"What does the tourney hosted by Lord Whent have to do with Rhaegar?"
Daeron asked, though he knew the answer perfectly well.
Connington knew the Prince was fishing for information, so he framed it in the best possible light. "Prince Rhaegar has sponsored Lord Whent. He intends to use this tourney to show the lords of the Seven Kingdoms that the royal house has not declined, but remains as strong as ever."
"Who told you the royal house has declined?"
Daeron fired back immediately.
Connington sneered but held his tongue, stiffening his neck stubbornly.
With the Mad King on the throne, the authority of the Iron Throne waned by the day.
It didn't need to be said.
Seeing his arrogance, Daeron asked, "Lord Walter, did my big brother sponsor you?"
"Yes, Prince."
Lord Walter didn't dare lie.
The two hatchlings outside the King's Pyre Tower represented absolute authority.
Connington held his head high, rather proud.
He figured Lord Whent wouldn't dare deny the sponsorship.
The Crown Prince sponsoring a great lord's tourney was a matter that could be seen as big or small. Given the current state of the Seven Kingdoms, no one would sue the Crown Prince over it. They would only hope the Mad King stepped down sooner so they could get a good king in his place.
Unexpectedly, Daeron said, "This is a good thing!"
"Huh?" Lord Walter's expression changed.
Of course it was a good thing.
Daeron saw through Rhaegar's plan completely, and House Whent had defected at the last minute. How could he pass up such a golden opportunity?
Daeron said, "Lord Walter, I fully support you hosting a tourney. When the time comes, I will actively participate and strive to win a good ranking."
"Prince, you..."
Lord Walter hesitated.
His veteran political instincts told him House Whent was in deep trouble.
The Tourney at Harrenhal would become the first public battlefield for the two princes to fight over the succession.
"Rest assured, neither my brother nor I will harm House Whent," Daeron said soothingly.
Lord Walter could only resign himself to fate.
To Connington, however, this behavior looked like the weakness of a young boy ripe for bullying. He remembered the task Prince Rhaegar had assigned him before leaving.
"Prince Daeron, I have a matter to discuss with you," Connington said, his voice full of vigor.
Daeron: "Let's hear it."
"Regarding the dragons!"
Connington opened up boldly. "You have hatched three dragons, which has indeed shocked the world and is worthy of admiration and respect."
"As I understand it, you gave a black hatchling to His Grace."
Daeron: "Speak plainly."
Connington stopped beating around the bush. "Prince Rhaegar is the Crown Prince, the future King who will sit on the Iron Throne."
"We hope you can part with one hatchling, allowing Prince Rhaegar to become a dragonrider."
"As long as you agree, you may name any condition..."
"Shut up!"
Before he could finish, Daeron cut him off with a sharp rebuke.
Anyone could guess Rhaegar's thoughts regarding the hatchlings. But Daeron never expected them to ask so self-righteously.
Was it because Rhaegar was arrogant that his subordinates were all so brazen?
"Prince, we come with sincerity."
For the sake of his "Silver Prince," Connington pressed on despite the pressure.
A flash of killing intent passed through Daeron's eyes, his aura suddenly shifting. "'We'? Who is this 'we' you speak of?"
"Uh..."
Connington was stumped.
More than just stumped, he felt an inexplicable oppression, like needles pricking his back.
Daeron: "You want my dragon!"
Connington sensed something was wrong and tried hard to organize his words.
Skree-onk—!
Suddenly, a piercing shriek like an air raid siren erupted from outside the King's Pyre Tower.
"What!?"
Oswell, with his keenest sense for danger, instantly turned to look outside.
There, atop the ruined spire of the Widow's Tower—the sister tower to the King's Pyre—a patch of scarlet had appeared abruptly.
Its body was long and slender like a snake, its broad wings blotting out the sky, and its pair of molten-gold vertical pupils watched them with cold indifference.
The Red Dragon—Caraxes.
Oswell's pupils shrank to pinpoints, his body freezing in place.
Everyone followed his gaze and saw the sinister-looking red dragon.
As if no one else existed, Caraxes let out a low roar filled with menace.
Skree-onk—!!
Being targeted by a dragon for the first time, everyone tensed up, a chill running down their spines.
"Prince?"
Even the battle-hardened Barristan assumed a defensive stance.
"It's fine."
Daeron, on the contrary, calmed down.
Caraxes was still technically a hatchling. But with a body comparable to a warhorse, he was already a beast in the truest sense.
The "Blood Wyrm" was beginning to show his ferocity.
Hearing this, Barristan relaxed slightly.
Daeron stood up and walked down the steps one by one.
"Prince, what are you doing?"
Connington and the others were incredibly nervous, their hands flying to the hilts of their swords.
Daeron remained calm. "Be careful not to startle Caraxes, my Lords."
"He is very protective of me."
No matter how bold Connington and the others were, they didn't dare provoke a dragon.
Daeron strolled leisurely through the crowd, pushed open the doors, and reached the front courtyard.
The group looked at each other, not daring to make a rash move.
Daeron turned back and said, "Lord Connington, didn't you want to ask for a dragon on behalf of my big brother?"
"Then come."
Connington's brow furrowed into a knot. He probed carefully, "Prince, are you willing to trade?"
"No need to trade."
Daeron waved his hand. The Dragonguards parted, revealing Tessarion, who had had her fill.
"I'll give you a chance. Use whatever method you like. If you can take her away, she is yours to do with as you please."
A free dragon?
Connington's heart raced. He wanted to stop right there.
But the melancholic gaze of the Silver Prince flashed through his mind, and his fear was instantly suppressed.
"Fine, I will try!"
Connington's eyes were bloodshot. He moved forward step by step, his usually swift legs feeling as heavy as lead.
"Prince! x2"
Barristan and Oswell shouted in unison.
Daeron glanced at them sideways and asked, "Rhaegar wants a dragon. Am I giving it to him, or not?"
Who could answer that?
Oswell shut his mouth, praying silently that Connington wouldn't provoke the hatchling.
"Alas!" Barristan turned away, already foreseeing the tragedy about to unfold.
"Dragon... quiet..."
Connington was indeed Rhaegar's close friend; he was learned enough to speak two phrases of High Valyrian, attempting to soothe the hatchling.
Gaa?
Tessarion tilted her head, the remnants of her meal still before her.
Connington extended a hand, slowly approaching. "Dragon... calm..."
Daeron watched unblinkingly, like a predator staring at prey walking into a trap.
Connington had no dragonlord blood; he knew he couldn't win the hatchling's favor naturally. Considering the dragon was young, he planned to get close and grab it.
Almost there, just a little closer...
Sweating palms clenched, Connington inched to within half a meter of the blue dragon. He was just one step away from grabbing the hatchling by the neck.
Tessarion lowered her spine, a rumbling growl emanating from deep within her throat.
Anyone familiar with dragons could see at a glance that she was getting agitated.
Connington slowly bent down, his hand about to touch the dragon.
In the next second.
The corner of Daeron's mouth lifted, and he shouted in High Valyrian: "Dracarys!!"
Skree-onk!
Tessarion didn't hesitate. A torrent of cobalt-blue dragonfire surged forth.
Connington, at point-blank range, met the dragonfire head-on.
"AAAAHHH!!..."
Accompanied by a wretched scream, the man was engulfed in flames.
"Save him! Quickly!"
Oswell turned pale with horror, not forgetting to accuse Daeron, "You ordered the dragon! This is murder!"
Daeron: "For the dragons, I walked through a sea of fire. Lord Connington is doing the same."
"That's fair, isn't it?"
No one was listening anymore.
Everyone frantically tried to put out the fire, but no matter how they beat at it or threw sand on it, the cobalt-blue dragonfire would not be extinguished until it had burned the man to charcoal.
Thud!
The screaming stopped abruptly as the charred corpse hit the ground, kicking up dust.
Lord Connington, loyal to "his Silver Prince," would never be arrogant again.
"How could this happen?"
Witnessing his best friend die a miserable death, the tightly wound nerves of Oswell and Myles snapped instantly. They stood there dumbfounded, as if they had lost their souls.
Daeron's expression didn't change. "Lord Walter, take Ser Oswell away. When he remembers the honor of the white cloak on his back, send him back to King's Landing."
As for the other one, Myles Mooton—tie him up and throw him in the dungeon.
Later, send a letter to Lord Mooton of Maidenpool. Tell him to come personally and take his brother back.