THALOR
The Broken Tower had earned its name centuries ago when lightning struck its upper third, leaving it partially collapsed and abandoned. Located in the northeastern corner of the Red Keep, far from the busy halls of court and the royal apartments, it had been left to gather dust and cobwebs for generations—forgotten by all but the occasional servant who might use its lower chambers for storage.
It was, Prince Thalor Targaryen had decided, absolutely perfect.
"What do you think, bud?" he asked, turning to Nightfury, who prowled the large circular chamber at the tower's heart, sniffing at dusty corners and examining the space with obvious approval.
The dragon, now the size of a large warhorse, rumbled contentedly. He moved to one of the high windows where broken stonework provided a clear view of Blackwater Bay and the skies beyond, chirping inquisitively.
"Yes, you'll be able to come and go as you please," Thalor confirmed, following his friend's gaze. "That's part of why I chose it. The opening is large enough for you now, and even when you grow more, you can still land on the partial roof and enter through the top where it's collapsed."
Nightfury nodded—a deliberate, human-like gesture that still startled those who witnessed it for the first time. But Thalor was long accustomed to his dragon's mannerisms, the many ways in which Nightfury differed from the dragons of Targaryen legend.
At nine years old, Thalor had grown into a striking young prince. Still slender but tall for his age, he carried himself with a confidence that belied his years. His silver-gold hair was often tied back in a simple leather cord when he worked, revealing features that combined Targaryen beauty with an unusual intensity, particularly in his emerald eyes—eyes that matched Nightfury's exactly and seemed to hold knowledge far beyond childhood.
"We'll need to clean it up," Thalor mused, running a hand along a dust-covered workbench that some long-ago occupant had abandoned. "Structurally, it's sound enough, despite the damage to the upper levels. And the location is perfect—isolated enough for privacy, but still within the castle walls for security."
He moved around the chamber, mind already racing with plans for the space. Here, a proper forge would be installed for metalwork. There, tables for drafting and design. Storage for materials and tools along that wall. Perhaps a small library nook for reference texts...
"Your Highness?" a hesitant voice called from the stairway entrance. "Are you certain about this space? There are more suitable chambers available in the main keep."
Thalor turned to see Maester Gyldayn standing in the doorway, looking decidedly uncomfortable among the dust and debris. The aging maester had been assigned to Dragonstone during Nightfury's hatching, and upon their return to King's Landing, had requested permanent reassignment to the Red Keep to continue documenting the young dragon's development. Over the years, he had become one of Thalor's most trusted advisors—one of the few adults who treated the prince as the old soul he truly was, rather than the child he appeared to be.
"I'm quite certain, Maester," Thalor replied firmly. "This tower offers exactly what we need—space, privacy, and direct access to the sky for Nightfury." He gestured toward the broken upper sections. "The damage is an advantage, not a drawback."
Gyldayn sighed, recognizing the tone that meant the prince's mind was made up. "As you wish. I shall inform the castle steward to assign servants for cleaning and repairs." He squinted up at the partially collapsed ceiling dubiously. "Though I doubt it can be fully restored without significant—"
"I don't want it fully restored," Thalor interrupted, moving to a set of plans he'd laid out on the dusty workbench. "In fact, I've designed some modifications to make it more functional for our purposes."
He unrolled the architectural drawings he had prepared—surprisingly sophisticated renderings that showed the tower both as it currently stood and as he envisioned it. Gyldayn approached, curiosity overcoming his distaste for the dusty surroundings.
"You've developed considerable skill with architectural drafting, Your Highness," the maester observed, genuine admiration in his voice as he studied the detailed plans.
Thalor shrugged slightly. "I had a good foundation from my previous life," he said quietly. The maester was one of the very few who knew the truth of his reincarnation—a confidence shared only after years of proven loyalty. "And I've been studying the construction methods used in the Red Keep. Different from what I knew on Berk, but the principles are similar enough."
"And these additions?" Gyldayn pointed to several features marked on the plans.
"Improvements," Thalor explained, his voice taking on the enthusiasm he always showed when discussing his inventions. "This section here will be a rotating roof segment—essentially a hatch large enough for Nightfury to pass through, but that can be closed during inclement weather. These pulley systems will allow for moving heavy materials between floors without manual carrying. And this—" he indicated a complex system of tubes and reservoirs, "—will bring running water directly into the workshop."
Gyldayn's eyebrows rose. "Running water? Like the bathhouses? That would require significant plumbing work."
"Which is precisely why I've already spoken with Wisdom Hallyne of the Alchemists' Guild." Thalor gestured toward a second set of plans. "They've been maintaining the Red Keep's water systems for centuries. He assures me it's feasible, especially given the tower's proximity to the main water cisterns."
The maester shook his head in amazement. "Most princes your age would be concerned with swordplay and horsemanship, not plumbing and architecture."
Thalor smiled faintly. "I'm not most princes, as you well know." He rolled up the plans carefully. "And this workshop will allow me to make real progress on several projects I've been contemplating for years."
"The improvements to the city's sewage system?" Gyldayn guessed.
"Among others." Thalor's expression grew more serious. "King's Landing stinks, Maester. Literally. The waste management approaches are primitive compared to what could be implemented. Disease spreads through the lower city every summer because of it."
"A charitable concern for the smallfolk," Gyldayn observed carefully.
Thalor gave him a sharp look. "A practical concern for everyone. Disease doesn't respect castle walls or noble birth. And beyond that—" he hesitated, then continued more quietly, "we may need every able body when winter comes. The real winter."
The maester's expression sobered. He was also among the few who took seriously Thalor's concerns about the threat beyond the Wall—not with King Aerys's manic paranoia, but with scholarly consideration.
"Indeed, My Prince." Gyldayn straightened. "I shall make arrangements immediately for the cleaning and initial modifications. Will you be requiring specialized craftsmen?"
"Yes," Thalor confirmed, his mind already racing ahead. "Primarily metalworkers to start—blacksmiths, tinsmiths, perhaps even a glassblower if one can be found. I have designs that will require various materials and expertise."
"I shall consult with the guilds," the maester promised. "Though I must warn you, the king may question the expense."
Thalor waved a dismissive hand. "I've already secured funding from my personal allowance. Father need not concern himself with the details." Left unspoken was their mutual understanding that involving the increasingly unstable King Aerys would only complicate matters unnecessarily.
As Gyldayn departed to make the necessary arrangements, Thalor moved to where Nightfury still investigated the chamber, familiarizing himself with what would become their new domain.
"It's going to work, bud," he said softly, placing a hand on the dragon's sleek neck. "Finally, a proper workshop. Remember the forge on Berk? How we'd work late into the night, designing your tail fin, the saddle systems, all the innovations that changed everything?" His voice held a touch of nostalgic wistfulness. "We can do that again here. Different challenges, different world, but the same principle—using what we know to make things better."
Nightfury rumbled in agreement, butting his head gently against Thalor's chest in a gesture of affection and support.
"First the workshop," Thalor continued, scratching behind the dragon's ear flaps in the spot he knew Nightfury loved, "then the sewage system improvements, and then—" he grinned, a flash of the boyish enthusiasm he rarely displayed at court, "—then we start on the really interesting projects."
The dragon's eyes lit with interest, and Thalor laughed. "Yes, including new flight gear. We're outgrowing the current setup, aren't we? Time for something more sophisticated."
As sunlight streamed through the broken ceiling, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air, Thalor felt a sense of rightness, of purpose. For the first time since their rebirth into this world, they were creating a space truly their own—not princely chambers assigned by protocol, but a workshop built to their specifications, designed for the work that had defined Hiccup's life on Berk.
Here, amid the dust and broken stones of a forgotten tower, Thalor Targaryen felt more himself than he had in years.
---
"The prince wants what?" Master Builder Janos looked up from the architectural drawings in disbelief, his bushy eyebrows nearly touching his receding hairline.
"Exactly what is specified in those plans," Thalor replied calmly, standing before the large table in the builder's workshop where several guild masters had gathered to review his proposal. Despite being half their height and a third their age, the young prince commanded the room with an authority that none present thought to question. "A comprehensive renovation of King's Landing's sewage system, beginning with the areas surrounding Flea Bottom."
"But, Your Highness," Janos protested, gesturing at the detailed schematics, "this would require dismantling and rebuilding nearly a quarter of the existing system. The disruption to the city—"
"Would be temporary and managed in phases," Thalor finished for him. "As outlined on page three of the implementation schedule."
The guild masters exchanged glances, clearly torn between professional skepticism and their reluctance to contradict a Targaryen prince—especially one known to command a dragon.
It had been six months since Thalor had claimed the Broken Tower as his workshop, and in that time, he had transformed not only the physical space but also his position within the Red Keep's complex ecosystem of craftsmen, servants, and specialists. Unlike most nobles who interacted with such folk only to issue commands, Thalor worked alongside them, learning their crafts, respecting their expertise, and gradually earning their loyalty.
Nightfury lounged near the workshop entrance, his presence both a reminder of Thalor's status and, paradoxically, a source of comfort to those who had grown accustomed to the dragon's intelligent, watchful demeanor. Several of the younger apprentices had even taken to leaving small offerings for him—polished stones or interesting mechanical trinkets that amused the dragon and endeared the youths to him.
Wisdom Hallyne of the Alchemists' Guild, a thin man with nervous hands but sharp eyes, spoke up. "The prince's design is... unconventional, but theoretically sound." He traced a section of the plans with a bony finger. "This gravitational flow system, using the city's natural elevation, would indeed improve efficiency tremendously."
"And reduce blockages that cause overflow during heavy rains," added Barlan, master of the plumbers' guild, warming to the subject despite his initial skepticism. "Which would mean fewer disease outbreaks in summer."
"Precisely," Thalor said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "And the separated channel system will prevent drinking water contamination, addressing the primary vector for the bloody flux that kills hundreds every year."
Master Janos still looked unconvinced. "The cost, Your Highness. Such an undertaking would require significant funds, laborers, materials—"
"All accounted for," Thalor interrupted smoothly, gesturing to his steward, who stepped forward with a ledger. "I've secured commitments from several key sources. House Targaryen will provide the initial funding, to be supplemented by contributions from merchant guilds who stand to benefit from reduced sick days among their workers. I've also negotiated favorable terms for materials with suppliers from the Vale and Stormlands."
The guild masters looked impressed despite themselves. Few adult nobles, let alone a nine-year-old prince, displayed such thorough preparation or practical understanding of project economics.
"And the labor?" Master Janos pressed, making a final stand for objection.
Thalor smiled slightly. "Will be drawn primarily from those same areas the project aims to help. Flea Bottom has no shortage of able-bodied men and women in need of honest work. Proper wages will stimulate the local economy while simultaneously improving living conditions."
Silence fell as the guild masters studied the plans with new appreciation, professional interest overcoming their initial resistance. Thalor waited patiently, knowing that true buy-in would come not from his royal authority but from their recognition of the project's merit.
Finally, Barlan looked up, stroking his graying beard thoughtfully. "It could work," he admitted. "And if it does, it would be the most significant improvement to the city's infrastructure in generations."
"Not to mention," Wisdom Hallyne added with a thin smile, "it would considerably improve the capital's notorious aroma."
Laughter broke the remaining tension, and the meeting transitioned into a productive discussion of implementation details, with the guild masters now offering suggestions and refinements rather than objections.
As the conversation continued, Thalor caught Nightfury's eye across the room. The dragon gave him a subtly approving nod, recognizing milestone progress in their longer-term plans.
For this was just the beginning. The sewage system redesign was perhaps the most pragmatically necessary of Thalor's planned innovations, but far from the most ambitious. In the privacy of his workshop, notebooks filled with designs awaited their turn—adaptations of technologies he had known on Berk, refined for the materials and capabilities available in Westeros.
Improved water wheels for more efficient grain milling. Wind-powered pumping systems. Defensive structures that could revolutionize castle siegecraft. Agricultural innovations to increase crop yields. And, perhaps most importantly, weapons and strategies specifically designed to combat the threat he knew was gathering beyond the Wall.
Not all would be feasible immediately. Some would need to wait for technological prerequisites, for the right political moment, or simply for Thalor to grow old enough that his ideas would be taken seriously without endless justification. But the sewage system project would establish a critical precedent—proof that the young dragon prince could deliver practical results, not just theoretical designs.
It would buy him credibility for the innovations to come.
---
The workshop in the Broken Tower had evolved dramatically in the year since Thalor had claimed it. What had once been a dusty, abandoned space was now a hive of productive activity, organized with the precision and functionality that had characterized Hiccup's forge on Berk.
The central chamber housed the main workbenches, drafting tables, and basic tools. A proper forge had been installed in what had once been a storage room, vented through a carefully designed chimney system that mitigated fire risk while providing excellent airflow. Another section had been converted to a small laboratory, complete with alchemical equipment borrowed (with appropriate permissions) from the Alchemists' Guild.
The rotating roof section functioned perfectly, allowing Nightfury easy access while preserving heat during winter months. Cleverly designed pulley systems made moving heavy materials between floors efficient, and as promised, running water flowed directly into the workshop—a luxury few spaces in the Red Keep enjoyed outside the royal apartments.
Most remarkably, the workshop had become a gathering place for some of the most skilled craftsmen in King's Landing. Initially drawn by curiosity about the prince's unusual projects, many had stayed for the collaborative environment Thalor fostered—so different from the rigid hierarchies of typical noble-commoner interactions.
On this particular afternoon, the workshop buzzed with activity as final preparations were made for the first phase of the sewage system renovation, scheduled to begin the following week. Apprentices sorted materials and tools according to Thalor's meticulously designed inventory system. Master craftsmen reviewed implementation plans, making final adjustments based on recent site surveys. Scribes prepared documentation for the various work crews.
Thalor moved among them, answering questions, resolving minor disputes, and occasionally joining in the manual work himself—behavior that had initially scandalized the court but now was accepted as simply another of the young prince's eccentricities. His hands were stained with ink and bore calluses no typical noble would sport, but he wore these marks of labor as proudly as others might wear jewels or fine fabrics.
"Your Highness," called Derryk, a senior apprentice blacksmith who had shown particular aptitude for Thalor's more innovative designs, "the modified pipe junctions are ready for your inspection."
Thalor crossed to the young man's workstation, where several metal components lay on a cloth-covered bench. He picked one up, examining the precision of the threading that would allow sealed connections between pipe segments—a critical feature of the new sewage system.
"Excellent work," he said, testing the fit with a matching piece. "The tolerance is perfect. How many have you completed?"
"Thirty so far, Your Highness," Derryk replied, pride evident in his voice. "Another twenty by week's end, with the other apprentices producing similar numbers. We'll meet the schedule."
"Well done." Thalor clapped him on the shoulder—a gesture of camaraderie rather than condescension, and all the more meaningful for it. "Make sure to document the exact process you're using. We'll want to replicate this precision when we train the additional smiths for later phases."
As Thalor moved on to the next workstation, the workshop doors opened to admit a unexpected visitor. Conversation momentarily halted as Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stepped into the chamber, his silver-gold hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the workshop's windows.
At fourteen, the crown prince had already grown into the striking beauty that would define his adult years. He carried himself with a quiet dignity that commanded respect without demanding it. Today he wore simple riding clothes rather than court finery, suggesting he had come directly from the training yards.
"Brother," Thalor greeted him, crossing the workshop with a warm smile. "This is an unexpected pleasure. I don't believe you've visited the tower since the renovations were completed."
Rhaegar looked around with genuine interest, taking in the organization and activity of the space. "Impressive," he acknowledged. "Very different from the abandoned shell I remember." His gaze fell on Nightfury, who had raised his head from his customized resting platform in the corner. "And a proper dragon's lair as well, I see."
Nightfury chuffed in greeting, a sound that contained more warmth than most at court would ever hear from the dragon. While never as close to Rhaegar as to Thalor, Nightfury had developed a respectful rapport with the crown prince over the years, recognizing him as both an ally and, in some ways, a kindred spirit.
"Would you like a tour?" Thalor offered, gesturing to the various sections of the workshop.
"Perhaps another time," Rhaegar replied. "I actually came seeking your counsel on a matter that might interest you." His eyes flickered meaningfully to the craftsmen working nearby.
Understanding immediately, Thalor nodded. "Let's speak in my private study, then." He turned to the workshop at large. "Continue as you were. I'll return shortly."
He led Rhaegar up a narrow spiral staircase to a small chamber on the tower's second level. Unlike the communal workspace below, this room was Thalor's alone—a place for his most private work and thoughts. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with texts ranging from ancient histories to technical manuscripts. A desk occupied the center of the space, its surface covered with open books, diagrams, and a half-completed model of what appeared to be some sort of mechanical device.
Most notably, the wall opposite the bookshelves was covered in maps—detailed renderings of Westeros, with particular focus on the North and the lands beyond the Wall. Small markers and notations indicated locations of interest, patterns of reported wildling movements, and other data Points Thalor had been quietly collecting for years.
Rhaegar moved immediately to these maps, studying them with intense interest. "You've updated your northern charts," he observed, pointing to several markers that hadn't been present during his last visit. "New reports?"
"From the Night's Watch, yes," Thalor confirmed, closing the door behind them for privacy. "Lord Commander Qorgyle has been more forthcoming since I began sending materials and supplies to Castle Black." He joined his brother at the maps. "Three more abandoned wildling villages discovered in the past month. All showing the same pattern—deserted suddenly, with food and valuables left behind. The wildlings are moving south in increasing numbers."
Rhaegar's expression grew somber. "They flee from something."
"Yes." Thalor traced a pattern on the map, connecting several marked locations. "The ranger reports mention cold so severe it freezes men solid. Strange mists that seem to move with purpose. And tracks in the snow—not human, not animal—following the wildling movements."
The brothers exchanged a knowing glance, both recalling their shared dreams and visions—ice and darkness, dead things walking, an ancient enemy stirring once more.
"But you didn't come to discuss wildling migrations," Thalor guessed, gesturing for Rhaegar to take a seat in one of the study's comfortable chairs. "What counsel do you seek, brother?"
Rhaegar sat, his normally composed features showing rare uncertainty. "Father has been... difficult since your sewage project was announced."
"Difficult how?" Thalor asked, though he could well imagine. King Aerys's mental state had continued to deteriorate over the years, his paranoia and mood swings growing more pronounced. While he generally favored Thalor, his reactions could be unpredictable—sometimes supporting his second son's initiatives with manic enthusiasm, other times seeing plots and conspiracies in the most innocent activities.
"He alternates between boasting that his 'dragon son' will purify the city and muttering that the tunnels might be used by assassins to infiltrate the Red Keep." Rhaegar sighed, running a hand through his silver-gold hair. "This morning he ordered Ser Gerold to investigate whether Tywin Lannister has somehow influenced your plans. He seems convinced the Hand is using you to undermine our family's security."
Thalor grimaced. "That's absurd. Lord Tywin has no involvement in the sewage project whatsoever. If anything, he was skeptical until I demonstrated the economic benefits."
"I know that," Rhaegar assured him. "But Father's suspicions grow more irrational by the day." He leaned forward, voice lowering despite their privacy. "The Small Council walks on eggshells around him now. Lord Staunton nearly found himself accused of treason yesterday for suggesting a moderation in the crown's spending."
This was concerning but not entirely surprising. Thalor had deliberately maintained distance from court politics, focusing on his projects and training while Rhaegar shouldered the burden of managing their father's increasingly erratic rule. The arrangement had served them both—Thalor gaining time to develop his innovations, Rhaegar establishing himself as the steady, responsible heir the realm could look to for stability.
"What would you have me do?" Thalor asked directly. "Postpone the project?"
"No," Rhaegar shook his head firmly. "The work is too important, as you've convincingly demonstrated. Rather, I thought perhaps your presence at court might help. Father still listens to you, especially when Nightfury accompanies you. If you were to attend the next few Small Council sessions, explain the project yourself, reassure him..."
Thalor considered this thoughtfully. He had deliberately minimized his court appearances in recent years, preferring the productivity of his workshop to the dangerous distractions of royal politics. But Rhaegar wouldn't ask without good reason.
"I'll come," he agreed finally. "Though I make no promises about my influence. Father's moods are increasingly unpredictable, even with me."
"I know," Rhaegar acknowledged gratefully. "But your presence alone may help. And it would provide the council a chance to see firsthand what you've been accomplishing here." He gestured to the workshop below. "Many still think of you as simply the dragon prince—a curiosity, a symbol. They don't understand the practical significance of your work."
"Perhaps that's for the best," Thalor said with a faint smile. "Underestimation can be a useful tool."
Rhaegar studied his younger brother with a mix of admiration and concern. "You navigate court politics more skillfully than you pretend, brother. But I sometimes worry about the isolation you've chosen. Your workshop, your craftsmen, your projects—they're important, yes, but so are alliances, relationships with the great houses."
"I leave that to you," Thalor replied lightly. "You're the crown prince, the future king. I'mm just the spare with a dragon and some unusual hobbies."
Both knew this self-deprecation was deliberate misdirection. Thalor was far more than a spare prince, and his "hobbies" had implications that extended far beyond mere personal interest. But the pretense served them both—allowing Rhaegar to be the visible Targaryen heir while Thalor worked in relative freedom from the constraints of court expectations.
"Speaking of unusual hobbies," Rhaegar said, changing the subject as he gestured to the half-completed mechanical model on Thalor's desk, "what is that device? It looks unlike anything I've seen before."
Thalor hesitated briefly, then decided transparency with his brother was worth the risk. "It's a prototype for a new weapon," he admitted, moving to the desk and adjusting one of the model's components. "A modified scorpion design that can launch specialized projectiles with far greater accuracy and force than conventional designs."
"For use against...?" Rhaegar let the question hang, though they both knew the answer.
"Against enemies that conventional weapons struggle to stop," Thalor said quietly, meeting his brother's violet eyes. "Enemies that fear fire and dragonglass."
The crown prince nodded slowly, accepting this with the seriousness it deserved. Unlike many at court who might have dismissed such preparations as fanciful, Rhaegar shared Thalor's conviction about the threat beyond the Wall—not with the same firsthand knowledge that Thalor possessed from his previous life, but with the certainty born of prophetic dreams and extensive research into ancient texts.
"How soon until a working version?" he asked.
"Several months for the prototype, perhaps a year for tested, reproducible models." Thalor gestured to some of the design documents. "The metallurgy is challenging with current techniques. I'm working with the smiths to develop new alloying methods."
"And you believe these will be effective against... them?"
"I believe they'll be more effective than standard weapons," Thalor qualified carefully. "Whether that will be enough..." He shrugged, unwilling to make promises he couldn't keep. "We'll need more than weapons when the time comes. Strategy, numbers, coordination between the kingdoms."
"Which requires a stable crown," Rhaegar concluded grimly, returning to their original topic. "And a king who inspires confidence rather than fear."
The unspoken implication hung between them—that King Aerys, in his current state, was increasingly incapable of providing the leadership the realm would need in the coming crisis. It was a dangerous thought, bordering on treason, yet one that neither could entirely dismiss given what they knew was at stake.
"One challenge at a time, brother," Thalor said finally, placing a hand on Rhaegar's shoulder. "For now, I'll attend the council meetings as you suggest. We'll manage Father as best we can, while continuing our preparations."
Rhaegar nodded, some of the tension leaving his features. "Thank you. Your support means more than you know." He rose, glancing once more at the northern maps. "Sometimes I think we're the only ones who truly understand what's coming. A handful of Targaryens, preparing for a war no one else believes in."
"Not entirely alone," Thalor corrected. "The Night's Watch knows something stirs beyond the Wall, even if they don't fully comprehend what. And there are others—scattered throughout the realm—who remember the old stories, who sense the changing patterns." He smiled slightly. "Besides, we have four dragons on our side."
"Four?" Rhaegar looked confused. "Nightfury is magnificent, but he's only one dragon."
Thalor's smile widened. "You, me, Nightfyre, and one other who understands the threat we face." At Rhaegar's puzzled expression, he elaborated: "Ice and fire, brother. The song of ice and fire. We are the fire—Targaryens, dragon's blood. But there is ice as well, in the North, in the Starks of Winterfell who have guarded the realms of men for thousands of years."
Understanding dawned in Rhaegar's eyes. "You've been corresponding with Lord Rickard?" he guessed.
"With his maester, officially," Thalor confirmed. "Exchanges about architecture and castle improvements, nothing to raise suspicions. But Lord Stark understands more than he lets on. The North remembers, as they say."
This news seemed to hearten Rhaegar considerably. "An alliance with Winterfell would be valuable, both politically and strategically, when the time comes."
"Precisely." Thalor returned to the maps, making a small adjustment to one of the markers. "We build our foundations now—through sewage systems and scorpion designs, through careful correspondence and strategic appearances at council meetings. One stone at a time, until we're ready to face what comes."
As Rhaegar prepared to depart, having accomplished his purpose in visiting, he paused at the study door. "Father calls you his 'twice-born son,' you know. A prince returned from death to save House Targaryen in its hour of need."
Thalor met his brother's gaze steadily. "And what do you call me?"
A genuine smile, rare on Rhaegar's melancholy features, briefly appeared. "My brother," he said simply. "And perhaps the cleverest dragon Westeros has ever seen."
After Rhaegar had gone, Thalor remained in his study for a time, contemplating their conversation and the complex web of preparations, politics, and prophecy that defined their lives. Outside his window, he could see Nightfury soaring in lazy circles above the Red Keep, enjoying the afternoon thermals.
Nine years into this second life, Thalor Targaryen felt the weight of dual identities less acutely than before. Hiccup and Thalor had gradually merged into a single consciousness—drawing on the experiences and skills of both lives, yet fully inhabiting the present rather than dwelling in the past.
He was a prince of House Targaryen and a dragon rider. He was an inventor and an architect. He was a brother, a son, a strategist. And above all, he was a protector—of the realm, of his family, of the future itself.
The sewage system was just the beginning—a foundation upon which greater works would be built. With each project, each innovation, each careful political maneuver, Thalor moved the pieces into position for the true challenge that lay ahead.
And when winter finally came—the true winter, with its army of the dead—he would be ready.
They would all be ready.