"Prince Rhaegor."
The small boat slowly docked at the edge of the causeway. Brandon Reed leapt onto the path with agility that belied his age—he was a small man, even shorter than Jojen Cray, yet Rhaegor sensed danger emanating from the lord of Greywater Watch.
'This is a dangerous warrior.'
"I apologize, but as per Prince Draezell's orders, I cannot offer you much assistance." Brandon Reed gestured for his maester to step forward. The grey-robed maester nodded, retrieving medicines and sutures from the boat before deftly cutting open Rhaegon's clothing and tending to the young man's wounds.
Rhaegor took a deep breath, suppressing the turmoil in his heart. "Lord Brandon, what else did my father tell you?" He met the older man's deep green eyes. "I hope you will share everything you can with me."
Brandon Reed studied Rhaegor for a moment before nodding slightly. "Prince Rhaegor, I have no reason to withhold anything from you. However, Prince Draezell did not disclose specifics. All I can relay is this: He wished for your journey to teach you maturity—as the future head of House Vaelarys and ruler of the Marches—and to witness the state of Westeros with your own eyes."
He paused. Few southern lords paid attention to the North, but Draezell was a rare exception, having provided substantial aid during the long winter. The Marches had shipped grain north by sea, and the Silverblood Bank had extended loans to the North.
The North's repayment had been modest—mineral rights, rare flora and fauna pledged as collateral. Come spring, mines reopened, and ships laden with iron ore, copper, uncut gemstones, raw silver, furs, precious timber, and exotic creatures sailed from White Harbor to Brandyport and Silvercrown.
Most lords considered these terms generous. Thanks to southern grain, even the Night's Watch had avoided starvation. The crannogmen, for the first time in memory, had not sent their elders into the swamps to die.
Brandon Reed would never forget.
The North Remembers.
"There is one more task he entrusted to you."
Rhaegor's expression hardened. He had known his father would not send him north without purpose.
"Lord Cregan will await you in the New Gift." Brandon's voice carried a hint of dread. "In my dreams, I saw you in a snowbound forest. Since the wolfswood is no longer buried, it must be the one beyond the Wall— the Haunted Forest."
'Beyond the Wall? Why would I go there? Unless…'
"You will understand when you arrive." Brandon continued. "Prince Draezell believes the Song of Ice has yet to begin its movement, yet none can say when its conductor will raise the baton. His blood burns with the magic of fire—the crescendo of the Song of Flame—and is thus repelled by the Song of Ice. He cannot venture beyond the Wall himself."
"I see." Rhaegor nodded. His father wanted him to witness the North firsthand, not just hear of its perils.
"My prince, his wounds are treated." The maester interrupted, having skillfully extracted the arrow, applied a poultice, sutured the injury, and bandaged it. "Once the sap of the drowsing tree wears off, he will recover."
Rhaegor fished out a golden dragon and pressed it into the maester's hand. "For your service."
"My prince, I—" The maester hesitated but accepted at Rhaegor's firm gaze.
'Just as the rumors say.'
With a grateful bow, the maester retreated to the boat. Greywater Watch would soon shift with the swamps; they could not linger.
"That is all Prince Draezell shared," Brandon said.
After a moment's thought, Rhaegor replied, "Thank you for your honesty. Might I trouble you to send a raven to Dragon's Nest?"
Brandon glanced at the unconscious Rhaegon and the wildling corpses sinking into the mire. As a lord, he understood. "My prince, surely Prince Draezell cannot interfere in the Vale's affairs..."
"He will."
Rhaegor's voice was steel.
"He will understand my fury."
Calm words, yet Brandon saw the inferno in the prince's eyes.
"Very well. I will dispatch the raven."
"My thanks, Lord Brandon."
"The honor is mine, my prince."
As the boat drifted away, Rhaegor rushed to Rhaegon's side, ensuring his safety before finally standing.
Jaime's body lay nearby, untouched.
"Saethor, this old man was also your doing, wasn't he?" Rhaegor understood everything now. He could guess that even with ten times the courage, Jaime—a seasoned knight—would never have risked such a reckless ambush on his own.
'Saethor the Faceless… No, Father must have promised Jaime something to make him take such a gamble.'
"What did Father promise him?" Rhaegor pointed to his own brow. "Land? Wealth? A title? Where was he to be granted his fief?"
"Ah…" Saethor sighed, but there was pride in his nod. "Dustonbury. From today onward, Jaime Hill, the bastard knight, will be no more. He was to receive a noble name, a small keep, and Lord Lucan Strong as his liege."
"Even though Lord Lucan has no idea his lands just gained a landed knight?"
'Not that lords ever care about such things. They'd be happy to have another sword and taxpayer.'
Rhaegor kept the thought to himself.
"Yes," Saethor chuckled. "Will you punish him for it?"
Rhaegor shook his head. "He's suffered enough." He glanced at Jaime's corpse—Rhaegon's blade had left deep, bone-baring wounds. Even if Saethor and Father had some way to bring him back, the agony would be unspeakable.
'Not that Jaime would have minded.'
"I'll take him with me," Saethor said. "Lord Jojen will provide us a boat. Your journey from here on, my prince, will no longer be… tested by your father."
Rhaegor nodded, dismissing him.
There was no reason for them to stay.
The pale sun sank into the western marshes.
Albin Justman—still unused to his new surname—had adapted swiftly to his role as a sworn shield to a dragonrider, standing guard with dutiful rigidity. It made Elarion almost sheepish; keeping watch was his duty.
"My prince! Run—it's a trap!"
Rhaegon's first words upon waking.
Rhaegor's nose stung, but he held back the tears.
The boy flailed, tugging at his wounds, but there was no sharp pain—the maester had mixed a hint of drowsyweed sap into the bandages. Not enough to induce sleep, just enough to dull the ache. It wasn't as potent as sweetleep or milk of the poppy, but at least it wasn't addictive.
Rhaegon hissed, then noticed Rhaegor, Elarion, and Albin (who kept sneaking glances at him).
"My prince… are we safe?"
This time, Rhaegor couldn't hold back. He pulled Rhaegon into a crushing embrace, fighting the wetness in his eyes.
'Thank the gods. I almost lost you.'
Rhaegon stiffened, awkward. "M-My prince, I'm fine, really—you don't have to—"
"I don't care!" Rhaegor's voice cracked before he reined it in. "You're alive… That's all that matters."
---
Meanwhile, in distant Dragon's Nest…
Starsong roared as she clawed free of her lair. Draezell stood calmly at the entrance—this time, he did not stop her.
"Go, Starsong. Rhaegor needs you."
He stretched lazily.
The dragon gave him one last look, then without hesitation, spread her wings and leapt from the cavern.
A heartbeat later, the night-black beast ascended with a song-like cry, soaring north.
"Brother, does this mean we finally get to stretch our legs?" Valar appeared, grinning. He'd followed Draezell after spotting him heading to the dragonpit.
"No. We need 'just cause'," Draezell said. "You know how Rhaegor is. The mountain clans made him bleed."
The bearded prince smiled.
"He won't let it go. Dragons will rain fire upon the Vale's peaks. Those lawless savages will learn the fury of the true blood."
"Valar, inform Rey, Daenyra, and Rhaena—if she wishes to taste war." Draezell's voice was calm. "Lord Joffrey has already requested aid in his last letter. Lord Joffrey of Driftmark rides Tyraxes to the Eyrie as we speak."
His gaze lifted skyward.
Vermithor let out a low, rumbling growl.
"The mountain clans shall pay what they owe."
---
The North
Rhaegon's robust constitution, paired with the skilled maester's care, saw his wounds heal swiftly. The party pressed on, leaving the Neck behind.
They traversed the desolate barrows of the First Men, finding hospitality at Barrowton—not out of reverence for Rhaegor's status, but because they were knights who'd courteously requested shelter.
'The North honors warriors. Especially those who respect its laws.'
There, Rhaegor learned war loomed on the horizon.
The Long Winter had ravaged the wildlings beyond the Wall, leaving them starving and desperate. Now, like the Northmen of old, they'd made their choice—to march south.
Hordes gathered.
Lord Commander Jason Lannister of the Night's Watch had spotted their movements. Though his Black Brothers were well-provisioned, they were too few, their cavalry insufficient. So he sent envoys to Cregan Stark with a plea: 'Join forces to crush this host of tens of thousands.'
Their leader, no self-styled King-Beyond-the-Wall, was a cautious Thenn. He knew the winter had culled his people. This ragged army of fifty thousand—men, women, and children—was a shadow of the great wildling hosts of legend.
And so he moved carefully.
---
The New Gift
Heeding Lord Brandon's warning, Rhaegor bypassed Winterfell, riding straight for the New Gift.
Under the pale northern sun, the black earth seemed to breathe. And between sky and soil—a forest of glinting steel.
Spears.
Banners rippled in the wind: the sunburst on black, the shattered chains of the Umbers, the mailed fist of the Glovers, the roaring bear of the Mormonts, the silver mermaid of the Manderlys, the flayed man of the Boltons, the great antlered elk of the Hornwoods, the crossed axes and crown of the Cerwyns, the red stallion of the Ryswells.
Countless sigils of the North—all gathered beneath the wolves.
"You're letting them through?" Rhaegor asked, puzzled.
Cregan Stark had seen through their disguises the moment his scouts found them. Now the Wolf of Winterfell stood beside him, watching the horizon.
"Aye." The Lord's voice was iron. "Lord Commander Jason knew of their tunnel beneath the Wall. He let them cross before collapsing it. Now they're trapped—with no retreat."
"But—" Rhaegor's eyes swept the distant plains.
The wildling vanguard had appeared, a dark smear on the land. Yet Cregan's host numbered only five thousand—the finest of each house. The Watch could spare but two thousand more.
"Prince Draezell told me you'd bring us a surprise," Cregan said, his gaze steady.
Then Rhaegor felt it—his blood singing, burning.
He looked up.
Five thousand Northmen raised their eyes as one.
They heard it too.
A melody.
The sky darkened.
Even the wildlings froze mid-step, their ragged lines grinding to a halt as shadows pooled beneath them.
"Old Gods..."
A wildling chieftain whispered the words like a prayer.