271 AC. King's Landing.
The city smelled exactly as Rhaegar remembered: fish, smoke, bread, and the faint undertone of sewage that no amount of sea wind could fully dispel.
He didn't mind. After months of Dornish dust and Stepstones salt, King's Landing smelled like home.
The Silver Emperor circled Aegon's High Hill three times, his wings beating slow and lazy, his scales catching the noon sun like a living mirror. Below, the city came to a standstill. Merchants froze at their stalls. Children pointed. Sailors leaning against pier posts straightened up for the first time in years.
Balerion and Belaerys flanked him, their forty-foot wingspans throwing twin shadows across the Street of Steel, the Street of Sisters, and the broad expanse of the Dragonpit hill.
Forty-two feet now, Rhaegar noted with satisfaction. They've grown since the Stepstones.
He banked the Silver Emperor toward the Dragonpit and let the crowd see them.
"Rhaegar! Rhaegar!"
"The Triumphant Silver Dragon!"
The chant had followed him from Planky Town to Sunspear, and now it had come home.
The Dragonpit had been transformed.
The great dome of the ancient structure opened to the sky where its roof had partially collapsed, making it the only venue in King's Landing large enough to hold the three dragons, the full court, and the spectacle King Jaeherys had ordered.
Viewing platforms had been constructed along the curved interior walls. The floor was packed earth and old dragon dung, but someone had laid rush matting and scattered rose petals to cover the worst of it.
On the central dais sat the Iron Throne's most important personages.
King Jaeherys II wore his crown of black iron and red gold, the crown Maekar I had forged—heavy as a small kettle, and twice as unbeautiful. He wore it as though born to it, which he was. He looked well, better than Rhaegar had expected. The victory had done him good.
Queen Rhaella sat beside him in pale silver silk, her two youngest sons in her lap—small, silver-haired creatures blinking at the dragons with enormous eyes.
Behind them, the assembled greatness of the Seven Kingdoms arrayed itself in order of precedence.
Lord Ormund Baratheon of Storm's End, broad-shouldered and black-bearded, with his wife Cassana beside him and their children. Robert was there, nine years old and already built like a young bull, staring at the dragons with an open mouth and shining eyes. Stannis sat beside him, smaller and darker, watching the dragons with careful, calculating attention.
Lady Joanna Lannister, golden-haired and poised, sat with her twins beside her. Jaime was picking at the embroidery on his sleeve, bored in the particular way of five-year-olds at adult functions. Cersei sat perfectly still, her green eyes wide, watching the entrance to the Pit with an intensity unusual in a child.
Lord Luthor Tyrell and his wife had made the journey north from Highgarden specifically to see their son's triumphant return. Mace stood in the lords' section already, puffed up with reflected glory, a honey cake in each hand.
The High Septon—a man of extraordinary girth, known in the winesinks of King's Landing as "the Fat Septon," though no one said this within earshot of the Faith—occupied the seat of honor to the King's left, sweating gently beneath the seven-pointed crystal crown of his office.
I would sell that crown for three dragon's dens of gold if given the chance, Rhaegar thought.
The ceremony began with trumpets.
Each returning lord was announced in sequence. Lord Ormund's name drew cheers. Ser Steffon Baratheon drew louder cheers. Lord Tywin Lannister drew respectful silence, which was more or less the same thing. Ser Brynden Tully—who had arrived separately, leaving Bloodstone in capable hands—drew genuine warmth.
Then Prince Aerys entered.
The cheering was enormous. He deserved it, in his way. He was beautiful, silver-haired and splendid in his black and red velvet, every button a gilded dragon with ruby eyes. He walked with the unconscious grace of a man who had never once doubted that the world was arranged specifically for his benefit.
He was cheered. Loved. Celebrated.
Then the shadow fell over the Dragonpit.
The Silver Emperor descended through the open dome, his wingbeats filling the great enclosed space with a sound like thunder trapped in a bottle. Gasps and screams—then the screams turned to roars of a different kind.
Rhaegar landed the dragon in the center of the floor.
He dismounted in a single, clean movement, silver hair bright even in the Dragonpit's amber light, and turned to face the assembled court.
He was twelve years old. He was six feet tall. He wore black silk embroidered with twelve silver dragons, a black cloak pinned with the black dragon on red, and a silver steel circlet set with three square rubies. He carried a box in both hands.
He looked like Aegon the Conqueror's ghost.
The sound that erupted from the viewing platforms was so loud that Balerion and Belaerys flinched.
"RHAEGAR! THE TRIUMPHANT SILVER DRAGON!"
Cersei Lannister grabbed her brother's arm without realizing she had done it.
There are no people like that, she thought, her heart beating strangely. He cannot be real. He cannot be human. She had heard the songs. She had thought the singers were exaggerating. They were not. They had, if anything, been restrained.
Aerys watched his son walk forward through the screaming crowd and felt something cold move through his chest.
"Every generation has its star," he said quietly to Tywin at his shoulder. "It seems we are growing old."
Tywin said nothing. His expression did not change. But his golden eyes followed Rhaegar all the way to the dais.
Rhaegar knelt before Jaeherys II and set the box on the steps of the dais.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice cutting through the noise with perfect clarity. "The traitors of the Stepstones have been put to justice. I present to the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—the skull and crown of the self-styled King of the Stepstones. The insult to your crown is answered. The war is won."
He opened the box.
Inside, resting on black velvet, was a skull—the pirate king's, defleshed and white—and a crude iron circlet set with uncut garnets. A barbaric thing, a pretender's mockery of kingship.
Jaeherys II looked at it for a long moment.
Then he smiled. Not the careful, public smile of a king performing for an audience.
A real smile.
"Rise, Rhaegar," the king said. "You have done more for this realm than I had any right to ask."
He turned to the assembled court. His voice, trained by years of council and ceremony, carried easily across the Pit.
"I have another matter to make formal today. The Iron Throne requires a Guardian of the Narrow Sea—a permanent warden of the Stepstones and the passage between the continents. Our council has put forward a name."
He paused. Every lord in the Pit was leaning forward.
"However," the king continued, his tone shifting to careful concern, "the candidate is young. His years do not yet match the gravity of the office. I confess I have reservations." He looked at Rhaegar with eyes that were not remotely worried. "Rhaegar, my grandson—do you feel yourself equal to this charge?"
Rhaegar straightened. His expression was a perfect portrait of humble reluctance.
"Your Grace," he said, "there are knights and lords of far greater experience in this hall. Men who have served the realm for decades. I would not presume to take precedence over them. I respectfully ask that the honor be given to someone more worthy."
There it is, Tywin thought, watching from the side. He is performing. And the audience doesn't even know it.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then Lord Ormund Baratheon stood up.
"Your Grace, with respect—age is not wisdom, but deeds are. The Prince broke the Stepstones, killed their king with his own hand, and made dragons fly above their harbors for the first time in a generation. I know of no lord more worthy than he."
"The Faith concurs!" the Fat High Septon announced, heaving himself upright with considerable effort. His crystal crown wobbled. "The Seven have blessed this prince with every virtue. His victories speak to divine favor. The office is his by the will of the gods and the acclaim of this realm."
"RHAEGAR! WE WANT RHAEGAR!"
The cry spread from lord to lord, knight to knight, until even the ladies were politely clapping in urgent rhythm.
"You are torturing me," Rhaegar said, and there was genuine amusement in his eyes.
The king laughed—a real laugh this time—and descended two steps from the dais. He held out a silver seal engraved with three dragons, and beside it, a straight-bladed sword with a dragonbone hilt.
"The seal of the Guardian of the Narrow Sea," Jaeherys said. "And the sword of office. Rhaegar Targaryen, do you accept?"
Rhaegar took them.
"For the realm," he said, in a voice that carried to every corner of the Pit. "Always."
The roar that followed drowned out the dragons.