The Silver Emperor drifted through the sky above the Riverlands like an unmoored ship, his scales flashing in the sunlight. Behind him, Balerion and Belaerys cut through the clouds, shadows of black and purple dancing on the green fields below.
For the first time in a century, dragons ruled these skies.
Rhaegar looked down at the sprawling landscape. The Riverlands were a tapestry of plains, forests, and rolling hills, stitched together by the shimmering threads of the three great forks of the Trident.
To the west, the Red Fork tumbled down from the Westerlands, carrying the silt that gave it its name past Riverrun. To the north, the Blue Fork flowed clear and cold from the bogs of Seagard. And to the east, the Green Fork wound its way from the Neck, passing the Twins, where House Frey grew fat on their toll bridge.
It is a broken land, Rhaegar mused. Without natural borders, it is a battlefield waiting to happen.
The Riverlands were most defensible when they were united under Harren the Black, stretching from the Iron Islands to the Blackwater. But since the Conquest, the region had been carved up, leaving it vulnerable on all sides.
Still, Rhaegar would remember the kindness of these people. The sturdy warriors, the peaceful fishermen of the God's Eye, the pious smallfolk—they had welcomed him not as a conqueror, but as a protector.
He had recruited six hundred men during his stay. Second sons, bastards, and the children of wealthy yeomen—all eager to serve the Dragon Prince. But his greatest harvest was not soldiers.
It was the Runes.
The [Tree Rune] pulsed with vitality in his inventory, a promise of eternal youth. The [Fire Sight] ruby burned with the potential to see across continents. These were treasures worth more than gold.
As the dragons banked south toward the Crownlands, Rhaegar checked his status.
[Status: Rhaegar Targaryen]
[Identity: The Last Dragonlord, Blood of Fire (Supreme)]
[Runes: Shield (Defense), Sword (Attack), Hammer (Force), Tree (Vitality/Regeneration)]
[Abilities: Fire Sight (Scrying), Mind Curse (Dragon Bond), Blue Flame (Healing/Purification)]
[Achievements: Fate Changer, Rune Master, Dragon Father, Explorer.]
He was no longer just a warrior. He was a sorcerer-king in the making.
The military situation in the Stepstones was dire. The Lysene exiles and their pirate allies had fortified Bloodstone and the surrounding islands. They had blocked the straits with sunken hulks and timber booms, demanding exorbitant tolls from passing ships—gold, or flesh. King Jaehaerys had dispatched the Royal Fleet under Prince Aerys and Lord Tywin, but without air support, it would be a grinder.
But they don't know about the Runes, Rhaegar thought, smiling grimly. They don't know that my dragons heal faster than they can hurt them.
He flew past Harrenhal, past the God's Eye, and crossed into the Crownlands. Instead of returning directly to King's Landing, he guided the dragons toward Maidenpool.
The town of Maidenpool, seat of House Mooton, sat on the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs. It was a tranquil place, famous for Jonquil's Pool, where legend said Florian the Fool had first seen his lover bathing.
Rhaegar landed outside the town walls, where Lord William Mooton had prepared a secure compound for the dragons. The Mootons were loyal friends; Lord William's brother, Myles, was one of Rhaegar's closest companions.
Inside the town, at the Jonquil's Rest inn, a delegation was waiting.
Mace Tyrell stood up as Rhaegar entered the private solar. The Lord of Highgarden was a large man, though still soft with youth. He wore a doublet of green velvet embroidered with golden roses, and his brown hair was curled to perfection.
"Your Highness!" Mace boomed, bowing low. "It is the honor of my life to stand before you. House Tyrell pledges its sword and its shield to your cause!"
"I am grateful for your friendship, Lord Mace," Rhaegar said, taking the man's hand. "And for the friendship of the Reach."
Mace beamed. He was exactly as Rhaegar expected: eager, pompous, and desperate for validation. He was known as the "Lord Oaf" behind his back, but Rhaegar saw only a useful tool. Mace controlled the largest army in Westeros and, more importantly, the Redwyne Fleet.
"With your command, my Prince," Mace declared, puffing out his chest, "I shall lead the Redwyne Fleet down the coast. We will sweep the Stepstones clean! A pincer movement! The pirates won't stand a chance against the flower of Highgarden chivalry!"
"Precisely," Rhaegar agreed smoothly. "With your fleet blocking the sea and my dragons controlling the sky, it will be a glorious victory. The bards will sing of it for a hundred years."
Mace's eyes glazed over as he imagined the songs. He saw himself on a white charger, riding through Oldtown while maidens threw petals in his path.
"However," Mace added, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his face. "There is one issue, my Prince. To reach the Stepstones, we must sail past Dorne. The currents are treacherous, and the Dornish... well, they are not known for their love of the Reach."
It was a valid point. The Reach and Dorne had been enemies for a thousand years. Sailing a Reachman fleet through Dornish waters was inviting trouble.
"Leave Dorne to me," Rhaegar said quietly.
Just then, the door to the solar opened.
A man stepped in. He wore robes of sun-yellow silk, and his skin was the color of olive oil. He had the sharp, dangerous look of a viper.
Mace Tyrell stiffened, his hand going to his sword hilt. "A Dornishman?"
"Peace, Lord Mace," Rhaegar said, raising a hand. "In war, we must make friends in strange places."
The Dornish messenger bowed, a dark smile playing on his lips.
"Prince Rhaegar," the man said, his voice like dry sand. "The Princess of Dorne sends her regards. And her answer."