The massive body of Vermithor was plated in thick bronze-colored scales. Even with his wings folded, the great brown membranes stretched for dozens of meters. His spiked neck swayed slowly from side to side as enormous millstone-sized eyes scanned the surroundings with wary vigilance.
His lips curled slightly, revealing rows of long fangs, every movement suggesting he might unleash dragonfire at any moment.
Behind him came the pale green dragon Silverwing, far less domineering. She followed calmly in his wake, showing no interest in asserting territory.
Silverwing's size was close to that of Dreamfyre. From snout to tail she was barely half the length of Vermithor beside her. The spines along her body were shorter, and the horns crowning her head were small, curving backward in a delicate ring behind her crest.
Her pale green scales looked muted beneath the gray winter sky, yet the silver sheen of her wings glimmered brilliantly even in the dim light.
The dragons had only just finished their flight, and their bodies radiated tremendous heat. Rain and drifting snow struck their scales and instantly evaporated, shrouding both dragons in a thin veil of steam.
In the four years since arriving at Harrenhal, Rhaegar had accompanied his grandmother to King's Landing for the celebrations marking the births of two princes, and had also visited Dragonstone several times.
During those occasions, however, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had always been occupied receiving guests.
Rhaegar had never seen Vermithor or Silverwing before.
This was the first time he had ever stood before two dragons.
Animals with intelligence inevitably absorb the temperament of the humans around them.
People often say dogs grow bold when backed by their masters.
Dragons were creatures far more intelligent, and far more magical, than dogs. Their personalities also changed with the influence of their riders.
Rhaena had endured war, the loss of her husband, and the betrayal of a former lover. Weary of power struggles, she had withdrawn to Harrenhal to live far from politics.
Her dragon Dreamfyre reflected that temperament. Except when feeding, the dragon usually remained perched quietly atop her tower.
Queen Alysanne, gentle and compassionate by nature, had passed the same calm disposition to Silverwing. The dragon avoided conflict with others and never fought over prey when fed live animals. Even when flying abroad, she seemed utterly uninterested in dominance or rivalry.
From Rhaegar's past experience raising dogs, he drew a rather different conclusion about Vermithor.
If the dragon constantly looked like a furious war-beast, earning the name the Bronze Fury, then perhaps the reason was simple:
Though King Jaehaerys appeared calm and courteous on the surface, beneath that restraint likely lurked a deeply violent temper kept in check by reason.
A dragon would acknowledge only one rider at a time.
No other person could mount its back unless the dragonrider personally allowed it.
From the saddles on the dragons' backs, two rope ladders were lowered.
The king and queen descended first, each accompanied by a personal guard.
Behind them came four children.
Six people in total slowly approached.
"Your Grace!"
The royal couple had flown ahead so quickly that even mounted knights could not keep pace. Without royal banners or ceremony, their arrival was greeted only by the unified voices of those waiting.
At twenty-six, King Jaehaerys was tall and strikingly handsome. His silver hair was trimmed in the fashionable ear-length style popular in King's Landing. Over a black riding outfit he wore a fur-collared cloak, and at his waist hung the ancestral blade Blackfyre.
Jaehaerys placed a hand on Lord Towers' shoulder.
"How fares your health, Lord Towers?"
"Very well! Very well!" the young lord replied eagerly.
The king's greeting seemed to erase his earlier weakness. His back straightened proudly at once.
"Rhaegar has grown quite a bit."
Jaehaerys only glanced briefly at the boy. Without waiting for a reply, he walked past Rhaena.
"Let us speak inside the castle. It's cold out here."
Queen Alysanne stepped forward and gently took both Jaehaerys and Rhaena by the hands, guiding them toward the castle.
The three of them were siblings of the same father and mother. After exchanging the formal courtesies required by rank, they soon slipped into ordinary family conversation.
Meanwhile, the king's eldest son approached Rhaegar.
The white-haired boy, Prince Aemon, noticed Rhaegar's arms trapped helplessly inside his heavy winter clothes. Grinning wickedly, he spread his arms.
"Well, well. Look at that, my dear grand-nephew! you finally got what you deserve!"
Rhaegar was half a head shorter and barely able to move.
So he simply leaned forward and pushed his bundled hands into Aemon's stomach.
"Ha! Dear grand-uncle, is it? Just wait until I get inside and take these clothes off!"
Aemon refused to yield. He leaned sideways into Rhaegar, the two boys pushing against each other as they slowly shuffled toward Harrenhal's gate.
Tilting his head smugly, Aemon declared,
"I can write my own name!"
Rhaegar pressed his shoulder harder against him.
"I can eat three eggs in one sitting."
Aemon suddenly jumped topics.
"Can you still catch rats and roast them at night?"
"There are no rats in Harrenhal!" Rhaegar said confidently.
The four children accompanying the king were:
Boremund Baratheon, eight years old
His six-year-old sister Jocelyn Baratheon
Prince Aemon Targaryen, five
And Prince Baelon Targaryen, three
The Baratheon siblings had long lived in the Red Keep, so Rhaegar already knew them well.
Whether they came from the royal family or the house of the Stormlands' great lord, in the end they were still just children.
A loop of string for a cat's cradle game had kept Jocelyn entertained for days. Teaching Boremund and Aemon how to throw stones had made them feel like heroes.
Rhaegar, however, carried the soul of an adult inside a child's body.
Handling them was effortless.
*
Dragons arrived quickly, and departed just as swiftly.
After a simple evening banquet, the king and queen returned to King's Landing that very night. The plague raging across the realm left Jaehaerys with endless matters of state to manage.
Rhaena arranged rooms for the four newly arrived children and assigned maids to attend them before finally coming to Rhaegar's chamber.
"Why didn't you speak with the king at dinner?" she asked gently, sitting beside his bed.
She slipped a pear under the blanket for him.
Rhaegar placed the pear on his chest and poked his head out from beneath the covers.
"The king doesn't like me. Why would I go out of my way to speak to him?"
He was not even five years old.
Why would a king dislike a child?
Clearly there was something deeper behind it.
"Go to sleep," Rhaena said softly. "Don't think too much about it."
She had not expected Rhaegar to notice Jaehaerys's subtle displeasure. Considering the boy's age, she did not wish to explain too much.
She stood to leave.
"Rhaena," Rhaegar asked quickly, "why did you give me the name Rhaegar Therys?"
Out of respect for her, he had never pressed her before. If she chose not to answer, he would simply wait.
On the day he had been named, Rhaena had argued fiercely with the king. Baby Rhaegar had been held in Queen Alysanne's arms during the quarrel, but at the time he had been unable to understand their words.
And the memory had long faded.
Rhaegar generally disliked speaking with adults. Some whispered that something was wrong with his mind.
Only Rhaena knew the truth.
The boy was simply too precocious. He disliked being treated like a foolish child.
Seeing the eager look in his eyes, she hesitated before sitting back down beside him.
"At first, the king did not want to acknowledge your existence," she said slowly. "He feared the Faith of the Seven might use a royal bastard as an excuse to spark another rebellion."
His concern was not unreasonable.
The Faith Militant uprising had ended less than ten years earlier. Many members of the Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows still lingered across the realm.
"Only after I insisted did he reluctantly agree to accept you. He even chose a name for you- Jack Waters, and planned to give you to a blacksmith to raise. It was the queen who persuaded him to compromise."
Rhaena added quickly,
"You need not understand everything now. Just remember it, and never speak of it to anyone. Especially not to the king."
"I understand."
Rhaegar sank back into the blankets.
Rhaena's words contradicted themselves: she wanted him to know the truth, yet feared he might anger the king.
Such contradictions were the mark of a grandmother's fierce affection.
"Waters," Rhaena continued, "is the surname given to bastards born in the Crownlands. And Jack? In King's Landing you could throw a brick into a crowd and hit two boys named Jack."
She chuckled softly.
"I refused to let the king give you such a common name."
"Therys," she explained, "comes from the name of Volon Therys, the town where your mother was last seen. I took the latter half of the name for your surname. It's unusual, but at least it is a proper Valyrian place name."
"And Rhaegar?"
"That was the name of an ancient Valyrian god who guarded flocks of sheep. You are the first person in Westeros to bear it."
Rhaegar blinked.
"So… my grand name comes from a shepherd god?"
He immediately decided the name might need reconsidering.
Smack!
Rhaena slapped his forehead lightly.
"Five thousand years ago the founders of the Valyrian Empire were shepherds themselves!" she scolded. "That god ranked third among the Valyrian deities, beneath only the gods of dragon and flame. Don't be so ungrateful!"
"Alright, alright…"
Rhaegar rubbed his forehead.
Still, he couldn't help thinking...
This was Westeros, land of the Faith of the Seven.
The gods of ancient Valyria had long vanished.
And now not even a single statue of them remained.
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