"The kingdom has not yet gone to war. My father is still in council."
Rhaenyra's smile faded as she refuted the old lady's scolding words.
Another elderly woman interjected coldly, "Even if the king refuses to admit it, war has already begun. It all started because of your uncle and the Sea Snake."
"And what about you, Lady Redwyne—how have you been serving the realm lately?"
Rhaenyra finally lost all patience. Her gaze flicked disdainfully toward the small lapdog nibbling biscuits in the woman's arms. "By eating biscuits?" she retorted.
Her words were sharp, naked mockery.
The entire pavilion went silent.
"Pfft—"
A sudden laugh broke through the still air, jarring against the quiet.
Lady Redwyne's face darkened. She turned toward the silver-haired boy struggling to hold back his laughter. "Princess," she said stiffly, "is this the prince?"
Rhaenyra couldn't be bothered to reply. She simply turned and walked away, leaving behind a cool and regal silhouette.
Rhaegar could no longer hold his laughter. Standing before the gathering of noblewomen, he bowed slightly and introduced himself with confidence.
"My name is Rhaegar. Rhaegar Targaryen."
"Viserys the First is my father—and I am his eldest son."
He glanced toward Lady Redwyne, eyes full of polite challenge. "Forgive me for being sickly since birth and seldom appearing in public. I wonder, Lady Biscuit, have you ever heard my name before?"
"Pfft—"
This time, someone else failed to hold back a snicker.
Rhaegar turned his head toward the sound and saw a thin man with curly brown hair seated oddly among the cluster of gossiping noblewomen—clearly out of place in this nest of sharp tongues.
The man held a cane, and when Rhaegar's gaze dropped lower, he noticed a strange shoe—one foot was twisted and deformed.
A cripple.
Sensing the prince's eyes, the man smiled politely and said, "Larys Strong, at your service, Your Highness."
Rhaegar nodded courteously. "Lord Lyonel Strong is your father, then?"
"Yes, Your Grace. I am his younger son."
Larys subtly shifted his clubfoot as he answered.
"Your father is known far and wide as a wise and loyal Hand," Rhaegar replied politely before turning his focus back to Lady Redwyne.
"The Triarchy invaded the realm's seas, plundered our ships, and sold our loyal subjects into slavery."
"My uncle Daemon may have acted without royal sanction, but he did so to defend his brother's kingdom—to fulfill the duty of a true Targaryen prince."
He paused slightly, sweeping his gaze toward the lady who had first spoken—Lady Celtigar—and continued firmly,
"It was not we who provoked this war, but the Triarchy who insulted the honor of Targaryen rule."
"I believe it won't be long before my father finds the resolve to bear the criticism of joining the war—and send our armies to crush that crab-feeding foreign invader."
"And as for the affairs of the realm, they are handled tirelessly by the king and his council. They hardly require the concern of a lady whose only contribution is eating biscuits."
Rhaegar ended his impassioned speech with deliberate emphasis on "the lady with the lapdog," strengthening the bond between her and her beloved biscuits.
The noblewomen who had just mocked Rhaenyra now looked as if they'd been publicly slapped.
Queen Alicent stared at Rhaegar in astonishment—as if seeing him for the first time.
No one would have imagined that a six-year-old child could speak with such poise and conviction.
Lady Redwyne, red-faced and humiliated, could only seethe in silence.
"Your Grace," she said icily to Alicent, "you ought to discipline the king's children better."
With that, she tossed the poor lapdog to the ground, gathered her crumb-dusted skirts, and stormed off—muttering curses under her breath.
"Heh," Rhaegar said lightly, smiling as he brushed his chest where his breath had quickened, "perhaps my words were too childish to move such esteemed ladies."
He gave a courteous bow and took his leave—he had no time to waste on a flock of short-sighted gossipers.
He needed to find his sister.
After all, adolescent girls with fragile hearts were easily hurt—and needed comfort.
He hadn't gone far from the tent when a mismatched rhythm of footsteps approached from behind.
Rhaegar turned and saw Larys Strong hobbling toward him with his cane.
"Ser Larys," Rhaegar asked curiously, "you don't enjoy the noblewomen's gossip either?"
Larys smiled faintly. "On the contrary, I rather enjoy listening to… various tidings."
"Oh?" Rhaegar frowned slightly. "And what do you mean by that?"
Larys bent down slightly, lowering himself to the prince's eye level. His smile was mild—almost ingratiating.
"I came to see you specifically, my prince."
Rhaegar nodded for him to continue.
"I've heard that the king's eldest son—Your Highness—rarely leaves the palace due to frail health?"
"That's true. My mother suffered complications during childbirth. Until I turned six, I lived under the shadow of death."
Rhaegar spoke plainly, watching what the man was getting at.
"Seven blessings," Larys murmured, smiling. "Even though you were born weak, your brilliance could never be hidden. Truly, a blessing upon the realm."
His tone dripped with flattery.
Rhaegar's patience thinned. "When one can't spend his youth running or playing," he said coolly, "there's little else to do but read."
"Oh? And what kind of books do you enjoy, Your Highness?"
"Histories. Reading history makes one wise—and teaches us from the deeds of those before."
He had no interest in prolonging the conversation. His voice cooled. "History reminds us to guard our honor… and to stay away from those with hidden motives."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Larys watched his retreating back with a faint, knowing smile, his eyes glinting.
"What an interesting little prince," he murmured. "The tide rises, wave after wave—but it's not yet time to make landfall."
After parting with the sly cripple, Rhaegar continued his search for his sister.
He wandered for quite a while but found no trace of her—beginning to suspect that the blow had been too much for her, and that Rhaenyra had gone off to some quiet corner to cry her little pearls of sorrow alone.
"Prince Rhaegar."
Amidst the glow of campfires and fruit-laden tables, a steady voice called out to him.
He turned to see a knight clad in silver armor and draped in a white cloak—the mark of the Kingsguard.
Under his helm, a thick ponytail spilled down his back, his face marked by bold brows and a heavy beard.
Rhaegar recognized him immediately—and not just because he'd seen him once, but twice.
For among the Kingsguard, there was a pair of twin brothers.
Ser Erryk Cargyll—and Ser Arryk Cargyll.
Both valiant, both righteous, and both sworn to the same sacred order.
"Ser Erryk," Rhaegar said, holding a bunch of red grapes, "what brings you to me?"
The knight blinked in surprise—flattered that the boy could tell him apart. Very few people could. Even those close to them often mixed the brothers up.
Stepping forward, Erryk bowed respectfully. "Your Grace, the king is looking for you."
"Very well," Rhaegar replied easily. "Lead the way."
Erryk hesitated slightly. "Your Highness… the king and Princess Rhaenyra had a quarrel just now. His Majesty's mood is… not the best."
"A quarrel? Over what?" Rhaegar frowned.
He had no idea that Rhaenyra had already returned to the royal tent while he'd been searching for her in vain.
"It concerns the princess's betrothal," Erryk said carefully. "I dare not speak further."
Being an upright man, Erryk refused to gossip about royal matters.
Still, he mentioned one name—Jason Lannister.
Duke of the Westerlands, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West…
A long list of titles for one arrogant man.
It took Rhaegar a moment to recall who that was.
Jason Lannister—older brother of Tyland Lannister, the family's current head.
The quarrel, it turned out, began when Jason privately proposed to Rhaenyra.
His approach was haughty, his words dripping with vanity, lust, and ambition.
Rhaenyra, of course, wanted nothing to do with such a pompous peacock.
She rejected him outright.
When she returned to camp, she argued fiercely with King Viserys, refusing to accept his interference in her marriage.
And naturally—
It ended just as one might expect from a father and daughter of royal blood.
With Viserys's fury… and Rhaenyra's tears.
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