Chapter 14: The Gentle Flame and the Rising Tides
King's Landing, 120 AC – 130 AC (Rhaegar I's Early Reign)
King Rhaegar I Targaryen ascended the Iron Throne at sixty, a silver-haired scholar-king whose harp strings had long sung sweeter than his sword's edge. Where Aenys had innovated with divine cunning and Maegor had enforced with iron brutality, Rhaegar ruled with a gentler hand—diplomacy over decrees, mercy over axes, alliances woven like fine Myrish lace. He reduced Bloody Dragon patrols in loyal regions, lowered taxes on Reach lords who pledged more grain, and hosted grand moots where even minor houses voiced grievances without fear of the Traitor's Walk. "The dragon's flame warms, not burns," he proclaimed at his coronation, Stormwing's pale wings casting shadows over the Dragonpit.
The realm, weary from Maegor's unyielding grip, initially welcomed the change. Smallfolk prospered further—Dragon Bank loans funded village wells, Academy schools taught harp alongside history, printing presses churned tales of "Rhaegar the Wise." Trade with Essos flourished; Braavosi bankers dined in the Red Keep, and Yi Ti silks draped Targaryen shoulders. The High Tower's eternal flame burned steady, a beacon of enlightened peace.
But gentleness, in a world forged by fire and blood, bred whispers of weakness.
Lords who had knelt under Maegor's axe now straightened their backs. In the Westerlands, Lord Lannister delayed tax shipments, claiming "poor mines." In the Stormlands, Baratheon bannermen raided Dornish borders unchecked, testing royal response. The Ironborn whispered of old reavings; Vale knights jousted with open mockery of "the Harp-King." Rhaegar responded with envoys and pardons—fines light, rebukes gentle. "Unity through understanding," he said in council, Alyssa (now dowager queen, her milk long dried) nodding beside him.
The cracks deepened in 122 AC.
Rhaenys Targaryen—Rhaegar's eldest daughter, now forty-nine—had married Lord Corlys Velaryon II twenty years prior, binding the fleets to the throne. Their son, Laenor Velaryon, was twenty-five: tall, sea-weathered, with silver hair inherited from his mother and the ambitious eyes of his seafaring house. House Velaryon had long been close to dragons—Corlys's ancestor had ridden Seasmoke—but never claimed true lordship over them. The Targaryens alone were dragonlords, the only family in the world whose blood commanded the beasts. It was the cornerstone of their divine authority: Valyrian purity unchallenged, dragons as symbols of godly exclusivity.
Laenor, raised on tales of his grandmother Alyssa's grace and his great-grandfather Maegor's might, chafed at the boundary. Rhaegar's gentle rule emboldened him. "If the king plays harp while lords growl, why not reach for fire myself?" he confided to his father in Driftmark's halls.
The challenge came during the Grand Tourney of 123 AC, hosted in King's Landing to celebrate Rhaegar's sixtieth nameday. Lords from every kingdom converged—Stark wolves mingling with Tyrell roses, Greyjoy krakens with Martell suns. Dragons roosted in the expanded pit: Stormrend (Aegon's black behemoth), Emberwing (Visenya the Younger's crimson fury), and a dozen younger beasts, including unclaimed hatchlings from recent clutches.
On the tourney's third day, after jousts and melees, Laenor Velaryon strode into the Dragonpit unannounced. Clad in sea-green armor chased with silver scales, he approached a young dragon—Silverfin, a sleek beast with scales like moonlit waves, unclaimed since hatching five years prior. Whispers spread through the crowd: "The Sea Snake's heir dares?"
Rhaegar watched from the royal box, harp silent in his lap. Alyssa gripped his arm; Visenya the Younger—now in her fifties, sword still at her hip—narrowed her eyes. Maegor's children and grandchildren arrayed around them: Aegon (fifty, axe-wielding general), Jaehaerys (diplomat-harpist), Aemon (tactician-rider), Daera (fierce advisor), and the younger brood—Baelon, Viserys, and more.
Laenor mounted the saddle chains, whispering Valyrian words gleaned from forbidden Academy texts. Silverfin stirred—snout sniffing, wings half-unfurling. For a heartbeat, the crowd held breath: would the dragon submit? A Velaryon dragonlord would shatter Targaryen monopoly—the only family in the world whose blood bound the beasts. It was a direct challenge to their authority, a crack in the divine facade.
Silverfin roared—flames licking the air, throwing Laenor from the saddle. He landed hard, armor dented, but alive. The dragon snapped chains and flew free, circling the pit once before vanishing toward Blackwater Bay. Chaos erupted: lords murmured "Weak blood," smallfolk gasped in awe, Bloody Dragons rushed to contain the crowd.
Rhaegar rose slowly. "A bold attempt, nephew," he called down, voice calm but edged. "But dragons choose their own."
The incident ignited sparks. Lords who had thought Targaryens weak now saw opportunity. In the Westerlands, Lord Lannister withheld half his taxes, claiming "dragon mishaps prove instability." Baratheon lords raided more boldly; Ironborn ships "accidentally" reaved merchant vessels. Whispers spread: "The harp-king cannot even control his beasts—or his kin."
Rhaegar responded gently at first—envoys to Driftmark, pardoning Laenor with a fine and exile to sea for a year. "Family binds us," he said in council. But Alyssa warned: "Gentleness invites knives." Visenya the Younger urged action: "Send me with Emberwing. Burn the doubt."
The rebellion coalesced in 125 AC.
A coalition formed: Lannister gold funded Baratheon arms; Greyjoy ships ferried sellswords from Essos; minor Vale and Riverlands houses joined, grumbling of "overreach." Their manifesto, printed on stolen presses, declared: "The dragons grow tame; the realm needs new riders." Laenor's failed attempt had emboldened them— if Velaryons could try, why not others? Rumors spread of lords approaching wild dragons in the pit, testing Targaryen exclusivity.
Rhaegar, now sixty-five, called his banners. The Bloody Dragons—300,000 strong now—mobilized. Aegon led ground forces; Jaehaerys negotiated with waverers; Aemon scouted from dragonback. Visenya the Younger burned pirate havens supporting the rebels.
The Battle of Goldengrove, 126 AC.
Rebel forces—40,000 under Lannister command—massed in the Reach, hoping to seize Highgarden. Rhaegar flew in on Stormwing—pale dragon breathing silver flame. He offered parley first: "Lay down arms; mercy awaits." Lannister laughed: "Your gentleness is weakness, harp-king."
The dragons answered.
Stormrend dove first—Aegon's black behemoth incinerating flanks. Emberwing strafed the center; younger dragons harried archers. On the ground, Bloody Dragons formed walls of steel, chanting "Father Rhaegar commands!" Maegor's grandchildren led charges: Baelon with axe, Viserys with sword, Daera commanding archers.
Rebels broke in hours. Lannister surrendered, dragged before Rhaegar in chains. "You challenged the only dragonlords," Rhaegar said softly. "Now kneel eternal." Lannister was exiled to the Wall; his house fined half its gold, mines garrisoned by Bloody Dragons.
The Ironborn Uprising, 127 AC.
Greyjoy lords, emboldened by Laenor's defiance, raided the Westerlands coast. Maegor would have burned Pyke; Rhaegar sent Jaehaerys first—diplomat offering amnesty for surrender. When refused, Aemon led the assault: dragons sinking longships, Bloody Dragons storming beaches. Greyjoy knelt; his son sent to the Academy for "re-education." Ironborn reaving turned royal—targeting Slaver's Bay, tribute flowing to King's Landing.
The Velaryon Reckoning, 128 AC.
Laenor returned from exile bolder, whispering to other houses of "shared dragon blood." Rhaegar summoned him to court. In the throne room, before assembled lords, Rhaegar confronted: "You challenged our authority—the world's only dragonlords." Laenor bowed, but his eyes burned. Rhaegar stripped him of titles, exiling him to Essos. Corlys II, ashamed, reaffirmed loyalty; Velaryon fleets doubled royal patrols.
By 130 AC, the sparks extinguished. Rhaegar's gentleness had been tested—and proven steel beneath silk. Rebels crushed, lords reminded: Targaryens alone rode dragons, their authority divine and unchallenged. The realm returned to peace, but with a new edge—Rhaegar's harp now accompanied by the subtle ring of drawn swords.
The dragonlords endured, their monopoly unbroken.
(Word count: 2008)