Chapter 85: The Year of Stars
Later generations would unanimously
describe the year 269 AC as the Year of Stars.
Using the Dragonpit tourney at King's Landing as its stage, fate drew the star-like figures together, and the constellations began to shine. Their joys and sorrows would shape the coming age, for these were the leaders who would rule the era.
Roberta Baratheon, the beloved doe of House Baratheon of Storm's End, rose and noble. Common opinion held that her fighting prowess far exceeded ordinary folk; her brother Robert Baratheon often said that, were she not a woman, she would rank among the age's greatest warriors—perhaps even surpassing himself.
Fergo Antaryon, scion of the illustrious House Antaryon of Braavos, most gifted son of the Sealord of Braavos, later elected Sealord himself, long-time rival and friend to Rhaegar.
Marajo Meghar, future Triarch of Volantis, who would hold the office for many terms.
Lysandro Rogare of Lys, Rhaegar's confidant and loyal servant, a Lysene magnate who restored the fortunes of House Rogare.
The Pearl of Tyrosh, Sersa Wul, daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh, intimate friend and ally to Rhaegar and his future queen, Tyrosh's rare female Archon, beloved for life, nicknamed the Maid of Tyrosh—though many considered the epithet an insult, for the lady had several children.
The tourney likewise gathered hosts of great and petty Lords from the Seven Kingdoms and their offspring—Brandon Stark, Robert Baratheon, Rennal Arryn, Mace Tyrell—each destined to carve his name upon history.
Yet the portents proclaimed the brightest star of the age to be Rhaegar Targaryen, later Emperor of Old Valyrians, Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men—called in later chronicles the Prince of Summerhall, Father of Dragons, the Victor, the Spear-Breaker, Lucky Rhaegar, the Silver Dragon Emperor, supreme protector of the Seven, the red god, and the three-headed god on earth.
When Prince Rhaegar Targaryen appeared at the Dragonpit Camp with three dragons and the Eagle Guards, it marked the dawn of his grand conquest and greater destiny.
—Excerpted from Rhaegar Targaryen: From Lucky to Emperor
After his display at the Dragonpit, Rhaegar led the Eagle Guards back to camp amid thunderous applause and cheers.
The three dragons, having given a splendid performance, were presented with a roasted ox; the young wyrmlets darted forward eagerly for another feast.
Rhaegar saw the soldiers' excitement—still thrilled by the roar of the Dragonpit lists.
Sated, the little dragons grew drowsy, curling into a circle beside their violet nest.
Alone in his tent, Rhaegar watched them. Bronze and black sparks danced from his fingers, runic shadows flickering within—"Shield rune!" "Hammer rune!"
The bronze motes coalesced into the shape of a great shield; the black sparks formed a dark warhammer.
Fine sparks should be shared with comrades, and the young wyrms were in a perilous growth. Those runes might better protect and aid them.
Only when they slept did Rhaegar slip them into his ring—the sole moment the hatchlings were ever quiet.
The Eagle Guards were split into two shifts, rotating between camp watch and keeping order at the tourney grounds. Dragons and treasure lay within the bronze ring, yet vigilance remained essential.
Ser Brynden Tully cared little for tourneys; Rhaegar set him, Joffrey Arryn, and Larys Velaryon to rotate command of the camp. Joffrey itched to compete, but gauged his skill and thought better of it—quartermaster suited him. Noble youths from the Crownlands and orphaned foundlings from Flea Bottom all required sorting and drilling.
Some of Rhaegar's soldiers, grown too old for common ranks, still craved honor in the lists—such as Bronze Yohn Royce, clad for the joust. Ser Barristan Selmy, needless to say, was a devotee of the lance, hailed as a champion-in-waiting.
Rhaegar reckoned Bronze Yohn would win no great laurels—still young, unlikely to best so many fine lancers, foremost among them Barristan.
Rhaegar doffed his black scale armor for plain clothes. At the tent door stood the one-armed, one-eared wildling Thrimm, learning swordcraft left-handed. Once he had worshipped high mountains; now his god was the Lord of Fire. Rhaegar gave him a nod and walked on.
He wore a black doublet embroidered with twin rows of Three-Headed Red Dragons. No crown—he followed Valyrian custom, binding silver hair with a steel circlet. Hair like liquid silver, tall and strong, his speed, strength, vigilance, and defense far beyond common men; the deeper the Blood of Fire, the more runes and dragon-flame honed him.
In plain clothes, the prince returned to the tourney stands with Cesar. Armor proclaimed battle-prowess; court dress bespoke courtesy. Cesar, his private secretary and Braavosi swordsman, bore heavier duties once Barristan entered the lists.
At sight of the handsome prince the crowd cheered wave upon wave, especially maidens and matrons who seemed to see a living dragon—a flowing silver flame whose heat left them faint.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat beside the doe Roberta Baratheon—a striking match. She wore blue silk that set off her black hair and sea-blue eyes. All who looked on smiled. Robert grimaced at his sister's ladylike pose but dared say nothing.
Rhaegar noticed other eyes: Fergo Antaryon, son of the Sealord, and Sersa Wul, daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh. The girl's blue-green gown matched her hair and eyes, jeweled and becoming, her clear gaze gentle. A pretty woman's gentleness can be a flood or beast more deadly than steel.
Yet Rhaegar's interest lay more with Fergo; House Antaryon was an old Sealord line of Braavos, having supplied several Sealords and ranking among the city's foremost nobles.
Fergo proved a courteous, handsome youth, a few years Rhaegar's senior, dressed in dark Braavosi fashion save for a ship-shaped gem on one finger. A tall middle-aged man—his bodyguard—stood nearby.
Meeting Rhaegar's gaze, Fergo offered a courteous nod.
Thus two stars collided for the first time.
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