Chapter 700

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"Most of a dragon's magical energy is wasted."

Aegor didn't hear these words until he was standing in front of Rhaegal once more, listening as Daenerys relayed the spell’s details to Kinvara, the second Red Priestess. Only then did he fully grasp the nature of this so-called dragon-riding ritual—not just a ceremony for show, but a true magical rite.

The Queen, now a seasoned dragonrider, scholar, and de facto administrator of the dragon stables, had drawn this conclusion after years of study. She had followed it to its logical end, devising a method to repurpose this wasted magical energy.

The result?

The Art of Dragonbinding.
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This also meant that, aside from sustaining their immense body heat, life force, and slight magical resistance, dragons held untapped reserves of power.

Could this be part of what drove Daenerys to madness in the original timeline?

As magical creatures, dragons carried latent magic in every drop of their blood, every fiber of their muscle, every bone, and even the nerve clusters running through their bodies.

But because they lacked true intelligence, they could not wield this magic like sorcerers or mages did.

Aegor exhaled, shaking his head.

Unfortunately, Daenerys had just confirmed something unsettling: once the binding ritual was complete, it would persist until either the rider or the dragon died—unless undone by an equally intricate counter-ritual.

The bond would significantly enhance the rider's control over the dragon…

But would it also drive them to madness?
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"A certain dragon shepherd, long dead, from Valyria."
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Two dragons soared into the sky, one after the other, sweeping low over Highgarden’s ramparts, their flight so close that the banners atop the castle walls whipped and snapped violently in their wake.

Then, they ascended, circling the castle’s triple-ringed fortifications in wide arcs.

The only downside seemed to be…
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This wasn’t merely "dragon-riding magic."

It was dragon-human unification magic.

With this spell, a rider could, in theory, achieve better synchronization with their dragon than even the most experienced pilots with their war machines.

After all, no pilot could ask their aircraft how it felt that day, whether it was in peak condition, or whether some hidden fault might cause it to fail mid-flight.

And no mechanical interface—no harness, no set of reins, no series of tugs or clicks—could compare to direct thought-to-thought control.

The dragon’s vast, though unrefined, magical reserves served as the power source, linking the rider and mount in a psychic union, allowing a partial sharing of emotion, bodily state, and even cognition.
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Aegor’s breath caught in his throat.

Because suddenly—

He wasn’t just looking at Rhaegal.

He was seeing through Rhaegal’s eyes.

The pleasant warmth of the early spring breeze.

The satisfaction of a full belly, the drowsy contentment of rest.

A faint, instinctual attachment to Mother Daenerys.

A wary but familiar recognition of the larger black dragon nearby, tinged with a hint of territorial irritation.

And lastly—

A sense of awe and submission toward the black-clad human standing in front of him.

Aegor.

No—toward his presence, the sheer force of his aura.

Aegor’s mind reeled. He could feel everything Rhaegal was experiencing. If he concentrated even further, he swore he could taste the lingering blood of oxen and sheep on the dragon’s tongue.
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Rhaegal spread his copper-green wings, the membranes stretching wide as they caught the wind.

With a single, mighty push from his legs—

The world lurched.

The grassy plains of the Reach plummeted away beneath Aegor’s feet, swallowed by the sky.

The sheer force slammed into his body—not quite a whiplash from acceleration, but something deeper.

It wasn’t just a pushback against his spine—it was a pushback against his very being.

His entire self, mind and body, was being dragged upward at Rhaegal’s will.
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No wonder dragonriders were so formidable.
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The ritual was unmistakably blood magic.

Its process was simple but precise:

First, a magical rune circle was painted onto the dragon’s skull with enchanted ink.

Then, a surge of magic was poured into the sigil, activating it.

And finally—Aegor had to offer his own blood, allowing a few drops to fall into the glyph.

There were no spectacular flashes of light.

Just a faint wisp of smoke.

His blood, along with the painted sigils, evaporated on contact—or perhaps, they were absorbed.

And then—

A pulse of foreign thoughts slipped into his mind.
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Rhaegal roared.

Drogon answered with a deeper, earth-shaking bellow.

The two dragons circled each other, their movements reminiscent of dance partners in a grand festival, tracing loops and arcs in the air.

Then, wings flaring, they both climbed higher, ascending above Highgarden.

Below them, the great fortress shrank into a mere white target, its three concentric walls forming clear rings from above.

And beyond it?

A swarm of tiny black specks, scurrying out from the castle in all directions.

Aegor knew exactly what they were.

Messengers.

Envoys dispatched across the Reach, carrying word of House Tyrell’s surrender.

Their orders were simple—

To inform every remaining noble house that the Queen had extended an invitation to visit King’s Landing.

One they could not refuse.
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He could see them all.

The thousands of figures gathered below, craning their necks to witness his first flight.

And among them—

A woman in flowing white.

Daenerys.

Mounting Drogon’s back.
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This spell had changed everything.

Riding a dragon was no longer an impossible miracle.

It was now a replicable feat—a technique.

And, more importantly—

It had fulfilled Valyria’s ultimate military ambition.

For centuries, Valyrian warlords had struggled to tame their dragons’ natural solitude and aggressive tendencies.

Now?

For the first time, dragons could truly be coordinated, deployed together in synchronized attacks.

This was the magic that had forged an empire.

This was the secret behind the rise of House Targaryen’s ancestors—

The spell that had led forty noble Valyrian bloodlines to dominate the skies.

The spell that had destroyed the once-mighty Ghiscari Empire.

The spell that had wiped out an entire civilization in a single war—the Rhoynar’s final defeat, beneath a sky filled with three hundred dragons.
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Aegor narrowed his eyes.

They weren’t at a safe altitude.

From this height, a well-placed scorpion bolt or even an ordinary longbow could reach them.

But neither he nor Daenerys felt the slightest concern.

Because the castle’s defenses were no longer in the hands of its former lords.

Every anti-air weapon had been dismantled.

And in their place?

The ramparts were now lined with cheering soldiers.
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Aegor focused his mind.

He gave his first direct command.

"Stay still, Rhaegal. Don't move."

Instantly—

The dragon obeyed.

Aegor climbed onto his back.

With the soldiers’ assistance, he secured the saddle, adjusted his seat, and fastened the harness straps.

He was ready.
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So this is it.

So this is what it means… to be a dragonrider.

Aegor’s grip tightened.

His first true flight was about to begin.

And he would never be the same again.