Dragonstone.
In the Chamber of the Painted Table, a secret meeting was underway.
Jon Connington, a tall man with rugged features and a temperament as fiery as his red hair, was the first to speak out, boldly counseling his prince.
"My Prince, your brother Daeron has already hatched three dragons. If he is allowed to raise them to maturity, no army will be able to withstand their assault."
Time waits for no man.
To let the hatchlings grow unchecked was tantamount to suicide.
Rhaegar remained silent. He stood by the Painted Table, his gaze fixed on the map of the Seven Kingdoms—the Vale, the Stormlands, the North, the Riverlands.
Among them, several markers bearing the three-headed red dragon were placed on the Riverlands and the Stormlands.
The four regions were forming alliances, and the dignity of the royal family was in precarious danger.
"Prince, perhaps we could claim a dragon as well," Myles Mooton, a young knight, suggested.
Richard Lonmouth agreed wholeheartedly. "Indeed. Even the King demanded a hatchling. You are the heir to the Iron Throne; by rights, you should have one."
Both men were Rhaegar's followers and close friends, hailing from House Mooton of the Crownlands and House Lonmouth of the Stormlands, respectively.
"A dragon?"
Rhaegar frowned slightly.
To be honest, he still couldn't fathom how Daeron had brought dragons back into the world. And three of them, no less.
Seeing the Prince remain noncommittal, the others didn't dare press further, no matter how anxious they were.
Rhaegar fell into deep thought.
During his voyage, he had first gone to Skagos. Relying on his personal charisma, he had subdued a group of Skagossans—wild, hairy, and naturally strong. Rumor had it they carried the blood of giants or the Ibbenese.
But after scouring the island, including its volcano, he had found no trace of the wild dragon, "The Cannibal."
That was why he had been delayed for so long.
On the other side of the room stood three Kingsguard knights.
Ser Arthur Dayne said nothing, solely focused on guarding the Prince.
Prince Lewyn Martell's face was dark. For over a month, he had been kicking himself for letting Daeron hatch dragons right under his nose.
At first, he hadn't believed it. But no sooner had Daeron left than news of the hatchlings spread through King's Landing. Even thinking with his toes, he knew he had been blind to what was right in front of him.
Oswell Whent wore a cold expression, but his hand gripping his sword hilt betrayed his inner anxiety.
Prince Rhaegar had borrowed a large sum from the Iron Bank and decided to hold a tourney at Harrenhal.
Oswell's brother, Lord Walter Whent, had tried to refuse several times but eventually caved to Oswell's pleading.
This gave him a bad feeling.
"Prince, what are you hesitating for?" Connington couldn't hold back his impatience any longer. He started to apply pressure. "The King has always given you the cold shoulder. Daeron is making his move. If you don't act now, sooner or later, you will be stripped of your heirship."
Rhaegar finally reacted. "Send someone to King's Landing. Find my brother and ask him what he wants in exchange for a dragon."
He didn't care about the petty maneuvers of his father and brother.
The prestige he had built over the years would be unleashed all at once at the Tourney at Harrenhal, propelling him to the center of power.
But dragons were different.
Even a small hatchling held immense symbolic value.
"Good! I will handle this personally!" Connington was overjoyed.
Rhaegar spoke again. "Ser Oswell, go to Harrenhal. Discuss the specific details of the tourney with Lord Whent."
"Yes, my Prince!" Oswell's spirits lifted.
Having given his orders, Rhaegar left calmly to visit his pregnant wife. Ser Arthur followed close behind.
---
Seven days later.
Daeron led his Dragonguard on a secret journey to Harrenhal.
After a long trek, they arrived near the Gods Eye.
Skree-onk—!
A scarlet dragon shadow cut through the sky. Its broad wings tore through the clouds, reflecting its serpentine body onto the calm surface of the lake.
Daeron reined in his horse, stopping by the lakeside to water the animals.
"The Gods Eye is truly vast."
Every time he saw it, he couldn't help but stop to admire it.
Barristan Selmy, never leaving his side, sighed with emotion. "Many Targaryen wars have been fought over this lake."
"Let's hope there won't be a next time."
Daeron looked up as the red dragon shadow disappeared into the mist.
Clop, clop, clop...
The sound of hooves approached from the distance. A squad of soldiers bearing the sigil of House Whent arrived.
The leader removed his helmet, revealing a young face. "Prince, please proceed to Harrenhal. My father has been waiting for some time."
He was the eldest son of Lord Whent.
Daeron nodded. "Lead the way."
---
Harrenhal.
As soon as Daeron entered, he felt a gloomy chill, as if a dark cloud hung directly overhead.
It wasn't until he entered the Hall of the Hundred Hearths that the warmth gradually returned.
"Honored Prince, House Whent sends its regards."
Lord Walter Whent came out to greet him personally, bowing respectfully.
"You are too kind, my Lord." Daeron smiled in return.
Lord Walter straightened up, resting his hands on his increasingly thick waist. It was his first time seeing Daeron in person.
Silver hair, purple eyes, fair skin.
Unlike Prince Rhaegar's deep melancholy, Daeron radiated a sunny disposition, like the midday sun.
"What a handsome Prince," Lord Walter thought, instantly feeling a sense of goodwill.
Daeron looked around and joked, "My Lord, aren't you going to invite me in to sit?"
"Please, please!" Lord Walter was very courteous, hurriedly ordering servants to bring bread and salt.
This was the guest right.
He knew exactly where House Whent stood. Rashly inviting Daeron could cause trouble for the Prince.
Before long, Daeron was seated, chatting happily with his host.
As they talked, Lord Walter suddenly sighed, looking like he had something difficult to say.
Daeron played along. "My Lord, why do you sigh?"
"Alas, I am ashamed to say." Lord Walter looked distressed. "This so-called tourney... it is actually Prince Rhaegar pulling the strings from behind. I didn't want to agree."
"But my brother Oswell was obsessed. If I didn't nod, he wouldn't let it go."
In just a few sentences, he shifted the blame cleanly away from himself.
Having reached this point, both sides were being frank.
Daeron asked, "You tell me this secret... what reward do you seek in return?"
"Prince, you misunderstand." Lord Walter waved his hands hurriedly. "I just feel that Prince Rhaegar is doing something very dangerous."
"You are the King's favorite child. I hope you can find a way to stop this tourney."
He stated his purpose.
House Whent was wealthy, but they couldn't withstand being ground between the millstones of a royal family feud. The best way out was to retreat while they still could.
Daeron offered no comment on this.
Lord Whent's desire to withdraw was understandable, but things rarely went as planned. House Whent was already branded with Rhaegar's label; they couldn't just walk away.
Both sides tacitly ended the topic there.
Daeron mentioned he was weary from the journey and needed rest. Lord Walter ordered servants to prepare a room for the Prince.
---
The Next Day.
Early in the morning, Harrenhal received guests once again.
Oswell Whent rode his warhorse, excitedly returning to his family home. He had brought Jon Connington and Myles Mooton with him.
"Uncle."
As the castle gates slowly opened, Oswell saw his talented nephew come out to greet him.
"You've gotten stronger," Oswell said, patting his nephew on the shoulder.
But his nephew didn't show the expected joy. Instead, his smile was strained, as if he had seen someone unexpected.
"Where is your father?"
Oswell sensed something was off and decided to find his brother first.
Rumble!
Just as he spoke, a slight tremor of galloping horses came from behind.
Oswell glanced back.
He saw a troop of cavalry charging toward them. The leader wore heavy armor, his aura as fierce as a hunting hawk.
Beside him fluttered banners depicting a flock of ravens surrounding a weirwood tree—the sigil of House Blackwood.