The Targaryens and the Velaryons were both noble families of Old Valyria.
They survived the Doom together.
However, an undeniable distinction existed between them.
The Targaryens had dragons—undisputed rulers of the skies—granting them the power to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.
The Velaryons, on the other hand, were said to have salt running through their veins and were known as the Lords of the Tides.
For hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years, the two houses had maintained a close relationship of ruler and vassal.
Now, with Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, having married Princess Rhaenys, and their children having successfully bonded with dragons, the dynamic had shifted.
King Viserys' weakness had only further emboldened the Velaryons to disregard the authority of the royal family.
Then came Rhaegar, who overturned this imbalance.
He established the Dragon Laws.
The next generation of Velaryon blood would no longer have the right to claim dragons.
Without dragons, the Velaryons were merely Velaryons—nothing extraordinary.
Daemon's children, however, were trueborn Targaryens, naturally gifted with the blood and right to claim dragons.
To renounce their name and take the Velaryon name instead would mean relinquishing both their royal status and their claim to dragons.
Daemon was a proud man.
He had been so indifferent to his first wife, Lady Rhea of Runestone, that he never even consummated the marriage, let alone left an heir for Runestone.
Why, then, would he allow his own children to take another name and inherit a lesser seat like Driftmark?
Rhaegar thought for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm not a father yet, but my children will always be mine. That will never change."
He understood Daemon's reasoning.
A Targaryen's identity far outweighed that of a Velaryon or the Lord of Driftmark.
Daemon's pride stemmed from his Targaryen bloodline. He would never let his children forsake that pride.
If that were the case, he wouldn't have risked beheading by returning to Driftmark with Laena Velaryon, fighting for the rightful inheritance of his twin daughters.
Seeing that his stance was acknowledged, Daemon's frustration eased slightly, and the deep crease in his brow relaxed.
Lately, Laena had been discussing the matter of adopting an heir with him.
Corlys had not proposed unreasonable terms.
But Daemon still refused to agree.
There was no real reason—he simply found the idea of his children taking another name to be an affront to his dignity.
With clear disdain for the Velaryons, Daemon sneered. "Pray that Laenor, that useless fool, can father a son or two, so the Sea Snake can have a grandson sooner rather than later."
If Laenor weren't so incompetent, Daemon wouldn't be dealing with this nuisance in the first place.
Rhaegar chuckled and shook his head. "Laenor has trouble being close to women—it won't be easy for him."
If Laenor were capable, none of this would have been an issue.
A glint of contempt flickered in Daemon's eyes. He scoffed, "Gender is just an illusion. What matters is appearances. A true man should sleep with whomever he pleases."
"…Ahem."
Rhaegar was momentarily speechless, slightly taken aback.
This remark completely upended his conventional understanding.
He turned his head, catching a glimpse of Rhaenyra's profile, and quickly pushed away the inappropriate thoughts trying to creep into his mind.
Daemon smirked and, in a knowing tone, offered his advice. "You'll only mature by experiencing the pleasures of different women."
Then, his gaze swept over Rhaenyra, and he added with a smirk, "No matter how good a meal is, eating the same thing every day will make you sick of it."
Noticing his glance, Rhaegar instinctively stepped forward, placing himself between Daemon and Rhaenyra.
After carefully considering his uncle's words, he replied, "Uncle, everyone has their own tastes and habits."
"You might not be wrong. Once, I disliked wine, but now I occasionally enjoy a glass of our own sweet vintage."
"But the sweets I've loved since childhood? I still can't let them go."
His words were firm, heartfelt.
The Targaryens were indeed a house driven by desire.
But that didn't mean they were incapable of loyalty.
Unlike his father and uncle, Rhaegar had no interest in the fleeting pleasures of brothels.
As he spoke, he took Rhaenyra's hand, gently squeezing her palm.
Rhaenyra lifted her chin and let out a cold huff at Daemon.
She was fiercely possessive and utterly despised those who encouraged Rhaegar to be unfaithful.
"As you wish," Daemon scoffed, indifferent. "You wield power greater than any in this world, yet you insist on restraining your nature. Utterly ridiculous."
Rhaegar frowned slightly, disliking such bold assertions.
Rhaenyra tugged on his hand and muttered, "Ignore him. Laena's pregnancy has kept him off his ship, and now he's just frustrated."
She knew all too well how persuasive Daemon could be.
Once upon a time, even she had nearly been swayed by his words: *Sleep with whomever you want.*
Looking back now, those words were utterly irresponsible.
If one lived solely to indulge in their desires, how could they ever remain accountable to their family, their loved ones, or their followers?
Rhaegar nodded, abandoning the argument.
As he had said—everyone had their own tastes and habits.
Daemon was Daemon. Rhaegar was Rhaegar.
They were fundamentally different people. There was no need to seek common ground where none existed.
Hand in hand, the siblings strode deeper into the Dragonpit, seeking their dragons.
Daemon watched their retreating figures, his gaze unreadable. After a moment, he murmured, "This is your true nature. This is what it means to be a Targaryen."
### **Harrenhal**
On the northern shore of the Gods Eye, at the base of a steep hillside, a crumbling section of Harrenhal's wall loomed.
Hundreds of ragged laborers huddled around several massive iron cauldrons.
They dismantled the broken stones and chunks of mud from the ruined wall, tossing them into the cauldrons alongside a thick, black sludge—dragon dung.
"Screeeech!"
A piercing dragon shriek echoed through the air.
Several massive fireballs—orange tinged with pale white—descended into the cauldrons.
*Hisssss…*
Under the dragonflame's intense heat, the contents of the cauldrons melted into a bubbling, molten liquid.
A stocky, rotund man named Trystan chanted incantations under his breath, urging the formation of black dragonstone.
Moments later—
The cauldrons remained intact, their contents now a seething mass of molten dragonstone.
The laborers hastily retrieved large stone jars, each half a man's height, placing them beneath the cauldrons to collect the liquefied material.
A large iron cauldron was supported by two stands, with an iron chain pulling one end to pour the molten dragonstone solution into a stone vat.
At both ends of the stone vat, there were holes as thick as an arm. Laborers threaded carrying poles through them, lifting the vat in pairs—one in front, one behind—before walking off.
The molten solution was poured onto the foundation of the dismantled city wall.
Hundreds of laborers repeated the process, and in less than half an hour, a towering section of the city wall, over ten meters high, had taken shape.
Once their simple task was completed, the laborers kept their distance—not out of laziness, but because the material suppliers had strict demands.
A pale gray dragon lay lazily at the base of the city wall, its head drooping while its tail swayed back and forth.
A squad of guards clad in black armor approached, leading several plump, well-fed goats.
The goats moved sluggishly forward. The gray dragon lazily lifted its eyelids, glanced at them, and then opened its maw, spitting out a fireball.
"Baa~~"
With a miserable bleat, the goats were instantly charred into blackened roast meat.
The gray dragon stretched its neck and swallowed them slowly, letting out a sulfurous burp.
Only after watching it finish its meal did Trystane command the laborers to transport more stones and mud, preparing for the next round of dragonstone smelting.
Long ago, they had stopped using the Gluttonous One's dragonfire for smelting.
Its flames were too fierce—dangerous to the laborers and capable of melting not just the stone but also the containers themselves.
Most of the time, the gray dragon was the main source of dragonfire for the smelting process.
Occasionally, Syrax and Dreamfyre would take turns assisting.
"Shriek—"
A fierce wind howled through the sky as a dark dragon silhouette soared across the vast expanse of Gods Eye Lake, arriving above Harrenhal.
Another golden dragon followed closely, descending into the courtyard between the King's Pyre Tower and the Widow's Tower.
…
**King's Pyre Tower.**
Rhaegar strode into his castle, looking relaxed.
King's Landing was fine, but it never quite felt as secure as this.
Harrenhal, with its lush mountains and clear waters, offered a beautiful environment and a warm, comfortable climate—far more pleasant than King's Landing, which was only just beginning to rid itself of its filth and stench.
As he entered the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, he was met by Tormund, a white falcon perched on his shoulder, alongside Grey Worm.
"Prince…"
The two men bowed respectfully.
Rhaegar nodded and asked, "What is it?"
Tormund was his spymaster, while Grey Worm served as the commander of the Harrenhal garrison.
Both were trusted confidants who wouldn't appear before him unless it was important.
Tormund cleared his throat and pulled two letters from his cloak, his voice soft. "One from Highgarden, one from Riverrun."
Rhaegar took the letters and began reading.
Moments later, Rhaenyra, wearing a red off-shoulder gown, walked in gracefully, her brows slightly furrowed with curiosity. "What are you reading?"
"Come take a look."
Rhaegar smiled and handed her one of the letters.
Rhaenyra accepted it with a puzzled expression and carefully read its contents.
*"To the esteemed Rhaegar of House Targaryen…"*
The handwriting was delicate, clearly penned by a woman.
The letter, though brief, contained over two hundred elegantly written words.
Aside from the formal greeting and closing signature, the entire message was filled with lavish praises and expressions of admiration—an unreserved confession of the sender's deep affection for Rhaegar.
Rhaenyra glanced at Rhaegar, who appeared utterly unfazed, then narrowed her eyes slightly.
When she reached the end, she saw the sender's identity:
**Margaery Tyrell, daughter of the Duke of Highgarden.**
"Hmph, what a passionate little rose from Highgarden," Rhaenyra scoffed, slapping the letter against Rhaegar's chest with amusement. "Someone wrote you a love letter, and you're not rushing to reply?"
Rhaegar caught her hand and chuckled. "Roses have thorns—I wouldn't dare pick one so carelessly."
The letter was bold and explicit, undoubtedly a love letter.
It also included an invitation for Rhaegar to visit Highgarden.
That, in particular, caught his attention.
The old Lord Tyrell had just lost his heir.
At this moment, Highgarden was a storm's eye, constantly under high pressure.
For Margaery to write such a letter now—he couldn't help but think deeper.
Rhaenyra folded her arms, skeptical.
Rhaegar and Jeyne had once been completely innocent.
He had even rejected Jeyne's advances for a long time.
And yet, eventually, he had still ended up in bed with her when she let her guard down.
Having learned from that experience, Rhaenyra wasn't about to let her vigilance slip again.
Rhaegar sighed, full of helplessness, and handed her the other letter.
Rhaenyra took it hesitantly, not taking her eyes off his expression as she read.
This letter contained news from Riverrun.
After reading it carefully, she was taken aback. "Lord Tully is bedridden?"
The letter stated that Grover Tully had fallen ill with a fever and was now in a coma.
Riverrun was in chaos, leaderless.
Lord Tully's two sons were fighting for power, each rallying a faction of younger noble sons and landless knights, engaging in daily duels to assert dominance.
*(End of Chapter)*
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