Chapter 136 – Lovers on a Dragon's Back
The Silver Demon Dragon beat its gorgeous wings across the sky; Rhaegar took off from the Dragonpit of King's Landing, two more dragons close behind.
The people of King's Landing lifted their heads, watching those beautiful silhouettes fade into the distance.
"Triumphant Prince!" "The victorious!" "Triumphant silver dragon!" The city adored the silver flash overhead. Prince Rhaegar had won the war, and the taxes from the Stepstones swelled the Iron Throne's coffers—some of it even bettered the lives of the poor. Feed the people and they will love you.
Rhaegar's route was set: King's Landing to Dragonstone, then Storm's End, and finally the Stepstones. His flight traced the Crownlands and the Stormlands.
The Crownlands, Stormlands, and Westerlands were among the smaller regions of the Seven Kingdoms, yet the Crownlands boasted mighty King's Landing and thriving trade towns, making it relatively rich. The Westerlands had gold, of course. Only the Stormlands, battered by Narrow Sea storms, were poorer in folk and coin—though they bred warriors as wild as the tempests.
The Iron Throne had lined up several boys of age to attend the prince: Myles Mooton of Maidenpool, Richard Lonmouth of the Stormlands, and of course Jon Connington. Familiar faces, staunchly loyal—Rhaegar thought well of all three. He ordered them to train at the Dragonpit camp until he had further use for them.
At Dragonstone he let the three dragons romp across the Dragonmont, then drew great heat from the volcanic vents. The beasts could no longer live in that cramped lair, yet when they slept they still loved its warmth, curling around the heart of flame as if back inside the volcano.
Leaving Dragonstone, Rhaegar flew south, skimming the sea and passing fleets until mighty Storm's End rose between water and sky. Its colossal drum tower stabbed upward like a hand propping the heavens; that single structure held granaries, barracks, feast halls, and noble apartments. Those pale-grey stones seemed eternal, unbothered by wind or age.
Storm's End—ancient stronghold of storm and stone—was besieged again and again, yet it stood all but unbreakable.
"A wonder indeed," Rhaegar murmured. Storm's End, the Eyrie, and Casterly Rock were the jewels of fortress-craft—perhaps with ruined Harrenhal added. King's Landing, without dragons, was fragile: no natural defenses, too many mouths, a single siege enough to spark riot and ruin.
Songs say Storm's End was raised by Durran Godsgrief, first Storm King, who defied the fury of the sea god and the wind goddess, standing proud after seven great storms. In low-magic Westeros such wonders seem beyond mortal hands; spells woven into the walls are said to bar sorcery from passing through.
The castle is famed for height and thickness: outer walls a hundred feet of seamless stone, curved and jointless, scornful of wind and rain. They taper from forty feet thick to eighty on the seaward face, twin shells of rock packed with gravel and grit.
Some claim the Children of the Forest helped build it, magic thrumming in the stones; others credit Brandon the Builder, yet every tale carries a hint of wonder.
"I must find traces of that magic," Rhaegar decided. Sorcery is rare but not myth; the Valyrian Dragonlords, for all their might, earned such hatred that without spellcraft they would have been toppled long ago.
He landed at Storm's End. The castle, like the Eyrie, was magnificent yet could shelter only so many mouths; its logistics would not bear a greater burden.
Beneath the crowned stag banner of House Baratheon, Ser Steffon Baratheon led the courtiers, stewards, and maesters of the Baratheon household to welcome the prince.
Rhaegar wore the lately fashionable Rhaegar-style shirt—black pure silk with a silver dragon sigil—and buckled the sword at his waist. The simple tunic had already caught on among sailors, soldiers, and craftsmen; cool and comfortable, it was fast becoming a favorite.
"Your Grace, you still must mind your dress. At court or in war, proper doublet or armor is required—for etiquette and for safety," Ser Steffon said.
"True, yet before kin and friends one may relax a little," Rhaegar answered with a smile.
Ser Steffon guided Rhaegar on a tour of Storm's End, himself recounting every custom of the castle. The prince would tarry several days more.
Rhaegar trained in the yard with Robert and Stannis, then strolled the shore with Roberta.
This green land of storms and rain-battered coasts breathed with lush, youthful life.
"Again!" On the yard of Storm's End Robert whirled his warhammer at Rhaegar. Strength came to him as naturally as breath; he had the makings of a top fighter, yet could rise no further. Only the raw fury in his blood let him shine in battle. Once a certain level is reached, only sorcery lifts men above the common.
With a light flick of his blunt blade Rhaegar sent Robert reeling. Proud of his own might, Robert met a wall and tasted real frustration.
Robert swung his hammer, practicing alone, still unwilling to concede—he loved the clash of steel.
"A little more practice and you'll be there," Rhaegar said, setting the training blade aside. Robert had clearly been bested.
"I may not win today, but I will beat you!" declared Robert Baratheon. He adored the art of arms.
"Then I shall wait eagerly," Rhaegar replied.
"You're a few years younger, little brother. One day you might," Roberta consoled.
"Let's fly!" Rhaegar called to Roberta.
"Up you come!" He took her hand; the girl showed no fear of dragons. The silver dragon bore them both, circling above Storm's End.
She carried a trace of dragon-blood; the beast did not spurn her.
"That silver whelp draws every eye—did you see the serving girls and noble ladies ready to devour him?" Robert asked Stannis from the battlements.
"Of course. He's heir to the Iron Throne, rides a dragon, and is skilled in war and song. Our sister likes him—why wouldn't she? She's the pride of the Stormlands herself," Stannis said.
"Still, Mother always said the handsomer the man, the likelier the cheat. He's young, yet I've heard gossip from Dornish to Tyroshi girls. If he's false, I'll break his legs." Robert hefted a small hammer.
"You chase pretty girls yourself—and lose interest quickly. Remember when our sister thrashed you for flirting with the maids?" Stannis muttered.
"I'm me; he's the prince. I speak for our sister's happiness." Robert glared.
"Stop dreaming, brother. You're no match for Prince Rhaegar, and our sister wields a blade herself—she'll hammer him if need be," Stannis reminded.
"Right—I forgot our sister's a fierce doe." Robert slapped his forehead.
The lovers soared on the silver dragon's back, Roberta holding Rhaegar close.
The dragon beat leathery wings, loosing an occasional gout of flame.
Because a novice rode, Rhaegar bade the dragon slow to a glide.
Above the sea they watched the sunset, wind and waves their only witnesses.
"One of the happiest days of my life!" Roberta cried.
"And mine!" Rhaegar laughed—no war, no schemes, only the girl he adored and her bright smile, her gentle gaze.
Hand in hand, they loved and were loved.
The silver dragon huffed in protest—why must his rider taste love's bittersweet fruit alone?
Send the next chapter when ready. Same rules will be followed.
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