The sun rose over King's Landing, but the city was already awake. In truth, few had slept.
Down in the streets of the capital, men and women huddled in tight circles around the bakeries and alehouses, their voices loud, their eyes often darting toward the Red Keep and the Hill of Rhaenys.
They all remembered the noise. In the dead of night, a sound had reverberated over the entire city like thunder, violent enough to rattle the wooden windows in their homes. Thousands of people rushed from their beds into the streets, pointing and gasping at the night sky as they witnessed a creature so incredibly vast that it blotted out entire sections of the city as it flew over them.
And by morning, the songs had begun, and they had not stopped since.
From the taverns of Flea Bottom to the manses of the highborn, the bards sang of the Black Dread taking to the night sky, his massive wings blotting out the moon. And they sang of the boy who rode him.
Rhaegar had long been the darling of the city. Since his youngest days, the tales that trickled down from the Red Keep were of a lively and prodigious prince. As he grew, the people concluded that those tales had truth to them. He was but fourteen name days old, and yet, he had already brought immense riches and prosperity to the city and, to the best of their knowledge, shown nothing but kindness to the city's people and their needs.
So to them, the return of the Conqueror's mount under his command was a tale most welcome. A sign that the gods themselves favoured the young prince.
But to everyone else, it was anything but.
Rhaegar's midnight escapade had triggered absolute panic in the Red Keep. When the roar first shook the city, the Kingsguard had dragged Jaehaerys from his bed. And in his sleepy haze, hearing all the commotion, the Old King briefly thought that the capital was under siege by the Triarchy.
When Baelon had rushed to the Dragonpit with a detachment of guards, he found a part of the massive bronze doors melted into slag and a section of the outer wall reduced to rubble.
It was the second time Rhaegar had been involved in the destruction of the Dragonpit, a fact his family did not find remotely amusing.
Jaehaerys had been furious at the sheer recklessness, but the Old King was a pragmatist at his core. Once the shock wore off, the political reality settled in. With the claiming of Balerion, the Crown now possessed seven adult dragons. Not to mention the sheer deterrent of Balerion returning to the skies shifted the balance of power across the continent and the Narrow Sea, even if the dragon was currently in no shape to fight.
And he was in no shape to fight.
For the first two weeks following the flight, Rhaegar was certain he had killed him.
The exertion of breaking through the stone wall and taking flight had drained the old dragon completely. When Rhaegar had finally landed him in the ruined outer yard that night, Balerion had simply collapsed.
He had dragged himself into the deepest cavern and fallen into a heavy slumber. He did not wake to eat or to shit. His breathing was so shallow that the Dragonkeepers had twice sent word to the Red Keep, preparing the family for the dragon's passing. Rhaegar visited the pit every day, standing by him, watching the slow rise and fall of the black scales, guilt starting to creep in.
But midway through the third week, the dragon woke.
He ate three whole bulls in a single sitting. And, miraculously, the dragonkeepers had reported that the long, jagged, oozing gash by the dragon's neck, the wound he had carried back from Valyria decades ago, had finally stopped bleeding. The tissue was slowly scarring over.
Rhaegar found it strange that Balerion had found this much vitality when, for years, he had wasted away in the pit, growing weaker by the day. But he would not complain. For now.
What was important was that Balerion was recovering. But he was grounded for the foreseeable future.
Which meant Rhaegar was grounded as well. And his father had decided to fill his free time with pain.
The clang of blade on blade echoed twice across the training yard before the third strike landed heavier with a smack, harder and flatter, the kind that stung the wrist.
Rhaegar deflected a heavy downward strike, pivoted on his heel, and thrust his blunt sword at Baelon's ribs. It was a blindingly fast counter, executed with an almost perfect form. A lesser knight would have been slashed by the steel at his side.
Baelon simply batted the blade away with the hilt of his sword, sidestepped, and brought the flat of his sword hard against the back of Rhaegar's knees.
Rhaegar hit the ground with a grunt, dust kicking up into his mouth from the fall.
From the edge of the training yard, Viserys and Daemon watched with a mixture of awe and great pleasure. Daemon, who had spent the last moon alternating between sheer jealousy and utter disbelief at his brother's new mount, instinctively rubbed his own knees in a moment of sympathy before remembering he was here to be amused and resumed cackling at his downed brother.
"You are fast," Baelon noted, barely out of breath. He leaned on his training sword, looking down at his son. "Your footwork is sharp. You would have gutted a half-decent knight with that thrust."
"High praise, my Prince," Rhaegar muttered, spitting a mouthful of dust onto the ground.
Baelon casually brought the flat of his sword down against his son's head for the comment, a muffled clang echoing throughout the training ground.
"GAAAH," Rhaegar winced, swatting the blade away and rubbing his ringing head.
"If only your skills matched your snark," Baelon said dryly, shaking his head, "you would already be the greatest swordsman to have ever lived."
Rhaegar groaned, still rubbing the top of his head. His arms felt like lead, and his ribs stung where Baelon had caught him earlier. He was fourteen, highly trained, and possessed reflexes that many would envy. But Baelon the Brave was a seasoned veteran still at the peak of his physical prowess.
"I feel you are taking too much joy in this lately, Father," Rhaegar said, standing up and rolling his stiff shoulder. "Should you not be with Lord Corlys right now, preparing our fleets?"
Baelon's eyes glinted dangerously. He raised his sword as if to strike again, prompting Rhaegar to quickly step back and raise his guard to put distance between them.
"If anything, I should be taking much more joy than I currently am," Baelon corrected, lowering his blade.
"But why?" Rhaegar asked, as if he were being wronged.
"Why?" Baelon's voice grew loud. "You snuck out of the keep in the middle of the night. Again. You recklessly approached the most dangerous dragon alive, alone. Again. And you destroyed the Dragonpit. Again. Do you have any idea what it costs to repair reinforced stone walls of that size?"
"I am sure Beesbury has the number somewhere."
"He does. And I was very tempted to make you pay for it from your Consortium share," Baelon shot back, raising his sword. "Now hold your guard higher. If you have enough strength to rip the walls off Crown property, you have enough strength to parry. Again."
Rhaegar sighed, adjusting his grip on the hilt. It was going to be a long day.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Night had fallen by the time Rhaegar returned to his chambers.
He had bathed, eaten a heavy dinner of roasted pork, and collapsed into the high-backed chair near the hearth. Baelon had shown no mercy, ensuring that every time Rhaegar moved, a new muscle screamed in pain.
But his rest was quickly interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Enter," Rhaegar called out, pouring himself a cup of watered wine.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Ser Ryon stepped inside. The knight looked exactly as he always did, sharp, observant, and knightly. He closed the door behind him.
"My Prince," Ryon greeted, offering a short bow. His eyes flicked to the way Rhaegar was stiffly holding his sword arm. A faint, amused smile touched the knight's lips. "I see Prince Baelon was thorough today."
"My father is working through his grievances with misplaced violence, I fear," Rhaegar muttered, taking a sip of the wine.
"You held your own, my Prince," Ryon said as he chuckled lightly. "I watched from the gallery. You nearly caught him with that feint in the second hour. Give it a few more years, and the Spring Prince will have to start fighting dirty to try and keep you on the ground."
"A comforting thought for the distant future," Rhaegar said dryly. "But I doubt you came here to stroke my ego, Ryon."
The knight's smirk vanished as he nodded. He reached inside his tunic and produced a small, tightly rolled piece of parchment.
"From Lys," Ryon said, stepping forward and handing it to him.
Rhaegar set his cup down. He knew immediately who it was from. He unrolled the parchment. The message was brief, written in High Valyrian. It was coded, using a cypher only he and the priestess understood. Rhaegar's eyes scanned the text, translating the mundane sentences into the true message.
He only needed a few moments to go through the message before he crumpled the parchment in his hand.
A small smile spread across Rhaegar's face.
He stood up, walking over to the hearth. He tossed the parchment into the centre of the flames, and both watched in silence as the paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash.
"Ryon," Rhaegar said, his voice dropping the casual tone they had shared moments before.
"My Prince?"
"Send word to our contacts in Essos. I want a ship dispatched to the Isle."
Ryon nodded slowly.
Rhaegar ordered, staring into the fire. "I want a full report on their progress at the earliest opportunity."
"As you wish," Ryon replied, bowing his head. He turned and quietly exited the chamber, leaving Rhaegar alone with the crackling flames.