing with our friends. Astrid... she was always there, always supporting me, no matter what. I miss my wife and our children," Rhaegar’s voice faltered briefly.

"I remember the first time I met you… tied up and scared. You reminded me of myself. That’s when I knew I couldn’t be a dragon killer. That’s why I let you go, and you let me go. We met again in the gorge. And then again and again. I stayed with you almost until sunset. Then I brought you fish, and you repaid me the same way. We drew each other. You hated it when anyone stepped on your drawings. That was when I earned your trust, and that night, I made your tail. I’ll never forget that moment, brother."

Toothless purred softly, nuzzling Rhaegar’s shoulder. He, too, missed those times, remembering his flights in the Hidden World and his return to Berk, now inhabited by people who no longer remembered dragons.

"And Gobber," Rhaegar added with a slight smile. "Those antics of his… Do you remember when he tried to find a new job after the war with the dragons ended?"

The dragon rumbled, as though recalling those moments fondly.

"And my father… Stoick. He was so strong, so stubborn. I always thought he didn’t understand me, but…" Rhaegar paused, taking a deep breath. "But he always believed in me."

Toothless, sensing his friend’s sorrow, wrapped his tail around Rhaegar, offering comfort.

"And my mother… Valka," Rhaegar continued, his voice softening. "Her love for dragons, her freedom… She would understand us here, brother. She would be proud of you. I understand now why she chose to live the way she did. Dragons are a force like no other, and they shouldn’t fall into the hands of men, whether good or bad."

Rhaegar fell silent for a moment, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear below the horizon.

"I miss them all," he said at last. "Our friends, our home, the way the world was when dragons flew through the skies."

Toothless let out a short roar, full of support and shared longing.

"— But we can't live in the past, can we?" Rhaegar turned to Toothless. "We have this world, this island, and we have each other."

Toothless tilted his head, his eyes glinting in the light of the first stars appearing in the sky.

"— We'll build something new here, brother," the prince continued. "We'll make those who were dear to us proud, even if they're no longer with us."

The sunset transitioned into a night sky, filled with a canopy of stars. Rhaegar and Toothless sat in silence, savoring the moment.

"— Thank you for being here," Rhaegar said quietly, wrapping his arms around Toothless's neck.

Toothless gently nuzzled the prince's shoulder, a gesture that conveyed friendship, loyalty, and deep understanding.

On the cliff, high above the sea, they felt at one with the world, ready to move forward despite the pain of the past.

By the time Rhaegar and Toothless returned to Dragonstone, the sky was dark, and the stars twinkled brightly in the quiet of the night. The prince and dragon made their way along the rocky path leading to the castle. In the distance, the sounds of commotion echoed—something was happening within the castle walls.

As they approached, a guard rushed out to meet them, his face tense but his eyes filled with relief.

"— Prince Rhaegar!" he exclaimed, running up to them. "Where have you been? We were so worried!"

Rhaegar was momentarily taken aback by the guard’s reaction but quickly pieced together what had occurred.

"— We were just walking," he replied calmly. "Exploring the island."

The guard exhaled deeply, nodding. "— The queen and Ser Barristan ordered a search party to find you. They thought you’d been abducted. I’m to escort you to the Great Hall immediately."

Rhaegar and Toothless followed the guard, their footsteps echoing through the corridors as they made their way to the heart of the castle. The Great Hall, usually quiet and majestic, was now buzzing with activity. Servants scurried about their tasks, and knights and guards with worried expressions exchanged hurried whispers.

As soon as Rhaegar entered the hall, his eyes met those of Queen Rhaella, who stood by one of the great pillars. Her face was lined with worry, but the moment she saw her son, her expression melted into relief.

"— Rhaegar!" she cried, rushing toward him. Breaking all etiquette, she knelt and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "I was so scared! Where were you?"

Rhaegar felt the warmth of her embrace, her care, and despite his weariness, he smiled, gently patting her shoulder.

"— Mother, it's all right," he reassured her. "Toothless and I were just exploring the island. We didn’t realize how long we’d been gone." His tone carried guilt, as the day’s excitement had made him forget the worry they might cause.

Toothless, noticing the queen, let out a soft sound as he approached, wagging his tail slightly in gratitude for her concern. He settled quietly on the stone floor beside them.

The queen kissed her son’s forehead, rising to her feet. "— We thought you’d been kidnapped. Ser Barristan ordered everyone questioned. The entire castle was in an uproar. I couldn’t stay calm."

When her relief gave way to realization, her face darkened with concern once more.

"— Do you understand that such behavior is unacceptable? We were all worried about you," she said with a heavy sigh, her eyes searching her son’s. "Things could have ended poorly if we hadn’t found you."

Understanding her worries were justified, Rhaegar bowed his head. "— I’m sorry, Mother. We didn’t think it would cause such alarm. We were just... curious. We didn’t realize how much time had passed."

Queen Rhaella, gradually calming herself, turned her gaze to Toothless, who lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes observing her calmly, occasionally lifting his head when she addressed him.

"— It was irresponsible of you both," she continued, her tone firm yet tinged with love. "You should feel ashamed for causing the entire castle such distress. But I’m glad you’re safe. Please, next time, if you decide to go on an adventure, at least tell me or Ser Barristan."

Rhaegar nodded, realizing how fortunate they were that this situation had not escalated further. He glanced at Toothless, who seemed to sense the tension in the air and shrank slightly.

Ser Barristan, who had been watching from the corner of the room, stepped forward.

"— I’m relieved you’ve returned, my prince," he said, his voice calm but serious. "We were all worried about you. Even the guards feared something terrible might have happened."

Feeling the weight of the situation, Rhaegar offered a small, apologetic smile. "— We didn’t think our outing would cause such a stir. We were just walking, but I promise we won’t do this again."

Queen Rhaella smiled faintly and kissed him on the forehead once more. "— We must always take care of those we love," she said softly. "But I trust that next time you’ll let me know if you plan to go anywhere, even if it’s just exploring the island."

Toothless raised his head and let out a soft rumble, as if agreeing with the prince. Rhaegar smiled and stroked the dragon’s head.

"— I promise I won’t do it again. Mother, forgive me."

The queen, her expression softening, accepted his apology. "— It’s all right, my son. The important thing is that you’re back."

Ser Barristan, observing the exchange, gestured to the guards to relax and return to their duties, confident that the prince and dragon were safe.

After the commotion in the castle died down, Rhaegar and Toothless returned to their chambers after dinner. They were met with a flurry of questions from the children and the queen’s ladies-in-waiting about their adventure. Finally, Rhaegar collapsed onto his bed, while Toothless settled beside him, still adjusting to find the perfect spot.

"— I suppose we’ll have to be more careful next time," Rhaegar said, stretching out with a contented sigh. "But I’m glad we explored the island."

Toothless snorted, as if to say, "So am I."

Their adventure had come to an end, but it left behind vivid memories. The lessons learned strengthened their bond with each other and their new home.

The following morning, having learned from their previous experience, Rhaegar and Toothless informed the queen of their plans to explore the island after breakfast. Ser Barristan, determined to ensure their safety, volunteered to accompany them on this adventure.

Their path led to Dragonmount—the majestic volcano towering over the island of Dragonstone. It was the volcano’s activity that had formed the island itself. The volcano was still active, its hot maw exhaling pale gray smoke that served as a reminder of nature’s immense power.

The trail to the mountain wound through caves, rocky and twisted, surrounded by sparse vegetation that managed to sprout through the black volcanic soil. The air grew warmer as they approached the volcano, and the sulfuric scent grew stronger, lending an air of mystery to the surroundings.

"Dragons once lived here," Rhaegar explained, looking around. "In the smoky caves of Dragonmount, six dragons once made their lairs, and on the far eastern slope, three wild dragons nested."

Rhaegar imagined the magnificent creatures soaring above these lands. Toothless, feeling a deep connection to this place, remained calm, his indigo eyes carefully observing the environment.

Soon they reached the entrance to one of the caves hidden within the mountain. Inside, it was warm, and the walls glimmered in the light of their torches, reflecting the sheen of obsidian—dragonglass, which was found here in slabs, boulders, and layers. They reached a cliff where the Targaryens had once mounted their dragons.

"This is where the Targaryens would saddle their dragons," Rhaegar said quietly, running his hand over the smooth surface of the obsidian while standing on the cliff. "In the caves under Dragonmount, there were once countless dragon eggs, and even small wild dragons lived here."

Toothless, as if understanding the significance of these words, made a low sound, his wings twitching slightly.

"Perhaps one day dragons will live here again," added Ser Barristan, looking respectfully at Toothless. "If those eggs hatch, these caves won’t remain empty. Until then, it’s home to just one dragon. Isn’t that right, Lord Toothless?"

They descended from the cliff and continued exploring the cave. Along the way, they discovered old nests and tunnels leading deeper into the mountain. Each step revealed new secrets.

As they ventured deeper into the caves of Dragonmount, Rhaegar and Toothless stumbled upon something unusual. In one of the dark tunnels, on the ground among the rocks, lay large fragments of fossilized eggshells. They glinted faintly in the dim torchlight, a reminder of the days when dragons were born here.

"Look, Toothless," Rhaegar said, crouching and carefully picking up a piece of the eggshell. "This must be from one of the eggs that hatched here long ago."

Toothless watched intently, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. The dragon leaned in and gently touched the shell with his nose before lifting his head to scan the area.

A little farther along, they found something else: fragments of bones. The bones were small, curved, and sharp—clearly belonging to a young dragon.

"This place held life," Rhaegar said quietly, holding a small bone in his hand. "But here, too, there is death. And I know who is responsible."

Rhaegar sat on a protruding rock, holding the fossilized piece of shell. Toothless settled beside him, his tail lazily swaying while his eyes stayed fixed on the prince. Ser Barristan examined the walls carefully, as if committing their features to memory.

"Have you ever heard of the Cannibal, brother?" Rhaegar began, his voice low, almost a whisper, as though afraid to disturb the stillness of the place.

Toothless snorted, as if saying no, but showing interest.

"The Cannibal was one of the most dangerous and terrifying dragons the Targaryens ever knew. They say he was enormous, black as obsidian, with green eyes and green fire. He was the oldest of the wild dragons at the time of the Dance of the Dragons."

Rhaegar lowered his voice further to add a sense of drama.

"He was wild, untamed, and never allowed a human to come near him. He lived here, on Dragonmount, and preyed on other dragons. Even the young, freshly hatched ones. He devoured their eggs and destroyed their nests. That’s how he got his name—the Cannibal."

Toothless, listening intently, slightly raised his head, his indigo eyes sparking with excitement.

"The Cannibal was so fearsome that even other dragons were afraid of him," Rhaegar continued. "His green fire could melt stone, and his roar echoed across the island, driving people and beasts alike into hiding."

The prince looked at the eggshell in his hand.

"Perhaps this bone belonged to one of the young dragons he killed, and this shell to an unhatched dragon," he added, sighing with sadness.

When Rhaegar finished his tale, he looked at Toothless, expecting fear or at least unease. But instead, the dragon lazily yawned, showing his sharp teeth, and then let out a low growl filled with confidence and mild disdain.

"Are you scared?" Rhaegar joked, leaning forward slightly.

Toothless snorted, his tail thumping against the ground as if to say, "The Cannibal? That’s it?"

The prince chuckled.

"You’re the bravest soul I know."

Toothless tilted his head, gazing at his friend. In his past life, he had encountered dragons far more fearsome than the Cannibal. Reflecting on the battles he had fought, Toothless realized that the Cannibal, no matter how fearsome, was not a threat that could scare him. One plasma blast to the face, and the Cannibal would be finished.

Rhaegar stood, placing the shell back where he had found it, as if paying respect to a bygone era.

"The Cannibal is long gone, but I’m glad you’re here, brother," he said, looking at Toothless. "You show me that even the scariest legends pale in comparison to reality when you have a friend you can trust."

Toothless purred softly, his indigo eyes glowing in the dim light of the cave. Together, they continued their exploration of Dragonmount, knowing that this place held more secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Daily Life of the Prince and Dragon on Dragonstone

Life on Dragonstone for Prince Rhaegar and Toothless was full of discoveries, training, and moments of friendship. The island, with its rugged nature, rich history, and the warm atmosphere of the castle, became their true home. Every day brought new activities, adventures, and small joys.

Early in the morning, as the sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, Rhaegar, along with the other children, would head to the training ground situated in the shadow of the castle walls. There, they trained under the watchful eyes of the Kingsguard knights, especially Ser Barristan Selmy, who personally taught them the basics of swordsmanship.

"Focus on your stance, children," Ser Barristan would say, pointing to their feet. "If you lose your balance, you’ll be easy to knock down in a fight."

The boys tried their best, but their attention often wandered. Toothless, sitting nearby, watched the training with interest, occasionally making short sounds as if giving advice of his own.

"You’re being too stern with them, Lord Toothless," the knight joked, glancing at the children.

Though the children were beginners, which made mistakes inevitable, they showed great determination. Rhaegar, however, wasn’t just good—he excelled at swordsmanship. The crown prince seemed born to master the sword and revive the dragons.

The maester assigned to Dragonstone tried daily to guide the prince toward knowledge, but Rhaegar was adamant about avoiding subjects he found uninteresting.

"Your Highness, you must learn the genealogies of the great houses," the maester would insist.

"And why do I need that? I’d rather read about travels beyond the Narrow Sea or legends of mysterious creatures," Rhaegar would reply, hiding behind a stack of books he’d chosen from the library.

His favorite subjects included maps, tales of distant lands, animals, mysterious peoples of Essos, and legends of creatures like mermaids, fire serpents, and even ancient dragons belonging to other Valyrian houses.

Toothless, lying nearby, would listen attentively when Rhaegar read aloud.

"Have you heard of the Shadow Forest people?" he once asked the dragon. "They say they worship shadows, and no outsider ever returns from their land."

Toothless merely snorted, clearly more interested in stories about dragons than about people.

Most of Rhaegar’s time was spent with his dragon. Toothless had grown significantly; his wingspan was nearly twice what it had been when they arrived on the island. The prince loved watching his friend fly over the island, performing dizzying maneuvers and circling above the cliffs.

"Your flying keeps getting better, brother," he would say when Toothless landed beside him. "Soon you’ll carry me into the sky, and we’ll fly together."

The dragon would let out a short growl, clearly ready for the adventure, though Rhaegar knew they needed to wait until Toothless grew even stronger.

When they weren’t in the air, they played along the shore, chasing each other or simply lying by the water, listening to the sound of the waves. Sometimes Rhaegar would draw sketches of Toothless, trying to capture every detail of his body. His sketches were crude at first but gradually improved.

On Dragonstone, aside from Rhaegar, lived the children of lords sent as wards of the Iron Throne. Among them were Mace Tyrell, Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell, and Jon Connington.

Rhaegar often gathered them together to play or simply to spend time talking. They held competitions—who could run fastest across the castle courtyard or who could come up with the best legend about something.

Toothless was the star of their games. The children loved watching him leap, roar loudly, or soar into the air.

"I want a dragon too," Jon Connington would say dreamily, gazing at Toothless.

"You can be friends with Toothless," Rhaegar replied.

Though Rhaegar couldn’t work in the forge himself, he enjoyed spending time there, watching the craftsmen at work. Sparks flew through the air, and the sound of hammers striking molten metal filled the space.

"Your Highness, would you like to try?" the blacksmith once offered, handing him a hammer.

Rhaegar took the hammer, feeling its weight, and tried striking the metal. It was harder than he expected, but he enjoyed it.

"I’d like to make a saddle or even armor for Toothless one day," he admitted to the blacksmith.

The blacksmith laughed.
"Your dragon will be the most stylish in Westeros, because his rider outfitted him personally."

Each day on Dragonstone was unique for Rhaegar and Toothless. Their lives were filled with learning, games, adventures, and, most importantly, friendship. The prince and his dragon found joy in small things, overcame challenges together, and, for now, simply enjoyed their second childhood.

Joanna Lannister, a friend and lady-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella, gave birth to a boy and a girl on Dragonstone. The children were named Jaime and Cersei. The castle was filled with joy and congratulations, and the young mother, surrounded by care and warmth, looked happy as she held her babies in her arms.

Rhaegar decided to make a gift for the newborn twins with his own hands. Remembering his skills from his past life, he chose to sew soft toys in the shape of lions, the symbol of House Lannister, just as he had once made simple toys for the children of the servants in the Red Keep.

In the Great Hall of the castle, Rhaegar laid out fabric, thread, and a needle on the table, which he had requested from the servants. Concentrating, he carefully cut the fabric and stitched it into the shape of small lions. His vivid memories of making simple toys and clothes for himself in his past life made the work go smoothly and confidently.

Princess Elia Martell, sitting nearby, watched the process with interest.
"You can sew?" she asked in surprise, leaning closer to observe how he stitched the pieces together.

"Of course," Rhaegar replied with a smile, not looking up from his work. "It’s not difficult if you know how to hold a needle."

"But you’re a prince," she continued, her eyes sparkling with amazement. "I thought princes didn’t do such things."

"Princes can make things with their hands too," he replied with a light smile. "It’s useful, and you know, it feels good to create something for others with your own hands."

Elia continued to watch as he skillfully sewed, stuffing the toys with soft material, crafting little ears, and embroidering eyes with black thread. When the work was finished, Rhaegar proudly presented his creations: two small plush lions.

The news that the prince had sewn the toys himself quickly reached the adults. When the queen heard about it, she was deeply touched.
"That’s so sweet, Your Highness," said one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, holding one of the toys in her hand. "I never imagined a prince could create something so beautiful."

Queen Rhaella, however, was not surprised. She knew her son’s character, his care, craftsmanship, and kindness.
"You never cease to amaze me, my son," she said with a smile, stroking his head. "I’m proud to have such a talented and wonderful son who brings joy to others."

Ser Barristan, standing nearby, gave a reserved smile.
"Your toys will undoubtedly become the twins’ first treasures," he said in a playful tone.

Rhaegar personally delivered the toys to Joanna, who was in her chambers holding the twins. She was gently singing them a lullaby. Rhaegar entered quietly and placed the toys next to the sleeping babies, who had just been fed. Though too young to understand, the twins stirred slightly, sensing the softness.

"I hope they like them," Rhaegar said with a smile.

Joanna, touched by his kindness, leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.
"You’re a wonderful boy, Rhaegar," she said, placing her children in their cradles and setting the new toys beside them. The little Lannisters, though unable to comprehend what had happened, stirred quietly, feeling the warmth and softness of the toys and the care behind them.

Later, when Rhaegar returned to his room, he sat with Toothless for a long time, telling him how rewarding it was to give something made with his own hands.
"They’re too little to remember this day, brother," he said, stroking the dragon’s head. "But maybe someday those toys will remind them how important it is to care for others."

Toothless, lying beside him, purred softly in agreement. This day became another reminder that even small gestures could bring immense joy.

Several months had passed since Toothless made his first flights over Dragonstone. During this time, he had grown and become strong enough to now carry his friend on his back. In less than a year, he had reached his former size: his body length, from nose to tail, measured 8.5 meters, his wingspan reached 16 meters, and he weighed over 425 kilograms.

Prince Rhaegar was eagerly preparing for his first flight on his friend. Based on his designs, the island’s craftsmen had created a leather saddle perfectly suited to the dragon’s back, with sturdy safety straps and space for attaching small travel bags and tools. The saddle was simple yet lightweight, flexible, and comfortable for both the dragon and the rider.

“Well, brother,” Rhaegar said, checking the straps attached to the saddle. “Now you won’t fly alone anymore.”

Toothless let out a joyous roar, spreading his massive wings. He had long awaited this moment, tired of flying solo.

In the castle courtyard, a crowd had gathered. The queen, her ladies-in-waiting, servants, knights, the children of lords, and the common folk working on the island stood holding their breath. Everyone knew that the prince would ride his dragon for the first time, an event that would go down in history as the first dragon rider in over a century and a half.

Queen Rhaella watched from the balcony, her face glowing with pride and concern. Ser Barristan stood off to the side, carefully observing the proceedings, ready to assist at a moment’s notice.

As Rhaegar climbed into the saddle, the crowd erupted into excited murmurs.

“He looks so confident,” whispered one of the knights.

“He is true dragon’s blood,” replied the blacksmith who had made the saddle.

Rhaegar fastened the straps and gently patted Toothless’s neck.

“Ready, brother?” he asked with a smile.

Toothless let out a loud roar, spread his massive wings, and, after a few steps, pushed off the ground. The crowd in the courtyard gasped, watching as the prince and the dragon ascended into the sky.

The wind hit Rhaegar’s face as Toothless gained altitude. They rose above the castle, then over Dragonmont, and finally headed toward the coastline. Waves crashed against the rocks far below, and the sunlight reflected off the water, creating a dazzling and mesmerizing brilliance.

“This is incredible!” Rhaegar shouted, trying to be heard over the wind. His voice was filled with excitement.

Feeling the freedom of the skies, Toothless began performing maneuvers they had once tried in another life. He made sharp turns, dove downward, and then soared back up.

“You still remember how to do this, brother!” Rhaegar laughed, holding tightly to the saddle.

They repeated one of their most memorable maneuvers: Toothless folded his wings tightly and plummeted toward the sea as if intending to crash into it, only to open them at the last moment and soar back into the air. The wind whipped across Rhaegar’s face, but he only laughed, remembering the first time they had done this back on Berk.

“You haven’t changed,” he said softly, stroking the dragon.

As Toothless rose into the sky with Rhaegar on his back, something shifted between them. The strong gust of wind that greeted them at altitude seemed to dissolve the last barriers between them. Rhaegar could feel the dragon’s heartbeat syncing with his own, their breaths merging into one rhythm.

This was a bond beyond words — ancient magic unique to House Targaryen and their dragons.

“I can feel you, brother,” Rhaegar whispered, gripping the straps tighter. “We’re almost completely one now.”

Toothless roared in response, flapping his massive wings, and Rhaegar sensed his thoughts — joy, freedom, and the desire to fly together.

Toothless climbed higher, and they flew over Dragonmont. From this vantage point, it looked even more majestic: hot smoke rose from its crater, and the black obsidian rocks gleamed in the sunlight.

Rhaegar surveyed the island from above, noting the places they had already visited and those still waiting to be explored. Waves crashed against the shore, leaving white foam, and the island’s forests appeared as a dark green sea.

“This… is amazing,” he breathed, realizing how much his perspective on the world had changed.

Toothless, sharing his friend’s emotions, let out a contented roar and began showing off his abilities.

First, the dragon made a sharp ascent, rapidly gaining altitude. The wind battered Rhaegar’s face, but instead of fear, he felt only exhilaration. Then, reaching the peak, Toothless suddenly folded his wings and began a free fall.

“Just don’t drop me!” the prince shouted, laughing.

Toothless spread his wings at the last moment, lifting them both upward, then began spiraling through the air as if dancing.

He executed sharp turns, swooped downward, and then quickly ascended, demonstrating his agility. At one point, he flipped onto his back, allowing Rhaegar to see the sky as it looked “below.”

“You haven’t lost your touch, brother!” the prince said enthusiastically, his voice filled with awe.

The dragon slowed down, spreading his wings and gliding over the island, letting both of them enjoy a moment of peace.

As Toothless headed toward the shore, they flew over the village, where people paused their work to look up. Rhaegar noticed the awe-struck villagers waving at them and waved back.

The sea stretched out before them, its deep blue blending with the horizon. Toothless descended closer to the water, his shadow gliding over the waves.

“Perhaps one day we’ll reach the lands beyond the Narrow Sea, brother,” Rhaegar said, gazing at the endless waters. “Just as we once explored lands beyond our archipelago.”

Toothless descended even lower, lightly touching the water’s surface with his claws, creating splashes. He snorted, as if inviting his friend to share in this joy. Rhaegar leaned slightly to see his reflection in the water.

And he saw it — reflected on the water’s surface was his former self at the age of 15, the first time he had ridden Toothless. A boy with unruly chestnut hair, freckled skin, and bright green eyes, brimming with happiness from flying. Then the image shifted to an 18-year-old young man in leather armor, the age when he first faced serious foes like Viggo and Krogan, discovered countless dragon species, and invented many of his creations. Next came a 20-year-old, clad in a flight suit, his hair braided by his warrior lady — Astrid. Following that was Hiccup, dressed in armor made from Toothless’s scales. Finally, a man with a beard in leather armor appeared. After him came Rhaegar — a 7-year-old boy with silver hair and dark indigo eyes, his pale skin glowing with life.

During these flights, Rhaegar — or Hiccup — felt truly alive. He realized that their bond with Toothless was more than friendship and trust. It was magic, ancient and powerful, connecting dragon and rider on a soul-deep level.

“I feel your joy,” he said, gently touching Toothless’s neck. “You give me strength, brother.”

The dragon responded with a low growl, and Rhaegar knew Toothless felt his emotions too. It was a new but natural sensation, as if they had always been one.

As Toothless made another loop over the sea, Rhaegar suddenly remembered their first flight on Berk.

"Do you remember, brother?" Rhaegar asked, smiling. "Do you remember the first time we took to the skies? How I was terrified we’d crash into the rocks in the mist? But you showed me that the sky and flying are our home, our true element."

Toothless, as if affirming his words, folded his wings and soared upward again before plunging downward, repeating that same maneuver they had performed back then. They glided among the rocks in the mist, then suddenly shot upward, leaving a long trail of air and water spray behind them.

"You haven’t forgotten a thing," Rhaegar said softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

Hours flew by unnoticed. They soared over the island, rediscovering its heights and embracing its wonders, then headed toward the sea. The vast waters seemed endless, and Rhaegar felt that now, with Toothless, he could reach any corner of the world.

"It’s so beautiful here!" he exclaimed, admiring the sunset, which painted the sky in shades of gold and purple.

Toothless let out a soft growl, agreeing with his friend. They slowed their flight, savoring the moment of tranquility.

"Thank you, brother," Rhaegar said quietly. "Without you, I would never have known what true freedom feels like." He spread his arms wide and shouted, "This is what it means to be from the Tribe of Dragons!"

Rhaegar wasn’t of the blood of the dragon; he was of those who carried the soul of the dragon. He wasn’t from the House of Dragons; he was from the Tribe of Dragons. And that was amazing!

As they began their descent toward the castle, the courtyard filled with people once again. The crowd watched with awe as the dragon slowly descended, his massive wings creating powerful gusts of wind that sent dust and leaves swirling through the air.

When Toothless landed softly, Rhaegar, beaming with happiness, unfastened the straps and leaped from the saddle.

The crowd erupted into applause.

"The prince has returned!" joyful cries rang out.

Rhaegar dismounted and stroked Toothless’s neck. Queen Rhaella approached her son and embraced him tightly.

"You look so happy, my dear," she said, smiling.

"I’ve never been happier, Mother," Rhaegar replied. "Flying is incredible!"

Toothless, pleased with himself, rubbed his head against the queen’s legs. She lovingly stroked his head, joyful for her "younger son." His eyes sparkled with happiness, and his tail swayed lazily from side to side.

This flight marked the beginning of a new chapter for Rhaegar and Toothless. Now, they could soar through the skies just as they had in the past. Together, they could overcome any boundary and achieve any dream. The crowd knew they were witnessing the future of House Targaryen, shining as brightly as the sunlit waves of the sea.

The life of Prince Rhaegar and Toothless on Dragonstone was filled with adventures, responsibilities, and precious moments of freedom. Each day was carefully organized but also brimming with improvisation and a thirst for discovery.

Before sunrise, when the castle was steeped in silence, Rhaegar would awaken in his spacious room. Often, he wouldn’t even have the chance to open his eyes before feeling Toothless, softly purring, leap onto his bed, nudging him with his nose or licking his face.

"Brother, can’t you let me sleep just once?" Rhaegar laughed, trying to push the dragon away, who was clearly unwilling to wait.

Upon waking, Rhaegar’s first task was to check the incubators holding the dragon eggs gifted to him during the festivities in King’s Landing. He carefully inspected them, touching their surfaces and checking the temperature gauges.

"Everything’s fine," he said to Toothless, who stood nearby, watching closely. "But someday, we’ll see them hatch."

After inspecting the incubators, they set out for their first flight of the day. The air was cool, and the sky was shrouded in a light mist. Toothless flew over the island, climbing higher and higher, while Rhaegar basked in the first rays of sunlight breaking through the morning gloom.

"This is the best way to start the day, brother," he said as they circled over Dragonmount.

After an hour of flight, they returned to the castle for breakfast.

Breakfast usually consisted of fresh fish for Toothless, and porridge, bread, eggs, and fruit for Rhaegar. Toothless ate his fish straight from the large basins brought specially for him, letting out satisfied noises.

"You always finish your food faster than I do," Rhaegar laughed, watching the dragon. "Maybe you can teach me how to eat that quickly?"

"Toothless, eat neatly," his mother warned. "You might choke, and it’s not polite."

Toothless always listened to her. Because Rhaella treated the dragon like her own son, the court in King’s Landing had given her a new nickname: "Mother of Dragons"—Mother of the Wild Dragon and the Night Fury. Ladies-in-waiting, servants, knights, and others often smiled, watching their interactions.

After breakfast, lessons began. All the lordly children, including Lord Mace Tyrell, Lady Elia Martell, Lord Jon Connington, and Lord Arthur Dayne, gathered in the library. Their maester, handpicked by Lady Olenna Tyrell, was a strict and demanding man.

"Today, we’ll study the history of the great houses of Westeros," he began, unrolling a large book.

But Rhaegar, sitting at his desk, only pretended to listen. He always planned his escape ahead of time. When the maester became distracted, Rhaegar would grab a few books, an inkwell, and some paper, and quietly slip out of the room. Not even the other children noticed his absence.

"Where is the prince again?!" the maester grumbled upon noticing Rhaegar’s empty seat.

No one, however, could stop Toothless, who had grown accustomed to following his friend. Despite orders from the maester, the prince, the queen, and Ser Barristan, the dragon frequently entered the library. His ever-growing size became a problem: his tail accidentally knocked over chairs, or his wings brushed against shelves, causing books to tumble to the floor.

"Toothless, stop it!" the children shouted, but the dragon simply snorted and acted as though nothing had happened.

Rhaegar, meanwhile, would retreat to a balcony or one of the castle’s quiet corners to read about maps, legends, travels, and mysterious creatures.

"One day, we’ll journey to these lands, brother," he said, showing Toothless a map. "The world is much bigger than we think."

After "lessons," Rhaegar and Toothless went on a midday flight. It was their time for freedom. They flew over the coastline, watching seals and marine iguanas swimming in the water, and sometimes played, chasing seagulls.

"Maybe you should stop scaring those poor birds, brother. I don’t think they signed up to be your toys," Rhaegar laughed as he watched the dragon try to catch them.

After lunch, Rhaegar went to train in the courtyard. Among all the children, he and Arthur Dayne stood out the most. They often dueled, competing in agility and skill.

"You’re moving too slowly, my prince," Arthur teased, parrying his strikes.

"But I’m stronger than you!" Rhaegar retorted, making a powerful thrust. In this world, he truly was stronger than in his previous life, likely due to a more varied diet and not being born prematurely.

Arthur became Rhaegar’s closest human friend, and they often talked about their dreams for the future. Toothless sometimes watched their training sessions, lazily lying in the shade, but if anyone approached Rhaegar too aggressively, he would lift his head and emit a threatening growl.

After training, the children would gather with Toothless to explore the island. They played, collected seashells along the shore, or ventured into caves.

"Wow! Who drew this?" Elia asked, examining the demonic figures etched into the obsidian walls of a cave.

"I don’t know," Rhaegar replied, studying the drawings. "Maybe other princes."

Toothless stayed close to the children, carefully following them. He was cautious but still seemed enormous beside them.

As the sun began to set, Rhaegar and Toothless took an evening flight. The sunset painted the sky in vivid hues of orange and purple, and the water shimmered with reflected light.

"I’ll never get tired of these views," Rhaegar said, gazing at the horizon.

After dinner, they checked the incubators again.

"One day, we’ll see these eggs come to life," Rhaegar said, stroking one of them.

The final activity of their day was a nighttime flight. Beneath the starry sky, they soared through the air, enjoying the cool breeze and the silence.

"Oh, how wonderful it is to fly at night!" Rhaegar shouted with excitement, looking at his friend. "You’re amazing, brother!"

Toothless purred softly, as if in agreement, and they returned to the castle to rest and prepare for a new day.

On Dragonstone, flights on Toothless became a cherished event for all the children living in the castle. The dragon was not only a symbol of majesty but also a true friend to the young wards of House Targaryen.

Seeing the excitement on his friends’ faces, Rhaegar offered to give them rides on Toothless’s back. The children eagerly accepted.

“Just don’t go too high, brother,” Rhaegar laughed, looking at Toothless. “We still need these kids in one piece.”

Toothless, sensing the importance of the task, handled each passenger with great care, adjusting his movements to their weight and choosing gentle maneuvers.

Elia, the daughter of Princess Myriah Martell, was delicate and shy, but her eyes sparkled with excitement as she climbed onto Toothless for the first time.

“Are you sure you want to try?” Rhaegar asked, helping her onto the dragon’s back.

“Of course,” she replied with a small smile. “I’m scared, but I trust you and Toothless.”

Rhaegar explained the importance of trust in bonding with a dragon—a lesson she seemed to absorb well.

At Rhaegar’s command, Toothless lifted off into the sky. During the flight, Elia clung tightly to the saddle, her hair flowing in the wind, and her smile growing wider with each passing moment.

“This is so beautiful!” she shouted, looking at the sea below. “He’s amazing!” She gently stroked Toothless’s body, where the saddle didn’t cover.

When Toothless landed gently, Elia looked radiant and inspired.

“Thank you, Rhaegar,” she said, hopping down and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “It was so beautiful, my prince.”

Next in line was Arthur Dayne.

“Can he fly as fast as you do?” Arthur asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

“You’ll have to hold on tight if you want to see what Toothless can do,” Rhaegar smirked.

Toothless, sensing Arthur’s excitement, performed a few sharp turns and a small dive, leaving the youngest Dayne awestruck.

“This… is incredible,” Arthur said, barely able to stand after the flight. “Nothing else compares.”

Mace Tyrell, always eager and impulsive, climbed onto Toothless without waiting for an invitation, earning the dragon’s annoyed growl.

“Easy, brother,” Rhaegar soothed Toothless, meeting the dragon’s eyes.

Rhaegar had noticed changes in Toothless’s temperament since arriving at Dragonstone. In the Red Keep, the dragon’s irritation seemed to stem from constant attention, but now it was clear that Toothless remained wary and distrustful of people. Perhaps his years in the wild had made him less accustomed to human interaction, or maybe he had inherited traits from the dragons of this world. His rapid growth, eye color, and readiness to attack at the first sign of danger hinted at something deeper.

“He’s not heavy,” Rhaegar assured the dragon. “You’ll carry him just as easily as the others.”

At Rhaegar’s calming words, Toothless softened, looking at his rider with love and trust. When Toothless began to snarl and buck, Mace grew frightened but, seeing the dragon’s eventual gentleness, relaxed and tried again. This time, it worked.

Rhaegar joined Mace on Toothless’s back, instructing him to hold onto the saddle tightly as they took off.

“This is so amazing and cool!” Mace exclaimed, gazing at the island from above. “I feel free, like a bird!”

After the flight, Mace enthusiastically recounted his experience to the others, as though it were his greatest achievement.

Jon Connington, heir to Griffin’s Roost, eagerly awaited his turn.

“Come on, Rhaegar, I’m ready!” he said, carefully climbing onto Toothless.

Surprisingly, Toothless didn’t growl at Jon, making things easier for Rhaegar.

In the air, Toothless, sensing Jon’s energy, performed several sharp turns, making Jon grip the straps even tighter.

“Are you doing this on purpose to scare me?” Jon shouted with a grin.

“Maybe,” Rhaegar laughed. “Toothless knows best,” he added, patting the dragon’s neck.

After the flight, Jon was exhilarated and full of energy.

“That was incredible! One day, I’ll have my own dragon,” he declared confidently.

“That’s unlikely,” Rhaegar thought. “I won’t entrust dragons to anyone again. They belong in the skies, free, and I’ll find them a new home like the Hidden World.”

“Thank you, brother,” Rhaegar whispered, stroking Toothless after the final flight. “You make people happy.”

Toothless let out a satisfied rumble, knowing his rider appreciated him just as much as he did his rider.

After giving the children rides, Rhaegar thought, why not offer rides to a few adults whom Toothless reacted to positively? These included Ser Barristan Selmy, Lady Joanna Lannister, and Queen Rhaella. When Rhaegar asked Toothless, the dragon responded by licking his face—a good sign.

Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the most respected knights of the Kingsguard, was the first adult invited to ride Toothless. Always dignified and reserved, even he couldn’t hide his excitement.

“This is a great honor, Your Grace,” he said to Rhaegar as he cautiously climbed into the saddle behind the prince. “I never imagined I’d one day ride a dragon.”

Toothless, sensing the knight’s respect, let out a soft rumble and gracefully spread his wings, welcoming him. Even through his armor, the sound of Ser Barristan’s heart racing with excitement was audible. Toothless gently took to the air.

“Hold on tight, Ser Barristan,” Rhaegar said with a smile.

As the dragon climbed higher, Ser Barristan froze, mesmerized by the breathtaking view.

“This is… incredible,” he whispered.

They flew over the castle, then headed to the coast. Ser Barristan, accustomed to battles and the rigid discipline of court life, felt a rare sense of freedom and joy for the first time in years.

“It feels like I’m… free, with no burdens or worries,” he said as Toothless gracefully turned over the sea. “Thank you, my prince. Thank you, Lord Toothless. This gift of yours—I will never forget it.”

Joanna Lannister, still recovering from childbirth, had watched the flights with curiosity but hesitated to ask for the opportunity to fly. However, Rhaegar himself offered her the chance, much to her surprise and delight.

“Lady Joanna, you must try this,” he said with a warm smile. “Toothless is the most reliable dragon, and I’m certain he’d be happy to take you to the skies.”

At first, Joanna hesitated, but then she agreed. She climbed into the saddle behind Rhaegar, her face glowing with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.

“Hold on tight, Lady Joanna,” Rhaegar warned as Toothless began to ascend.

As the dragon lifted into the air, her eyes widened with awe.

“Oh, this is simply incredible!” she exclaimed, marveling at the sea and the island stretching out below them.

Toothless, sensing her joy, made a gentle circle over Dragonmont, giving her ample time to take in the breathtaking views.

“When I was a little girl, I always dreamed of flying like a bird,” Joanna admitted, holding onto the saddle. “Then I grew up and stopped dreaming about it. But sometimes, I’d wonder what it would feel like. And now, you’ve made that dream come true. I never imagined flying could be so… majestic.”

When the flight ended, she thanked Rhaegar and Toothless with a heartfelt smile.

“You bring true happiness to people, Your Grace,” she said as she dismounted. “Thank you for this, my prince.”

Toothless stood calmly on the castle platform, preparing for another flight. This time, it was Rhaegar’s mother’s turn. The prince was already mounted, smiling as he waited for his mother to decide to join them.

For Queen Rhaella, this was a moment she would never forget. Her childhood was filled with legends and stories about dragons, but seeing one with her own eyes—and flying on its back—was more than she could have ever hoped for.

The people of the castle watched her with anticipation, waiting for their queen to sit on the back of her "younger son" and take flight.

“Are you sure he can manage?” she asked cautiously as she approached Toothless.

Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with excitement. She ran her hand over Toothless’s smooth scales, feeling her heart race with admiration.

“Mother, you worry too much,” Rhaegar reassured her, helping her into the saddle. “Toothless is strong, and he’ll handle it. So will you.”

Rhaella finally settled behind her son, holding onto his waist tightly.

“Are you certain I’m not too heavy?” she asked with a slight smile.

Both Rhaegar and Toothless laughed—or at least, the dragon gave his version of a laugh. Her son’s wit and sarcasm, combined with Toothless’s intelligence, often made Rhaella wonder if the dragon was cleverer than half the court at the Red Keep.

“Mother, you’re the lightest passenger he’s had today,” Rhaegar teased. “Toothless won’t even notice.”

Toothless snorted at the mention of his name, as if to confirm the prince’s words.

Once she was secured with the straps, Toothless spread his massive wings. Their impressive span left even those accustomed to his presence in awe. He lifted into the air gently, carefully, as if he understood how significant this moment was for the queen.

As they left the ground, Rhaella felt the soft breeze on her face. Her neatly tied silver hair came undone, strands flying freely as the vast horizon unfolded before her eyes. The emerald sea sparkled under the sun, the black cliffs of Dragonstone stood stark against the waves, and a golden strip of beach shimmered in the distance.

“This… this is like a dream,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

Rhaegar, seated in front of her, turned his head to see her face. He noticed tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, but her smile remained unwavering.

“It’s not a dream, Mother,” he said warmly. “This is what belongs to you by right. You were born for this.”

Rhaella tightened her embrace around her son, her heart swelling with gratitude. Toothless noticed her reaction and turned his head slightly, offering a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Toothless,” she said lovingly, stroking his neck.

They circled over the coastline, watching the foaming waves crash against the black rocks. Then Toothless flew toward the hot springs, where plumes of steam rose into the sky, creating an enchanting landscape.

“This is so beautiful,” Rhaella said, her voice filled with awe. “I never imagined the world could be so magnificent.”

Rhaegar smiled, patting Toothless.

“That’s because you’re seeing it from above. It’s a special gift dragons give us.”

Toothless performed a few graceful maneuvers, showcasing his elegance for the queen. Then he headed toward the village nestled among the hills.

The villagers, spotting the dragon, began waving enthusiastically. Children screamed with delight, pointing toward the sky, while adults smiled at the spectacle. Inspired by their joy, Rhaella waved back, her face glowing with happiness.

“They’re proud,” she said. “They’re proud that dragons once again protect them, as in the days of old.”

Rhaella thought the flight over the island would be the day’s only adventure. But no—Toothless began to climb higher. The air grew colder, wrapping around them like a blanket, and soon they reached the altitude where soft, fluffy clouds enveloped them.

Rhaella extended her hand to touch the ethereal forms of the sky. Her fingers dipped into the cool, damp mist, and she paused, marveling at the sensation as the cloud seemed to dissolve at her touch.

“They’re… not solid. I can’t even feel them,” she whispered, her voice quivering with joyful wonder.

Rhaegar, watching her, felt a surge of pride for giving his mother this moment.

“This is only the beginning, Mother,” he said. “Wait until you see the sunset.”

Toothless, responding to a subtle motion from Rhaegar, turned toward the horizon, where the sun was dipping into the sea, painting the sky and water in golden-orange and crimson hues.

Rhaella froze, entranced by the stunning scene.

“The gods have given me more than I could ever hope for,” she murmured, clutching her son’s shoulders. “These moments… they are priceless.”

Rhaegar smiled, but his gaze was fixed on his mother. Her eyes sparkled with tears, yet they were tears of happiness.

“You are my dragons,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “My strength, my joy, my pride.”

Toothless let out a soft, approving sound, as if agreeing. He soared gently, allowing his passengers to savor the moment.

After a few more circles over the island, they headed back to the castle. As if sensing the flight was coming to an end, Toothless descended carefully onto the platform before the castle.

As soon as Rhaella dismounted, she knelt to embrace her son.

“You’ve given me something I never dared to dream of, my dragon,” she said, holding back tears.

She looked at Toothless, who lowered his head to meet her gaze.

“And you, Toothless,” she added, touching his nose. “You are my second son. My loyal and kind boy.”

Toothless purred softly, closing his eyes in contentment. His warm nose nudged her palm gently, as if to convey his own affection.

“I am grateful to the gods for having you both,” Rhaella whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “You are my boys, my dragons.”

Hearing this, Rhaegar felt a warmth spread through his chest. This moment became the most precious of all his time on Dragonstone.

Chapter Text

Chapter: A Guest from the Past

Nine months had passed since Prince Rhaegar Targaryen (Hiccup) and Toothless arrived at Dragonstone. Their life followed a steady rhythm: morning flights, exploring the island and its outskirts, tending to dragon eggs, the chaos in the prince’s quarters, and escaping the maester’s lessons had all become part of their daily routine. The only unusual thing was his mother’s secrets. She was hiding something and preparing Dragonstone for someone—or something.

“It seems we’re expecting more guests,” Rhaegar thought, trying not to trip over Toothless, who had left yet another mess in his quarters.

As usual, at dawn, when the sky was still bathed in soft golden light, Rhaegar and Toothless took to the skies for their morning flight. The wind was warm, and the calm sea shimmered under the sun's first rays. At last, spring had arrived.

“It seems like a perfect day for flying, brother,” Rhaegar said, gently patting the dragon’s neck.

Toothless let out a pleased growl, spreading his enormous wings. They circled the coastline several times before heading toward the open sea.

After nearly a year on Dragonstone, Toothless had grown to an impressive size, becoming a majestic creature worthy of the Targaryen dragon legends. His massive form drew admiration from anyone who saw him soaring through the skies—especially from Rhaegar, who was still getting used to Toothless being so much larger than before.

Current Size of Toothless:

• Body Length (from nose to tail): 13.7 meters
• Wingspan: 22.5 meters
• Height (standing on all fours, without raising his head): 3.2 meters
• Weight: Approximately 900 kilograms

He was enormous, and soon he would need to sleep in the volcano’s caves, where workers were constructing a massive chamber with all the comforts a dragon could need based on Rhaegar’s designs. If the white egg turned out to be a Light Fury, Toothless might even have to share these quarters with her.

Features: His wings had grown incredibly powerful and elastic, allowing him to soar to tremendous heights and glide effortlessly through the air. His legs were strong and large, with black claws capable of gripping heavy loads. He could easily walk upright on his hind legs like a human. His head was adorned with smooth, horn-like plates, and his indigo eyes held a nearly human intelligence. His tail, now long, strong, and flexible, served as a rudder, granting him unmatched agility in flight. It could easily cut through several heavily armored men with one swing.

Personality and Behavior: Toothless remained playful and affectionate toward Rhaegar and those he considered family, but he had grown increasingly irritable around certain people. For instance, guards, the maester, or anyone Toothless disliked could find themselves on the receiving end of his wrath. Ser Barristan always said that Toothless could sense the true nature of people and the skeletons in their closets.

“His eyes see more than we can imagine,” Ser Barristan often remarked whenever Toothless disapproved of someone.

Toothless’s rapid growth had made him even more imposing. Each morning, it seemed as though he had grown larger overnight, leaving his quarters more cramped and causing more destruction within the castle. While his size made him a terrifying force for enemies, to Rhaegar and those he considered family, he was not just a protector but a gentle, affectionate friend—a Lord Dragon and a son.

The friends soared above the sea as the mist slowly dissipated, revealing the horizon. Suddenly, Rhaegar noticed something unusual. In the distance, a lone ship was approaching the island.

“Look, Toothless!” Rhaegar exclaimed, pointing toward the vessel. “It seems we have guests.”

Toothless let out a low rumble and, as if understanding his friend’s words, veered toward the ship to investigate.

As they drew closer, it became clear that this was neither a warship nor a merchant vessel, but a modest transport with tattered sails and a humble crew. The sailors aboard spotted the dragon long before it reached them, raising cries of astonishment.

“It’s… a dragon!” one shouted, pointing to the sky.

“A real dragon!” echoed another, clutching the ship’s railing in disbelief.

Toothless circled the ship slowly, his shadow gliding over the deck and causing the crew to crane their necks skyward. The sailors either flattened themselves against the deck in panic or gazed up in awe.

Among those aboard was an elderly man, his frame stooped under the weight of many years, but his eyes sparkled with wonder and admiration. It was Maester Aemon of the Night’s Watch, one of the last surviving members of House Targaryen.

When the dragon appeared above the ship, time seemed to stand still for Aemon. His hands gripped the railing tightly, and his breath became shallow.

“A dragon…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Aemon, who had dedicated his life to serving as a maester on Dragonstone and at the Wall, had long renounced his claim to his family’s legacy. Yet, deep in his heart, he had always dreamt of seeing a dragon. To him, this was more than just a creature; it was a symbol of his house’s past grandeur, a legacy he had cherished silently. And now, that dream had come true.

“Could it really be?” he murmured, gazing in awe at the sight. “A dragon… a dragon of House Targaryen.”

The captain, equally stunned, could only nod.

“Yes, maester,” he replied.

As Toothless flew over the ship, he suddenly slowed his wingbeats. His head turned, and he looked directly at Maester Aemon. For a moment, he felt something familiar—something kin to the magic he sensed in Hiccup, Rhaella, and even the unsettling Aerys.

“Do you sense something, brother?” Rhaegar asked, noticing the dragon’s unusual behavior.

Toothless let out a quiet, resonant sound, his eyes glowing brightly. He felt a strange, familiar force—an ancient and powerful blood magic similar to the bond he shared with Rhaegar.

Rhaegar and Toothless continued to circle the ship, observing it and its crew. The sailors still stared at the dragon in reverence, struggling to believe their eyes. But none were more moved than Maester Aemon.

“It has come to pass!” Aemon whispered, his gaze fixed on the approaching Dragonstone. “This is a sign of something greater. Egg, your dream has come true. Daeron, my eternally drunken brother, another of your dreams has come to life.”

Sensing this ancient kinship, Toothless made one final pass around the ship before heading back toward the shore to land. Rhaegar, feeling that something significant awaited them, watched ahead eagerly.

“Whoever this is, brother, they must be important. I can tell by how you’re reacting,” Rhaegar said to Toothless. “Let’s find out. We’ll wait and greet them.”

On the shores of Dragonstone, a crowd had already begun to gather to welcome the ship. Toothless landed gently, his massive wings stirring up powerful gusts of air, kicking up sand and small stones.

“Who are these people?” Rhaegar wondered aloud, watching as the ship dropped anchor.

Toothless let out a low sound, his indigo eyes fixed intently on the activity aboard the vessel.

As the people disembarked, it became clear they were neither traders nor warriors. They were simple sailors who looked bewildered and slightly fearful as they gazed upon the magnificent dragon before them. Their faces betrayed a mixture of terror and awe.

“Do not be afraid,” Rhaegar called out loudly enough for them to hear. “He will not harm you.”

The sailors exchanged glances, and one nodded, indicating they understood. Finally, a frail elderly man slowly descended from the ship. His figure was hunched with age, but his movements were steady. Around his neck hung the chain of a maester, and his long, gray-black robe marked his station.

Rhaegar, noticing the chain, realized this was a maester.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Maester,” he greeted the elder with respect, stepping forward. “What is your name, and what brings you here?”

The old man lifted his head, and his wise, time-worn eyes met the prince’s.

“My name is Maester Aemon, my prince,” he said, his voice raspy but strong. “I was the son of King Maekar I and the elder brother of King Aegon V.”

Rhaegar froze for a moment, his expression focused. He tried to recall the stories of House Targaryen he had read in books. The name “Aemon” was familiar. He knew of three Aemons: the son of Jaehaerys I, Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, whom he admired as a personal hero, and Maester Aemon. Yet, he could hardly believe that the man before him was one of those legendary figures.

"Are you... are you the Maester Aemon?" Rhaegar asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You must be... over 68 years old."

Aemon gave a faint smile, his eyes gleaming with admiration for the boy’s accuracy.

"You are correct, my prince. I am a bit older than 68. I studied at the Citadel by order of my grandfather, King Daeron II, then served as a maester on Dragonstone and later in the Night's Watch. My life has been long, but I never imagined it would lead me here—to you… and your dragon."

Rhaegar glanced at Toothless, who had begun to approach, lowering his head. The dragon's large eyes were intently studying the old man with curiosity.

Toothless stepped closer, gently moving his massive head nearer to get a better look and sniff at the stranger. He let out a soft sound, almost like a purr, and inhaled deeply, as if trying to understand who stood before him.

"He's... curious and magnificent," Aemon said, surprised by the dragon's boldness. "May I touch him?"

Rhaegar smiled and nodded. "If he allows it, of course. Toothless is friendly." But even as he spoke, the dragon had already acted.

Toothless leaned in, his wide eyes watching Aemon closely. The maester closed his eyes and turned his head slightly away, extending a trembling hand, palm open, and making no sudden movements. Trusting the gesture, Toothless closed his own eyes and gently pressed his warm snout to the old man’s hand. There was an aura of kindness and nobility about Aemon, something rarely encountered on Dragonstone.

The maester felt the heat of the dragon’s scales against his palm. Slowly, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, meeting Toothless's gaze. The dragon pulled back slightly, staring at him with wide, innocent eyes—eyes that might make anyone question if he was truly a dragon.

"What’s his name?" Aemon asked, withdrawing his hand slowly and gazing at the dragon with reverence.

"Toothless," Rhaegar replied with a grin.

At that moment, the dragon grinned his signature gummy smile, revealing his lack of teeth. The sight was so endearing that even Maester Aemon couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

"A perfect name. It suits him," Aemon said. He paused, his voice lowering with awe. "I never thought I would live to see this day," he whispered. "A dragon has returned. This... this is a miracle."

Toothless froze for a moment before letting out a soft purr, as if acknowledging the compliment. Rhaegar watched the scene unfold, his own smile growing.

"He likes you," Rhaegar said. "That’s a great honor, Maester."

"It’s... more than an honor, my prince. It is a connection to the past, to our legacy. You are the one who will lead House Targaryen into the future."

Toothless lowered his head further, allowing Aemon to run his hand along the smooth scales of his snout. The moment was quiet, almost sacred—a union of ancient blood magic and new beginnings.

As Aemon stepped back, his eyes shone with joy and admiration.

"You are extraordinary, Prince Rhaegar," he said, looking at the boy. "And Toothless is remarkable. Together, you are a sight to behold."

Rhaegar smiled at the compliment and looked at Toothless.

"Thank you, Maester Aemon."

Toothless let out a soft huff, his gaze gentle as he looked at the old man, almost as if recognizing him as part of his extended family. Just then, Rhaegar heard footsteps approaching from behind. It was his mother, accompanied by her household guards led by Ser Barristan.

"Your Grace," Maester Aemon said, bowing upon seeing the queen.

"Welcome to Dragonstone, Maester Aemon," Queen Rhaella said warmly, greeting the elder. "We were beginning to worry about your delay. How was your journey? You must be tired. Allow us to escort you to the castle on horseback."

"I am well, Your Grace," Aemon replied, nodding. "I am still strong enough to walk on my own."

"As you wish, Maester Aemon. I see you’ve already met my son," she said, turning to Rhaegar. "Rhaegar, this is Maester Aemon. He is your great-great-uncle, the elder brother of your great-grandfather Aegon the Unlikely, our esteemed guest, and your new tutor."

"Yes, Mother," Rhaegar replied. "We’ve already met, and Toothless likes him."

Toothless purred softly, sniffing at Aemon, who reached out to stroke the dragon’s chin.

"That’s wonderful. It seems you’ve earned Toothless’s favor, Maester Aemon," Rhaella said, then turned to the servants. "See that Maester Aemon’s belongings are taken to one of the finest rooms in the castle."

"Yes, Your Grace," the servants replied, hurrying to carry out her orders.

"Maester Aemon, let’s head to the castle. We’ve been preparing for your visit for some time."

Toothless watched as the sailors and guards bustled about, then let out a soft huff and nudged Rhaegar gently with his snout, as if to remind him it was time to move toward the castle. After Rhaella invited the sailors to a feast celebrating the arrival of the former member of the royal family, the group began to head back.

"You... you were my great-grandfather Aegon’s brother," Rhaegar whispered, gazing at the maester. "You knew him in his youth, at the very beginning of his reign."

Aemon raised his gaze, which reflected deep sorrow mingled with warmth.

"Yes, my prince. I remember your great-grandfather when he was a young prince, and later as king. Aegon was a man of honor and kindness, raised among the common folk. His heart always sought to protect his people."

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, his gaze shifting to Toothless, who stood beside his mother, quietly observing them. After their initial meeting on the shore, Rhaegar, Toothless, and Maester Aemon began their journey to the castle. For the sailors who had brought the maester, the prince gave clear instructions:

"Take care of them. Give them a roof over their heads, pay them for their work, wash them, and invite them to the feast at the castle this evening. They’ve brought us an important man. Let them receive their reward," Rhaella ordered.

The servants nodded and quickly began carrying out her commands. The sailors, struck by the queen’s generosity and kindness, bowed their heads.

"Thank you, Your Grace," said the captain, looking at her with respect.

Toothless, following Rhaegar, huffed, as if expressing his agreement with "Mom’s" decision. As they started making their way up to the castle, Rhaegar couldn’t hold back his curiosity.

"Maester Aemon, why weren’t you at the feast?" he asked, glancing at the old man. "My father invited nearly the entire world, yet somehow, you weren’t there."

Aemon slowed his steps slightly, his expression growing pensive.

"No one invited me," he said quietly. "I was at the Wall, far from all of it, fulfilling my duties as the maester of Castle Black."

Rhaegar frowned, his face showing clear indignation.

"He invited lords, ladies, magisters, even foreigners, but not his own relative? That’s… so foolish. It must have upset you."

Aemon smiled faintly.

"I wasn’t upset at all. When you wear a maester’s chain, you understand that your life belongs to duty, not family."

Toothless, walking alongside them, let out a low sound, as if supporting the prince’s indignation.

Aemon continued speaking.

"Even though I wasn’t invited, I heard much about you, my prince. At first, it was just complaints from the guards who couldn’t keep up with you. They called you a rascal who skipped lessons and spent time playing with the children of common folk, no matter whose children they were. To you, it didn’t matter. What mattered was playing."

Rhaegar smiled slightly, hearing this.

"That’s true," he admitted. "Lessons are boring. So is the septa. She always smelled bad, so I poured water on her to make her bathe."

They chuckled quietly.

"Later," Aemon went on, "I heard about the birth of a dragon. Guards who came to the Night’s Watch described what it looked like, its color, what it did, and how you named it… Toothless. I knew what its name was—I just wanted to confirm it."

The old man chuckled softly.

"It’s an unusual name, but now, having seen him, I understand why it suits him perfectly."

Toothless, hearing his name, tilted his head and looked at Aemon, his indigo eyes alive with interest.

As they climbed the stairs to the castle, Rhaegar asked another question that had been on his mind.

"Maester Aemon, why did you choose the Night’s Watch? It’s a place for criminals and those who can’t fulfill their duties. You could have stayed at the Citadel or lived at your brother’s court."

Aemon paused for a moment, his gaze becoming serious.

"You know I was King Maekar’s eldest son," he began. "By some, I was seen as having a claim to the Iron Throne. But I refused it because I knew I would not make a good king. My soul yearned for knowledge, for service, not for power."

He took a deep breath.

"When my brother Aegon took the throne, I realized that even though I had renounced the crown, I could still be a threat. Those who hungered for power might try to use me."

Rhaegar listened without interrupting, and Aemon continued.

"I chose the Night’s Watch because there, there is no place for ambition or intrigue. Everyone is equal, regardless of their birth. It’s a place where I could serve without fear of being drawn into politics."

Rhaegar nodded, understanding how profound the old man’s decision had been.

"You acted nobly," he said.

As they approached the castle doors, Rhaegar asked one more question.

"But why have you come now, Maester?"

Aemon stopped, his eyes filled with warmth.

"I received a letter from your father," he said. "In the letter, he wrote, 'Only a dragon can teach another dragon.' He told me about your aptitude for learning, your strength, and, yes, your frequent escapes from lessons."

Aemon smiled.

"He believes that only I can guide you. So I am here to teach you, my prince."

Rhaegar froze, processing what he had just heard. Toothless let out a short growl, as if expressing his approval.

"So you’re here on my father’s orders," Rhaegar said. "I’m glad you’re here."

"And I’m glad I finally got to see the Wild Dragon and the Night Fury."

They entered the castle and headed to the Great Hall, where a warm breakfast was promptly set before the maester. Rhaegar sat across from him, carefully spearing sausages and eggs with his fork. Toothless was brought his massive "plates" of fish and meat. The fishermen on Dragonstone were the happiest people after the Targaryens, thanks to the dragon’s appetite. Almost all the fish on the island went to Toothless, and many said:

"If more dragons appear in the world or Toothless grows even larger, fishing will become the most honored job on Dragonstone."

Maester Aemon was, to say the least, astonished when he saw that Toothless entered the castle alongside them and dined next to humans, sitting upright on his hind legs like a person. But he was even more surprised when he noticed the dragon’s teeth. Aemon had clearly seen that Toothless was toothless—or was it some kind of trick, he wondered.

Rhaegar noticed his reaction.
“He can retract his teeth into his gums,” Rhaegar explained. “When he’s calm, he doesn’t show them.”

Aemon nodded.
“That’s clever and cunning… and oddly adorable,” he said, biting into a piece of beef from his broth. “I’ve never read in any books that dragons could do such a thing, or that they had front limbs. Can he breathe fire?”

“Yes, he can,” Rhaegar replied. “But it’s not ordinary fire. His flame is like a purple sphere that explodes upon contact with its target.”

“That’s… unusual,” Aemon murmured. “But how do you explain his front limbs? Perhaps he’s of a different dragon species.”

“Perhaps that’s the case,” Rhaegar agreed. “Septon Barth, in his book, only wrote about the dragons of House Targaryen, but not about the Valyrian dragons. I have his book.”

Aemon raised an eyebrow, nearly choking on his food.
“You have his book?”

“Yes, it was gifted to me by Lord and Lady Lannister.”

“And where did you get the egg? Did they give it to you with the book?”

“No, the egg was given to me by an old woman. She said her ancestor found Toothless’s egg deep in a cave in Old Valyria before the state collapsed. Her ancestor wanted to sell the egg but had a dream and changed his mind. The old woman waited for someone who would be called the Wild Dragon and handed it to me when she heard about me. And then Toothless hatched.”

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, his expression heavy with memories.
“When I was young, my brother and I tried for years to hatch our eggs. We dreamed of the day we’d ride dragons together. Aegon died trying to hatch his dragon eggs at Summerhall.”

“That’s the day Rhaegar was born,” Rhaella interjected, her voice soft. “Grandfather wanted the dragons to return, and his wish was fulfilled. On that tragic evening at the Summerhall fire, a dragon was born. My son—Rhaegar.” She gently stroked her son’s back and glanced at Toothless, who had already devoured half his meal. “And later, another.”

“How did you hatch him?” Maester Aemon asked. “I’m curious. Is it true that dragons are tied to blood magic?”

“No magic was needed. I hatched him using incubators,” Rhaegar explained. “My ancestors were fools to think laying an egg in a cradle or having a septon pray over it would make it hatch. Any egg, be it a dragon’s or a chicken’s, needs heat. I built an incubator to hatch Toothless.”

“An incubator. That’s remarkable,” Aemon said, utterly stunned. The young prince spoke of his accomplishment as if it were the most mundane thing in the world. “How did a boy your age come up with this? I’m amazed. You might be the smartest in our family, despite still being a child.”

Rhaella beamed with pride.
“Rhaegar is a very clever boy. But intelligence isn’t his only gift,” Joanna Lannister added. “He’s also caring and crafty. Rhaegar can draw beautifully and create wonderful things with his little hands.”

Aemon smiled, while Toothless, having finished his fish, sat directly across from him.

“Ha-ha-ha! My prince, you might become the greatest scholar in our lineage,” Aemon said. “But can you handle a sword? Have you started your training?”

Ser Barristan, standing nearby, proudly interjected.
“Prince Rhaegar has shown excellent results in his training. He wields a sword and crossbow with exceptional skill. He’s already capable of sparring with children twice his size and age.”

“That’s splendid. Prince Rhaegar excels in his studies, yet avoids lessons altogether,” Aemon said with a grin, causing Rhaegar to blush. “As far as I recall, our family has had weaklings like my elder brother Daeron the Drunkard and King Aenys, cruel madmen like my hated brother Aerion Brightflame or Maegor the Cruel, and those gray in morality like Prince Daemon Targaryen. Few of us have possessed greatness, like my younger brother Aegon the Unlikely or my uncle Baelor Breakspear. For every ten, there’s only one such person. But someone as pure-hearted as you, my prince, is a gift the gods have yet to bestow upon us.”

Rhaegar blushed furiously at such compliments and decided to change the topic.

“Maester Aemon, tell me about your service in the Night’s Watch,” Rhaegar requested, sipping his water. “What did you see there? What kinds of people join the Watch?”

Aemon smiled faintly, his wrinkled eyes alight with memories.
“It’s a long story, my prince,” he began, leaning on his staff. “But I’ll tell you what I can. I was thirty-five years old when I decided to go to the Wall,” Aemon said, his voice lowering as he delved into the past. “It wasn’t a forced decision—it was my choice. After my brother Aegon became king, I realized I could become a tool for those seeking power.”

Rhaegar nodded, recalling how Aemon had mentioned this before.

“But why the Night’s Watch?” Rhaegar asked. “It’s a place for criminals and those who failed their duties.”

“Precisely for that reason,” Aemon replied. “The Wall is where titles and power lose their meaning. What you were before doesn’t matter there—only what you are now.”

He paused, gazing at the distant sea.
“When I arrived at the Wall, I saw people broken by life. Some came seeking redemption for their sins. Others were forced there to avoid execution. And some simply didn’t know where else to go.”

Aemon continued,
“The Watch is filled with criminals—thieves, murderers, rapists. People who’ve lost their place in the world. But among them, you’ll also find second and third sons of lords who inherited nothing, men searching for purpose, and even those running from their problems.”

Rhaegar pondered these words.
“So the Night’s Watch is where those who’ve lost everything gather?”

“Not exactly,” Aemon replied. “It’s a place where people get a second chance. But not everyone can take it. Some remain the same as they were, while others find the strength to change.”

The mention of Bloodraven piqued Rhaegar’s curiosity.
“Bloodraven? One of the Great Bastards?” Rhaegar asked, recalling stories of the enigmatic spymaster.

“Yes, the very same,” Aemon confirmed. “He was exiled to the Wall for killing Aenys Blackfyre under the crown’s protection.”

Aemon paused before adding,
“He became Lord Commander and ruled the Watch with an iron hand. Many feared him, but they also respected him.”

“What happened to him?”

“He vanished beyond the Wall,” Aemon said. “One day, he ventured into the wilderness and never returned. No one knows what became of him.”

Aemon’s tales held everyone’s attention, from Rhaegar and Toothless to the other children at the table.

By evening, the castle hosted a grand feast in honor of Maester Aemon’s arrival. Toothless, especially fond of Aemon, offered him a gift—regurgitated fish.

“He wants to welcome you into the family,” Rhaegar explained. “You must accept it, or he’ll be upset.”

Though hesitant at first, Aemon chuckled and took the slimy offering.
“It’s an honor, Toothless. Thank you,” Aemon said, biting into the fish. Chewing thoughtfully, he added, “This is far from the worst thing I’ve eaten in my life. Fried rats forced on me by Aerion were far worse than fish given by a noble dragon.”

With the arrival of Maester Aemon at Dragonstone, Prince Rhaegar's education changed significantly. He studied exclusively with Aemon, which greatly eased the burden on the other maester of the castle. Unlike the rigid lessons Rhaegar often avoided, Aemon’s sessions were not only informative but also captivating. The old maester brought wisdom, patience, and a unique approach to teaching that allowed the young prince to truly unlock his talents and interests.

A New Approach to Learning

Understanding Rhaegar’s free-spirited and imaginative nature, Aemon restructured the lessons entirely. Instead of forcing him to memorize dry facts and dates, he focused on discussions, exploration, and practical applications of knowledge.

"You may read any book you choose," Aemon said on their first day. "But you must tell me what you learned from it and how it could help you in the future."

This proposal sparked genuine interest in Rhaegar. He began spending more time in the library, selecting books about maps, journeys, animals from distant lands, and legends of great figures from the past.

It was the perfect approach for the prince. Rhaegar possessed a sharp mind and creative thinking. He spoke passionately about how the world could be improved, what could be built, and how it could be done. He crafted figures and models of cities from stones. Rhaegar was truly a scholar unlike any the world had seen. Toothless, his constant companion, was always by his side, acting as his loyal friend and almost a brother. They slept in the same room, ate together, flew together, communicated, and played.

Watching them together, Aemon couldn’t help but tear up, recalling memories of Aegon.

"I want to know more about the lands beyond the Narrow Sea," Rhaegar said one day. "Who knows, maybe Toothless and I will go there someday."

Aemon smiled at his enthusiasm.
"Very well, my prince. Then study not only the lands but their people too. Every place has its soul, and that soul is best understood through its people."

Aemon also incorporated practical elements into the lessons. Instead of merely reading about dragons, he helped Rhaegar study Toothless’s traits, anatomy, and behavior. Some discoveries greatly surprised them.

"Toothless doesn’t like eels; they make him sick. Maybe other dragons are the same," Rhaegar observed, removing an eel accidentally placed in Toothless’s bowl. "That’s why he avoids them."

"Fascinating. Does he fear snakes too?" Aemon asked, wondering if dragons avoided snakes due to their venom.

"No, he doesn’t," Rhaegar replied. "I once saw him tear a snake’s head off and swallow it whole."

These lessons helped Aemon realize just how unique Toothless and Rhaegar were.

"He’s unlike any dragon I’ve ever read about," Aemon remarked. "He’s stronger, smarter, and… kinder. He’s more intelligent, almost like a human."

"That’s true," Rhaegar nodded. "Toothless is extraordinary."

Developing Leadership and Vision

Aemon’s lessons extended beyond books and theories. He emphasized shaping the prince’s character, teaching him to make decisions and understand the consequences of his actions.

"You must learn to see beyond your time," Aemon advised. "A true leader thinks not only of himself but of those who will come after him."

These words left a deep impression on Rhaegar. He began contemplating his future as heir to the throne and what kind of king he wanted to become. He had been a great leader among his people, but now he had to rise to be a king, equipped with unparalleled resources in knowledge and mentorship.

"I don’t want to be like my father," Rhaegar confessed to Aemon one day.

Aemon smiled gently.
"Then be better. You create your future, Rhaegar."

A Bond Beyond Teacher and Student

Under Aemon’s guidance, the bond between the maester and the prince deepened. Aemon became not just a teacher but a wise counselor to whom Rhaegar could entrust his doubts and dreams.

"Do you believe I can be a good king?" Rhaegar once asked.

"I believe you can be a great king," Aemon replied. "You have the heart, the mind, and the will. And with your dragon by your side, you can change the world. I believe it, and I see it."

Rhaegar, heartened by Aemon’s confidence, mustered the courage to ask a personal question.

"Maester Aemon, may I call you grandfather?"

Aemon was taken aback by the prince’s request. He had never been a father, yet raising Rhaegar made him realize he did, indeed, have a descendant.

"That… is unexpected, Rhaegar," he began, using the prince’s name as the boy preferred. "But if you wish it, I cannot refuse you."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Rhaegar said with a wide smile. "Can I go flying now?"

"Yes, you may," Aemon replied, watching as Rhaegar and Toothless began preparing for their flight.

"See you at dinner, Grandfather!" Rhaegar called, hugging Aemon and kissing his cheek before Toothless licked the maester’s face.

Left alone, Aemon finally allowed himself to feel the warmth that now filled his heart, his happiness overwhelming.

"They say when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin—madness or greatness. But this boy… he was made of light, only light. Why have the gods chosen to bless our house with such a holy soul as his?"

Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of the Dragonstone library, casting its glow on ancient books and scrolls that held the history of Westeros and House Targaryen. At a large table sat Maester Aemon and Rhaegar, surrounded by maps, books, and notes. Toothless lay nearby, his eyes following their movements, occasionally huffing whenever the sound of rustling pages grew too loud.

"Today, we’ll discuss Aegon the Conqueror," Aemon began, leaning over a map of Westeros, "and why he chose to unite the Seven Kingdoms."

Rhaegar picked up a quill, ready to jot down notes, but then paused, frowning.
"Didn’t he do it for power? Or to make his name immortal?" he asked.

Aemon smiled, his eyes gleaming with wisdom.
"That is the simplest explanation, Rhaegar. But the truth is always more complex."

Aemon ran his finger along the map, stopping at the narrow strip of land between Westeros and Essos—Dragonstone.
"House Targaryen was just one of many dragonlord families in Valyria," he began. "But a hundred years before the Doom, our ancestor Aenar Targaryen moved his family and five dragons to this island."

"Why did he do that?" Rhaegar leaned closer to the map, intrigued.

The prince knew that the Targaryens had left Valyria, but he didn’t understand why their first Lord of Dragonstone had done so. If it was because of their lower status compared to other dragonlord families, the move was wise—and it had saved them. Rhaegar, or Hiccup in his former life, always believed that the Doom wasn’t random; the gods had punished Valyria for its many crimes. Yet the dragons, bound in chains, weren’t to blame for the atrocities of their silver-haired masters.

"His daughter had a prophetic dream," Aemon explained, "a vision of Valyria’s destruction by fire. That dream saved our house, for it was true—the Doom wiped out all the great houses of dragonlords except ours."

Rhaegar grew pensive, his gaze sharpening.
"So, our house survived because of a little girl’s dream?"

"Exactly," Aemon confirmed. "Dreams and prophecies have always played a significant role in our history. For example, my older brother had prophetic dreams too, and they often came true. One of his dreams foresaw dragons flying in the skies again—and as we can see, that dream has also proven true."

Aemon shifted his gaze to the large map of Westeros, dotted with markers representing the great houses and their lands.
"Aegon lived on Dragonstone, watching Westeros with its many kingdoms," Aemon continued. "The Seven Kingdoms were constantly at war with one another. They were divided and weakened."

Rhaegar raised his head.
"Are you saying he conquered them to stop the wars?"

"Yes, that was one of the main reasons," Aemon nodded. "But it wasn’t the only one. Aegon saw the potential of Westeros. He understood that united kingdoms could become stronger under one ruler. Instead of fighting each other, they could work together."

Aemon traced his hand across the map, pointing to key locations: Storm’s End, Winterfell, and the Eyrie.
"There was also strategic interest," he added. "Westeros was rich in land, resources, and people."

"Dragonstone is a poor place," Rhaegar noted. "And Aegon, with all his power, didn’t want to live like that. So he decided to conquer and destroy his enemies."

Aemon shook his head.
"Aegon didn’t want to destroy Westeros. He wanted to rule it. That’s why he left the great houses in place. He didn’t seek to annihilate them, only to bring them under his rule. He offered kings the chance to surrender without a fight, promising to preserve their houses, lands, and titles. Even if they changed their minds at the last moment, like Loren Lannister did, he was willing to show mercy. But kings like the Gardeners and Harren refused to bend the knee because of their pride—and they brought ruin upon themselves."

"What about the three-headed dragon?" Rhaegar asked, pointing to the sigil of House Targaryen.

"That symbol emerged during the Conquest," Aemon replied. "The three heads represent Aegon and his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys. Together, they conquered Westeros, uniting strength, wisdom, and bravery."

Rhaegar nodded, reflecting on Aemon’s words. In his previous life, he had always sought the best in people, and it had paid off in forming alliances. Now he was beginning to see Aegon the Conqueror from a different perspective. As a king, Aegon had been remarkable. As a conqueror, perhaps he was even better than Drago Bludvist. He was a skilled commander and leader.

"So, the Conquest was more than just a war. It was a way to unite people and show that the power of dragons could be used for creation, not destruction."

"Exactly. You’re beginning to understand," Aemon smiled. "Aegon wanted to unify the lands and create a single kingdom. The Painted Table is proof of that—it shows Westeros without borders."

Still, Rhaegar wondered about Aegon as a person. His character and mindset must have been more intricate than the tales let on.

"But what kind of man was he?" Rhaegar asked. "Everyone talks about his great conquest that changed the history of this continent. But what was Aegon himself like? There’s so little written about his character."

Aemon paused, his expression softening.
"Aegon was not just a conqueror but also a wise leader. He was just, though not merciless. He saw ruling as a responsibility, not just a privilege. The Iron Throne was forged from the swords of fallen foes to remind the king that ruling such a vast kingdom wasn’t a simple task. As for Aegon’s true personality, only those close to him knew his secrets. Aegon was a reserved man who valued solitude. His commanding presence drew people to his banners, yet he had few close friends—Orys Baratheon being one of the exceptions. Women were drawn to him, but he remained loyal to his sisters.

"As a monarch, he trusted his Small Council and sisters greatly, delegating many of the daily responsibilities of governance to them. However, he did not hesitate to take charge when he deemed it necessary. While harsh with rebels and traitors, Aegon was generous to former foes who bent the knee," Aemon concluded, his tone thoughtful. "You’re right, Rhaegar. We know little of his true character. But I’d venture to say that, at his core, Aegon was a man—neither god nor dragon—who respected many."

“I can’t stand it when Targaryens call themselves Dragons,” Rhaegar remarked. “They’re nothing but a pile of dung. A true dragon doesn’t need to roar and shout to prove it’s a dragon. Toothless doesn’t go around roaring all the time.”

Hearing his name, Toothless purred in agreement. Aemon chuckled.
“You’re right, Rhaegar,” he said, suppressing laughter. “I completely agree. A dragon doesn’t need to roar or shout, unlike my brother, who felt the need to prove to the world that he was a dragon. And by the way, you have a charming habit of flailing your arms and shrugging when you talk. It’s quite amusing, and it adds a dramatic touch.”

Rhaegar’s habit of gesturing dramatically was a carryover from his past life as Hiccup. His mother and the septa had tried to rid him of it, but all efforts proved futile. In truth, the only thing that had changed about him was his new Valyrian appearance. Deep down, he was still Hiccup.

“What about his sisters?” Rhaegar asked.

“Visenya was a warrior,” Aemon replied. “Her sword was as sharp as her mind. Rhaenys, on the other hand, was softer. She loved art, songs, and had a closer bond with the people.”

Rhaegar smirked.
“So, they were complete opposites?”

“Exactly,” Aemon said. “But their differences made them stronger because they complemented each other.”

As the lesson drew to a close, Aemon folded his hands on the table and looked at Rhaegar.
“What did you take away from this story?” he asked.

Rhaegar thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the map.
“That power shouldn’t be an end in itself,” he replied. “Aegon used it to create something greater—to unite.”

Aemon smiled.
“That’s an important lesson, my prince. But remember, with great power comes great responsibility. You must learn how to use that power for good, not harm.”

Rhaegar nodded, feeling the weight of Aemon’s words settle deep within him. Toothless, who had been watching silently, purred softly as though agreeing with the maester’s wisdom.

“Grandfather,” the prince began, gazing intently at his mentor. “You said Aegon conquered Westeros with his sisters. But why did he marry them? Why do Targaryens and Valyrians marry their kin?”

Aemon looked at Rhaegar, his face serious yet gentle. The question touched not just on history but also the very legacy of their house.
“That tradition stems from Valyria,” Aemon began, leaning on his staff. “The Valyrians believed their blood was unique. They were tied to blood magic, and to preserve that connection, they married within their families.”

Rhaegar nodded thoughtfully.
“They feared that marrying outside their lineage would weaken their blood?”

“Precisely,” the maester confirmed. “They believed only pure Valyrian blood could maintain the bond with dragons. It wasn’t just tradition—it was a way to protect their power.”

“What about Aegon’s sisters?” Rhaegar asked, pointing to a book mentioning Visenya and Rhaenys. “Why did he marry both of them? Wouldn’t it have been better to marry women from other houses?”

Aemon smiled faintly.
“It was both a family bond and a political move,” he replied. “Visenya was the elder and more warlike. She had a sharp mind and a strong will. Rhaenys, on the other hand, was softer, loving, and connected with the people. It’s said Aegon married Visenya out of duty and Rhaenys out of love.”

The maester paused, allowing Rhaegar time to absorb his words.
“Aegon understood that each of his sisters complemented him. Visenya protected him with strength, while Rhaenys did so with kindness.”

Rhaegar pondered this, his gaze wandering over the map.
“So, it was more than just love or tradition. It was a union that helped them achieve greatness.”

Aemon nodded.
“Exactly. Their marriage was strategic. They weren’t just husband and wives—they were allies.”

Still deep in thought, Rhaegar posed a question that troubled him.
“But is it… right?” he asked, frowning. “To marry one’s sister? Even if it’s to preserve blood, it seems… strange.”

Aemon understood his doubts and answered with a gentle smile.
“You’re not the first to question this, my prince. Even in Valyria, not everyone embraced the tradition. But for the Targaryens, it became a necessity. They saw it as a way to preserve the magic in their blood.”

He paused before adding:
“However, what is right or wrong depends on perspective. For the Valyrians, it was normal. For the people of Westeros, it wasn’t. Aegon understood this, which is why he didn’t impose his customs on other houses.”

Rhaegar sighed, deep in thought.
“Sometimes, I feel like our traditions are too old and burdensome,” he admitted. “They tie us to the past but hinder us from looking toward the future.”

Aemon regarded him warmly.
“You could be the one to change that, my grandson. You can find a balance between honoring the past and meeting the needs of the future.”

Toothless, lying quietly by the wall, suddenly raised his head and snorted, as if agreeing with the sentiment. Rhaegar smirked, stroking the dragon’s neck.
“You’re right, brother. We create our own future.”

After a lengthy discussion about Aegon’s sisters and the tradition of marrying within House Targaryen, Rhaegar sat at the table, lost in thought. His fingers traced the edge of a page, but his mind wandered far from the text. He looked at Toothless and finally dared to ask a question.
“Grandfather,” he began cautiously, unsure how to phrase his concern, “if I have a sister… will I have to marry her?”

Aemon looked up from the scroll he was studying, his usually gentle eyes now serious.
“Why do you ask, Rhaegar?” he said, studying the boy carefully.

Rhaegar averted his gaze, his brow furrowing.
“Because I understand that the return of dragons changes everything. Toothless isn’t just an animal or a symbol. His presence will make the Targaryens cling even harder to their old traditions to preserve the magic of their blood.”

He hesitated, glancing at Toothless, who was dozing by the wall.
“I’m against such a marriage!” Rhaegar declared firmly.

Aemon, hearing the boy’s conviction, smiled faintly, his gaze thoughtful.
“You remind me of my younger brother, Aegon the Fifth,” he said.

Rhaegar’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Aegon the Fifth? Why?”

“Because he, too, questioned old traditions,” Aemon explained. “Aegon grew up among the smallfolk, traveling with Ser Duncan the Tall. He saw the world through the eyes of ordinary people, not kings or lords.”

The maester paused, reminiscing.
“When he became king, he rejected the idea of marrying within the family. He wanted his children to wed people from other houses to unify the realm.”

Rhaegar frowned.
“But that caused problems, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aemon admitted. “His decisions to improve the lives of the smallfolk led to conflicts with the lords and disappointment among his own court. But Aegon never regretted his choices. He was stubborn and believed he could make Westeros a better place for everyone.”

Aemon leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table.
“You must remember, Rhaegar, that traditions are merely tools. They exist to serve the people, not for the people to serve them.”

Rhaegar pondered these words.
“So, I can change them?”

“Yes,” the maester nodded. “But you must be prepared for the fact that not everyone will accept it. Some will oppose you. Even your father may not understand.”

The prince glanced at Toothless, who had cracked open one eye and seemed to be listening intently.
“And what if it’s a mistake?” Rhaegar asked softly. He posed the question to gauge whether people here were capable of change.

“Mistakes are part of the journey,” Aemon replied. “But you must believe in what you’re doing. If you truly believe that abandoning old traditions will make your kingdom stronger, then follow your heart.”

The sunlight streamed through the narrow windows of the Dragonstone library, illuminating the ancient books and scrolls that preserved the history of Westeros and House Targaryen. At a large table sat Maester Aemon and Rhaegar, surrounded by maps, books, and notes. Toothless lay nearby in the library, watching the scene unfold and occasionally snorting when the rustling of pages grew too loud.

"Grandfather, you often say dragons are the symbol of our house," Rhaegar began, glancing at the maester. "But have you ever seen the world from their height?"

Aemon smiled faintly, his expression turning pensive.
"No, Rhaegar," he replied. "I have never flown on a dragon."

Rhaegar grinned.
"Then it's time you tried," he offered, leaning over to extend a hand to the maester. "Toothless is strong enough to carry us both."

Aemon froze for a moment, surprised by the suggestion, and then smiled slightly.
"Are you sure I won't be a burden to him?" he asked.

"He can manage," Rhaegar said confidently. "He likes you very much. Isn't that right, brother?"

Toothless, hearing his name, let out a soft growl as if to confirm the prince's words. Aemon approached the dragon slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched the smooth scales. Toothless did not protest; instead, he leaned down slightly to help the old man climb aboard.

"You're sure this is safe?" Aemon asked again as Rhaegar helped him settle behind him in the saddle. "I'm old, and the flight may not agree with me."

"Safer than you'd think," Rhaegar replied, adjusting the straps. "Hold on tight, and everything will be fine."

Once everyone was ready, Toothless spread his massive wings and pushed off powerfully from the ground.

As they rose into the air, Aemon froze, gripping the edges of the saddle tightly. His eyes widened as the view of Dragonstone, shrouded in morning mist, and the endless waters stretching to the horizon unfolded before him.

"This is incredible," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "I could never have imagined it would be this beautiful."

Rhaegar turned his head to see the expression on the maester's face and smiled.
"It's the best thing in life," he said. "When you're flying, you feel free. No borders, no chains, no duties."

Aemon nodded, his gaze fixed on the water below, where waves crashed against the black cliffs.
"Now I understand why you love flying so much," he admitted. "It's so beautiful."

At one point, Toothless began descending, flying closer to the surface of the sea. His wings glided through the air, almost touching the water, and his shadow danced on the waves.

"He moves with such grace," Aemon observed. "It seems like he knows exactly what he's doing every moment."

"He does," Rhaegar confirmed. "There’s a connection between us. We understand each other. And now he feels that you're part of our family too."

Toothless tilted his head slightly as if agreeing and let out a friendly, calm growl.

After several loops over the island and the sea, Rhaegar guided Toothless back to the castle. When they landed, the servants and guards watched the moment with interest.

Aemon dismounted slowly, his movements cautious, but a smile lit his face.
"That was... amazing and wonderful," he said, looking at Rhaegar and Toothless. "Thank you both, Rhaegar and Toothless. You fulfilled an old man's childhood dream."

Rhaegar responded with a warm smile.
"Thank you, grandfather. I'm glad you decided to fly with us. Now you understand why I love flying so much."

Aemon nodded.
"I do. And now I see that your bond with Toothless isn't just blood magic. It's true friendship."

Toothless, hearing these words, lowered his head and nudged the maester's shoulder with his snout, expressing his affection.

By evening, Rhaegar and Maester Aemon sat in Aegon’s garden. Silence surrounded them, broken only by the cries of seagulls, the sound of waves crashing against the black cliffs, and the distant voices of children. Toothless, as usual, lay nearby curled up but listening attentively to the conversation.

Aemon, observing the prince, noticed the warmth in his gaze as he looked at his dragon.
"You often call him 'brother,'" the maester remarked gently, gesturing toward Toothless.

Rhaegar nodded, his gaze still fixed on the dragon.
"He's more than just a friend," he said. "We understand each other without words. He's always there, always supporting me. Toothless is part of my family. Isn't that what brothers do?"

Aemon smiled, his eyes turning reflective.
"That's touching," he said, tears beginning to well up as memories of Aegon flooded back. "Not everyone is capable of such a bond."

The prince, noticing the change in the maester's expression, turned toward him.
"What were your brothers like, Maester?" he asked. "What kind of relationship did you have with them?"

Aemon sighed softly, his gaze drifting to the horizon, as though he could see not just the distant sea but also a past long gone.
"I had two older brothers," he began. "Daeron and Aerion."

He paused, as if searching for the right words.
"Daeron was... a pitiful coward. They called him Daeron the Drunken, and not without reason. He often sought solace in wine and debauchery. And I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t try to improve himself or at least make an effort in the eyes of others. He always annoyed me, and more than once, I felt ashamed of him. He was a disgrace to my father and our family. But he did have one unique trait. He could see prophetic dreams. Once, at the Ashford Tournament, Daeron apologized to Duncan the Tall for lying, saying he hadn’t noticed Aegon was missing. He said he’d had a prophetic dream where a great dragon, with wings so vast they could cover the entire tourney field, fell on Dunk—but the knight lived, and the dragon died. Dunk and Daeron both associated the dragon with the Targaryens and correctly guessed that the dream foretold the imminent death of a Targaryen."

Rhaegar listened intently, not interrupting.

"Balerion was apparently very impressive, considering he was the great dragon in Daeron's dream," Aemon continued. "It’s a pity he died. He might have been a great king. What about your other older brother—Aerion?"

The maester fell silent, his eyes briefly clouded by memories. Then Aemon’s face grew more serious, and he continued:
"Aerion, my second brother, was the complete opposite of Daeron. They called him Aerion Brightflame, though my brothers and I called him the Monster. And that name suited him far better."

Rhaegar frowned.
"I’ve heard of him," he said. "They say he was cruel and arrogant."

Aemon nodded.

"He was mad," Aemon began. "Aerion was cruel, arrogant, and unstable, which over time—as with many of our family—turned into outright madness. He believed himself to be a dragon in human form, and ultimately, that belief led to his death. He drank a chalice of wildfire, thinking it would reveal his true nature, and perished."

"A dragon may breathe fire," Rhaegar interjected, "but its internal organs are not protected from flames. Toothless is shielded from fire on the outside, but inside, he's as vulnerable as any other creature. That could lead to his death."

"Yes, precisely," Aemon agreed. "In addition, Aerion had an unhealthy fascination with dark magic. According to Raymun Fossoway, in the presence of our father, Aerion was all nobility and virtue, but behind his back, his true nature emerged. Egg and I despised him for his deceitful character, and even Daeron called him 'an absolute monster,' which was the plain truth. He almost always wore clothes in fiery colors—red, yellow, and gold."

The maester paused before continuing.
"When I was a child, he would sneak into Aegon’s room at night and threaten him with a knife, saying he’d make him a 'sister' one day and then marry him. He once threw Egg's kitten into a well but never admitted it. And he tormented me as well. Have I told you how he forced roasted rats into my mouth?"

Rhaegar nodded, recalling the earlier story.

"Well," Aemon continued, "I was weak but not defenseless. When necessary, I fought back or avoided him altogether. When my grandfather, the king, sent me to the Citadel, I was relieved—but at the same time, I feared for Egg’s safety."

Rhaegar looked at the maester with interest.
"Did you ever try to find common ground with your older brothers?"

"No," Aemon admitted honestly. "I was too young, and I hated them."

Aemon fell silent, lost in thought. Then he turned to Rhaegar, his gaze softening.
"Do you miss them?" Rhaegar asked quietly.

"No, I never missed them. I only miss Aegon," Aemon said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I imagine him here with us, proud and happy to have a grandson like you. You’re so much like him; you’re cut from the same cloth. Once, we had a conversation about what would happen if one of us were born a girl. We made a pact that if one of us ever became a girl, we’d marry each other. I can almost picture what our children would have been like—probably like you."

Rhaegar pondered this for a moment, then glanced at Toothless, who lifted his head at the sound of their conversation.
"I’m glad I have a brother who always understands me," the prince said, smiling warmly at the dragon.

Toothless, as if sensing this affection, let out a soft purr and nudged Rhaegar’s shoulder with his snout.

Aemon, watching the scene, felt a wave of warmth spread through his heart.
"You’re lucky, Rhaegar," he said. "Not all brothers can say their bond is this strong. Treasure it."

"I’ll protect him," Rhaegar promised.

The night on Dragonstone was anything but calm. Dark clouds veiled the starry sky, and a fierce wind howled around the castle walls. Lightning illuminated the massive towers, casting long shadows on the black cliffs, while thunder drowned out the roar of the waves crashing against the shore.

The castle's inhabitants hurried to close their shutters, seeking shelter from the storm. Horses in the stables whinnied nervously, and the birds nesting on the cliffs scattered in panic, fearing the wrath of the weather. Children buried themselves under layers of blankets, barely managing to fall asleep amidst the booming thunder. Lord Jon Connington and Princess Elia Martell, too afraid to stay in their chambers alone, asked to sleep with the prince, who showed no fear of the storm. The prince stayed with them in Elia's chambers until they drifted off to sleep, but he felt little need to linger and soon left to return to his own room.

Due to the ferocious weather, the Night Fury and the Wild Dragon couldn’t venture out for their usual nighttime flight and had to remain indoors, though sleeping proved to be a challenge. The relentless storm kept them restless. But this night was destined to witness something extraordinary.

A loud clap of thunder echoed through the halls, and at that moment, a strange sound emanated from Rhaegar's chambers. Toothless, who had been peacefully curled around the prince’s bed, instantly lifted his head, causing the bed to jolt slightly. His indigo eyes glowed faintly in the darkness. The prince, roused by the dragon’s low growl and the shaking of his bed, opened his eyes and glanced at the dragon. Toothless was staring intently at the corner of the room, where the incubators housing the dragon eggs stood.

"Not now, Toothless," Rhaegar mumbled sleepily.

A sharp crack resounded.

“What was that?” the prince muttered drowsily, sitting up.

Toothless rose as well, his ears perked in alertness. They both heard it again—a cracking sound, like something breaking. Rhaegar instantly understood what it meant.

“Toothless! It’s the egg! Someone’s hatching!” he exclaimed, rushing to the incubator, which was now vibrating slightly.

Rhaegar carefully opened the lid of the incubator, from which the cracking sound originated. Inside, nestled among warm stones and glowing embers, lay the violet egg, its surface covered with a web of cracks. It shimmered faintly in the lightning’s reflection, as though drawing energy from the storm.

With another crack, a piece of the eggshell fell to the bottom of the incubator, then another. Soon, a small, glimmering shape began to emerge. The dragon hatchling, curled tightly, slowly pushed its way out.

Its body was covered in silvery-violet scales that gleamed like polished metal. Its eyes, glowing with an electric purple light, looked at the world with both caution and wonder. Its small wings, veined like lightning bolts, unfurled for the first time, and it let out a thin, plaintive squeak.

“Incredible! You’ve come into the world,” Rhaegar whispered, his voice trembling with awe. He extended his hand slowly, trying to show he meant no harm.

The hatchling froze, its breathing quickened. But then it met the prince’s gaze and, as if sensing his kind heart, cautiously nudged its tiny nose against his palm.

Toothless, who had been standing nearby, leaned in carefully to get a closer look at the newcomer. His warm nose touched the hatchling, which initially recoiled but then relaxed upon hearing Toothless’s soft purring.

“You’re not alone,” Rhaegar told Toothless while gently stroking the hatchling. “You now have kin, and there will be more. We’re family now. We’re all part of the Tribe of Dragons.”

The hatchling let out a small chirp and then pressed against Rhaegar’s hand, seeking warmth and comfort.

“From this day forth, your name shall be Thor,” Rhaegar declared, recalling ancient legends of gods from his past world. Targaryens named their dragons after Valyrian gods; Rhaegar (Hiccup) would continue this tradition. “The lightning in your scales… You were born on this stormy night.”

Toothless purred softly as he watched the tiny dragon, then gently nudged it with his nose as a sign of welcome. The Skrill, now named Thor, let out a faint crackling sound resembling lightning and appeared content.

Rhaegar couldn’t hide his joy. His heart swelled with happiness.

“Toothless, we have a new friend now,” he said, looking at his large dragon. “A new member of our family.”

Toothless let out a low growl of agreement, his eyes glowing warmly.

The fierce lightning outside continued to light up the sky, but the prince no longer feared it. He saw something prophetic in the storm, as if it heralded this miraculous event.

Cradling the Skrill in his arms, Rhaegar sat on his bed. Toothless lay down beside them, resting his massive head on the edge of the bed to stay close to his friends.

“Welcome to this world, Thor, god of Thunder and Lightning,” the prince said softly, gazing at the tiny dragon curled up in his arms.

The storm outside intensified, the flashes of lightning painting the dark sky. Thunder rumbled like the voice of ancient gods, shaking the castle’s windows.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Rhaegar felt his heart race as he stared at the tiny dragon, so fragile yet brimming with magical energy.

“You’ve come into the world at just the right moment,” he whispered, looking into Thor’s glowing purple eyes. “This is your element, your strength.”

Toothless watched the newborn dragon, his wise eyes filled with interest and joy. He purred gently, as if saying, "Welcome."

Thor cautiously climbed out of Rhaegar’s arms, his small feet touching the cold stone floor. He wobbled but quickly regained his balance, his tail swaying to help him stabilize.

“You’re brave,” Rhaegar said with a smile, kneeling to be closer to the dragonling.

Thor raised his tiny head and looked at the prince. His glowing eyes radiated both curiosity and caution. Tentatively, he approached Toothless, who remained still to avoid frightening the little one.

Toothless lowered his massive head, and their noses touched. Thor let out a short crackling sound like lightning before gently nudging Toothless’s snout.

“You’re family now,” Rhaegar said softly, watching their interaction. “We’re all family.”

Suddenly, another bright flash of lightning illuminated the room, and Thor’s scales seemed to glow faintly. Rhaegar noticed his small wings quivering as if drawing energy from the storm.

“You’re truly tied to the storm, Thor,” the prince said in awe, gazing at his new friend.

Toothless stepped back slightly, observing Thor as he explored his abilities. The hatchling spread his small wings, veined like living lightning, and let out a curious chirp.

Rhaegar sat back on the floor, allowing Thor to climb into his lap once more. The little dragon nestled there, resting his head on the prince’s chest, and softly fell asleep.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Rhaegar whispered, stroking the dragon’s head. “You’re part of something greater.”

Toothless rested his large head nearby, closing his eyes with a satisfied purr.

“Thank you, both of you,” the prince said quietly, addressing his dragons. “You give me strength and purpose.”

The storm outside gradually subsided, though the rain and distant thunder still echoed around the castle. In Rhaegar’s room, all was warm and peaceful. The three companions, bound by friendship and love, sat together, embraced by a sense of calm and new beginnings.

“Tomorrow, we’ll begin your new life,” Rhaegar promised, stroking Thor. “You’ll grow strong and wise. I promise to protect you.”

Toothless nudged the prince’s shoulder with his nose, as if to agree, and Thor let out a soft chirp, accepting their warmth.

That night marked not only the birth of new life but also the deepening bond between dragons and their friend. It reminded Rhaegar that even amidst the fiercest storm, there is always room for light and hope.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

A short dialogue between the reborn dragon riders.

Astrid in the body of Lyanna Stark, Snotlout in the body of Brandon Stark, the Thorston twins in the body of the Lannister twins, Hiccup in the body of Rhaegar.

Astrid looks at her reflection in the mirror, completely dissatisfied.

- I'm the complete opposite of my previous appearance. - she is indignant, looking at her small face, short stature, brown hair and dark skin (in my opinion, the Starks are a little darker).

- I think you're still beautiful. - Snotlout encourages her in a friendly manner, completely satisfied that he is now the son and heir of the Great Lord of the North and much more beautiful than in his past life.

- And now Snotlout is my older brother. - she says, completely dissatisfied with this. This hurts him a little.
Ruffnut gently nudges her with his hips, wanting to admire himself.

- It's not that bad, Astrid. - She says, admiring what a beautiful lady from the richest and most influential house she has become. - By the way, has anyone seen Fishlegs? - She asks where her husband went.

No one knows. Fishlegs hasn't been reborn yet. Sam does not born yet.

- Sister, we are so cool! - says Tuffnut. - We are the children of a rich and one of the cool houses. We can do everything!

- I completely agree with you, brother! - She supports him. - Tuffnut, put on my clothes tomorrow. Last time you were at the tournament. Now it's my turn, I want to participate in the tournament.

- Okay. - He agrees.

They constantly replace each other. and thus make fun of everyone, including Tywin. This infuriates their new father, but makes them laugh at their uncle, aunt, and of course their beloved younger brother Tyrion. Tuffnut and Tuffnut adore and take care of Tyrion.

After this tournament it turns out that instead of Jamie (Tuffnut) it was Cersei (Tuffnut). Cersei broke her nose at the hands of one of the Freys. Tywin learned about the deception and realized that Frey managed to raise his hand against his daughter, he decides to challenge all the Freys to a duel. He personally challenged 25 Freys to a duel and killed them all in a duel with his own hands, receiving the nickname "Bloody Lion" or "Mad Lion".

Astrid is still unhappy.

- How I hate Ned and his friend Robert. Hiccup, can you kidnap me and take me as your wife? - she asked almost begging her husband.

- Of course, my lady. - he says in a voice full of love. - Should I do it riding Toothless like I once did?

- Yes, - she says. - You are much more beautiful here than in your past life. - she says touching his face, silver hair and looking at his dark indigo eyes. - Even though you are the product of incest.

Hiccup becomes irritated because he was reminded of this.

- Why didn't Hookfang recognize me? - Snotlout is indignant. - I did everything as before. Has he gone completely wild?

- By the way, the same thing happened with Puke and Belch. - the twins agree.

- It's because of the blood and magic. The Dakons won't recognize anyone now and won't let anyone ride them. - Hiccup explains.

- I'd rather be your sister. I'd fly Stormfly, and then become your sister-wife. - Astrid says in a seductive voice.

Snotlout, Tuffnut, and Ruffnut exchanged glances, clearly not expecting this. And Hiccup froze in place, not knowing how to react to this...

Little Tyrion sits nearby and looks at them in confusion. But he's happy.

Chapter Text

Night was slowly giving way to dawn. The first rays of sunlight pierced through the narrow windows of Dragonstone, painting the massive stone walls in golden-pink hues. Waves gently crashed against the cliffs below, and a cool sea breeze slipped through the open shutters, filling the room with freshness.

In the vast chamber, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen slept peacefully, known as the King of Dragonstone or the Wild Dragon.

His quarters were spacious and majestic, yet not ostentatious. Unlike the halls of King’s Landing, filled with gilding and meaningless luxury, his room was arranged with thought. Detailed maps of Westeros, Essos, ocean currents, ship and building designs hung on the walls. Scrolls and books lay everywhere, some of them opened, with ink bottles and charcoal pencils beside them. Along the walls stood massive bookshelves filled with ancient scrolls, maps, and treatises about Westeros, Valyria, and the art of governance. On the table, covered in blueprints, sketches, charcoal sticks, and inkwells, lay the plans for his great project — the city of Berk, new ships for the fleet, and further expansion of the port. Every detail was carefully thought out, every sketch spoke of a vision that surpassed all boundaries.

In the center of the room stood a wide canopy bed, covered in furs and dark blankets. On it, cozily wrapped up, lay the Prince, deep in his dreams.

Even in sleep he looked majestic. His long silver hair, inherited from his ancestors bearing pure Valyrian blood, was loose and spread across the pillows, reaching the floor near the head of the bed. He never cut it. His hair fell like a river of pure silver, and he liked it very much.

His face was handsome, chiseled, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and dark indigo eyes, which in sleep were hidden beneath thick lashes.

But unlike most nobles, whose bodies remained frail due to idleness, Rhaegar had an athletic build. His body, though still youthful, was sculpted by years of weapons training, midday flights, and hard work. On his shoulders and arms, the outlines of muscles had already begun to appear, making him even more impressive for his age.

But even the King of Dragonstone needed rest.

The silence of his sleep was shattered by a powerful roar that made the windows tremble in their stone frames.

"RRRAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!"

One roar was followed by another, then another, and another, until a morning chorus spread over the island.

Toothless, Hookfang, Stormfly, Meatlug, Barf and Belch, and Grump began their daily morning awakening. Each of them carried out their usual task — to wake the prince. It was their own special ritual. The deep, booming sounds of dragon roars echoed through the entire castle, bouncing off the stone walls, making servants and knights flinch involuntarily.

Toothless, the most loyal friend, was the first to approach the window, his indigo eyes glowing softly, and his mouth opened to let out a sharp, yet warm roar filled with friendly care and playfulness.

"GRRRAAAAAAHHHH!"

Hookfang joined in with a hoarser, deeper sound, and Stormfly gave a signature piercing screech, drowning out all the others. Barf and Belch dashed across the lower courtyard, shaking the ground and raising a light dust storm from which the servants below quickly jumped aside. Meatlug lay on one of the towers and, along with the others, tried to wake the prince.

Rhaegar sighed in his sleep, furrowing his brows. He was used to such awakenings. It was their usual friendly behavior, but even after years, it remained a challenge. These dragons were far too clever to simply wait for him to wake up on his own.

"Oh, Gods..." he groaned, covering his ears with a pillow.

The dragons didn’t let up. Toothless came closer to the window and released smoke into the room, a light warmth from the dragon’s breath gently brushing the prince’s face and nose.

"All right, all right, I’m getting up!" came a voice full of fatigue and sleepiness.

He slowly sat up, his long hair gently falling down his shoulders and chest, shimmering like liquid silver. His eyes opened and closed quickly, dark indigo — like the ocean beneath the night sky. His skin was fair but not pale, with light traces of wooden sword strikes and physical labor. He wasn’t a weak prince used to luxury. He was a builder, a warrior, a friend to dragons.

Rhaegar once again, but this time slowly, opened his eyes, squinting at the soft light seeping into the room. Outside, the flapping of enormous wings could be heard. Thunderclaw was undoubtedly circling over the castle, watching to see if his rider had awakened.

"Good morning, Your Majesty…" he muttered, eyes still closed. "Could you not… just once… let me sleep a little longer?"

Rhaegar stood up, stretched, and quickly headed to the washing table. He dipped his hands into the cold water, instantly refreshing his face. Then he ran a comb through his hair, untangling it before carefully tying it back with golden clasps.

"Well, are you satisfied now?" he asked, looking at Toothless, who purred contentedly and gave a light flap of his wings.

The prince changed clothes. He wore a very simple but clean outfit. A green shirt, thick trousers, leather boots, a belt with a silver ornament, and a woolen cloak — inside its secret pockets he hid a blade made of Valyrian steel and dragonbone, a gift from his mother. His clothing resembled what he wore on Berk, only much cleaner and regularly replaced with new ones. He didn’t like expensive silks with ornaments. They were impractical and uncomfortable; besides, they quickly got dirty — after a day of wear, they were rags no longer fit to be worn.

A mirror of polished silver reflected his face. His eyes were still a bit clouded by sleep.

"A new day… I wonder what it will bring?" he said softly, looking at himself.

As soon as Rhaegar opened the door, all of Dragonstone was already on its feet.

The guards at the door stood at attention, bowing, and the servants running through the corridors glanced anxiously at the sky, where the dragon-alarm clock still circled.

"Good morning, my prince!" said one of the watch officers, inclining his head respectfully.

"Good morning, Ser Rodrik," Rhaegar replied, stepping forward with ease.

Chapter Text

The port of Dragonstone was filled with the sounds of preparation for departure. People bustled along the piers, giving final orders, fastening ropes, checking the rigging. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt, wood tar, and the metallic tang of iron from the hulls of her son’s ships. Waves beat steadily against the stone supports, as if urging the ships to set sail.

On the main deck of one of the royal ships stood the prince’s close companions — lords, knights, servants, and several craftsmen tasked with emergency ship repairs — and, of course, his mother, Queen Rhaella Targaryen. All the sailors and master craftsmen on this ship were people — loyal folk of her son, who respected him immensely.

The men serving her son were to accompany the royal entourage to King’s Landing, and they eagerly awaited the moment of departure. Many looked up — toward where the living black banner should be: Toothless, the Night Fury, and his own entourage made up of other dragons — Hookfang, Stormfly, Bars and Boar, Meatlug, Thor, Grim, Thunderclaw, Skullcrusher, Windrose, Stoick, Valka, and Gobber. Frost’s head emerged from the water. The Ice Sea Dragon was watching his Alpha, also waiting for the signal to move forward.

Her son — Prince Rhaegar Targaryen — sat on Toothless’s back. His younger brother was truly gigantic: his massive body stretched thirty-seven meters long, and his wingspan blotted out the sky, turning it into a canvas of shadow and silky black scales. Only through a spyglass could she make out his figure. Toothless held himself confidently, gently swaying his tail, his sharp, watchful indigo eyes observing the ships from the cliffside, as if personally inspecting their readiness.

Her son wore new armor — black, like the night sky without a single star. It clung closely to his body, emphasizing the flexibility and slimness of his figure. She was certain the armor had been made by her son himself — none of the smiths on Dragonstone had crafted such things. Apparently, he had forged it in secret, in the depths of Dragonmont where his hidden forge was. Most likely, it had been created there — forged over long nights by torchlight.

Behind them were the other dragons — majestic, beautiful, free. Each was unique, each not merely a beast but a creature with its own will and character. Their presence filled the air with tension and power — anyone who looked upon them would immediately understand that these beings possessed untold strength.

The "Mother of Dragons" shifted her gaze to the shore, where a considerable crowd had gathered. The people of Dragonstone were watching the dragons. Adults and children alike stood frozen in awe when Toothless’s vast wings spread open. The people loved the dragons and understood that to witness such a sight was a great honor. They looked upon the prince with reverence, for not every Targaryen could ride a dragon — and common people certainly could not. But to bring them back to life — only her son had succeeded in that.

"We’re sailing!" came the voice of the captain, who had spotted the dragons in flight.

Ropes slipped from the piers, sails filled with the fresh wind. The ships began to move forward slowly, leaving behind the calm surface of the water, disturbed only by their keels.

She once again looked at her son through the spyglass. Rhaegar had already donned a helmet and raised his hand. It was the signal.

Toothless let out a low growl, like distant thunder, and leapt from the cliff, flapping his wings half a dozen times as he soared into the sky. Behind him, like a storm cloud, the other dragons followed — his tribe. Their wings created powerful air currents. Frost let out a mighty roar, lowered his head into the water, and surged forward, causing the sea beneath him to ripple and churn.

"Thank the gods Frost doesn’t roar in the mornings. Otherwise, people would go mad from his roar," she smiled as the thought crossed her mind. "The citizens of King’s Landing won’t enjoy dragons roaring at dawn."

They moved as a single formation, their figures reflected in the water’s surface, giving the impression that the ocean itself had released its ancient guardians.

Rhaella watched as her sons flew ahead.
"They’ve decided to outrun us, it seems," she thought.

Around her was noise. The children of her friend were shouting and being fussy.
"Looks like her children have entered the tantrum phase of three-year-olds," she thought, remembering how her own son cried at that age. Rhaegar could cry for an entire week, refusing food and water, behaving like a wild animal. His tantrums and cries had been the worst nightmares of her life.

She made her way to the ship’s bow, where the little ones were trying to play dragons, princesses, and false knights. In this game, the main hero and protector of the princess was the dragon, not the knight. The children had grown enough to understand the harsh reality that knights from songs and tales were rarely found in real life. So the role of the knight was taken by the dragon. Dragons, in truth, had proven to be far more noble and kind than knights, who were often no better than common criminals in war.

Elia was the princess, Jon was the dragon, Mace was the knight, and Jon tried to portray himself as a griffin. The griffin served as the dragon’s best friend and helper in this game.

"Griffins can fly like dragons too," he said, flapping his wings. "I’m much closer to dragons than you, flower."

Her son had made him artificial wings from beautiful feathers, and Jon was very happy with this gift. He ran everywhere proudly, wearing them like a cloak. "Lord Griffin" — that’s what people called him.

"Children, be careful. You might fall," she told them and headed to her friend to help her with the children.
"As you say, Your Grace," they replied in chorus.

King’s Landing greeted Queen Rhaella Targaryen with dusty air, noise, and smells she had long forgotten during her years on Dragonstone. The stone roads, soaked in heat and the stench of filth, the high city walls, the crowds of people — all of it was familiar to her, yet now it felt foreign. She lowered her gaze to the gray stone slabs of the port and felt her heart clench with longing.

Four years. Four years of peace, serenity, freedom. Four years spent not in a palace full of plots, intrigue, and constant fear, but in a secluded fortress washed by waves, among people who did not look at her with feigned reverence, but treated her with genuine kindness. There, in the harsh halls of Dragonstone, she had found what King’s Landing had never given her — peace. But now she was here again, in the heart of the kingdom, and this city once more began to squeeze her in its cold, stone embrace.

Rhaella stood on the pier, inhaling the salty sea air, but it no longer seemed as clean to her as it did on her island. The harbor buzzed — people bustled about, sailors shouted to each other as they unloaded ships, merchants offered their wares right at the docks, guards with stern faces cleared the way for her procession.

But what troubled her most of all — there were no dragons in the sky.

She squinted against the bright sun, searching the heavens, trying to spot even one familiar shadow, to hear even a distant roar. But the sky was empty. It felt wrong. The dragons were supposed to arrive before them or at least accompany the ships from above, announcing their arrival to all. But there was nothing. No Toothless, no others.

Rhaella felt a growing unease inside her. Where had her son gone? He had always been cautious, never disappearing without telling her. Even with all his freedom, he knew how much she worried about him.

"Your Grace, it’s time," came the voice of Ser Barristan Selmy.

Rhaella slowly turned her gaze from the horizon and looked at Lady Joanna Lannister — her friend and most faithful companion over the years. She looked at her with soft understanding. Despite all her golden lion pride, there was warmth in her eyes.

"You’re worried," she said, and it wasn’t a question.

Rhaella sighed but didn’t deny the obvious.

"He should have arrived," she said softly. "He was flying ahead of us. We were supposed to see him first."

Lady Joanna smiled gently and took her hand.

"He’s still a child, and a boy at that," she said. "He’s enjoying the sky, the freedom. You know what he’s become these past years. Perhaps he simply decided to circle a bit before landing here, where hundreds of eyes will be watching him."

"Maybe," Rhaella gave a faint smile, but the worry remained.

She knew her son was no longer the fragile boy she had brought forth from her womb. He had grown, hardened, become independent. But a mother’s heart knew no rest. He had always been careful, always stayed close to her, even if he didn’t show it openly.

But the sky still remained empty.

"Let’s get into the carriage," Joanna said, gently squeezing her hand. "You wouldn’t want him to arrive and not find you here, would you?"

Rhaella reluctantly nodded and allowed her ladies-in-waiting to help her into the coach. Inside, it was cool, the heavy curtains shielding them from the scorching sun, and the faint scent of lavender, absorbed into the cushions, reminded her of Dragonstone.

She sighed again, closing her eyes. The king was surely already waiting for her. And he would certainly ask why she hadn’t come to him in all these three years. Rhaella clenched her hands into fists. She knew what she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to say it.

The carriage rolled slowly through the streets of King’s Landing, its wheels thudding dully over the uneven cobblestones. Rhaella sat upright inside, but her gaze kept drifting toward the small window with tied-back curtains. She gently pulled the fabric aside and looked out at the noisy streets, full of life, bustle, and smells she had long grown unaccustomed to.

The city greeted her in all its unflattering reality. Narrow alleys teemed with people, foul-smelling gutters ran along the houses, vendors loudly shouted the names of their goods, and children, barefoot and grimy, darted between adults, trying to snatch a piece of bread or an apple.

But her attention was fixed on something else — their faces.

Citizens crowded along the streets, parting before the royal procession, but many of them weren’t looking at her, not at the splendid carriage embroidered with the Targaryen crest, not at the riders in the red cloaks of the Kingsguard. They were looking at the sky.

Their faces showed anticipation, a slight excitement, and sometimes even worry. They had noticed the absence of dragons too.

"Where are the dragons?!" someone in the crowd shouted.

"Where’s the prince?!" another echoed.

Boys, barely visible among the crowd, jumped and waved their arms, their faces alight with excitement and impatience.

"Show us the dragons!" one of them yelled. "Why did we suffer otherwise?!"

"Wasn’t the prince supposed to fly over the city with the dragons?" came another voice — older, more serious, and angry.

Rhaella felt her heart tighten. King’s Landing was waiting for a spectacle. They expected her son to soar across the sky above them, for Toothless’s massive wings to cast a shadow over the streets, and for the roar of dragons to echo even in the furthest districts. That was what they had been waiting for — after suffering for years and paying high taxes for the construction of the Dragonpit. But he hadn’t come, and that angered them.

She nervously clutched the hem of her dress, trying to hide her anxiety.

"They must have been waiting for the dragons just as much as Aerys was," Joanna said thoughtfully beside her.

Rhaella didn’t reply, only looked at the sky again. It was clear, piercingly blue — not a single cloud, not a single shadow. Not the slightest sign of dragons.

"And still, it’s strange that he’s late," the queen said quietly.

"Rhaella," Joanna said gently, touching her hand, "you know he’s fine. He might have just lingered in the sky, enjoying the flight. You saw how deeply he’s bonded with his dragon. They’re inseparable."

"I know," Rhaella replied softly. "But I still don’t like it."

Chapter Text

The corridors of the Red Keep, filled with sunlight, poured gold through the high pointed windows, casting long shadows on the cool stone slabs. The air was saturated with a mixture of old stone, incense, and the distant scent of braziers from the kitchens, where feasts were already being prepared.

Rhaegar walked with a quick, confident stride, but despite his haste, what happened next was unavoidable.

As soon as he turned the corner into one of the side passages, a seething mass appeared before him—a crowd of children, mostly squires and sons of noble lords, who had already left the court after the dragons landed. Their eyes burned with excitement, their faces flushed with emotion, and their voices merged into a continuous hum.

"Prince! Prince, you flew by yourself, without a dragon!"

"How did you do it, my prince? Is it sorcery?"

"Do you wield magic, Your Grace?!"

"Can I try to learn how to fly?"

"My prince, did you see how that knight almost fainted when you dove over him?!"

"I want to fly too! Teach me, my prince!"

The noble-born children surrounded him in a tight ring, excited, exhilarated, mesmerized by what they had just witnessed. They bombarded him with questions, peered into his eyes, and someone even tried to touch his suit but immediately withdrew their hand, as if afraid he would burn them with his magic.

Rhaegar rolled his eyes, suppressing a chuckle. He was pleased that his performance had inspired them, but at the same time, he desperately wanted to reach his chambers, remove his armor, and rest. The flight had not been as exhausting as the emotions that accompanied his return.

"Calm down, calm down, at least let me breathe!" He raised his hands as if surrendering to their onslaught. "I will tell you everything, but not right now."

But the children had no intention of stepping aside. They chattered, laughed, argued amongst themselves—some demanded immediate answers, while others were already discussing how to replicate the prince's stunt.

The whole scene, without a doubt, looked rather amusing. At least, for those who were watching from the side.

"Oh, this youth," a familiar voice sounded behind him. "The moment they see a miracle, they immediately have to block its path and refuse to let it pass."

Rhaegar turned his head and met the smirk of Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the commotion with genuine amusement. The legendary knight was clearly entertained, seeing his young prince trapped in a crowd of admirers.

"It's nice to see that you've become a true legend, Rhaegar. I don’t even know whether to be happy for you or pity you, since now you can’t hide from your admirers."

The prince sighed tiredly.

"Ser Barristan, how do you feel about rescuing me from this chaos?"

"Rescue you, my prince?" The knight feigned contemplation. "Or perhaps I should leave you here and see how you handle it yourself? After all, judging by today’s performance, you are already halfway to being a god… or a dragon, as everyone says. Do dragons need help?"

Rhaegar frowned meaningfully.

"Ser..."

"Alright, alright." Barristan chuckled, took a few steps forward, and stood beside the prince, clasping his hands behind his back. Then he loudly, clearly, and commandingly announced:

"Young lords! The prince is tired. Make way for him."

The children's voices immediately fell silent. No one dared to disobey the great Ser Barristan Selmy. Under their gazes, full of awe and reverence, they reluctantly began to step aside, allowing the prince to pass.

Rhaegar shot the knight a grateful look.

"Turns out, you do have authority among children."

"You forget, Prince Rhaegar, that I am a legend to young squires, just as you are now."

"Of course! How could I forget?"

"Now I am the knight who clears the path for the young dragon and who once carried a dragon in his arms like a maiden." Barristan smirked, and together they moved on, leaving behind the disappointed but still enchanted crowd.

After passing through several corridors, Rhaegar finally reached his chambers. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside, followed closely by Barristan.

The prince immediately pulled off his gloves and sighed in relief, finally shedding the weight of his armor.

"Tired, Your Highness?"

"After a day like this? More than ever."

"Then rest. But be prepared—after today’s performance, you will have even more admirers. I will be outside." And with that, he closed the door behind him.

Rhaegar stepped deeper into his chambers, allowing the heavy door to shut behind him. The room was dimly lit—the heavy curtains were tightly drawn, shielding it from the sunlight. Only thin strips of golden rays seeped through the fabric, piercing the twilight and falling onto the dust-free furniture.

The room was spacious, richly decorated, but it felt abandoned. Everything remained exactly as he had left it years ago. Shelves lined with books, some of which he had personally chosen when he was still a boy. A desk covered in ancient maps and blueprints—his little sanctuary where he once dreamed of great discoveries.

He ran his hand over the old oak desk, brushing away a small layer of dust. Everything here was familiar, yet at the same time, it felt foreign.

Rhaegar took a deep breath, allowing the memories to flood in.

He had been reborn in this room. The chieftain of the Hairy Hooligans on New Berk, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III the "Dragon Master" had become the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaegar Targaryen "The Wild Dragon."

It was here that his new mother, Rhaella, had spent long hours comforting him when he learned how the dragons had perished. Here, beneath these stone vaults, his hysterical cries had first echoed through the palace.

Here, he had spent the first years of his life. In this very bed, now covered with a neatly spread blanket, they had once tucked him in as soon as he had learned to read. Here, he had first heard the stories of dragons, of great kings of the past before Aegon the Conqueror. Here, he had first realized that dragons should never be in the hands of men. Here, he had brought Toothless back to life.

But all of that was in the past.

Now he was no longer just a boy, but an heir with his own will, his own ambitions. A man who had raised dragons from the ashes and given them a new life. He was twelve. Rhaegar or Hiccup—he was already a man, and now even greater responsibilities had fallen upon his shoulders.

With a quiet sigh, he began unfastening his armor. The light armor of dragon scales fell to the floor with a soft clang, revealing his tunic, soaked with sweat from the flight. He unbuckled his belt, removed his bracers, then reached for the clasp, preparing to remove his breastplate.

But then came a knock at the door.

Rhaegar frowned.

"Enter."

The door opened, and servants entered, burdened with trunks and bundles. These were his belongings, delivered from the ships—clothing, books, personal items gathered before leaving Dragonstone.

They bowed deeply.

"Your Highness, we have brought everything as you commanded."

Rhaegar nodded.

"Set them by the fireplace."

The servants obediently walked in, placing the trunks one by one. He watched them silently. Later, a few more entered with hot water to wash him.

Rhaegar stood before the tall mirror, his reflection nearly unrecognizable. No more heavy armor, no more leather pilot’s suit, no more scent of burning from the metal plates heated in the sun. Now, before him stood a prince of dragon’s blood, clad in an exquisite outfit befitting his name and title.

His new clothing was a masterpiece. A long, elegantly tailored tunic of deep indigo silk draped over his frame, emphasizing his lean figure. Over it—a black velvet doublet, embroidered with gold and silver threads, with buttons adorned with gemstones. They shimmered in the candlelight like a scattering of jewels in the night sky: crimson rubies, reminiscent of Hookfang; blue sapphires, like Stormfly’s scales; dark amethysts, like Toothless’s night-hued hide; and an orange sash slung over his shoulder, symbolizing Cloudjumper.

Each color, each detail spoke of who he was and what he cherished. This was not just clothing—it was his mark, his identity, a memory of the dragons he had raised from the dead.

Over his shoulders, he threw a long cloak, the inner part lined with white satin, while the outer side remained a strict black. When he moved, the cloak unfurled like a dragon’s wings, revealing flashes of colors hidden beneath the shadow. The edge of the cloak bore intricate embroidery in the colors of different dragons.

He fastened the last buttons at his wrists, smoothed the fabric, and straightened. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, and for a moment, Rhaegar felt his heart stop.

He no longer looked like a boy, but an heir to the throne.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," he said.

The door opened soundlessly, and into the room stepped several servants—young women, neatly dressed in simple but clean gowns. They bowed deeply.

"Your Highness, we have come to tend to your hair."

Rhaegar nodded, gesturing for them to begin. He sat before the mirror, allowing them to surround him.

His hair—silvery, long, like liquid moonlight—fell almost to his knees. He had never cut it, for he loved his hair, the color of molten silver.

Rhaegar sat before the large mirror, letting the maids work on his hair. They were careful and respectful, their hands moving skillfully yet cautiously, as if they were touching dragon fire itself.

He closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift into the past. The fingers braiding his hair reminded him of another pair—strong, confident, yet gentle.

Astrid…

He saw her so clearly, as if she were standing right behind him. He saw her focused expression as she braided his hair, her slight smirk, her blue eyes gleaming with stubborn determination. She had never allowed him to look unkempt, and every time before an important meeting or festival, she would take him by the shoulders, sit him down, pick up a comb, and begin her work.

Back then, he grumbled. Now… now he would give anything to feel her touch again.

But Astrid was left in another life. Now, different hands braided his hair.

"Your hair is like pure moonlight, Your Highness," one of the maids whispered, gazing at the smooth silvery strands in admiration.

"It feels like silk…" added another.

"Such an honor for us…"

Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head.

"Don't be foolish," he said gently, but there was neither irritation nor strictness in his voice. "They are the same as many other Valyrians' hair. There's no need to make a wonder out of it."

But the women only smiled faintly.

"No, prince, they are not the same."

He raised an eyebrow, unable to hide his mild surprise.

"Oh? And how are my hair any different from my father’s or mother’s?"

One of the maids, a girl with chestnut curls, blushed but answered honestly:

"Your hair is the hair of a Dragon. A true dragon…" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "When we braid it, it feels as if we are touching a dragon itself, Your Grace."

Another girl, a blonde, nodded.

"It’s true, Your Grace."

Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head.

"You are prone to exaggeration, ladies. By the way, what are your names?"

They giggled and introduced themselves while continuing their work.

At his request, the maids carefully braided his long locks, weaving several plaits that reminded him of the ones Astrid used to make. A soft nostalgia warmed his heart.

When they finished, one of the women sighed in admiration.

"You are magnificent, Your Highness. You were like a dragon in the sky, and now you look like a dragon in human form."

Rhaegar smirked, his signature crooked smile spreading across his lips. Leaning back slightly, he glanced at them with a touch of mischief.

"I did not fly, dear ladies."

They blinked, puzzled.

"But… you were in the sky?"

"Soaring," he corrected calmly. "I was soaring, using air currents. It is not the same as flying. Toothless flies. Other dragons, birds, and bats fly. I… I merely used my knowledge, observations, and the art of discovery to craft a suit that allows me to glide through the air."

The maids exchanged glances, but then one of them, the one who had braided his side plait, smiled.

"But isn’t that magic, Your Highness? If you are not a sorcerer, then creating such things is magic itself."

Rhaegar held her gaze for a moment, then, slowly nodding, said:

"You are quite intelligent." He ran his hand over the freshly braided plaits, testing their strength, and nodded in gratitude. "Do you know how to read?"

"No, Your Grace," one answered.

"No, my Prince," said the other.

For a brief moment, Rhaegar thought and then said,

"If you knew how to read, you would surpass many I know in wisdom," he said in a serious voice. "You have done a fine job."

The maids bowed, smiling.

"It is an honor for us, Your Highness."

"And for me, it would be an honor to make you educated."

When they left, Rhaegar once again looked into the mirror. In the reflection, he imagined his former self. In the twelve-year-old body of Hiccup, he had been thin, weak, and short, but this body—this one was strong, tall, and far more handsome. However, his mind, his character, his soul remained unchanged.

Slipping onto his wrist the bracelet his mother had given him, he stepped out of his chambers.

The torchlight reflected off the smooth marble walls, casting soft shadows on the floor. The air carried the scent of wine, roasted meat, and sweet spices wafting from the gardens and kitchens. Rhaegar walked through the long corridors of the Red Keep, making his way to the courtyard where the banquet awaited him.

Behind him, like a shadow, followed Ser Barristan Selmy—a stern but just knight whose loyalty was unwavering. The old warrior always remained nearby, a silent guardian watching his every step.

"You look… impressive, Your Highness," he finally said, breaking the silence.

Rhaegar turned his head slightly, smirking.

"Pleasant to hear a compliment from such an unyielding knight."

"I only speak the truth," Barristan measured the prince with a glance, stopping briefly at his attire. "This outfit… silk, velvet, gemstones. Everything is chosen with taste."

Rhaegar let out a quiet chuckle, brushing his fingers over the golden clasp of his cloak.

"The colors of my dragons," he explained. "I wear them with pride. They are my family and part of my tribe. Is it not fair that their shades should be a part of me?"

Selmy nodded in agreement.

"Then it makes perfect sense. Even in your choice of clothing, you do not forget them. That is commendable."

The prince smirked. He knew that despite his composed praise, Ser Barristan was truly impressed by what he had witnessed today. Many were.

"I heard you say that you did not fly, but soared," the knight remarked. "Well then, explain it to me, Your Highness. How is it possible? How can a man soar?"

Rhaegar smiled and glanced at the ceiling as if assessing its height.

"The wind, Ser Barristan."

"The wind?"

"Yes, the wind and air currents."

The prince slowed his pace, then, turning to the knight, continued,

"Dragons do not simply flap their wings to stay in the air. They use air currents, catching them like a sail on the sea. They understand the air, they listen to it. Their flight is an art, a dance, not just brute strength."

Barristan nodded, listening intently.

"I designed a suit that works on the same principle," the prince continued. "When I leaped, I did not fall—I glided, using air currents. I did not take off like a dragon, but neither did I drop like a stone. Flying is very difficult. Human strength alone is not enough to lift oneself into the air."

The old knight shook his head, but his gaze was filled with admiration.

"No matter what explanations or justifications you give, Your Highness, to all who saw you today, you were a dragon. A true dragon in human form."

Rhaegar smirked but did not argue.

"You idealize me, Ser Barristan. I am not a dragon. Just a boy."

"No, I merely call things by their true names."

The prince sighed, shrugging.

"People love legends. They crave wonders. Today they witnessed one. And perhaps that is exactly what they needed."

"Yes, indeed," Ser Barristan agreed. "While you were gone, the people cried out and protested, demanding to know where the dragons were. Well, now they have seen them."

Rhaegar said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes.

Leisurely, the prince and the knight strode through the wide corridors of the Red Keep when a figure ahead caught their attention.

Princess Elia Martell, dressed in light garments of the finest silk, stood by a column, waiting for them. The fabric of her gown flowed along her slender figure, emphasizing her natural fragility. Her skin was sun-kissed, like the golden sands of Dorne, and her dark eyes were deep and full of warmth. Her hair, styled with skillful hands, was adorned with thin strands of pearls, lending her an air of regal elegance.

"She is beautiful," Rhaegar thought to himself.

He unconsciously slowed his pace, a faint smile touching his lips. The Wild Dragon had always known that the Princess of Dorne was graceful, but tonight, she looked especially enchanting.

"You look lovely this evening, Princess Elia," he said in a soft, polite tone, his words carrying natural admiration. "Like the Moon itself, wrapped in the warm silk of the desert."

Elia flinched, her cheeks instantly blooming with a delicate blush. She averted her gaze slightly, but her lips quirked in a smile.

"You are too kind, Prince Rhaegar," her voice was light and gentle, yet a subtle hint of nervousness lingered in it. "But if you say so, then what should I say about you? You look… simply magnificent."

She let her gaze travel over his attire. The deep shades of indigo and velvet accentuated his presence, making him appear even more majestic. The gemstones adorning his garments gleamed like the piercing eyes of dragons, while the pristine white lining of his cloak added contrast, reminiscent of the clouds that shroud the night sky.

"Your attire…" Elia bit her lip slightly, as if searching for the right words. "It is mesmerizing. You look like a true Dragon, one that has stepped out of Valyrian legends."

Rhaegar smiled, but as always, he felt a slight unease at such attention. He clenched his hands into fists and rolled his shoulders, pressing his lips together—his habitual gesture whenever he felt slightly embarrassed.

"Thank you, princess," he replied. "But, I must admit, I should be thanking not my attire, but the craftsmen who created it."

"You are mistaken, prince," Elia shook her head, looking him in the eye. "The finest fabric, the most exquisite embellishments—all of it means nothing if the one who wears them is not worthy. On you, it looks as if fate itself designed it specifically for you."

Rhaegar was slightly taken aback but quickly composed himself. Remembering the lessons in manners that his mother had drilled into him, he tilted his head slightly and extended his hand.

"If I may, princess, I would be honored to escort you to the banquet. It is my name day, after all. I would be quite offended if you refused," his voice was playful and soft—the same tone he always used with her, and she liked it.

Elia sharply looked up at him, her face flushing an even deeper shade of red. Her eyes widened as if he had just proposed marriage rather than simply offering a courteous gesture.

"O-oh… yes, of course, Your Highness," her voice wavered slightly, but it was melodic, almost like a song.

She gently placed her delicate hand in his, and the gesture sent a new wave of whispers through those who had happened to witness the scene.

"Look at them…"
"King Daeron the Second and Queen Myria… it is as if they have returned once more."
"A True Dragon and the Beautiful Dornish Princess."

These words rippled through the palace guests, and even those who had not witnessed the moment firsthand soon heard about it.

Rhaegar, though aware of the murmurs, gave no indication that he noticed. He merely squeezed Elia’s fingers slightly—gently, without pressure—as if to show her that, to him, this was not just a courteous gesture.

Together, they made their way toward the courtyard, where the banquet was already in full swing. Not a single person in the castle could ignore their entrance. Their presence alone commanded attention, and the whispers only grew louder.

Their arrival did not go unnoticed, as was expected. The heir to the throne, returning after a long absence, and in the company of a beautiful princess from Dorne—such a sight drew attention like moths to a flame.

As they stepped into the banquet courtyard, the air was filled with the rich aromas of spiced meats, sweet wine, and fresh fruits. The long tables, adorned with tapestries and candelabras, held golden loaves, roasted boar, clusters of grapes spilling over silver platters, and tall goblets brimming with ruby-red wine.

The crowd instantly stirred. Dozens of young lords and ladies immediately noticed the prince, and barely had he taken a small pie from a silver tray when a group of young nobles swarmed toward him like a flock of gulls drawn to a sailor’s bread.

The crowd parted like waves before a ship. The dragon took another step, his claws gliding softly over the stone, but that was enough for everyone to decide it was best not to stand in the prince’s way any longer.

Rhaegar, without hurrying, finished his pie before finally turning to his friend.

"What would I do without you, little brother?" he smirked, reaching out to lightly stroke Toothless's snout.

The dragon purred contentedly, half-closing his eyes. He was clearly enjoying the moment. People gazed at him with awe and reverence, but none dared to approach. And Rhaegar liked that.

Elia, standing nearby, smiled slightly. She saw how exhausted the prince was from the excessive attention and how genuinely relieved he was that his dragon had come to his aid. She liked watching their bond—there was no need for words between them, only gestures, glances, understanding.

"Toothless should be gifted a white cloak soon, Your Highness," she said with a light chuckle.

Rhaegar looked at her.

"Then he shall be called Ser Toothless, the Dragon-Knight," he joked. "I think it suits him."

They both laughed.

Toothless nudged the prince lightly, as if signaling that his job here was done. Then, taking a few steps, he turned and strode toward the far corner of the courtyard, where his usual spot was—a place from which he could watch over everyone. There were also a few vacant seats nearby.

"That’s a good spot," Rhaegar said, glancing at the empty space beside Toothless, away from the crowd. "Let us go there, my princess."

Rhaegar finally sighed in relief. Now he could at least eat in peace.

The golden torchlight illuminated the banquet courtyard of the Red Keep, casting long shadows over the stone-paved paths. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meat, spices, and fresh bread, mingling with the damp breath of the sea drifting in from the ports of King’s Landing. The hum of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of goblets created an atmosphere of celebration, yet even amid the festivity, the eyes of the guests frequently turned toward the main table.

Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the throne, sat at the table, calmly enjoying his dinner. Beside him sat Elia Martell.

Behind them, sprawled lazily with his massive wings partially extended, lay Toothless. His body was so immense that even the bravest guests hesitated to come too close, and those who dared approached with the utmost caution. The dragon’s indigo eyes watched the people attentively, yet he remained still, exuding an aura of calm and dominance.

"I must say, your dragons know how to enjoy themselves," Elia chuckled, delicately biting into a piece of fig. "They seem to feel quite at home here."

Rhaegar set down his knife, raised his goblet, and took a small sip of juice (he did not care for wine). Then, surveying the feast with an observer’s gaze, a faint smile played on his lips.

"And why shouldn’t they? They are dragons. This is their celebration, too. It is their right."

He glanced toward his dragons, who had, it seemed, entirely forgotten the rules of etiquette.

Grim had effortlessly shattered a heavy oak barrel and was now greedily drinking the wine, spilling much of it onto the ground. His black-and-red scales gleamed under the torchlight, and his tail, lazily swaying, cleared a space around him, indifferent to the presence of nearby people.

Cloudjumper, on the other hand, had found a more refined activity. He stretched his long neck, holding his breath as he listened to a bard playing a harp right in front of him. The musician played beautifully. Cloudjumper tilted his head slightly, listening, then snorted approvingly, and the bard, beaming, continued to play.

Barf and Belch, the massive two-headed dragon, had stolen an entire roasted bull carcass and were now holding it in their claws, greedily tearing at the meat between their two heads. Occasionally, they drank wine, sharing the juiciest pieces between them.

But the most inappropriate scene unfolded in the center of the courtyard.

Stoick, Valka, and Gobber had somehow managed to drag in enormous roasted pigs and, without hesitation, began eating them right in front of the guests. Their massive tusks tore into the charred meat, blood dripped onto the stone floor, and the sounds of chomping and crunching bones evoked clear disgust from some onlookers.

The faces of the noble ladies twisted in horror, several aristocrats grimaced, and even the most hardened knights averted their eyes. A murmur of discontent spread through the crowd.

Toothless slowly lifted his head, his indigo eyes darkening instantly before a low, menacing growl rumbled from his throat. It wasn’t loud, but it carried a warning.

Stoick raised his snout, his mouth still smeared with blood. Valka froze, tensing, while Gobber even lowered his head slightly to the ground. They understood.

Toothless let out another warning sound, like an older brother chastising his younger siblings for improper behavior. The dragons, though possessing freedom, still obeyed their Alpha.

Stoick hastily grabbed his meal and, without waiting for further reprimands, flapped his wings and took off into the sky. Valka and Gobber quickly followed him, disappearing beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

The crowd exhaled in relief, and some even applauded. Whispered thanks and approving glances were directed toward Toothless.

Rhaegar, having watched the scene unfold, merely smirked.

"That is what it means to be an Alpha," he remarked, glancing at Toothless.

"Toothless is a reflection of you," Elia observed softly, tilting her head. "You are both strong and wise rulers."

Rhaegar looked at her, his dark indigo eyes meeting her black ones.

"You flatter me too much," he said with a slight smile.

"No, I simply speak the truth," Elia smiled in return.

They turned their gaze back to the festivities. People laughed, ate, and drank, while the dragons, with all their peculiarities, had seamlessly blended into the evening—a living reminder that they had returned. Not as mere myths or echoes of the past, but as a real, undeniable force known to all.

The prince had just managed to take another bite of his sweet pie when a new guest approached.

A young man with sun-kissed skin, jet-black hair, and a bold glint in his amber eyes. His stride was confident yet casual, as if he belonged anywhere he stepped—like sand effortlessly carried by the wind.

Oberyn Martell, the younger brother of Princess Elia, stopped before them and, bowing his head, respectfully greeted the heir to the throne.

"Prince Rhaegar, it is an honor to be here with you."

Rhaegar slightly raised an eyebrow upon noticing Oberyn.

"And the honor is no less mine, Prince Oberyn," Rhaegar replied calmly, setting aside his goblet and motioning toward the table. "Sit with us, eat. Tonight is a celebration."

"I won’t refuse," Oberyn agreed with a grin, settling next to his sister and immediately grabbing a piece of roasted meat.

Elia merely shook her head, watching her brother, but there was something warm in her gaze, as if his presence made her feel more at ease.

Oberyn, barely having taken a bite, quickly started talking.

"Tell me, prince…" he gestured toward Toothless, whose tail was rhythmically tapping the ground. "…what do your dragons eat? How much do they consume daily? It must be hundreds of sheep and bulls?"

Rhaegar smiled, unsurprised by such a question.

"It depends on the dragon. Toothless, for example, prefers fish but won’t turn down a good cut of beef. Stormfly loves chickens, and Grim… well, he enjoys wine," he nodded toward the Monstrous Nightmare, who was still attempting to drink from the shattered barrel. "But overall, yes, they eat a lot. Dragonstone has plenty of sheep, cows, and bulls. The local people offer their livestock to them. So they are never left hungry."

"And do you feed them all these carcasses yourself?" Oberyn asked, chewing a piece of bread.

"No, they are smart enough to bring food for themselves," Rhaegar glanced at Elia and smirked. "Sometimes too smart—especially when they decide their meals should be eaten right in the middle of the guests."

Elia laughed quietly, recalling the scene with Gobber, Valka, and Stoick.

Oberyn, however, was not finished.

"And where do they sleep? Surely each one doesn’t have their own room in the castle?"

Rhaegar shook his head.

"On Dragonstone, special chambers have been built for them inside the mountain. It is warm there, with fresh water. They are comfortable. Some, however, prefer to sleep in the open air, like Toothless. And Frost—he lives inside an ice dome that he built himself."

"Ice?" Oberyn perked up. "You mean that one?" He nodded toward the massive figure at the other end of the courtyard.

Rhaegar followed his gaze and locked eyes with Frost—a colossal Sea Ice Dragon, whose white-blue scales shimmered in the faint torchlight and starlight. Frost was so immense that even among other dragons, he stood out for his sheer size. He remained motionless, watching the people, his icy eyes reflecting the flames, yet there was nothing aggressive in his gaze—only deep wisdom and detachment.

"Yes, that is Frost. A Sea Ice Dragon," Rhaegar said, looking at his companion with pride. "His home is water and ice. He dislikes confined spaces, as he is enormous, so he usually remains at sea. On land, he may seem slow, but if you saw him move in the water… He is as fast as a storm."

Oberyn gazed at Frost, captivated.

"Incredible," he whispered, then turned to Rhaegar, his eyes burning with curiosity. "You say they are all different. But why? Why do your dragons differ so much from one another? In the legends, all Valyrian dragons looked similar, with only slight differences. But yours… it’s as if they were created by different gods."

Rhaegar studied him for a moment, then nodded.

"Because they belong to different species, or so Maester Aemon says. Valyria had many dragons, but most of them were of one lineage. They might have been different in color and size, but their nature remained the same."

He paused, letting Oberyn absorb the words, then continued:

"But my dragons are not just a Valyrian legacy. They are living proof that dragons existed in the world long before Valyria and that the world knew them in many forms. There are Fire Dragons, Ice Dragons, and Sea Dragons. There are giants like Balerion, who rule the skies, and there are giants like Frost, who reign over the oceans. They are different because each of them comes from ancient bloodlines long thought to be lost."

Oberyn listened, barely breathing. This was far more than he had expected to hear.

"You mean to say…" his voice grew quieter, filled with reverence, "…that your dragons are the last of their kind?"

Rhaegar met his gaze and nodded.

"The last… or the first of a new generation."

For a brief moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant roars of dragons and the laughter of the guests.

"This is…" Oberyn exhaled slowly, then laughed and clapped Rhaegar on the shoulder. "This is damn incredible!"

Elia shook her head slightly in mild reproach but smiled. Her brother had always been easily fascinated by new things.

Rhaegar smirked, taking another sip of juice. Oberyn leaned forward eagerly.

"Can you take me for a ride?"

Rhaegar smiled. The question was predictable.

"Perhaps tomorrow."

The Dornish prince nodded enthusiastically, leaning back in his chair.

"Great! I want to be in front of you."

"We’ll see how long you last," Rhaegar replied with a hint of amusement.

Toothless snorted, lifting his head and staring intently at Oberyn, as if sizing him up. The Dornish prince did not flinch; instead, he smirked and raised his goblet as if in challenge.

"We’ll see."

As their conversation with Oberyn drew to a close, another group of guests approached their table. Rhaegar immediately recognized one of them—Arthur Dayne, one of his most loyal friends. However, he was not as familiar with Arthur’s family.

Arthur was the first to step forward and bowed with dignity.

"Your Highness, allow me to introduce my family."

He turned to his older brother and gestured toward him.

"This is my brother, Edric Dayne, heir to Starfall."

Edric Dayne nodded, his gaze calm yet assessing. He appeared to be a wise young man of about fifteen, with the firm look of someone accustomed to managing lands and making responsible decisions—like any true heir to a noble house.

"Your Highness," he said respectfully, inclining his head. "It is an honor to be here and to make your acquaintance."

"The honor is mine as well, Lord Edric," Rhaegar responded politely with a slight nod.

Arthur then turned to his sisters.

"And these are my younger sisters—Alliria and Ashara."

The girls curtsied gracefully. Both had refined, noble features, but their eyes held the spark of youthful mischief.

The first, Alliria, was fair-haired, with soft ash-blond curls cascading over her shoulders. Her violet eyes gleamed with liveliness, and her lips curled into a playful smile.

The second, Ashara, had darker hair and an intense, perceptive gaze. There was a certain detachment in her expression, yet it was clear that she was keenly interested in everything happening around her.

Ashara was the first to speak, tilting her head slightly.

"Your Highness… my brother wrote that you love to paint. Is that true?"

Rhaegar was surprised but then smiled.

"Absolutely true, Lady Ashara."

"I have heard that you have an entire collection of paintings and sketches!" Her voice carried genuine admiration. "They say you draw maps, people, and even dragons and humans together!"

"Painting is one of my greatest passions," he replied. "When I was a child, I had no other way to express what I saw and imagined in my mind. So paper and charcoal became my first allies."

Ashara narrowed her eyes slightly, as if committing every word to memory.

"Then perhaps one day, you could paint me?"

Elia, sitting beside him, let out a soft snort but suppressed a laugh, while Oberyn merely smirked and shook his head. Rhaegar smiled but said nothing. He was not opposed to the idea.

Meanwhile, Alliria wasted no time and stepped forward, smiling playfully as she addressed him.

"Your Highness, would you dance with me?"

Rhaegar blinked, then smirked.

"Oh, Lady Alliria, I am honored, but I am not sure my dancing skills are as refined as my flying abilities."

"Oh, I have no doubt they are excellent!" she declared. "If you can soar through the air, then surely you move just as gracefully on the ground."

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, finding her logic amusing.

"You give me too much credit," he replied with a light smile. "But allow me to first enjoy the feast, and then, I promise, I shall dance with you."

Alliria flushed slightly but did not back down. Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

"I shall wait, Your Highness."

Elia, watching the exchange, shook her head slightly, but a faint smile lingered on her lips. Oberyn, however, was openly amused, his amber eyes dancing with laughter.

"You seem to be quite popular among the ladies, Rhaegar," he commented with a sly grin.

Rhaegar merely shook his head, biting into another piece of sweet pie.

"I don’t think I can argue with that," he replied calmly, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.

The banquet continued, filling the courtyard of the Red Keep with the glow of countless torches, the aroma of roasted meat, the heady scent of wine, and the melodies of bards playing on an elevated platform for the entertainment of the nobility. People laughed, feasted, some engaged in leisurely conversations, while others danced. Dragons, scattered throughout the courtyard, watched the festivities with regal poise, some even sampling human food, provoking either admiration or horror among the guests.

Prince Rhaegar continued his conversation with Oberyn, Elia, and the Daynes when two more figures approached their table.

Lord Mace Tyrell moved with a proud bearing, his face alight with joy and the slight exhilaration that came with the festive atmosphere. Behind him, walking with a stately grace, was his father—Lord Luthor Tyrell, ruler of the Reach and Lord of Highgarden.

Luthor was a man of age but still full of energy. His appearance was typical of the Tyrells—thick, curling chestnut hair, fair skin, a strong build, and warm brown eyes. The Lord of Highgarden remained an imposing figure, his face reflecting calm benevolence. Unlike his wife, known for her sharp mind and even sharper tongue, he seemed softer, more affable. He was dressed in an ornate doublet embroidered with golden roses and intricate patterns.

As they approached, Mace bowed respectfully.

"Your Highness," he said in a clear and confident voice. "I would like to once again wish you a happy name day!"

Rhaegar smiled, accepting the greeting.

"Mace, I am glad to see you as well. You may call me simply Rhaegar—there’s no need for all this… formality toward the heir."

"Thank you, Rhaegar. I… I cannot help but say… or rather, comment on what you did today… that flight of yours was simply spectacular! The greatest sight I have ever seen in my life!" he exclaimed with admiration. "Everyone is talking about it! I am sure ballads will be composed about it."

"Perhaps, but I fear the bards will have to greatly exaggerate to make the tale more thrilling," Rhaegar replied with light humor, taking another bite of his sweet pastry.

Mace and his father laughed. After a moment, Lord Luthor finally spoke, his voice low, warm, yet firm.

"Your Highness," he offered a slight bow, "on behalf of House Tyrell, allow me to express my admiration. It was… astonishing."

Rhaegar studied him for a moment, his eyes glinting with mild interest.

"Thank you, Lord Luthor. I am glad I was able to surprise you. It was no easy feat, but I believe the effect was worth the effort."

"Without a doubt," Tyrell nodded. "I also wish to extend my gratitude for appointing him to oversee Dragonstone’s administration."

"Oh, yes, your son has done an excellent job," the prince confirmed with a nod. "He has approached his duties with great responsibility. Berk prospers in many ways thanks to his efforts."

Mace barely concealed his proud smile, clearly pleased with the praise.

"I was simply doing my job, Rhaegar. But, to be honest, your support and trust mean a great deal to me."

Rhaegar nodded with a slight smile. Then, glancing at Lord Luthor, he tilted his head slightly.

"How is Lady Olenna?"

Mace tensed slightly, but his father merely smiled and shook his head lightly.

"She is here at the feast; she will make her way over soon," he replied with a hint of humor.

The conversation continued, and soon, more guests joined them. Lord Luthor was a man comfortable in social settings, and his son, despite his occasional naivety, was still the heir to one of the greatest houses in Westeros and knew how to engage in conversation.

Toothless, who had been lying behind the prince all this time, turned his head slightly, watching the new arrival with keen interest.

"Good evening, Your Highness. I wish you a happy name day!" Lady Olenna said, inclining her head slightly. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

Rhaegar and Mace rose from their seats, smiling at the lady and gesturing toward an empty chair.

"Good evening, Lady Olenna. Of course, you may," he smiled. "Thank you for your kind words. How are you enjoying the feast? I hope it pleases you."

Mace, ever the gentleman, helped his mother into the vacant seat.

"Thank you, my son," she acknowledged. "You’ve grown so much over these years."

"Your father should have been called the King of Feasts. During his reign, Westeros was filled with celebrations. If he honored his son's birth and the return of dragons with such grandeur, I wonder what your wedding will be like. Quite an intriguing thought."

"Oh… I dread to imagine how much it will cost the royal treasury," Rhaegar replied.

The people at the table chuckled, even Toothless rumbled in amusement.

"Before meeting you, I had not been so close to a dragon since my youth, when I last saw your great-grandfather, the king, in King’s Landing. I must admit, I now understand why people once called the Targaryens gods among mortals."

Rhaegar smiled gently.

"We are not gods, Lady Olenna. We are merely people, like everyone else."

Olenna smirked, studying the prince before her. Luthor nodded, though admiration still lingered in his eyes.

"You are rather humble for a prince of House Targaryen."

Rhaegar rolled his eyes.

"Correction. I am not a dragon, Lady Olenna. The dragons are behind me and over there." He gestured toward his companions.

Toothless purred.

"You are more than just a dragon, Toothless. You are the Alpha of all dragons, little brother," Rhaegar chuckled, glancing at his friend.

"Alpha?" Olenna asked, intrigued. "And what does that mean?"

"He is their leader, their chief, or perhaps even their king. In short, he is the most important one in their tribe."

"King of Dragons?!" Oberyn exclaimed enthusiastically. "Toothless—King of Dragons? That is incredible!"

"It is the truth."

"Allow me to correct you as well, my prince. Despite your own denial, you are a true Dragon," Olenna said as she rose and prepared to take her leave.

"What makes you say that?" Rhaegar asked curiously.

"Dragons do not speak of being dragons. True predators never announce that they are predators," she smiled widely. "Enjoy your celebration, my prince. And once again, I wish you a happy name day—or, as the common folk call it, the Day of the Dragon."

Rhaegar did not respond, merely inclining his head slightly, accepting her words as fact. He knew that his appearance that day, coupled with the dragons at his back, evoked something greater than mere respect in those around him.

The feast in the courtyard of the Red Keep continued, and though the night had draped the city in a dark veil, illuminated only by the glow of torches and candles, the celebration in honor of Prince Rhaegar showed no signs of fading. Laughter, music, the clinking of goblets, the lively chatter, and the constant stream of well-wishes blended into a single, warm, and joyous atmosphere.

The prince continued conversing with Oberyn, Elia, Arthur, and Mace when, suddenly, something happened in the center of the courtyard. People began to part, creating space, as if for some important event. From the crowd emerged a young warrior, clearly nervous yet maintaining a proud stance. He moved forward confidently and stopped before the prince.

The young man was tall and strongly built, though not yet fully formed into a warrior. His face bore determination, but his eyes showed tension—not fear, but reverence for what he was about to do. His hair was dark chestnut, his eyes steel-gray. He wore simple yet well-crafted armor, devoid of crests or embellishments, save for the sigil on his cloak—a blue whirlpool on a silver background.

He knelt before the prince, bowing his head and placing a hand over his heart.

"Your Highness, Prince-Dragon," he said loudly, ensuring all could hear. His voice trembled, not with fear, but with emotion. "I am William of House Nayland, loyal vassals of House Mallister. Since childhood, I have dreamed of becoming a knight worthy of that title, and today I ask you, heir to the Iron Throne, to grant me this honor."

He bowed his head even lower, awaiting an answer.

The gathered courtiers gasped, murmuring in surprise. It was not every day that a young warrior dared to request such a high honor from a royal prince—and in front of all of Westeros's nobility.

Rhaegar looked intently at the young man. He could sense the sincerity in his words, his devotion to the ideal of knighthood. The prince rose from the table, his long indigo-black cloak, adorned with multicolored gemstones, fluttering slightly in the air.

All eyes in the courtyard were fixed upon him.

"Are you certain that you are ready to bear this burden?" His voice was calm, yet carried a restrained power. "To be a knight is not merely to carry a sword and fight. It means to protect the weak, to serve justice, to be a shield for those who cannot defend themselves. It means to follow the code, even when the world turns against you. Are you ready for this, William Nayland?"

The young man lifted his head, his steel-gray eyes burning with determination.

"Yes, Your Highness. I am ready."

Rhaegar reached toward the table and took someone’s sword—a fine blade with engraved waves running along its length. He weighed it in his hands, then stepped forward.

Toothless, who lay nearby, lifted his head slightly, watching the proceedings with a predatory yet curious gaze. The dragon sensed something important, something that mattered both to his rider and to this boy.

The prince approached the young warrior and raised the sword.

"Kneel before me, William Nayland."

The young man obeyed, his breath becoming shallow. The crowd fell into hushed anticipation.

Rhaegar touched the blade to his right shoulder.

"In the name of the Old Gods and the New," he moved the sword to the left shoulder, "in the name of the Mother, the Father, the Warrior, the Maiden… the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger," then he raised the blade above the young man's head, "and in the name of all the dragons that have been and all those yet to come… I name you a knight! Rise, Ser William Nayland!"

It was as if thunder had erupted in the courtyard. The crowd burst into applause, cheers of approval and admiration filling the night air. The young warrior’s eyes welled with tears of joy, but he refused to let them fall. He clenched his jaw, struggling to contain his emotions.

Rising from his knees, he bowed deeply before the prince.

"I will serve with honor, Your Highness! I will never fail you!"

Rhaegar placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Then do not fail yourself. That is most important."

The newly anointed knight gave a firm nod, but his eyes gleamed like those of a boy who had just been handed a Valyrian steel sword.

The crowd continued to buzz, lords congratulating one another, awed by witnessing such a rare event. Ser Barristan Selmy, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke.

"If only all knights in Westeros believed in knighthood as much as this boy does… the world would be a far better place."

The prince smirked and, looking at the newly made Ser William, said,

"Perhaps we should start small, Ser Barristan? Perhaps we should raise new knights, worthy of the sword?"

The old knight smirked in return.

"If anyone can do that, it is you, my prince."

The feast continued, but now all knew that this evening had become more than just a celebration—it had become history. The story of a new knight, created by the Prince-Dragon.

Beneath massive canopies of crimson and golden silk embroidered with dragon motifs, lords and ladies sat at long tables laden with dishes that could have fed an entire army. Servants endlessly refilled goblets with wine and mead, carrying trays of roasted pheasants, succulent ribs, baked apples, and sweet pastries.

In the courtyard, people danced, sang, and entertained the guests with performances from the finest musicians of King’s Landing. Bards sang of the past glory of House Targaryen and the splendor of the new generation, while acrobats performed dizzying feats before the eyes of the enthralled nobility. The common folk who had managed to enter watched in reverent amazement.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the Prince-Dragon, sat at the head of the table beside his mother, Queen Rhaella, and his father, King Aerys II. His long silver hair was intricately braided, and his indigo-black attire shimmered in the glow of countless torches. He received congratulations and gifts, and though he could not always hide his fatigue, he maintained a gracious smile.

When the feast reached its climax, it was time for the toasts.

The first to rise was Tywin Lannister, his amber eyes fixed on the prince with his usual unreadable seriousness.

"Tonight, we honor Prince Rhaegar, heir to the Iron Throne, the hope of the Seven Kingdoms. On this day, we have witnessed not just the flight of dragons, but the emergence of a true Dragon in human form. I have known many wise men. The prince is the wisest of them all."

He turned his gaze directly to Rhaegar.

"My prince, you possess something unique—something that no one before you has had. In your eyes, there is wisdom. In your heart, strength and determination. In your hands, the future of the realm. And in your soul—the true soul of a Dragon. Let us raise our cups to him—not only that he may rule as a king but that he may become a legend, one whose name will live on for centuries! I, for one, look forward to it."

The guests applauded, voicing their agreement.

Next, Lord Steffon Baratheon stood. Unlike the reserved Tywin, his voice was loud, his smile broad.

"I will not speak as eloquently as Lord Lannister. But I will speak from the heart. Leading dragons in the sky is no easy task. But bringing them back into the light—that is even harder… much harder. And today, we have seen that you, Prince Rhaegar, can do both. So let us drink to your destiny—may it be as grand as the flight of the dragons and as high as you soared above our heads!"

The crowd roared in approval, raising their cups even higher.

Finally, Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost and the prince’s loyal friend, took the floor. He smiled as he leaned back in his chair, his silver-red hair gleaming in the torchlight.

"Rhaegar Targaryen is a man who does not just fly—he soars above all. He builds, he creates, he leads. But most importantly, he does not forget that life is not just about power but about friendship. Today, on this day, I drink to a friend who will one day change the world. To the Prince-Dragon!"

A final, thunderous cheer filled the air as the guests raised their cups once more. The name of the Prince-Dragon echoed throughout the courtyard, and on this night, the legend of Rhaegar Targaryen grew ever stronger.

His words were met with a loud roar of approval, and goblets were once again filled with wine.

As night fully embraced the castle, with torches burning in dim gold and the air still thick with the scents of roasted meat and sweet wine, the celebration gradually began to fade.

The guests, their bellies full and their thirst for spectacle satisfied, started to disperse. Yet laughter and music still echoed through the courtyard, and the dragons, watching the joys of men, rumbled softly, as if they too savored this night.

Prince Rhaegar, seated among his friends, raised his goblet and looked at everyone present. There was still much to be done. He had a world to lead into the future.

But tonight, he simply smiled.

The next day, after the grand feast, an even larger crowd gathered in the courtyard of the Red Keep—lords, knights, ladies, and common folk assembled around the tournament grounds, eagerly awaiting the spectacle. The tournament in honor of the Prince-Dragon was a grand occasion, attracting the greatest warriors of the Seven Kingdoms.

Banners of noble houses fluttered above the stands—red and gold, black and green, white and blue—a countless array of sigils towering over the arena where the contest was about to begin. Long tables bore goblets of wine and ale, platters of meat and fruit, while traveling bards sang ballads of dragons and legendary warriors of the past.

On the central grandstand, beneath a canopy of black and red silk, sat the royal family.

Prince Rhaegar, still weary from the previous night's banquet, rested in an ornate high-backed chair beside his mother and father. Toothless lay comfortably near the grandstand, occasionally flicking his tail and observing the scene with quiet interest.

King Aerys II, draped in a purple cloak adorned with golden dragons, watched the knights with a mocking smile. Tywin Lannister, seated beside him, remained silent, his sharp gaze assessing each competitor.

The tournament began with the traditional jousting matches. Knights rode into the arena clad in full armor, their horses adorned in colorful caparisons bearing their house sigils.

The early rounds held few surprises—the tournament’s favorites easily bested their less-experienced challengers.

• Ser Barristan Selmy, the unparalleled knight of the Kingsguard, defeated three opponents in a row.
• Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander, demonstrated his formidable skill, unseating a knight from House Blackwood.
• Young Ser Lewyn Martell, uncle to Elia and Oberyn, dismounted a knight from House Tarly, much to the delight of his supporters.

But the true battle began when the strongest contenders faced off.

The Finalists:

• Ser Barristan Selmy—a legend, who had fought the finest warriors in the realm.
• Ser Lorimar Darry—a master horseman and one of House Targaryen’s loyal supporters.
• Ser Rodrik Blackwood—a young but talented knight, victorious in three rounds.
• Ser Horace Braxton—a new and formidable challenger, whose name was yet unknown in the capital.

The first match pitted Horace Braxton against Lorimar Darry. Darry, considered a favorite, was unexpectedly unseated after a devastating strike from Braxton’s lance. The crowd gasped—this new knight was not to be underestimated.

Next, Barristan Selmy faced Rodrik Blackwood. Blackwood proved to be a worthy opponent, but ultimately, the seasoned veteran prevailed, sending the younger knight crashing to the ground.

Then came the final duel, one that ignited waves of excitement across the stands. Ser Barristan Selmy versus Ser Horace Braxton. The crowd fell silent, anticipation hanging thick in the air as the two knights met in the center of the arena.

"Old against young, experience against strength, wisdom against hot blood," muttered Arthur Dayne, watching intently.

They spurred their horses forward, lances aimed at each other.

• The first strike—neither fell.
• The second—Barristan swayed but remained in the saddle.
• The third… Braxton’s lance found a gap in the veteran’s defense.

Barristan Selmy crashed to the ground with a thunderous impact.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Ser Horace Braxton, a young knight from the Riverlands, had won the tournament in honor of the Prince-Dragon.

Dismounting, he bowed deeply before the royal family and received his prize—a magnificent sword, forged by the finest smiths in King’s Landing.

"You have proven yourself worthy, knight," said Prince Rhaegar, rising from his seat. "You have earned your victory."

Ser Horace bowed, barely able to contain his emotions.

Thus, this day came to an end—a day when a new legend was born, and a day that became another step in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

The celebration in honor of Prince Rhaegar's name day had lasted for several days, and King’s Landing had yet to quiet down after the recent tournament and grand feast. The city buzzed with excitement, wine flowed like a river, and people still argued over Ser Barristan’s battle against the young knight from the Riverlands. But within the Red Keep, the atmosphere was different—tense, uneasy.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was bathed in the warm light of torches, reflecting off massive golden goblets and goblets filled with wine. Along the long tables, noble lords, ladies, and the king’s closest advisors were seated. The hum of voices, the clinking of metal against porcelain, and bursts of laughter filled the hall. But Prince Rhaegar knew that this dinner would be the last truly peaceful evening before the storm.

At the head of the table, King Aerys sat, his silver hair cascading over his shoulders, and in his purple eyes, a strange fire burned. He looked elated, almost manic. The lords and knights listened to his words with polite smiles, but unease flickered in their gazes.

Rhaegar already had a suspicion about what was coming, but he hoped he was wrong.

The king set his goblet of wine down on the table, tapping its rim to draw the hall’s attention.

"Lords!" His voice rang out, bright and almost jubilant. "A day is coming that will be remembered in the history of Westeros!"

The hall fell silent, then someone politely applauded.

"My son, our Prince-Dragon," Aerys turned his head toward Rhaegar, and the prince felt hundreds of eyes fix on him. "He has shown us that the blood of Valyria still flows strong in our veins. But what is one dragon when there can be more? I am a Targaryen as well. I am a Dragon! And now, my time has come."

Rhaegar felt his blood run cold.

So this was it.

"I will ride a dragon!" the king declared triumphantly, his voice echoing through the hall.

A heavy silence followed.

Even the most loyal noblemen looked uneasy. Lord Tywin Lannister, seated not far from the throne, showed no outward emotion, but his golden eyes darted toward Rhaegar. Lady Joanna cautiously touched her husband's hand beneath the table, as if sensing the dangerous turn the conversation was about to take.

The prince exhaled slowly, took a sip of water, and set his goblet aside.

"Father," Rhaegar spoke evenly, calmly, though inside, his thoughts raged like a storm. "This is dangerous. Riding a dragon is not a mere whim. Dragons are not horses—they cannot simply be tamed. They choose their own rider. And above all, one must earn their trust and respect."

"Oh, I have no doubt that they will choose me!" Aerys smiled broadly, his eyes flashing. "Am I not their father? Was it not I who brought them back into this world? It is my blood that flows in their veins. Do you remember that, my son?"

Rhaegar’s face remained calm, but his eyes betrayed his disappointment.

"I am not afraid." His voice was firm yet gentle. "I know that dragons are a force that should not be controlled by anyone. Not even the Targaryens. We do not own them, Your Grace. We are their friends, their allies. But if we try to dominate them by force, we will lose everything. Do not let history repeat itself."

The king leaned back against his throne, looking at his son with a condescending smirk.

"You are too soft, Rhaegar. Too kind. Dragons are fire. They are meant to burn our enemies, not live among men like domesticated beasts."

"You wish to use them as weapons?" There was a sharp edge in the prince’s voice now.

"What else are dragons for if not to rule the world?!"

Rhaegar felt anger rising in his chest. He had seen this before.

Drago Bludvist… The man who had dreamed of ruling the world by using dragons as weapons. He had believed that fear would make him invincible.

And now, before him, sat a man with that same look, that same thirst for power.

But this time, it was his own father. A man he had never truly seen as a father.

"I will not allow it." Rhaegar’s voice was cold as an icy wind.

Aerys abruptly sat up.

"You will not allow it?!" His voice sharpened. "You are speaking to your king, boy. I do not need your permission."

The hall froze. Many lords averted their gazes, realizing the argument had gone too far.

Rhaegar took a deep breath, struggling to keep his anger in check.

"You do not understand what you are doing, Father. If you attempt to dominate a dragon by force, it will kill you."

"YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT?!" Aerys shot to his feet, knocking over his goblet of wine. The red liquid spilled across the white tablecloth, resembling blood.

But Rhaegar did not flinch.

"You are not a dragon. You are a man. And you cannot fly."

For a moment, a dreadful silence filled the hall.

Aerys stared at him, breathing heavily, his hands clenched and unclenched, like a predator ready to pounce.

In his eyes, something mad and terrible gleamed.

"You… you envy me." The king’s voice hissed. "You are afraid that I will become a rider as well, that you will not be the only one. You fear that I am stronger than you!"

Rhaegar shook his head.

"There are few things I fear. And you are not one of them." He stood, holding his father’s gaze unwaveringly. "I fear for the dragons. They are not your playthings. They are not tools of terror. They are living, thinking beings. And I will not let you turn them into weapons."

Aerys’s lips tightened, his face flushed with rage.

"You are insolent, boy!"

"I am speaking the truth."

"You will regret this!"

"So will you."

Aerys’s fury grew, and he opened his mouth to retort, but then another voice rang out.

"Enough!" Queen Rhaella shouted. "We are family! Why are you fighting?"

Everyone turned.

Tywin Lannister slowly rose from his seat. His face was stone, his voice emotionless, but in his golden eyes, a hidden coldness gleamed.

"Have you lost your minds?" His tone was calm, but firm. "You argue in front of everyone."

Aerys blinked, as if for a moment he had forgotten that there was an entire hall full of people watching them. His gaze darted around the room, taking in the lords seated in tense silence.

The king exhaled sharply, then abruptly turned on his heel, heading for the exit. As he left, he threw one final command over his shoulder:

"Everyone to the Ice Dome of that Frost Dragon! One must be placed in the Dragonpit. Did I build it for nothing?!"

Rhaegar remained standing, unhurried. He knew—the battle was not yet over. But he also knew whose victory today would be, and whose disgrace.

The ice dome, erected by Frost, towered over the courtyard of the Red Keep, shimmering with a silvery glow in the light of the setting sun. It was like a gemstone, encapsulating the power of dragons, their might, their magic. Inside the dome, colossal silhouettes could be seen—great creatures whose breath was both fire and ice, whose wings could blanket the sky like storm clouds.

Prince Rhaegar stood before the royal procession, refusing to look at the king with whom he had quarreled just half an hour ago. His hands clenched into fists as he held the reins of his horse, and his face was grim. Beside him were Arthur Dayne, Jon Connington, and Ser Barristan Selmy. All of them were on edge, their gazes fixed on the royal procession as it made its way toward the ice lair.

At the head of the procession strode King Aerys—tall, clad in black and red garments, his crown gleaming atop his head, and his eyes burning with manic fire. His movements were swift, erratic, filled with the tension of a man who had made a decision and refused to waver.

Following him were his closest advisors: his Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister, Master of Coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Ships, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, and five knights of the Kingsguard. All of them looked uneasy, but none dared to stop the king.

Rhaegar spurred his horse forward, blocking Aerys’s path. His voice was firm:

"Father, don’t do this. Dragons are not toys, not weapons. They are not for you."

Aerys abruptly halted, throwing a furious glare at his son.

"You dare defy me again, boy?" he hissed. "You dare tell me what I can and cannot do? I am the king! I am fire, I am the blood of Valyria! And I will fly, just like my ancestors!"

Toothless had long since sensed his brother’s distress and let out a deep, reverberating growl that shook the air like thunder over the sea. His eyes and spinal plates flared with blue flames as he landed atop the ice dome and stepped closer to the king, flaring his nostrils. The other dragons immediately emerged from the lair, forming a living barrier before the royal entourage.

"He does not want you to come closer, Father." Rhaegar’s voice was calm, but there was steel in it. "Dragons know whom to fear and whom to respect."

"I do not fear my own dragons!" Aerys cackled hoarsely. "I am their father! They will submit to me!"

He extended his hand forward, his gaze locking onto Hookfang.

The massive dragon, with his black-and-red scales, stood at the forefront of the pack, watching the scene unfold. His yellow eyes blinked lazily, and he rose, shaking out his neck. He looked regal, powerful—but there was unmistakable amusement in his gaze.

"Come to me, dragon!" the king commanded, stepping forward.

Hookfang raised his head and… winked at Toothless.

Rhaegar understood instantly—the dragon had a plan.

Toothless watched his friend intently, then gave a slight nod, granting him space to act.

Hookfang took a few slow steps forward, his clawed feet scratching lightly against the ground. Lowering his head before the king, he pretended to submit.

Aerys smirked.

"Yes. Yes! You see, all of you?! He recognizes me! He knows who his true master is!"

Toothless growled again, his tail striking the stone, but Hookfang subtly shook his head—not yet.

Aerys climbed onto the dragon’s neck, his hands gripping the smooth, scaled skin as he looked down at his son.

"What do you say now, Prince-Dragon? You are a fool, still just a boy. I am the true ruler of fire!"

Rhaegar said nothing. He already knew what was about to happen.

Aerys tilted his head back toward the sky and bellowed:

"Dracarys!"

Hookfang grinned—so visibly that even the king’s courtiers exchanged uneasy glances.

Then, Hookfang’s body ignited with flames. The fire crawled along his scales, moving like a living entity, shimmering red and orange.

But it was not normal fire. It was not the destructive force that devoured everything in its path.

It was his shield, his defense, the very manifestation of his nature. A fire that did not burn him.

But for the man on his back, it was a different story.

Aerys did not know about Hookfang’s abilities.

In an instant, the king’s robes caught fire. The flames danced across the fabric, consuming it, then licked at his skin. Shrieks of horror echoed around, but no one was fast enough to intervene.

A second later, he screamed in agony.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

His anguished wail split the air.

He thrashed atop the dragon’s back, clawing at the flames with his bare hands, but only tore apart the smoldering fabric, worsening the pain. The acrid stench of burning cloth, flesh, and hair filled the courtyard.

The crowd gasped. The guards rushed toward the dragon but hesitated, unsure what to do. Some drew their swords, but none dared attack Hookfang.

Aerys could not think, could not comprehend. There was only pain—searing, relentless, all-consuming.

Then, his instincts took over.

He did the only thing left to do - jumped.

The crowd shrieked, watching as the King of the Seven Kingdoms plunged downward, crashing onto the stone and sand below.

Nobles, knights, and servants rushed to him. Some tried to extinguish the flames, others poured water from skins, while some simply stood frozen, stunned by what was happening.

And then came a sound that shook the entire courtyard—laughter. Deep, raspy, guttural—it erupted from Hookfang’s throat. He laughed, his jaws stretching wide, baring his fangs.

And his laughter was soon joined by the other dragons.

First Toothless, then Frost, and soon, the rest of them.

Their chorus of laughter echoed across the entire bay, reaching as far as the city’s center. It was mocking, piercing, as if the very earth itself was laughing at Aerys, as though he were not a king, but a court jester who had slipped on a banana peel.

When the smoke cleared, before them lay the king—his face blackened with soot, his hair singed, his once-grand robes reduced to charred rags. He gasped for breath, stunned and humiliated. He heard their laughter, which stripped him of the last shreds of his pride.

Hookfang lowered his head, still grinning, and then, stretching out the sounds, uttered, in a mockingly slow, almost human-like manner:

"Ha... ha... ha."

The crowd froze.

Aerys slowly sat up, his eyes darting around, his face twisted in humiliation. He trembled, whether from pain or fury was unclear.

Rhaegar said nothing, simply watching him. It was not only the king’s flesh that had been burned by those flames. His mind… was shattered. And in his eyes, something foreign glimmered—something not human.

Toothless stepped closer, gently nudging his rider’s shoulder, as if asking, “So? Is it over?”

The prince took a deep breath, still keeping his gaze on the king.

"Yes," he whispered. "It's over."

Aerys’s scream tore through the air like a thunderclap.

"I AM A DRAGON! I AM THE KING!"—his voice cracked into a shriek, madness flashing in his eyes. "They will burn! All these filthy creatures, these winged abominations, if they do not bow their heads! I will destroy them! I will order them burned! All of them! ALL OF THEM!"

Hatred blazed in his eyes—hatred for those who mocked him, who dared to doubt his right to be the master of dragons. His voice trembled with rage, his hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his flesh. His face contorted, devoid of any royal dignity—only blind, unrestrained fury remained.

Toothless flattened his ears against his head at the king’s screech, his nostrils flaring. Rhaegar watched his father closely.

"You do not understand what you are saying, Father." His voice was quiet but firm. "You threaten to destroy the dragons? Those who have been with us since the beginning of time? Those whom I brought back? Those you do not even know?"

Aerys did not hear him. He was drowning in the agony of his humiliation.

"I will order their eggs burned! I will destroy them all! You will weep as you watch your beasts burn in the flames! I... I WILL BURN YOU!"

That cry was the final straw for the Ice Dragon.

Frost raised his head.

The massive Ice Dragon, a giant of the frozen seas, glistening like a diamond under the moonlight, stood still. But in his eyes, a cold fire ignited.

He remembered people like Aerys all too well. He remembered the pain they inflicted. He had not forgotten the chains that bound his limbs, robbing him of his freedom. He remembered the searing iron pressed into his body, preventing him from fighting back. He remembered the scorching fire, tearing through his flesh, breaking his will and spirit.

He had not forgotten Drago Bludvist.

The man who saw dragons not as living beings, but as weapons. As tools of power. And now, before him, stood another one—and this man dared to threaten fire upon those who were his kin, his family.

Gathering all his bravery and willpower, Frost turned his gaze toward the Kingsguard, standing beside Aerys. His eyes narrowed into slits, the small spines along his snout began to shift.

Rhaegar immediately felt the air around him thicken, growing dense, heavy, as if reality itself were condensing. Even Toothless bristled, his wings twitching from the tension, ears flattening against his skull.

Seeing what Frost was about to do, Rhaegar ordered him to stop. But Frost did not listen. And the command had already been given.

"Kill him."

The seven greatest knights of the Seven Kingdoms obeyed the will of the Great Bewilderbeast. And the other knights and guards did not intervene—they, too, had fallen under the dragon’s command. The warriors no longer thought, no longer spoke—they only moved toward the Mad King. The Kingsguard, once the loyal protectors of the throne, simultaneously drew their swords. The sound of metal scraping against scabbards echoed through the courtyard. The crowd screamed in terror, panic erupting. The lords recoiled. Some reached for their swords, but no one dared to interfere.

Tywin Lannister slowly clenched his fists, his amber eyes filled with fear, darting between the king and his surroundings—but he remained motionless, expecting the worst, hoping for the best. Rhaegar felt a cold chill race down his spine.

"No… no, no." He whispered, but his voice was too quiet. His heart pounded in his chest, a sense of looming disaster tightening around his throat like an iron grip.

"Frost, stop!"—he shouted, but the dragon would not listen.

Toothless growled at his subordinate, trying to bring him back to his senses. But Rhaegar’s words and the Alpha’s warning roar did not reach him. Frost saw only a threat, and it had to be destroyed. The Kingsguard moved forward. Aerys recoiled, his face contorted with fear. The madness that had burned in his eyes only moments ago was now replaced with sheer panic.

— What... What are you doing?! — his voice trembled, breaking apart. — I am your king! I…

But the swords were already raised.

Rhaegar lunged forward.
— STOP! HALT!

But it was too late.

Ser Barristan Selmy’s sword cut through the air and plunged into Aerys’ chest. The king gasped, his mouth opening, but no sound escaped. He staggered. A thin stream of blood trickled down his robe, spreading into a crimson stain across the fabric.

He tried to breathe, but he could not. His eyes widened, filled with despair. Opening his mouth one last time, he collapsed to the ground.

Rhaegar froze, unable to believe his eyes. The king was dead—King Aerys II Targaryen had fallen before him, struck down by his own guardsmen, under the control of the Great Deceiver.

A deafening silence fell upon the courtyard, so overwhelming that even the dragons made no sound. Toothless no longer growled at Frost. It no longer mattered.

When the knights regained their senses, Barristan Selmy dropped to his knees with a strangled cry of horror. His sword clattered to the ground, slipping from his trembling hands. He stared at his palms, as if expecting to see the blood that would never wash away. The rest of the Kingsguard stood frozen, their faces a mixture of shock and terror. They had just killed the very man they had sworn to protect.

— What… what… have I done?! — he choked out in a panic.

The other guardsmen quickly moved to surround him.

— What have you done, Ser Barristan? — asked Ser Gerold Hightower, his voice grim. The others had no words. Their brother in white had become a Kingslayer.

— I have dishonored myself… and my cloak… — his voice was hollow, broken, almost lifeless.

Rhaegar stepped forward, the setting sun making his silver hair shimmer.
— You are not to blame, Ser Barristan.

The knight lifted his despair-filled eyes to him.

The prince knelt before him and gently touched his cloak.
— You acted against your will. This was not your choice.

Barristan swallowed hard, his lips trembling.
— I… I did it… I killed the king… I broke my oath… I…

Rhaegar gripped his shoulder.
— You protected the realm, — he said, without hesitation.

Selmy looked into the prince’s eyes and, for the first time since the nightmare began, felt the ice in his chest slowly begin to melt. The young prince straightened. His gaze swept over the stunned court. Lords, knights, servants, common soldiers, nobles, and guards all stared at him. Aerys II Targaryen’s blood soaked the ground beneath him, his lifeless eyes staring into the void. His lips were slightly parted, as if he had wanted to speak one last command… but never could.

Rhaegar stood in the center of the chaos, his breathing slow, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked at Barristan, at the sword still lying on the cold stone, at the thin stream of blood trickling away. But he did not blame him, for he was innocent. The other Kingsguard knew it too. They tried to console their brother, hoping the prince would grant him mercy. None of them were guilty. Everyone knew it.

— You are not at fault, — Rhaegar repeated, trying to soothe the knight who had protected him all his life. — None of you are. You did not act of your own free will. Frost controlled you.

Barristan flinched, as did the rest of the Kingsguard.

— Who controlled us? — they all wondered.

Ser Barristan lifted his gaze, the other guards turned to the prince. Rhaegar looked at them firmly, confidently, like a true king.

— You defended the realm from madness. You protected all of us.

Something like hope flickered in Barristan’s eyes. Rhaegar stood tall, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the Kingsguard.

Then, a voice shattered the tense silence - Tywin Lannister.

— My condolences, Your Grace. But the Seven Kingdoms cannot remain without a ruler, — he said boldly.

— You vile creature, Tywin Lannister. Your friend has just died, and yet you are already preparing to place me on that iron chair to rule through me like a puppet, — the prince seethed in his mind. Toothless hissed, sensing his anger. — That will not happen. I will put you in your place.

Lord Lannister took a single step forward, careful not to further provoke the prince’s dragon.

— King Aerys has departed this world. His own folly led to his demise. I grieve for him, my prince. But the Seven Kingdoms need a new king. A king far stronger than the last. A true Dragon. - He stopped, his sharp gaze locking onto Rhaegar. — You are the sole heir. You are the rightful king.

Then, Tywin Lannister knelt. Lord Steffon Baratheon followed. The Kingsguard, including Ser Barristan, fell to their knees. Then, the rest of the court. His friends, knights, lords, guardsmen, servants, soldiers—every last one of them knelt before the prince, acknowledging him as their king. The dragons roared, hailing the new King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaegar shuddered.

He had not wanted this. He had not wanted this ending. He had not wanted the crown. But he had no choice. So he met their gazes with determination, his heart hammering in his chest. Behind him, Toothless rose, purring softly in reassurance. Rhaegar turned, looking into the familiar green eyes that once mirrored his own.

— How are you, brother? — his eyes asked.

— I am fine, brother, — they pressed against each other. — It’s all right. I am king now.

He felt Toothless’ breath, steady and warm, calming him. Driving away all the darkness within him. At last, he pulled away and turned to face the court.

— Rise! — his voice rang out, strong, steady, commanding. — Rise, my lords, my knights, my friends! Rise… and let us begin anew!

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The month following the death of King Aerys II was marked by whispers and hushed conversations across Westeros. King's Landing did not greet the loss with mourning processions, sorrowful chants, or tolling bells. No cries filled its alleys, no prayers were offered for the king's soul. The people remained largely silent. They exchanged glances in secret, whispered the news in passing, and in the rowdy taverns, rumors of his death multiplied like rats in the cellars of the Red Keep.

King Aerys II Targaryen was dead. His body, following the traditions of House Targaryen, was burned by the fire of Toothless in the rebuilt Dragonpit, and his ashes were sent to Dragonstone to be scattered alongside his ancestors. Ashes—that was all that remained of the seventeenth ruler of the Targaryen dynasty. Neither the high lords, nor the common folk, nor even his family and friends shed tears for him. For some, his death was a relief; others, however, dared not voice what they truly thought—that the Seven Kingdoms had finally been freed from a mad tyrant who had sought to rebuild a lost monument once erected by another tyrant.

Yet, not everyone rejoiced at the king’s passing. His Kingsguard bore the stain of disgrace. The white cloaks of the knights, once symbols of loyalty and honor, now seemed like an unbearable burden, tainted by shame. They did not leave the walls of the Red Keep, and when they did, they kept their heads high, guarding the prince with utmost diligence, unwilling to show their humiliation as they followed him everywhere.

Ser Barristan Selmy had changed the most. He did not speak of it, but everyone who knew him could see how much he had aged over the past month. The people now called him "Kingslayer." The prince granted him a few weeks of rest after Aerys’ funeral, and during those nights, Ser Barristan stayed in the Dragonpit, sitting in silence before the charred walls where fire had consumed the king he had sworn to protect. He blamed himself, yet he did not leave. He was a knight. And he remained until the very end.

The nobility called for his execution. The people, seeing him on the streets, threw garbage at him, poured waste over him. Ser Barristan did not respond, walking with his head lowered toward the Red Keep, where he was met with no less contempt. In the city and in the world, there was no kindness or mercy for him. Only in the Red Keep did he find his sworn brothers in white cloaks, who endured the same fate. Yet the heaviest burden of shame, the title of Kingslayer, fell solely upon him. And, of course, there was his Dragon-Prince, who shielded him from venomous words and scornful gazes.

As previously mentioned, he was to be put on trial. But the prince did not allow it.

“There will be no trial for Ser Barristan. He is not guilty,” the Dragon-Prince growled with a steady, commanding voice, addressing the sheep gathered in the courtyard of the Red Keep—and the one Lion among them. “He was under Frost’s control. My ice dragon has the ability to manipulate minds. It was him who did this because Aerys threatened him and the other dragons.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” the Lion replied, surrounded by the sheep. Now that Aerys was gone, these sheep no longer dared to bleat as sweetly as before. “But allow me to replace him for your own safety.”

The Dragon-Prince’s expression remained firm, unwavering in its authority. The Lion had known this about him since their first encounters.

“No,” were the final words of the Dragon-Prince.

One day, as Ser Barristan walked through the streets, a group of men prepared to attack him, hoping for either profit or perhaps a reward from the prince for killing his father’s sworn protector.

“How naive,” he thought but did not resist.

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Nine months had passed since King Aerys II, the "Mad King," had left this world, and his twelve-year-old heir, the current king, Rhaegar I, the Wild Dragon, had taken his place. During this time, much had changed in Westeros under the rule of the Wild Dragon. Winter had fully arrived in the kingdom, tightening its icy grip, but the cold was not the greatest threat. A new danger had emerged—not from the North, not from across the seas, nor from the lords accustomed to their games of conspiracy. It had arisen among the people themselves, in the hearts of those who rejected change.

The reform of religious freedom had given people a choice, and that choice had shaken the very foundations of the realm. Those who had followed the Faith of the Seven for centuries could now turn to the Old Gods, the Lord of Light, or the gods beyond the Narrow Sea. But freedom never came without consequences. Where there were changes, there were always those who rejected them—or sought to twist them to their own dark purposes.

Unknown fanatics rose from the shadows. They formed secret brotherhoods, hiding in forests or other places where no one could find them or bring them to justice. At first, they were merely groups of preachers, shouting that the new king was mad and that his reforms were heresy. No one listened to them. Surprisingly, even in the most remote villages—where people had never even seen their ruler—he was respected and loved for reducing their taxes and preparing supplies for them. The bards, who sang and spread songs about the king, did their work well, telling of how he worked day and night for his people.

At first, the fanatics were dismissed and driven away, called madmen—which they were. Then, they began destroying altars of other faiths, slaughtering priests and followers of the Old Gods in the Riverlands, burning septs, murdering royal emissaries sent to survey villages in need of schools. And then, it became something far worse.

Villages burned. People screamed. Men were killed, women and children were burned at the stake in the name of their fanatical ideals.

They called themselves "The Hand of the Seven" and claimed to carry out the will of the gods.

But the gods did not demand blood.

They did.

Hiccup read the letters and reports from the lords, watched as messengers arrived at King’s Landing with news of new atrocities. At first, when their actions were still minor, he had given warnings. He had ordered lords and commanders to deliver his words to the fanatics.

But there was no response.

And now, entire villages had gone up in flames, innocent people—for whom he had worked tirelessly—were being massacred.

This time, he gave a different order.

He commanded the lords to act—not with words or warnings, but with the sword.

No one would be left unpunished.

Soon, the attacks spread across the kingdom—the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Stormlands.

That night, Hiccup convened the Small Council in the Great Hall, illuminated by hundreds of candles. The scent of wax mixed with the aromas of parchment, wine, and the lingering embers in the hearth. At the long table, covered in maps and reports, sat the greatest and most powerful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.

Hiccup sat at the head of the table, his dark-indigo eyes, deep and attentive, scanning the text of one of the reports detailing the latest attacks. His fingers lightly touched the surface of the table, but his expression remained unreadable. However, inside him, there was chaos.

Lord Tywin Lannister was the first to rise. His face, as always, was devoid of emotion, but in his amber eyes, a barely noticeable flicker of anger could be seen. He began to speak, delivering the latest grim news. Tywin did not tolerate disorder in his lands, and without hesitation, he had sent a message to Casterly Rock, ordering his brothers to raise an army and cleanse the kingdom of these "bandits."

"Your Grace, my brothers, Ser Kevan and Ser Tygett, who gathered troops against these… 'bandits,' walked into a trap." He paused, inclining his head slightly. "They managed to retreat, but they lost too many men. Out of a thousand soldiers, only three hundred survived. This is not merely a band of wild brigands—they are prepared. They knew exactly where to strike."

A tense silence fell over the chamber. Tywin was not a man to complain about difficulties. If he was expressing concern, it meant the matter was serious. His anger was apparent. These 'fanatic bandits' had struck at Tywin’s pride and the honor of House Lannister. They say, "A Lannister always pays his debts", and it seemed that Lord Tywin Lannister, the Lion of the West, intended to settle this debt in blood.

Lord Steffon Baratheon, a tall, broad-shouldered man with harsh features, set down his goblet of wine with a dull thud. A storm raged in his blue eyes, as it always did when he was angered.

"My vassals report that the attacks on the Stormlands continue. We are losing people, villages are burning, and our soldiers are struggling to contain this." His voice was filled with frustration. "How much longer must we endure this?! We should burn them out before they grow even stronger!"

"They are already strong, Lord Steffon," the king’s calm voice rang out.

All eyes turned to the young king, who slowly rose, running his hand across the maps spread before him. His gaze burned with icy determination.

"Do you think they simply appeared out of nowhere? No. They have been waiting. I don’t know for how long, but they have been preparing. Perhaps for years. They are not mere bandits. This is a real army. And they will not stop until they have drowned Westeros in blood."

"You believe they did not appear out of nowhere and have been preparing for many years?" a maester sitting nearby asked doubtfully.

"How else do you explain their success?" the king responded coldly. "They are well-armed. They know how to lay ambushes. They act in coordination, their attacks occurring simultaneously across different regions. This means they have command, logistics, a plan. They are not just a group of crazed zealots—someone is leading them."

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gerold Hightower, seated near Lord Quellon Greyjoy, nodded.

"Your Grace is right," Gerold Hightower said. "These are not random raids—this is an organized invasion. If we do not crush them now, they will become even more dangerous. We must destroy them immediately, without hesitation."

Hiccup surveyed the faces of everyone present, his expression unyielding.

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