The face of Albin twitched slightly, but in the end, he suppressed the dissatisfaction that was almost written across it.
They are no weaker than any knight I have ever known, the young hedge knight couldn't help but think. No, in terms of pure martial skill, every knight I've ever met was like a child before these three, who are even younger than I am.
They have truly killed before.
Cain watched in silence as Rhaegor thrust his sword into Greencloak Robin's throat, twisted it slightly, and took his head clean off. The remaining ragtag members of the Greencloak Brotherhood were no match for the well-equipped boys mounted on warhorses. In the blink of an eye, they were all cut down under the relentless charges of the three young warriors.
"Is that black-haired boy really a Tarly bastard?" The old knight Jaime sidled up to Cain, suspicion evident in his tone.
The three of them had never accepted Lord Connington's offer of employment. Though Lord Roland Connington had named a generous price, Jaime and Cain—both seasoned warriors—had sensed that something was off.
There were too many people.
Too many had gathered at Griffin's Roost. Jaime had even spotted several familiar faces, and that could only mean one thing: Lord Roland Connington was preparing for a war far greater in scale than expected. And Cain, always one to keep his ear to the ground, had learned from a well-informed hedge knight where Connington's army was headed.
The three knights had only wanted to earn a decent purse and leave in peace. They had never planned to cross the Narrow Sea to fight on the Stepstones. So, at Cain's urging, they had slipped away before the march.
Of course, no one cared about the departure of three insignificant hedge knights.
Once the army was assembled, the Stormlands' war machine roared to life. Lord Borros Baratheon led seven thousand troops southward from Storm's End. Among them was his young son—a boy born in winter, frail in body, but with a thick, jet-black head of hair. The maesters had predicted he would not survive the cold, yet he had endured and lived to see the coming summer.
Now, Borros wished for this child, named Royce Baratheon, to truly grow strong on the battlefield.
The Silver Fleet had lent him two hundred great cogs for transporting his army, while the Lyseni fleet was also en route. The waters around Storm's End were treacherous, littered with reefs and battered by violent winds, making them unsuitable for docking large fleets. Instead, Borros planned to set sail from Weeping Town and the port of Stonehelm, further south.
But for now, none of this concerned Rhaegor and his companions.
Rhaegor looked down at the rapier in his hands, puzzled. A rapier could sever a man's head?
A thought struck him, and he quickly examined the sword. Sure enough, at the spots where gemstones had once been inlaid, faint traces remained—nearly imperceptible unless one looked closely.
Here, here, and here—each had once held different gemstones. A tightness gripped Rhaegor's chest.
It's Starsinger.
Valar had once told him the names and characteristics of every Valyrian steel sword and armor set stored in the crypts. He had even seen those weapons himself.
Yet he had carried this sword all the way from Dragonstone to King's Landing without realizing its true nature until now—until the moment it lopped off a bandit's head.
Rhaegon and Elarion had finished off the remaining outlaws and gathered near him. They were young, but they had seen blood before—part of their training. Rhaegon had led a squad to clear out mountain bandits near Kaon Hold when he was twelve, his first kill.
He had vomited his guts out afterward, but recovered quickly.
Elarion, however, had been exposed to violence far earlier. He had witnessed his father beheading a man while still in swaddling clothes, and later, following Aslan Londar's orders, had participated in real battles. Unlike Rhaegon, who had needed time to adjust, Elarion was a natural warrior.
Killing meant nothing to him.
Rhaegor suddenly recalled how Daenyra had seemed so uneasy when she had handed him this sword.
I'm an idiot. Truly.
He closed his eyes in frustration, remembering her anxious expression and the way she had kept glancing at Hoffa and Valar in nervousness.
Thank you, Daenyra.
Opening his eyes, Rhaegor turned his gaze toward the three hedge knights. Not just him—Rhaegon and Elarion had also noticed that someone had been watching them as they wiped out the Greencloak Brotherhood.
Elarion spurred his warhorse forward, raising his shield to cover Rhaegor.
"Come out," Rhaegon called, his hand resting firmly on his sword hilt, his sharp gaze fixed on the spot where he had glimpsed the flash of steel.
"Easy, easy! We mean no harm."
Cain raised his hands in a show of peace as he rode his horse out of the trees, swaying slightly in the saddle. Beside him, Jaime and Albin led their horses forward at a cautious pace. Unlike Rhaegor's group, these men were dirt poor, without the means to afford packhorses. Their armor had to be worn at all times or burden their only riding horses.
So when Albin saw the three boys standing beside their well-laden packhorses—horses carrying sets of armor he recognized—his eyes shone with envy and longing.
Rhaegor immediately recognized the three men as the wandering knights he had seen in the Stormlands. Elarion had given the young one a beating, after which they had pooled their money to buy a sack of fruit wine from Rhaegon. On his second glance, he saw the mix of greed, envy, and yearning in Albyn's eyes.
As expected.
Rhaegor nodded, turned his horse, and called for his companions to leave.
"Wait a moment." Cain's eyes flickered as he raised his voice.
"What do you want?" Rhaegon turned back, his gaze cold as he looked at the wandering knight. He knew Rhaegor's habits—under these circumstances, it was up to him to speak.
"My apologies, I didn't have the chance to introduce myself last time." Cain bent slightly in the saddle and offered a bow. "I am Cain. Cain Mudd." The middle-aged knight introduced himself with a touch of pride. "Others call me the Hyena as well."
Mudd? Rhaegor frowned. The former kings of the Riverlands? He quickly searched his mind for the name. The Mudds were an extremely old house. According to legend, the First Men of House Mudd had once built a grand castle on the banks of the Blue Fork and ruled the Trident for a thousand years. They were the last rulers of the Trident to worship the Old Gods and the most powerful kings of the First Men—until fate caught up with them.
The Andals had come, wielding iron swords and riding warhorses, crossing the sea in their longships and sailing up the Trident and its three branches. They fought under the leadership of their chieftains.
One by one, the small kingdoms along the rivers were swallowed up. During the "Night of the Whitewood," the Children of the Forest emerged from the Hollow Hill and sent hundreds of wolves to tear through the Andal camp under the light of the crescent moon.
House Bracken of Stone Hedge and House Blackwood of Raventree Hall put aside their enmity to fight together in the Battle of Bitter River, only to be shattered by the charge of seven hundred and seventy-seven Andal knights and seven septons.
King Tristifer IV of House Mudd and his allies among the Children of the Forest fought against the invading Andal kings. He won ninety-nine battles, even taking the head of Roland Arryn II, King of the Vale, and displaying it in his castle.
But in his hundredth battle, the great "Hammer of Justice" Tristifer IV was slain on the battlefield, surrounded by seven Andal kings. His heir, Tristifer V, was a witless fool. Unable to unite his people, he could only watch as his grand castle was reduced to ruin, and his own head was cut off and placed atop an Andal spear.
Thus, his kingdom and his house were destroyed. From then on, only one more Mudd appeared in history—Marq Mudd, the Mad Bard, who rebelled against the Storm King during his rule over the Riverlands.
Rhaegor's gaze shifted to Cain's shield. As expected, it bore a golden crown adorned with emeralds, crudely painted.
"Ser". Cain clearly recognized that Rhaegor was a knight. Given his formidable skill, this usually irreverent man now appeared unusually composed. He also knew that Rhaegor's bloodline must be noble—the proof lay in the hunter sigil on his shield.
A Tarly, or at least someone with Tarly blood. Cain told himself. The Tarlys were now among the most powerful lords in the southern kingdoms. Even a Tarly bastard was not someone common sellswords could afford to offend—let alone...
Cain knew Rhaegor's name.
Rhaegon Silverblood.
Silverblood was the name given to the bastards of the borderland princely houses, especially those of Valyrian descent. Many had forsaken the surnames Flowers, Storm, or Sand in favor of Silverblood. Of course, many still kept their original names.
In the end, no matter the name, they were still bastards.
Rhaegon—A Valyrian name. Cain couldn't help but speculate in his heart. Judging by Rhaegor's age, which Tarly might have sired him?
"I was wondering if you were looking for more companions."
Rhaegor tilted his head, studying him, as if trying to see through his thoughts entirely.
Jaime quickly interjected. "Ser Rhaegon, we are heading to Harrenhal. Prince Viserys has tasked Lord Kermit Tully with organizing a tourney there to choose a new lord for the castle. We only wished to confirm whether you and your squire intended to compete."
The old knight paused before continuing, "If possible, we would like to follow you." His gaze lingered on Rhaegor's armor, making no effort to hide his intentions.
Rhaegor fell into deep thought.