Chapter 132 – New Nickname: Triumphant Silver Dragon
Rhaegar tucked the two books Prince Oberyn Martell had given him under his arm and mused, "Whether I'm being wise or not, I've already taken up arms and stand among the people." To find the lost Targaryen heirlooms and restore the glory of the Dragon Kings.
"Relax, brother. Areo Hotah is no match for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen; it's only a question of how fast he loses. Haven't you noticed? The Silver Dragon always holds something back—he's toying with us!" Oberyn quipped. He had crossed blades with Rhaegar and had faith in him.
In terms of raw talent, the young champions of Dorne were Oberyn Martell, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Areo Hotah of Norvos; the older generation was led by Prince Lewyn Martell and Arthur's father. Hotah, however, was a bodyguard-attendant, not as flamboyant as the combative Oberyn, yet his brute strength inspired awe. Oberyn wanted to see the prince's full power.
Since both Rhaegar and Oberyn insisted, Prince Doran Martell agreed. Oberyn looked fierce and sharp-tongued, but he was also brilliant; most people were fooled by the sight of him waving blades about. He thought deeply, studied many disciplines, was well-read, and used poison—an oddity even among top fighters.
Rhaegar watched the two brothers with interest: one was grass, the other a viper.
Oberyn was dangerous, unpredictable, no one dared step on him—like a viper; Doran was the grass that bends with the wind, gentle, fragrant, and agreeable. The grass concealed the viper's tracks and helped him strike, yet the viper also protected the grass—they shielded each other, complementary and inseparable.
But without question, the three Martell siblings were close. Otherwise Doran's right of inheritance would face challenges; in looks, talent, and personal charm the Red Viper outshone him and enjoyed greater popularity.
Doran had also married a foreign wife, so few local lords rallied to him. Yet few had ever heard of the Red Viper overstepping; the brothers remained intimate.
Rhaegar admired this in the Red Viper—his love of family, his charisma, his vitality. The Red Viper had not yet been consumed by the fire of revenge; these were his unfettered golden years.
Doran was cautious—too cautious; his main problem was a small stake and no room to maneuver. He treated others as pieces, forgetting that every piece had its own will and could not all be as patient and rational as he; that was the root of many of Doran's tragedies.
"Brother, do you know old Lord Yronwood intends to give me a very costly gift?" Oberyn suddenly whispered.
"A gift?" Doran was taken aback, unsure why his brother brought it up.
"Yes, and it concerns you. His gift is valuable, and I shall repay the lord."
Oberyn wasn't worried about Rhaegar overhearing; the prince was no blabbermouth like Aerys Targaryen. Oberyn felt a certain kinship with Rhaegar.
Besides, Rhaegar was of the main red-dragon Targaryen line, while the Lord of House Yronwood, Warden of the Stone Way, had repeatedly backed the bastard Blackfyre pretenders. The Iron Throne had been lenient in not wiping House Yronwood out, and Rhaegar would enjoy seeing the old house wail.
Rhaegar eyed old Lord Yronwood laughing in the distance; the old fox must be hatching some scheme, most likely urging the Red Viper to move and seize the inheritance. House Yronwood was one of Dorne's sources of trouble.
In another world they had egged on Doran's son as well.
How Oberyn would deal with the old man, though, was none of Rhaegar's concern—perhaps a poisoned end.
Rhaegar glanced at Areo Hotah opposite him: ever silent, ever loyal, paying no heed to their talk. He sharpened his great axe every day, as the Bearded Priests of Norvos had taught him—each day, without fail.
"Then it's settled! Tomorrow Areo Hotah and Prince Rhaegar will cross blades," Prince Doran Martell agreed.
The next day the Dornish training yard was packed; lords and knights jostled for a view.
In the front row sat the notables of the Seven Kingdoms: Aerys Targaryen, Prince Doran Martell, Mellario of Norvos, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Steffon Baratheon, and Lord Mace Tyrell.
Lord Mace was excited; chivalric culture was most popular in the Reach, even if he himself was a bit of a let-down. The most famous knight of House Tyrell was still an ancestor, Leo "Longthorn" Tyrell.
Closest to the field stood Prince Oberyn Martell and Ser Arthur Dayne. A splendid match, splendid blades—they wouldn't miss it, and they wanted to see whether the prince had truly reached that summit realm.
Areo Hotah had honed his great axe and then wrapped it thickly in felt; after all, this was only a contest, and against so exalted an opponent it would stop at first touch.
Rhaegar too chose a blunted blade—thick, broad, and heavy.
He and Hotah saluted each other.
Areo Hotah walked toward Rhaegar into the sunlight, long-hafted axe in hand, its head completely swaddled like a warhammer.
A gleam flashed in Oberyn's eyes.
In build and strength Hotah's broad shoulders gave him the edge.
Yet what startled Oberyn was the heavy longsword Rhaegar wielded—its weight would drain stamina in minutes. He had thought Rhaegar favored speed and agility, but now it seemed the prince possessed tremendous strength as well; it defied reason.
Hotah gripped his axe in both hands, delivering a mighty, weighty chop—his signature move.
Among the onlookers were plenty of knights and men-at-arms, all of them knowing good steel when they saw it.
The Norvosi guard struck with savage, sun-bright force; clearly a top-tier fighter. House Martell truly hides dragons among tigers.
Rhaegar swept his longsword up to meet him.
Brute strength collided, the air booming with the impact.
An inch longer is an inch stronger—the longaxe's reach should trump any blade, leaving a sword at a disadvantage.
Yet Rhaegar met it all with airy calm, and every watcher gasped.
Blow for blow, Hotah's face grew grimmer. His longaxe had always shattered whatever stood before it, but the silver-haired prince was proving a thorny foe.
He had known Rhaegar was capable—yet this was leagues past capable, far beyond mortal limits.
The Bearded Priests of Norvos train their axe-slaves in deadly fashion, and those axes seem almost enchanted; every youth branded with the axe-mark at sixteen becomes a powerhouse.
Hotah was no braggart, yet he must ever hone his blade to shield prince and princess—that is the honest creed of the axe-slaves of Norvos.
Hotah's iron-axe strikes carried mountain-crushing force, each blow the fruit of relentless years and the cruel regimen of Norvos.
The axe is his wife, his everything.
Rhaegar still moved as if strolling a garden.
He is the king of flame, forged in fire, destined to be the mightiest dragonlord. Sparks and runes still dance in his blood.
His blade answers only to his will: advance or retreat, appearing by impossible angles, vanishing into mystery.
Flow like water, strike where the mind reaches—only thus is swordplay truly mastered.
Sweat beaded on Hotah's brow; the mighty axe drained his stamina, his arms already aching.
Such strength cannot last.
The prince seemed more than human—power, speed, vigilance, ever-changing forms—till Hotah could barely ward him off.
A cat toying with a mouse, yet the mouse could not bear the helplessness.
"This axe ends it!" Hotah roared, the longaxe falling like a ravening beast.
Everyone flinched, remembering the Trial of Seven at Ashford, where Prince Maekar Targaryen's warhammer accidentally slew his brother Prince Baelor Breakspear.
But Prince Rhaegar only smiled as he sent his sword flashing out.
Oberyn, Ser Arthur Dayne—even Princess Elia Martell—held their breath at the volcanic eruption of steel.
The two passed each other; axe met greatsword in a screeching clang that shredded the felt wrapping the haft.
Blood dripped from Hotah's nose as he stumbled back.
Rhaegar spun, spent the last of the sword's momentum, then whirled again so the point kissed Hotah's throat.
"You are a living flame!" Hotah gasped, axe-head thudding to the floor.
Never had he lost so crushingly—like facing the scorching Dornish desert, impossible to cross.
"I am flame, but you are a keen axe!" Rhaegar clasped his hand.
In sheer strength Hotah stood among the best—yet Rhaegar bore living fire, an awakened true dragon.
Top-tier—yet tiers still divide.
Rhaegar's natural gifts were first-rate, yet in the old timeline he never reached the summit.
For one, passion: he never loved steel the way Robert Baratheon or Jaime Lannister did. What he truly loved were harp and book.
Secondly, time and intensity of training: he began late, trained less fiercely, and never reveled in the bloody melees Robert adored.
Tourney lances are not war.
"Prince Triumphant!"
"Triumphant Silver Dragon!"
Applause thundered, the Dornish shouting praise.
Triumphant Silver Dragon—the title had a pleasant ring, Rhaegar mused.
Hand in hand with Hotah he saluted the crowd, a smile warm enough to melt snow and set maidens' hearts fluttering.
Oberyn and Ser Arthur Dayne paled.
Could there truly be a peak no man can scale?
The thick-haired, broad-backed Hotah had been a foe worthy of respect; the Bearded Priests of Norvos who forged him likely held many secrets.
Rhaegar's duel with Hotah reminded him of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides.
Seven feet tall and built of raw endurance, the Mountain is a nightmare in close quarters—yet only that: flesh.
A true dragon has fused with flame.
(Alias gained: Triumphant Silver Dragon — people hail you as the ever-victorious Silver Dragon.)
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