Prologue: The Wizard and the Princess

"That supreme, magnificent, and great kingdom was forged by fire and dragons."

The stark white sun scorched the city, which stretched beyond the horizon. Countless ships with sails of every color crowded the harbor like sardines, filling a bay that seemed equally endless. The broad Rhoyne River flowed silently. Spanning the river mouth was a long bridge wide enough for two four-wheeled carriages to pass side-by-side, where statues of gryphons, dragons, and manticores carved from black stone stared coldly at the bustling crowds.

A vigorous falcon streaked across the sky like lightning. As it shed a feather, a slave tattooed with maggots carefully picked it up and placed it into the crude basket on his back. A man with tiger-stripe tattoos brandished a whip, directing a long line of slaves to sweep the wide streets.

The falcon soared over the bustling harbor district—a place thick with the pungent stench of fish, flowers, excrement, and decay—flying past merchants and sailors from every corner of the world, past the tattooed slaves, and past the nobles who sat on golden chairs atop dwarf elephants, draped in silk togas, leaving behind a trail of indistinct curses. It flew over the two-hundred-foot-tall black walls.

Finally, the falcon landed on a uniquely shaped black stone pillar, which was carved with an emblem of a dragon breathing fire, encircled by laurel leaves. It was crafted from pure silver and shimmered brilliantly in the sun. In the room opposite the pillar, an old man in gray robes held a heavy book, leaning against a fountain decorated with dragons and manticores, reciting calmly.

The handsome, silver-haired boy looked up with a hint of delight, stealing a glance at the falcon.

"Rhaegor, please listen carefully." The old man in gray reached out to tug at the necklace around his chest, which was strung with over a dozen different metal rings, and spoke in a measured tone.

"I'm sorry, I apologize. I just miss 'Flame Wing' so much. Master Viserys, please don't tell my brother." Twelve-year-old Rhaegor hurriedly withdrew his gaze, looking with pleading eyes at Viserys, who was watching him quietly. This erudite scholar came from the distant West, a place the people within the black walls called the Land of Sunset. However, the boy Rhaegor knew its true name was Westeros. His late father and mother had often spoken of it.

It was the homeland his mother had both yearned for and loathed.

"Your brother, Lonzell, would never abandon the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of a falcon." The old scholar sighed and turned the page. "Unless it were a hatchling dragon."

"But we have no dragons left."

The boy lowered his head, thinking this to himself, while the aged voice at his ear continued to recite the chapters of history in High Valyrian.

"Dawn shone upon the seemingly eternal kingdom. The offspring of light and dark, fire and ice, ruled the earth and the seas. His reign lasted ten thousand years until the fated hour. The Pearl Emperor ascended the throne, the Amethyst Empress wove robes of treasure, the Onyx Emperor forged armor, the Topaz Emperor compiled books, and the Opal Emperor stitched wounds. Order perished, the world fell into chaos, followed by the slaughter of siblings, the long night, the hero drawing his sword, and the Lion of Night weeping."

Old, stale myths. Rhaegor's mind had already flown to the falcon, Flame Wing. But my brother loves them. Is it because the Amethyst Empress also had purple eyes? He thinks it might be related to our ancestors. The boy blinked his beautiful violet eyes, pretending to listen intently.

"Your ancestors rose from the rolling mountains of the Fourteen Fires. They were the children of the mountains, valiant warriors, brilliant scholars, mysterious mages, and master craftsmen."

Legends are just legends after all. Our ancestors were descendants of shepherds, Rhaegor thought quietly. We know that much.

"They awakened the children of the Fourteen Fires," Viserys suddenly lowered his voice. "And thus, the greatest race was born. The Valyrians mounted dragons and launched the Great Conquest. The darlings of the Harpy, the ancient Ghiscari Empire, were burned by dragonfire into salt marshes where no crops would ever grow again. And the Rhoynar, who possessed water magic capable of drowning dragons—their heroic Prince Garin also died in bitterness amidst the fury of three hundred dragons."

Now it's getting interesting. Rhaegor tucked his hands into his purple silk sleeves; a small silver dragon figurine had appeared in his palm at some point. The boy gently rubbed the statue, his focus finally returning to the thick book.

"At the height of the Valyrian Freehold, forty dragonlord families kept thousands of dragons."

A pity that only one dragon-keeping family remains now. No, rather than dragonlords, we are lucky exiles. Rhaegor continued to stroke the statue, recalling his previous lessons on nobility.

"The dragonlords schemed in the high towers of Valyria, while dragons roared wantonly atop the volcanoes. Beneath the volcanoes, millions of slaves toiled in the mines for the dragonlords. Looking across the known world, the Andals scurried like rats, the high men of Salor knelt and groveled, the ancient Ghiscari were slaves to the dragonlords, and even the proud Emperors of Yi Ti considered it a supreme honor to marry silver-haired noblewomen." The old scholar's voice grew increasingly sonorous, as if he were chanting a poem.

"The wise Dreamer Daenys Targaryen foresaw the brewing catastrophe, and so that failed family brought their dragons to the West. Then came the Doom that destroyed all. The dragonlords turned to ash, and the dragons fell from the high heavens. The mighty kingdom was annihilated into dust overnight."

The old scholar cleared his throat and continued, "Your ancestor, the last Valyrian Emperor Cleyon Valaerys, was stationed in Qohor with his dragon at the time. The proud dragonlord believed this was a golden opportunity; greed consumed his reason. He spent his entire fortune to recruit an army of thirty thousand—mercenaries and farmers hungry for wealth, wandering Valyrian warriors longing for home, and the Black Goat riders of Qohor. They obtained supplies in Valantis, and the dragonlord left his offspring there as well."

The old scholar looked at Rhaegor; wise as he was, he had already noticed the boy's distraction. "That is, your direct ancestor, the 'Dragonless' Rhaegor Valaerys."

I know him. Rhaegor's violet eyes lit up; this was finally his favorite part of the family anecdotes. To escape assassination by those with ulterior motives, his mother—a noblewoman from a dragonlord family who had no dragon—smashed the dragon egg that Cleyon had left for his son. Of course, he couldn't hatch a dragon either, the boy thought to himself.

"The army vanished in Valyria, and no one ever saw Emperor Cleyon or his red dragon again. Thus, the Valaerys family, once seventh among the forty dragonlords and possessing one hundred and fifty adult dragons at their peak, fell into decline." The old scholar sighed, turned the page of the great book, and continued the history of the Valaerys family after they migrated to the Black Walls of Valantis.

"...By the time Gaemon Valaerys passed away, the Valaerys family had accumulated vast wealth. They owned not only large tracts of fertile land between the Rhoyne and Valana rivers, but also twelve beet plantations, twenty-five vineyards, six silk workshops, two private forests, one gold mine, two silver mines, and seven rich iron mines."

The old scholar turned to the final page.

"Cleyon Valaerys, the most legendary head of the family in history. Some say he was a madman, others a genius, and some a terrifying sorcerer. In his first twenty years, he was a playboy who squandered two-thirds of the family fortune. In the middle twenty years, he was a miracle-worker who tripled the family's wealth beyond what Gaemon had left. The glass he produced was crystal clear and sold far and wide to Slaver's Bay and the Nine Free Cities. The silver wine he brewed was mellow and sweet, captivating even the Khals of the Dothraki. He tripled silk production, and his luxurious silk with silver dragon and laurel leaf patterns was even exported to Yi Ti. He increased the yields of wheat, rice, beets, and saffron year after year. The smelting methods he designed doubled the output of gold and silver mines, and his improved metalworking techniques could forge steel second only to Valyrian steel and Qohorik blood steel. The ships built using his designs were no less impressive than the purple-sailed warships of Braavos or the swan ships of the Summer Isles."

If I hadn't witnessed the old master's brilliance with my own eyes, I would never have believed a noble who never attended the Citadel could achieve such things, Master Viserys thought to himself as he spoke.

"He organized great voyages to Asshai and Westeros, earning countless gold in maritime trade. He freed the family's slaves, elevating them to contract workers and servants, and selected six thousand brave boys from among them. From that day on, the 'Silver Blood Army' and the 'Weepers' of Valantis were born. The nobles within the Black Walls all said he conducted magic experiments semi-openly. Shadowbinders from Asshai, Cloudmancers, fire mages, blood mages, Warlocks from Qarth, Moon Singers from Jueguesnai, and Red Priests from the Great Temple all frequented his palace. No one knew what your father intended until he rushed out of the palace like a madman, carrying enough treasure to load nine elephants, and charged into a notorious brothel in Valantis."

He married our mother, Rhaegor thought, staring into the old scholar's eyes. The mother who passed away when I was born.

"In my homeland, people called her the 'Whore Princess.' Her name was Senira Targaryen." Master Viserys paused, a hint of regret in his eyes.

"She was the ninth daughter of the late King 'the Old King' Jaehaerys I of my homeland. In the scandalous first half of her life, she had more men by her side than she had silver strands of hair."

I know. Rhaegor had never respected his mother; as a young child, he often felt sad because of her past. Even just among my brother's circle, there are several children left behind by our mother. And that silver-haired bastard from the former Archon's house, the boy mused.

"Twenty-three years ago, the Princess ended her debauched life in Lys and settled in Valantis, establishing her own brothel a year later—the infamous 'Dragon-Bastard House.' No one understood why your father would marry a prostitute, even if she carried the blood of the world's only dragon-owning family. And no one understood why the Princess would agree to your father's request and imprison herself for two years after the wedding to purify her bloodline."

Master Viserys closed the book. "I cannot understand it either, but history happened just so. In the third year of their marriage, your brothers Lonzell Valaerys and Valarr Valaerys were born. The twin birth nearly killed the aging Princess, who remained bedridden thereafter. The old master seemed to lose his passion for his wife, turning his energy toward your eldest brother, who possessed innate wisdom. Master Lonzell possessed wisdom no less than the old master; by age seven, he had mastered all the family's industries and affairs, and by age nine, he independently completed trade deals with Braavos and Lys. In his final days, the old master passed all his wisdom to your eldest brother until he passed away in his laboratory. Hmm? Where are you going?"

The old scholar's voice stopped abruptly. The silver-haired boy had suddenly sprung up like a monkey, running toward the main courtyard without a care.

The silver dragon figurine in his sleeve suddenly became scorching hot, as if it were burning. Rhaegor immediately realized what had happened. "My brother is back! I'm going to see him. Master Viserys, I'll make up today's lesson tomorrow!" Rhaegor's crisp voice echoed through the corridor intertwined with stone pillars and grapevines.

The old scholar shook his head with a bitter smile and whispered, "But your lesson for today is already over." He straightened his gray robes and necklace; Lonzell Valaerys was his master, and he naturally needed to go and welcome him.

The silver dragon figurine in his sleeve grew hotter and hotter, but Rhaegor felt no pain—only a strange comfort.

The boy ran through the corridor, just as he rounded the dragon statue carved from dragonstone. A round object came rolling and tumbling to the boy's feet.

Rhaegor's heart felt as if it had been gripped by a pair of giant hands. His hand rose involuntarily to cover his mouth, stifling the scream that had already reached his throat.

It was a human head.

New author starting a book, lacking experience. Please offer your criticisms and corrections.