Rhaegar was stunned as the gravity of the situation sank in.
The Citadel truly harbors ill intentions toward the Targaryens!
He suddenly recalled a childhood dream: Dreamfyre, chained and abused by a nefarious Maester, making it nearly kill him in the process. That unscrupulous Maester was eventually punished, his hands cut off, and sent to the Wall, leading to the removal of the chains from the Dragonpit.
Rhaegar's breathing quickened as he thought of the previous Grand Maester llos. That shaless old dog had deliberately mistreated his father, allowing his wounds to fester. Such actions were not befitting a Grand Maester.
Then, a fragnt of a mory surfaced—his mother, during labor, being subjected to a Caesarean section by a Maester.
"Why did my mother have such difficult births? Why did she suffer repeated miscarriages?" Rhaegar mused, a phrase from Saera echoing in his mind.
"Winter is coming, and Westeros is too cold for the Targaryens."
Rhaegar hadn't paid much attention to this before, but now it seed significant.
"Of all my great-grandfather's children, none t a good end, except for those who joined the Citadel or wandered the Narrow Sea."
Aemon and Baelon, both brave and handso, beca dragon riders at a young age. They were close brothers with a bright future ahead. One was assassinated in an accident, and the other died of suspected poisoning. Alyssa, their grandmother, as bold as any man, died of puerperal fever after giving birth to their third child.
Daella, another grandmother, a healthy young woman, died in childbirth from the sa fever. Maegelle beca a nun and contracted a deadly disease. Viserra broke her neck in an accident. Gael, seduced by a wandering singer, ended her life in despair. Out of thirteen children, excluding those who died in infancy, none of the remaining survived.
"Is that reasonable?" Rhaegar's expression turned as dark as storm clouds, a chill running up his spine.
He clenched the parchnt, his knuckles turning white, and spat out a single word: "Citadel!"
He refused to believe in so many coincidences. These coincidences had killed his ancestors one by one and caused his mother to miscarry repeatedly.
Rhaegar added Aemma Arryn's suffering to the list of the Citadel's transgressions.
Tru, craning his neck, hesitated and said, "Prince, the ship I ntioned is very strange. The Lord Tyrell was killed, and the ship also disappeared from the harbor at the sa ti."
"There are no coincidences," Rhaegar replied, his voice chillingly calm.
Tru felt a cold shiver down his spine as he lowered his eyes.
Rhaegar's expressionless face revealed a hint of long-suppressed lancholy, and his voice suddenly trembled: "The Citadel! I never thought they would go this far!"
Not only his voice but his entire body trembled. His long, silvery-gold hair covered his cheeks, and his porcelain-white skin turned pale and bloodless. A black diamond-shaped mark protruded from his forehead.
Zila!
A tremor flitted across his lips, and a tendril of shadowy black fire escaped as his mouth opened.
Tru recoiled, heart hamring, stepping back with a tremulous shuffle.
The prince’s behavior was alarmingly erratic.
“Tru.”
Rhaegar’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and resolute.
“Yes, Prince.”
"Return to the citadel. Gather intelligence. Enlist every dissatisfied Maester and apprentice."
With a slow, deliberate lift of his head, Rhaegar's eyes sparkled like twin athysts, his tone icy. "If the Citadel fails in its duty to the people, then I will tear it down!"
For too long, the Citadel had stood above the conflict, oblivious to the power of blood and fire.
Now, it faced the twilight of its era.
Tru, witnessing this, felt a chilling halt to his breath, his gaze locked on the heir prince.
On Rhaegar’s pale brow, a second black scale erged alongside the first, pressing out from his skin.
Then a third.
The transformation was far from over.
These three black scales overlapped, consuming his left forehead, resembling a dark, inked tattoo.
Suddenly, the scales writhed as if sentient, and from beneath them sprouted a horn, gnarled like a withered tree branch.
"Hisss..."
Pain speared through Rhaegar’s mind, his teeth clenched, head shaking in an attempt to dispel the agony.
His long silver-gold hair cascaded aside, unveiling a visage marred by the grimace of tornt.
The pain was unbearable. With every throb, Rhaegar felt as though his skull might burst.
Looking at the system panel.
Rhaegar Targaryen
Talent: Drear (Gold)
Bloodline: Dragonborn ( 56%)
Runes: Serpent (Blue), Bronze (Green)
Blood Sorcery: Dragonstone (Blue), Enchantnt Spell (Blue)...
Relics: Blood and Fire, Dreamscape...
Evaluation: "Extraordinary is not the sa as great. Rage burns everything in its path."
With a fleeting glance, Rhaegar dismissed the display, shoving Tru aside as he clutched his head, the pain intensifying with each heartbeat.
His bloodline, in the process of being refined, was causing side effects.
"Brother, clear your mind."
Small, chubby hands reached from behind, their gentle pressure massaging his temples.
Rhaegar resisted at first, but gave in, allowing the soothing touch despite his inner turmoil.
His condition was peculiar. The Dragonborn transformation required a minimum of 50% pure Valyrian dragon blood. At six, his blood purity was only 5%.
He had never doubted the purity of his bloodline. Typically, as one bonds with his dragon, the purity of his blood increases. By the ti he was sixteen, he expected it to increase to 25%.
Among his siblings, Rhaenyra shone brightest, Helaena possessed the Drear's gift, and Daeron had mastered dragon-taming early on. Aegon and Aemond also excelled, taming dragons earlier than most Targaryens.
Still, none of them reached 50% purity on their own.
With furrowed brows, Rhaegar pondered the anomaly.
"Don’t think, brother."
Helaena, her eyes a blend of worry and confusion, whispered, "Don’t beco a dragon. Dragons die."
"I’m human, how could I turn into a dragon!"
Through gritted teeth, he endured the mounting agony.
Then, curiously, as the " " vanished from his bloodline indicator, so did the pain.
Relief washed over Rhaegar; his skin was free from scales and horns.
"Fetch a mirror," he commanded.
Snapping from her daze, Helaena retrieved a small mirror from her space bracelet.
Rhaegar inspected his reflection—porcelain skin, normal-colored lips, still strikingly handso.
Spurred by a thought, he shifted into his Dragonborn guise. His skin paled, lips turned blood red, and he exuded a sickly aura.
Lifting his hair, he revealed black scales and a horn on his left forehead. The horn was tiny, shorter than a pinky, and awkwardly shaped.
Rhaegar’s lips twitched involuntarily as he faced the truth he didn’t want to admit: "A deformity!"
It was neither a dragon horn nor a deer's, just a peculiar, misshapen protrusion.
"How could this happen?"
Rhaegar suppressed his Dragonborn state and felt a heavy darkness settle over him. His pure bloodline had given him nurous advantages: increased magical power, easier connection with dragons, a natural intimidating presence, enhanced physical strength, and a longer life span.
Yet now, side effects erged.
Seeing her brother's sadness, Helaena darted to him like a fawn, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Amused, Rhaegar patted her back, reassuring her that he was fine.
Despite the unrest in Dorne, the defiance of Braavos, and the yet-unpunished Citadel, he remained undeterred. A headache was a minor inconvenience compared to his ability to wield a sword.
Tru approached cautiously. "Prince, your symptoms resemble those of so Targaryen infants who died at birth."
Rhaegar was stunned. Targaryen won often gave birth to deford fetuses with scales, wings, and tails. His mother had endured multiple pregnancies; after Rhaenyra and before him, several babies had been stillborn or aborted, so resembling scaled creatures.
A strange term flashed through Rhaegar's mind: "Dragon's Blood Backlash".
Fragile embryos couldn't withstand the purity of their blood. Rhaegar tightened his grip on Helaena, questioning himself, "Is it the sa thing?"
The Targaryens' ability to control dragons stemd from their unique bloodline, a potent blend of fire and strength. This bloodline had facilitated Rhaegar's transformation but also brought hidden dangers. Excessive purity could trigger unknown changes.
"There must have been Dragonborns in Old Valyria. How did they manage?"
Rhaegar's focus shifted from the cause to the solution. Ancient Valyrians, adept in pyromancy and blood magic, surely possessed the knowledge to handle Dragonborns.
He mused, "If Dragonborns existed, there must be a way to control their power."
His hand slid down Helaena's back, brushing the dragon whip at her waist. His bloodline wasn't a curse; he simply lacked the ans to unlock its potential.
"Get up, my head doesn't hurt anymore."
Rhaegar's voice softened as he stroked Helaena's head, anchoring himself in comfort rather than emotion.
Of course, he wouldn't forget the treachery.
"Mmm-hmm."
Tearfully, Helaena nodded and kissed his cheek. Rhaegar accepted it, feeling the wet warmth.
He looked to the sky. The sun blazed overhead, scorching the earth. In the courtyard, a fountain sprayed water, nourishing the greenery.
"Tru, rember what I said?"
"Always."
"Good. Bring the talents to Harrenhal. I have great plans for them."
Rhaegar's eyes shone with a light as brilliant as the sun he gazed upon.
The ingratitude of the Citadel was astounding. They believed that monopolizing the knowledge of Westeros would allow them to manipulate and deceive at will.
Rhaegar lacked the ti and resources to dismantle the Citadel and deal with the ensuing chaos. But he knew one thing for certain: any power another held over him was a bond to be broken.
Determined to end this millennia-old cultural monopoly, he set out to create an institution capable of replacing the Citadel. He would recruit disillusioned Maesters and give them a new purpose.
Tru nodded vigorously and shuffled away, ready to begin the monuntal task of undermining the Citadel's hold.
Rhaegar surveyed the empty white hall, then took Helaena's hand and led her into the sunlit courtyard.
"Let’s go. The war beyond the Narrow Sea is distant. Westeros needs a war closer to ho, with blood and fire!"
He stepped out of the hall.
"Roar!"
Cannibal dragon's green eyes glinted dully as its wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the ticulously tended garden. As it landed, its feet shattered the floorboards, and its tail sent a cascade of greenery flying.
Rhaegar hoisted Helaena onto the dragon's back. His expression calm, he commanded in the High Valyrian, "Spread your wings and fly!"
In an instant, a black dragon erupted from the white castle, soaring over the walls and the human alliance below, heading for the red mountains hundreds of miles away.
"Roar..."
A second roar echoed as a light blue dragon erged from a lake, pursuing the black dragon like a spectral shadow.
Outside Highgarden, Ormund rode a white war horse, his gaze fixed on the two dragons above.
"Yah!"
Donald approached on horseback, a massive sword slung across his back. He exchanged a knowing glance with Ormund.
With a snort, Ormund drew his sword and bellowed, "The army is breaking camp!"
In a flurry of movent, tens of thousands of horses stirred. The coalition army of the Reach, bearing countless banners, followed the dragons with unwavering resolve.
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