June marked the beginning of summer. The Riverlands enjoyed a comfortable and pleasant climate, with the warm sun hanging in the blue sky and green grass spreading over the fertile soil.
At Harrenhal, in the Flowstone Yard, five towering towers enclosed several magnificent palaces, their ground paved with marble-colored gravel. This exotic stone courtyard was specially designed to house the Targaryen dragons.
"Roar..."
Inside a white stone palace, nestled beside a broken bridge over flowing water, a young dragon bellowed in fury. The dragon had cobalt blue scales, orange-red scales on its jaws extending to its belly, and claws and teeth like copper foil. It was larger than a horse.
One of the young dragon's claws was shackled to the floor with a seven or eight-meter-long chain. The palace covered a large area, enough to accommodate a dozen young dragons of the same size scurrying about. On each side of the palace, two Dragonkeepers in coarse linen held bamboo staffs.
The young dragon roared and flapped its wings, struggling and spewing cobalt blue Dragonfire in all directions.
"Aim at the dragon's neck and release the arrows!" a cold voice ordered. Hundreds of arrows split into two groups, targeting the frantically struggling young dragon.
"Tessarion, dodge," a child's voice rang out, thick with excitement.
"Roar..." Tessarion roared, lifting his head adorned with slender horns and crowns. A mouthful of Dragonfire surged forth, burning most of the arrows. The remaining arrows clinked harmlessly against Tessarion's cobalt-blue scaled neck.
The arrows were thick and blunt, tipped with sharp stones that could not pierce the dragon's scales, causing minimal damage. Feeling the pain, Tessarion tensed all his muscles, straining to break free from the chains, but to no avail.
A clap echoed through the palace as Rhaegar stepped out from behind a circular stone pillar and called out, "Take a break, today's training is over."
"Yeah!" a childish cheer erupted from Tessarion's back as a small tin helmet wobbled on the luxurious saddle.
Rhaegar smiled and closed the ancient, yellowed book he had been reading. Over the past few months, his appearance and demeanor had changed slightly.
His short, silver-gold hair had grown to shoulder length, tied back with a hairband, allowing the silky strands to fall naturally. His complexion had shifted from the pallor of childhood to a noble milky white, enhancing his vivid violet eyes and red lips. Most notably, his dark circles had finally disappeared.
He wore a white shirt paired with a black skirt embroidered with dragon patterns and a carved three-headed red dragon jade belt at his waist. Having wielded power for some time, he exuded an easy-going, yet dignified demeanor, with a confident smile ever-present.
The nobles of King's Landing and the surrounding regions had come to respect this young heir.
"Brother, Tessarion is great, isn't he?" called Daeron, the small figure clattering as he ran towards Rhaegar after being unchained from the dragon.
"Great, but you'll control him even better next time," Rhaegar replied, removing Daeron's helmet to reveal his flushed, sweaty face.
They had been training according to the ancient Targaryen system: the rider mounted the dragon, the chains controlled its movements, and the dragon was trained to dodge while under fire from arrows and spears.
As the day's training concluded, Grey Worm, dressed in black armor, approached from outside. Behind him, hundreds of Unsullied packed up their bows and arrows.
"Prince, the noble 'my lords' are almost here," Grey Worm reported sternly.
Rhaegar helped Daeron remove his armor, correcting him with a smile, "Not 'my lords', that term is just lord."
"My lord?" Grey Worm repeated in his broken Common Tongue.
Maester Tru, who had been teaching him, was no longer around, so Grey Worm's language skills were still lacking.
Once Daeron was dressed in his silver and white garments, Rhaegar laughed softly, "Come, let's go greet the lords of Westeros."
...
Harrenhal, the front gates.
The towering black stone walls loomed dozens of feet high, adorned with blackened dragon carvings on each side of the battlements. Below, ten large stone throwers stood ready. The cast steel gates creaked open slowly, revealing the iron-clad, solid wood doors within.
"When will they arrive?" Daeron asked, slumping against the parapet, his large eyes scanning the horizon.
Rhaegar stood with his hands behind his back atop the wide city walls, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of wilderness beyond. Harrenhal's dominion was immense, encompassing hundreds of miles in every direction, including the entirety of God's Eye Lake.
"Prince, they will arrive soon. My raven saw it," Tormund said calmly, his eyes white from using his warg abilities.
Tormund had changed significantly after several months as Master of Whisperers. He had shed his rough linen clothes for a set of black and white robes, and around his neck hung a Valyrian steel necklace adorned with ears on either side of a single eye.
This necklace, specially crafted by Rhaegar, symbolized his role as Spymaster, akin to the Hand of the King's palm breastpiece.
Tormund and Grey Worm stood behind Rhaegar, flanking him on either side. A thousand black-armored Unsullied holding spears and round shields lined the city walls in an imposing formation.
Two enormous three-headed red dragon banners hung from the battlements, and knights and squires gathered at the city gate in anticipation.
Suddenly, a deep, resonant horn blew with a powerful rhythm.
On the main road from the west side of the Isle of Faces, a long, winding line of chariots and soldiers approached Harrenhal, stretching as far as the eye could see. High-flying flags were faintly visible in the distance: Sky-blue falcons, the Golden Roses, and Grey Direwolfs.
Seeing the familiar banners, Rhaegar's lips curved into a smile. "Tormund, make sure my father and the others at the Isle of Faces are informed," he said cheerfully.
"Yes, Prince," Tormund replied, his eyes returning to normal.
...
By noon, a team of flag-bearing knights escorted a procession of carriages into Harrenhal.
As the largest castle on the continent, if not the world, Harrenhal covered an astonishing expanse. A mile from the imposing Tower of Ghosts lay the stables, an open-air enclosure with spacious fences capable of holding thousands of warhorses. A designated greeting area was situated just behind the gates.
Nobles from across the land stepped out of their carriages, their elegant attire unable to conceal the weariness from their long journey. Despite the royal family's efforts to provide accommodations along the way, the travelers showed signs of fatigue.
As the Heir, Rhaegar had the duty of welcoming the guests.
"Prince, I'm grateful I can still attend this tournament despite my age," said the Old Lord Grover Tully of Riverrun, his face rosy as he led his bannermen forward.
Rhaegar accepted the greeting with a hearty laugh. "I believe you have many years left in you, perhaps to reach the age of King Jaehaerys I."
"Haha, let's hope so."
During a lull in the greetings, the Knight of the Vale, bearing the banner of a sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon, approached.
Rhaegar glanced sideways and immediately noticed a tall figure among the knights.
"Prince Rhaegar."
Jeyne's eyes sparkled with joy, her gentle voice filled with the delight of reunion.
It was clear she had dressed carefully for the occasion. Her long chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders, a pale yellow dress accentuated her delicate figure, and light makeup enhanced her refined features.
"Jeyne," Rhaegar greeted, his face lighting up. He restrained his emotions and nodded. "A tough journey, I imagine."
"It was fine. It's a shame Lord Yorbert couldn't come."
Jeyne's brown eyes lingered on Rhaegar, not wanting to miss a moment.
The last time they had seen each other was at the beginning of the year in the Eyrie. Rhaegar had been preoccupied with political affairs for the past six months and couldn't visit the Vale.
"Lord Yorbert's health is deteriorating," Jessamyn added. Her light red curly hair and long blue dress stood out brightly.
Rhaegar turned to see Jessamyn, along with Skylar and the bannermen—Gerold Royce, Joffrey Grafton, and others.
Many were young and middle-aged women, naturally gathered around Jeyne. These were survivors of the Black Wedding who had inherited titles and territories, forming a semi-public regime under Jeyne's leadership.
Through the Motherhouse of Maris' convent in Gulltown, they had established a power structure that challenged the traditional male-dominated regime. Rhaegar had witnessed the fierce determination of the Valley's internal council of women.
"Welcome to Harrenhal," Rhaegar said courteously, not underestimating them for being women. "I have a warm feast prepared for you."
At that moment, a group of silver-armored knights bearing a golden rose banner approached with great pomp. Their armor and weapons were the finest among all the nobles' retinues.
The knights formed two rows, parting to reveal a verdant, delicate figure.
It was a young girl with the pride of a rose. Her light green silk gown highlighted her tall, well-proportioned curves. Soft brown hair draped over her bare shoulders, her skin as white and tender as milk. Her features were delicate and charming, epitomizing exquisite beauty.
The only daughter of the Lord of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell, approached Rhaegar with a warm smile. "Highgarden sends its sincere greetings to you, Prince Rhaegar," she said softly.
Turning to Jeyne, her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Lady Jeyne, I've long wanted to visit you. It's an honor to finally meet."
Margaery's demeanor was so warm it seemed she might pull Jeyne into an embrace. Jeyne responded with a gentle smile, "It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Margaery."
However, after exchanging pleasantries, Jeyne stepped back to stand beside Rhaegar. With the male heir of Highgarden unexpectedly deceased and old Tyrell mourning his only remaining son, Margaery's intentions were clear, and Jeyne chose to avoid getting entangled in the delicate situation.
Understanding the undercurrents between the two women, Rhaegar intervened with a welcoming smile. "Please, come inside. The squire has prepared a sumptuous banquet."
"Thank you for your generosity," Margaery replied playfully, lifting her foot to proceed.
At that moment, a deep, resonant dragon roar echoed through the sky, capturing the attention of all the nobles. A bronze dragon soared through the thin white clouds, its massive form casting a dark shadow over Harrenhal's lofty walls.
Close behind, a light blue dragon carrying a young girl with silver-golden, slightly curly hair swooped down against the walls, disappearing into the castle's interior in an instant.
Simultaneously, a muffled dragon roar emanated from the shattered garden, exuding a strong sense of dominance that reverberated in everyone's ears. Dreamfyre, in a bad temper, swept through with a gust of wind, lifting the skirts of the onlookers.
"Oof!" Margaery slipped and fell into Rhaegar's arms.
"Careful, Lady Margaery," Rhaegar said evenly, guiding her back to Jeyne's side and taking a step back himself. A dragon and eagle were enough for him; he had no desire to be pricked by a golden rose.
Soon, an increasing procession of knights and carriages entered the gates. Among them was Jason Lannister, resplendent in his finery, accompanied by Ormund Hightower.
Under the banner of the Direwolf, a middle-aged black-haired man on a pitch-black warhorse led the procession. Beside him rode a handsome young man with black hair, dark eyes, and a resolute expression.
(Word count: 1,886)