"Prince Rhaegor, calm yourself. Your friend will not die."
The moment Rhaegor spoke, a strange, bubbling voice emerged from the nearby swamp, laced with urgency—as if fearing the prince might act rashly.
After all, Rhaegor was not like his father Draezell, whose decades of experience allowed him to maintain an almost inhuman composure. At times, even his own children wondered if Draezell was more dragon than man.
Rhaegor turned toward the voice. A short, wiry young man—his face etched with worry—leapt down from a tree with the agility of a frog.
The stranger stood only chest-high to Rhaegor, his limbs long and spindly like reeds. His lizard-lion leather armor was reinforced with iron plates at vital points, and he carried a bundle of javelins, a blowpipe, a frog net, and a fishing spear. Hopping deftly over treacherous patches of bog, he scurried toward the faceless "Cain," whose features had fully melted and were now reforming into the delicate visage of a young man.
"Who are you?" Rhaegor raised Starsinger, wary. He bit back the question How do you know me? and instead glanced behind the stranger.
The faceless man—now restored as Saethor—pressed his lips together and stood, though Rhaegor could sense his silent amusement. Saethor was the apprentice of Kungor Potter, Draezell's own faceless guardian. Taken in by the "Cold One" at age two, he had trained for thirteen years in the House of Black and White before being sent to Westeros to serve Draezell's children.
"My prince," the swamp-dweller bowed in the crannogman fashion, "I am Jojen Cray, chief of Lizard's Den, sworn to Lord Brandon Reed. The greendreams granted by the old gods showed our lord a dragon soaring above the Neck. He sent me to greet you—though I did not expect to first meet…"
He shot a wary glance at Saethor. "This envoy of death. He asked our aid in fulfilling Prince Draezell's test for you. We provided the terrain and the poison."
Jojen gulped as Rhaegor's emerald eyes cooled to ice. "It's not lethal—just the sap of the drowsing tree. Unlike sweet-sleep flower, it induces slumber without addiction. Rare, only found deep in the Neck. We use it as an anesthetic… or to help restless minds sleep."
"You're certain?" At Jojen's nod, Elarion exhaled in relief. Though less sharp than Rhaegon, his instincts were uncanny—he'd guessed Cain's betrayal was staged the moment it happened. But a faceless man? That was unexpected.
Rhaegor lifted Rhaegon without a word. When Elarion moved to help, the prince gestured for him to retrieve Jaime's corpse instead.
At a drier patch of land, Rhaegor propped Rhaegon against a tree. With no medicines at hand, he dared not remove the bone arrow yet—better to let him rest.
Nearby, Saethor pressed his severed arm to its stump. After applying an unidentable salve, the flesh began knitting together—slowly, imperfectly.
Valyrian steel cuts deeper than flesh, the faceless man mused. Even the Many-Faced God's magic cannot fully mend its wounds. But Draezell had provided an antidote. The healing would just take time.
"Chief Jojen, do the crannogmen have a maester?"
"Lord Reed is bringing one. But the thaw has the Neck in flux—Greywater Watch drifts daily. It lies deep in the swamp now. Forgive us, prince. We cannot offer you proper beds."
"No matter." Rhaegor forced a smile. He knew Jojen and Brandon meant well, even if their actions had hurt Rhaegon. Punishing them felt unjust.
"Rhaegon needs medicine. I pray Lord Reed has enough."
"His maester came from Silvercrown City—skilled in surgery and salves, even firemilk."
The answer made Rhaegor sigh inwardly.
I cannot punish them.
Because they served with merit.
And suddenly, he understood his father's lesson. This was never about betrayal. It was about balance.
Reward the worthy. Punish the guilty. But never let rigidity blind you.
For a moment, he had wanted to cut them all down. Now, that rage shamed him.
He was a monarch who wrote the laws—not one bound by them.
With a resigned sigh, Rhaegor approached the Faceless Man, Saethor. The assassin was of slight build, his natural features delicate and distinctly Braavosi—pale gold hair (half-dyed blue to obscure his Valyrian heritage) framing sharp green eyes that made him unforgettable if unmasked.
"Saethor," the prince murmured, "I know you attacked us on Father's orders. For my sake. But Rhaegon didn't." His voice softened. "He only knew to protect me. So... you understand what must be done, yes?"
Saethor's lips finally curved into a smile. "Prince Draezell will be most pleased. I awaited these words." He glanced at Elarion and the shaken Albin. "Your lord father has promised rewards—for Rhaegon Kaon, Elarion Hoeth, and Albin Rivers. My own 'reward' shall be given through them."
Rhaegor nodded. The unspoken terms were clear: Gratitude for the Faceless Man's aid, but penance for harming his friends.
"I too bear blame," the prince admitted. "Tell Father I'll forfeit this year's allowance to Rhaegon as compensation." The loss would pinch—royal stipends were his lifeline—but his coffers could withstand it.
Elarion showed little reaction. He knew Rhaegon would care more for Rhaegor's safety than any reward. Their loyalty wasn't bought—it was forged in friendship. Nothing more.
Kneeling beside Rhaegon, Elarion checked his steady breathing. The bone arrow had barely pierced his padded clothes, delivering just enough drowsing sap to incapacitate.
Rhaegor understood. His father, though colder than winter steel, laughed and drank with family and old comrades like any man. He too yearns for bonds beyond blood.
Saethor turned to Albin, who stood wide-eyed after witnessing Rhaegor and Elarion's ferocity—yet had charged into battle regardless.
"Albin Rivers—"
"Albin," Rhaegor interrupted, "you know my name now."
"Prince Rhaegor... Vaelarys?" Albin whispered, then nearly leapt with exhilaration. I'm made! His joy withered as dread took root. A prince. A dragonrider. And I—
"M-my prince," he stammered, "I... I did think of stealing your coin. And your sword—"
"I know." Rhaegor chuckled. "Your eyes clung to my gear like lichen to stone."
Albin scratched his head. "But... the tales say—"
"Am I some tyrant from songs?" The prince's mirth faded. "Though, Albin—that story you told by the fire. About robbing merchants with 'Ser Robert of Walnut Grove'. Was it true?"
"No." Albin shook his head. "Ser Robert was a drunk. Beat me raw, called me 'stupid whelp'. But he'd sooner starve than take dirty coin. That's why he died... like that."
Saethor's slight nod confirmed his honesty.
"And you never suspected 'Cain' was false?"
"Seven hells, I'd have counted his loot for him!" Albin groaned, shooting Saethor a betrayed glare. First the real Cain dupes me, now this one. Gods, I'm still that idiot boy from Walnut Grove. His stomach dropped. What if the prince—
"Good." Rhaegor exhaled. Had Albin actually committed those crimes, he'd have taken fingers as payment for loyalty. But the boy had passed the test.
"Albin Rivers," he declared, gripping his shoulder, "for your honesty, service, and courage—will you swear your sword to House Vaelarys? You'll receive an annuity and a post: guard our halls, or serve in the Silverblood host."
Albin gaped. The words refused to coalesce.
"A sworn knight?"
Had he heard that right?
A sworn knight held no lands, but their lord would provide for them—and grant them positions of trust.
"I accept! I accept!"
Albin hastily dropped to one knee, swearing his loyalty before the old gods and the new—and to Ser Robert of Walnut Grove—to Rhaegor.
"Good, Albin." Rhaegor tapped Starsinger lightly against his shoulder. "Now, you are a sworn knight of House Vaelarys."
"My prince," Saethor interjected, stepping forward. "As part of my penance... I must reveal Ser Albin's true name."
"Huh?" Albin blinked. He had never known much about his father—just that he was some merchant who had lain with his mother one night and vanished. That was why he bore the bastard name "Rivers".
"Your father was a lost Justman," Saethor said. "So, Albin... your name is no longer Rivers. You are Albin Justman."
Albin didn't understand the weight of that name. He was simply thrilled to have a true surname at last.
Elarion, whose knowledge of history was patchy at best, only shrugged.
But Rhaegor knew.
House Justman—the royal blood of the First Men and Andals.
Centuries had diluted the lineage, but Albin still carried the blood of kings.
Rhaegor shot Saethor a sharp glance.
You're still hiding something from me.
At that moment, a small boat glided silently from the trees.
A grey-robed maester stood aboard, beside a short man with deep green eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard.
Brandon Reed.
Lord of the crannogmen. Master of Greywater Watch. A Greenseer.