Chapter 68 – A Letter from King's Landing
The next day, when Barristan saw Rhaegar he jumped in alarm.
The prince looked haggard and pale; though still inhumanly handsome, he seemed worn to the bone.
"Your Grace, are you all right?" Barristan asked.
"Thank you, Ser, I'm fine." Rhaegar shook his head.
He hadn't been drowning himself in wine or women; he'd stumbled into blood-and-fire sorcery.
There wasn't a woman in camp—hardly even a female animal.
Rhaegar knew the cause: yesterday the Heart of Fire dragon nest had swallowed some of his life-spark, leaving him drained.
Fortunately he had absorbed plenty of residual spark from House Velaryon; otherwise the damage would have gone to the marrow.
Life is like fire—too many blows and it gutters out.
Why do so many famed warriors die young? Because they unleash their fire on the battlefield; the clash is bloody and brief, and their bodily essence pays the price.
Rhaegar merely felt tired; his core remained intact.
The Heart-of-Fire hatchery-booster was terrifying; when he had time he would return to Dragonstone and let the nest feed on natural heat.
If he had to sustain it alone, the thing would squeeze him dry.
He recalled Old Valyria at its height: the Fourteen Flames formed a vast volcanic chain that fed thousands of dragons and a glittering civilization. It was no wonder House Velaryon had used that heat to craft the Heart-of-Fire nest. Even among them the Purple Nest was precious, reserved for heirs.
Dragonstone was born of volcanoes too, but only the poorest cousin of the Fourteen Flames; a single peak might support a few dozen beasts. Perhaps the Valyrians had used it as an outpost for exactly that reason.
(Collection: Rhaegar Targaryen's Dragon-King Ring, Old-Valyrian silver dragon egg, Old-Valyrian purple dragon egg, Old-Valyrian Heart-of-Fire nest.)
Watching his hoard swell lifted his mood. Keep collecting, keep forging flame—hatch the eggs as soon as possible.
Yet for the second purple egg, though he had bled onto it, the Man-Dragon Pact refused to activate.
The old rule held: one Dragonlord, one dragon. Most riders exhausted themselves controlling a single beast. No super-dragonlord could ride four or five—unthinkable.
Dragons are proud, clever, steeped in power, sometimes savage. Split loyalty is no loyalty. A normal Dragonrider owns one mount; only after its rider's death will it choose another.
Targaryen history is littered with dragons gone wild. Forcing a furious wyrmling or a hatchling is perilous.
During the Dance of the Dragons the war was crude and bloody; Blacks and Greens fished the seas dry, throwing every young, small, or half-grown dragon into the meat-grinder, and House Targaryen bled out.
In Old Valyria such waste was unthinkable; at their peak the Dragonlords could field three hundred adult dragons rather than slaughter the future.
Rhaegar believed the Targaryens never learned Binding Curses, let alone the magical horn. They relied on bloodline and raw will. Their rank among the Valyrian Dragonlords had been too low to touch the core arts.
"House Hightower! They did the Targaryens a 'great service'—one of the architects of the dragons' doom!" The Blacks had Velaryon, the Greens had Hightower.
He thought of the Greens' pillar: ancient, shadowy Hightower, prime mover of the Dance yet unscathed by the Blacks' later purge. He itched to shatter that tower and see what they truly wanted.
A little wan, but still in command, Rhaegar resumed his rounds through the camp.
He drilled, ate, and built alongside the soldiers.
Spears, shields, axes, lances, swords, archery, carpentry—days rolled by to the comforting ring of steel.
Once the men reached the standard he sought, he would plan his next move.
He would first visit the Lords of the Vale, then sail to Dragonstone to feed the nest, perhaps scouting the Narrow Sea along the way.
The Eagle Guards' structure was still simple: Rhaegar as commander, Ser Barristan as titular head instructor, Ser Brynden in charge of horsemanship, marksmanship and military justice, and Cesar the swordsman as swordsmanship instructor plus Rhaegar's personal clerk, with Ser Joffrey Arryn handling logistics. Ser Barristan the White Knight mainly protects Rhaegar and rarely trains the men; the bulk of the work falls to Brynden and Cesar.
The core numbers were small, but the Eagle Guards already looked the part.
Rhaegar felt he had assembled a dream team of top talent—good enough to train the Gold Cloaks without shame.
Barristan and Brynden were legendary knights, Master Cesar's skills just as outstanding. Ser Joffrey Arryn's martial ability didn't match theirs, but he handled supplies and finance like a born merchant.
Ser Joffrey Arryn was growing busier by the day, arranging compensation for the fallen, delivering money and the prince's handwritten letters; Rhaegar later personally visited the bereaved families.
After the Battle of the Valley Road, the Eagle Guards' fame spread, and many Vale nobles wanted to send their sons—even if they wouldn't earn a post with the prince, becoming a fine knight would still bring glory to the family. The lobbying left Lady Arryn with a constant headache.
"Pick the outstanding ones—tough, kind-hearted, battle-ready. This isn't a septons' lecture hall; I don't take trash. Birth matters none; the standard must be met." Rhaegar looked at Joffrey Arryn, whose face had been creased with worry for days; offending those nobles was a losing game. In the end, Lord Jon Arryn stepped in to play the villain and refuse for him.
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