The Silver Emperor hung in the sky above the God's Eye, a gleaming idol of war, looking down at the dense flotilla below.
Every deck bristled with cold, metallic malice. Scorpions, crossbows, double-curved Goldenheart bows, grappling hooks, and throwing spears—it was a museum of anti-dragon warfare. The soldiers gripping these weapons were tense, their eyes locked on the black banner with the red dragon that snapped in Rhaegar's hand.
They waited for the command.
Rhaegar knew that the Lysene pirates and Tyroshi sellswords in the Stepstones would likely be less organized than this. They were a motley collection of exiles and cutthroats, not a disciplined army. But he trained for the worst case. If his dragons could survive this concentrated hellfire, they could survive anything the Three Daughters threw at them.
The greatest threats were the scorpions and the Goldenheart bows. A scorpion bolt packed three times the punch of a heavy ballista. The Dornish had once felled a dragon with such a weapon. And the Goldenheart bows—fifty of which Rhaegar had personally equipped his men with—could kill a man at four hundred yards.
"Now!" Rhaegar signaled.
The air exploded with noise. The thrum of bowstrings, the clank of winches, and the whistling scream of bolts filled the morning.
But the most terrifying sound was the roar of the dragons and the hurricane force of their leathery wings as they dove.
War was a bloody drill; a drill was a bloodless war. But the danger here was real.
Rhaegar knew the history. In the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and his dragon Vermax had flown too low. A Myrish sailor had managed to snag a grappling hook between Vermax's scales. The hook dug deep, and the weight of the ship combined with the dragon's speed had torn a jagged wound in the beast's belly, dragging it into the sea where it drowned.
His dragons were faster, stronger, and smarter than Vermax. They had the [Shield Rune] and the [Blood of Fire] regeneration. But they were still young. They were still small enough to be vulnerable.
"Dive!" Rhaegar shouted, his voice lost in the wind but heard clearly through the [Mind Curse].
The Silver Emperor folded his wings and dropped like a stone. A net of arrows rose to meet him.
Left. Roll. Shield.
The dragon spun, the world turning into a blur of green water and blue sky. He leveled out just above the wavetops, his belly skimming the surface. The water boiled in his wake.
Grappling hooks flew from the barges, seeking purchase on his wings.
"Dracarys!"
A torrent of silver fire incinerated the ropes in mid-air. The hooks splashed harmlessly into the lake.
"The Prince is down!" a soldier shouted from a barge, seeing the dragon disappear behind a wall of spray.
"He's up! He's up!" another cried as the Silver Emperor rocketed back into the sky, water streaming from his flanks like diamonds.
Cheers erupted from the fleet. The men were exhausted, their arms burning from drawing bows, but they roared their approval. They loved this. They loved seeing their Prince dance with death and win.
Rhaegar was drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming. This was how his ancestor, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, had become a warrior—by facing the best blades of the Kingsguard until his body was bruised and battered. To be a natural warrior was a myth; steel was forged in fire.
Day after day, the training continued. The dragons learned to weave through arrow storms. They learned to prioritize the scorpion crews. They learned that low altitude meant speed was life.
By the end of the week, the Silver Emperor could navigate a barrage of bolts without a single scratch. He was a silver phantom, too fast to track, too deadly to ignore.
During a pause in the training, Ser Corlys Velaryon approached Rhaegar on the shore. He held a letter sealed with green wax.
"A raven from the south, Your Highness."
Rhaegar took the parchment. The seal was a golden rose. House Tyrell.
"A letter?" Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "Not from King's Landing? Not from Dragonstone?"
He broke the seal.
To His Royal Highness, the Prince of Dragonstone,
The handwriting was flowery, almost painfully so. It was from Mace Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden.
Rhaegar pictured the man: a puffy, eager youth in green velvet, with curly hair and a smile that was wider than his wit. Mace was known as an "oaf" in court circles, a man desperate for martial glory but possessing none of the talent required to earn it.
The first half of the letter was a sycophantic ode to Rhaegar's beauty, bravery, and skill. It called him the "Warrior Reborn" and the "Sun of the Realm."
Then came the pitch.
"I, Mace Tyrell, have trained since birth in the knightly arts. The clamor of war calls to me. It would be my highest honor to ride beside you, my Prince. Even if my skull is crushed and my bones turned to dust, I would gladly give my life for your glory. If you command it, I shall bring the chivalry of the Reach and the Redwyne Fleet to aid you in the Stepstones."
Rhaegar blinked. He read it again.
Mace Tyrell wanted to tag along.
The strategy was transparent. The Reach was the richest and most populous region in Westeros. House Tyrell had armies, but they lacked respect. Mace, in particular, was seen as a joke by the ancient martial houses. He had never won a tourney, never fought a battle.
But if he stood next to Rhaegar Targaryen...
If Mace could claim, "I was there when the Silver Prince burned the Pirate King," then some of that glory would rub off on him. He didn't need to be competent; he just needed to be present. And in exchange, he was offering the might of the Reach—specifically, the Redwyne Fleet, the largest navy in the realm.
It was a transaction. Glory for ships.
Rhaegar considered it. Mace was a "pufferfish"—all air and spikes, but harmless. He was simple-minded, which made him easy to manipulate. And having the Redwyne Fleet on his side would be a massive advantage against the Lysene naval power.
A foolish ally with a big sword is better than a wise enemy with a small one, Rhaegar thought.
Besides, this likely wasn't Mace's idea. His mother, Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns, was probably guiding his hand. She knew that binding House Tyrell to the rising star of the Crown Prince was a smart political move.
Rhaegar sat on a driftwood log and called for a quill.
He wrote a warm, gracious reply. He praised Mace's "legendary" spirit and thanked House Tyrell for their loyalty. He did not reveal his specific plans for the Stepstones, nor did he promise Mace a command. But he left the door wide open.
"When the dragons fly south, Lord Mace, I shall look for the Golden Rose beside me."
He sealed the letter and handed it to Ser Corlys.
"Send this to Highgarden. And tell the men to rest. Tomorrow, we train with fire."