Larys' face fell abruptly, and the scepter in his hand clattered to the floor.
He had expected that one day he would be discovered, but he hadn't thought it would happen so soon.
Rhaegar pressed his sword against Larys' throat, his eyes cold as ice. In a deep voice, he said, "You're a smart man. Tell me who is using you."
"Prince, I can serve you," Larys leaned back, trying to struggle.
The sword tip moved forward, piercing his skin, and fresh blood seeped out.
Rhaegar had little patience and sneered, "You know, I don't like scheming, deceitful people."
Larys' breathing quickened, and he said gloomily, "It was Otto and Mond Hightower."
At this point, there was no use hiding the truth.
Otto had taken a liking to his cunning ways, orchestrating a fake death and rescue to recruit him.
His brother, Mond Hightower, was the one who executed the plan. However, after rescuing Larys, he didn't hand him over to Otto. Instead, he kept him in his own hands.
The plan was to use Larys to eliminate the two heirs of House Tully, then ally with the Faith of the Seven to support Edmure's claim, thus forming a pact between House Hightower and House Tully.
Mond and Larys had an agreement.
Once the task was completed, they would arrange a ship to take Larys to Braavos and provide him with enough gold to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
"Are you really willing to spend the rest of your life hiding in Braavos?" Rhaegar asked skeptically.
Larys lowered his head and said hoarsely, "My name is already rotten in Westeros, but in Braavos, I still have a purpose."
Rhaegar listened carefully, then asked the second key question: "Which dragon saved you?"
If Otto and Mond were behind his rescue, then any of Alicent's children could be involved.
"Which one?"
Larys lifted his eyes and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "It was two—Princess Helaena's Dreamfyre and Prince Aemond's Sheepstealer."
A mere crippled exile was worth the effort of two dragons?
Rhaegar remained silent, staring at him coldly.
He would rather believe it was Daemon or Aegon.
Now that he had spoken the truth, Larys seemed more composed. He bent down with effort to pick up his scepter and sighed. "Dreamfyre burned everyone to ashes, and Sheepstealer delivered me to Mond Hightower."
Pausing for a moment, he chuckled mockingly. "We met at the Crossroads Inn. With your skills, you should be able to verify that."
Rhaegar's eyes flickered with suspicion, sensing that Larys was leading him into a trap.
"Is that all? Any last words?" Rhaegar had lost his patience.
Larys' words were half-truths, but knowing the key players was enough.
"No last words."
Larys gripped his scepter tightly, his gaze deep as he stared at Rhaegar. His final words were: "You really should keep an eye on Braavos. The previous Sealord's death was suspicious."
Shk!
The sword pierced through his throat, its dark, star-speckled blade cutting clean through.
Larys' body stiffened, his eyes gradually losing focus. Blood gushed from his severed carotid artery, soaking his deep green robes.
Thud!
As Darkfyre was pulled free, his body collapsed with a heavy thud.
Even in death, Larys refused to let go of his scepter.
Rhaegar looked down from above, gripping his Valyrian steel sword with both hands, one over the other.
At the base of the hilt, an octagonal, flame-red gemstone gleamed, and from the blade, roaring fire erupted.
Boom!
Flames spread across the floor, quickly engulfing the corpse, crackling as they burned.
Moments later, only ashes remained.
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths
Rhaegar stepped through the rain, shedding his soaked black cloak before donning a set of formal black attire.
Harrenhal was his domain, and as such, he had to attend any banquet held there.
He descended the grand staircase, as Ser Steffon of the Kingsguard announced his arrival.
"Presenting Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains, the Ashmaker, and Heir to the Iron Throne!"
A drumbeat echoed through the hall as nobles approached and bowed to their late-arriving prince.
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was truly massive.
The ceiling soared dozens of feet above the stone floor, supporting thirteen enormous chandeliers, each holding dozens of tallow candles.
Rhaegar took a glance around the room. More than thirty grand fireplaces burned fragrant wood, yet even with over a thousand guests gathered, the hall still felt spacious.
King Viserys sat at the center of the hall, before a massive table filled with lavish dishes. He waved cheerfully. "Rhaegar, come have a drink with your father."
Beside him, Alicent Hightower attended to him diligently, while several royal advisors shared drinks in his company.
Navigating through the grand hall, Rhaegar casually took a goblet of sweet fruit wine from a passing servant.
As he approached, he pulled Grand Maester Orwyle aside and asked, "How is my father's health?"
"His Majesty is stable. There are no signs of infection," Orwyle said plainly.
Rhaegar nodded, catching the unspoken meaning.
His father's wounds weren't healing, but at least they weren't worsening.
Perhaps it was linked to his bond with Vermithor, or maybe Orwyle's new medicine was helping.
Patting the maester on the shoulder, Rhaegar took his seat gracefully.
He sipped his wine while scanning the hall.
Rhaenyra was absent. Her maids had said she wasn't feeling well and had retired early.
Alicent played the role of a devoted wife, attentively caring for her ailing husband.
Leonor Velaryon and Otto Hightower sat together at another table, both visibly distracted—one worried that his eldest son had offended the crown prince, the other troubled by his older brother's reckless decisions.
Mond Hightower sat beside Aegon, laughing heartily and drinking deeply.
Rhaegar took a brief glance at them before focusing on Helaena and Aemond.
Helaena had made new friends—Margaery Tyrell and Mallisanne Baratheon, the second daughter of Storm's End.
The three young women, all of similar age, gathered together, chatting over tea and pastries.
As for Aemond...
"Rhaegar, I'm sitting with you."
Aemond abruptly abandoned his betrothed, Cassandra, and squeezed in beside his older brother.
Rhaegar threw an arm around his shoulder and whispered, "You don't like Cassandra?"
"She's a fool, and she thinks too highly of herself," Aemond scoffed, making no effort to hide his disdain.
Rhaegar offered some advice. "You're already betrothed, but Cassandra hasn't inherited Storm's End yet. You should be more tolerant of her."
"I know," Aemond waved dismissively, unwilling to dwell on the topic.
"You'd better."
Rhaegar smirked slightly, studying him carefully.
He was thinking about what Larys had said.
Helena and Aemond were involved—this was a fracture that divided the family.
On the other side...
Jason adjusted his flamboyant golden hair and strode forward, leading two Baratheon bastards.
Viserys took a sip of wine, eyeing the illogical trio with surprise.
"Your Grace." Jason nodded respectfully in greeting.
Viserys set down his wine cup, glanced at the two bastards, and hesitated. "Lord Jason, who are these two behind you?"
He recognized them—they were the bastards put forth by Storm's End.
But they should not have been standing before him.
Jason waved a hand theatrically. "Your Grace, Lord Borros's death is a heartbreaking loss. Storm's End has no male heir."
"The blood of House Baratheon runs through these two. They hope to earn your favor by winning the tournament championship."
The two bastards stepped forward and respectfully knelt on one knee.
Viserys's expression darkened, and he said displeased, "Lord Borros may have passed, but his bloodline still remains in this world. There is no need for bastards to play the hero."
He pointed directly at the two bastards, mocking, "Besides, they are not heroes."
"Your Grace, they do have some skill in combat. Perhaps they could even be considered for the Kingsguard," Jason suggested, clearly prepared for this conversation.
Viserys frowned. "Then let them compete fairly and earn the approval of the Small Council."
In his heart, his choice for the Kingsguard was clear—Criston Cole.
Loyal, brave, and unyielding.
Jason continued to press, smiling. "Of course, all honors must be earned."
The two bastards, seeing they had no place here, left in embarrassment.
However, more nobles from the Stormlands, the Reach, and the Vale stepped forward, raising the issue of female inheritance rights.
Rhaegar turned his head, observing the banquet scene.
At some point, Jeyne had joined Helena's little circle, chatting warmly with Margaery and Melisandre in her elegantly tailored gown.
The nobility's concern was not just about Cassandra's claim to Storm's End.
It was about the legitimacy of female succession itself.
If Cassandra's right to inherit Storm's End was denied, it would set a precedent to challenge Jeyne's rule over the Vale.
The Duke of Highgarden had also lost his heir, putting Margaery in a similar position to Cassandra.
Thus, some noble factions from the Reach and the Stormlands united in opposing female heirs.
The lords of Westeros were deeply traditional, unwilling to accept women ruling over them.
"Tch, two bastards dreaming of becoming a lord," Aemond scoffed.
Rhaegar stood up and said rationally, "They are testing Father's limits."
Viserys handled it well—he dismissed the nobles with vague responses, no matter what they said.
And that was the right approach. Silence was a statement in itself.
Rhaegar silently left, heading upstairs.
He still had matters to attend to with the old Tully and needed to have someone keep a close watch.
—
The Tower's Top Floor – Lord's Chambers
Creak—
The door was pushed open from the outside as Rhaegar stepped into the darkened room.
Outside, the rain poured down in torrents, the steady noise oddly soothing.
By the dim glow of the fireplace, a graceful figure lay under the thin blanket, its curves accentuated.
Rhaenyra was sleeping on her side, her silver-gold hair cascading down as she breathed softly, cheeks slightly flushed.
Rhaegar approached quietly, brushing aside a stray lock of her hair.
"Rhaegar, stop it… You're so cold," she murmured drowsily, instinctively shrinking her white neck, showing no signs of waking up.
Rhaegar chuckled.
She ate well, slept well—no wonder the maesters couldn't find anything wrong with her.
He grabbed a blanket, lay down by the fireplace, and slowly closed his eyes.
He really was a bit cold. Better to sleep separately.
—
A dream came unexpectedly.
The familiar room, the familiar bed, the familiar fireplace...
Rhaegar opened his eyes in confusion, still covered by the same blanket he had used before falling asleep.
Drip, drip...
He looked up.
The rain still poured heavily outside, hammering against the stained-glass windows.
He got up and walked toward the bed.
Rhaenyra remained in the same sleeping position, peaceful and quiet.
But in an instant, Rhaegar knew this was a dream, not reality.
Because in Rhaenyra's arms, there were now two tiny, sleeping infants.
Rhaegar's eyes widened in shock as a realization dawned on him.
The babies were incredibly small, with fair, delicate faces. They were curled up against each other in Rhaenyra's embrace.
He couldn't make out their features, but their soft, wispy hair was unmistakably silver-gold.
His heart pounded wildly as he reached out with trembling fingers, gently poking one of the babies' cheeks.
Soft. Warm.
"Smack~"
The baby's tiny pink lips moved, a little chubby leg stretching upward before clumsily rolling over and burrowing deeper into Rhaenyra's embrace.
For a brief moment, as the baby moved, Rhaegar caught sight of a small birthmark.
"By Balerion's grace!"
He whispered in disbelief, half-kneeling by the bed, unwilling to look away from Rhaenyra and the two infants.
At that moment, he had never believed more strongly in his innate gift as a dreamer.
(End of Chapter)