GoT and House of The Dragon: The Last Valyrian Dragonlord.

"I assume you've taken care of everything after my passing, my child.

I regret that our last meeting had to be in this form.

I was not a good father. Because of my recklessness and folly, you and your brother were branded as the sons of the Whore Princess from the moment you were born.

But of course, I know you wouldn't care."

Rhaegel scoffed and kept reading.

The handwriting remained elegant, the noble cursive script of High Valyrian.

"Everyone has secrets. Your father had them too. But they no longer matter—I've taken them to the grave, and you have no need to know."

Rhaegel resisted the urge to throw the book across the room and turned the page.

"Half of my life was spent in foolishness, the other half in clarity. Only at the end did I realize—you are the gift the gods gave me, my golden finger. A natural-born blood mage. If I hadn't confirmed it myself, I'd have thought you were just like me."

"A golden finger?" Rhaegel scratched his head in confusion.

"I thought I could master the magic of our family's legends. Or at the very least, that our Valyrian blood would allow me to hatch a dragon. But I was wrong."

Even in the elegant strokes of the writing, Rhaegel could sense his father's regret and frustration.

"I gathered countless sorcerers. Some were truly gifted, but most were frauds. If you ever visit Qarth, be sure to spit on the threshold of the House of the Undying for me. The gods' own arses, those warlocks had power, but they wanted to bleed me and you dry. Hmph. If I had a dragon, I'd have burned them first."

"You were obsessed with dragons, old man," Rhaegel thought. But he understood his father's schemes and had continued following his plans.

After all, what Valyrian boy could resist the lure of dragons?

How many times had he dreamt of soaring through the sky, bathed in moonlight?

"But I was lucky enough to achieve something in the end. My child, I hope my findings help you fulfill our grand design.

First, if you have read the tomes Maester Viserys brought you, then you must have wondered: why did Valyria rise? Why did a dormant race suddenly possess such unnatural features? Why can only those of our noble blood tame dragons? And where did dragons come from?"

"Of course, I have," Rhaegel muttered under his breath.

"I wondered too. I studied every document in our family's archives and those the sorcerers brought me. There is no doubt—Valyrians were not a naturally occurring race. Our blood carries magic. My child, do you remember our family's words?"

"My blood runs silver," Rhaegel whispered, already forming his own theories. His father's notes might finally confirm them.

"Our words: 'My blood runs silver.' And your mother's house in Westeros—'Fire and Blood.' Do you see? We dragonlords have always valued our bloodlines. In the Freehold era, the forty dragonlord families either intermarried or practiced incest, not just to prevent their blood from being diluted, but to preserve the magic within it. My son, you are a natural blood mage. Pure blood is effortless for you.

You must understand—blood magic draws power from the essence of life. Not just blood mages, but R'hllor's fire sorcerers and Asshai's shadowbinders all rely on blood sacrifice. Even our famed Valyrian steel, according to our family's records, requires blood in its forging.

Blood is the currency of magic.

This is the truth of equivalent exchange. And for us, the last of the dragonlords, our blood is even more valuable. Your blood magic surpasses every blood mage I have ever met. This is why I have faith in you."

Rhaegel frowned. He knew his blood held power—blades bathed in it became sharper, poisons mixed with it grew ten times deadlier. He could track people through his own spilled blood, hear the thoughts of those who drank it, control beasts with his essence.

But he did not understand his father's certainty.

Their grand design was not complicated. Cleorius had devised an intricate blood magic sigil that supposedly shielded against the Doom of Valyria.

They sought to find the lost army of Aurion Velaryon—and the dragon eggs he had taken with him.

"Valyrian dragonlord blood combined with blood magic. Now do you understand? My son, I wish to recreate the process by which the ancient Valyrians tamed and hatched dragons. Our family still maintains a fleet patrolling the borders of the Smoking Sea. We know that the heart of the Doom remains perilous. The region encompassing the ruins of Valyria and much of the Freehold's core is utterly inhospitable. You must never enter those lands. But the outer regions, with proper magical protections, may be explored with a small party.

The western fringes of the Valyrian Peninsula include the marshes near the old Valyrian Road, the ruined strongholds of House Myrases, our family's lost city, a firemage's tower belonging to House Galeros, and remnants of other minor families. This knowledge comes from our archives. If you have the courage, explore these areas—but be cautious.

We traced Aurion's last known route. His army vanished near the marshes at the peninsula's edge. If he did not venture into the Doom itself, then he and his forces may still rest somewhere between our lost city of 'Valzor' and the 'Tower of Galeros.'

Our family once worshiped Volmysor, the Valyrian god of forging. Before the Doom, we possessed the secret of crafting Valyrian steel. If you reach Valzor, then at the very least, you will never lack for Valyrian steel.

In the Freehold era, dragonlords hatched their dragons through fire and magic. In the present day, the Targaryens of Westeros use the pure blood of their newborns. Regardless of origin, only our bloodline can command dragons.

And that is all that matters. My child, you carry the legacy of two dragonlord families. Your blood may be as pure as that of the ancient kings. I am sorry, my son, for burdening you with my ambitions. But I believe in you. I believe you can achieve what I could not."

"For the family." Rhaegel clenched the pages tightly. "For Valar, for Rhae, for all of them."

"My child, may your blood always flow with honor. May the blood of House Velaryon never run dry. May the glory of dragons return to our name."

Rhaegel lifted his head, his eyes closed.

Something clear and glistening slipped down his cheek.

From the shadows, a robed man with a thick red beard emerged.

"Lord Rhaegel, are you prepared?"

Rhaegel opened his eyes, carefully placing the journal back where it belonged.

"Begin, Priest of R'hllor."

"As you command," the red priest murmured. "Son of the Flame."

The Pentaro Estate

Towering orange trees cast deep shade against the harsh Volantene sun. Fine wine spilled onto the marble floor.

Mogul Pentaro, head of the household, stared at his son, Caevado, who lay slumped in the arms of two terrified slave women, his face pale.

"Master! Master! We don't know what happened! He only asked for wine!" A male slave clutched his master's leg, sobbing—until he saw his own severed body.

"Hmph." Mogul sneered, nudging a slave girl to lick the stain from his shoe. A nearby Unsullied silently withdrew his axe.

"My lord, no known poison was detected in the young master's body." A slave physician with a serpent tattoo groveled before him.

"I did not raise a fool of a son." Mogul suppressed his fury. "Prepare the gold palanquin. We are going to the Megarya Palace."

"Yes, my lord."