Chapter 165: Dance of the Silver Dragon
Three dragons circled in the sky as Rhaegar once again set foot in the abandoned town of Qohor.
Rhaegar gazed upon the deserted docks of Qohor, now choked with overgrown weeds.
Half of the dock had sunk beneath the water, nearly buried by tall, withered brown grass.
As the dragons roared overhead, the ragged natives hiding among the ruins no longer showed fear. Rhaegar once again distributed food to them. These people were the forgotten remnants of a broken world—abandoned, ignored, and left to fend for themselves.
Rhaegar was accompanied by two attendants—two stout Unsullied eunuchs who served as both guards and servants. They were obedient, silent, and utterly shaped by cruel fate. Both were highly skilled warriors; in Rhaegar's eyes, their abilities were first-rate.
By common understanding, eunuchs lack the physical strength of ordinary men—their bodies suffer from severe calcium loss. Yet the Unsullied surpassed normal soldiers. Their terrifying combat ability came from brutal training.
First, their selection process was merciless. Slaves were trained and culled without hesitation until only the most suitable remained—after all, slave lives were cheap.
Second, they were conditioned through cruel methods and substances, most notably the so-called "wine of courage."
This concoction, brewed from belladonna, bloodfly larvae, black lotus root, and other secret ingredients, dulled pain and emotion. From the day of their castration, Unsullied of Astapor drank it with every meal—day after day, year after year—until fear, pain, and hesitation were stripped from them entirely.
At the dilapidated dock, Rhaegar noticed a weathered single-masted punt.
At first glance, it resembled a floating shack rather than a proper vessel.
The boat had a wide beam and shallow draft, suited for narrow streams and sandbars. It was deliberately plain—meant to blend into dust and smoke, avoiding attention and envy.
Rhaegar recalled the vividly decorated boats of the Greenblood in Dorne. The orphans of the Greenblood River often carved and painted their vessels beautifully, finding joy even in hardship.
But this boat was different.
Its dull gray paint had long since peeled away, leaving a mottled, lifeless surface. Even its massive rudder was crude and undecorated. Yet in dangerous lands, such simplicity could be a form of protection.
"Prince, your arrival makes even this humble vessel shine! Welcome, Your Highness, to our pride—the Rhoyne's Glory!"
An elderly Rhoynar couple stood waiting.
"You are Rhoynar?" Rhaegar asked.
Though the name was grand, the vessel was anything but. At best, it resembled a worn, aging woman rather than a radiant maiden. Still, seeing Rhoynar—especially those from Dorne—brought a sense of familiarity.
"Merses and Melia," the old man introduced. "We were once orphans of the Greenblood. Now we have returned to the embrace of Mother Rhoyne to make our living."
They were slender, olive-skinned, and modest in stature.
"Mother Rhoyne will surely bless your courage," Rhaegar said sincerely.
Very few Greenblood orphans dared return to the Rhoyne. While many still hesitated, the bravest had already made the journey.
"Your Highness," Merses continued, "Magister Illyrio Mopatis must have informed you—we cannot sail at night. The Upper Rhoyne has become too dangerous. Driftwood and hidden reefs fill the waters. In darkness, this vessel would not survive. We ask for your understanding."
Rhaegar nodded. For a thousand years, the Upper Rhoyne had been a lawless and treacherous place.
"Welcome, Prince Rhaegar."
A young man stepped forward—perhaps in his twenties. He had gray-brown hair and sharp, cold eyes that seemed as hard as iron. He wore brown leather armor, with a longsword and dagger at his side.
"You must be Chester," Rhaegar said. "You took your time appearing. Were you not concerned about punishment?"
Magister Illyrio Mopatis had described him as versatile—but Rhaegar hadn't expected someone so young and spirited.
"You wouldn't punish me," the man replied calmly. "I've heard much about the Silver Prince—a man who captivates all who meet him. A noble dragon among men. Against enemies, you wield steel. Among friends, you play the harp. I consider myself one of those friends."
Rhaegar chuckled. "You speak well. Let us hope your abilities match your words."
"Strictly speaking, I am no maester," Chester said. "I studied at the Citadel but never forged a chain. The life there was too dull—and I have a fondness for swords and women."
"I've served as a sellsword in the Disputed Lands, studied potions, and was eventually recruited by Magister Illyrio Mopatis. You may call me a jack-of-all-trades. I lack patience, but I have some knowledge of history, alchemy, and combat."
Rhaegar found him intriguing.
A Citadel-trained scholar who abandoned chains for freedom—there was something familiar about him.
He was reminded of Prince Oberyn Martell, who had once walked a similar path: the Citadel, mercenary companies, and a life driven by passion.
Rhaegar had been considering who might govern Qohor in his stead.
Now, a thought formed—perhaps Oberyn would be the perfect choice.
The cargo was loaded onto the boat. There were five cabins in total: one for storage, one for Rhaegar, one for the couple, one for the Unsullied, and one for Chester.
Above them, the shadows of dragons lingered.
The small vessel began drifting downstream.
"There are bold dragons, fierce dragons, and beautiful dragons," Chester remarked. "But rarely one that embodies all three."
"Dragonlords come in many forms," Rhaegar replied, standing at the bow. "History proves as much. So what you see now… is simply another kind of dragon."
"Then, Your Highness, you must tread carefully," Chester said. "This river is filled with danger—pirates, escaped slaves, slavers… even the Stone Men. And the Rhoynar speak of ancient drowned gods that can shatter ships."
"And your dragons?" Chester added. "This vessel cannot carry such beasts."
"They will fly above us," Rhaegar answered calmly. "When we rest, they rest."
The Rhoyne's Glory drifted steadily forward. At night, they would anchor—and the dragons would descend.
Rhaegar silently called upon the Silver Dragon.
With a roar, it descended from the heavens.
With a powerful leap, Rhaegar mounted its back as it soared upward, its massive wings cutting through the air.
He still wore the sigil ring of House Rookston.
"A dragon!" Chester shouted in awe.
The Silver Dragon gleamed brilliantly—its scales pure silver, its horns, wing bones, and spine ridges shining gold.
"I have read of them countless times… but never imagined this…"
"Dragonlord!" Merses and Melia cried, tears streaming down their faces. "A silver dragon—this is a blessing from the gods!"
Only the Unsullied remained unmoved.
From above, Rhaegar looked down upon the drifting boat.
He turned his gaze to the ring of House Rookston on his finger.
What rune would it reveal?
Blue flames flickered at his fingertips.
Within the ring, a golden rune emerged—forming a perfect circle.
"Wisdom…"
Unlike the previous runes—hammer, sword, tree, shield—symbols of strength, this rune represented something different.
Understanding.
Insight.
The golden rings intertwined endlessly within the flame.
Wisdom, like rings, linking and expanding.
Rhaegar felt a surge of clarity unlike anything before.
The Silver Dragon soared through the sky, with two other dragons following behind.
Below, the Rhoyne stretched endlessly—sandbars, reeds, and flocks of birds: herons, larks, kingfishers.
The great river flowed like a living dragon itself.
Yet beneath its beauty lay danger—hidden reefs, drifting timber, and countless unseen threats.
High above, the three dragons danced across the sky.
Rhaegar guided the Silver Dragon in graceful arcs, watching the vast river below as it wound endlessly into the horizon.
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