Larys' face turned sharp, and the scepter in his hand clattered to the ground.
He had expected to be discovered eventually, but not this soon.
Rhaegar raised his sword to Larys' throat, his eyes cold and unyielding. "You would be wise to name the person who used you," he demanded in a deep voice.
"Prince, I can serve you," Larys begged, leaning back and trying to struggle free.
The tip of the sword thrust forward, piercing his flesh and drawing a thin trickle of blood.
Rhaegar's patience was limited. He sneered, "You know I don't trust people with treacherous minds."
Larys exhaled shakily and admitted, "It's Otto and Ormund Hightower."
He decided that honesty was his best chance.
"Otto saw my usefulness and orchestrated a staged death to save me and take me under his wing. Ormund Hightower was the one who carried it out. Instead of turning me over to Otto, he kept me hidden, planning to use me to eliminate the Tully heirs. He allied himself with the Faith of the Seven to support Edmure's rise to power, hoping to bind the Hightowers and the Tullys together."
Ormund had promised Larys a ship and enough gold to live comfortably in Braavos once his task was complete.
"You're willing to spend the rest of your life cowering in Braavos?" Rhaegar half asked.
Larys lowered his head in despair. "My identity in Westeros is tarnished. Braavos is my only option."
Rhaegar considered this, then asked the crucial question, "Which dragon saved you?"
If Otto and Ormund had orchestrated the rescue, it implicated several of Alicent's children.
"One?" Larys grinned, "It was two. Princess Helena's Dreamfyre and Prince Aemond's Sheepstealer."
An exiled cripple was worth two dragons?
Rhaegar remained silent, his gaze cold and piercing.
"I'd rather believe it was Daemon or Aegon," he thought.
Larys, feeling the need to elaborate, continued, "Dreamfyre killed everyone, and Sheepstealer took me to Ormund Hightower. We met at the Crossroads Inn; your means can confirm that."
A flash of suspicion crossed Rhaegar's eyes, sensing a trap in Larys' words.
"Enough. What are your final words?" Rhaegar's patience was wearing thin.
"There are no last words," Larys replied, clutching his staff. His eyes bored into Rhaegar's as he delivered a final warning, "You should watch the movements of Braavos. The last Sea Lord died in mysterious circumstances."
Pfft...
The tip of the sword pierced Larys' throat, the blade slicing with deadly precision.
Larys' body froze, his eyes glazing over. Blood spurted from his jugular, staining his dark green tunic.
Plop...
Rhaegar pulled Truefyre back, and Larys' body crumpled to the ground.
Even in death, Larys clung to his scepter.
Rhaegar looked down at the fallen man, the tip of Truefyre touching the ground. His hands gripped the hilt of the sword, the octagonal, fiery red heart at the end of the hilt glowing with a fierce aura.
Boom...
Flames erupted from the sword and quickly engulfed the corpse. The fire crackled and burned, reducing everything to ash and debris in a matter of moments.
...
Hall of a Hundred Hearths
Rhaegar walked through the rain, shedding his drenched black robes and changing into a set of black robes.
Harrenhal was his fiefdom and he had to appear at every banquet.
Step by step, Rhaegar descended the stairs as Ser Steffon of the Kingsguard announced his arrival.
"Welcome Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Breaker of Shackles, Ruin Maker, and Heir to the Iron Throne."
Accompanied by a fine drumbeat, the nobles who had gathered saluted the late-arriving Heir Prince.
The Hall of One Hundred Hearths was immense. The distance from the floor to the ceiling alone was tens of feet, and thirteen large chandeliers each held dozens of tallow candles.
Despite the grandeur of the hall, with more than thirty fireplaces burning incense, the vast space felt empty even with thousands of people gathered there.
Viserys sat in the center of the hall, a wide table in front of him filled with delicious delicacies. He greeted Rhaegar warmly, "Rhaegar, share a drink with your father."
Beside him, Alicent served patiently, while several royal advisors accompanied him as he drank.
Passing through the grandly arranged scene, Rhaegar casually took a cup of sweet fruit wine from a servant's tray.
When he reached the front of the room, Rhaegar pulled Grand Maester Orwyle aside and asked, "How is Father's health these days?"
"His Grace's health is stable, with no signs of inflammation in the wounds," Orwyle replied solemnly.
Rhaegar nodded, understanding the meaning. His father's wounds could not be healed, but at least they were not getting worse. It might have something to do with the taming of Vermithor or the medicine Orwyle had changed.
Rhaegar patted Orwyle on the shoulder and took his seat.
He raised his glass and sipped his wine, keeping an eye on his surroundings.
Rhaenyra was not in the hall; the maid said she was not feeling well and had gone to bed.
Alicent played the role of a dutiful wife and mother, diligently tending to her ailing husband.
Lyonel and Otto sat at another table, both looking distracted. One worried that his eldest son had insulted the crown prince, the other angry that his own brother had gone too far.
Ormund Hightower sat next to Aegon, his arm around his nephew, laughing and sipping wine.
Rhaegar scanned the room, finally focusing on Helaena and Aemond.
Helaena had made some new friends: Margaery, the Rose of Highgarden, and Maris, second in line to the Four Storms. The three girls, of similar ages, were gathered together, enjoying refreshments and chatting happily.
As for Aemond...
"Rhaegar, I'll sit with you."
Leaving his fiancée Cassandra behind, Aemond squeezed in next to his big brother.
Rhaegar put his arm around Aemond's shoulder and whispered, "You don't like Cassandra?"
"She's a self-righteous fool," Aemond bristled, not hiding his contempt.
Rhaegar admonished, "You're already engaged. Cassandra hasn't inherited Storm's End yet, so you should be a little more tolerant."
"I know," Aemond waved his hand, not wanting to discuss it any further.
"You'd better," Rhaegar murmured, looking at his brother for a moment.
He thought about what Larys had said. Helaena and Aemond's involvement with this was a potential crack in the family's unity.
On the other side
Jason straightened his disheveled blond hair and led the two Baratheon bastards with confident strides.
Viserys took a sip of wine and looked at the illogical trio in surprise.
"Your Grace," Jason nodded in a respectful greeting.
Viserys set down his wine, his gaze sweeping over the two bastards. He hesitated, "Lord Jason, those two behind you?"
He recognized them - the bastards driven from the Stormlands - but they should not be in his presence.
Jason waved, "Your Grace, the death of Lord Borros was heartbreaking, and Storm's End has lost its male heir."
"These two beside me have some Baratheon blood in their veins, and they hope to win your favor by winning the tournament."
The two bastards stepped forward and knelt respectfully on one knee.
Viserys' face darkened with displeasure, "Though Lord Borros is gone, his bloodline is still in the world, and there is no need for bastards to play the hero."
Pointing at the two bastards, he sneered, "Not to mention that they are no heroes either."
"Your Grace, they still have some martial arts skills. Perhaps they can be selected for the Kingsguard."
Jason was clearly prepared, his words rounded with fullness.
Viserys frowned, "Then let them compete fairly and win the approval of the Small Council."
His mental preference for the Kingsguard was Criston Cole. Loyal, brave and indomitable.
Jason pressed on, grinning, "Of course, every honor must be earned."
The two bastards had no room for honor and retreated in disgrace.
Instead, more nobles from the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale stepped forward to question the qualifications of a female heir.
With a turn of his head, Rhaegar surveyed the scene at the banquet.
Jeyne, in a long, slender gown, had joined Helena's small group at some point, chatting happily with Margaery and Maris.
What these noble forces were questioning was not only Cassandra's inheritance, but the legitimacy of female inheritance.
If Cassandra's inheritance of Storm's End was denied, there would be those who would use it to deny Jeyne's rule of the Vale.
Duke Tyrell of Highgarden had lost his heir, and Margaery's situation was similar to Cassandra's.
That's why some of the nobles of the Riverlands joined forces with the nobles of the Stormlands to oppose the female heir.
The nobles of the continent of Westeros were archaic and opposed women in positions of power.
"Che, two bastards, how dare they presume to be heirs," Aemond scorned.
Rhaegar stood up and rationalized, "They are testing Father's bottom line."
Viserys reacted well; no matter what the nobles said, it was all superficial.
That was good - not taking a stand was the attitude.
Rhaegar left silently and walked up the stairs.
He had also promised something to Old Tully and had to send someone to keep an eye on it.
...
The Lord's Bedroom, Top Floor of the Tower
Creak—
The door to the room swung open and Rhaegar stepped inside, pushing back the darkness. Outside, the rain pelted down, its monotonous sound serving as a natural lullaby.
By the faint light of the fireplace, the outline of a delicate figure was visible beneath a thin quilt on the bed. Rhaenyra lay on her side, her long silver-golden hair cascading loosely over her pillow, her cheeks slightly flushed from drinking, and she snored softly.
Rhaegar approached quietly and lifted a lock of hair from her face.
"Rhaegar, stop it, you're so cold~"
Rhaenyra murmured softly, tucking her pale neck further under the blanket, showing no signs of waking.
Rhaegar smiled in amusement. She could eat and sleep without a care; no wonder the maesters couldn't find anything wrong with her.
He fetched a blanket and lay down by the fire, slowly closing his eyes. The chill in the room seemed to vanish with the warmth of the fire.
...
A dream came unexpectedly.
It was the same familiar room, the same familiar bed, the same familiar fireplace...
Rhaegar opened his eyes, still wrapped in the blanket he had used before going to bed. The sound of rain continued outside the window, the glass panes rattling under its force.
He rose and walked to the bed.
Rhaenyra remained in her side sleeping position, peacefully undisturbed. But this time Rhaegar noticed something different: in her arms lay two sleeping babies.
His eyes widened as he realized the significance.
The babies were small, their faces pale and cherubic, nestled face to face in Rhaenyra's embrace. He couldn't make out their individual features, but both had a faint stubble of silver-gold hair.
Rhaegar's heart raced and his fingers trembled as he gently touched one of the babies' cheeks. The skin was soft and smooth.
"Bark~"
The baby's pink mouth wriggled, a tiny leg kicking up awkwardly before the infant rolled over and burrowed deeper into Rhaenyra's arms.
In that moment, as the baby moved, Rhaegar saw a small birthmark.
"Thank you very much Balerion," he whispered, half kneeling beside the bed, not wanting to miss a moment of this vision.
He had never believed in the gift of prophetic dreams more than he did at that moment.
(Word count: 1,900)