Rhaegar tied up his loose hair and reminded them, "Without my aides here, you all will have to take part."
He had very few subordinates who were knowledgeable in magic.
Trystane was in Oldtown, and Varys' loyalties were difficult to discern.
Aemond was the first to raise his hand, his voice eager. "I'll do it. Dorne must learn to remember blood and fire."
Having paid the price of an eye, Dorne was now his greatest enemy.
Helena averted her gaze from the corpses scattered about and silently raised her hand.
Aegon glanced at his foolish younger siblings, then stepped forward with a smirk.
How could he possibly miss out on such an opportunity?
Daemon and Rhaenys exchanged a glance, each nodding in agreement, though their expressions differed.
The student surpasses the master.
The battlefield in Dorne was beyond their control, but their nephew's request carried more weight than Viserys' reprimands.
Besides, Dorne indeed needed a lesson.
Rhaegar scanned the group and nodded in satisfaction. "Very well. In the coming months, let Dorne feel the lingering wrath of dragons."
At his command, the remains of countless corpses were transported into the city.
Rhaegar shared Dragonglass with them, enlightening each one to the magic coursing through their blood.
He had long considered teaching magic, but various reasons had delayed him.
The conquest of Dorne was an opportunity.
The Targaryens were now more united than ever, evolving into a dynasty of dragonlords in every sense.
A dragonlord ignorant of sorcery—how could such a ruler truly be called a dragonlord?
---
Time flew by, and a month passed.
Yronwood.
What was once a thriving town had been reduced to scorched earth, piled with rubble and countless corpses.
At first glance, it looked like hell itself.
Outside the collapsed city walls, a vast army of Reach soldiers had gathered, setting up an encampment several miles wide to guard the Boneway.
"Screech—"
"Screech…"
On this day, six dragons soared from the encampment, their cries echoing as they chased each other through the sky.
Black wings blotted out the sun, crimson scales flashed like lightning, and pale blue dragons blended seamlessly with the sky…
Then, among them, a hideous, mud-colored dragon stood out starkly—like a crane among chickens.
The dragons descended slowly, each as immense as a mountain taking root.
Six figures, clad in red robes, dismounted and gathered together.
One of them pulled down his hood, revealing a pale, strikingly delicate face.
Rhaegar remained in his dragonlord form, a single horn protruding from his forehead. As if it were second nature, he pulled out a glass candle.
"The first round of Dragon's Wrath ended nearly a month ago. It's time to refresh the Dornishmen's memory."
As he spoke, he thrust Trueflame into the ground. The fiery red gem embedded in its hilt pulsed with light, flickering in tandem with the glow of the glass candle.
"Let's begin."
Daemon pulled down his hood, his tone impatient, eyes burning with curiosity.
He had already learned binding spells and disliked the thought of his nephew knowing more than he did.
Dragonglass was a strategic form of blood magic.
Rhaegar's expression remained indifferent. He cast one last glance at Yronwood and murmured, "Next time we meet, this place shall be called the Dragon King's Altar."
Clapping his hands, he casually placed the glass candle at his feet.
Whoosh!
A flickering flame burst from the candle's wick, twisting into an eerie arc.
As if responding to a signal, the dragons became restless.
"Screech—"
The emerald-green eyes of Glutton gleamed menacingly as it roared, soaring high before spewing flames upon the ruined city.
The other five dragons followed suit, circling above the ruins and unleashing torrents of dragonfire.
Boom! Boom!
The town, already filled with firewood and oil, ignited instantly, fueling the flames into an inferno.
Within the time it took to finish a cup of tea, the entire ruin was engulfed in fire once more.
A grim replay of past dragonfire devastation.
"Gumimashi…"
Rhaegar's eyes gleamed as he murmured an ancient, arcane incantation.
Daemon and the others wasted no time, gathering together to chant in unison.
From above, the six of them no longer resembled Targaryen royalty—they looked more like the red priests of Essos.
And then, something miraculous happened.
As the incantation was spoken, the stones scorched by dragonfire melted into liquid, devouring the remains of Dornish nobles and knights, solidifying into black dragonglass.
Wherever Glutton's ghostly green flames passed, the material of the ruins visibly transformed.
Trueflame remained planted in the earth, its fiery red gem both absorbing and amplifying the flames.
The glass candle, now glowing with all seven colors, looked like a living rainbow.
Unnoticed, the sky had darkened.
Thick smoke filled the air, the acrid scent of sulfur spreading for miles.
Yet Rhaegar stood firm, unmoving as he guided the formation of the black dragonglass with his fire magic.
The wildfire spread, consuming the entire city.
Night fell.
The flames illuminated the darkness, the sulfurous stench carried by the wind for dozens of miles.
---
Seven days and nights later.
The weather cleared, and clouds drifted lazily in the sky.
At the Boneway's exit, the once-mighty Yronwood was nothing but a dream of the past.
"Screech—"
A massive black dragon soared high, circling what had become a towering coal-black mountain.
Behind it, several other dragons of varying colors followed suit, encircling the "coal mountain" like an inescapable ring.
It was a towering, perilous, and grotesque peak.
Pitch black in color, with a strange shape and an ominous aura, it stood alone in the desert.
The mountain took the form of a crouching dragon, its surface covered in jagged black stones resembling obsidian scales.
At its base lay an ancient castle, occupying only a small area.
Yet, its height was extraordinary—soaring up to a staggering 1,500 feet.
At the summit, the mountain mimicked an extended dragon's neck, crowned with a fearsome dragon head.
At that moment—
A massive black dragon slowed its flight, flapping its wings as it descended, its hind claws gripping the steep mountainside.
Its thick neck stretched forward, its head aligning perfectly over the black stone dragon head.
"You glutton, you're blocking the view."
Rhaegar smiled, seated at the very edge of the black stone dragon's maw, where the wind howled fiercely.
Helena, wrapped snugly in a loose red robe, lay on her side, fast asleep on her brother's lap.
Aemond, full of envy, sat back-to-back with Rhaegar, pulling out a dagger to show off to Aegon, who looked on with disdain.
Daemon and Rhaenys, as the elders, stood atop the dragon's horn, having dodged the sudden descent of the gluttonous beast, now gazing downward.
"If I hadn't taken part myself, I would've thought this was a miracle," Rhaenys marveled, still shaken by the awe-inspiring act of shaping an entire mountain.
Rhaegar pinched Helena's cheek with a grin. "Compared to building a castle, forging Dragonmount is much simpler."
All that was needed were the right materials—no meticulous planning or exhausting effort required.
A sharp screech suddenly echoed from the mountain's midsection—the spine of the black stone dragon.
From within a cavern, Quirax slowly extended its long, snake-like neck, slithering out.
Across the mountain, countless holes of varying sizes were exposed, forming a natural lair for dragons.
At a glance, it looked like the fallen corpse of a colossal black dragon, transformed into a towering peak nurturing its offspring.
In both practical function and external appearance, it far surpassed the Dragonpit of King's Landing and the Dragon Roost of the Isle of Faces.
It was, without a doubt, a masterpiece beyond its era.
Daemon's eyes gleamed with admiration as he murmured to himself, "If this is merely a glimpse of old Valyria's power, then how magnificent must it have been at its peak?"
During his travels with Laena through the Free Cities, he had spent time in libraries, poring over records of Valyrian dragonlords.
A thousand dragons. Forty great dragonlord families.
In the War of the Rhoyne alone, three hundred dragons burned the mighty Rhoyne River dry—a river revered as the "Mother of Waters."
Rhaegar turned back with a smile. "From now on, House Targaryen possesses magic. As long as we remain united, it's only a matter of time before we restore Valyria's former glory."
It had taken forty dragonlord families thousands of years to conquer western Essos.
But House Targaryen had no rivals. They now ruled all of Westeros. All that was needed was stability and steady development.
Daemon, brimming with ambition, smirked. "I can hardly wait."
Having witnessed firsthand the true power of a great dragonlord house, his perspective had broadened immensely.
Suddenly, Tyrosh seemed insignificant—it no longer felt as satisfying as before.
Just as they were speaking, a sound of someone climbing echoed across the mountain.
A messenger, drenched in cold sweat, clung to the steep black stone dragon's neck, struggling to catch his breath. His words came out heavy and deliberate:
"Prince, word from Oldtown—Starfall and Blackmont have launched an assault on the defenses of Greensward and seem poised for a larger attack on Oldtown."
Hearing this, Rhaegar made no immediate response, instead casting a subtle glance at Daemon.
Daemon simply crossed his arms, smirking in amusement.
His gaze lingered for a moment on his niece, who was wrapped up like a red caterpillar, his expression full of mischief.
Good lad, he mused. One lady of the Eyrie wasn't enough trouble for you, and now you dare set your sights on Alicent's daughter?
You remind me a little of myself back in the day.
"Oldtown?"
Before Rhaegar could say anything, Aegon spoke first.
At the mere mention of Hightower, his face twisted in disgust, as if he had swallowed a dead fly.
"Oldtown hasn't even been attacked yet, so what's the rush?" he said impatiently.
The messenger looked uncomfortable but pressed on, "The acting lord of Oldtown has sent word—Lord Manfred Hightower requests the crown's intervention to destroy Starfall and Blackmont, ensuring Oldtown's safety."
Aegon scoffed, clearly irritated. "The war in Dorne is still a mess, and my father hasn't even made a decision—what gives Oldtown the right to butt in?"
Whether they had the right or not didn't matter—first, he would slap them with an accusation.
Rhaegar gave Aegon a surprised look, secretly wondering: Has my foolish brother actually started thinking for himself?
Then, he reconsidered.
The way the Hightowers had forced Aegon into marriage was disgraceful—it was no wonder he still held a grudge.
The messenger, terrified, dared not say another word.
Rhaegar waved a hand dismissively. "Stand down. I'll ensure Oldtown's safety when the time comes."
He had personally burned Starfall and Blackmont—he knew the deeper truth behind their actions.
Oldtown would have to endure for now.
When the crucial moment arrived, he would make his move.
The messenger, oblivious to the underlying schemes, felt as if he had been granted a royal pardon and quickly descended the mountain.
The first wave of Dragon's Wrath had swept through all of Dorne, and the crown prince had even sacrificed the remains of Dornish warriors to forge a terrifying new peak.
The name Rhaegar Targaryen was now feared across Dorne. It wasn't just a name to frighten children—it was a name that could quite literally scare the weak to death.
"Mmm~~"
Helena stirred, the noise having woken her. She wriggled like a caterpillar before sleepily mumbling, "Brother… news of Dragonmount will spread to Dorne."
"What of it?" Rhaegar tugged at her cheeks.
Still drowsy, she muttered softly, "You might be labeled as cruel."
Like Maegor the Cruel.
Rhaegar was utterly unconcerned, even amused. "Dragon's Wrath was first used by the Conqueror himself—don't forget how many perished in Fields of Fire."
History is written by the victors.
Maegor was called cruel not just because of his brutal actions after his resurrection, but because he lost in the end.
I will not lose!
Nor will I be stabbed to death on the Iron Throne.
He patted Helena's slender waist, smiling. "If you're awake, get up. The Dornish still haven't learned their lesson. It seems they're eager for a second wave of Dragon's Wrath."
In the gentlest tone, the cruelest events were spoken.
Helena shivered and quickly got up obediently.
Rhaenys interjected, "What about Oldtown? Count Mander has already sent for aid."
"When the time comes, I will take action."
Rhaegar had his own plans. He said, "My father was assassinated and is still bedridden, spending most of the day unconscious. The price Dorne has paid is far from enough."
He would continue the slaughter.
Until there was no resistance left in Dorne.
Until Dorne bowed in complete submission.
Until the mere mention of the Iron Throne made their knees go weak.
As long as his goal was not achieved, the wrath of the dragon would not cease.
Even if it meant the utter annihilation of House Martell!
"Let's go."
Rhaegar mounted Devourer and looked down as he spoke, "There are disturbances along the Boneway and at Sunspear. The resistance is like bamboo shoots after the rain—ignore them for a few days, and they sprout from the ground again."
As for Oldtown, let fate decide its fortune.
The next time he visited, some old debts would have to be settled.
(End of Chapter)