Seeing that they couldn't dissuade Rhaegor, Rhaegon and Elarion stopped trying. The two had left in a hurry, without even bringing extra sets of clothes—let alone armor or even swords.
However, Rhaegon had brought quite a bit of money. Altogether, it amounted to seven or eight gold dragons. If they weren't too particular about quality, that would be enough to buy two decent sets of full chainmail armor, including helmets. Or, it could fund lavish meals for the three of them for quite a while.
"Your Highness, even hedge knights don't wander around in full armor every day. If you do that, you'll only draw unnecessary attention." Elarion might not have been as meticulous or amusing as Rhaegon, but his father, Teclis Hoeth, had once been a poor landed knight, and his sister had married Oberyn, who had also been a hedge knight. As a child, he had often listened to stories of their past.
"It might not be an issue in your own lands, but if we enter the Stormlands, things will be very different," Elarion said, clearly more knowledgeable on this matter than Rhaegon. "The hedge knights in the Stormlands aren't as easygoing as those in the borderlands. The three of us are young, and if we're too well-equipped—"
"Wait a minute." Rhaegor suddenly realized something was off. "The three of us?"
The young man opened his mouth as if to say something. In truth, he had been hoping to persuade these two friends to turn back. Draezell's conditions were harsh—he had to travel across the Stormlands, make his way to the Wall, then journey back, passing through every region south of the Wall before returning to Dragonstone. He didn't want his two innocent friends to suffer alongside him.
Rhaegon and Elarion exchanged glances, immediately understanding what Rhaegor intended to say. They both pulled bitter expressions.
"Your Highness, even if you order us to go back now, we can't," Rhaegon said.
He dramatically wiped at his eyes. "Your Highness, even if Ser Hoffa and the others suspect we ran away for your sake, if we return the same way we left, Ser Hoffa and Lord Aslan will definitely break both our legs."
"If you don't go back, I'll break your legs myself," Rhaegor threatened.
But Rhaegon and Elarion merely exchanged another glance. They knew their young lord too well—if he were truly determined, he wouldn't have said something so mild. Under normal circumstances, Rhaegor would have already started throwing punches while speaking. Clearly, their unwavering stubbornness had finally worn him down.
"Your Highness, if you must punish us, then punish us by making us your squires," Rhaegon said, grinning mischievously. "After all, at the Purple Palace, the punishment for skipping lessons is either serving as a maester's assistant or becoming Ser Hoffa's squire. This is no different!"
Rhaegor found himself unable to argue against Rhaegon's logic.
He couldn't truly reject the help of his close friends. After all, they were his arms and legs in many ways. Draezell had his sworn brothers—he treated Hoffa, Valarr, and Rey almost as one and the same. The five of them together were as strong as a clenched fist, unbreakable. Rhaegor, too, would one day have his own sworn brothers. Rhaegon and Elarion were destined to be among them—perhaps even forming part of his own unshakable fist in the future.
After some thought, Rhaegor finally made up his mind.
He needed to change his ways. Perhaps accepting his friends' loyalty was the first step.
Decision made, Rhaegor spoke—still a bit reluctantly. "Fine."
Before he even finished speaking, Rhaegon nearly leapt with excitement, his expression one of victorious scheming. "Elarion, see? I told you His Highness wouldn't refuse us this time!"
"But I have one condition."
"Name it," Elarion said, now appearing much more composed than Rhaegon. For those who knew Rhaegor well, the fact that he had conceded this much was already astonishing. It meant he might truly be changing his long-held habits. That was a good sign.
"Three things," Rhaegor said seriously, looking at his two friends. "First, the rules we followed at home still apply outside. Don't break them unless absolutely necessary."
Elarion nodded. If Rhaegor hadn't said that, he would have found it strange.
"Second, I am currently exiled by my father. From now on, I am not Rhaegor Vaelarys—I am Rhaegon Silverblood. Rhaegon, my apologies for borrowing your name."
Rhaegor bowed his head slightly, offering a sincere apology to Rhaegon.
Rhaegon didn't mind—after all, his name was already a phonetic variation of Rhaegor in High Valyrian. However, he figured he might as well change his name too. The Kaon name now belonged to a powerful noble house in Westeros, and it was best to avoid unnecessary attention.
"So, I'm assuming the identity of a wandering knight, and you—"
"Heh, Your Highness—ah, no, good ser." Rhaegon thumped his chest dramatically. The two of them had thought about this problem before running away, and they had a little help from some friends.
Lyn Valtaken's eldest son, Robb Valtaken, along with the self-righteous Loras Tarly of House Tarly and little Renly Caron of House Caron, hadn't joined them in escaping, but they had provided plenty of 'questionable' advice.
For example, false identities and fake names. That self-righteous Loras Tarly specialized in this sort of thing. He had received a secret mission from his aunt, Lady Diana, and if Rhaegon had to guess, part of that mission was likely guiding capable young warriors to follow Rhaegor. Though the names and nicknames he came up with were terrible, they had still provided inspiration.
For instance—
"I'm Haggo the falcon." Rhaegon knew his distinct Valyrian appearance made it unwise to take a Westerosi name or a High Valyrian name. Instead, he chose a common name among the Valyrians that Draezell had brought over. "My father was a falconer brought by Lord Draezell. He saved up some coin so I could train as a knight, and your father took me in as your squire."
Of course, he changed the nickname. That self-righteous Tarly had initially called him "Trickster" Hago.
"I'm Roger the Bold." Elarion introduced his alias. Unlike Rhaegon, he didn't stand out much. His face was a typical borderlander's face—nothing remarkable, certainly less distinct than Hoffa's—so he didn't need to craft an elaborate backstory or change his name as drastically as Rhaegon.
Rhaegor didn't know what to say.
It seemed his father was right—he needed more experience. Otherwise, even in front of the friends and retainers who would one day be his strongest allies, his 'wisdom' and 'ability' would seem lacking.
"Lastly, if we encounter danger, when I tell you to run, you must obey."
Rhaegor fixed Rhaegon and Elarion with a firm gaze.
That was his bottom line.
The two exchanged glances and saw the same resolve in each other's eyes.
By the Old and New Gods, and by Prince Draezell himself—if they ever faced a danger they couldn't overcome, abandoning Rhaegor and fleeing was out of the question. Not just because of their noble houses, but because they were his friends—his sworn men, bound by his kindness.
How could they possibly abandon him?
Still, in the end, they nodded in agreement.
Rhaegon, ignoring Rhaegor's protests, stripped him of his armor and strapped it onto his warhorse.
---
Dragon's Nest, the Dragonpit.
Starsong prowled the vast cavern restlessly, its agitation evident. It looked ready to take flight, but something—someone—was blocking its way, forcing it to circle in frustration.
Vermithor lazily poked his head out from his own lair, glanced at the figure standing before Starsong, and immediately withdrew, letting out a low growl before curling back up to sleep.
Because that person was Draezell.
Draezell simply stood there, and the massive dragon, already grown into a monstrous beast, hesitated, unwilling to take flight.
"Calm down, Starsong," Draezell commanded.
But the dragon remained unsettled, growling at him in defiance. It had no reason to obey—Draezell was not its rider. He had no right to command it.
Draezell didn't fully understand what Starsong was trying to convey, but he could guess. The dragon was bonded to Rhaegor, and their link had become extremely strong after its taming. The moment Rhaegor left Dragonstone and Summerfield's borders, Starsong had sensed it and was desperate to follow.
But Draezell wasn't going to let that happen.
"Alright, alright," Draezell sighed. He knew better than to be too harsh with the young fool's dragon. "Don't worry. If the time comes, I'll let you go find that reckless brat."
He reached out, and as if by some unseen force, Starsong cocked its head. The agitation and anger vanished in an instant. The massive disc-shaped horns nudged against Draezell's outstretched hand before the dragon slowly turned away, took a few steps, then spread its wings and soared back into its lair.
Draezell looked at his hand. He had a sense of his own bloodline, and no matter where Rhaegor went, he could feel his presence and know if he was in danger.
"Rhaegor, my foolish son," Draezell suddenly smiled. "I hope you don't disappoint me."
Steedmarket.
This was a relatively bustling market in the area of the Fawtown, and the knight who owned the land, upon learning that Argo's Khalasar had established a settlement nearby, quickly realized that an opportunity for profit was coming.
So, the knight, using his brains, took the initiative to spend money building an inn, stable, and tavern in the village in front of the castle. He even personally helped the villagers construct a dirt road that connected to the bone road to attract merchants to gather here.
He even brought wine and gifts to the settlement and made connections with the Dothraki elders and women left behind there to ensure he could exchange horses regularly.
In time, although this knight almost became reduced to begging on the streets, he eventually turned his fortune around with the success of Steedmarket and became wealthy.
"Ding."
The stable master hammered the last nail into place and carefully checked the horseshoes he had just attached. Not bad; it seemed his skills hadn't rusted.
Wiping his sweat, the stable master looked up towards the market. It wasn't yet the season for selling horses, and the Dothraki people and other horse traders hadn't finished raising their new batch of horses, so the market was rather empty at the moment.
A customer?
From the dirt road leading to the bone road, three young travelers slowly emerged from the edge of his sight. The young man in the lead wore a decent riding outfit and appeared to be either the young master of a family or a well-to-do knight visiting another lord. The two others were also young—one walking and one riding—but they were leisurely making their way into the market.
It seemed their destination was his stable.
The stable master quickly lowered his head, pretending to be busy with something else, but his eyes still stole glances at the three young men.
Indeed, their clothes looked fine, well-made with excellent materials. The stable master also noticed the sword at Rhaegor's waist and the items on the empty horse behind him.
Wait, horses?
It was only now that the stable master realized what he had overlooked. All three horses were of high quality—horses only found in large cities like Summerfield, Silvercrown, and Fawtown, or castles of noble lords like Blackport.
What did this mean?
The stable master's heart raced. This could only mean one thing: these three young men were at least the offspring of noble families. Though he didn't know why they were here, they must be wealthy.
Even if they weren't rich, as long as they sold their horses, he would make a great profit.
Merchants from the north were very fond of frontier horses, and they would pay a hefty price for both sellable and unsellable horses.
Rhaegor scanned the market. Compared to the marketplace outside the Silverblood Military Manor, this one was quite rudimentary. There were few goods, and even the horses in the stable looked somewhat "unimpressive."
But they had no choice; they couldn't let their battle horses carry their gear.
What the stable master didn't expect was that the silver-haired young man could speak so fluently and seemed to know his stuff. The stable master had originally planned to sell the three pack horses for 620 silver deer each, but in the end, under Rhaegor's sharp tongue and Rhaegor's commanding gaze, the stable master conceded.
"Take a look," Rhaegor lowered his voice and leaned toward the stable master. "Do you think the hooves of these three horses match what you described?"
"And the breeds," Rhaegor continued, looking at him. "You told us these were purebred frontier draft horses, but neither the coat color nor the hooves—"
"Alright, alright, seven hells!" The stable master cried out. He knew his plan to extract some profit from these three boys had likely failed. "Young masters, ah, no". The stable master noticed that Rhaegor, with his sword, was the leader among the three.
"Good sirs, please spare me," the stable master pleaded, tears in his eyes. "Five hundred and thirty silver deer per horse. I can't go any lower." He started selling his hardship. "Though these three old horses are a bit aged, they still have great strength, and their temper is second to none. Look, look." The stable master patted each horse, but they barely moved.
"Very obedient, five hundred and thirty, can't go any lower. I've even prepared the horseshoes for you, good sir. If I lower the price any more, I won't even be able to buy gifts for those barbarians," the stable master said.
Rhaegor frowned upon hearing the term "barbarians."
"Three horses, flat price, one thousand four," Rhaegor stated, offering the stable master's psychological bottom line. "My lord needs to travel a long way to Winterfell to visit Duke Cragen. These pack horses are so old, and if something happens, it will be my lord who suffers." Rhaegor spoke in a tone that left no room for argument.
The stable master hesitated for a moment.
In the end, the deal was made.
The stable master bit down on the gold dragon Rhaegor handed him, inspecting the coin's face. Suddenly, he furrowed his brows.
The image on the gold dragon wasn't King Aegon, sitting on the Iron Throne, nor was it the face of Prince Draezell facing King Aegon, or the more commonly circulated images of King Viserys or King Jaehaerys.
It was the image of King Jacaerys wearing the Iron Crown.
This type of gold dragon was rare, minted before the coins known as the "double-headed coins" came into circulation.
It was mainly produced at the royal mints in Summerfield and Silvercrown, with some also minted in King's Landing, White Harbor, and Casterly Rock. However, the quantity was relatively small.
"Looks like I was right. These three young men definitely have some status."
But shouldn't young nobles like them be squandering money recklessly? Why would they haggle so much over just a few extra gold dragons?
The stable master watched the three young men leave, feeling a mix of confusion and helplessness.
"Oh, by the way, master," Rhaegor suddenly turned around and addressed the stable master.
"Please don't call them 'barbarians' again," Rhaegor said sternly. Then he turned back and continued walking.
The stable master was left somewhat bewildered.
Barbarians? What's wrong with that word? He remembered that the Dothraki and the First Men didn't mind being called that.
It was all rather puzzling.