Rhaegor and his companions did not linger in the Stormlands for long. They didn't stay in any castles, nor did they lodge in town inns. Instead, they journeyed through the Stormlands under open skies, braving the elements until they entered Kingswood.
The fertile lands gradually disappeared, and the roads became increasingly narrow and muddy. Only the Kingsroad remained broad, yet even it was strewn with decaying leaves and swamps formed by recent storms. Villages became sparser.
Eventually, civilization vanished entirely before the vast forest south of King's Landing. Aside from the Kingsroad cutting through it, there was hardly any sign of human presence.
This forest was the Targaryen king's private hunting grounds. However, unlike his grandfather and uncle, King Viserys I, Aegon was not particularly fond of hunting. Little Viserys was currently preoccupied with siring heirs and assisting the Hand of the King, leaving neither of them with time for such pursuits.
As a result, the grand royal hunts of yesteryears had become rare in the royal forest.
"This is the royal forest?" Rhaegon curiously surveyed the dark green expanse. The ancient trees stood like wizened elders, their trunks etched with the wrinkles of time. Their lush leaves formed a canopy akin to flowing hair, while their gnarled roots stretched like long beards. Moss blanketed their bases. Nearby, Elarion collected some non-toxic mushrooms for their camp meal, while Rhaegor, upon entering the forest, had already hunted down a pheasant and two rabbits.
At the very least, they would have fresh meat for tonight's rest.
"Not that impressive," Rhaegon remarked, slightly disappointed.
"What's wrong?" Rhaegor, having spent much of the journey deep in thought, had grown more relaxed in his demeanor. He had even taken to occasionally joking with his two companions and no longer minded Rhaegon's boisterous antics or other behaviors that had once irked him—such as hunting in the royal forest.
While he reminded himself not to go overboard, he certainly did not hold back when it came to hunting.
"I thought the king's forest would be much larger," Rhaegon said after glancing around. "But it's not as vast or ancient as the rainforests of the Stormlands. Hmph, it's probably no bigger than our own forests."
"Did you really think King's Landing got all its lumber from the Stormlands?" Rhaegor chuckled before composing himself.
None of them noticed the faint rustling within the dense foliage.
Elarion suddenly straightened, ears twitching.
"Something's not right!"
Before the words had fully left his lips, a crossbow bolt tore through the dark green air of the forest, hurtling straight toward Rhaegor.
Thunk.
With barely a moment's hesitation, Rhaegon's horse dashed to Rhaegor's side. The young man twisted his waist, and the bolt embedded itself in the upper part of the shield strapped to his back.
A fraction lower, and the shield wouldn't have stopped it.
"Seven bloody hells," a crossbowman hidden in the woods spat.
They were members of the Greencloak Brotherhood, a band that had recently suffered a direct assault by the new Hand of the King. Once a force of over three hundred men supported by villagers escaping their lords' heavy taxes, the Greencloak had been reduced to barely a dozen after the campaign against them.
However, their leader, "Greencloak" Robin, had survived. The man, always clad in green, had once been a knight. During the Dance of the Dragons, he had taken part in the riots of King's Landing. Though he had survived dragonfire, he remained fearful of Targaryen retribution. Thus, he abandoned his home in the capital and took to the royal forest, turning to banditry against passing merchant caravans.
Yet, Robin had his principles—he avoided robbing banners of the great lords, preying instead on common merchants.
Unfortunately for him, the new king, Aegon, though following his father Draezell's policies, was no incompetent ruler. On the contrary, he adhered to those policies precisely because they were effective. His role was to maintain their successful execution—and outlaws like Robin's Greencloak were a blight to be eradicated.
In fact, they had already been crushed multiple times. During Draezell's reign, the Greencloak had been so cowed that they barely stirred, making travel through the royal forest safer than ever.
But after Draezell left King's Landing, Robin believed no one would challenge him again.
Unfortunately for him, he was about to run into yet another formidable opponent.
The new Hand of the King was not qualified, but he was honest enough and sufficiently wise. In short, he followed precedent—and rigidly so.
Thus, misfortune befell Robin.
Watching as the three youths readied themselves in an instant, Robin irritably struck his thigh.
"Ser, we're out of bolts," one of the crossbowmen grumbled.
After being scattered, they had spent their days evading the Gold Cloaks and the White Cloak Guard—the latter being the King's personal guard force, assembled by Viserys and composed of former squires who had once served the Kingsguard stationed at the White Sword Tower. Daemon had begun preparations for the force during his regency, and Draezell had provided funding and equipment during his rule. However, for reasons unknown, the three-hundred-strong unit had not been officially formed until Draezell left, at which point Ser Erryk Cargyll, the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, took command.
As a result, they had no spare bolts left.
"Damn it, they're just three brats! What's there to fear?" Robin's gaze greedily swept over the trio's warhorses, weapons, and shields. "It's not like we haven't killed noble whelps before. Get them!"
"Hah! You little bastards, your daddy's here!"
A hulking brute clad in ragged armor bellowed as he charged from the thickets, swinging a long-hafted battleaxe. Behind him, the remnants of the Greencloak Brotherhood followed, howling as they surged forward.
Then, they saw the young Strangers.
Even the mightiest among them, the nearly seven-foot-tall "Undying" Jorr, could not withstand Elarion's warhammer.
The brute had barely begun his charge when he was struck head-on by a warhorse and sent tumbling. Elarion's warhammer followed immediately, crashing down onto his skull.
Brain matter splattered, but the nearby outlaws had no time to be horrified or even think of fleeing.
Because the other two were already upon them.
By the time Rhaegor curiously glanced at his own sword before casually tossing Robin's severed head onto the ground, the now-departed brigands realized—too late—that they had provoked the wrong people.
And…
Seven hells, Robin! You got us killed!
They had horses—warhorses!
In the shadows nearby, Cain slowly lowered his longsword.
He watched the three youths with a hint of surprise.
He hadn't expected the trio he had encountered in the Stormlands to be so unflinching when it came to killing.
More than that, they were… skilled.
Who exactly were they?