Rhaegar exchanged a glance with the Sealord's son; decades later, this young man would ascend the throne of Braavos.
Everywhere Rhaegar looked, he saw giants of the coming era.
Clouds raced by, and heroes emerged on the crest of every wave.
"Can I see your little dragons? I especially like the purple one," Roberta Baratheon said with a smile. Though she was still a child, she was already hailed as a peerless beauty.
Roberta Baratheon possessed the tall, slender frame and thick black hair characteristic of her House. She inherited a pair of deep azure eyes, like the summer sea, from her mother; her skin was fair and smooth as fresh snow. Her every smile and gesture made her seem far above ordinary mortals.
No one could resist such a sweet girl—her smile blended playfulness, courage, joy, and vitality, as if it could melt ice and make every rose bloom.
"Of course, but they are still too small to carry people," Rhaegar replied with a smile.
Robert rolled his eyes. "Sister, those things fly and breathe fire. Provoke them, and that pretty face of yours will be gone."
Roberta glared at him; Robert immediately shut his mouth. He pitied the Prince: his sister was a fierce doe, a beautiful demon—she had fooled everyone.
Many hoped the Prince would participate in the joust, but Rhaegar was weary of tourneys; his victories would be won on the battlefield.
The knights of the realm rode out, many of them dazzling, and Rhaegar knew every one of them.
Ser Barristan Selmy, dressed in immaculate white cloak and plate armor, looked heroic and dashing, a bright star among the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms.
With him were Lord Tywin's brothers, Tygett and Gerion—two young, handsome youths of House Lannister wearing lion helms, their shields painted with roaring lions. Their appearance drew thunderous applause; lions were known for their beauty and prolific nature.
Bronze Yohn Royce, heir to Runestone in the Vale, was also a favorite; he had silver-plated his bronze armor and engraved runes upon it, amusing the crowd.
Also from the Vale was young Lyn Corbray, too young to wield his family sword, Lady Forlorn, though every man knew the heroic tales of his House.
Rhaegar spotted another warrior—Jason Mallister, the young Lord of Seagard in the Riverlands. Tall and lean, he looked like a drawn blade. With ink-black hair and eyes as gloomy as a storm, he seemed born for war. It seemed even the vassals of House Tully could produce heroes.
To Rhaegar, many others were just there to fill the list—like the Freys, who bred like rabbits. They were numerous but plain-looking, not one bearing the mark of a warrior.
The tournament lasted all day until dusk. Horses' hooves ceaselessly pounded the hard earth; even the massive Dragonpit seemed overcrowded.
Knights clashed, lances exploded, the crowd screamed—danger was right before their eyes. Warhorses fell, arrows strayed—bloody, wild, exhilarating. The populace shouted for their heroes, their blood boiling in the long-lost peace.
The highlight of the day was a young victor throwing his trophies—plumes from his helm, small trinkets—into the stands, triggering a frantic scramble.
As Rhaegar watched, he suddenly heard laughter beside him.
An envoy from Tyrosh handed a letter to a Red Keep steward, who presented it to King Jaehaerys. The King smiled, had the gift inspected, and then presented it to Prince Rhaegar: a rose crafted from red gold and rubies.
Rhaegar caught a glimpse of the green-haired Tyroshi girl, cheeks flushed, still smiling at him; he understood immediately.
"This rose is for you; you are as beautiful as it is," he said, handing the golden rose to Roberta. The maidens of Tyrosh were bold, but a marriage across the Narrow Sea was almost impossible.
The girl with doe-like eyes looked at her parents' encouraging smiles, confidently took the rose, beamed, and gently kissed Rhaegar on the cheek.
"Our Prince is well-loved; we shall find him a bride soon enough," King Jaehaerys said. Applause rang out, and the "Tyroshi Rose" shone in the King's mind. Most Targaryen princes were radiant, but Rhaegar seemed even more dazzling.
Every noble scion pricked up their ears. If this were a rigged game, the Baratheon girl would surely win easily; the maidens of Dorne also had dragon blood, but they were frail, and childbirth was a huge risk—why else would the Princess of Dorne leave her daughter (Elia) alone at home? (Note: This implies Elia is absent or neglected due to health). However, if the realm held a great fair like the Maiden's Day Cattle Show, perhaps every family could get a slice of the pie.
Such a ball would be grander than the Cattle Show, for the unlikely-to-be-King Aegon (III) lacked Rhaegar's beauty, cheerfulness, and talent, not to mention the last dragons in the world.
At Aegon's Cattle Show, the Archon of Lys, the Archon of Tyrosh, the Prince of Pentos, and ancient Valyrian and Meereenese nobles all sent representatives. The scene for finding Rhaegar a bride would be even grander.
Though Tyrosh was wealthy, its foundations were always unstable.
Elections in Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis were rife with bribery, hatred, and conspiracy—not unlike Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms practiced hereditary rule, while the Free Cities practiced election; by comparison, power in the latter was more fragile.
Only Braavos combined the advantages of both: her Sealord was elected but served for life—rock solid.
Rhaegar glanced again at the Archon's daughter; the girl met his gaze, composed and graceful. Her brother, however, turned beet red, looking as if he might explode.
He turned away, attention returning to the lists as Ser Barristan effortlessly unhorsed an enemy.
Just then, an uninvited guest interrupted their conversation: the Sealord's son, young Fergo, challenged Rhaegar to a duel.
The Son of the Sealord against the Grandson of the Dragon King.
"What do you want us to compete in?" Rhaegar asked, wondering if the young man wanted him to fight a bodyguard.
Fergo was tall and handsome, fair-faced with piercing eyes.
"That boy was burned to death," Rhaegar thought (referring to Quentyn Martell in canon? Or a private thought about dragons?). Note: The raw says "That boy was burned to death" (那男孩被烧死了). This seems like a random intrusive thought or a reference to someone Fergo reminds him of. Given the context of "Dragon vs Sealord", maybe he's thinking of Quentyn's fate? Or maybe it's a mistranslation of "That boy is burning up" (with anger/passion)? Let's assume it's Rhaegar's internal monologue about Fergo's potential fate if he plays with fire/dragons. Or maybe a reference to a past event. I will keep it as a cryptic thought).
"Your rear guard is too old and experienced; it would be unfair to duel them. Why don't we spar ourselves?" Fergo said.
In powerful Braavos, heirs of great families lacked neither masters nor food; they could even train with the First Sword.
"With pleasure," Rhaegar replied; he also wanted to test the Sealord's son.
"Since we play for sport, let's make a bet," Fergo said. Braavosi were shrewd merchants, excellent navigators, and astute calculators.
"And what is your proposed investment?"
"Perhaps a dragon?" Fergo said half-jokingly, a glint of seriousness in his eyes. His father's menagerie held many rare treasures, but nothing compared to a living dragon.
"You're joking, my friend. Dragons are friends and kin, not betting chips. I doubt your father would bet his First Sword either. If the bet is a dragon, you have no chip to match it," Rhaegar said, shaking his head.
Fergo smiled and had his guard bring out a heavy miniature: a purple-hulled Braavosi warship made of gold, gems, and pearls—priceless.
"Then let this be my penalty. We duel with swords," he announced, placing the glittering ship between them.
Fire met fire: Sealord and Dragonlord, Ocean and Flame.