259 AC, Westeros — Summerhall
Summerhall lay on the edge of Dorne's marches.
Unlike the restless bustle of King's Landing, it was quiet here—serene, almost gentle.
This palace stood as proof of a hard-won peace: the fragile harmony between the Targaryen dynasty and Dorne, the unification of Westeros itself.
Dragons, wildfire, magic, scorpion bolts—those belonged to the past.
And so did legends.
It was a weak peace.
And a peace without legends.
That evening, Summerhall was unusually noisy. Anticipation filled every corridor, every hall.
They were waiting.
Praying.
Praying that Prince Rhaegar would be born soon.
Praying that House Targaryen would gain a healthy, vigorous heir.
The palace was crowded with Targaryens who had answered the old king's summons, along with knights, servants, and maesters.
In a bedroom on the left wing of the first floor, a silver-haired, blue-eyed princess was still in labor.
The prince had yet to be born.
King Aegon V gazed at the anxious crowd. His eyes fell upon his young grandson, Prince Aerys, still bearing traces of boyish innocence.
At that moment, the old king made his decision.
"The prince that was promised will be born from the line of Aerys and Rhaella."
"Come," Aegon V said softly. "My old friend."
He called to the towering knight beside him—Ser Duncan the Tall.
The White Knight stood well over two meters tall. White streaks had begun to appear in his hair, yet his body remained powerful and unyielding.
The hesitation in Duncan's eyes faded, replaced by iron resolve. He followed the king.
He had pleaded with Aegon in private many times—to abandon this obsession with dragons, this madness for fire.
But age had worn away the king's former reason and patience.
Aegon no longer trusted the future.
He wanted dragons—now.
His days were numbered.
And his longing for dragons overwhelmed everything else.
The king and the knight arrived at a remote chamber on the right wing, one that led down into a hidden cellar.
By candlelight, several pyromancers had prepared the ritual.
Wildfire from Asshai—dark as pitch.
Wildfire from King's Landing—pale and ghostly.
Prince Duncan supervised them.
Seven dragon eggs were laid out in a line, each corresponding to the Seven Who Are One.
Dragon eggs were priceless treasures.
They could not be lost.
Maester records spoke of it: Seven eggs, to honor the Seven in the heavens.
Though the king's own septons had warned him—
The eggs shimmered in different colors. Deep green. Jet black. Milk-white. Gold.
They looked like exquisite works of porcelain or enamel.
Yet within these small shells slept immense power—
Creatures that once ruled sky and earth.
Dragons without equal.
"Begin the ritual," King Aegon V ordered the lead pyromancer, his voice tight with urgency.
No-Dragon King.
Mud-Stinking King.
He was sick of the whispers behind his back.
Of appeasing the great lords.
Of a fragile peace bought by concessions.
A king without dragons lacked confidence before powerful nobles.
My great-grandson, Aegon thought.
I will hatch dragons for you. With them, we shall forge lasting peace and reclaim our dignity. You will surpass all our ancestors.
"Your Grace, you must not listen to these pyromancers' lies!"
An elderly septon rushed in, breathless, face flushed red. He had long noticed the king's growing obsession with dragons—but never imagined he would choose such a dangerous path.
"Wildfire cannot be controlled once it spreads. Its destruction is absolute!"
"Septon Barth," Aegon V roared, fury blazing in his eyes.
"Perhaps you should remain where you belong—outside the birthing chamber, praying for my great-grandson—instead of pointing fingers at your king."
Prince Duncan stepped forward to escort the septon away.
Barth pointed accusingly at the pyromancers—and even at the king himself.
"Wildfire will never hatch dragons. It will only bury you all!"
Prince Duncan dragged the frail old septon away with ease.
He could not defy his father's command.
The king bore too much weight.
Too much pressure.
That pressure had driven him mad.
A noble king, Duncan thought.
And a bitter one.
I have already given up hope for the crown, he told himself.
I can only be a loyal knight.
Yet even he felt a faint, dangerous hope—
A hope that dragons might truly be born.
"I once believed you were a kind and wise king," Septon Barth cried, laughing and weeping as he tore the seven-colored crystal from his neck.
"But in the end, you are still a mad Targaryen!"
"Enough," Aegon V said coldly, waving his hand.
"Continue the ritual."
"As you command, Your Grace."
The pyromancers opened their ceramic jars with utmost care.
Green flames crawled across the dragon eggs.
Nothing happened.
Sweat poured down the pyromancers' faces as the heat became unbearable. More wildfire was poured.
"O mighty fire," they chanted, voices trembling.
"Birth the dragons!"
The eggs remained silent.
But the floor ignited.
The temperature rose sharply.
Fire roared through the cellar, igniting clothes, racing along corridors.
Ser Duncan reached for the king—
Too late.
"Sand! Bring sand!" the pyromancers shouted, frantic and useless.
The king himself caught fire.
His ornate robes and jewels—once symbols of royalty—became deadly shackles.
"My friend," Aegon V gasped, summoning his last strength.
"Save my great-grandson. I… I cannot go on."
Ser Duncan obeyed the king's final command.
He ran.
Wildfire spread without restraint.
The castle began to collapse. Furniture, furs, velvet—perfect fuel.
Flames surged high enough to melt stone.
Crying. Screaming.
The crackle of fire drowned out everything.
Ser Duncan burst toward the princess's chamber. Inside, women were still crying out.
"Run, Princess!" he shouted, forcing the door open.
Princess Rhaella moved slowly—but she escaped the inferno.
Crack!
A massive, burning beam crashed down, crushing Ser Duncan beneath it.
He watched as the princess reached safety.
Then he slowly closed his eyes.
I have fulfilled my duty as a knight, he thought.
And I have done so with honor.
In his fading consciousness, he seemed to return to his youth—traveling the world alongside Prince Aegon.
…
After escaping the flames, Princess Rhaella finally gave birth.
A son.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
She gazed at the infant's small head.
Not far away, Summerhall burned itself into ashes.
Survival and tragedy intertwined in that single moment.
"Rhaegar… Rhaegar Targaryen."
The baby's eyes moved slightly.
Wasn't I just exhausted…?
Why does everything look different?
A mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Identity: The Last Dragonlord