June marked the beginning of early summer.
The climate in the Riverlands was pleasant and comfortable. The warm sun hung in the vast blue sky, while lush green grass spread across the fertile land.
Harrenhal, the Shattered Stone Garden.
At the heart of five towering spires stood several grand palaces, their floors paved with marble-colored gravel, forming a flowing water courtyard.
This exotic stone-paved courtyard had been specially designed to accommodate the dragons of House Targaryen.
Suddenly—
"Screeeech!"
Inside a white stone palace adjacent to a broken bridge over flowing water, a young dragon let out an enraged screech. Its entire body was covered in cobalt-blue scales, while its underside, from its jaw to its belly, shimmered with orange-red scales. Its claws and fangs gleamed like polished bronze.
The young dragon was already larger than a horse, measuring approximately thirty feet from head to tail.
At that moment, one of its claws was shackled, the chain—seven to eight meters long—bolted to the ground.
The palace itself was vast, large enough to accommodate more than a dozen young dragons of similar size without feeling cramped.
On either side of the hall stood two dragon handlers, clad in coarse linen robes, each holding a bamboo staff.
The dragon roared repeatedly, flapping its wings wildly, struggling against its bindings, while jets of cobalt-blue flames erupted from its maw in every direction.
"Aim for the dragon's neck! Loose!"
A cold voice issued the command, and in an instant, over a hundred arrows flew from both flanks, all aimed at the thrashing young dragon.
"Tessarion, dodge!"
A child's voice rang out—filled not with fear, but with pure exhilaration.
"Screeeech!"
Tessarion let out a sharp cry. The dragon, adorned with a pair of elegantly curved horns, lifted its head high and unleashed a torrent of dragonfire.
Most of the arrows burned to ash before they could reach their mark, while the few that remained clattered harmlessly against Tessarion's thick, cobalt-blue scales.
Fortunately, the arrowheads were only blunt stone tips—too dull to pierce dragonhide—causing little harm.
Feeling a slight pain, Tessarion tensed its muscles and strained against the chain, but its efforts were in vain.
Then—
Clap, clap, clap…
A round of applause echoed through the hall. From behind a circular stone pillar, Rhaegar emerged, his voice ringing out:
"Take a break. That concludes today's training."
"Hooray!"
A gleeful cheer erupted from Tessarion's back. The small figure seated atop a luxurious saddle swayed excitedly.
Rhaegar smiled, closing the weathered tome he had been reading.
Months had passed, and subtle changes had shaped his appearance and demeanor.
His once short, silken hair—colored a blend of silver and gold—had grown into shoulder-length locks, now secured at the back with a delicate hairband while the rest cascaded naturally.
His complexion had lost the sickly pallor of childhood, now carrying a noble, milky-white luster that made his violet eyes and crimson lips stand out even more.
Most notably, the dark circles beneath his eyes had finally vanished.
He wore a white dress shirt, paired with black trousers embroidered with intricate dragon motifs. Around his waist, he fastened a jade belt carved with the three-headed red dragon sigil.
Years of wielding power had cultivated an aura of refinement and effortless authority around him, his lips perpetually curved into a confident smile.
Those familiar with him—whether nobles from King's Landing or lords of the Crownlands—held the young prince in the highest regard.
"Brother! Tessarion was amazing, wasn't he?"
As the dragon handlers soothed the restless young dragon, the small figure atop Tessarion unfastened the saddle straps and clambered down. The sound of metal clinking accompanied the child's hurried steps as he ran toward Rhaegar.
"He was," Rhaegar affirmed, his tone warm. "But next time, try to better control his emotions."
He reached out and removed the square-shaped helmet from the boy's head, revealing Daeron's flushed, sweat-slicked face.
This was an ancient Targaryen method of dragon training.
The rider would mount their dragon while its movement was restricted by chains. The beast would then be subjected to arrow volleys and spear throws, training it to evade attacks in battle.
With the session concluded—one of many held every three days—a figure clad in black armor approached from outside. Behind him, over a hundred Unsullied soldiers were already gathering the arrows and clearing the area.
"Prince, the noble lords from across the realm have nearly arrived," Grey Worm reported in his usual rigid tone.
Rhaegar removed the last piece of Daeron's armor and corrected him:
"Not 'lords.' The proper term is 'my lords.'"
"My… lords?" Grey Worm hesitated, his Common Tongue still somewhat unrefined.
With Maester Trystane gone, his lessons in the language remained incomplete.
Now dressed in a simple silver-white tunic, Daeron beamed.
Rhaegar chuckled. "Come, let's go welcome the lords of Westeros."
Harrenhal, the Main Gate
The towering black stone walls of the fortress loomed, rising several dozen feet high. Atop the battlements, a pair of colossal, jet-black dragon statues flanked the entrance, while ten massive trebuchets stood at the ready below.
Slowly, the steel-reinforced gate creaked open, revealing the iron-plated wooden doors within.
"When will they arrive?" Daeron leaned over the parapet, his large eyes scanning the horizon eagerly.
Rhaegar stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of open plains.
Harrenhal spanned an immense area, encompassing several hundred leagues—including the entirety of the Gods Eye Lake.
"Very soon, young prince. My ravens have seen them," replied Tormund.
His face was calm, his pale eyes unfocused—a telltale sign of his greensight.
Months of serving as the master of whispers had changed him significantly.
Gone was his humble garb of coarse linen. He now wore a half-black, half-white robe, and around his neck hung a Valyrian steel pendant—shaped like an eye, flanked by two elongated ears.
The pendant had been Rhaegar's personal design, a symbol of the master of whispers, akin to the Hand of the King's brooch.
At this moment, Tormund and Grey Worm stood on either side of Rhaegar, their postures straight and disciplined.
Along the ramparts, a thousand Unsullied warriors, clad in black armor, stood in an unbroken line—each gripping a long spear and round shield, their presence imposing.
Two enormous banners, bearing the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, fluttered against the stone walls. Below, knights and retainers had already gathered at the gate, awaiting their guests.
Then—
"Ooooooh—"
The deep, resonant sound of war horns echoed through the air, their rhythm steady and commanding.
From the western road of the Isle of Faces, a grand procession came into view.
A long, winding column of carriages and soldiers stretched far into the distance, forming a seemingly endless stream heading toward Harrenhal.
Even from afar, the banners of great houses could be seen fluttering in the wind:
A crescent moon and falcon. A golden rose. A direwolf upon a white field…
Upon seeing the familiar banner, Rhaegar's lips curved into a smile. He spoke cheerfully, "Tormund, my father and the others are still at the Isle of Faces—don't forget to inform them."
"Yes, my prince," Tormund replied as his eyes returned to normal.
...
Before noon, a procession of knights carrying banners entered Harrenhal, escorting a series of carriages.
As the largest castle on the continent—and indeed, the world—Harrenhal's vastness was beyond imagination.
A mile from the Dreadfort Tower stood an open-air stable, its spacious enclosures capable of housing thousands of warhorses.
Just beyond the castle gates, a broad reception area had been specially designated.
Nobles from all over disembarked from their carriages, their luxurious garments unable to hide the exhaustion of long travel.
Fortunately, the royal family had extended the Mushroom Market along remote routes, providing shelter for traveling nobles along the way.
As the crown prince, it was Rhaegar's duty to welcome the arriving guests.
"Your Highness, I count myself lucky to still be in good health and able to attend this tournament."
The elderly Tully of Riverrun, his face ruddy with good spirits, led his retinue of vassals forward to pay their respects.
Rhaegar accepted the greeting with ease, laughing, "I'd say you have at least another ten years in you—perhaps even long enough to reach the age of the venerable Old King."
"Haha, I'd like that very much."
…
As prince and lord exchanged pleasantries, a group of Vale knights, carrying the crescent-and-eagle banner, strode forward.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted slightly, catching sight of a tall and graceful figure surrounded by the knights.
"Rhaegar, my prince."
Jenny's eyes shone with warmth, her gentle voice carrying the joy of reunion.
She had clearly dressed with care for this moment.
Her chestnut hair cascaded over her fragrant shoulders, and a pale yellow gown elegantly outlined her slender form. A light touch of makeup enhanced her delicate features.
"Jenny."
Rhaegar's expression brightened, though he restrained emotions that should not surface. He nodded. "It must have been a tiring journey."
"It wasn't too bad. It's just a shame that Lord Yobert couldn't make it."
Jenny's lips curved slightly, her brown eyes never leaving Rhaegar.
The last time they had met was earlier in the year at the Eyrie, during a brief gathering.
For the past six months, Rhaegar had been too consumed by state affairs to visit the Vale.
"Lord Yobert's health has been declining."
Beside Jenny, Jessypha spoke up. Her wavy auburn hair and deep blue gown made her stand out.
Rhaegar turned his head, now noticing the others standing behind Jenny—Jessypha, Baolan, and the vassals Gerold Royce and Geoffrey Graveson…
Among them were many young and middle-aged women, all naturally clustered around Jenny.
Most of them were widows who had lost husbands and sons in the Black Wedding. Through Jenny's influence, they had inherited titles and lands.
With the support of the Seagard Sisters' Abbey, they had formed a semi-official female-led governance in the Vale, pushing back against the traditional male rule.
Rhaegar had witnessed a Vale council meeting once—those women were formidable.
"Welcome to Harrenhal. I've prepared warm baths for you."
Rhaegar greeted them with perfect courtesy, showing no condescension despite their gender.
At that moment, a squad of silver-armored knights, bearing the golden rose banner, approached with imposing grandeur.
In terms of armor and weaponry, they stood out as one of the most well-equipped groups among the noble retinues.
The knights marched in two orderly rows before stepping aside, revealing a strikingly graceful figure.
A young woman, radiant and proud like a rose in full bloom.
She wore a pale green silk gown, cinched at the waist, accentuating her tall, shapely figure. Her soft brown hair draped over her smooth shoulders, her skin as fair as cream. Her features were exquisitely delicate yet undeniably alluring—a perfect embodiment of refined beauty.
Margaery Tyrell, the only daughter of the Duke of Highgarden.
With a bright smile, Margaery stepped forward and spoke in a soft, melodious voice, "Highgarden sends you its sincerest greetings, Prince Rhaegar."
Then, turning to Jenny, her eyes gleamed with excitement as she exclaimed, "Lady Jenny, I've long wanted to visit you. I'm so glad we finally meet!"
From her eager expression, it seemed she was only a step away from embracing Jenny.
Jenny's eyes remained gentle, and she replied softly, "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Lady Margaery."
However, after just a few words, Jenny subtly increased the distance between them, stepping closer to Rhaegar's side.
With Highgarden's only male heir unexpectedly deceased, the old Lord Tyrell had lost his sole surviving son.
Margaery's overt friendliness at this moment was no coincidence, and Jenny had no intention of entangling herself in another noble family's troubles.
Rhaegar instantly perceived the unspoken rivalry between the two women. Smiling, he interjected, "Please, come inside. A grand feast has been prepared for you."
"Oh, wonderful! Your generosity is most appreciated." Margaery laughed as she lifted her skirts to step forward.
"Skreee!!"
"Skreee…"
Just then, a deep, guttural dragon roar echoed across the sky, drawing every noble's attention.
A massive bronze dragon tore through the thin clouds, its colossal form casting a dark shadow over Harrenhal's towering walls.
Following closely behind was a pale blue dragon, carrying a young woman with silvery-golden curls. The beast swooped down toward the castle, vanishing within moments beyond the fortress.
"Skreee—"
At the same time, a thunderous roar resonated from the shattered stone garden, carrying an unmistakable air of dominance, shaking everyone to their core.
Dreamfyre, ever ill-tempered, sent a gust of wind surging through the crowd, making skirts and cloaks billow wildly.
"Oh!"
Margaery lost her footing and stumbled—straight into Rhaegar's arms.
"Careful, Lady Margaery."
Rhaegar's voice remained indifferent as he deftly guided her into Jenny's embrace, stepping back without hesitation.
One fierce dragon and one proud eagle were already more than enough for him—he had no desire to tangle with a thorny rose.
More and more knights and carriages continued streaming through the castle gates.
Jason Lannister, resplendent in his finery, made his entrance.
Mund Hightower arrived with his entire household in tow.
Beneath the direwolf banner of House Stark, a black-haired middle-aged man rode a dark warhorse at the front of his retinue.
Beside him was a young man with black hair and dark eyes, his gaze firm and resolute.
(End of Chapter)