Rhaegar felt as if he had become a celestial eye, watching the world below with cold, dispassionate detachment.
The Rhoynar town had long since turned to ash; only heartless birds remained, mocking the spring breeze with their song.
Yet when they returned to their nests, they found nothing but cinders.
If heaven had feelings, it too would grow old with grief.
Ogo and his sister led their twenty true dragons toward the main Valyrian host.
They cut across the sky, spanning the great river.
Mother Rhoyne was vast and boundless, her waters woven like a net; the Rhoynar were masters of water magic. The conflict between Valyria and the Rhoynar was a war of fire against water.
Dragonlords and water wizards would decide who lived and who died.
Wherever the dragons of House Belaerys passed, Rhoynar towns burned, and their people were slaughtered.
Yet many towns were already empty; the inhabitants had either fled or marched to join Prince Garin's army.
In Rhaegar's eyes, these Valyrian ancestors were indeed defined by cruelty and barbarism.
Brutal, cold, blasphemous, scorning all restraint, it was no wonder the dragonlords eventually met divine retribution.
Dragonlord Ogo rode a purple leviathan. Rhaegar noted that this heir to a great clan controlled his mount through binding curses and a magic horn.
"Mind Rune!" "Motion Rune!" "Stillness Rune!" "Confinement Rune!"
The Mind Rune allowed man and dragon to dance as one; it was a soul pact, granting a telepathic bond. Through it, a rider could better soothe, understand, and command the beast.
The flaw lay in time: dragons outlived men. When a rider died, the dragon remained, and forging a new soul pact with an adult beast was far harder than bonding with a hatchling.
The Motion Rune was like fire; it drove the dragon, flight, maneuver, attack, retreat, landing, governing every physical action.
It granted the dragon finer control in battle, heightening its sense of flame and force, ensuring swift escape when needed.
The Stillness Rune was like water, calming the dragon, rendering it docile.
Dragons possessed high intelligence, but once enraged, they were nearly impossible to control. Quelling their fury was the surest way to protect the rider.
The Confinement Rune was the most reckless; once cast, the dragon would descend into a frenzy, burning its own life force to destroy everything in its path, a spell of mutual destruction.
Beyond the runes, there was the magic horn. It glowed with a dim, ominous light, its veins streaked with red gold and Valyrian steel. With the horn, the strength required to command a dragon was far less.
Compared to the refined arts of House Belaerys, the Targaryen method of dragon-taming was crude, relying on the potency of their dragon blood rather than masterful technique.
"A true dragonlord commands his army with binding spells and magic horns, mastering the sorcery of fire and blood. The clumsy tricks of families like the Targaryens are unworthy of the name," Ogo declared proudly.
He flew at the vanguard on his purple dragon, his wife soaring beside him.
"True dragons do not fear the spray of water; this will be our final battle with the Rhoynar. The Dragon Council has summoned three hundred dragons. We have gathered our mightiest warriors, though some must remain behind to keep the slaves in line," Oris said.
"Yes. We will soon join the others. I have prepared a golden cage for Prince Garin. He defeated a mere three dragons; now let him face the wrath of three hundred," Ogo roared. He blew the dragon horn, signaling the riders to increase speed.
...
The Rhoyne surged endlessly; Rhoynar water wizards summoned great pillars of water to strike at the dragons, and the river had already swallowed the battlefield town of Volon Therys.
The armies of the Rhoynar and Valyria faced each other across the distance.
The Rhoynar raised banners painted with great fish, turtles, and river waves.
The Valyrian banners were a riot of dragons and flames.
Their clash would decide the fate of the civilizations of fire and water.
The Valyrian army and the Volantene auxiliaries had constructed a fortress, awaiting the arrival of the dragonlords.
The land near the Rhoyne was flat; the dragonlords had chosen a low ridge for their camp.
Dragons preferred height and heat; their masters had to accommodate the beasts.
Purple, gold, blue, white, red, it seemed as if every known color of dragon in the world had gathered here.
Rhaegar felt dizzy at the sight; if these three hundred beasts still existed, any force in his time would be utterly annihilated.
Yet every house had its favored hue; House Belaerys preferred purple, while others favored gold, blue, or white.
Using magic, the dragonlords melted the earth into black walls and towers, casting a dark encampment from the soil itself.
Night fell; before the great battle, the revelry of the dragonlords began.
Inside the camp, jewels, furs, tapestries, ivory, and Valyrian steel shone like a glittering sea. The scent of perfume and blood clung to the lords.
The camp was filled with silver-haired, purple-eyed dragonlords, men and women alike, each bearing a different sigil.
Most were tall, powerful, and bursting with energy, radiating vitality.
Every lord vied to outshine the rest; peacock feathers, ivory ornaments, and crystals were deemed too common to matter.
Valyrian steel swords, spears, and bows lay scattered everywhere, a river of lethal power.
Valyria ruled the world; it was the most extravagant empire on earth.
These three hundred wore all manner of garb and trinkets, but the most common sights were Valyrian bronze rings on their fingers and glittering circlets in their hair.
The innate arrogance of the dragonlords remained constant, their pride in Valyria's dominion growing with every passing day.
No one took Prince Garin seriously, what could water tricks do against three hundred dragons?
Colorful tents rose from the ground, flags bearing strange Valyrian glyphs that boasted of history, lineage, or rank.
Rhaegar felt his blood boil when he recognized his own ancestor.
Beneath the dragon banner of House Targaryen stood a young silver-haired man, handsome but seemingly shy, attended by only a few followers, with no shining ornaments on his person.
The most dazzling sight was the Purple Pavilion, lit like a starry night. The purple dragon banner burned bright, and there Ogo and his wife hosted the heirs and lords of the great clans.
Delicacies, song, and dance filled the air. Ogo's Valyrian steel sword hung behind his seat, a blade born from a purple dragon's maw, shining with blinding light.
Servants from Volantis had prepared the finest food and wine, while others fed the dragons.
The fragrance of wine, the aroma of baking bread, the scent of roasting leg of lamb...
The main course, of course, was a delicious roasted fish, once a river god of the Rhoynar tribes, now served on a platter to the dragonlords.
"Poor Daemon, does your clan still believe in those strange dreams?" Ogo spoke up, and the gathered dragonlords burst into laughter.
They measured status by dragon numbers and magic; House Targaryen, with few dragons and only the magic of dragon dreams, was a laughingstock.
Daemon Targaryen's face flushed red, but he dared not speak back.
The Council of Dragonlords was like a banquet of wolves; no one imagined this weak family would outlive them all. Weakness, sometimes, was a disguise.
"Understandable, our poor Daemon knows nothing of binding curses or horns, only dreams," they mocked him, peals of merry laughter ringing out.
Rhaegar watched the scene, his gaze fixed on this ancestor.
The dragonlords fought for supremacy with cruelty and blood; for House Targaryen to survive among them was no small feat.
Diligence and humility would allow a dynasty to endure.
In the end, only House Targaryen remained as the last of the dragonlords.
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