Chapter 29: The Pale Mountains and Dragon Legends
To celebrate the King's victory over the foes of the Stepstones, gifts arrived from across the Seven Kingdoms.
The Reach, the Vale, and the North—none of whom had committed deeply to the war—sent offerings as well.
Highgarden's wagons overflowed with roses, melons, honey-peaches, fire-plums, and the famed golden wines of the Arbor.
House Tyrell was quietly strengthening its alliances. Lady Olenna Redwyne's betrothal to Lord Luthor Tyrell had already bound Highgarden and the Arbor together. Now, it seemed, their attention had turned toward the Hightower of Oldtown—wealth, faith, and learning all in one towering prize.
The Vale's gifts were fewer but finer. Along with sweet mountain fruits came scented candles, rare spices, and pelts of shadowcats hunted in the high passes. The Pale Mountains, which walled the Vale off from the rest of the realm, were impassable to armies—but the valleys nestled among them were fertile and rich.
"Your Grace, we beg forgiveness," said the lead envoy, Jon Stone, a noble bastard of the Vale, as he knelt before the Iron Throne. "The mountain passes were treacherous, and raids by the clans delayed us."
He presented the gifts of House Arryn to King's Landing.
The Vale was strong, but its strength was constrained by terrain. Its narrow paths and high passes made large movements slow and dangerous. Worse still were the Mountain Clans, wild and fearless, who knew every ridge and ravine. They struck like spirits and vanished like smoke, and no lord had ever truly subdued them.
"Your efforts are appreciated," said King Jaehaerys II.
Prince Rhaegar stood at his side. Prince Aerys, the Crown Prince, was absent once more—lost to feasts, music, and pleasures.
Though the Vale's envoys had arrived late, Jaehaerys II understood. Few great lords were eager to entangle themselves deeply in royal wars.
In this, the Vale, the North, and Dorne were alike.
The Vale and Dorne were shielded by mountains, the North by cold and distance. None were fond of courtly intrigue.
"Your Grace," Jon Stone continued, "I bear the greetings of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, Defender of the Vale—to Your Grace and the Queen, to the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, and to young Prince Rhaegar."
"We thank Lord Arryn for his courtesy," Jaehaerys II replied. "How does he fare?"
"He is well, Your Grace," Jon Stone answered.
The current Lord Jon Arryn was still a young man, stern beyond his years and already known for his unbending sense of honor. He avoided the court, preferring the cold clarity of the Eyrie to the shifting intrigues of King's Landing.
Rhaegar studied the envoy in silence. A child raised under Lord Arryn would grow straight as a spear—and just as inflexible.
"An Arryn is ever stubborn," Jaehaerys II murmured softly. "Strong as stone, and just as unyielding."
"May the gods grant my lord wisdom and good fortune," Jon Stone replied.
Bored with politics, Rhaegar turned inward, gazing at the Life-Tree panel hovering before his eyes.
The Blood of Fire still slept.
Yet the more he trained, learned, and honed his will, the more luxuriant the tree grew. Power nourished it. Mastery strengthened it.
One day, when the tree was tall enough, the sleeping flame would awaken.
Jon Stone then presented Rhaegar with an exquisitely illustrated book—paintings of the Vale's peaks, skies, and legends.
And, as ever, dragons.
The Vale was rich in dragon-tales. During the Conquest, Queen Visenya Targaryen had flown the young Ronnel Arryn upon Vhagar, carrying him above the clouds to win the Vale without bloodshed.
Later, during the Dance of the Dragons, the royal host had once crossed the Pale Mountains—and there, in a high cave, they had encountered Sheepstealer and Nettles. Sixteen men had perished in dragonfire before the host withdrew.
Rhaegar lingered on an illustration showing Nettles and the wild dragon bursting from a mountain cave, vanishing into the depths of the Pale Mountains.
"You know the tale, Your Highness," Jon Stone said. "Sheepstealer was last seen in those mountains, during the king's campaign."
Rhaegar nodded. The story of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Nettles was beloved by singers and poets alike.
"The Pale Mountains are no place for a prince," King Jaehaerys II said firmly. "Nor for common men. The clans there are savages."
He knew those mountains well. Many Vale lords—Arryns among them—had died to the clans' ambushes. Worse still, Sheepstealer had never been tamed by chains or commands. Only Nettles, a dragonseed herself, had ever approached him safely.
"And yet," Jon Stone added carefully, "there are rumors. Some say a clan of the Painted Dogs worships a fire-witch in the high peaks. They claim she tests their children with flame, seeking dragon's blood."
Rhaegar nodded, his expression unreadable.
Rumors distort truth, he thought. But legends are born from something real.
First, he would seek the bones of the last wild dragon. Sheepstealer must have died in the mountains—his vast body too great to fly forever.
Second, he would search the lair itself.
When Nettles fled into the mountains, she may have taken something with her—some keepsake of Prince Daemon Targaryen, her lover and the Blacks' greatest champion.
If such a relic still existed…
Rhaegar intended to find it.
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