Rhaegar took a quick glance, noticing a man with the distinctive features of the North—a Stark.
The gathered vassals came forward to pay their respects, and soon, it was the turn of the Stark family.
Flanked by Northern knights wrapped in thick clothing, a middle-aged man with black hair stepped forward at a measured pace. His voice was deep and steady.
"The North greets you, Prince Rhaegar."
"Welcome, Lord Bennard. I am pleased to see the people of the North participating in the tourney."
Rhaegar gave a slight nod, his response polite yet distant.
Bennard Stark—the younger brother of the late Duke Rickon Stark, former Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—now served as the regent of Winterfell.
Sensing the prince's lukewarm attitude, Bennard maintained the renowned Stark composure, respectfully stepping back.
After him, a young Stark stepped forward.
He had sharp, piercing black eyes, shoulder-length wavy black hair, and wore a slightly worn black noble's robe with a white ermine fur mantle draped over his shoulders.
Stopping two meters from Rhaegar, the boy knelt on one knee and bowed his head respectfully.
"Cregan Stark offers you his highest regards and hopes that you are untroubled by the cold."
Rhaegar looked down at him and solemnly replied,
"I accept your greetings, Duke Cregan."
Cregan Stark—only thirteen years old, yet already the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
As Cregan finished his formal greeting and rose to his feet, Rhaegar studied him closely. The boy's features were striking, his gaze steady and full of spirit.
Intrigued, Rhaegar took the initiative to speak.
"I have heard of Duke Rickon's passing. Forgive me for not attending the funeral in person."
Cregan's sharp black eyes showed neither sadness nor fear. He was tall for his age, his hands calloused from training—a stark contrast to the pampered heirs of other great houses.
His response was calm, composed.
"As long as you remember his loyalty, my father would not fault your absence."
His words were proper, unwavering—just as expected from a Stark.
Rhaegar appreciated the young duke's dignity and self-assurance. He instinctively glanced toward Aelmon Tully, who was circling around his aging father, Lord Tully, and subtly shook his head.
Both Cregan and Aelmon were heirs to great noble houses, yet the difference between them was like night and day.
Placing a firm hand on Cregan's shoulder, Rhaegar then turned to Bennard, his tone cool.
"Next time, make sure the Duke of Winterfell greets me first. I recall that the Starks are a family that values tradition."
Bennard hesitated for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes before he quickly responded.
"Yes, my prince."
Rhaegar said no more, signaling for Cregan to step back before turning his attention to the next vassal in line.
He understood Cregan's predicament well—the boy's authority had been completely overshadowed by his regent uncle. His situation was far worse than that of young Jenny before him.
Noting the crown prince's subtle kindness, Cregan, ever perceptive, pretended not to notice and silently moved aside.
Beyond the city gates, a steady stream of carriages rolled in. Two separate columns of knights emerged—one bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the other the green seahorse of House Velaryon.
A sharp, piercing cry echoed from above.
"Screeeeech!"
A massive, mud-brown dragon with an ugly, scarred hide soared through the sky, circling above Harrenhal.
A triumphant voice called out.
"Rhaegar! I'm back!"
The convoy halted in an open space, and a young man eagerly pushed aside the carriage curtain and leaped down before anyone else.
Draped in a silver silk robe, his collar, chest, and belt gleamed with gold and silver ornaments. His expression brimmed with pride.
Ignoring the four women still stepping out of the carriage, Aemond strode forward confidently.
Cassandra frowned slightly, hesitating as if she wanted to call him back but ultimately remaining silent.
The four sisters exited the carriage together, gracefully assisting their mother, Lady Elenna, before standing neatly beside her.
Meanwhile, under the banner of the seahorse, Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys disembarked hand in hand, their eldest son, Laenor, and Serlyn Celtigar following close behind.
For months, Rhaenys had been residing in Storm's End, personally overseeing the engagement between Aemond and Cassandra—a crucial political arrangement that helped stabilize the royal family's affairs.
Watching his spirited younger brother, Rhaegar wrapped an arm around Aemond's shoulder and teased,
"Well, well, all dressed up like a peacock. I suppose you've given up on that bag of gold dragons?"
Aemond shrugged, smirking.
"My fiancée picked this out for me."
His tone carried a hint of mockery—not directed at Rhaegar, but at someone else.
Rhaegar's brows twitched slightly. He caught the implied target of Aemond's disdain and, from the corner of his eye, glanced toward Lady Elenna and her four daughters approaching gracefully.
Yet, something was amiss.
Trailing behind them were not Royce Caron or any of their expected kin, but instead, two imposing men with dark hair.
One was massive, burly, and overweight, his rough features and cropped black hair resembling Borros Baratheon. However, he was clearly older—likely around the same age as Borros.
The other was a tall, powerfully built young man in his twenties, with thick eyebrows, piercing eyes, and an air of raw aggression.
On closer inspection, his gaze carried a defiant arrogance—reminiscent of Borros himself.
At first glance, Rhaegar guessed they were likely Borros's illegitimate brothers or sons, cast out into the world.
Lady Elenna stepped forward, her voice rich and resonant.
"House Baratheon greets you, Prince Rhaegar."
"My condolences, my lady." Rhaegar responded politely.
The four Storm daughters also paid their respects, followed by the Baratheon bannermen.
Then, things took an interesting turn.
While Cassandra stood beside Aemond, her three sisters remained close to their mother.
The two suspected bastards, lacking noble status, stood separately.
Yet, intriguingly, two high-ranking nobles—one bearing the black-and-white swan sigil of House Swann of Stonehelm, and the other displaying the purple lightning of House Dondarrion of Blackhaven—chose to stand beside the supposed bastards, pointedly ignoring Lady Elenna and her daughters.
Rhaegar's gaze swept over them.
"Interesting. And both houses are quite prominent in the Stormlands."
His expression remained unchanged, but he had already taken note.
The reception dragged on for some time before a grand wheelhouse, draped in the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen, finally arrived.
King Viserys and Queen Alicent had arrived.
Viserys looked well, though his steps were slower. He greeted the gathered nobles with a warm smile.
Alicent, her complexion radiant and her demeanor poised, graciously welcomed the noblewomen. The tension in her brow had eased considerably.
As the crowd swarmed to pay their respects, Rhaegar's violet eyes flickered. He discreetly stepped back, intending to slip away.
He had already met all the key figures—handling the rest was his father's responsibility.
"Rhaegar, there are too many guests. You should summon Rhaenyra to assist me."
Just as he took two steps back, Alicent's voice caught him. She sighed, making a helpless request.
Rhaegar pressed his lips together in hesitation.
"She… I'll try."
Alicent sighed inwardly at his reluctance but chose not to press the matter. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him.
Rhaegar exhaled softly, offering a polite smile before quietly maneuvering through the crowd.
The King's Pyre Tower.
Breaking free from the bustling throng, Rhaegar passed through the cobblestone garden, returning to his quarters.
Clang!
The sharp clash of steel rang out.
Two figures were locked in a fierce swordfight on the sandy training ground before the tower.
Aegon, Bare-Chested, Wielding a Hand-and-a-Half Sword
Ser Arryk Cargyll, clad in silver armor and a white cloak, his expression solemn.
"Aha!..."
Gritting his teeth, Aegon swung his sword again and again, pressing forward with every step.
Arryk met each strike with ease, defending effortlessly.
Rhaegar didn't even spare them a glance as he passed by, simply calling out, "Keep your footing steady. Don't wobble like a weakling."
Hearing this, Aegon's expression darkened. He spread his legs, bent his knees, and increased the speed of his strikes with the iron sword.
Ever since Aemond had given him a harsh lesson, Aegon had indulged himself for over half a month before suddenly reigniting his desire to train in swordsmanship.
Viserys and Alicent were both pleased, believing the boy had found his way back and developed some ambition.
Upon entering the King's Pyre Tower, Rhaegar took the manually operated pulley cage upwards.
There was no other choice—each of the five great towers of Harrenhal was taller than the last, and going up or down a single time took at least half an hour.
The pulley cage was an invaluable tool.
At the top of the tower, in the lord's private chambers…
Ser Lorent of the Kingsguard stood at his post, stationed before the solid wooden door.
"How is Rhaenyra?" Rhaegar asked quietly, as if afraid of disturbing those inside.
Lorent lowered his gaze and replied in a low voice, "The princess is awake, but she's the same as before."
Rhaegar nodded and gave Lorent an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
Creak—
As he pushed open the door, the rich aroma of sweets immediately filled the air.
Rhaenyra knelt on a red carpet, her silky silver hair draped loosely over her shoulders. She wore nothing but a thin, white silk nightgown.
Before her sat a small table, crammed with an array of pastries, cream cakes, and lamprey pie.
By the time Rhaegar entered, she had already grabbed a cut piece of pie in one hand and a bottle of Summer Red in the other, stuffing her small mouth full without any care for appearances.
Her movements were so exaggerated that one of the straps of her nightgown slipped from her shoulder, revealing a glimpse of fair skin.
Seated with her legs tucked beneath her, the hem of her gown did little to conceal the creamy expanse of her thighs.
At first glance, Rhaegar felt a headache coming on, unsure of how to even begin persuading her.
A sharp screech suddenly broke the silence.
By the wall near the door, a pair of twin girls in little white dresses sat side by side, each cradling a baby dragon in her arms.
The twins had long, silver-gold hair and inherited their mother Laena's beauty, with delicate and charming features.
Baela had a darker complexion, taking after her grandfather, Corlys Velaryon, with his light brown skin and large, violet eyes.
Rhaena's complexion was lighter, akin to her mother Laena's olive tone, giving her an exotic appearance.
Closing the door behind him, Rhaegar smiled and asked, "How are you two doing?"
"We're good," the twins answered in unison, their little heads bobbing as their braids swayed.
Screech…
The green baby dragon in Baela's arms let out a sharp hiss, its slit pupils eyeing the visitor warily.
This was Moon Dancer, hatched from its egg a few months prior.
Baby dragons grew quickly, and Moon Dancer was already the size of a sheepdog, its pearl-colored horns beginning to show promise.
Like her sister, Rhaena also had a baby dragon in her arms—but its condition was vastly different.
Rhaegar crouched down for a closer look. This dragon had pale pink scales, a pair of black horns, and simple moon-white wing membranes.
In terms of color alone, it was as beautiful as a butterfly, earning the name "Dawn."
Unfortunately, Dawn's fate had been an unfortunate one.
It hatched the night after Moon Dancer, making the two dragons almost like sisters—just like their riders.
Yet while Moon Dancer had grown strong and healthy, Dawn had been frail from the start. It remained weak and sluggish, its growth painfully slow, barely reaching the size of a housecat.
At this moment, Dawn lay limp in Rhaena's embrace, its tiny head nudging against her softly.
Rhaegar gently stroked Rhaena's head and asked in a soft voice, "How is your Dawn doing?"
"She's okay. She ate a little bit of charred lamb today."
Rhaena murmured, rubbing Dawn's back with her small hands, but her violet eyes were clouded with worry.
Her sister's dragon was strong and healthy, while hers remained small and sickly, seemingly on the verge of death at any moment.
She felt nothing but deep affection and concern for the dragon she had hatched herself.
(End of Chapter)