Chapter 69: Lady Forlorn and the Runic Crown
The year 268 after the Conquest, the Vale.
The Vale wind carried the scent of wheat, flowers, and sunshine.
A long column of knights advanced slowly along the Vale's road, their goal Runestone.
Runestone lies north of Seagull Town, on the Narrow Sea coast.
Rhaegar had the standard-bearer gallop ahead, the banner snapping like a painting in the wind.
In the great column Rhaegar rode first; Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Brynden, and others followed close behind.
The men's armor gleamed, their spirits high. Most knights were still green, yet already weathering wind, frost, rain and snow.
Among them even walked a wildling; the mad Thrimm swore to follow the prince, claiming he was the Lord of Fire. Duke Jon thought him deranged, but, to show justice, had Thrimm's sword-hand struck off to curb the wildling's wildness. No one expected him to live again—yet the man who had died and returned convinced the duke the Seven had not taken his life, so he was sent to join Rhaegar's column.
The Eagle Guards had swelled to three hundred; apart from sons of Vale Lords and rich Seagull merchants, promising youths of good families had joined their ranks.
Rhaegar's host bore two banners: the traditional black dragon on red of House Targaryen, and the Eagle Guard standard he had designed—black field, red dragon and red eagle mirrored.
When the banners rose, Vale folk knew it was Prince Rhaegar's company—the prince and his handsome, hawk-hard guards.
Most striking was the Dragon Prince: silver hair caught in a plain steel ring, black scale armor, galloping in the van.
Village farmers, merchants, petty Lords lifted their heads, jostling for a glimpse of the Silver Prince's smile and splendor.
"After all these years, I still remember Granny telling me of good King Jaehaerys and his gentle queen touring the Vale," said an older farmer.
Royal progresses are both a prerogative and a bond; folk prefer facing a true dragon to the cold Iron Throne.
In the Dance of the Dragons many Riverlanders fought for the queen, still fondly remembering young Queen Rhaenyra's earlier tour—how much she recalled of them was another matter.
Smallfolk, Lords and knights offered fruit, grain and meat to show love for the prince and the Dragonlords.
Some fanatics even begged Prince Rhaegar's blessing—how the title "Lucky Rhaegar" spread no one knew. Barristan turned them all away.
Certain gifts Rhaegar forbade—pretty maids or daughters among them.
Yet if his guardsmen sought marriages, he gladly let Brynden and others arrange them, provided the soldiers' parents consented.
Such a host was too great for lesser Lords. The party stayed with greater Arryn vassals, sometimes with petty Lords, knights or commoners—though folk could seldom lodge so many, and nights under stars were common.
Rhaegar took no offense, nor did his men complain.
He left honor and legend for Lords, and coin for smallfolk.
A handsome, approachable, and charming Targaryen.
His Vale tour nearly done, after calling on every great and petty lord he would sail to Dragonstone's Dragonmount to try waking the dragon nests.
The Vale's last stop was the Runic City, seat of House Royce.
Besides House Arryn, two Vale houses stood out in Rhaegar's mind: House Corbray and House Royce.
House Royce styled itself the Bronze Kings, ancient and powerful among Arryn bannermen.
House Corbray, though fading, still possessed long history—and their family blade Lady Forlorn, a Valyrian steel sword.
Only these three houses had wed with the Dragonlords, an honor both proud and bitter.
At sight of Rhaegar's horsemen Lord Royce beamed.
The coming of a true dragon was glory indeed.
Lord Royce had already sent his heir Yohn to the Eagle Guards—tall, strong, a model warrior.
After weeks on progress he had learned the prince's tastes.
Rhaegar excelled in arms yet scorned tourneys, loved travel but not luxury—much like his forebear Aegon the Conqueror.
He asked no fine fare, only clean food and clean beds; barley beef, roast goose or steak pleased him equally, but heavy spices he disliked.
His passion was relics and treasures; it was said he adored ancient ruins and heirlooms, especially family keepsakes. At Heart's Home he had studied Lady Forlorn for hours.
Lord Royce welcomed him into Runestone.
Rhaegar watched the lord walk proud just ahead, recounting Runestone and Royce history—how they had once been Bronze Kings until the winged knights cast them down.
In truth, House Royce had once endured a bitter marriage alliance with Prince Daemon Targaryen, Rhaegar's forebear—perhaps it had never been a good match.
Rhaegar studied Runestone, sensing something different from other Vale strongholds—older, more resonant.
The Royces were one of the very few Vale houses of First Men blood, and they had once been kings.
Rhaegar caught sight of the banners again; the sigil of Runestone was odd—pebbles between two rows of runes on an orange field.
Do those runes still work? he wondered privately.
Whatever outsiders said, the Royces remained devoutly attached to their Bronze Armor.
A great house could easily host Rhaegar's modest three-hundred-man escort.
After much wine and food, Lord Royce grew drunk and exuberant.
He dragged Rhaegar off to the Bronze Gallery, where suits of Bronze Armor stood in rows, each engraved with identical protective runes.
This was the moment Rhaegar had waited for—time to explore, and perhaps find something intriguing.
The armor exuded history, as though carved out of the river of time; the runes made it feel ancient. The oldest piece, millennia old, was treated with reverence by Lord Royce.
Yet it seemed of little use—Rhaegar had heard those suits had not spared the Royces many beatings.
"My lord, may I touch them up close?" Rhaegar asked.
"Of course, Your Grace!" Lord Royce replied.
Rhaegar studied the armor, running his hands over it; he itched to test it with a blade and see if any magic remained.
The runes were short and strange—perhaps mere faint glyphs—he could not guess their purpose.
"As you see, prince, we Royces once boasted three treasures: the Bronze Armor, our Valyrian steel sword Lamentation, and one more," Lord Royce said.
"One more?" Rhaegar knew Lamentation had vanished in King's Landing during the Dance of the Dragons; the Royces still searched for it in vain.
The loss of Valyrian steel swords was a grief the Targaryens shared with Royce and even Lannister; House Targaryen's own blades, Blackfyre and Dark Sister, were also gone—proof, in a way, of dwindling royal power.
Lord Royce was a Vale warrior, blunt and honest; he would not lie about the third treasure.
With theatrical secrecy he led Rhaegar to the gallery's end and drew a small casket from a hollow in the wall.
Rhaegar's eyes lit up: a crown—how had the Royces kept it all these years?
The simple bronze circlet bore the same runes, with no gold or gems—only glyphs—yet it radiated a stark, arcane allure.
Rhaegar studied the almost polished surface, handling it with care.
Then he noticed his tree of life template shift: (Explorer: You have encountered a great creation of the First Men; your vital flame burns hot enough to ignite the "Shield" rune!)
Before his eyes the runes danced, rearranging themselves into a Bronze Shield that stood before him.
He felt the shield sink into his body; when danger came, the Bronze Shield would rise to protect him.
So the runic armor and crown were potent—yet later generations had lost the knack of using them.
(Achievement: Rune-Binder: Blood of Fire awakened—summon and wield runes.)
Another grand discovery; the Vale trip had not been wasted.
There was an earlier achievement, gained from Lady Forlorn: (Achievement: Path of Precision—Lady Forlorn, sword of slaughter, sharpens strike accuracy.)
Rhaegar still thought of Lady Forlorn; Valyrian steel was extraordinary—keen, bright, lighter than common steel, almost cheating in a fight. Had the dragon-kings not fallen, he would still have Blackfyre and Dark Sister—why envy another house's blade?
And Lady Forlorn had not let him handle her for nothing—Lyn Corbray had been foisted on him as well.
Rhaegar recalled the Stark Winter Crown—surely greater, also of bronze but with nine black-iron spikes shaped as sword blades. It too bore runes, yet after the King Who Knelt surrendered it to Aegon the Conqueror it vanished, perhaps melted down.
Rhaegar felt his body's vitality—never had it been so sublime.
The eagle god's blessing granted foresight; the Bronze Shield could avert close harm, while the Fountain of Youth kept vigor and warded off poison and disease—he was practically a Targaryen mutant, a true fire-dragon king.
Perhaps it was time to go to Dragonstone and hatch the dragon eggs.
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