Rhaegar seemed to have become the eye of heaven, watching the unfolding events on the earth without pity.
The towns of the rhoynar had already been reduced to ash; only the heartless birds still mocked the spring breeze.
Yet when they returned, they could no longer find their nests.
If heaven had feelings, it too would grow old.
The Augusto Siblings led twenty true dragons toward the main Valyrian host.
They swept across the sky, crossing the great river.
The Rhoyne was wide and boundless, its waters tangled like a net; the rhoynar excelled at Water Magic. The clash between Valyria and the rhoynar was also a duel of water and fire.
Dragonlord and water-mage would decide life and death.
Wherever the Baelarys dragons passed, Rhoynish towns were incinerated and their people exterminated.
Many towns, however, were already deserted; the inhabitants had either fled or joined Prince Gaelen's host.
Through Rhaegar's eyes, these Valyrian forebears were indeed famed for cruelty and savagery.
Ruthless, cold, blasphemous, contemptuous of all—no wonder the Dragonlords were later struck down by heaven's wrath.
Dragonlord Augo rode a Purple Dragon; Rhaegar had noticed that the heir of the premier Dragonlord clan controlled his mount through Binding Curses and a magical horn.
"Mind Rune!" "Motion Rune!" "Stillness Rune!" "Ban Rune!"
The Mind Rune allows man and dragon to dance together; it is a soul-contract, granting a telepathic bond. One can better soothe, understand, and control the dragon.
The drawback: dragons outlive men. When the rider dies the dragon remains, and re-forging the soul-contract is harder than with a wyrmling.
The Motion Rune is like fire; it sets the dragon in motion—flight, maneuver, attack, retreat, landing—mastering every movement.
It grants finer control in battle, letting the dragon gauge flame and force, and ensures swifter escape when needed.
The Stillness Rune is like water, calming the dragon, making it docile and serene.
Dragons are highly intelligent, but once enraged they become almost uncontrollable.
Quelling their fury better protects the Dragonrider.
The Ban Rune is the most reckless; once cast, the dragon plunges into berserk rage, burning its life to crush all before it—a self-destruction.
Besides runes, there is the magical horn. It glints darkly, veined with red gold and valyrian steel. Controlling dragons through a horn demands far less effort.
Compared with Baelarys sophistication, Targaryen dragon-craft is crude, relying only on strong dragon-blood rather than refined technique.
"A true Dragonlord commands with Binding Curses and magical horns, masters fire-magic and blood-magic. Crude tricks like the Targaryens' do not deserve the name." Augo declared proudly.
Augo guided the Purple Dragon at the fore, his wife flying beside him.
"true dragons do not fear spray; this will be our final battle with the rhoynar. The Dragonlord Conclave has summoned three hundred dragons. We've mustered our strongest, yet some must stay behind to keep the slaves in check," said Alys.
"Yes, we'll join the others soon. I've prepared a golden cage for Prince Gaelen. He only bested the Three-Headed Dragon; now he faces the fury of three hundred." Augo roared, sounded the dragon horn, and signaled the Dragonriders to hasten… The Rhoyne rolled on; the rhoynar summoned water-spouts against the dragons, and the river had already swallowed the battlefield town of Velosenthis.
The hosts of the rhoynar and Valyria faced each other across the distance.
The rhoynar raised banners of great fish, turtles, and river waves.
Valyrian banners bore every sort of dragon and flame.
Their clash would decide the fate of fire-civilization and water-civilization.
Valyrian forces, along with Volantene auxiliaries, had raised strongholds and awaited the Dragonlords.
Near the Rhoyne the land was flat; the Dragonlords chose a low ridge for their camp.
Dragons love height and flame; their lords must treat their partners well.
Purple, gold, blue, white, red—perhaps every known dragon in the world was gathered here.
Rhaegar's head spun; had this host of three hundred remained, any power would have been obliterated.
Yet each house favored its own hues; Baelarys preferred purple, others gold, blue or white.
The Dragonlords worked spells, fusing earth into black walls and towers, forging a dark encampment.
Night fell; before the great battle, the Dragonlords' revels would begin.
Inside the camp a sea of jewels, furs, tapestries, ivory and valyrian steel glittered. Perfume and the scent of blood clung to the lords.
Silver-haired, violet-eyed Dragonlords filled the camp, men and women alike, each bearing different sigils.
Most were tall, strong and vigorous, radiating vitality.
Every lord vied to outshine the rest; peacock plumes, ivory baubles, crystal seemed worthless.
valyrian steel swords, lances and bows lay everywhere, a flowing river of power.
Valyria ruled the world, the most lavish empire on earth.
The three hundred wore varied garb and ornaments, but Valyrian bronze rings in their hair and tiny crowns gleamed most common.
Unchanged was the innate hauteur of Dragonlords, pride in Valyria's dominion over all.
None took Prince Gaelen seriously—what could Water Magic tricks do against three hundred dragons?
Tents of every color rose, strange Valyrian glyphs on fluttering banners boasting history, bloodlines, or rank.
Rhaegar felt his blood stir as he recognized an ancestor.
Beneath the Targaryen dragon-banner stood a young silver-haired man, handsome yet timid, with few attendants and no glittering ornaments.
Most dazzling was the purple pavilion, star-bright. Around the Purple Dragon standard ablaze with fire, Augo and his wife entertained heirs and sovereigns of every great clan.
Fine fare, song and dance. Augo's valyrian steel blade hung behind his seat, a sword birthed from the Purple Dragon's maw, shining resplendent.
Volantene lackeys had prepared choice food and wine, and others were already feeding the dragons.
Fragrant wine, the smell of toasted bread, roast lamb legs…
The main dish, of course, was a great roasted fish—once the river-god of a rhoynar tribe, now served to Dragonlords.
"Poor Daemon, does your clan still trust those odd dreams?" Augo began, and every Dragonlord burst into laughter.
They measured status by dragon-count and magic; House Targaryen, with few dragons and only Dragon Dreams for sorcery, was the butt of scorn.
Daemon Targaryen flushed crimson but dared say little.
Dragonlord councils were like servant banquets; none suspected that this weak house would outlast them all—weakness, at times, is camouflage.
"Understandable—our poor Daemon knows nothing of Binding Curses or horns, only those dreams," rang merry laughter as they mocked him freely.
Rhaegar watched the scene, gazing at this forebear.
Dragonlords fought for supremacy with cruelty and blood; the Targaryen survival was no small feat.
Diligence and humility would carry the dynasty on.
In the end, the Targaryens alone would remain the last Dragonlords.