The Dragonpit ceremony was a pageant of power—honors, knighthoods, prisoners paraded in chains. But for Rhaegar, it was something more: a coronation in all but name.
At twelve years old, he was the Guardian of the Narrow Sea. He held an office with the power of a Lord Paramount and the reach of an admiral.
Maegor the Cruel. Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Daemon the Rogue Prince. Daemon Blackfyre.
None of them had risen so high, so fast.
Rhaegar stood on the dais, holding the silver seal and the sword Guardian that his grandfather had just bestowed upon him. The crowd's roar washed over him, a physical force.
The line of the Dragon has been weak, he thought, scanning the faces of the lords. Daeron the Young Dragon died of recklessness. Baelor the Blessed prayed himself to death. Aegon the Unworthy ate himself to death. Even Egg, who tried so hard, burned at Summerhall.
But the dragons are back.
"I, Jaehaerys II," the King intoned, his voice thin but steady, "appoint you, Rhaegar Targaryen, as Guardian of the Narrow Sea. May you be the sword and shield of the realm."
"I accept," Rhaegar said. "I will be the fire and the storm."
He drew Guardian. It was a magnificent blade, distinct from the dark Valyrian steel of Truth. The hilt was a silver dragon, the crossguard its wings, the blade emerging from its open maw. Rubies formed the dragon's eyes and studded the pommel in the shape of the Stepstones archipelago.
Silver hair, silver sword, silver dragon. He was a vision of Targaryen perfection.
"Long live King Jaehaerys!"
"Long live the Triumphant Silver Dragon!"
The cheers were deafening. Even the envoys from the Free Cities looked unsettled. They realized that the "ten-year peace" was merely a intermission. The Iron Throne was building an empire.
King Jaehaerys then distributed the honors. Red-gold chains with dragon pendants were placed around the necks of Tywin Lannister, Steffon Baratheon, Mace Tyrell, and Prince Lewyn Martell. Even the captains of the fleet, including the Velaryons and Redwynes, received commendations.
Finally, the prisoners were brought forward.
Ser Ilyn Payne, the Captain of the Guard (not yet mute, though grim as death), herded a group of ragged pirate captains onto the sand.
"Surrender to the King!" Payne barked.
The pirates fell to their knees. They had seen what Rhaegar's dragons could do.
"We yield! We yield!"
The crowd cheered. Justice had been done.
That night, a grand ball was held in the Red Keep.
Rhaegar escaped early. He claimed fatigue, leaving his designated partner—Roberta Baratheon, a giggling girl who kept stepping on his feet—to the disappointment of the court. Cersei Lannister watched him go with burning eyes, furious that she was too young to dance.
Rhaegar retreated to his solar in Maegor's Holdfast.
He spread a map of the known world across his table. It was covered in his own notes, a cartography of ambition.
He uncorked an inkwell and picked up a quill.
Dorne: He drew a small crown symbol near Yronwood. Aegon's lost crown.
Norvos: He drew an axe. The Bearded Priests and their runes.
The Wall: He drew a sword. Dark Sister, lost with Bloodraven.
Essos: He circled the Disputed Lands. Blackfyre, with the Golden Company.
Valyria: He circled the Smoking Sea in red ink. The source. The Doom.
His eyes traced the locations of other lost treasures. Brightroar, lost by Tommen Lannister in Valyria. Lamentation, lost in the Dragonpit. Orphan-Maker, stolen from House Peake.
And the runes, he thought. The magic.
He marked the Isle of Faces in the God's Eye. The Iron Islands, seat of the Drowned God. The ruins of Chroyane on the Rhoyne. Qohor, the city of sorcerers. Asshai by the Shadow.
It was a map of danger. A map of power.
I need to be stronger, Rhaegar realized.
He looked at his own hand, clenching it into a fist.
The world was full of great warriors. Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, the Demon of the Trident, the Khals of the Dothraki Sea.
But they were just men.
A slip in the mud, a lucky arrow, a moment of fatigue—and they would die like anyone else.
Only magic transcends mortality.
The Dragonlords of old didn't just fight with swords. They bound dragons with sorcery. They shaped stone with fire. They commanded the elements.
That is the path, Rhaegar decided, driving the quill into the table.
Not just a knight. Not just a king.
A Dragonlord.
He looked at the map, at the vast, terrifying expanse of the world.
I will find the fire. I will find the runes. And I will make the world bow.