Every time the dragon tore across the sky, fishers on Dragonstone and merchant sailors screamed.
After a hundred-year absence, they were witnessing the Dragon Dance once more.
Dragonstone welcomed dragons and dragonriders; it lacked King's Landing's stench and crushing crowds. On the island Rhaegar saw bleakness, depth, and smoking volcanoes.
Rhaegar wheeled the Silver Emperor above Dragonstone, the other two dragons close behind.
He wore a black brocade coat embroidered with two symmetrical three-headed red dragons, dominating all beneath. A black-red-silver cloak snapped in the wind, its red and Silver Dragons glinting like living flame—an elegant prince and a fearsome dragonrider.
Pity I no longer have Blackfyre, Rhaegar mused. He now understood Lord Tywin's obsession with lightbringer: the pain of possessing and then losing a peerless Valyrian steel blade—symbol of identity, war, and legend.
Neither dark sister nor Blackfyre remained; the Targaryen Family had not a single ancestral sword left. The shadow cleaver suited only the battlefield; wearing it at court felt awkward.
Rhaegar's dragons had grown huge—favoured, mighty beasts. Balerion and Balerion's span had reached twenty-four or twenty-five feet, and the Silver Emperor surpassed even them.
The Silver Dragon's scales shimmered like liquid silver, while its eyes, horns, and dorsal spines blazed gold.
With wings spread, it glittered as though forged from flowing silver flame.
The Black Dragon Balerion was sheathed in onyx scales, its eyes, horns, and spines molten red. The Purple Dragon bore violet eyes and scales; talons, crest, and belly-scales gleamed like burnished copper.
The Silver Emperor led Balerion and the Purple Dragon in wanton play, now climbing high, now skimming the sea's surface.
Spray danced, frightened fish leapt, and awe-struck sailors cheered as though applauding. Rhaegar felt brisk sea-mist on his face—man and dragon whirling in wild dance.
The Silver Dragon circled, a silver shadow beneath the fierce sun. Each wing-beat cracked like thunder in a clear sky.
It opened its jaws and spewed a torrent of incandescent silver fire—dense, enduring, burning until the last ember died.
Dragons can adapt to almost any clime, save the bitterest cold.
When King Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Queen Alysanne rode north, their dragons refused to pass the Wall, roaring at the savage chill beyond.
Rhaegar guided the proud Silver Emperor to land at the foot of Mount Dragon.
Construction was under way: a small camp at the mountain's base and many watch-posts.
Black-red banners bearing the Silver Dragon flew over the camp, symbolising both the Targaryen three-headed dragon and Rhaegar's personal Silver Demon Dragon.
With the return of the magical dragons, Dragonstone's stronghold was valued once more.
"Your Grace!" Larys Velaryon hurried forward; soldiers gazed in worship at the silver-haired prince whose youth belied his heroic deeds.
Seeing their boyish faces, Rhaegar had again ordered Larys to raise more troops, recruiting on Driftmark, Dragonstone, and Crab Isle—ancient early bases of the Targaryen Dynasty.
His ranks kept swelling; the Vale Lords had been the first, then Lords of the Crownlands and the sea-isles. He now fielded twelve hundred men.
"Make ready—we return to King's Landing," Rhaegar told Larys.
"At once, Your Grace!" Larys accepted gladly.
"I leave you a hundred guards. Keep order on Dragonstone and Mount Dragon; bar the idle. Your son's service in the Dragonpit Camp has been excellent; a fitting post will be found." He spoke to the Castellan of Dragonstone.
"I shall devote all that remains of my life to you and the Targaryen Family," the Castellan answered, trembling with joy.
For years he had languished forgotten among Valyrian grotesques and smoking peaks. Kings and grandees seldom recalled him; only fishmongers and dockhands had yielded him meagre graft. Now fate turned: dragons returned, and his worth rose anew—only Prince Rhaegar had seen his value amid the crowd.
Rhaegar had combed Mount Dragon many times; no dragon eggs remained. They had vanished—eaten by dragons, hatched, or lost in war. Those in the vaults beneath King's Landing might be the last the Targaryens controlled.
"Ser Larys, how many ships can your House still furnish?" Rhaegar asked.
"The Pride of Driftmark and three sister-ships; in dire need, a few more might be found," Ser Larys replied, embarrassed. Times had changed; House Velaryon could no longer dispatch a hundred vessels at will.
How swiftly the mighty fall, Rhaegar thought. Since the Old Sea Snake and the Oakfist, each generation had waned; only cursed Harrenhal Lords had declined as fast.
"Will there be sea-battles, Your Grace?" Larys inquired.
Rhaegar gave no direct answer, ordering only that the camp be struck.
"Lys stirs; the Stepstones may burn again. Guard yourself and your dragons. —Your faithful friend afar." Rhaegar crushed the note; flame from his fingers reduced it to ash.
In Volantis his friend Marajo of the Tiger Party had been elected Magistrate—another young, ambitious First Citizen.
Yet Rhaegar knew Marajo had reached his ceiling; little room for greater moves remained.
Volantis bore three heads, each pulling its own way, smug and quarrelling, forever paralysing the city; Marajo was but one among minorities. The game had lasted centuries—what could he change? Thus he would seek alliance with an outlier like Rhaegar.
The Stepstones—storm-scoured, birdless rocks—were a ceaseless grinder of blood and fire, a pirates' paradise and the powder-keg between two continents.
Tasteless yet hard to abandon, Rhaegar mused. The isles were harsh yet strategically vital. Past dynasties had sought to hold them, all failing; the region could not be kept.
Per Marajo, the Stepstones war would soon intensify; his return to King's Landing served that issue.
When all was stowed, the fleet set out. Rhaegar on dragonback led; troop-ships followed.
Black-dragon banners snapped in the wind as the Silver Dragon Prince guided the way.
Rhaegar circled King's Landing three times on the Silver Emperor before descending into the Red Keep.
For the first time in a century, a dragon landed in the Red Keep.
One by one the three dragons touched down, raising whirlwinds of dust.
The people hailed their master—Prince Rhaegar.