Chapter 26: Awakening the Blood of Fire
Inside Rhaegar's small chamber, he stood quietly before a map of Westeros, many regions already marked in color by his own hand.
Dragonstone and the Pale Mountains—these were places where dragon eggs might still lie hidden. A wooden training sword rested atop the map, serving as a paperweight.
Cesar watched Rhaegar from the side. Truly, he thought, this child was a focused young dragon.
If I had been born into a Dragonlord family, I might have been just as obsessed, Cesar mused.
"Prince, your vitality is astonishing," Cesar said sincerely. "Ordinary children would have collapsed into sleep long ago after enduring my Water Training."
Water Training was the sword discipline practiced by the Water Dancers of Braavos.
In Westeros, combat was known as the Dance of Steel—bravery and brute force, hacking and slashing, armored knights charging on warhorses. Braavos, by contrast, followed the Dance of Water, emphasizing agility, flexibility, swift movement, and sudden strikes.
To Rhaegar, this was simply the difference between hardness and softness.
The blade techniques of the Lyseni Shadow were sharp and fierce, while Cesar's Water Dancing truly flowed like water itself.
"Master Cesar, you flatter me," Rhaegar replied calmly. "The blood of House Targaryen is no different from that of ordinary men. It does not burn endlessly with fire. No one can be energetic at all times."
As training continued, Cesar's impression of Rhaegar grew steadily more favorable. He sensed a Fervor of Fire within the boy, while Rhaegar himself was beginning to grasp the Gentleness of Water.
Perhaps—just perhaps—this child could forge a path no warrior had ever walked before.
Water and fire.
Braavos and Westeros.
A fusion bold enough to surpass all predecessors.
"Prince," Cesar said after a pause, his tone grave, "forgive my bluntness. It has been hundreds of years since dragons vanished. The world accepts that they are gone forever—nothing more than a dream of the past. You should devote your precious time to martial mastery, not to illusions."
Cesar had heard of the desperate and tragic attempts made by House Targaryen to awaken dragons—burning ironwood idols, drinking wildfire, even Aegon V's fatal madness at Summerhall.
He did not wish to see his student walk that same doomed road.
"Thank you for your concern, Master Cesar," Rhaegar said sincerely. "The extinction of dragons is a fact, and I hold no false hopes. I am merely fascinated by their history."
Despite his cold demeanor, Rhaegar knew Cesar was a kind man at heart.
Seeing the boy's composure, Cesar said no more and quietly departed.
Night deepened.
In the stillness of the cool night air, Rhaegar lay in bed, every muscle screaming in pain—as if his body had been torn apart and stitched back together.
And yet, Cesar had said this was only routine sparring.
In Braavos, the most elite Water Dancers were trained by being ordered to identify a single cat within a crowd—or forced to dance upon spiraling slides.
Rhaegar felt utterly exhausted.
How difficult would it be to truly merge the Dance of Water and the Dance of Fire?
Few warriors in Westeros would ever dare attempt such a path.
As sleep finally claimed him, Rhaegar dreamed once more.
He dreamed of the Silver Dragon.
The Silver Dragon hovered motionless in the sky, gazing at him in silence. Its scales shimmered with beauty, its form a perfect balance of elegance and power—an existence that inspired awe.
An auspicious omen.
Those who beheld it felt blessed.
The Silver Dragon neither breathed fire nor smoke. It only stared at Rhaegar.
Time seemed to freeze.
Life itself halted.
Rhaegar tried to shout, but no sound emerged. An invisible pressure crushed him—fear and loneliness intertwining—his mind awake while his body remained frozen.
Slowly, the Silver Dragon began to turn to stone.
Inch by inch.
Moment by moment.
The transformation accelerated until it became a flawless stone statue.
Rhaegar could endure no more.
He shattered the stagnation and ran toward the petrified dragon.
Flames erupted from his body.
They burst forth from his heart, spreading across his chest, his limbs, his face.
His silver hair ignited, fire pouring from his mouth and nostrils.
His blood boiled.
His vitality surged.
The raging flames purified everything—burning away weakness and forging him stronger.
Wrapped in fire, Rhaegar reached the Silver Dragon.
The flames spread to it as well.
The curse shattered.
Stone cracked.
The Silver Dragon roared as it returned to life, its cry echoing across the world.
It lowered its body, beckoning Rhaegar to mount.
Together, they soared into the sky, riding the wind and currents of air, gazing down upon all creation.
Perhaps… I am the only true dragon.
"Silver Dragon… where are you?" Rhaegar whispered as he awoke. "And how do I awaken you?"
This dream was different from the others.
This time, his own fire had awakened the dragon.
His entire body had ignited without any external flame—true spontaneous combustion.
Dragonlords claimed their blood made them resistant to fire, but this was something else entirely. This fire came from within.
Just then, the System Panel shifted.
A new entry appeared beneath his identity.
Identity:
The Last Dragon
Sleeping Blood of Fire
(Some flames come from the outside. Others are born within. To become a true dragon, one must awaken the sleeping fire.)
"Perhaps this fire is not literal," Rhaegar murmured. "Perhaps it is willpower. Vitality. Fighting spirit."
In the Age of Magic, ordinary members of House Targaryen could hatch dragons.
But now that magic had faded…
Only those whose lives burned brightest—whose spirits raged fiercest—might awaken one.
A Song of Ice and Fire.
Ice was conspiracy.
Fire was passion.
Ice was the Night King.
Fire… perhaps R'hllor.
Fire flowed in the blood of the dragonlords—but for most, it slept.
Rhaegar thought of one person.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Though of dragon blood, she had wandered the world like raw iron, forged into steel through endless suffering. Exile, betrayal, loss—each trial tempered her flame.
She lost her family.
Her home.
Her husband.
Her child.
And yet, she endured.
Unlike those sheltered behind palace walls, raised by gentle hands, Daenerys was a truly doomed royal scion—hardened by torment and displacement.
Her will alone put countless men to shame
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