"Thank you for your generosity, Ser. What boon would you ask in return?" Jaehaerys II watched Rhaegar turning the ring over in his fingers and knew the boy was delighted with the trinket.
"Rhaegar thanks you as well, Ser." Rhaegar hastily added.
It was a ring of the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords, worth a fortune in its own right. Only the lack of a key to the Sea-Snake's vault had kept it hidden away. Even so, the gift was priceless; any Valyrian relic fetched a king's ransom wherever it surfaced.
Corlys bowed. "I would never presume. It is merely a token of fealty."
Sometimes refusing is more profitable than asking; once he had King Jaehaerys's favor, high office would follow of its own accord.
Fire burned in Lord Monford's eyes; sycophants like Corlys were everything the stubborn old stag despised. The Sea-Snake himself had been a hero—how had he sired such a whelp?
But today Corlys had not overstepped; for the sake of House Velaryon and the king he would let the matter pass.
Ser Gerold stood unruffled, a silent sentinel at the king's side.
Yet inwardly he sighed: a prince adored by thousands, Rhaegar had the world at his feet.
Ser Gerold of Oldtown's Hightower tower was among Westeros's richest Lords, yet even he could not match royal splendor. To wield such wealth so young—he prayed the prince would not be led astray. Power bestows glory, but it breeds vice as well.
Aegon IV in his youth had been handsome and debonair, the age's most dazzling prince—skilled in dance, lance, sword, and hunt. But he surrendered to indulgence, surrounded by flatterers, devoid of discipline, until women, food, and luxury ruled him entirely.
Rhaegar turned the Fire-Ring, utterly enchanted.
"Explorer—(young Explorer, congratulations on crossing time's river to touch the relic of mighty dragon-kings. Within this ring lie not only their wealth, but their laughter, tears, blood, and memories.)"
The unknown held promise, and this was the ring of an ancient Dragonlord.
Corlys the bootlicker had his uses, but he was too narrow, no pillar for realm or court… Night was ink, the bright moon washed the world.
Rhaegar gently traced the bronze dragon king ring, examining it again and again.
His collection panel stirred; a line of text flashed: Only the truly great and radiant deserve a place among your treasures.
The system was choosy, favoring relics steeped in glory.
Once he had a dragon, he'd fetch the dragon horn for his hoard.
With a steeled heart, Rhaegar let a drop of blood fall upon the ring.
Emotions surged; the Tree-of-Life Template blazed anew.
As the deed was done, the bronze band's fiery veins pulsed, bathing Rhaegar's face in warm red light.
The crimson lines flowed, radiant and unending.
Unease! Hope! Dread!
A gleam revealed only a corner of the ring's inner space; the rest lay cloaked in darkness he could not yet pierce.
He felt something bind him—an invisible tether.
Long dormant, the ring now rejoiced. Dragon-blood, reunited at last.
"Treasure: Rhaegar Targaryen's dragon king ring, dust-laden through ages, re-awakened by Rhaegar Targaryen. Yet young dragon, your flame is slight; only part of the ring answers your call."
Once borne by a Baelarys Dragonlord, the blood-pact had faded; Rhaegar's blood won its recognition anew.
Before him hung several purple banners—iron-hard yet light as wood, untouched by rot.
Each bore a snarling violet wyrm breathing flame, proclaiming: "First among Valyrian Dragonlords, the Purple-Clad Dragon-King, scion of glorious Blood of Fire, Great House Baelarys."
Baelarys bluster eclipsed even Targaryen pride; of the old dragon houses they had been among the mightiest.
Beneath the banners lay a purple-drake seal: heaps of dragon-minted gold, gems, towering sheaves of wheat and rice, and crates of books.
The sigil of the ancient Baelarys was plainly the purple dragon.
Gold, jewels, grain, books—his first windfall. Who scorns coin? Even princes need coffers.
Yet wealth could wait; stranger wonders caught his eye.
Fist-sized orbs of flame hovered, lighting the vault—each shaped like some living thing.
Their forms astounded him.
A black flame took the shape of a six-barbeled fish; grey flame became a mammoth; green flame a wheat-stalk; gold a statuette of a god—every flame resembled life stolen and caged.
They were carved in perfect detail; mammoth lashes and fish-scales clear to see.
The fire was mild, not searing but gently warm.
"Not true flame? Sorcerous fire?" Rhaegar wondered, awed.
Legend claimed Dragonlords wielded magic to melt stone with Dragonflame; their pinnacle art was blood-fire, commanding both fire and Blood Magic.
Apex Dragonlords were dual titans of sorcery and war.
The Targaryens ranked low among dragon houses; they barely brushed true sorcery, content with a touch of fire-resistance and the crutch of Dragon Dreams, lording it for a few centuries more.
Rhaegar stared; the flames drifted like living things.
While he pondered, the fish of black flame darted toward him.
"I'm done for," he thought.
Too late; the black-fire fish struck—yet he felt no burn, only head-to-toe warmth.
Flame coiled about him, sinking through skin and sinew.
There was no escape; the fire devoured, embraced, cleansed, and tempered him.
His blood boiled without searing away, pain entirely absent.
Vigor flooded him; he grew stronger, quicker, keener of mind and limb.
A blade being forged—impurities purged, edge whetted to lethal sharpness.
Still mortal, yet sight, hearing, and scent all sharpened beyond common measure.
Bathed in flame, his might blazes higher!
Bathed in flame, base iron turns to gold. Body the vessel, spirit the water—only when both stand at their peak can fire be truly ruled.
"They used flame to steal life-force, turning it into nourishment?" The thought chilled him.
The ancient Dragonlords had been terrifying indeed.
Common fire takes life; their sorcery plundered it for their own use.
The Tree-of-Life panel glowed greener, strengthened by the fiery baptism.
"Awaken the Blood of Fire! (In magic's twilight, dragon-kings despair. Blood of Fire tempers flesh and soul alike. Store power, and flame may yet be woken.)"
Understanding dawned: all Targaryens carried the Blood of Fire, the seed of flame-control.
Yet that blood ran thin or thick, and woke at different times; only the strong could truly command it.
Worse, this was the Ebb of Sorcery, an age far removed from Valyrian glory. Perhaps only those supreme in will and body could rouse their inner fire now.
In these twilight days most of House Targaryen would live and die never knowing the spark within them.
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