Chapter 35 – Three Hundred Dragonlords
Rhaegar felt as though he had become the eye of the heavens, gazing down upon the mortal world without pity or mercy.
The towns of the Rhoynar had already been reduced to ash. Only heartless birds still mocked the spring breeze as they circled the ruins—yet when they returned, they could no longer find their nests.
If heaven possessed emotions, it too would grow weary with age.
Augo Baelarys and Aulis Baelarys led twenty true dragons toward the main Valyrian host.
They swept across the sky, crossing the vast Rhoyne.
The river was wide and boundless, its waters tangled like a living net. The Rhoynar were masters of water magic, and the war between Valyria and the Rhoynar was, at its core, a clash of fire and water.
Dragonlord and water-mage—victory and annihilation would be decided between them.
Wherever the dragons of House Baelarys passed, Rhoynish towns were incinerated and their people exterminated.
Many settlements were already empty; their inhabitants had either fled downriver or gathered beneath Prince Gaelen's banner.
Through Rhaegar's eyes, the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords revealed themselves in full.
Ruthless. Cold. Blasphemous. Arrogant beyond measure.
It was no wonder the Dragonlords would one day be erased by catastrophe.
Augo Baelarys rode at the forefront upon his immense Purple Dragon. Rhaegar observed that the heir of the foremost Dragonlord house did not rely on brute blood alone—he commanded his dragon through Binding Curses and a magical horn.
"Mind Rune."
"Motion Rune."
"Stillness Rune."
"Ban Rune."
The Mind Rune forged a soul-contract between rider and dragon, allowing thoughts and intent to flow freely. It granted understanding, harmony, and precise control.
Yet dragons outlived men. When a rider died, reforging such a bond was far harder than raising a wyrmling anew.
The Motion Rune governed action—flight, turning, ascent, descent, flame-breath, retreat. It was fire made discipline, allowing flawless control in battle.
The Stillness Rune calmed rage. Dragons were intelligent, but once driven into frenzy they became nearly uncontrollable. Stillness preserved both dragon and rider.
The Ban Rune was forbidden by most houses. Once invoked, the dragon burned its own life-force in a berserk slaughter, destroying everything before it—often including itself.
Beyond runes, there was the dragon horn.
It gleamed darkly, veined with red-gold and Valyrian steel. Compared to Binding Curses, the horn demanded far less concentration, though it exacted its own price.
By contrast, House Targaryen's methods were crude—reliant almost entirely on dragon-blood resonance.
"A true Dragonlord commands with runes and horns," Augo declared proudly.
"Fire magic and blood magic obey us. Mere instincts and dreams do not deserve the name of mastery."
He guided his dragon onward, Aulis Baelarys flying at his side.
"True dragons do not fear river spray," Aulis said calmly. "This war with the Rhoynar ends here. The Dragonlord Conclave has summoned three hundred dragons. Our strongest have answered, though some remain behind to keep the slaves in check."
Augo laughed.
"I have prepared a golden cage for Prince Gaelen. He may have bested the Three-Headed Dragon—but now he faces the fury of three hundred."
He raised the horn and sounded it.
The dragons hastened.
Below them, the Rhoyne surged violently. The Rhoynar conjured towering waterspouts, and the river had already swallowed the battlefield town of Velosenthis.
At last, the two hosts faced one another.
Rhoynar banners bore great fish, turtles, and flowing river sigils.
Valyrian banners displayed every imaginable dragon and flame.
This battle would decide the fate of water-civilization and fire-civilization alike.
Valyrian forces—alongside Volantene auxiliaries—had raised dark strongholds along a low ridge near the river.
Dragons loved height and heat; wise Dragonlords tended their partners carefully.
Purple, gold, blue, white, red—nearly every dragon known to the world was gathered here.
Rhaegar's head reeled.
Had this host of three hundred endured, no power in the world could have opposed Valyria.
Each house favored its own colors. Baelarys favored purple; others gold, blue, or pale white.
The Dragonlords shaped the land itself, fusing earth into black walls and towers with sorcery, raising a fortress camp of obsidian stone.
Night fell.
Before the great battle, revelry began.
Inside the encampment glittered seas of jewels, furs, tapestries, ivory, and Valyrian steel. Perfume mixed with blood-scent in the air.
Silver-haired, violet-eyed Dragonlords—men and women alike—filled the camp, each bearing different sigils.
Most were tall, powerful, brimming with vitality.
Each sought to outshine the others; peacock plumes and crystal trinkets seemed worthless here.
Valyrian steel swords, lances, and bows lay scattered like a river of power.
Valyria ruled the world.
Bronze rings woven into hair and small crowns marked status. Pride radiated from every Dragonlord—absolute faith in Valyria's dominion.
None took Prince Gaelen seriously. What could water magic do against three hundred dragons?
Tents of every hue rose beneath glyph-marked banners proclaiming bloodlines and rank.
Rhaegar's blood stirred.
He recognized an ancestor.
Beneath the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen stood a young silver-haired man—handsome, reserved, plainly dressed, attended by few.
The most dazzling pavilion was purple and star-bright. Beneath the blazing standard of the Purple Dragon, Augo and Aulis Baelarys entertained the heirs and sovereigns of every great house.
Augo's Valyrian steel blade—born from the Purple Dragon's flame—hung behind him, radiant and terrible.
Volantene servants prepared rich food and wine. Dragons were fed nearby.
Roasted lamb. Fresh bread. Fragrant wine.
At the center of the feast lay a massive roasted fish—once a Rhoynar river-god.
Laughter rang out.
"Poor Daemon," Augo said lazily. "Does your house still cling to those strange dreams?"
The Dragonlords roared with laughter.
They measured worth by dragons and sorcery. With few dragons and only Dragon Dreams, House Targaryen was scorned.
Daemon Targaryen flushed red but held his tongue.
None suspected that this mocked, modest house would be the last to endure.
Weakness, at times, was camouflage.
"Yes, yes—Daemon knows nothing of runes or horns," another jeered. "Only dreams."
Rhaegar watched in silence.
Dragonlords clawed for supremacy through blood and fire.
That the Targaryens survived at all was a triumph of restraint.
In the end, they alone would remain—the last Dragonlords of the world.
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