The dragons soared over the mouth of the Greenblood, three shadows against the harsh blue sky. They wheeled and dove, hunting the silver fish that teeming in the brackish water where the river met the sea.
Below them lay Planky Town, a floating city of rafts, barges, and houseboats lashed together to form a maze of wood and rope. It was the closest thing Dorne had to a true city outside of Sunspear, a hub of trade where the orphans of the river gathered.
Rhaegar walked the wooden streets in disguise. He wore a simple yellow robe of Dornish linen, his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat and a silk veil. His silver hair was tucked away, his violet eyes shadowed.
To the people of Planky Town, he was just another traveler avoiding the sun. But beneath the robe, the [Blood and Fire Chain] hummed, keeping him connected to the dragons above.
He found a tavern near the water's edge—a ramshackle structure built on the hull of an old cog. It smelled of tar, fish stew, and stale ale.
Rhaegar sat in a shadowed corner, nursing a cup of watery wine. Nearby, a group of foreign merchants were speaking in low voices.
"The boy has been named Guardian of the Narrow Sea," a Lysene man whispered, his face pale and sweaty. "Director of Customs. It's a farce. The Iron Throne isn't leaving."
"We should have killed him in the cradle," a Myrish man spat. "Twelve years old and he rides three dragons. If we don't stop him now, he will turn the Stepstones into a Targaryen lake."
"Careful," the Lysene warned. "Walls have ears."
"Let them hear," the Myrishman growled. "I say we pool our gold. Buy a Faceless Man. Or a Sorrowful Man. One knife in the dark is worth a thousand ships."
Rhaegar listened, his face impassive behind the veil. He felt a cold anger rising in his chest. They plot murder while I offer peace.
He stood up to leave. As he passed the Myrishman's table, he brushed his hand against the man's shoulder.
Curse.
A flicker of [Blood-Black Flame]—the essence of Harrenhal, of malice and ruin—jumped from his fingertips into the man's flesh. It left no mark, but the curse took root. A sickness of the soul that would rot him from the inside out.
"Ah!" The Myrishman rubbed his shoulder, frowning. "Damn splinter."
Rhaegar walked out into the sunlight, leaving the man to his fate.
Outside, the streets were filled with children—the Orphans of the Greenblood. They ran barefoot across the planks, singing songs in a language older than the Seven Kingdoms.
Songs of the Mother Rhoyne, Rhaegar recognized. Songs of loss and water.
They were gathering near a large, colorful barge painted with scenes of turtles and river demons. A tall, thin man with skin like polished teak stood on the deck, ladling out bowls of stew to the children.
"Eat, little ones," the man said, his voice melodic. "Old Garin provides."
Old Garin. A merchant prince of the river people, wealthy but generous. He wore jade earrings and a robe of simple brown cloth, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent.
Rhaegar watched for a while. There was a dignity to these people, a refusal to forget who they were despite a thousand years of exile.
As the crowd dispersed, a young boy approached Rhaegar. He had a gold tooth and moved with the easy grace of a water dancer.
"Someone wishes to speak with you, my lord," the boy said in the Common Tongue, though his accent was thick.
"I am no lord," Rhaegar replied.
"No," the boy grinned. "You are the Dragon."
Rhaegar followed the boy through the maze of boats to a quiet backwater where a simple punt was moored.
Old Garin was waiting.
"Forgive the secrecy, Prince Rhaegar," the old man said, bowing low. "But Planky Town has many eyes."
Rhaegar removed his hat and veil. "You are observant, Garin."
"I am a merchant," Garin said, gesturing for Rhaegar to sit. "I deal in information as much as spice. When three dragons appear in the sky, one does not need to be a wizard to know their rider is near. And you have the look of the old blood."
"You fed the children," Rhaegar noted. "That speaks well of you."
"They are my people," Garin said simply. "We are all orphans here, drifting on a river of sand instead of water. We mourn our Mother Rhoyne."
"The Rhoyne is a ruin," Rhaegar said gently. "Pirates, slavers, the grey plague. It is a dangerous dream."
"Dreams are all we have," Garin replied. "We remember the time before the dragons burned our cities. Before Nymeria burned our ships."
He looked at Rhaegar with intense, dark eyes.
"We seek a way back, my Prince. Not to conquer, but to heal. To cleanse the Mother."
"And you think I can help you?" Rhaegar asked. "My ancestors were the ones who drove you out."
"The river of time flows on," Garin said, echoing a philosophy Rhaegar understood well. "The Valyria that destroyed us is gone. You are something new. A dragon who builds instead of burns."
"We have heard of your victories," Garin continued. "Of your power over fire. But fire alone cannot heal the world. You need water."
Rhaegar leaned forward. "Water magic. Does it still exist?"
Garin smiled, a slow, secretive smile.
"The water remembers, Prince Rhaegar. The songs are not just songs. They are keys."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small vial of clear water.
"We have kept a few drops of the Mother Rhoyne safe for a thousand years. It is weak now, diluted by time and distance. But with the right... catalyst... it could flow again."
"And what is the catalyst?" Rhaegar asked.
"Power," Garin said. "The power of a king. Or a god."
Rhaegar looked at the vial. He felt a faint hum, a cool resonance that answered the fire in his blood.
Fire and Water, he thought. Ice and Fire.
"Tell me more," Rhaegar said.