The Silver Emperor beat its magnificent wings, slicing through the sky as Rhaegar took flight from the Dragonpit of King's Landing, with his two other dragons trailing close behind.
The people of the capital craned their necks, watching the beautiful silhouettes fade into the distance. "The Triumphant Prince!" "The Victor!" "The Triumphant Silver Dragon!" The city erupted in cheers. Prince Rhaegar had won the war, and the tolls from the Stepstones were already filling the Iron Throne's coffers—some of which had even begun to improve the lives of the poor. Treat the people well, and they will love you.
Rhaegar's route was set: from King's Landing to Dragonstone, then to Storm's End, and finally back to the Stepstones. His flight path took him through the Crownlands and the Stormlands.
The Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Westerlands are among the smallest of the Seven Kingdoms, but the Crownlands boast the majestic King's Landing and thriving trade towns, making them relatively wealthy. The West, naturally, has its gold. Only the Stormlands, battered by the gales of the Narrow Sea, are relatively sparse in population and wealth—though they breed warriors as untameable as the gales themselves.
The Iron Throne had arranged for several high-born youths to serve the Prince as squires: Myles Mooton of Maidenpool, Richard Lonmouth of the Stormlands, and, of course, Jon Connington. They were familiar faces, and all were fiercely loyal—Rhaegar held all three in high regard. He ordered them to train at the Dragonpit camp until he required them.
At Dragonstone, he allowed the three dragons to roam freely on Dragonmont before drawing powerful heat from the Heart of Fire nest. The dragons could no longer live in that cramped crevice, but they still sought its warmth when they slept, curling around the Heart of Fire as if returning to the womb of a volcano.
Leaving Dragonstone, Rhaegar galloped south, skimming the sea and passing the fleet until the majestic Storm's End loomed on the horizon. Its massive drum tower pierced the clouds like a fist holding up the sky; the tower housed granaries, barracks, feast halls, and lordly chambers. Those pale grey stones seemed eternal, indifferent to the lashing rain or the passage of eons.
Storm's End—the ill-fated fortress of ice and fire—had been besieged time and again, yet it remained virtually impregnable.
"A true miracle," Rhaegar whispered. Storm's End, the Eyrie, and Casterly Rock were the crown jewels of fortress construction—perhaps the ruined Harrenhal belonged among them as well. King's Landing, without dragons, was like an eggshell: no natural barriers, too many walls, and a single siege away from riot and ruin.
Songs said Storm's End was built by Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King, who defied the wrath of the sea god and the goddess of the wind, standing firm after seven great storms. In a Westeros sparse in magic, such a feat seemed beyond mortal hands; it was said spells were woven into the walls to prevent magic from passing through.
The castle was famous for its height and thickness: the outer curtain wall was composed of seamless stone a hundred feet high, curved and smooth to defy the wind. The thickness tapered from forty feet to eighty feet on the seaward side, like two shells of rock lined with gravel and grit.
Some said the Children of the Forest helped build it, with magic pulsing in the stone; others said a boy named Brandon was the architect—but every tale carried a hint of the fantastic.
"I must find the traces of that magic," Rhaegar resolved. Magic was rare but not a myth; the Valyrian Dragonlords were powerful, but they had also invited such deep hatred that without magic, they would have perished long ago.
He arrived at Storm's End. The castle was as grand as the Eyrie, but its capacity was limited; its logistics could not support a massive host for long.
Under the crowned stag banner of House Baratheon, Ser Steffon led the court, stewards, and maesters to welcome the Prince.
Rhaegar was dressed in the now-trendy "Rhaegar Shirt"—black pure silk with a silver dragon crest—with Shadow slung at his hip. This simple tunic had become popular among sailors, soldiers, and craftsmen; cool and comfortable, it was fast becoming a favorite.
"Your Highness, you must still mind your attire. Whether at court or on the field, one must wear proper doublets or mail—it is a matter of protocol as much as safety," Ser Steffon noted.
"True, but among family and friends, one can relax," Rhaegar replied with a smile.
Ser Steffon personally guided Rhaegar through Storm's End, explaining every custom of the castle. The Prince remained there for several days. Rhaegar trained in the yard with Robert and Stannis, then walked the sea-cliffs with Roberta.
This land of green growth, frequent storms, and dense rainforest was bursting with life and youthful energy.
"Again!" In the yard of Storm's End, Robert swung his warhammer at Rhaegar. Strength came to him as naturally as breathing; he had the potential of a top-tier warrior but had hit a ceiling. Only the primal fury in his blood would allow him to shine on a battlefield. Once a certain level is reached, only magic can allow one to transcend mortality.
With a flick of his blunted blade, Rhaegar sent Robert stumbling back. Robert's pride in his strength met a wall, tasting true frustration. Robert swung his hammer, practicing alone, still unwilling to concede—he loved the sound of steel on steel.
"A little more practice and you'll get there," Rhaegar said, setting aside his training sword. Robert was clearly outmatched.
"I may not win today, but I will beat you eventually!" Robert Baratheon declared. He loved the martial arts; unfortunately, his loves were too many and too fierce. If he did not drown himself in wine and women, his skill might be sharper.
"Then I shall look forward to it," Rhaegar replied.
"You're years younger than me, brother. Maybe one day you will..." Roberta comforted.
"Let's go!" Rhaegar called to Roberta.
"Come up!" He took her hand; the girl had no fear of the beast. The Silver Emperor carried them both, circling high above Storm's End.
She carried a trace of dragon blood in her, and the beast did not reject her.
"That silver brat draws every eye—did you see the maids and noblewomen looking like they wanted to eat him?" Robert asked Stannis from the battlements.
"Naturally. He is the heir to the Iron Throne, owns a dragon, and masters war and song. Our sister likes him—how could she not? She is the pride of the Stormlands," Stannis said.
"Still, Mother always said the more handsome the man, the easier he lies. He's young, but I've heard tales of him from Dorne to Tyrosh. If he lies to her, I'll break his legs," Robert held up a small hammer.
"You chase every pretty girl yourself—and lose interest just as fast. Remember when you flirted with the maid and our sister thrashed you for it?" Stannis muttered.
"I am me, and he is a Prince. I speak for our sister's happiness," Robert glared.
"Don't bother, brother. You are no match for Prince Rhaegar, and our sister is a terror with a blade herself—she'll carve him to pieces if she has to," Stannis reminded him.
"Right—I forgot our sister is a tough one," Robert smacked his own forehead.
The lovers soared on the silver dragon, Roberta holding Rhaegar tightly. The dragon beat its leathery wings, occasionally huffing fire. Because the rider was a novice, Rhaegar ordered the Silver Emperor to glide at a slower pace.
Over the sea, they watched the sunset, with only the wind and waves as witnesses.
"This is one of the happiest days of my life!" Roberta shouted.
"And mine!" Rhaegar laughed—no war, no schemes, only the girl he admired, her bright smile, and her soft gaze.
They held hands, in love with each other.
The Silver Emperor snorted indignantly—why must his partner taste the bittersweet fruits of love alone?