The morning light filtered through the open arches of the guest chamber, soft and golden. Rhaegar stepped out onto the balcony to find Arthur Dayne waiting for him.
"You are early," Rhaegar noted.
"A knight does not keep his prince waiting," Arthur replied, his expression serious but his eyes warm.
Rhaegar unbuckled Dawn from his waist. The greatsword felt heavy with history, yet light with magic. He handed it back to Arthur.
"It is a fine blade," Rhaegar said. "But it belongs to you."
Arthur took the sword, the pale metal seeming to sigh as it returned to its master's hand. Rhaegar accepted Truth back, the dark Valyrian steel feeling like an old friend against his hip.
"You wielded it well," Arthur said. "Better than some Daynes."
"Perhaps one day we will fight side by side," Rhaegar said. "Instead of against each other."
Arthur nodded. "I would like that."
They walked together to the breakfast hall. The bond between them was palpable, forged in steel and mutual respect.
In the dining hall, the atmosphere was lively. The Dornish lords were still buzzing about the previous night's duel. Rhaegar took his seat at the high table, dressed in a black tunic embroidered with a silver dragon. He looked every inch the conqueror.
Princess Elia sat at the head of the table, looking refreshed. Even Oberyn seemed less hostile, though he watched Rhaegar with the intensity of a viper studying a mongoose.
"My mother tells me," Elia said, peeling a blood orange, "that your father has been busy. He has proclaimed you 'Guardian of the Narrow Sea' and 'Director of Bloodstone Customs'."
The hall went quiet.
Rhaegar sighed internally. Father and his big mouth.
"It is true," Rhaegar admitted. "Though the titles are... provisional."
"Provisional?" Oberyn scoffed. "Guardian of the Narrow Sea is a title of war. It puts you on equal footing with the Warden of the South. It means the Iron Throne has no intention of leaving the Stepstones in ten years."
The Dornish lords exchanged knowing glances. They weren't fools. You didn't build customs houses and appoint a royal prince as a military governor if you planned to leave.
"The treaty says we will administer the islands for ten years," Rhaegar said smoothly, his face a mask of diplomatic calm. "After that... well, we shall see."
"A polite fiction," Lord Yronwood muttered into his cup. "But a profitable one."
Indeed, the position gave Rhaegar immense power. Control over the trade routes meant control over the gold. And control over the military garrison meant he had an army independent of the small council.
"You are young to be a Regent," Elia noted, her voice tinged with admiration. "Twelve years old. Maegor was sixteen when he was knighted. Daemon Blackfyre was twelve when he won his spurs."
"Age is just a number," Rhaegar said. "History remembers deeds, not birthdays."
The lords looked at him—beautiful, dangerous, and politically savvy. He was everything his father wasn't.
After breakfast, Rhaegar excused himself. He walked with Arthur and Oberyn through the gardens.
"I wish to see the Greenblood," Rhaegar said.
" The river?" Oberyn asked, surprised. "Why? It's just mud and rafts."
"I am interested in history," Rhaegar lied smoothly. "The Rhoynar culture. The Orphans of the Greenblood who still follow the old ways."
"They are a stubborn lot," Oberyn warned. "They refuse to assimilate. They live on their rafts, speak the old tongue, and dream of a river that dried up a thousand years ago."
"Perfect," Rhaegar said.
If the water magic survived anywhere, he thought, it survived with them.
He turned to Arthur. "Will you accompany me? I could use a guide who knows the land."
"It would be my honor," Arthur said.
"And I will come too," Oberyn added, smirking. "Someone has to make sure you don't get eaten by a crocodile. Or bored to death by the Orphans' songs."
Rhaegar smiled. The Dragon, the Sword, and the Viper.
"Lead on," Rhaegar said. "To the Greenblood."