To celebrate the King's victory over the foes of the Stepstones.
The Reach, the Vale, and the North—none of whom had fought deeply in the war—sent gifts as well.
Highgarden sent roses, melons, honey-peaches, fire-plums, and the golden wines of the Arbor.
The rulers of Highgarden were preparing a grand alliance; the betrothal of Lady Redwyne to Duke Tyrell had already bound the two great houses. Now, it seemed, they turned their thoughts to courting another mighty lord: House Hightower.
The Vale's fruits were even sweeter than those of The Reach. Alongside the harvest came scented candles, costly spices, and shadow-lynx pelts. The towering Pale Mountains formed the Vale's impassable gate, yet the valleys between them yielded rich bounty.
"Your Grace, forgive us; the mountain paths and a wildling raid delayed us." The lead envoy, Jon Stone, a noble bastard of the Vale, presented the gifts of Lord Arryn to King's Landing.
The Vale's strength was considerable, but choked by bad roads. The mountain tracks were treacherous, and the lawless Mountain Clansmen—those fearless savages—haunted The Pale Mountains. They knew every ridge and ravine, fought like demons, and could not be rooted out.
"Your efforts are appreciated," said Jaehaerys II. Prince Rhaegar stood beside him; Crown Prince Aerys, as ever, was lost in feasts and revelry.
Although the Vale's envoys were late, Jaehaerys II understood the hardship of their journey.
Most great Lords of the realm preferred caution, choosing to guard their own rather than play the game of thrones.
In this the Vale, the North, and Dorne were of one mind.
The Vale and Dorne were hemmed in by mountains, the North by cold.
In truth, Jaehaerys II thought little of their aloofness. The Vale, the North, and Dorne had never involved themselves deeply in court politics. Only Dorne, thanks to a recent marriage, had graced King's Landing for a time; the Vale and the North remained outsiders.
"Your Grace, I bring the heartfelt greetings of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of The Eyrie, Warden of the East and Defender of the Vale, to Your Grace and the Queen, to the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, and to young Prince Rhaegar."
"We thank the Duke for his kindness. How fares his health?" asked Jaehaerys II.
"He remains hale, Your Grace," Jon Stone replied.
The Vale's current ruler, Jon Arryn, was hearty but childless, haunted by the loss of wives and babes. His first lady had died young, leaving no heir; his second lived yet suffered one difficult pregnancy after another. A cloud of grief kept the Arryn lord away from court.
Rhaegar knew the yet-absent Lord Arryn was a king-maker, stern and unyielding. A child raised in that man's shadow would grow crooked.
Fate, too, had shaped Lord Arryn. Childless, he cherished other men's sons and his own wards. Holding honor higher than life, he would bend to no one.
"Stubborn old Arryn—ever strong, yet without a trueborn heir," Jaehaerys II sighed. Among the great Lords, Arryn was already advanced in years.
"May the gods grant him a worthy heir," Jon Stone answered. He sensed the lord would never wed again; the grief of weddings and funerals had left Arryn terrified of marriage, and even a great lord would not take a third wife.
Bored, Rhaegar studied the Life-Tree panel hovering before him.
The Blood of Fire still slept, yet the more he achieved—the greater his vitality—the more luxuriant the tree became.
Mastery of power, command of strength: all nourished the living tree.
In time, when the tree had grown, the Blood of Fire would wake and he would rise dragon-backed once more.
Jon Stone presented Rhaegar with an exquisite picture-book: scenes of the Vale's wild beauty—and, of course, dragons.
The Vale was rich in dragon-tales; dragons had once shared its history. Queen Visenya had flown the young Arryn lord above the clouds; in a Pale Mountain cave the royal host had met Sheepstealer and ragged Nettle, losing sixteen men to dragonfire.
Rhaegar lingered on the page showing Nettle and the wild dragon bursting from the cave, vanishing into the heart of The Pale Mountains.
"You know the tale, Prince: the last time we saw Sheepstealer was the year his path crossed the king's army," Jon Stone said.
Rhaegar nodded; the love of Nettle and Prince Daemon was already a favorite of singers.
"Deep inside The Pale Mountains is no place for common men, Grandfather," Jaehaerys II told the boy, "and the mountain clans are savage."
He knew the mountains well. The fierce wildlings had slain many Vale Lords, several Arryns among them. Worse, only dragonseed could hope to approach Sheepstealer; the wild dragon was ferocious, untameable, and surely long dead by now.
"Yet there is another tale," Jon continued. "A Painted Dog offshoot worships a Fire Priestess in the peaks. They send her children and gifts, and the dragon she commands tests them with Dragonflame to see if they have the blood."
Rhaegar nodded; the priestess could only be Nettle.
I will need a sharp company and Lord Arryn's aid to open the paths into The Pale Mountains and seek the traces of Sheepstealer and Nettle, he thought.
First, he meant to view the bones of the last dragon. Sheepstealer must have died in the deep mountains; his colossal frame would have grounded him in the end. Rhaegar cared nothing for recruiting the wildlings—savage, blood-thirsty brutes who would tear King's Landing apart.
Second, he meant to see what else the dragon's lair might hold.
When the shepherd girl fled, she might have carried some keepsake from Prince Daemon, her lover and the Blacks' great commander; Rhaegar meant to find it.