"We are but hedge knights, wandering the land, my lords."
Rhaegor met the three men's gazes, his expression unreadable. "Bringing you along is not entirely out of the question. However, what can you offer us?"
He raised his arm, gesturing toward Rhaegon and Elarion. "I already have my two squires. I lack neither swords nor horses."
"But all we can offer is our swords and horses…" Albin lowered his head, somewhat dejected. However, this time, Cain spoke up.
"Ser Rhaegon," he said, looking at Rhaegor. "I am of the Riverlands. My father and grandfather were both Mudds. They once served House Strong, but after Lord Lyonel's untimely death, Ser Simon dismissed my father and me. We traveled all across the Riverlands. After my father passed, I went to the Vale and even the North."
He pointed at Jaime. "Old Scarface is from the Westerlands. He knows the mountains of the West as well as he knows every link of his chainmail and every copper in his purse."
"And every head I've lopped off and every woman I've bedded, Ser Rhaegon." Old Jaime grinned, revealing his yellowed, broken teeth. "I know every mountain and every stump in the Westerlands. If you're heading there, I'm the best guide you'll find." He pointed at Cain. "If you're heading to the North, the Riverlands, or the Vale, he's your man, Ser. I swear, he'll serve you better than any other."
Rhaegor considered for a moment. He did need guides, particularly ones familiar with different regions. Originally, they had planned to find locals along the way, but experienced mercenaries like these two were also an option.
Albin looked even more disheartened. He was nothing special—neither a capable guide nor an exceptional fighter. Just as he resigned himself to being rejected, Rhaegor spoke.
"I will allow you to travel with us," he said. "On one condition."
All three pricked up their ears.
"You will obey my commands."
"But of course."
"Good." Rhaegor left the next words unsaid.
You will also abide by my rewards and punishments.
He tossed them a wineskin, filled with surprisingly fine wine. "Follow us."
Old Jaime uncorked it, took a deep sniff, and sighed with pleasure.
It was indeed excellent wine—the kind he could only afford a single cup of when he had money to spare.
Now, there was an entire skin of it.
Before he could take a sip, Rhaegon snatched it from his hands, giving him a wary glance.
"Handing fine wine to a drunkard—was this some kind of test, Your Grace?"
Without another word, he tossed the wineskin to Albin.
"It's to keep you alert on the road," Elarion said gruffly. "Our borderland horses are fast. Don't fall behind." He eyed the three of them. "If you do, we won't turn back to look for you."
"Understood, understood!"
The three quickly fell into step with Rhaegor and his company.
Once they crossed the Kingsroad, they would be able to see King's Landing in the distance.
By 141 AC, the city had changed greatly. The Red Keep still stood proudly atop Aegon's High Hill, but it was no longer the cramped castle of old. Thanks to Prince Daemon and Draezell's efforts, it had more than doubled in size, with wider halls and numerous new buildings.
Above the Dragonpit, two young dragons frolicked in the sky. They did not stray beyond its bounds, nor did they disrupt the lives of the city's residents.
The great dome of the Grand Sept of Jacaerys gleamed beneath the sunlight, visible even from afar, with worshippers prostrating in reverence around it.
Flea Bottom was no longer the cesspool it once was. Though still somewhat chaotic, it had transformed into a livable district.
King's Landing as a whole had grown far cleaner.
But they did not enter the city. Instead, they crossed the Blackwater Rush and rode toward the Riverlands.
At this moment, Harrenhal stood in eerie silence.
The massive, charred castle had been without a lord for over a decade. Once well-maintained, its great halls and towering keeps were now in a state of decay. Ravens nested in the cracks of its stone walls, mushrooms grew thick in its damp corners, and vines reclaimed the fortress in the absence of men.
Each night, strange sounds echoed through the ruins. The locals whispered of ghosts haunting the castle, and the legend of Harrenhal's curse grew more terrifying with each retelling.
Yet desire was stronger than fear.
The lords of the Riverlands had gathered at Harrenhal in advance. A matter of great importance needed to be discussed.
Prince Viserys had offered his gold—he planned to hold a grand tourney at Harrenhal.
The castle needed a new lord, but not just anyone. The chosen man had to be a loyal hound of the Crown.
And so, he would be selected through combat.
Of course, Viserys had neither the time nor the inclination to organize such an event himself. Instead, he had entrusted the task to Lord Tully, the overlord of the Riverlands.
Now, those who had assembled in one of the few clean halls were the lords and knights summoned for the occasion.
Lord Petyr Piper still lived, though he was an aging man on the brink of death. Even so, he had come in person, determined to do one last thing for House Piper.
Lord Benjicot Blackwood had grown into a tall, gaunt young man. At three-and-twenty, he remained youthful, yet the chilling aura he carried made even those near him uneasy. He had never married—no one knew why.
In a shadowed corner stood the Lord of House Bracken, his gaze filled with resentment as he watched Benjicot. After the Dance of the Dragons, House Bracken had suffered greatly, while House Blackwood, despite losing its lord, had gained much. Their valor in the war had earned them wealth and prestige. Benjicot had become a knight of great renown, his aunt Alysanne had wed Lord Cregan Stark and borne him an heir, and his uncle Ser Willen Blackwood now stood among the Kingsguard of King Aegon. Moreover, House Blackwood had absorbed several disputed lands between the two rival houses.
Yet, the Lord of House Bracken could only accept this. The Blackwoods had bled for their rewards.
So had the Brackens.
Though House Bracken had also been granted land, it was not part of the contested territory with the Blackwoods. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Something about all of this felt wrong.
Meanwhile, Lord Darry and Lord Mallister busied themselves lighting the hearth, chasing away the chill that clung to the great hall.
"Lords," Lord Kermit Tully addressed his vassals, cutting through the murmurs and silence. "Prince Viserys intends to name a new Lord of Harrenhal."
His gaze swept across the room.
"Do any of you desire it?"
Yet, in his mind, another thought gnawed at him.
'What was the dragon trying to do?'
Harrenhal was the true heart of the Riverlands—one could even say it was the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. If the Crown controlled Harrenhal, it held the throat of the Riverlands in its grasp.
For years, the Crown had left the castle in the hands of castellans, men who preferred the comfort of manors and villas outside the castle rather than dwelling in its haunted halls.
And so, Harrenhal had remained abandoned.
Now, Viserys sought to grant it to a new lord—and he planned to determine the heir through a tourney.
It was bizarre.
This was not wartime.
What was the dragon planning?
Was there something in the Riverlands worth the Crown's attention?
Kermit Tully pondered the implications.
Benjicot Blackwood, however, considered another possibility.
Harrenhal was undoubtedly important, but in times of peace, governing it required no great expense from the Crown. Why give it away now?
The castle could oversee the entire Trident and was the very heart of Westeros. After the Dance of the Dragons, nearly all the Riverlords had aligned themselves with House Vaelarys.
They had seen Vhagar fall. They knew the strength of Draezell.
And Draezell had powerful allies.
Lord Petyr Piper and his son. Lord Forrest Frey. Lord Kermit Tully himself.
Benjicot Blackwood.
Together, they had forged the new post-war order of the Riverlands. Under their influence, the King's edicts flowed unchallenged through the region during Draezell's regency.
Was Prince Viserys now attempting to interfere with the Riverlands' affairs?
Benjicot found himself deep in thought.