Chapter 59 – Investigation
[Advancement Quest Completed]: Perform on the harp before an audience of more than one hundred and utterly crush Rhaegar Targaryen in musical prowess.
[Current Template: S – Rhaegar Targaryen (Fusion 100%)]
[Profile: The Silver Prince, Last True Heir of the Dragon, the Knight Whose Harp Was Sharper Than His Sword, Free Fish Food at the Trident.]
[The Dragon Has Three Heads!]
[Reward: Permanent Advancement Skills Unlocked]
(Permanent Skill) — Weapon Master: As a naturally gifted warrior, you can freely wield any weapon you touch for the first time. All weapon proficiencies +50%.
(Permanent Skill) — The Unburnt: As a true Targaryen, fire shall never harm you. Fire resistance +100%.
(Permanent Skill) — Dragonrider: You are born to command dragons. Natural affinity toward dragonkind +100%.
---
"Now that's power!"
Lance's pulse quickened as he stared at the glowing system panel before him.
He'd originally thought the Rhaegar Targaryen template to be somewhat lackluster — elegant, yes, but not particularly useful in a fight. Even at full synchronization, he doubted it could match Barristan the Bold.
But with these three skills combined? Especially the Weapon Master perk—he might actually stand toe-to-toe with the legendary knight himself.
And the best part—these were permanent. No matter what new template he switched to later, these abilities would never fade.
Especially that last one… Dragonrider.
Though House Targaryen hadn't hatched a dragon in over a century, Lance knew what the future held.
A certain girl, blessed by fate and flame, would one day rise from the ashes with three dragons at her back.
But for now…
Lance frowned slightly. Viserys is barely two years old. Daenerys hasn't even been born yet.
That was far too long to wait.
"Maybe," he murmured to himself, "if I play my cards right, I can get my hands on a dragon egg—and awaken one early."
---
"Ser… Ser Lance?"
A soft, lilting voice pulled him from his thoughts.
He blinked, dismissing the system panel, and found himself looking into a pair of radiant violet eyes.
"Forgive me, Lady Ashara," he said with an easy smile. "I was just lost in an interesting thought."
"Oh?"
The Dornish beauty tilted her head, pretending to pout. Her pale purple dress swayed in the breeze, and a single yellowed poplar leaf drifted down, landing lightly on her hair.
Before she could brush it away, Lance reached out, plucking it off—and, instead of withdrawing, let his fingertips linger against her porcelain skin.
Her cheeks flushed faintly pink, like the first sip of summer wine.
"I was thinking…" he murmured, his fingers tracing down to her lips, "…it must taste sweet."
The teasing words made her heart race, but Ashara did not retreat. Instead, she stepped closer, her violet eyes locking boldly with his.
"How would you know," she whispered, "if you don't try?"
"That's the debt I owe you. Remember?"
"Of course I remember," Lance said, grinning.
That was all the invitation he needed.
Beneath the poplar tree, the knight in white armor wrapped his arms around the Dornish maiden. She closed her eyes, lashes trembling, the moonlight painting her neck and jaw in soft silver.
In that quiet grove, the knight and the maiden kissed.
From afar, the laughter and music of the feast still carried through the night air.
Down by the Blackwater Rush, waves lapped gently against the shore, as though applauding their union.
But behind a great oak at the edge of the grove, a pair of emerald-green eyes watched in silence.
Resentment.
Jealousy.
And something darker flickered within.
---
Dooong… Dooong…
The bells atop Visenya's Hill tolled seven times. Midnight.
Inside the Great Sept of Baelor, the Silver Prince sat alone on a pew, his head bowed. Moonlight streamed through the stained glass, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
"You seem troubled, Your Highness."
A tall, gaunt man in a monk's robe approached quietly. His expression was solemn, his presence serene—his face almost mirroring that of the Father carved above the altar.
He placed a gentle hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, speaking in a tone of quiet familiarity.
"This isn't like you, Prince Rhaegar."
Rhaegar didn't raise his head. His fingers were interlaced, his forehead pressed tightly against his hands — as though in prayer, or perhaps in refusal to face the world.
"What was Rhaegar Targaryen like before, Ser Bonifer?"
His voice was low, heavy — the kind of tone that only comes from exhaustion of the soul.
"Confident. Powerful. Passionate," Bonifer Hasty answered without hesitation. "He might've seemed quiet and melancholic, but that was merely the aloofness of a true dragon — one who knew that, no matter the challenge, he would always prevail."
He paused, then added softly, "But today… I don't see that same Rhaegar Targaryen before me. The man standing here feels like a stranger. A defeated stranger."
Those words struck Rhaegar like a spark against dry tinder. His head snapped up, and in his indigo eyes burned a surge of anger.
"A true dragon?" he scoffed, rising abruptly to his feet. "Everyone keeps calling me that — the true dragon. But how would they know what a real dragon even looks like?"
"Granduncle Aemon says I'm the prince that was promised, the one from the prophecy. Yet to this day, I've never seen a shred of proof for any of it!"
"True dragon? That nonsense died out a century ago! I used to wander through the Red Keep's crypts as a boy — they're littered with the bones of dragons. Even Balerion's skull rests down there!"
"Yes, it's massive — one of its teeth is taller than me — but they're all long dead! What, do they expect a pile of bones to sprout wings and soar again?"
The prince's fury erupted, his words echoing through the stone hall. Bonifer didn't interrupt. He simply watched, letting Rhaegar's tempest burn itself out.
Only when Rhaegar's chest began to steady and his madness ebbed from his gaze did Bonifer speak again, calm and deliberate:
"You're very much like your father."
The words hit harder than any insult. Rhaegar flinched as if stabbed.
After a long silence, he exhaled sharply. "My father doesn't trust me anymore. His faith lies with a Kingsguard knight now."
"A Kingsguard?" Bonifer frowned. "They swear vows to protect the king, yes — but not all of them are worthy of that trust. History has seen more than one white cloak turn traitor."
He tilted his head meaningfully. "Take Ser Terrence Toyne, for example."
The name made Rhaegar's pupils contract sharply.
Terrence Toyne — once sworn brother of Aegon IV's Kingsguard — who was executed after bedding the king's mistress. His brothers had tried to avenge him, only to fail and doom their entire house. Some say the remnants of House Toyne later founded the Brotherhood of the Kingswood.
It was a poor example — and Bonifer seemed to realize it too late.
Though Toyne had lain with the king's mistress, not the queen, the implication still struck a raw nerve. Rhaegar's jaw tightened. He ground his teeth, veins bulging at his temples.
"You're speaking nonsense, Ser Bonifer!" he snapped. "If I hear another word of such filth, I'll see this place burned to the ground!"
With that, Rhaegar kicked the bench before him, sending it crashing to the floor, and stormed out of the sept.
Bonifer stood in silence for a long time, then sighed and righted the fallen bench.
He was about to leave when, stepping into the doorway, he was met by a pair of violet eyes he knew all too well — eyes he'd once dared to dream of.
"Your Grace…" he stammered, barely stopping himself from saying her name outright.
"You look well, Ser Bonifer."
The queen's voice was cool, poised — utterly unlike the tempest that had just left in the form of her son.
"The Seven-Pointed Star teaches that the Seven watch over the faithful," Bonifer said quietly. "Since coming here, I've enjoyed good health, Your Grace."
"Is that so?" Rhaella Targaryen's lips curved faintly. "Perhaps I should persuade Aerys to pray here as well — who knows, maybe it'll cure his ailments."
The jab was light but sharp. Bonifer heard the venom beneath her tone but didn't respond.
When he remained silent, Rhaella's teasing faded. She gazed steadily into his eyes. "Tell me, Ser Bonifer — can I still trust you?"
"The Red Keep is crawling with schemers and sycophants. Not a single one of them can be relied upon. And as for the Kingsguard…" Her lips curled bitterly. "They're all just the king's lapdogs."
"I need someone who will never betray me. That's why I thought of you."
There was a plea beneath her calm words — a plea that made Bonifer's long-buried heart tremble once more.
"The Seven gave men tongues to speak," he murmured, "but they also gave them lips to keep silent."
He hadn't answered directly — but his meaning was clear.
Rhaella nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then I'll speak plainly."
"I need you to go to Duskendale, Ser Bonifer."
Her gaze drifted toward the great statue of the Seven above them. "There's something I must know — something only you can uncover."
Bonifer's brow furrowed slightly.
"Find out the truth about a man's birth," Rhaella said at last.
"A man who wears the white cloak of the Kingsguard."