Rhaegor grasped the necklace hanging from his chest. It was something Uncle Rey had secretly slipped to him—not a particularly valuable item. Compared to the jewelry his sisters wore back home, it was like a duck standing next to a swan. But its craftsmanship and the ruby embedded in it made up for that. If sold to a knowledgeable merchant, it could fetch at least ten gold dragons; even if sold to a common trader, it would still be worth two or three hundred silver stags—enough to sustain him in dire times.
However, given the realities of Westeros, Rhaegor had little reason to worry about finances.
He had armor—not Valyrian steel, but still forged from Vaelarys bloodsteel. Originally, the breastplate and pauldrons bore intricate silver-and-enamel heraldic designs, but before his departure, Hoffa had brought in craftsmen to erase them.
He had a horse—a Vaelarys Silverblood steed. Those who knew horses would recognize its quality at a glance, though few outside the Silverblood Cavalry were aware that it was a restricted military breed, nor did many realize it was a newly developed breed at all.
Most importantly, he had weapons. Not just one, but multiple, including a long spear with distinct Borderlands and Dornish characteristics.
Though he was unaware that the rapier at his waist was the Valyrian steel sword Starsong, he understood that in Westeros, a man equipped with armor, a horse, and weapons would never starve.
Even in times of peace, minor lords needed men to defend their lands, as their liege lords rarely concerned themselves with their interests—except for Jacaerys and Draezell. Merchants required armed escorts to guard their long trade routes. Lords sought warriors to prove their valor. Whether a hedge knight or a sellsword won a tourney or not, they could still earn a lord's coin—or at the very least, his food and lodging.
Unless they were fools.
Rhaegor didn't think he was beyond hope.
At the very least, he was confident in his skills—he wouldn't starve.
He had reason to be.
With a deep breath, the young man tucked the necklace back into the collar of his armor, patting his horse's flank. His steed, whom he had also named Starsong, obediently quickened its pace.
"Sorry, Starsong," Rhaegor apologized in his heart to his dragon. But what could he do? He was terrible at naming things. No matter how long he thought about it, he couldn't come up with anything better for his horse.
He mentally tallied his funds. He had always lived frugally, spending most of his stipend helping friends in the Purple Palace, with the remainder secretly saved for gifts for his younger siblings. Right now, his coin pouch contained ninety-two silver stags and eight gold dragons. Danila had also hidden a small gold bar inside the hilt of Starsong.
That gold had come from his mother, who had taken it from her own secret stash. Rhaegor had always known his mother was aware of his hiding places, but he hadn't expected her to know exactly where he kept his savings. Of course, she hadn't taken all of it.
Over the years, the wealth he had quietly accumulated was enough for him to purchase an estate and live as a landed knight.
"I need to buy a packhorse—preferably two," he muttered to himself. He knew Starsong was a warhorse, and if he rode it fully armored for too long, it would suffer.
At last, his knowledge caught up with his predicament.
"In Father's lands, horses cost less than in the surrounding regions. A decent warhorse goes for about eight to nine hundred silver stags, while a packhorse sells for six to seven hundred. But the cheapest option would be at Uncle Aegor's Karasath settlement. If I offer the khals there something valuable, I might even trade for a Silverblood steed."
As Rhaegor let his thoughts wander atop his horse, the sudden sound of galloping hooves pulled him back to reality.
His mind instantly cleared.
His grip tightened on the reins, guiding Starsong toward the cover of the roadside trees.
No… this isn't an enemy.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the approaching hoofbeats. If he could hear them with his bare ears, that meant the riders were already close. If his guess was right, there were two horses racing toward him at full speed—they would catch up soon.
Who could it be?
He knew that this road was unlikely to harbor enemies.
Over the years, Draezell had dedicated much of his efforts to town-building, roadworks, and bridge construction. The old Boneway—the ancient stone road connecting the Stormlands, the Borderlands, and eastern Dorne—had been completely refurbished. Now, the Boneway stretched northward, eventually linking with the Kingsroad.
Beyond the Boneway, two new roads spanned the breadth of the Borderlands, anchored by the Prince's Pass. The northern Silverblood Highway began at Summerfield, intersecting the Boneway before cutting westward through the Red Mountains, branching like a spider's web to various castles, manors, and settlements, and finally ending at Starpike in the Reach.
Rey had been working tirelessly to establish Starpike as a rival to Oldtown.
Unfortunately, Oldtown had a natural advantage in water transport. The Honeywine River, unlike the Mander, was not overly gentle; it was filled with reefs and sandbars, making it an excellent waterway. Even though Oldtown had long since lost its former splendor, and the city had fallen into decline, it remained the most important port in the Reach.
As a result, Starpike never became the next Arborport or Silvercrown.
The second Silvercrown Road began at Silvercrown, splitting at the Prince's Pass into two branches—one heading north to connect with the Silverblood Road, replacing the old sandy path of the Prince's Pass, while the other continued westward, reaching all the way to Starfall.
After Daemon's death, Draezell took control of the kingdom. During his rule, the Silverblood Road was finally connected to the King's Road and the Rose Road. The desert road linking Sunspear to the Boneway and the Silvercrown Road was also completed in those years.
The great road network that had been under construction since the reign of King Jaehaerys, meant to unite the Seven Kingdoms, was finally finished during Draezell's rule.
Even before its completion, merchants had already begun gathering along the roads. For land traders like them, a smooth and wide road opened up endless possibilities.
There were no bandits daring enough to ambush travelers on these roads either—after all, the Silverblood Army estates were stationed nearby, dedicated to their protection.
That was why Rhaegor found it odd that someone was rushing toward him in such a hurry.
When two riders finally appeared on the horizon, Rhaegor frowned.
Why was it them?
Rhaegon Kaon quickly scanned the crowd ahead, behind, and beside him, tightening his legs around his horse's flanks to slow down.
Strange—why hadn't he spotted Prince Rhaegor? He wouldn't have taken a wild path or side road, would he?
It was Elarion who suddenly nudged Rhaegon's arm and whispered, "Rhaegon, doesn't that man over there look like His Highness?"
Following Elarion's gaze, Rhaegon finally spotted Rhaegor standing by the roadside, watching them approach. The two young men immediately spurred their horses forward.
There was no mistaking him. Even with black hair and altered eye color, that face was unmistakable.
Rhaegon recognized Rhaegor instantly, though Elarion hesitated for a moment.
It was an interesting irony. House Kaon, to which Rhaegon belonged, was the principal vassal of House Vaelarys and a cadet branch of the same lineage. The family had been founded by the first Lord Kaon, "The Dragonless" Rhaegor, who had fathered children with a woman lacking dragon blood after the Vaelarys lineage moved behind the Black Walls.
By Rhaegon's generation, House Kaon's dragon blood was nearly nonexistent. Still, he could recognize Rhaegor at a glance, despite the blood magic and illusion spells that had altered his appearance.
It wasn't just familiarity—Rhaegon could sense something deeper, an essence unique to those of his distant kin.
He couldn't explain it, but he knew.
As Rhaegon and Elarion reined in their horses beside him, Rhaegor knew he had no way to conceal his identity. Rhaegon's familiarity with him was too great—he would recognize him no matter what.
There was no point in denying it.
"You two—" Rhaegor had initially wanted to say, "Why aren't you in the Purple Palace studying? What are you doing looking for me? Did you skip lessons again?" But before the words left his mouth, he recalled the look his father had given him before his departure, as well as Uncle Hoffa's parting advice.
Hoffa had always been a man of discipline, bound by duty and law, but he understood that it was because he served Draezell. The laws Draezell set were the ones Hoffa upheld. But Rhaegor was different.
His future was not just about following his father's rules—one day, he would be the one making the rules.
Draezell had told him only one thing:
"To be a lord like me, and to rule like a king like me."
Rhaegor swallowed back his words and instead looked at his approaching friends with a hint of embarrassment. Rhaegon was one of his closest friends, the only non-family member who had secretly ridden Starsong with him. Elarion wasn't as close as Rhaegon, but among the children of the Purple Palace, he was still one of his better companions.
Rhaegor also knew exactly why Rhaegon had brought Elarion along.
That boy was a powerhouse—stronger than anyone else in the Purple Palace. Among all the students, he was the best at both swordsmanship and horsemanship.
Especially swordsmanship.
Whether it was a two-handed greatsword, a single-handed sword, a hand-and-a-half sword, or a rapier, Elarion wielded them with mastery that rivaled grown men.
Of course, he still couldn't defeat Aslan.
"How did you two get here?" Rhaegor looked at his two friends as he dismounted his horse. The two boys swiftly followed suit, flipping off their saddles. Elarion, as if by habit, took Rhaegor's reins, along with his own and Rhaegon's, leading the horses together. The three of them slipped into the woods by the roadside.
These trees had been planted when the road was first built, and after more than a decade of growth, the forest had become quite dense. Under the shade, the three boys found a clean spot and sat down. Rhaegon looked at Rhaegor in surprise.
"Your Highness, shouldn't your first words be—" Rhaegon then put on a serious face and continued, "Why are you two not in the Purple Palace, studying with the maesters and knights? Skipping lessons and running off—are you looking to be punished?"
Rhaegor scratched his dark brown hair awkwardly. Rhaegon was the only outsider who dared to joke with him like this. Not for any special reason—just that the boy was utterly shameless. Or perhaps it was that he was thick-skinned enough to take a punishment and still come back grinning the next time. Over time, Rhaegor had come to tolerate Rhaegon's jokes.
And the boy did have a knack for hitting the mark.
Just like today. He had voiced exactly what Rhaegor had wanted to say, making him feel somewhat embarrassed.
For Rhaegon and Elarion to risk being punished by Hoffa and sneak out to find him—it was proof enough of their loyalty and friendship. His father had such friends by his side, and now he did as well.
But had his past actions hurt his friends?
Rhaegor wasn't sure.
But he did know what his father had taught him—when you don't understand something, you must learn. You must seek the answers.
"I will find out. And I will let my friends see a new me."
Rhaegor brought his thoughts back to Rhaegon and Elarion.
"Honestly, I suspect Ser Hoffa and the others deliberately let us sneak out," Rhaegon said. "Your Highness, I always wondered why the walls of Draezell Palace were so low. Isn't that just inviting us to sneak out? We never dared to take that route before, but when Elarion and I climbed over today, there wasn't a single guard in sight. A place that well-hidden—there's no way Ser Hoffa and the others wouldn't have stationed someone there."
"And we got horses far too easily," Elarion added, realization dawning on him. "Something's off. Everything went a little too smoothly."
Rhaegor shook his head with a knowing smile. He understood the reason behind it. His father had "exiled" him because he had been too immature—so childish that it was as if he hadn't spent all those years under his father's guidance. But at the same time, his father cherished him deeply.
After all, when it came to bloodlines—
He and Samantha were the only two trueborn Dragonlords in the world.
Genuine, untainted, pureblooded Dragonlords.
Just as they always understood from Starsong and Candlelight whenever they visited the dragon pit—
The dragons called Draezell a dangerous person but referred to him and Samantha as kin and hatchlings.
That was why there could never be a union between them. If they did, they would almost certainly be unable to bear children.
And even if they did, what they created would be a monster that would kill its own mother.
"You two…" Rhaegor pulled his friends into a loose embrace. "Father may have exiled me, but he would never just let me starve or be killed by some nameless fool."
With a grin, he continued, "That's why he sent you two to aid me as well."
Then, suddenly, he lowered his head.
"Thank you."
Rhaegon blinked in surprise, then tilted his head and loudly complained, "Oi, oi, Your Highness, this armor of yours is stiff as hell! Isn't it uncomfortable to wear all the time?"
Elarion only just noticed that Rhaegor was still clad in full plate and couldn't help but laugh.
Rhaegor's face reddened. "I haven't bought a packhorse yet, so I've got nowhere to put it."
"Use my horse," Elarion said, standing up and thumping his chest. "Rhaegon's a weakling anyway, and Your Highness, you need a warhorse. Take mine."
After all, if it came to a fight, Elarion was confident in besting most opponents even without a horse.
"This—" Rhaegor's expression turned serious. "Elarion, you're a warrior too. How can a warrior be without his steed?"
He raised a hand, his tone brooking no argument. "At least for now, I'm not tired yet. Starsong moves at a steady pace, so I can last until we reach the horse market."
Rhaegor remembered that there was a small town nearby—Steedmarket, ruled by a knight sworn to House Cafferen. Merchants there frequently traveled to the nearby settlements to trade with the Dothraki for horses.
Argo's khalasar had grown quite accustomed to "trade" by now, though they stubbornly insisted on calling it "returning gifts to friends".
But as long as everyone was making coin, no one cared about the difference in wording.
"You two are my friends and my house's sworn men. How could I ever sacrifice your needs for my own selfish desires?"
Rhaegor declared firmly.