Chapter 242 — Rebirth of the Dragon, Bound by the Flame
Rhaego rushed to his companion's side, letting out anxious whimpers as he carefully nudged the edges of Ilyon's wounds with his small snout.
He wanted to help—but didn't dare apply too much force.
In the end, he could only extend his small, barbed tongue and gently lick along the torn scales near the wounds, as if trying to soothe the pain in the only way he knew.
Ilyon's molten vertical pupil flickered open just a sliver.
A faint, almost inaudible rumble escaped from deep within his throat.
His massive head shifted slightly, as though he wanted to nuzzle Rhaego in return—but the movement pulled at his injuries.
A violent spasm ran through his body.
Then—
All strength left him.
The great dragon collapsed fully onto the ground, his immense form rising and falling only with heavy, labored breaths.
By then, Rhaella Targaryen had arrived, flanked by two Kingsguard.
"Lance…"
The name slipped from her lips unconsciously, her voice trembling in a way even she hadn't noticed.
Her gaze darted wildly around Ilyon, searching—
Searching for that familiar white figure.
That man she both resented… and could never forget.
But there was nothing.
No knight.
No white cloak.
Only a dying dragon… and a frightened hatchling.
She turned sharply, locking onto the crimson figure standing nearby.
All jealousy, all hostility from moments before—
Gone.
She strode forward without hesitation, closing the distance in seconds, her composure collapsing as tears welled in her eyes.
Grabbing Melisandre's sleeve tightly—so tightly her knuckles turned pale—she demanded:
"Where is he?"
Her voice shook violently, on the verge of breaking.
"Where is Lance Lot?!"
"What happened to him? Tell me!"
Melisandre looked at her calmly.
And spoke.
"The dragon rider has fallen into the abyssal sea."
The words struck like a hammer.
Every Kingsguard present stiffened instantly, hands moving to their swords on instinct.
Then Melisandre continued, her tone unwavering:
"An malevolent god has opened its jaws."
"It covets his soul… his power… the will that burns against the darkness."
"It is dragging him downward—seeking to corrupt him, to reshape him… to make him part of that cold abyss."
Rhaella staggered.
For a moment, it felt as if all strength had been drained from her body.
Her voice came out hoarse, desperate:
"…Is he still alive?"
Melisandre did not answer her question directly. Instead, she turned her gaze westward—as though piercing through stone walls, across leagues of land, to the storm-wracked, shadow-choked Sunset Sea.
"My King… the Lord of Light, R'hllor."
Her voice deepened, solemn and heavy.
"His radiance has pierced a fragment of the abyss's veil. It shields the soul of Lance Lot… for now."
"Take heart—he still resists. His will is far stronger than that god… stronger than even we imagined."
For a fleeting instant, hope flickered in Rhaella's eyes—
Only to be extinguished by Melisandre's next words.
"But, Your Grace… the sea is that god's domain."
"It has taken root there for ages beyond count. Even my Lord's light—mighty as it is—becomes like a torch cast into a bottomless ocean."
"It cannot endure forever."
"Time… is not on our side."
"The abyssal sea…" murmured Barristan Selmy, his voice low and grave. "What is it, truly?"
"A will ancient… and insatiably hungry," Melisandre replied without hesitation. "It devours life, corrupts souls, drags all warmth into cold, eternal stillness."
"I call it the Maw of the Abyss."
"But you—know it as the Drowned God."
The words struck like sparks in dry tinder.
"The Drowned God?!"
Rage erupted among the Kingsguard.
"Damn the Ironborn!"
"I knew their god was no true god!"
"Your Grace—grant me command! Give me ten days and I'll crush the Iron Islands, drag the Regent back myself!"
Their voices overlapped, fierce and eager.
Rhaella released her grip on Melisandre, straightened her spine—and in that instant, grief and fear were crushed beneath the iron will of a queen.
Her gaze swept across the white-cloaked knights.
Not one showed fear.
Only resolve.
"Barristan Selmy!"
"Your Grace!" he dropped to one knee at once.
"From this moment, King's Landing enters a state of total war readiness!"
Her voice rang across the courtyard, sharp as drawn steel.
"Sound the alarms! Muster every Crownlands knight! Call every man who can lift a blade! Open the treasury—spare no cost—grain, horses, arms!"
"I want an army ready to march before the first light of dawn!"
She clenched her fists, teeth grinding with fury.
"We march west."
"I will drag Lance Lot out of that hell—no matter what remains of him!"
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Barristan rose instantly and strode away, already issuing orders before he vanished into the corridors.
Around them, preparations ignited like wildfire.
Yet Melisandre said nothing.
Only when silence settled again—broken solely by Ilyon's labored breathing—did she turn back to Rhaella.
"Your Grace…"
"Even if your knights ride without rest… by the time they reach Casterly Rock…"
"Lance Lot may already have become… part of the abyss."
"Then what do we do?!" Rhaella broke.
Her composure shattered completely as she surged forward, voice cracking into a scream.
"You tell me! You speak of your god like he's omnipotent—then where is he now?!"
"Why doesn't he save him?! Where is his light?!"
"Answer me!"
Melisandre did not reply.
She only turned—and walked toward the dying dragon.
Ilyon's molten eye cracked open, watching her with wary suspicion.
Beside him, Rhaego lifted his head, growling low in warning.
But Melisandre showed no fear.
Her hand rested gently upon Ilyon's unbroken scales—and for an instant, a faint red glow flickered beneath her fingertips.
Her eyes deepened, as though seeing beyond flesh… into something deeper.
"The power of the flame…"
Then her gaze shifted—to the green dragon.
Rhaego shrank back slightly, growling.
A burst of dragonfire lashed out—
Engulfing Melisandre.
Yet she did not flinch.
She placed her hand upon his head.
A strange resonance hummed through the air.
A faint smile touched her lips.
"Good…"
"He left the fire within you as well."
And then—
Before the stunned eyes of the Kingsguard—
She tore off her red robes.
Fabric fell away, revealing pale skin gleaming like ivory beneath the moon.
Then she bent, wrapping her arms around the struggling young dragon in an almost intimate embrace.
Rhaego thrashed, hissing in protest—
"Be still."
Her voice dropped, rich with power.
Then she turned to Ilyon—
And spoke in clear Valyrian:
"Dracarys."
The word echoed.
Ilyon froze.
Confusion burned in his molten eyes.
Fire… at her? At Rhaego?
"Ilyon."
Melisandre's voice did not waver.
"Look at me. Think of your rider."
"The flame he left behind—here, within him… within you…"
"It is the only light that can save him."
"Dracarys."
Silence hung.
Then—
With a roar filled with agony and resolve—
Ilyon opened his jaws.
Blinding golden fire erupted.
It swallowed Melisandre—
And Rhaego.
A scream tore from Rhaella's throat.
The heat scorched even from afar.
But then—
Something changed.
The inferno collapsed inward, as though devoured by an unseen vortex.
Flames no longer raged—they converged.
And within them—
Two figures stood.
Unburned.
Rhaego's body expanded, bones cracking and stretching as molten light coursed across his scales.
His form grew—rapidly, violently.
Melisandre threw her head back, chanting:
"Fire reforges—dragon reborn!"
"I am the bridge—flame binds flame!"
A blazing sigil formed above her—
Then detonated.
The courtyard shook.
When the smoke cleared—
She stood alone.
And beside her—
A dragon.
No longer a hatchling—
But a towering beast clad in deep emerald bronze, wings vast enough to shadow half the yard, eyes burning like molten gold.
It was Rhaego.
Reborn.
Stronger.
He roared triumphantly, flexing his wings, almost boastful toward Ilyon—
Who simply collapsed, too exhausted to care.
But then—
A figure stepped forward.
Rhaella.
Her dress dragged through ash and broken stone as she walked toward the dragon.
"Don't, Your Grace!" a knight shouted.
"It's not yours—it won't obey!"
She did not stop.
The blood of House Targaryen burned within her.
She had been queen once.
She would not stand helpless again.
Not this time.
She stopped before the towering dragon.
It lowered its head, golden eye narrowing.
A thunderous roar exploded from its jaws.
Her silver-gold hair whipped violently—
But she did not retreat.
She lifted her chin.
And spoke.
"Kneel."
Then, in the ancient tongue of her house:
"I, Rhaella Targaryen—Regent Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—command you…"
"Kneel."