Chapter 41 Fire

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Chapter Forty-One: The Night of Fire

The waves lapped gently at the shore, a rhythmic whisper beneath the quiet tension of the night. The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting pale silver light upon the secluded beach where Rhaella Targaryen stood, her children at her side.

The air smelled of salt and something else—something ancient.

Ahead of them, a pyre had been built, dry wood stacked high, and on top of it lay three dragon eggs, their once-vibrant colors dulled to stone. Bound above them, three men struggled weakly, their muffled cries barely audible over the crash of the tide.

Behind her, Ser Arthur Dayne stood with a hand resting on his sword hilt, his expression impassive. To her right, Monford Velaryon and his half-brother Aurane watched the proceedings with wary interest. And in front of them all, standing at the edge of the firepit, was Archmaester Marwyn, his acolyte Alleras at his side.

Rhaella turned her gaze to Monford. "Who are these men?"

Monford's face darkened. "Criminals. They tried to force themselves on a girl in town." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "They were meant for the Wall, but now they'll serve a higher purpose."

Rhaella looked back at the men, their eyes wide with terror. She felt no pity for them.

"Fitting," she murmured.

She had not been the one to suggest this ritual.

No, that had been Marwyn.

When the Archmaester arrived at Driftmark, he had spoken of visions, of fate, of things the Citadel sought to destroy.

"Dragons have returned to the world," he had told her. "That is why I was able to light a glass candle. That is why magic stirs once more. I have seen a dragon through the flame."

Rhaella had listened, but she had not fully believed.

Not yet.

According to Marwyn the Citadel abhorred magic. They feared it, sought to wipe it from the world like a sickness. That was why Marwyn had stolen what he could before fleeing Oldtown—books of dragonlore, records hidden deep within the vaults, and all three working glass candles.

He had come to them—to her—because he believed in the blood of the dragon.

Rhaella had allowed it.

Not because she believed the eggs would hatch.

No, those eggs had long since turned to stone.

But because she had seen the way Daenerys lit up at the prospect.

Her daughter had always been drawn to the eggs, ever since the Sealord of Braavos had gifted them to Rhaella years ago.

Now, with Marwyn's books, Dany had begun to dream again—to hope again.

And Rhaella would not take that from her.

Even if this was folly.

Even if the eggs remained lifeless.

At least, for one more night, her daughter would believe in something more than exile and loss.

Marwyn stepped forward, lifting a torch.

"Fire and blood," he murmured.

But before he could drop the flame—

A shadow passed over them.

A deep whoosh of air, like the beating of great wings, sent ripples through the water.

Rhaella's breath hitched.

The others stiffened, heads snapping upward.

And then—

A roar.

A deafening, ear-splitting roar, louder than anything she had ever heard, shaking her bones.

A massive shape descended from the night sky.

Impossible.

And then flames.

A torrent of blackish-blue fire rained down, engulfing the pyre in an instant.

The men atop it screamed—briefly—before they were silenced, their bodies reduced to nothing in the inferno.

Rhaella staggered back, eyes wide, barely able to comprehend what she was seeing.

The dragon—a dragon—circled once above them, wings spread wide, before vanishing into the night as swiftly as it had come.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

No one moved.

The only sound was the crackling of fire.

Marwyn was the first to break the silence.

"That was the dragon I saw," he breathed, his voice filled with awe.

Rhaella couldn't tear her eyes away from the blaze.

The pyre burned hotter than it should have. The wood had been dry, but this… this was something more.

The flames licked high into the air, turning white at the edges.

The pyre burned for a long time. And then, slowly, the fire began to die down.

The pyre collapsed in on itself, embers glowing in the sand.

And then—

Something moved.

Rhaella's breath caught in her throat.

A shape. A small shape.

And then another.

And another.

The first creature crawled from the smoking remains, shaking the soot from its wings.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Three hatchlings, dark and glistening with birth, emerged from the charred wood.

Their scales shimmered in the first light of dawn, their small wings twitching as they tested the air.

Rhaella took a slow step forward, barely able to breathe.

The largest of the three—the one with deep black scales and burning red eyes—tilted its head, fixing her with a curious gaze.

The second, leaner and covered in bronze scales, stretched its wings, letting out a soft, reptilian hiss.

And the third—the smallest, covered in deep green scales with golden eyes—let out a tiny, sharp chirp.

It was real.

They were real.

The eggs had hatched.

Marwyn let out a breathless chuckle. "It worked," he murmured.

Aurane took a step back, his face pale. "Seven hells…"

Monford stared, shaking his head in disbelief. "The dragons… the dragons have returned."

Rhaella could not move.

Could not speak.

The world shifted beneath her feet.

For so long, they had been nothing but remnants of the past. A dead house. A forgotten legacy.

But now—

Now, the world had changed.

The last time a dragon had been born, it was under Aegon The Dragonbane.

Now, on this night, the dragons had returned once more.

And the realm would never be the same.