King's Landing, Rhaenys's Hill, the Dragonpit.
After a century, the banner of the black dragon on red flew high again; the bronze doors of the Dragonpit opened once more.
Rhaegar had no intention of raising dragons here. He would convert this dungeon into a massive barracks, echoing the Red Keep from afar, and use it to expand the Eagle Guard into an elite mobile force.
Rhaegar was a natural warrior and second in line to the Iron Throne; his suggestion was adopted by King Jaehaerys II.
Rhaegar knew well that dark clouds were gathering over Westeros; the King's insistence on enforcing some of his predecessor's laws had angered certain lords. They protested, they roared, and Rhaegar feared the worst would happen—another noble rebellion.
When the lords of Westeros threatened to draw swords, they usually meant it.
No one wanted to see the tragedy of Starpike repeated, where King Maekar I was killed by a rock thrown from the battlements. Mobilizing for war had become inevitable.
Lord Tywin's new policies were making waves, and many lords were restless. Violent suppression wasn't a good strategy, but it had to be considered. The more troops, the stronger the hand.
Rhaegar asked the King to grant him the Dragonpit as a barracks; Jaehaerys agreed readily after a little thought.
The Dragonpit had long been abandoned, and Rhaegar's guards were young—keeping them all in the Red Keep was unwise. The Dragonpit's massive open cellars stood empty, perfectly capable of housing an army; the only worry was money.
Lord Tywin offered to help: the foundations were solid, and he could provide funds for repairs. Rhaegar himself still had money—spoils from the Battle of the High Road, originally kept for payroll.
Rhaegar's father, Crown Prince Aerys, used his authority as commander to provide stone.
With such support, Rhaegar's transformation of the Dragonpit would soon bear fruit.
The Iron Throne needed this fresh blood. Prince Rhaegar had already shown excellent military talent; the Eagle Guard was well-trained, mostly sons of knightly families.
High atop Rhaenys's Hill, the Dragonpit was now just a blackened ruin.
Rhaegar looked around at the desolation—truly a punk scene.
Though ruined, one could still feel its former glory: dozens of doors, a maze of inner chambers designed to chain and scourge dragons.
Golden Weddings had been celebrated here; it once held fifty thousand people. Many dragons had roosted here, dominating the surrounding lands.
Walking through the ruins, Rhaegar thought: One of the three wonders of King's Landing, destroyed by the Shepherd and his mob during the Dance of the Dragons, becoming a symbol of the Targaryen dynasty's decline.
If asked who slew the dragons, Rhaegar would vote for the smallfolk of King's Landing—fickle, prone to rage, turned into devils by hunger, war, and poverty. In the Storming of the Dragonpit, the mob slaughtered five dragons—a "glorious" record indeed.
Yet, King's Landing was the foundation of it all. Feed them with bread, make them fear with spears and whips, he thought.
Rhaegar entered the massive ruin first; his soldiers followed close behind.
He gazed at the colossal dome, dented by dragon attacks, open to the sky.
The blackness of the pit came from dragonfire, and later, Bloodraven had turned it into a wildfire burn site during the Great Spring Sickness.
"Your Grace, the interior has been cleared," the Commander of the Gold Cloaks said respectfully. "We posted notices and warnings for a week; the whores and johns inside have been driven out."
"Very good." Rhaegar surveyed the abandoned hall—so much space; he heard it had become a gathering place for low-end brothels. Abandoned too long.
"Demolish the crumbling upper stonework—I don't want soldiers crushed in their beds. Hire skilled stonemasons. My quartermaster is Ser Joffrey Arryn; go to him with any problems."
Ser Joffrey Arryn stood by Rhaegar, nodding to the Gold Cloak Commander.
The Commander acknowledged and noted the Prince's orders.
Rhaegar sized up the City Watch Captain—a fighter, but no hero. The Gold Cloaks' combat power was laughable; it was a miracle they could guard a city of four hundred thousand.
"Get to work, comrades!" Rhaegar shouted. He had hired commoners and sent Gold Cloaks to clear the field; now, for the finer work, he and the Eagle Guard would pitch in personally.
"Watch your step—some floors are rotten. Mind your heads; we'll reinforce these dangerous cellars immediately." Rhaegar and his men swept rubble, moved debris, and prepared to repair the bronze gates and side doors.
Even ruins could be repaired quickly. Ser Brynden Tully, Sessa, and Rhaegar split their forces to tackle different areas.
Ser Corlys watched the Prince working alongside the soldiers—considerate and trustworthy. Targaryens were charismatic, but Rhaegar showed it early.
For now, men camped under the dome; deeper caves were still being cleared, so everyone pitched their own tents first.
"Careful!" Near the central dome, a soldier stepped on a rotten plank; it snapped, and he fell toward the cellar.
Rhaegar pulled him back just in time; the man was tearfully grateful. Those who cherish their men eventually win the lives their men offer in return.
Rhaegar's heart skipped a beat—he glimpsed a glint of black light in the cellar.
He walked down the steps and found several skeletons. The glint came from under one of them; rusted swords and a morningstar lay scattered nearby.
He searched carefully until the outline of a blade appeared clearly.
A Valyrian steel sword? Rhaegar's heart pounded.
He examined the sword closely—dark, almost black, with familiar runes of House Royce carved on the hilt. Perhaps dragonfire had blackened it further.
Lamentation, the ancestral sword of House Royce. Ser Willam Royce had wielded it for the Greens and died in the Dragonpit; since then, the sword's whereabouts were unknown. Some said a Ser Warrick took it and cut off a dragon's wing, but Lamentation was never seen again.
Rhaegar handled the weapon with awe. A Valyrian steel sword, razor-sharp. Perhaps these bodies had killed each other fighting for it; in the plundering abyss, people grabbed whatever they could.
(Explorer: You searched the abandoned Dragonpit... Congratulations! You found a Valyrian steel sword. Search carefully; more discoveries await.)
Rhaegar turned the blade over. There was no other loot in the cellar; the dead wore plain clothes. However, a Valyrian steel sword was a treasure in itself—extremely rare indeed.
(Explorer: Your Life Fire burns bright... Congratulations! You have ignited the Sword Rune.)
The bronze runes shone again, condensing into a rune of a longsword; as he lifted the weapon, power surged through it.
He grinned, sheathed the sword, and climbed out. It wasn't Blackfyre, nor Dark Sister, but a runic sword was a good harvest.
However, the Bronze King's sword would eventually be returned. A King should possess Blackfyre. House Targaryen had searched bitterly for it; only liars responded, and of the sword itself... silence.
He and his men continued clearing but found nothing else. The mob were paupers, and later the pit became a wildfire burn site—little of value remained.
As time passed, the Dragonpit camp slowly took shape.
Rhaegar lived in his campaign tent, surrounded by rising stone barracks.
His tent opened directly into a massive Dragonpit tunnel—his own request; other smaller doors remained closed for now.
In the corridor, he fed his hatchlings by lamplight; they grew larger, purring against the walls.
Suddenly, a commotion came from outside the tunnel door.
"Your Grace... urgent situation! King Jaehaerys orders you to the Red Keep immediately—something has happened at Maidenpool."