The Silver Emperor carved a wide arc through the sky, his scales flashing like a mirror against the sun. Behind him, Balerion and Belaerys followed in formation, three shadows racing across the green waters of the God's Eye.
The lake air was crisp and clean, a welcome reprieve from the reek of King's Landing. Rhaegar breathed deeply, his mind sharpening with every beat of the dragon's wings. From up here, the world felt simple. Kill or be killed. Fly or fall.
Below, the fleet of barges sat heavy in the water. The crews were manning the scorpions, cranking the heavy winches with a sound that carried over the waves like grinding bones.
Crowds had gathered on the shores near Harrenhal. Smallfolk and nobles alike stood with craned necks, eager to witness the spectacle of a dragon prince challenging his own army. Lord Walter Whent had ensured the turnout was massive; he would not let such a display of Targaryen power go unwitnessed on his doorstep.
Securing so many scorpions was no small feat. The anti-dragon weapons were expensive and complex engineering marvels. But House Whent's coffers were deep, and they had spared no expense to simulate a true battlefield for the Prince.
Rhaegar knew the cost of failure. The Stepstones were a graveyard of ambition. The Lysene pirates were not honorable knights who would meet him in open combat; they were cunning sailors who used poison, crossbows, and overwhelming numbers. They would not hesitate to aim for the rider.
A dragon is tough, Rhaegar thought, gripping the reins as he signaled the dive. But a rider is soft flesh and bone. One lucky bolt, one drop of poison, and the dragon becomes a masterless beast.
He remembered the history. Meraxes, the great dragon of Queen Rhaenys, had fallen in Dorne to a scorpion bolt through the eye. It was a one-in-a-million shot, but it had happened. Without the ancient binding spells of Old Valyria, a dragon whose rider fell became unpredictable, often fleeing the field or rampaging indiscriminately.
"Ready!" Rhaegar's voice boomed, amplified by the wind.
On the lead barge, the signal flag dropped.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The black muzzles of the scorpions bucked as they released their payload. A volley of heavy bolts screamed into the sky.
These bolts were blunted—their steel heads replaced with weighted bags of sand or bundles of straw—but the kinetic force remained. A direct hit could still break a wing bone or shatter a rider's ribs.
"Evasive maneuvers!" Rhaegar commanded through the bond.
The Silver Emperor did not need words. He felt Rhaegar's intent before the thought was fully formed. The dragon tucked his left wing and rolled, dropping fifty feet in a heartbeat. The volley of bolts whistled harmlessly through the space where he had been a second ago.
Balerion and Belaerys, though not bonded as deeply, followed the alpha's lead, scattering like leaves in a gale.
Ser Corlys Velaryon, standing beside Ser Barristan on the command ship, watched with wide eyes. "He flies so low... it's madness. If he crashes..."
"He won't crash," Barristan said, though his knuckles were white as he gripped the rail. "Look at the fishermen."
Dozens of small fishing boats formed a perimeter, ready with nets to rescue the Prince if he fell. It was a safety net, but a flimsy one against the weight of a falling dragon.
"Again!" Rhaegar shouted, banking the Silver Emperor around for another pass.
The scorpions reloaded. This time, the Goldenheart archers joined in. Fifty arrows, fired from bows with the range of a siege engine, filled the air like a swarm of angry hornets.
The sky became a deadly obstacle course.
The Silver Emperor twisted and turned, his movements fluid and impossible for a creature of his size. He was not just a beast; he was a dancer. The [Mind Curse] allowed Rhaegar to share his heightened perception. Rhaegar could see the trajectory of the bolts before they arrived, his mind processing the threats with draconic speed.
A bolt from a scorpion on the flank came dangerously close. It was aimed perfectly at the Silver Emperor's soft underbelly.
Shield!
The rune etched into the dragon's scales flared with a bronze light. A translucent barrier shimmered into existence for a split second. The bolt struck the magical shield and deflected, spinning harmlessly away.
"Dracarys!"
The Silver Emperor roared, unleashing a burst of silver fire that vaporized a cloud of incoming arrows. The heat was intense, singing the air, but the dragon pushed through the smoke, untouched.
Balerion and Belaerys were learning, too. They stayed higher, using the sun to blind the gunners, diving only when an opening presented itself. They spat purple and black fire, melting the bolts in mid-air.
It was a chaotic, beautiful dance of survival.
Rhaegar pushed them harder. "Faster! Higher!"
The dragons responded, their muscles straining, their roars shaking the water. They were adapting. They were learning that the loud clack of a scorpion meant death was coming. They were learning to protect their bellies and their eyes.
After an hour, the crews on the barges were exhausted. Their arms burned from cranking the winches, and their eyes watered from staring into the sun. But the dragons were still flying.
Rhaegar signaled the end of the exercise. He guided the Silver Emperor into a gentle glide, landing on the shore to the thunderous applause of the distant crowd.
He dismounted, his legs trembling slightly from the adrenaline. He watched the dragons land, their chests heaving, steam rising from their scales. They were tired, but they were unhurt.
Later, in his solar, Rhaegar burned a letter from Malaho Maegyr. The news from the Stepstones was grim. The Pirate King was consolidating power, and the Lysene factions were supplying him with more gold and weapons.
Let them come, Rhaegar thought, watching the parchment turn to ash.
His dragons were not the clumsy beasts of the Dance of the Dragons. They were enhanced. They possessed the [Shield Rune] for defense, the [Hammer Rune] for force, and the [Mind Curse] for perfect synchronization. They healed faster, flew faster, and burned hotter than any dragon in living memory.
The Lysene pirates would expect three young dragons. They would expect easy targets.
Rhaegar smiled, a cold, dangerous expression.
They are going to be very surprised.
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