Chapter 57 – I Think I Know a Little
When Rhaegar stepped onto the stage, all the musicians below instantly stopped playing, their instruments falling silent in perfect unison.
The hall grew quiet.
Without the music, the noble men and women on the dance floor also stopped mid-step, their gazes all turning toward the elevated platform.
When they saw Prince Rhaegar standing by the harp, a wave of applause and cheers erupted across the ballroom.
"Look—it's Rhaegar! Prince Rhaegar is going to play!"
"Oh, Seven above! The last time I heard him perform was three years ago!"
"Yes, I was there too. That haunting melody, that melancholy voice—it was unforgettable. I can still hear it in my mind."
Hearing the adoring praise, basking in the admiration and envy reflected in every gaze, Rhaegar's lips curved ever so slightly.
He lowered his head, letting his deep indigo eyes sweep over the hall in deliberate melancholy—sending a ripple of sighs and shrieks from noblewomen below. The sound rivaled the frenzied cheers of fangirls at a concert in Lance's previous life.
Only after the excitement had died down a little did Rhaegar speak, his voice low and composed:
"This piece is titled The Rescued Maiden. I composed it for the princess who traveled here from distant Dorne—Her Highness Elia Martell."
The announcement drew every gaze toward the royal table, where the Dornish princess sat with her head bowed shyly, refusing to meet the prince's eyes.
Yet from Rhaegar's vantage point, he caught a subtle, secret glance—Elia's eyes darting toward a white-armored Kingsguard beside the king.
His smile faltered. For a brief moment, it felt as though he had swallowed a fly.
Still, mindful of his image, Rhaegar took a few deep breaths and set his slender fingers upon the harp strings.
Then, in a low, mellow voice, he began to sing:
"Ah~ the blade deep in the royal wood...
Hotter than Dorne's blazing sun~~
White cloaks drift through dust and sand~
Swords streak like stars across twilight~~
The vow of the Kingsguard burns upon the throat~~
I trade my life to bring her home once more..."
As his deep, melodic voice filled the hall, a hush descended.
Everyone was enraptured, carried by the music into a vivid vision—of a valiant knight in white armor, bursting through the ranks of foes to rescue a maiden in peril.
Some of the noblewomen, overwhelmed by emotion, began to weep softly, dabbing at their eyes with lace kerchiefs.
The men clenched their fists, their blood surging with righteous fervor, wishing they could leap into the song themselves and become that fearless knight.
Silver hair cascading over his shoulders, Rhaegar played with devoted grace, watching the crowd's reaction from the corner of his eye.
Seeing their enthralled expressions, he couldn't help but smile inwardly.
As expected... I am the most beloved one here.
He turned his gaze back toward the royal table, ready to savor the look of admiration he was sure to find in the Dornish princess's eyes.
But what he saw instead made his heart drop.
The black-haired princess was resting her chin on her hand, her dark eyes brimming with warmth—not for him, but for the Kingsguard standing beside the king.
Those eyes, full of tenderness, glimmered with unspoken affection.
The one gazing at him, with adoration bordering on infatuation... was Jon Connington.
Damn it... I never should've chosen this song!
Regret flooded his chest, his thoughts scattered—
Clang!
A harsh note rang out, discordant and jarring.
Most in the audience didn't notice, but anyone with an ear for music did. Among them—Lance Lot.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Is he... slipping on purpose?"
Lance frowned, opening his eyes after listening intently. Though he'd never been fond of the prince, he couldn't deny Rhaegar's talent. The man had remarkable musical instinct, and his singing voice was almost otherworldly.
Even with all the great compositions he'd heard in his past life, Lance had to admit—Rhaegar's art had its charm.
But this world's musical standard peaked here, at best.
Sorry, Prince. I come from the Renaissance.
On stage, Rhaegar exhaled deeply, forcing himself to regain composure. He managed to finish the piece without further mistakes—his long years of practice and innate talent carrying him through.
Yet even the untrained could sense it: something in the latter half had lost its soul. The brilliance, the magic—it was gone.
When the final note faded, the hall erupted in thunderous applause.
Even with its flaws, the prince's performance was still dazzling.
Rhaegar straightened, bowing gracefully, his trademark smile returning to his face.
It wasn't perfect, but... it will do.
Amid the roaring applause, Rhaegar descended from the stage, light on his feet and visibly pleased. For once, the ever-composed prince even arched an eyebrow at Lance in a wordless gesture that seemed to say:
"See? This is the difference between a prince... and a blacksmith."
"Prince Rhaegar, your performance was truly magnificent," Princess Elia said warmly as he approached.
She reluctantly tore her gaze away from Lance and turned toward Rhaegar, offering him a gentle smile. "I always thought the rumors about your talent were exaggerated—but hearing it today, I realize you're even more brilliant than they said."
"Heh..."
The princess's praise went straight to Rhaegar's head, sweeping away the last traces of jealousy and frustration.
He was about to seize the moment and invite her for a dance when, to his shock, Elia turned her bright eyes back toward Lance, staring at him with that same watery tenderness.
"Would you consider teaching this song to Ser Lance, Your Highness?" she asked, though her eyes never once left the white-armored knight. "I was just thinking—if the man who lived through the story performed it, perhaps the emotion would be even more genuine."
"Uh..."
Rhaegar froze. The words hit him like a blade to the heart, and a deep, sour bitterness surged up inside him.
Why... why him?!
This song was his—a piece he'd poured his heart and soul into! Why should that blacksmith-born oaf have anything to do with it?
What did that filthy commoner know of art? Even if given a hundred years, he'd never learn to play a harp—he probably couldn't even read the music!
The more Rhaegar thought about it, the angrier he became, his rage bubbling up his throat until it nearly burst out.
"Absolutely not—"
"I'd rather not play it."
Before Rhaegar could explode, Lance's calm voice interrupted him.
"What?"
Rhaegar turned, stunned—he hadn't expected Lance to refuse first.
This was a composition by Rhaegar Targaryen himself! If word spread, every bard across the Seven Kingdoms would be desperate to perform it. And yet this... this glorified soldier dared to say he didn't want to?
You barbarian—what do you know of music?!
"I said," Lance repeated with a faint grin, "I'd rather not play this song."
He looked at Elia and continued evenly, "It's a beautiful melody, no doubt. But I don't wish for Princess Elia to relive such painful memories because of it. That wouldn't be fair to her."
The words struck like a soft thunderclap.
Elia's eyes shimmered, her heart swelling with emotion. She stared at Lance, her gaze tender enough to melt steel.
Righteous. Brave. Gentle. Humble.
If only she hadn't fainted that day, she thought wistfully, she might have witnessed the very moment this knight saved her life.
Her pale lips parted slightly as she whispered, almost inaudibly, "Ser Lance..."
"Forgive me for being blunt, Ser Lance," Rhaegar's sharp voice cut in, cold and edged.
He was visibly restraining himself, tapping the table with his fingers to maintain composure. "This song was written to honor the princess's ordeal. It is a work of art. So I suggest you refrain from commenting on things you clearly do not understand."
His tone carried the weight of deep insult.
Ever since childhood, Rhaegar had lived with the harp. If someone mocked his swordsmanship, he could laugh it off. But his music? That was sacred.
To be belittled by this armored brute—he couldn't bear it. His handsome face twisted slightly with restrained fury, the mask of princely grace cracking before everyone's eyes.
In contrast, Lance remained utterly calm, his expression composed—an unshakable rock before a flustered child's tantrum.
"Actually, Your Highness..." Lance said with that same faint, unbothered smile. "After listening to your performance just now, I think I may have figured out how to play the harp."
He paused, almost casually. "In fact, I remember that musician from the Reach who once performed this same song in Duskendale."
His amber eyes flicked toward the harp, glinting faintly.
"If everyone doesn't mind... perhaps I can give it a try."