270 AC, Dragonstone, Dragonmount.
Soon after the tourney ended, Rhaegar brought the young dragons back to Dragonstone—the place they loved most.
They loathed crowded clamor and gloomy depths; the old Dragonpit had been a poor choice.
Dragonmount still rumbled, pale and grey steam billowing from its Crater.
The heat, the sulfurous reek, the salty sea breeze—everything a wyrm adored.
Rhaegar, in silver wide-sleeved robes, stood outside the Silver Emperor's cavern and watched three draconic silhouettes wheel across the distant sky.
Silver Emperor! Balerion! Balerion!
The dragons of Rhaegar Targaryen, the last dragons in the world.
They chased one another, rising and falling in turns.
The young dragons clustered like a single flame, then scattered like scattered stars.
In their excitement they spouted fire—purple, silver, black—blazing across the heavens; even ships near Dragonstone could see the flickering pyrotechnics.
Rhaegar could faintly sense their location, far, far above.
He felt their peril, their moods; every Dragonrider can vaguely sense his dragon, but Rhaegar's perception was keener, sharper.
Rhaegar and the dragons were bound by the Blood and Fire Chain; they had bathed in fire together—companions, comrades-in-arms.
In his sight the three dwindled to tiny specks, then stooped as one, skimming the sea; Balerion even snatched a great fish from the waves.
Rhaegar longed to cheer aloud: a dragon rising for a day soars ninety thousand li.
The trio returned to Dragonmount; Balerion spat the fish at her master, then a gold-rimmed purple jet roasted it to black perfection—fragrant beyond words. Likely the costliest grilled fish in the world: Dragonflame fish, priceless.
Balerion was about to swallow it, hesitated, and offered it to her master instead.
"Eat, good girl Balerion." Rhaegar stroked the Purple Dragon's head; she nuzzled his sleeve.
Some instinct told him the Purple Dragon might be female.
Yet a dragon's sex is tricky; some Maesters claim dragons are fluid, others insist they are male or female—discernible only when laying eggs. A layer is surely female; one that never lays is deemed male.
The purple lowered her head contentedly, ready to feast, only to find Silver Emperor already gnawing a huge chunk. Balerion refused to be outdone and almost clashed with Purple again. In moments the fish was divided among them.
Young dragons prefer beef and mutton; when necessary, fish will do.
In extremis, they will even devour their own kind.
This was the third year Rhaegar had owned dragons; the three had grown fast.
The smaller Balerions' heads already outsized a horse's skull—already fearsome, let alone the largest and fiercest, Silver Emperor.
Now the trio lived apart, each in its own cave, though not far distant. Silver Emperor still occupied The Glutton's cavern, already marked with his scent.
"Ready, partner?" Rhaegar patted Silver Emperor; the dragon's golden eyes flashed proud defiance, yet he slightly lowered his back before Rhaegar.
Silver Emperor shook his neck; silver flame blossomed in the sky as though to cheer him on.
Yet when Rhaegar tried to mount, Silver Emperor refused.
"Bad take-off spot? You want another?" Rhaegar read the dragon's fussy whim.
Silver Emperor led Rhaegar forward, all the way to the Crater's lip.
Heat and brimstone breathed in their faces.
"Your Grace, you must go no farther!" Barristan and Cesar cried; molten rock still surged within—certain death for any man.
"This is my command!" Rhaegar leapt onto Silver Emperor's neck. For the first time in a century, man and dragon would dance together.
Silver Emperor roared, as if asking,
"Ready, partner?"
Rhaegar ran a hand over the silver scales, then patted—time to depart.
With a joyous shriek Silver Emperor carried Rhaegar into the volcano's depths.
Barristan and Cesar went white; the dragon had gone mad, and the prince with him.
To lose the heir to the iron throne and his partner cut them like knives.
Rhaegar clung to Silver Emperor's neck, feeling the scorching heat, seeing the seething red river of lava below—an inferno of flame.
Even with the Blood of Fire granting some resistance, a fall into that molten flow would almost certainly mean death.
The Silver Emperor trilled with delight—he loved heat, lava, and smoke, and he wanted his partner to love them too.
The Silver Emperor exhaled a jet of silver flame onto the molten rock.
Rhaegar saw the dancing beads of lava, a red no man could ever forget.
If he fell now, he would only become another joke.
But Rhaegar was a proud Targaryen; he wrapped his arms around the Silver Emperor's neck and moved in perfect step with his partner.
The Silver Emperor wheeled joyfully above the lava for several loops, then snapped his wings wide and roared out of the volcano.
Rhaegar felt he had cheated death again; his heart hammered wildly.
Centuries past flashed through his mind. Onward, Silver Dragon Prince—you are a true dragon and living flame!
"I am a true dragon; I shall conquer all!" Rhaegar cried, and his shout drew the roar of the great wyrm beneath him.
The two dragons waiting at the Crater mouth launched after them; all three sang together, their voices shaking the wide wilderness.
Barristan and Cesar jumped—thank the gods, the prince still lived.
But then they saw Rhaegar without saddle or straps, clinging only by his arms around the dragon's neck, and terror clenched their hearts.
The Silver Emperor shot skyward. "I am the king of the world!" Rhaegar shouted in wild triumph.
With a sweep of the dragon's wings, the Dance of Dragons began.
Together, Silver Emperor and Rhaegar burst beyond Dragonstone and soared into the vast sky.
Rhaegar watched the ships shrink to black specks, then vanish.
Weightlessness and thin air struck at once, yet the Dragonlord blood granted immunity—without it, long hours aloft on dragonback would be impossible.
Clouds tore apart under the dragon's shadow; they were no more than a thin veil.
Rhaegar's eyes stayed wide. He no longer heard the ocean's roar—only the wind's howl and the dragon's scream.
The fierce wind scoured the air; sky and streaming clouds became one. The broken coastline of Dragonstone blurred and was gone.
"Dragonflame!" "Climb!" Rhaegar called in the tongue of Old Valyria, the gift of his forebears.
"I fly—I am a true Targaryen!" he roared.
Gorgeous flames bloomed in the heavens, outshining any mortal firework.
Purple! Black-red! Silver! Dragonflame burst free in every hue.
Rhaegar felt searing heat until the air itself seemed unreal, yet the Blood of Fire gave him strength to endure.
He laughed aloud. He loved the feel of riding a dragon; already he had conquered sea, land, and sky.
Once aloft, all earthly things became tiny and trivial. Only astride a dragon could one grasp the vastness of the firmament.
Together they skimmed white clouds and blue, gazing upon endless ocean while gales shrieked; Rhaegar could only cling tighter to his partner's neck.
Flying a dragon was bliss—yet perilous beyond measure.
The Silver Emperor's silver scales blazed in the sun like the most radiant river of argent; the pale gold of his wings added a touch of living gold.
He was the most magnificent creature alive, and he loved to crush all before him.
The other two dragons rumbled in protest—favoritism would not be tolerated.
They longed to race with their riders, but one icy glare from the Silver Emperor silenced them.
Riding a dragon through open sky was wilder—and deadlier—than galloping the fiercest stallion.
They plummeted from the heights to skim the sea, then soared again, like magnets flipping poles without end.
Rhaegar felt thick spray soak his clothes and plaster his hair.
The young dragons squealed in delight; the dizzy plunge from summit to valley thrilled Rhaegar with sweet terror.
At last, drunk on exhilaration, the soaring dragons turned back toward Dragonmount.
Silver Emperor and I shall shake the world anew!
The dragon carried him low over the harbor, deliberately steady so every sailor on the docks of Dragonstone could stare and shout in wonder.
What use is wealth unseen? The Silver Emperor loved to show off.
"That's Prince Rhaegar's dragon!"
"The Dragonrider has returned!"
"The prince rides a dragon!" the sailors cheered.
Silver wings bore him back to Dragonmount through drifting smoke; the young dragon lowered its head to Rhaegar in greeting.
The three youngsters had flown themselves breathless with joy.
Ignoring his soaked hair and clothes, Rhaegar looked at the Silver Emperor and wanted only to sing.
"Once, I was proud to be a Targaryen. From this day, the Targaryen line shall be proud of us."
He gazed into the dragon's golden eyes—great as ingots of shining gold.
Rhaegar stroked the dragon's brow, its scales, its gaze.
The Dragonrider had returned!
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