Chapter 63: Flame Dragon Lair
Rhaegar and Lord Jon Arryn stood together at the front.
In blood and fire, Rhaegar earned more respect. Some respect came from lineage and crown, some from sword and courage. Knights loved the clang of steel more than books and candles.
In a knightly country like Westeros, a king had to be a strong warrior to gain more respect. The sword was also a form of truth.
Rhaegar felt there was no helping it; some people simply preferred their monarch to be a lion, capable of intimidating everything.
The knights of the Vale no longer resisted the young prince riding alongside Lord Jon Arryn, because Prince Rhaegar had already displayed his fortitude, bravery, compassion, and might before them. Prince Rhaegar was also a born knight.
"Prince, we need to wait a moment; there are two hundred more cavalry reinforcements coming," Lord Jon Arryn said to Rhaegar. Four hundred heavy cavalry was already a formidable force.
Rhaegar agreed. If they were to sweep through the mountains again to clear out the Burned Men tribe's sacred land, they would need more men. He gestured to Cesar, Barristan, and the others, instructing the Eagle Guards to rest and resupply.
Speed was of the essence. The Mountain Clansmen were already terrified, making this the perfect moment to press the attack. Once they recovered and laid ambushes in the Pale Mountains, it would be difficult to advance.
"Are there still dragons?" Rhaegar asked.
Thrimm shook his head. "No dragons, no Fire Priestess, but the rules remain. We will still undergo the trial by fire."
Rhaegar found that understandable. The Burned Men tribe brutally suppressed other tribes; they were ruthless and possessed a powerful self-punishing culture.
As for the dragons' deaths, Rhaegar thought it only natural. The foothills of the Pale Mountains were rocky, desolate, and snow-capped. This land was far too barren. The Mountain Clansmen were malnourished—how could they have sustained an aging dragon for so many years? With the decline of magic, even dragons had shorter lifespans.
Dragons grew larger with age, their movements slower, preferring long slumbers and rarely flying. If Sheepstealer had still lived, the Burned Men tribe would have been devoured long ago.
Thrimm's expression was filled with pain. He had underestimated everything, leading to the collapse of his campaign and catastrophic losses for his people.
What Thrimm had not foreseen was Rhaegar himself.
Had Rhaegar failed to withstand the assault, lacked his terrifying physical strength and iron will, or not been tempered by the Fire Seed—had he even suffered a single stroke of ill fortune and fallen from his horse—Thrimm would have won a perfect victory. Yet even under repeated arrow volleys, Rhaegar remained unscathed.
Thrimm would have swallowed the Eagle Guards whole, seized their superior equipment, and then annihilated Lord Jon Arryn's forces.
Rhaegar observed the fighting style of the knights of the Vale. Aside from better armor and disciplined charge formations, they were not fundamentally different from other Westerosi armies. In the end, it came down to population, wealth, and supply. The Westerlands, Stormlands, and the Vale all possessed superior numbers and equipment. The North disdained such methods—true men there favored brutal, direct combat.
Rhaegar also noticed the lack of longbow units. Knights favored longswords and heavy spears. Few men organized specialized longbow formations like Brynden Rivers, called Bloodraven. His fondness for the longbow only deepened others' fear and hatred—he embodied cold calculation and shadow, much like the weapon itself.
Rhaegar looked at the Vale knights and thought, I should build a more diverse force—masters of longbows and long spears alike. But everything still came down to manpower and equipment. Training took time, and for weapons, dragonbone bows were best, followed by bows of goldenheart, weirwood, or yew. Essosi horn bows were also excellent.
"Prince, I have something I wish to ask Thrimm," Lord Jon Arryn said, his brows tightly drawn, as if recalling something deeply disturbing.
Rhaegar stepped back several paces, leaving only Lord Jon Arryn and his personal guards.
The war had come swiftly and ended just as quickly, leaving behind only ruin.
Most knights had already moved off to control prisoners, count the dead, and gather spoils.
But the Mountain Clansmen were desperately poor; they truly possessed nothing of value.
Rhaegar wisely put more distance between himself and Lord Jon Arryn. He knew what the Lord of the Vale intended to ask. If something disgraceful had truly occurred, Lord Jon's honor would be dragged through the mud. Best not to witness it.
From afar, Rhaegar saw Lord Jon Arryn's face darken like a storm-shrouded peak. There was a traitor within the Gate of the Moon—and a high-ranking one.
The remaining Vale knights soon arrived. Their equipment was inferior to the vanguard's—thin armor, some wearing only partial plate.
"Cut off these heads! Tar them and hang them when we return!"
"Bind the remaining Mountain Clansmen. The Fingers require stronger coastal defenses—these men will not be wasted."
Lord Jon Arryn's voice was icy. Hatred, not mercy, was how the Mountain Clansmen would remember.
"Leave the body of that dead chieftain for me," Rhaegar said, having recalled something important.
With blood still thick in the air, the host set off once more.
Rhaegar noticed Lord Jon Arryn's grim demeanor; Thrimm's words had struck deeply, like a falcon battered by a violent gale.
They headed north, Thrimm bound to a thin horse and forced to lead the way.
The path twisted through steep ascents and descents, rocks, wild trees, and ancient dirt. Clouds drifted beautifully above, while the land below remained bleak and unforgiving. Only Mountain Clansmen could endure such a life, Rhaegar thought.
The tribes were caught completely unprepared.
At last, they discovered a desolate camp hidden deep in the mountains. The fleeing Burned Men had abandoned it entirely. Even had Rhaegar not arrived, other tribes would soon have looted it.
Under Thrimm's guidance, Rhaegar spotted a concealed cave above the camp, bones scattered at its mouth.
"We're here," Rhaegar said, his heart racing.
He approached the entrance and was struck by an intense wave of heat, so fierce it felt as if a dragon still lived within.
A massive pit burned before the cave, filled with fuel that had kept the fire raging endlessly. The wall of flame stretched nearly two meters wide, completely sealing the entrance.
The Burned Men fed it with wood, charcoal, coal, and rendered animal fat.
"Little imp, aren't you going to the sacred land?" Thrimm laughed hoarsely. "Go on—this is the Fire Priestess's last spark!"
The dying dragon's final flames had been preserved for generations. The Burned Men swore by fire, proving their devotion by burning fingers and ears.
Rhaegar studied the inferno and said to Barristan, "Bring me thick structural beams. Soak them."
Barristan and the others returned with heavy, water-logged timbers torn from the tribe's dwellings.
"Prince, there's no need to rush," Barristan said. Ser Brynden Tully nodded in agreement.
The wall of fire was intense, the heat suffocating.
Rhaegar shook his head and drove the timber into the flames. Sparks exploded, singeing his hair.
Thrimm's smile vanished.
Rhaegar was unharmed, striking the sacred fire again and again.
The Blood of Fire shielded him from the heat.
Each blow weakened the wall. Smoke and sparks filled the air, but Rhaegar did not retreat.
"You are the King of Fire!"
"You do not fear flame—flame obeys you!" Thrimm roared, awe and fanatic devotion twisting his face.
Barristan, Brynden, Cesar, and the others exchanged looks. The Prince truly bore the marks of a Dragonlord.
They joined him, while soldiers doused the fire with water. The sacred flame of the Burned Men was extinguished.
Rhaegar surged into the cave—and there it was.
A colossal dragon skeleton lay deep within, hollow eye sockets and massive bones bearing silent witness to ancient glory.
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