Chapter 70: Dance of the Dragons
In the chill dawn, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's fleet arrived at Dragonstone through the biting cold.
This outermost outpost of Valyria was the birthplace of House Targaryen.
Dragonstone is the hereditary seat of the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne; since the dragons died, few had spared the island a thought.
Rhaegar found Dragonstone unmistakable: from the sea its smoking volcano was the island's emblem.
He smelled brine in the air, smoke and sulfur thick on the tongue—harsh to men, but bliss to dragons. Aegon I Targaryen, the Conqueror, had loved that scent, they say, when King's Landing was still a fishing village.
Lonely at sea, ringed by storms and foul waters, the island loomed beneath its volcanic shadow as if nothing else existed. With the dragons gone, Dragonstone itself seemed to sleep.
Rhaegar disembarked with his men and saw only desolation and want.
The outer isles were jagged stone and thin of folk. The Castellan of Dragonstone came with a handful of petty lords to greet the prince, but their number was paltry. The castle's maester had died some time ago and no replacement had been sent, for the Prince of Dragonstone seldom visited and the realm had all but forgotten the island.
Without dragons the isle reverted to its poor, cramped self, offering little of shine. The land was too small to raise hosts. Yet the fisherfolk still cast their nets, and warships and cogs still moored at the quay, so Dragonstone kept a shred of its old standing.
Rhaegar had come in secret; beyond the castellan and the island's petty lords, neither House Celtigar nor House Velaryon had word of his arrival.
The prince ordered his battle banner furled and tucked his silver hair beneath a hood; while Dragonstone still slumbered, they slipped ashore.
Valyrian traces were everywhere: countless gargoyles, a castle whose every line spoke of dragons, impossible to ignore even had he wished.
Stone Drum, the island's main keep, earned its name when storms struck and ancient walls boomed like drums. Beneath it the dungeons sweltered, dank and hot, and rumor claimed their hidden stairs reached clear into Dragonmont's heart. A high arched stone bridge leapt from Stone Drum to the dungeon tower.
But Rhaegar did not linger; he had a better destination. With Ser Barristan Selmy and Cesar he rode for the eastern flank of Dragonmont. At the prince's command the castellan had found the surest guide to lead them into the mountain.
Rhaegar had chosen his spot: the lair of the Glutton on Dragonmont's eastern slope.
During the Dance of the Dragons, six beasts had nested in the smoking caverns of the mountain; fiercest and eldest of the wild dragons, the Glutton claimed the highest and best lair.
That wild wyrm was savage beyond measure, tyrant of Dragonstone. It devoured its own dead, swooped into nests to feast on eggs and whelps alike, and bowed to no rider, too proud and terrible to tame.
Though the guide kept his silence, the sight of the prince left him stunned; the smallfolk of Dragonstone worshipped the Targaryens as gods.
Rhaegar reflected that, with Dragonstone as Targaryen ground, these fisherfolk and sailors might be the most loyal troops he could find.
As he climbed Dragonmont the air grew hotter, the reek of sulfur stronger; the stony path twisted cruelly, each step a torment.
Dragonmont still lived: pale and grey vapors hissed from its crater without cease.
Near the Glutton's cave the heat and stench of brimstone became choking.
"We're here, Your Grace!" the guide gasped, pointing at a black maw in the rock, too spent to go farther.
Blistering heat, smoke, and sulfur rolled out together; the very air forbade entry.
"Your Grace, this place is perilous—let us turn back," Ser Barristan urged.
"Ser, I only mean to look." Ignoring the knight, Rhaegar strode into the lightless throat of stone.
From Cesar he took two flasks of fresh blood.
The two new dead were hapless pirate kings of the Stepstones; even a Flea King was still a king, though results remained to be seen. Those pirates cut one another's throats over pretty boys and girls, demanding travelers hand over comely youths for sale to Lysene brothels or pay huge ransoms in gold—infamous across the Narrow Sea.
Rhaegar had tasked Roken, formerly of the City Watch of King's Landing: in Flea Bottom such cutthroats were easily bought. Clients' whims might be strange, but nothing too outlandish. Across the Narrow Sea pirate lords swarmed, ever eager to duel and slaughter; promise rich reward and blades came running.
The air grew scorching and thin; each breath felt like fire in the lungs. Ser Barristan and Cesar halted halfway, watching the prince press on, their chests burning from the sulfurous heat.
Rhaegar ventured into the deepest part of the Glutton's cavern, finding only splinters of dragon bone and no trace of the old wyrm that had once ravaged the eastern slopes of Dragonmont before vanishing without a word.
The Glutton had, one might say, lived a life of luxury—siring clutches of eggs and plenty of dragon flesh, evading the Dance of the Dragons, and never suffering a foe bold enough to challenge him.
Rhaegar set the Heart of Fire dragon nest inside the Glutton's cave, and once he was back on Dragonstone the heart-stone began to warm by slow degrees.
Here, crimson as fresh blood, the Heart of Fire blazed; beads of sweat dripped from Rhaegar's skin.
He produced the Purple Dragon Nest and laid two dragon eggs within it.
"Feed on the flames," he thought. "There can be no better cradle in all the world for your hatching."
Rhaegar stared at the Heart of Fire and the twin eggs—blood, fire, life—willing them to awaken.
The heat felt like a hammer of molten steel, ready to tear him apart; sweat coursed down his chest and thighs.
Yet he had swallowed many fire-seeds and his body was strong, so he endured the torment unbending.
The Heart of Fire burned scarlet, but the eggs lay silent; even the Purple Nest glowed red-hot, iron fresh from the forge, the colour climbing toward madness.
"What in the Seven Hells?" Rhaegar gaped—where were the dragons the ritual promised?
He could not watch nest and eggs perish together, so he stepped forward.
He reached out and touched the nest—only searing heat answered.
In the next instant fire erupted from the gem, engulfing nest, eggs, and Rhaegar himself.
Rolling flames roared up; helpless frustration gripped him.
"No—I'm here to hatch eggs, not be baked!" he tried to shout, but fiery serpents devoured the words as wings of orange and crimson flared higher.
Sweat streamed down his face; his fine robes blazed, silver hair shrivelling to ash.
Crimson lions, golden serpents, pale unicorns, fish, foxes, wolves, birds, flowering trees, and monsters—one vision stranger and lovelier than the last—until the fire coalesced into a three-headed dragon urging him onward.
Even the cavern walls melted; around the nest a molten sea swirled, stone itself aflame at such heat.
A slab of black cliff crashed down, spilling forth a black-red egg—perhaps one the Glutton had stolen and never finished.
But Rhaegar lacked the strength to rise; the fire beat, kneaded, and tempered him like steel.
Where was the Fountain of Youth, the eagle god, the Bronze Shield? Someone, help me!
Half-delirious, he remembered the fire-seeds he had swallowed.
The Spring still bubbled, the eagle god watched with wide eyes, the Bronze Shield guarded every fibre of his life.
Yet none intervened; sparks and omens vanished, leaving him alone in the crucible as flame licked across his flesh.
"If I am a true dragon—son, father, king of dragons—I must endure."
Towering fire surged like an angry tide; Rhaegar clung to the nest, a lone skiff upon a burning ocean, daring not retreat.
At last the eggs cracked, and tiny shapes tumbled out like chicks from shells.
When the inferno finally ebbed, a dazed Rhaegar found himself naked, his robes ash, his silver hair gone—yet his body whole.
He groped downward in panic—thank the gods, still there.
Three small dragons kept him company: one on each shoulder and a third circling above his head.
Eggs were dear as rubies; living wyrmlings were beyond price.
"I'll guard you, my treasures."
The black-and-scarlet hatchling, glossy obsidian scales veined with crimson, perched on his left shoulder, eyes glowing red as embers.
The deep-purple wyrm bore copper-bright talons, crest, and belly scales, even its irises purple as twilight.
The silver hatchling rode his crown; the others tried to jostle it off, yet proved no match.
Larger than its kin, the silver dragon boasted dazzling silver scales, pale-gold wing membranes, and golden pupils—an emperor alone upon its high throne.
All three were creatures of breathtaking splendour.
From nose and mouth they puffed wisps of white smoke, then lifted their heads and roared.
For the first time in a hundred years, dragonkind sang together, their voices echoing to the heavens.
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