Rhaegor did not choose to head to Fawntown, the seat of House Cafferen, even though they could have enjoyed soft beds and hot meals there.
The reason was simple—he was disguised, but Rhaegon was not. Lord Randall Cafferen knew Rhaegon, and if he looked closely, he might recognize Rhaegor as well. Rhaegor was certain that Lord Randall had also received his father's orders forbidding any aid to him. He didn't want to trouble the lord, so he, Rhaegon, and Elarion spent several nights sleeping on wooden stakes.
It was terribly uncomfortable.
They woke up soaked to the bone, and even lighting a fire didn't help. Rhaegon, being the frailest among them, fell ill as they passed through Fawn Hamlet. Fortunately, there was a Silverblood estate nearby. Despite his drenched clothes, Rhaegor rushed in and found an assistant maester, who barely managed to nurse Rhaegon back to health.
The Silverblood estate was not large, and since Rhaegor had never visited before, no one recognized him. He restocked supplies of food and wine and bought the most crucial items—a tent and bedding.
At least they wouldn't have to sleep on the bare ground anymore.
Rhaegor used up the gold bar hidden in the hilt of Starsinger to purchase two sets of old mail from the estate's smithy, along with a spear, a battleaxe, and two iron swords, which he handed to Rhaegon and Elarion.
Now, they finally looked the part of a wandering knight's band.
Though, truth be told, most hedge knights couldn't afford such fine gear.
On their way to the Stormlands, a few foolish men questioned their equipment—until Elarion taught them a lesson.
"Pah." An old knight with a scar running across his face spat to the side as he glanced at Rhaegor's camp. Sitting across from him was a burly, honest-looking middle-aged knight. Beside them, a young man with a bruised face sat sulking.
"Enough. It's your own damned fault for messing with them," the middle-aged knight snapped. "Don't forget, you're drinking their wine."
It was that boy's lack of awareness that had caused all this trouble—provoking Rhaegor's group and ending up nearly crippled after Elarion pummeled him. Luckily, the older knight had smoothed things over, saving the boy from worse injuries and even swiping a pouch of fruit wine from Rhaegor.
"Seven hells, Hyena, that boy isn't even a knight! Who would have thought I, the great Ser Albin the Handsome, would get beaten up by a mere squire?" The young knight kept his voice low, wary of Rhaegor's group overhearing him. He clenched his fists in frustration. "Hyena, you've been around—can you tell who they really are?"
The middle-aged knight, known as "Hyena" Ser Cain, shook his head. He had no idea where these three came from. They were young, yet their skill and equipment were far beyond ordinary.
That silver-haired boy and the golden-haired one, despite their worn armor, clearly had quality gear. And the black-haired, green-eyed lad—by the Seven, that was plate armor. And that sword—after traveling across Westeros for years, Hyena had seen many fine blades, but none had caught his eye like that rapier.
"What are you thinking?" The scarred old knight eyed Hyena suspiciously, puzzled by his silence. Then he sneered at Ser Albin. "Handsome, my ass. You're just a coward who got his face smashed by a whelp who barely has a beard. Are you sure you're even a real knight?"
"Scarface, you old bastard!" Albin fumed. He nearly threw his cup but hesitated upon realizing it was still half full. Instead, he downed the rest of the wine in one gulp and grumbled, "I was knighted by Ser Robert of Walnutwood himself! Before that, I was his squire!"
Nearby, Rhaegor and his companions sat around their own fire. Elarion skillfully cleaned and skewered a rabbit he had hunted in the woods, roasting it over the flames.
For commoners, hunting in a lord's forest meant death. But for hedge knights, who lived by their swords and risked their lives for coin?
Poaching?
Most landed knights and minor lords would be more worried about whether they could even fend off three or four rogue knights rampaging through their lands.
After all, hedge knights were often just another breed of outlaw. And when it came to violence, they were far deadlier than common bandits. Even the counts and lords who ruled these lands tended to turn a blind eye when wandering bands of knights hunted in their woods.
After all, they never stayed for long.
"Ha! Cowardly Albin!"
The old knight, "Scarface" Jaime Hill, was a bastard from the Westerlands. His father had been the second son of a landed knightly house, but since he could not inherit land or wealth, he had taken his sword and horse to wander the realm, eventually passing them down to his illegitimate son—Jaime Hill himself. Over the years, Jaime had served many lords, hoping to gain land from them, or at least a full meal and a bed.
"I'm telling you, those three lads aren't as simple as they seem."
Just when he was about to succeed, the Dance of the Dragons erupted. The nobleman who was about to accept his oath of fealty took Jaime to the battlefield of the Riverlands.
And then, disaster struck.
Jaime could never forget the sight of Vhagar, as massive as the mountains of the Westerlands, descending from the sky. He had watched as the bronze dragon and the green one clashed in the air, like two great mountains colliding. The sound of their battle was deafening, nearly rendering those fighting below completely deaf. Dragonfire rained down from above like a storm of flames. Jaime had seen, with his own eyes, a knight bearing a boar-crested shield engulfed in dragonfire, man and horse alike reduced to charred remains amid agonized screams. All he could recall was the sheer terror that nearly made him lose his mind. Without thinking, he turned and fled.
And then the sky collapsed.
The moment Vhagar was struck down by Vermithor, Jaime, half-deaf from the thunderous battle, could still hear the cheering of the Riverlanders. At that moment, it felt as if his mind was about to shatter. He cast aside the armor he had once treasured, even going so far as to steal a warhorse from a nobleman bearing a red lion sigil—someone he would have never dared offend before.
At that point, who cared who was a noble and who was a nameless hedge knight?
The deafening explosion that silenced the entire world nearly made Jaime permanently deaf. When Vhagar crashed to the ground, the resulting flames consumed nearly everyone nearby—Riverlanders and Westerlanders alike. But there was still a difference. Even as they burned in dragonfire, the Riverlanders continued to cheer, shouting "Prince Draezell! Long live the Prince!" while the Westerlanders were left with nothing but despair.
Jaime was lucky. When Vhagar died, the nobleman's warhorse carried him beyond the reach of the dragonfire. And so, he survived.
Then his world collapsed again.
The lord he had sworn to serve was doused in dragon blood, burned alive on the spot. The lord's heir was sent to the Wall after the ensuing trials. The Dowager Regent, now ruling in his place, no longer paid for the upkeep of hedge knights like Jaime. And so, he became a wanderer once more.
That war had not brought him fortune.
It had only left him with permanent burn scars on his back, the scar on his face...
And the nightmares that would never leave him.
The bronze dragon.
And that cold, silver-haired man whose face he could never quite see clearly.
"Scarface, stop acting like you're revealing some great secret," Cain interrupted bluntly. "I can tell that silver-haired lad is probably from the South. There are plenty of white-haired folk down there."
"Shut up. I can see that too," Jaime muttered. Seeing that Cain also suspected Rhaegon came from the lands of a border prince, Jaime lost interest in the conversation. He picked up the wineskin that Rhaegor had given them, shook it, and seeing there was still some left, he downed it all in one go.
Before he could even sigh in satisfaction, the wineskin was snatched from his hands.
"Seven bloody hells!" Albin wailed. "We haven't had a drop of wine in half a month, and you drank that much?! Scarface, I'm going to kill you!"
Before he could charge forward, Cain pressed him back down onto a wooden post.
"Save your strength, pretty boy," Cain said helplessly, looking at his companion.
With the years of peace dragging on, the Seven Kingdoms had become safer, and hedge knights had lost many of their usual sources of income.
Some had already resorted to playing both bandit and protector, staging raids to con money from desperate lords.
It wouldn't be long before we have to do the same, Cain thought bitterly.
---
Elsewhere.
The rabbit was now roasted to a glistening golden brown, its rich aroma making mouths water.
Elarion flipped it over, let it roast a little longer, then pulled it from the fire. He tore it into three portions and handed a piece to Rhaegor, who was sipping black bread soup.
Rhaegor took out the last of the white bread from his rations and passed it to the recently recovered Rhaegon.
"Thank you."
Rhaegor accepted his share of the rabbit, not bothering about the grease on his hands. He tore off a large chunk, chewed a few times, and swallowed it down.
Savoring the lingering taste of the meat, he tossed the remaining portion into his pot, stirring it into what was left of his black bread soup. Then, with a few heavy gulps, he finished the meal.
Rhaegon couldn't help but stare.
He had never eaten like this before. After all, Rhaegor was the son of Prince Draezell—how could he be so familiar with such simple ways of preparing food?
"It's getting late, Rey." Rhaegor hesitated for a moment. "Haggo, you rest first. I'll take the first watch, and Roger will take the second."
Elarion nodded, ignoring Rhaegon's protest as he grabbed him and tossed him into the tent.
"Get some proper rest. Don't make His Highness worry," Elarion said in a low voice.
Rhaegon glanced at Rhaegor, who was staring into the flames, and nodded.
During the days of his fever, it had been Rhaegor who took care of him. If one were to compare medical skills, those assistant maesters might not even be as skilled as Rhaegor himself.
All he lacked was medicine.
Rhaegon kept all of this in mind.
I never expected that the first one to drag down Prince Rhaegor would be me.
Guilt filled Rhaegon in that moment.
Seeing one of the three young men retreat into the tent to rest, and the blond one preparing to do the same, the three hedge knights finally dared to relax a little and speak more freely. After all, they had just offended those three boys and accepted a bag of their wine.
How could they not be on edge?
Albin had calmed down by now but still glared at Jaime with hatred. Jaime, however, paid no mind to the boy's stare, merely licking his lips as if still savoring the wine he had just drunk.
"Stop savoring it, old man," muttered "Hound" Cain, unable to stand it any longer. "Once we reach the Eyrie, Lord Clinton will give us more wine."
"Cain, yesterday you said we were heading to Storm's End." Jaime perked up immediately. "What, does Lord Clinton have work for us?"
Cain gestured for the younger ones to stay quiet, then lowered his voice mysteriously.
"Haven't you heard the news? Both Lord Clinton at the Eyrie and Lord Baratheon at Storm's End are summoning knights. It seems there's a war brewing."
"A war?" Jaime's eyes widened in shock. "Impossible. Where in the kingdom is there a war to fight?"
"It's not within the kingdom," Cain lowered his voice even further. "This is just my guess, but... do you think Lord Baratheon might be looking to fight beyond our borders?"
On the other side of the camp, Rhaegor watched the flames flicker before him, recalling everything he had seen since leaving Dragon's Nest.
Then, suddenly, a thought struck him.