Chapter 75: Reopening the Dragonpit
High up on Dragonmont, in the Glutton's Cave, Rhaegar placed the heart of fire dragon nest deep inside the cavern.
The purple dragon nest slowly heated up, and the red gem at the bottom of the nest shone brilliantly as it continued to absorb heat.
The unreal temperature made the air shimmer and blur.
Rhaegar could endure flames and extreme heat, but not indefinitely; burning for days and nights was impossible. Humans were not creatures of living crystal, and magical power—no matter how potent—still had limits.
Just as on the day the dragons hatched, Rhaegar carried too much of Dragonmont's fire within him, making the heat nearly unbearable.
Still, resistance to fire was an incomparable advantage. In dragon battles or aerial combat, it could decide life and death. It was a treasure meant for war.
Rhaegar opened his palm. A cluster of multicolored flames bloomed—black, blue, and gold intertwined like a beacon. The hatchlings rushed toward him at once.
Magic was returning, and with it, strength. Rhaegar possessed the Blood of Fire, and the dragon pact would further refine and empower it.
According to Targaryen tradition passed down from Valyria, a bond existed between dragon and rider. Proximity to one's dragon strengthened both.
Rhaegar alone had forged a Blood and Fire Chain with three dragons. That alone set him apart from all before him.
The hatchlings were always hungry, craving heat and flame. When the heart of fire dragon nest ran dry, they roared in irritation, as if starving.
The heart of fire dragon nest was the only thing inside the dragon king ring that truly tempted them. Once its heat was exhausted, they resisted remaining in the sealed space.
Living beings were unstable by nature. If the dragons grew any larger, Rhaegar genuinely feared they might tear apart the ring and incinerate his precious books.
Though a dragon's body was mostly neck, tail, and wings—lighter than it appeared—they were gluttonous and fiercely combative.
Rhaegar rarely confined them. Most of the time, he brought them to the Glutton's Cave. Only when absolutely necessary did he restrain them.
"I need a proper dragonpit," Rhaegar thought.
The Dragonpit of King's Landing had collapsed nearly a century ago and was no longer suitable for dragons to fly within. If it were ever to be used again, it would need to be rebuilt entirely—perhaps as a towering structure rather than a dome.
No one alive understood dragon-rearing better than he did.
Rhaegar looked at the letter in his hand and thought of Myles Mooton of Maidenpool, Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
These men would become his companions, his wings, his confidants.
They regarded him as a star in the night sky—one they would die for without hesitation.
Brotherhood between men ultimately hardened into steel, into blood and fire.
They were heroes. Warriors.
Rhaegar felt a trace of melancholy at the thought. My brothers never failed me… yet I failed others.
Still, he had little desire to grow close to Jon Connington. His inclinations unsettled Rhaegar, as did the second son of House Corbray, notorious for the same. Jon Connington would be better placed in the main army, away from him.
Rhaegar glanced over the list provided by King Aerys II Targaryen. It named many sons of lords, but few heirs of the Great Houses.
The timing explained it. The children of House Lannister were too young; the heir of House Tyrell too old. The heirs of House Arryn and House Tully were still infants. House Stark rarely sent sons south, and the twins of House Martell were seldom separated.
The most suitable companion would have been Robert Baratheon of Storm's End—but fate had made them incompatible.
The hatchlings flapped wildly through the Glutton's Cave. Rhaegar spread thick carpets across the stone floor. The dragons loved the space—wide, warm, and rich with heat.
They rose and fell in clumsy arcs. When they struck the ground, they roared indignantly.
They circled the cavern again and again, competing for height, for the nest, for closeness to Rhaegar himself.
Dragons never truly stopped growing. They soared until the fire of life dimmed, spending their final years in half-slumber, no longer yearning for the sky.
Rhaegar's dragons were voracious. Strengthened by the heart of fire, their growth was swift and alarming.
The Silver Emperor was the largest, hungriest, and most domineering. Tall, fierce, arrogant. Its molten-gold eyes watched Rhaegar constantly, bound to him by the pact. Its silver scales gleamed brilliantly, its golden horns and wing membranes echoing its nature as a born conqueror.
Rhaegar could sense its emotions clearly—joy in flight, satisfaction in dominance.
Baelarys, the purple dragon, was beautiful and irritable. Its amethyst-like scales shimmered unrealistically, its horns and wing bones dark gold. It challenged the Silver Emperor repeatedly—and lost every time.
Balerion, the black dragon, was equally fierce. Its obsidian scales and inferno-bright eyes made it terrifying to behold. It fought both siblings relentlessly but could never seize supremacy.
Despite appearances, the dragons were not harming one another. They were honing themselves.
These were the strongest dragons in the world.
If raised properly, they would surpass even the three dragons of the Conquest.
When tired, the dragons climbed back to the nest and curled together, drowsy and warm.
Rhaegar stepped out of the cave.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Cesar, and the others awaited him at the entrance.
"Your Highness," Barristan said. "The winds are favorable. The men are ready. We can return to King's Landing."
Among those waiting was Corlys Velaryon, a smooth-tongued sailor of House Velaryon, skilled in navigation despite his obsequious nature.
Rhaegar nodded.
Before leaving, he swept Dragonmont and Dragonstone Castle one final time with the dragons. No eggs remained. Even dragon bones were scarce.
Three objectives on Dragonstone: hatch dragons, find eggs, recruit men.
The first and third were complete.
Dragonstone was barren, but it was the Targaryen dynasty's birthplace, and its people were fiercely loyal. Rhaegar recruited a hundred retainers from Dragonstone and Driftmark, adding them to the Eagle Guards.
The fleet departed Dragonstone and sailed for King's Landing.
The sprawling city soon came into view—chaotic, unplanned, and alive.
Its most prominent structures stood unmistakable: the Red Keep, the Great Sept of Baelor, and the ruined Dragonpit—symbols of monarchy, faith, and lost power.
Rhaegar's gaze lingered on the shattered dome of the Dragonpit.
"I will reopen the Dragonpit," he said quietly.
Not for dragons—but for soldiers.
The Dragonpit would become a barracks, a fortress, and a blade pointed inward if needed.
Rhaegar remembered well who had once stormed it.
The people of King's Landing—fickle, violent, and dangerous when stirred.
They had killed dragons before.
He would never forget that.
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