Chapter 15: Rhaegar's Dragon Dream
Night deepened over King's Landing, and the lingering joy of the feast slowly faded into quiet. One by one, the noble guests withdrew from the Red Keep, their laughter dimming as servants extinguished torches and cleared away the remains of wine and meat.
This restraint was not born of modesty, but necessity.
King Jaehaerys II was not a man of boundless vigor. His health had never been strong, and the court was keenly aware of it. The king could not endure endless revels, no matter how dearly the nobility might have wished otherwise.
Had the Iron Throne been occupied by a man like Aegon IV Targaryen, the feasting might have continued until dawn and beyond. Kings set the tone of the realm—when the king indulged in excess, the court followed. But Jaehaerys was cautious, restrained, and already weary.
Within the royal apartments, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was gently guided to rest amid his mother's soft murmurs.
Queen Rhaella, bound to a marriage that offered her little warmth, still performed her duties with quiet dignity. Whatever sorrow lay in her heart, it never touched her son. Rhaegar was precious to her—perhaps the only untainted joy left.
Though his vitality surpassed that of most children his age, he was still young. Sleep came easily.
And with sleep came dreams.
At first, there was darkness.
Then, a vast wilderness unfolded beneath a starless sky. The night was deep and heavy, the air thin and cold. Rhaegar found himself standing alone atop a towering hill, shrouded in drifting black mist. The land stretched endlessly in all directions, silent and ancient.
Not far from him rested a silver dragon egg.
It gleamed like the most precious gem ever forged—its surface alive with shifting silver flecks, catching light that did not exist. Against the eternal darkness, it shone like a fallen star.
Drawn by something older than thought, Rhaegar approached.
He laid his hands upon the egg.
The shell felt smooth yet scaled, like fine enamel or polished stone, far heavier than it appeared. Tiny ridges traced its surface, warm beneath his fingers. As he touched it, the egg pulsed faintly, glowing brighter, as if responding to his presence.
Then—
A crack.
In the obsidian-black night, the silver dragon egg began to hatch.
The shell split, and from within emerged a dragon, its scales pale as moonlight. At first, it was small—no larger than a bat—then it grew, swelling with each heartbeat of the dream. Bat became kitten, kitten became calf, and then something far greater.
Its body surged skyward, vast and terrible, its wings blotting out the heavens.
A silver dragon danced across the sky, magnificent beyond words.
Its eyes burned like molten lava, fixed upon Rhaegar with an intelligence both ancient and intimate. Its scales outshone all light, radiant and flawless.
The dragon roared.
It spread its wings, sulfur and heat pouring from its maw—and then dragonfire erupted.
Flame engulfed Rhaegar.
But it did not hurt.
The fire consumed him, purified him, tempered him. His blood boiled, his flesh burned away and reforged, yet there was no pain—only strength. He felt himself harden, like steel quenched in flame.
He felt alive.
He who is as calm as smoke shall yet make the world tremble.
Rhaegar awoke with a sharp breath.
His heart pounded. His skin was warm, his limbs heavy, as though he had truly passed through fire. The dream lingered with unnatural clarity.
It had not been an ordinary dream.
It had been a Dragon Dream.
The silver dragon felt real—too real. Rhaegar was certain that blood and fire bound them together. Only the mountain remained uncertain. He could see it in his mind, tall and remote, but its name eluded him.
Silver dragon.
Hill.
No Targaryen forgot such things easily.
Dragon Dreams were the birthright—and the curse—of House Targaryen.
They were prophetic visions, granted to those with true dragon blood. Often they involved dragons, but not always. The most famous Dragon Dream belonged to Daenys the Dreamer, who foresaw the Doom of Valyria, saving House Targaryen from annihilation.
Through generations, Dragon Dreams shaped destiny.
Maester Aemon Targaryen once said that Dragon Dreams drove his brothers toward madness and death. King Aegon V Targaryen became obsessed with them, convinced dragons would return, a belief that ultimately led to the tragedy at Summerhall.
Misinterpretation was as dangerous as ignorance.
Not every dragon in a dream was truly a dragon.
Prince Daeron Targaryen, son of Aegon V, dreamed of a great red dragon falling upon Ser Duncan the Tall. Dunk survived—but the dragon died. Later, it was understood that Prince Baelor Breakspear, the heir to the Iron Throne, had died defending Dunk in a trial by combat.
Another dream belonged to Daemon II Blackfyre, who foresaw Dunk in white Kingsguard armor and spoke of a dragon hatching at Whitewalls. The dragon was not a beast of fire, but Aegon Targaryen, known then only as Egg, revealing his true identity.
Dragon Dreams spoke in symbols.
They demanded understanding.
Rhaegar lay awake, staring into the dark.
Does the silver dragon mean I will meet a living dragon?
Or does it represent a silver-haired Targaryen?
Or… myself?
House Targaryen still possessed dragon eggs—but none had hatched in generations. Their magic had faded, or perhaps the knowledge had been lost.
Dragon eggs had vanished before.
Elissa Farman had stolen three and sold them to the Sealord of Braavos. During the Dance of the Dragons, chaos and bloodshed scattered countless eggs beyond record.
And dragons themselves…
Most were said to be dead.
Yet some stories lingered.
Nettles, the dragonseed, had fled with the wild dragon Sheepstealer after the Dance. Legends claimed they vanished into the Vale of Arryn, into the high mountains where the Burned Men dwelled.
Sheepstealer was old even then.
But dragons were long-lived creatures.
Could one still live?
Rhaegar clenched his hands.
He would find answers.
Dragon eggs. Ancient records. Lost histories. Every fragment of knowledge tied to dragons would be his to uncover.
The last dragon was said to be dead.
But prophecy had never bowed easily to certainty.
And Rhaegar Targaryen had dreamed of silver fire.
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