Chapter 36: The Dance of Dragons
As Rhaegar slept, bronze firelight seemed to envelop his body.
His vision drifted forward, following in the footsteps of Dragonlord Augu Baelarys.
The sun rose.
The moon set.
Along the banks of the Rhoyne River, the blare of horns, the thunder of war drums, and the roar of countless voices merged into one deafening sound.
The war had begun.
Rhaegar had read of this battle countless times in ancient tomes, yet witnessing it with his own eyes filled him with an uncontrollable anticipation.
This was the most climactic war the Known World had ever seen—the final confrontation between the Rhoynar, the Sons of the Great River, and the Valyrian Dragonlords, the Sons of the Magical Dragons.
Three hundred dragons filled the sky.
More than four hundred thousand soldiers stood upon the earth.
Spears rose like forests.
Armor gleamed like living fire.
The bright silver-scaled armor of the Rhoynar warriors clashed visually against the obsidian-black and dark-scaled armor of Valyria. The battlefield became an endless ocean of silver and black, stretching as far as the eye could see.
The Rhoynar had gathered an army of two hundred and fifty thousand.
Valyria and its vassal cities fielded slightly fewer—around two hundred thousand—yet their presence carried overwhelming pressure.
The giant war elephants of Volantis stomped forward, shaking the ground. The rhythm of war drums grew heavier, more oppressive.
Valyria's elite Obsidian Guard advanced in perfect order, flanked by the armies of Volantis and other Freehold vassals. Dragonlord warships cut through the waters of the Rhoyne itself, their banners snapping in the wind.
With the Dragonlords present, the morale of the Valyrian vassals surged to its peak.
High above them all, the banners of Valyria unfurled violently in the sky—
and at their head flew the purple dragon banner of House Baelarys.
Three hundred magical dragons hovered overhead like blazing suns.
Purple dragons shimmered like crystal.
Black dragons were deep as eternal night.
Golden dragons shone like molten sunlight.
Green dragons were lush as living forests.
Red dragons burned like flowing lava.
And among them, a single silver dragon gleamed brilliantly, its light stirring something deep within Rhaegar's heart.
The sky became a tapestry of color.
Each dragon was dazzling and unique—many bore multiple hues, though one color always dominated, marking its lineage and temperament.
In the distance, the Rhoynar army had already formed its battle lines.
Prince Gaelen had divided his forces into three great columns—one on each bank of the Rhoyne, with a massive fleet of oared warships surging down the river's center, sweeping away enemy vessels. This was the elite core of Rhoynar power, long held in reserve.
Marching downstream from Qarth, Prince Gaelen had crushed every Valyrian settlement, outpost, and riverhold in his path. For a time, he had seemed unstoppable, his prestige echoing across Essos.
Yet even the strongest blade dulls with time.
His army was exhausted, worn down by distance and attrition. Meanwhile, the Valyrians waited—rested, prepared, and with three hundred dragons unleashed at once.
"I marched from Qarth and swept all before me," Prince Gaelen murmured bitterly.
"But today, dragons blot out the sun. Is this where I am meant to fall?"
He raised his voice to the heavens.
"Great Mother Rhoyne, bless your children."
For the first time, regret crept into his heart. This battle threatened not merely defeat—but the total annihilation of Rhoynar civilization.
At his command, the Water Wizards aboard the Rhoynar ships raised their staffs. Deep blue runes glowed upon their olive-toned faces as they drank Deep Blue Water, forcibly stimulating their minds.
The river answered their call.
The Rhoyne boiled and roared. Countless droplets surged upward, merging and shaping themselves under the wizards' furious chants.
Towering water walls and twisting water spouts formed, surging forward in an attempt to drown the Valyrian army.
Rhaegar sensed the limitations immediately—
Water magic required proximity to rivers and lacked the raw savagery of dragonflame.
Still, the awakened river charged forward like a living beast.
High above, the three hundred dragons stirred, circling wildly—led by the two colossal Purple Dragons of House Baelarys.
Dragonlord Augu lifted a massive horn.
"Dragonflame!"
The horn sounded.
Fire erupted from the jaws of every dragon.
The black flame of the Purple Giant Dragon burned like eternal night, melting stone and glass alike as it led the inferno.
At Augu's command, the sky itself ignited.
Three hundred dragons breathed fire in unison—the greatest military force the world had ever known.
Flames merged into a sea of red, eclipsing the heavens. The heat surpassed all reason.
Fire rolled across the plains like a volcanic eruption, like a wildfire devouring the world. Everything trembled, burned, and melted.
Water and fire collided.
The Rhoynar's water walls were vast and majestic—but inch by inch, they were boiled away by dragonflame.
"Mother Rhoyne, why do you abandon us?!"
A leading Water Wizard screamed—before being reduced to ash in an instant.
River ships melted like candles.
Men burned alive where they stood.
The flames seemed born of hell itself, consuming both body and soul.
The dragons swooped and danced, unleashing destruction wherever they passed.
Before such violence, the Rhoynar army collapsed.
This war was brief—
and merciless.
It ended two and a half centuries of resistance in a single day.
Dragonlord Augu smiled cruelly, sickly red light reflected in his eyes as the dragons ravaged the battlefield.
Man and dragon moved as one—
fire, flight, and domination perfectly intertwined.
The rune upon Augu's brow glowed brilliantly.
Rhaegar's heart pounded.
So this…
This is how a true Dragonlord rides.
Where the dragons passed, armor liquefied and soldiers vanished in flame.
Tens of thousands perished. Those who fled into the river drowned as boiling water swallowed them whole.
The battlefield became a feast for the God of Death.
Smoke blackened the sky.
Ash fell like snow.
Screams echoed without end.
The Rhoynar were utterly defeated.
Prince Gaelen survived—only to live in humiliation.
Both banks of the Rhoyne became execution grounds as Valyrian and Volantene forces swept through, killing all who resisted. The great river itself ran red.
Disarmed and surrounded, Prince Gaelen was dragged before the victors.
Dragonlord Augu and Alys approached, swords in hand, faces radiant with triumph.
"Lift your head," Augu commanded coldly.
"You stand before Augu Baelarys, First Heir of House Baelarys, son of the Chief Dragonlord of the Valyrian Freehold."
He pressed his true dragonsteel blade against Gaelen's hair.
"This victory brings eternal glory to my house."
"Kill me, you adulterous filth!" Gaelen roared.
Stripped of his silver armor, helmet, and spear, the fallen prince stood broken—but unbowed.
Augu laughed.
"No. I want you alive—to witness us sail north, destroy Sar Mell, and then erase Qarth, your so-called City of Festivals."
At his command, a golden cage was brought forth.
Prince Gaelen was stuffed inside like an animal and hung from the prow of a ship—forced to watch as his civilization burned.
Blood and tears streamed down his face.
The Rhoyne—
the Rhoynar—
were destroyed in a single day.
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