Rhaegar was startled, realizing the gravity of the situation.
The Citadel truly harbored ill intentions toward House Targaryen!
At that moment, he recalled a childhood memory—his dragon, Dreamfyre, bound in chains.
As a fully grown dragon, Dreamfyre had suffered at the hands of a ruthless maester, nearly causing Rhaegar to fail in taming her and almost costing him his life.
After that incident, the unscrupulous maester had his hands cut off and was sent to the Wall, while the Dragonpit officially abolished the use of chains.
Rhaegar's breathing grew heavier as he thought once again of the former Grand Maester Mellos.
That shameless old dog had deliberately mistreated his father, allowing his wound to fester.
That was not the conduct befitting a Grand Maester.
Then, a fragmented dream resurfaced—his mother undergoing a C-section due to childbirth complications.
Mellos had wielded the blade himself, cutting his mother open while she was still alive.
"Why did my mother suffer from so many miscarriages? Why did so many of her children die in infancy?"
Rhaegar was lost in thought, recalling something Senelle had once said:
"Westeros is too cold. It does not welcome the Targaryens."
At first, he hadn't thought much of it. But now, looking back—
"My great-grandfather had so many children, yet aside from one who joined the Citadel and another who became a wanderer across the Narrow Sea, none met a good end."
Aemon and Baelor, strong and courageous, had become dragonriders at a young age, bonded as brothers, with a promising future ahead.
One was assassinated. The other supposedly died of poisoning.
His grandmother, Alyssa, as bold and fearless as any man, died of puerperal fever after giving birth to her third child.
His maternal grandmother, Daenela, a healthy young woman, also died in childbirth.
His great-aunt Maegelle, who became a septa, perished from greyscale.
Viserra broke her neck in an accident.
Gael, seduced and abandoned by a wandering singer, drowned herself in despair.
Thirteen children in total. Aside from those who died in infancy, not a single one survived to stay by their family's side.
Does that seem reasonable?
Rhaegar's expression darkened, a chilling sensation creeping up his spine.
He clenched the parchment tightly, his knuckles turning white, and gritted his teeth as he spat out a single word:
"The Citadel!"
He refused to believe in coincidences.
Coincidence did not explain why so many of his ancestors perished as if marked by death itself.
Coincidence did not explain why his mother suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, unable to give birth to a healthy child.
That's right! Rhaegar placed the suffering of Aemma Arryn squarely on the Citadel's shoulders as well.
Treu hunched his shoulders, hesitating. "My prince, that ship I mentioned—it was strange. After Lord Tyrell's assassination, the ship conveniently vanished from the port."
"There are no coincidences."
Rhaegar's response was eerily calm.
Treu felt a chill down his spine and stole a glance at him.
Rhaegar's face was expressionless, yet a long-forgotten darkness lurked in his violet eyes. His voice suddenly trembled.
"The Citadel… I never imagined they were so eager to die!"
Not only his voice but his entire body was trembling.
His silver-gold hair fell over his face, his porcelain-white skin turning deathly pale in an instant. A diamond-shaped black scale emerged from beneath his flesh.
Szzzt!
The corner of his lips twitched uncontrollably, and as he opened his mouth, a wisp of black flame escaped.
Treu jumped back in shock, trembling as he took two steps away.
The prince's current state was anything but normal.
"Treu."
Rhaegar's voice was chillingly clear.
"I am here, my prince," Treu answered immediately.
"Return to the Citadel. Gather intelligence for me and recruit all the disillusioned maesters and acolytes you can find."
Rhaegar slowly lifted his head, his violet eyes gleaming like two radiant amethysts. His tone was ice-cold.
"If the Citadel refuses to serve the people, then we shall destroy it!"
For too long, the Citadel had remained detached from the world, forgetting the power of blood and fire.
Just wait. Their end was coming.
Treu was so terrified that he forgot to breathe, staring blankly at the prince.
On Rhaegar's pale forehead, right beside the first black scale, a second one emerged from his flesh.
Then a third.
It didn't stop.
Three black scales overlapped, covering most of his left temple, as if an inked tattoo had spread across his skin.
Then, suddenly, the three scales twitched as if alive. A twisted, branch-like horn sprouted from beneath them.
"Hsss—"
A sharp pain stabbed through Rhaegar's skull. He clenched his teeth and shook his head violently.
His silver-gold hair fell to the sides, revealing a sharp, chiseled face contorted with pain and madness.
The pain! It was unbearable!
Rhaegar gritted his teeth, feeling as if his head were about to explode.
He summoned his system panel.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Talent: Dreamer (Gold)
Bloodline: Dragonborn (+56%)
Runes: Ouroboros (Blue), Bronze (Green)
Blood Magic: Dragonstone (Blue), Enchantment (Blue)…
Relics: Blood and Fire, Dream Vision…
Evaluation: "Extraordinary does not equal greatness. Wrath will burn all to ashes."
Rhaegar skimmed the panel quickly, waving off Treu, who was trying to approach, and struck his own forehead forcefully.
The further refinement of his bloodline was causing side effects.
"Brother, clear your mind."
A pair of small chubby hands reached from behind him, gently massaging his temples as they pulsed.
Rhaegar wanted to push them away but forced himself to suppress his impatience and allowed it.
Something was wrong. His condition was very wrong.
The transformation of a Dragonborn required at least 50% purity of Valyrian royal blood.
At age six, his bloodline purity had been only 5%.
He never believed his blood was impure.
In reality, bloodline inheritance should naturally strengthen over time, subtly increasing as one grows older while taming dragons.
At six years old, it might be at 5%, and by sixteen, it could progress to 25%.
Among the siblings, Rhaenyra had the greatest talent, Helaena possessed the gift of foresight, and Daeron managed to tame a dragon at a very young age.
Aegon and Aemond were also quite capable, having tamed dragons much earlier than many Targaryens before them.
However, none of them had naturally reached the 50% threshold.
Rhaegar ran his fingers through his long hair, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what went wrong.
"Brother, stop thinking," Helaena murmured, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and anxiety. "Don't become a dragon. Dragons all die."
"I'm human! How could I turn into a dragon?"
Rhaegar gritted his teeth, fighting off the waves of pain crashing over him.
Strangely enough, the moment the "+" sign next to his bloodline indicator disappeared, the pain vanished with it.
Letting out a deep breath, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
He reached up to touch his face—his scales and horn had receded.
"Give me a mirror."
"Oh! Oh!"
Snapping out of her daze, Helaena quickly retrieved a small round mirror from her spatial bracelet.
Panting heavily, Rhaegar examined his reflection.
His skin remained porcelain white, his lips their normal color, his features as striking as ever.
With a mere thought, he shifted into his draconic form.
His skin instantly paled, his lips darkened to a blood-red hue, giving him an unmistakable air of frailty.
Lifting his long hair, he noticed a patch of black scales covering his left temple—along with a small, twisted, jet-black horn.
The horn was tiny, not even as long as his pinky finger. It looked...
Rhaegar's lips twitched. He didn't want to acknowledge the word that came to mind: "Deformed!"
It wasn't a dragon horn. It wasn't a stag's antler. It was just some strange, misshapen abnormality.
"Why is this happening?"
Rhaegar withdrew from his draconic form, a heavy feeling settling in his chest.
A pure bloodline had always been a blessing.
It granted stronger magic, made dragons more naturally drawn to him, and carried an inherent aura of dominance.
Even his body had become more resilient, and his lifespan extended.
So why were there side effects?
Noticing her brother's distress, Helaena scampered over like a little fawn and wrapped her arms around him in a comforting hug.
Rhaegar chuckled softly and patted her back to reassure her.
The Dornish rebellion was still ongoing. Braavos had yet to surrender. The corrupt Citadel remained unpunished.
This was just a headache—it wouldn't stop him from wielding his sword and shedding blood.
At that moment, Trystane cautiously approached, his voice laced with apprehension.
"Prince, your symptoms... they resemble those of some Targaryen stillbirths—monstrous deformities!"
Targaryen women occasionally gave birth to infants with scales, wings, or tails—grotesque abominations.
Rhaegar froze.
His mother had suffered multiple pregnancies. After Rhaenyra but before him, several of her children had died.
Some were miscarried. Others were stillborn.
One of his "brothers" had supposedly been covered entirely in scales.
A hazy memory surfaced in Rhaegar's mind, and an unfamiliar term suddenly materialized:
[Dragonblood Recoil]
If a bloodline was too pure, or if complications arose during pregnancy, the fragile embryo in the womb might not survive.
Rhaegar instinctively tightened his hold on Helaena, his mind reeling. "So… am I the same?"
The Targaryens could tame dragons thanks to their unique Dragonlord bloodline.
This lineage was infused with fire—potent, overwhelming, and untamed.
Rhaegar had undergone a species-level transformation thanks to his bloodline, reaping its benefits, but now he was facing its hidden dangers.
If the bloodline was too pure, unpredictable changes could occur.
"Valyria must have had Dragonborn like me. How did they deal with it?"
Rhaegar wasn't interested in the why—he only cared about the solution.
The ancient Freehold of Valyria had worshipped fire mages and blood sorcerers. There was no way they lacked knowledge on this matter.
Based on his understanding, the Dragonborn must have been a class of specialized warriors—outliers among the Dragonlords.
"If Dragonborn exist, there must be a way to harness their power."
His hand slid down from Helaena's back to his waist, resting on his dragonwhip.
A strong bloodline wasn't a curse—it was simply an untapped treasure.
"Get up. My headache is gone."
Rhaegar smiled as he gently ruffled Helaena's hair, his voice returning to its usual warmth.
One must not be ruled by emotions but instead anchor oneself in a state of calm.
Of course, he would never forget betrayal.
"Mhm!"
Helaena, still shaken, nodded with teary eyes before leaning in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.
Rhaegar accepted it with a smile, feeling the damp warmth of her lips.
He glanced up at the sky. The sun had climbed to its peak, its scorching rays baking the earth.
Beyond the hall's open doors, the courtyard fountains sprayed water, nourishing the lush greenery.
"Trystane, do you remember what I told you?"
Rhaegar asked with a smile.
"I never forget."
"Good. Do everything in your power to bring all the talent you can find back to Harrenhal—I have great need of them."
Rhaegar gazed up at the sun, the fire in his eyes burning just as fiercely.
The Citadel had overstepped. It was time they learned their place.
They truly believed that monopolizing knowledge in Westeros meant they could treat everyone like fools, manipulating things without restraint.
For now, he neither had the time to eliminate the Citadel nor the means to quell the ensuing turmoil.
But he understood one thing:
The moment someone possesses something that others lack, it becomes a form of control.
He was determined to break this cultural monopoly that had lasted for thousands of years.
By recruiting destitute maesters, he would create an institution capable of replacing the Citadel at any time.
Tru nodded repeatedly and scurried away in small, quick steps.
It was time to get to work.
Time to undermine the Citadel!
Rhaegar glanced around the empty white hall, took Helena's hand, and stepped into the sunlit courtyard.
"Let's go. The war beyond the Narrow Sea is too distant—Westeros needs blood and fire, right at its doorstep!"
With that, he strode out of the hall.
"Hiss—Screech!"
The Glutton's green eyes gleamed as its vast wings spread, casting a shadow over the sky. The dragon dove into the meticulously arranged garden.
Upon landing, its powerful feet shattered the stone floor, and its sweeping tail tore through the cascading greenery.
Rhaegar wrapped his arms around Helena's waist, lifting her onto the dragon's back before settling into place.
His expression remained calm as he spoke in Valyrian, "Fly high!"
In the next moment—
From the white castle burst a pitch-black dragon.
The dragon shot out of the castle grounds, soaring over the human armies stationed outside the white walls, heading toward the crimson mountains hundreds of miles away.
"Hiss—Screech!"
Another piercing cry echoed as a pale blue dragon took off from the lakeside, gliding gracefully like a spirit in pursuit of the black dragon.
Beyond Highgarden—
Mund rode a white warhorse, looking up at the two soaring dragons.
"Hyah!"
Donald galloped over, a massive greatsword—Heartsbane—strapped to his back, exchanging a glance with Mund.
Mund let out a cold snort, unsheathing the sword at his waist—Truth—with a sharp flick, then bellowed, "The army moves out! March!!"
In an instant, tens of thousands of soldiers surged forward.
A Riverlands coalition, bearing banners of various colors, followed the dragons without hesitation.
(End of Chapter)