Harrenhal stands on the shore of a vast blue lake—the lifework of Harren the Black, the mightiest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms.
Unlike Casterly Rock or The Eyrie, it boasts no natural defenses; rising sheer from flat ground, its very scale proclaims both the monstrous labor and the cruelty of Harren the Black.
Below Harrenhal lie endless rivers of common blood, the tears and lives of the enslaved, Rhaegar reflected.
Upon the gatehouse he saw two banners: the yellow field with nine black bats of House Hoare beside the red-and-black dragon of House Targaryen. The bat standard always stirred thoughts of darkness and sorcery; House Rosby had been exterminated for dabbling in black magic, and Rhaegar wondered whether Hoare blood ran in their veins.
Duke Hoster and Lord Walder escorted Rhaegar inside with warm zeal; in peacetime, welcoming a true Dragon Prince was counted an honor.
The Hoare children were comely enough, yet beside Prince Rhaegar, Lord Walder felt the gulf: reeds beside a jade tree. Still, he reminded himself this was the realm's only Silver Prince; any child who could keep pace, even faintly, had promise.
All three of Rhaegar's dragons loathed Harrenhal's air and frolicked instead above Gods Eye Lake. Though the fishers had been warned away, some bold souls still cast their nets; at the sight of the winged terrors they fled in terror.
Linked by chains of blood and fire, Rhaegar sensed each dragon's place and mood; beast and master mirrored one another, and the young wyrms did not stray.
Walking Harrenhal, Rhaegar felt chiefly its immensity: walls, yards, towers, chambers—everything oversized, as though built for giants.
Vast and broad, Harrenhal's ramparts rise like sheer cliffs; five towers stand like five colossal sentinels. Even under Hoare rule, much lies crumbling and forlorn.
Two hundred strong, Rhaegar's party slipped inside like a leaf upon the sea—no ripple made. To garrison the castle fully would need two or three thousand men at least.
Rhaegar saw the gatehouse stones cracked and bleached, ghastly; each tower looked stranger and more twisted than the last, bearing scars of Balerion's fury.
Lord Walder eagerly led the way; of all Harrenhal, only Kingsfyr Tower and Widow's Tower stood well repaired. Kingsfyr, tallest and greatest, served as Walder's own seat.
Rhaegar thought Kingsfyr leaned; melted rock, warped by the Black Dread's flames, pressed it sideways like a vast half-melted black candle.
Yet Lord Walder brimmed with pride, feting the prince to display Hoare wealth and power.
The great feast unfolded in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths—though Rhaegar counted barely thirty. Flagstones paved the floor; twin stairways rose to galleries. The hall soared, fit for kings alone.
Along the long tables, ten suckling pigs—golden, crisp, each mouth stuffed with fruit—took pride of place, followed by roast beef, baked river-fish, honey cakes, pea pudding, and apples baked with yellow cheese. A banquet truly fit for monarchs.
Music struck up, sweet notes that beguiled the ear. Knowing the prince's gift for the harp, Lord Walder dared not invite him to perform.
Nor did Rhaegar neglect his dragons; on the lakeshore Lord Walder had cattle slaughtered. Though the wyrms sometimes fished for sport, they preferred red meat in plenty.
Center of every gaze stood the Targaryen prince: silver-haired, violet-eyed, his glance bright as a sun-kissed blade. Rhaegar was no mortal man; he bore the blood of Old Valyria, of dragons and gods.
Ladies and maids swooned over his easy grace—so poised, so handsome. None would forget the moment he leapt from Silverwing: the prince of legend. Yet dalliance felt impossible; the prince moved among the highest—granddaughters of Hands, daughters of dukes, even the Archon's girl of Tyrosh. Only if he followed Aegon the Unworthy's path, rutting everywhere until the pox claimed him, might they hope for more.
With bellies full, the men turned again to war: the coming clash in the Stepstones, focus of all the Seven Kingdoms.
Duke Hoster and his younger brother had eased their rift; even if Ser Brynden would never admit it aloud, his heart still lingered on Riverrun and the newborn niece. Watching Brynden's face, Rhaegar guessed the knight would soon need a very long leave.
Rhaegar, Duke Hoster, and Lord Walder spoke of the Stepstones, where war-fires would soon blaze. The host would be led by Lord Tywin, Crown Prince Aerys, Ser Steffon, and others.
Ser Oswell itched to join them, eager for glory on the battlefield. Knights of Westeros never lack passion for war; at the feast many already burned to crush the damned Lysene pirates.
Another task had brought Rhaegar to the Riverlands—levying troops. With House Tully and House Hoare behind him, it proved easy work.
Night grew deep, and Rhaegar activated the Bronze Dragon-King Ring.
Flame danced round his fingers; the deeper the ring probed, the fiercer the need for the Blood of Fire.
Rhaegar's Blood of Fire had strengthened greatly, letting him peel back another layer of the Bronze Ring.
He saw a spear pinned beneath a long scroll.
"Dragon-taming Album, Mind Rune?" Rhaegar exulted. The Bronze Treasure-Ring might not hold the four great Baelarys compendia—Dragonica, Ignica, Bellatrix, Artificia—those sets were too priceless and vast.
Yet this Dragon-taming Album was help enough. He skimmed the pages, especially the Mind Rune; with it, the Binding Curse's Motion, Stillness, and Sealing Sigils could wait.
Dragon age, habits, taming steps, mind sigils, basic combat drills.
Rhaegar read that dragons love fire and smoke; in Old Valyria's Fourteen Flames, men once dug eggs from the volcanoes.
The silver-haired Dragon-King set the egg in a violet hollow. Flame wreathed his hands as he urged the nest. He rears, guards, and first mounts the wyrm skyward, rousing it with fearless fire. Only when man and beast know each other can the sigil be sealed.
Dragon and rider soar—now skimming mountains, now skiving seas, now perching on high towers—till the wyrm ages and can no longer fly.
A dragon's span is roughly two centuries, in fifty-year stages; finer divisions yield subtler grades.
Size and speed seldom balance: small wyrms are swift yet breathe weak fire and spook easily; large ones are slow but burn fierce. Rhaegar mused, for now he must choose a small, fast dragon—fast lance, fast horse. Use lies in the mind.
In dreams Rhaegar had seen Augo Baelarys crush the rhoynar people and read Jenniara Baelarys's memoirs, but such clear taming craft was rare fortune indeed.
By blood and fire man forges the mind-pact, guiding the dragon with ease.
He rolled the album and took up the spear—longer than common lances and dazzling.
The butt showed a snarling black wyrm; the haft smoked dark; the blade jutted from a purple-gold dragon maw, rippled red and black; the eyes were violet gems.
Ancient, noble, light yet lethal—valyrian steel, keen and gorgeous.
A weapon of war: each added inch lends power. This lance was wrought of valyrian steel.
Explorer: Congratulations—you have uncovered a mighty relic of House Baelarys, the Old Valyrian Spear, true dragon.
The spear belongs to the true dragon House Baelarys, cast in valyrian steel.
Valyrian blades are usually longswords; rarer still are curved sabres, axes, daggers. A lance of the steel is lavish beyond measure.
Though not a valyrian longsword, Rhaegar was delighted—valyrian spears are rarer still. He had no thought of melting it; the lance would stay, while Blackfyre would still be reclaimed.
Rhaegar raised the spear and worked through a few forms.
The true dragon spear steps from history, hungry for glory, hot blood, and heroic tales.