King's Landing, Rhaenys Hill, the Dragonpit.
A century later, the black-dragon-on-red-field banner fluttered high; the Dragonpit's bronze gates stood open once more.
Rhaegar had no intention of keeping dragons here. The pit would be rebuilt into a vast barracks, echoing the Red Keep and expanding the Eagle Guards as a mobile, elite force.
A natural warrior and the iron throne's second heir, Rhaegar's counsel was heeded by King Jaehaerys II.
Rhaegar knew too well that clouds were gathering over Westeros; the king's upholding of some of his predecessor's edicts had enraged certain Lords. They protested, they roared, and Rhaegar feared the worst—another noble revolt.
Westerosi Lords, when they threaten to draw steel, usually mean it.
No one wished to see a repeat of the tragedy at Peake's castle, where King Maekar I had been crushed by a stone hurled from the walls. Mobilising for war had become a necessity.
Now Lord Tywin's new policies were stirring fresh waves, and many Lords were restless. Violent suppression was a poor option—yet one that had to be considered. More swords meant more strength.
Rhaegar asked the king for the Dragonpit as a barracks; after brief reflection Jaehaerys readily agreed.
The Dragonpit had long lain derelict, and Rhaegar's guards were all young—keeping them all in the Red Keep felt unwise. The pit's vast open vaults, sitting idle, might as well house an army; the only worry was coin.
Lord Tywin offered help: the foundations were sound, and he could supply some funds for repairs. Rhaegar himself still had coin—booty from the Battle of the Valley Road set aside for wages.
Rhaegar's father, Crown Prince Aerys, used the powers of master of ships to provide stone.
With such backing, Rhaegar's Dragonpit renovation would soon yield results.
The iron throne needed this fresh force. Prince Rhaegar had already shown martial talent; the Eagle Guards were well-drilled, most drawn from knightly houses.
High on Rhaenys Hill, the Dragonpit was now only a soot-blackened ruin.
Rhaegar surveyed the desolation—utterly punk.
Though ruined, one could still sense its former grandeur: dozens of doors, a warren of inner chambers designed to chain and whip dragons.
Golden Weddings had been held here; once it had held fifty thousand souls. Many dragons had dwelt within, lording over the surrounding lands.
Walking the rubble, Rhaegar reflected: one of King's Landing's three marvels, obliterated during the Dance of the Dragons by shepherds and rioters, had become a symbol of Targaryen decline.
Ask who slew the dragons and Rhaegar would vote for the people of King's Landing—fickle, quick to rage, turned demons by hunger, war, and want. In the Storming of the Dragonpit the mob had butchered five dragons—an illustrious tally.
Yet King's Landing was the foundation. Bread to feed them, he thought, and spears and whips to keep them afraid.
Rhaegar entered the vast ruin first; his soldiers followed their prince.
He gazed at the colossal dome, caved in by dragon strikes, open to the sky.
The blackening came from Dragonflame and, during the great plague, from Bloodraven turning the pit into a wildfire crematory.
"Your Grace, the interior is cleared," the Gold Cloaks' commander said respectfully. "We posted notices and warnings for a week; the whores and their clients who traded inside have been driven out."
"Good." Rhaegar studied the derelict halls—so much space; he'd heard even low-end brothels had plied their flesh here. Too long abandoned.
"Tear down the tottering upper stonework—I don't want men crushed in their beds. Hire master masons. My quartermaster is Ser Jeyne Arryn; take any issues to him."
Ser Jeyne Arryn stood at Rhaegar's side and nodded to the Gold Cloaks' commander.
The commander acknowledged, noting the prince's orders.
Rhaegar studied the City Watch chief—a fighter, but no champion. The Gold Cloaks' fighting prowess was laughable; that they policed a city of four hundred thousand felt miraculous.
"To work, comrades!" Rhaegar called. He'd already hired civilians and set the Gold Cloaks to clearing; now, for finer work, he and the Eagle Guards would labour themselves.
"Mind the ground—some floors have rotted. Watch your heads; we'll shore these dangerous vaults at once." Rhaegar and his men swept rubble, carted debris, and readied the bronze gates and side doors for repair.
Even a ruin could be mended swiftly. Ser Brynden Tully, Cesar, and Rhaegar split their men and tackled separate sectors.
Ser Corlys watched the prince labour alongside his soldiers—caring, trusted. Targaryens had charm, but Rhaegar showed it early.
For now the men camped beneath the dome; the deeper warrens were still being cleared, each man setting his own tent first.
"Careful!" Near the central dome a soldier stepped on a rotted plank; it gave way, plunging him toward a cellar.
Rhaegar snatched him back in time; the man wept gratitude. Those who cherish their troops earn lives laid down for them.
Rhaegar's heart leapt—within the cellar he glimpsed a sliver of black light.
He descended and found several corpses. The gleam came from beneath one; nearby lay rusted swords and a morning-star.
Carefully he sought the source until the outline of a blade stood clear.
A valyrian steel sword? Rhaegar's heart pounded.
He studied the blade—dark, almost black, its hilt etched with the familiar runes of House Royce. Perhaps Dragonflame had further blackened it.
lament, the sword of House Royce. Ser Willem had borne it for the Blacks and died in the Dragonpit; afterwards the blade vanished. Some claimed Ser Warrik took it and hacked a dragon's wing, but none had seen lament since.
Rhaegar handled the weapon with reverence. A valyrian steel sword, peerless in edge. Perhaps these corpses had slaughtered one another for it; in the sack of the pit folk had seized whatever they could.
(Explorer: You scour the derelict Dragonpit—congratulations! You have found a valyrian steel sword. Search carefully; further discoveries await.)
Rhaegar turned the blade over. The cellar held no other loot; the dead wore common clothes. Yet a valyrian steel sword was prize enough—such blades were rare indeed.
(Explorer: Your vital flame burns bright—congratulations! You have ignited the sword-rune.)
Bronze runes flared anew, coalescing into a long-sword sigil; when he raised the weapon its power surged.
Grinning, he sheathed the blade and climbed out. Not blackfyre, nor dark sister, yet a rune-bound sword was a fine gain.
Still, a blade of the Bronze Kings should be returned in due course. A king deserved blackfyre. The Targaryens had hunted for it; only swindlers answered, and of the sword itself—silence.
He and his men cleared on, but nothing more surfaced. The rioters had been paupers, and later the pit had become a wildfire crematory—little of worth remained.
The Dragonpit Camp slowly took shape as days slipped past.
Rhaegar lodged in his campaign tent while stone barracks rose around him.
His tent opened directly onto a great Dragonpit tunnel—his own requirement; lesser doors stayed sealed for now.
By lamplight he fed his young dragons in the passage; they grew larger, grumbling at the walls.
Then from beyond the tunnel door came a sudden clamour.
"Your Grace—urgent! King Jaehaerys commands you to the Red Keep at once—something has happened at Maidenpool."