Chapter 86 – The Sea King and the Dragon King
Rhaegar exchanged glances with the Sealord's son; decades later this very youth would ascend the Braavosi throne.
Wherever Rhaegar looked he saw future titans of the age.
Clouds scudded, heroes rose on every wave.
"May I see your little dragons? I adore the purple one," Roberta Baratheon said with a smile. Though still a child, she was already hailed as a beauty without equal.
Roberta Baratheon had the tall, lithe frame and thick black hair of her house, and from her mother she had inherited eyes as deep and blue as a summer sea; her skin was white and smooth as fresh snow. Every glance or smile put her far beyond ordinary mortals.
No one could resist a girl so sweet—her smile a blend of mischief, courage, gaiety, and life. It could melt ice and set every rose in bloom.
"Of course, but they're too small to carry riders yet," Prince Rhaegar Targaryen answered, smiling.
Robert Baratheon rolled his eyes. "Sis, those things fly and breathe fire. Make them angry and that pretty face is gone."
Roberta shot him a look; Robert shut up at once. He pitied the prince: his sister was a fierce doe, a beautiful demon—she had them all fooled.
Many wanted the prince to take the lists, yet jousting bored Rhaegar; his victories would be won on battlefields.
The knights of the realm rode forth, a handful dazzling bright—and Rhaegar knew every one of them.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, in spotless white, cloak and plate making him a lone, pure star among the champions of the Seven Kingdoms.
With him rode Tygett Lannister and Gerion Lannister, younger brothers of Lord Tywin Lannister, the golden youths of House Lannister, lion helms on their heads and roaring lions on their shields. Applause thundered as they appeared; the Lions were famed for beauty and fertility.
Bronze Yohn Royce, heir to Runestone in the Vale, was another favorite; he had silvered his bronze armor and etched runes upon it, amusing the crowd greatly.
From the Vale came young Lyn Corbray as well, too young yet to wield the family blade Lady Forlorn, though every man knew the hero-tales of his house.
Rhaegar spotted another champion—Jason Mallister, young lord of Seagard in the Riverlands, tall and lean as a drawn blade. Brown-haired, with storm-grey eyes that made him look fierce, he seemed born for war. So even Tully vassals could breed heroes.
To Rhaegar many had come only to fill the lists—such as House Frey, ever breeding like rabbits. They arrived in numbers yet looked common, none bearing the stamp of warriors.
The jousts would run all day till dusk. Hooves drummed without cease on the hard earth; even the vast Dragonpit felt crowded.
Knights crashed together, lances exploded, the crowd screamed—this was the moment when danger lived. A fallen horse, a mis-aimed shaft—bloody, wild, exhilarating. The commons roared for their heroes, their blood afire after so long a peace.
The day's high point came when a young victor flung trophies—helmet plumes, small keepsakes—into the stands, setting off wild scrambles.
Rhaegar was watching when laughter rose beside him.
A Tyroshi envoy passed a note to the Red Keep's steward, who bore it to King Jaehaerys II Targaryen. The king smiled, had the gift inspected, then presented it to Prince Rhaegar: a rose of red gold and rubies.
Rhaegar caught sight of the green-haired Tyroshi girl, cheeks flushed, still smiling at him; understanding dawned.
"This rose is for you; you are as lovely as it," he said, handing the golden bloom to Roberta. Tyroshi maids were bold, yet a cross-sea marriage was all but impossible.
The fawn-eyed girl glanced at her parents' encouraging smiles, accepted the rose with confidence, beamed, and brushed a light kiss across Rhaegar's cheek.
"Our prince is much beloved; we should soon find him a bride," King Jaehaerys II remarked. Applause still rang, the Tyroshi rose gleamed in the king's thoughts. Most Targaryen princes shone, yet Rhaegar seemed brighter still.
Every lordling pricked up his ears. In a rigged contest the Baratheon girl would win by lengths; Dornish maids had dragon-blood too, yet their frail bodies made childbed a gamble—why else did the Princess of Dorne leave her daughter behind? But were the realm to hold a great fair like the Maiden's Day Cattle Show, every house might fancy its chances.
Such a ball would dwarf the Cattle Show, for King Aegon V Targaryen had lacked Rhaegar's beauty, openness, and brilliance, to say nothing of the last dragons in the world.
At Aegon's Cattle Show the magisters of Lys, the Archon of Tyrosh, the Prince of Pentos, and ancient Valyrian and Myrish nobles had all sent delegates. A bride-search for Rhaegar would prove grander still.
Tyrosh was rich, yet its footing was never sure.
Elections in Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis were riddled with bribery, feuds, and plots—no better than Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms accepted hereditary rule, the Free Cities elections; by comparison the latter's power was the shakier.
Braavos alone blended both virtues: her Sealord was elected, yet held the office for life—stable as stone.
Rhaegar glanced again at the Archon of Tyrosh's daughter; the girl met his gaze with unruffled grace. Her brother, however, flushed red and looked ready to burst.
He turned away, attention back on the lists, and watched Ser Barristan unhorse his foe with ease.
Then came an unwelcome interruption: the Sealord's son, young Fergo Antaryon, challenged Rhaegar to a duel.
A son of the Sea King against a grandson of the Dragon King.
"And what would you have us contest?" Rhaegar asked, wondering if the youth meant to pit him against some bodyguard.
Fergo was tall and handsome, fair of face, fire in his eyes.
The boy burns, Rhaegar thought.
"Your guard is too old and too seasoned; a match would be unfair. Let us cross blades ourselves," Fergo said.
In mighty Braavos the heirs of great houses lack neither masters nor meals; they may even train with the First Sword of Braavos.
"Gladly," Rhaegar replied; he too wished to test the Sealord's son.
"Since we play for sport, let us have a wager," Fergo said. Braavosi are hard merchants, fine sailors, shrewd reckoners all.
"And what stake do you propose?"
"A dragon, perhaps?" Fergo jested, half-serious light in his eyes. His father's menagerie held wonders, yet nothing to match a living dragon.
"You jest, friend. Dragons are friends and kin, not wagers. I doubt your father would stake his First Sword either. If dragons are on the table, you have no equal stake," Rhaegar said, shaking his head.
Fergo smiled and had his guard produce a weighty miniature: a purple-hulled Braavosi war-galley, wrought of gold, gems, and pearls—priceless.
"Then let this be my forfeit. We match blades for it," he declared, setting the glittering ship between them.
Fire meeting fire: Sealord and Dragonlord, sea and flame.
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