Chapter 97: The True Dragon Spear of Valyria
Harrenhal stands upon the shore of a vast blue lake—the Gods Eye—the lifework of Harren the Black, and the mightiest fortress ever raised in the Seven Kingdoms.
Unlike Casterly Rock or the Eyrie, it boasts no natural defenses. Rising sheer from flat ground, its very scale proclaims both the monstrous labor and cruelty of Harren the Black.
Below Harrenhal lie endless rivers of common blood—the tears and lives of the enslaved, Rhaegar reflected.
Upon the gatehouse flew two banners: the yellow field with nine black bats of House Whent, beside the red-and-black dragon of House Targaryen. The bat sigil always stirred thoughts of darkness and ill omen; once, House Rosby had used a bat device as well, and Rhaegar could not help but wonder whether fate itself favored such symbols.
Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Walder Whent escorted Rhaegar inside with warm zeal. In peacetime, welcoming a true Dragon Prince was counted a great honor.
The Whent children were comely enough, yet beside Prince Rhaegar, Lord Walder felt the gulf keenly—reeds beside a jade tree. Still, he reminded himself this was the realm's only Silver Prince; any child who could keep pace, even faintly, had promise.
All three of Rhaegar's dragons loathed Harrenhal's air and instead frolicked above the Gods Eye. Though the fishers had been warned away, some bold souls still cast their nets; at the sight of the winged terrors they fled in panic.
Bound by blood and fire, Rhaegar sensed each dragon's place and mood. Beast and rider mirrored one another; the young wyrms did not stray.
Walking Harrenhal, Rhaegar felt chiefly its immensity—walls, yards, towers, chambers—everything oversized, as though built for giants.
Vast and broad, Harrenhal's ramparts rise like sheer cliffs; five towers stand like colossal sentinels. Even under House Whent, much lay crumbling and forlorn.
Two hundred strong, Rhaegar's party slipped inside like a leaf upon the sea—barely a ripple made. To garrison the castle fully would require two or three thousand men at least.
The gatehouse stones were cracked and bleached, ghastly. Each tower looked stranger and more twisted than the last, bearing scars left by Balerion the Black Dread.
Lord Walder eagerly led the way. Of all Harrenhal, only Kingspyre Tower and Widow's Tower were well maintained. Kingspyre—the tallest and greatest—served as Walder's seat.
Rhaegar thought Kingspyre leaned; melted stone, warped by dragonflame, pressed it sideways like a vast, half-melted black candle.
Yet Lord Walder brimmed with pride, eager to display House Whent's wealth and standing.
The feast was held in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, though Rhaegar counted scarcely thirty. Flagstones paved the floor; twin stairways climbed to high galleries. The hall soared, fit for kings alone.
Along the long tables lay ten suckling pigs—golden and crisp, mouths stuffed with fruit—followed by roast beef, baked river fish, honeycakes, pea pudding, and apples baked with yellow cheese. A banquet worthy of royalty.
Music rose, sweet and coaxing. Knowing the prince's gift for the harp, Lord Walder wisely did not ask him to perform.
Nor did Rhaegar neglect his dragons. On the lakeshore, Lord Walder had cattle slaughtered. Though the wyrms sometimes fished for sport, they preferred red meat in abundance.
At the center of every gaze stood the Targaryen prince—silver-haired, violet-eyed, his presence bright as a sun-kissed blade. Rhaegar was no common man; he bore the blood of Old Valyria, of dragons and fire.
Ladies and maids swooned over his easy grace. None would forget the moment he leapt from the Silver Emperor, the prince of legend made flesh. Yet dalliance felt impossible; he moved among the highest—granddaughters of Hands, daughters of great lords, even the Archon of Tyrosh's daughter. Only by following the path of Aegon IV the Unworthy, rutting without restraint, might they hope for more.
With bellies full, talk returned to war—the coming conflict in the Stepstones, watched by all the Seven Kingdoms.
Lord Hoster and his younger brother had eased their rift somewhat. Even if Ser Brynden Tully would never admit it, his heart still lingered on Riverrun and his newborn niece. Watching him, Rhaegar guessed the knight would soon require a long leave.
Rhaegar, Lord Hoster, and Lord Walder spoke of the Stepstones, where war-fires would soon blaze. The host would be led by Lord Tywin Lannister, Crown Prince Aerys Targaryen, Lord Steffon Baratheon, and others.
Ser Oswell Whent itched to join them, eager for glory. Knights of Westeros never lack hunger for war; at the feast many already burned to crush the Lysene pirates.
Another task had brought Rhaegar to the Riverlands—levying troops. With House Tully and House Whent behind him, it proved easy work.
Night deepened, and Rhaegar activated the Bronze Dragon-King Ring.
Flame danced around his fingers. The deeper the ring's layers, the greater the demand for the Blood of Fire.
His Blood of Fire had grown stronger, allowing him to peel back another seal of the Bronze Ring.
A spear lay pinned beneath a long scroll.
"Dragon-Taming Codex, Mind Rune?" Rhaegar exulted. The ring might not hold the four legendary Valyrian compendia—Dragonica, Ignica, Bellatrix, and Artificia—those were far too vast and priceless.
Yet this codex alone was treasure enough.
He skimmed the pages: dragon ages, habits, taming steps, mind sigils, basic combat drills.
Dragons love fire and smoke; in Old Valyria, eggs were once taken from the Fourteen Flames themselves.
He read of first nesting, first flight, first mounting—the fearless union of man and wyrm. Only once rider and dragon truly knew each other could the sigil be sealed.
Dragons live roughly two centuries, in stages of fifty years. Smaller wyrms are swift but burn weak; larger ones slow yet devastating. For now, he would favor speed—like a fast lance, or a light horse.
By blood and fire, man forges the mind-pact.
Rhaegar rolled the codex and lifted the spear.
It was longer than any common lance. The butt bore a snarling black wyrm; the haft smoked dark. The blade emerged from a purple-gold dragon's maw, rippled red and black, its eyes set with violet gems.
Ancient. Light. Deadly.
Valyrian steel.
A weapon of war—each added inch lending killing power. A spear of Valyrian steel was rarer even than a sword.
Explorer: Congratulations. You have uncovered a relic of Old Valyria—the Dragon Spear of House Baelarys.
Valyrian steel was most often forged into longswords; rarer still were axes or sabers. A spear of the metal was extravagance beyond measure.
Rhaegar smiled. He would never melt it down. Blackfyre could wait.
He raised the spear and moved through several forms.
The true dragon spear had stepped from history—hungry for glory, hot blood, and legend.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 40+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics