Dragonstone.
Inside the Painted Table Hall, a secret meeting was quietly underway.
Jon Clinton was tall and rugged, with a temper as fiery as his red hair.
He was the first to step forward and offer a bold counsel: "Prince, your brother Daeron has already hatched three dragons. Once he raises those young dragons, no army will be able to withstand their assault."
Time waits for no one.
Allowing the young dragons to grow is simply courting destruction.
Rhaegar remained silent, standing by the Painted Table, gazing at The Vale, Stormlands, The North, and the Riverlands on the map.
Among them, the Riverlands and Stormlands were marked with several Three-headed red dragon banners.
With the alliance of the four regions, the dignity of the royal family was in jeopardy.
"Prince, perhaps we could also obtain a dragon."
Mysaria Mouton, a young knight, voiced his suggestion.
Richard Lonmouth agreed wholeheartedly: "Indeed, the King has requested a young dragon. As the heir to the iron throne, you rightfully deserve one as well."
Both were Rhaegar's followers and friends, hailing from House Mouton of the Crownlands and House Lonmouth of Stormlands, respectively.
"A dragon?"
Rhaegar frowned slightly.
To be honest, he still couldn't fathom how Daeron had brought dragons back into the world.
And three of them, no less.
Seeing the Prince remain noncommittal, the others, however anxious, did not dare to say more.
Rhaegar fell into deep thought.
On this voyage, he had first gone to Skagos, relying on his personal charisma to win over a group of Cragmen on the island.
The Cragmen were naturally strong, hairy, and savage.
Legend had it that the Cragmen possessed the blood of giants or the Ibbenese.
But after scouring the island, including the volcano, he found no trace of the wild dragon, "The Devourer."
It was for this reason that he had been delayed for so long.
On the other side, three members of the Kingsguard stood watch in the hall.
Arthur Dayne remained silent, his only duty being the protection of the Prince.
Prince Lewyn's face was grim.
For over a month, he had been vexed that Daeron had hatched the young dragons right under his nose.
He originally found it hard to believe.
But as soon as Daeron left, news of the newborn dragons spread through King's Landing.
Even a fool could see he had been completely blindsided.
Oswell kept a cold face, but his hand gripping the hilt of his sword betrayed his inner anxiety.
Prince Rhaegar had borrowed a large sum from the Iron Bank and decided to hold a tourney at Harrenhal.
His brother, Walder Rivers, had declined several times but finally yielded to his pleas and agreed.
This gave him an ill omen.
"Prince, why do you still hesitate?"
Clinton, losing his patience, began to push harder: "The King has always treated you coldly, and Daeron is making his move. If you don't take action, you will be stripped of your status as heir sooner or later."
Rhaegar finally reacted and said, "Send someone to King's Landing to find my brother and ask him what terms he would accept in exchange for a dragon."
He didn't care about the petty schemes of his father and brother.
The prestige he had accumulated over the years would be unleashed at the Tourney at Harrenhal, propelling him to the center of power.
But a dragon was different.
Even if a young dragon was weak, its symbolic significance was immense.
"Good, leave this matter to me!"
Clinton was overjoyed to hear this.
Rhaegar added, "Ser Oswell, go to Harrenhal and discuss the specifics of the tourney with Count Haran."
"Yes, Prince!"
Oswell's spirits lifted.
Having settled everything.
Rhaegar left calmly, intending to visit his pregnant wife.
Ser Arthur accompanied him... Seven days later.
Daeron took the Dragon Guards and secretly headed for Harrenhal.
After a long journey, they arrived near the Gods Eye.
"Screee—!"
A crimson dragon shadow cut through the sky, its broad wings tearing through the clouds and mist, casting a serpentine reflection on the calm surface of the lake.
Daeron pulled on the reins and brought his horse to the lakeside to drink.
"The Gods Eye is truly vast."
Every time he saw it, he couldn't help but stop to admire it.
Barristan, never leaving his side, remarked, "Many Targaryen wars have taken place on this lake."
"I hope there won't be a next time."
Daeron looked up, the red dragon shadow vanishing into the mist.
Clip-clop... The sound of hooves approached from a distance as a troop of House Rivers soldiers arrived.
The leader took off his helmet, revealing a young face, and said, "Prince, please come to Harrenhal for a discussion. My father has been waiting for a long time."
He was the eldest son of Count Haran.
Daeron nodded. "Lead the way."
...Harrenhal.
As soon as Daeron entered, he felt an eerie sensation, as if a dark cloud hung over his head.
It wasn't until he entered the Hall of a Hundred Hearths that he gradually felt warm again.
"Respected Prince, House Rivers sends its greetings."
Walder Rivers personally came out to meet him, bowing respectfully.
"You are too kind, My Lord."
Daeron returned the smile.
Count Walder rose, his hands resting on his widening, stout waist, seeing Daeron's true face for the first time.
Silver hair, purple eyes, and fair skin.
Unlike Prince Rhaegar's deep melancholy, he radiated a brightness like the midday sun.
"What a handsome Prince."
Count Walder felt an immediate connection and couldn't help but feel a sense of goodwill.
Daeron looked around and said with a smile, "My Lord, won't you invite me inside to sit?"
"Please, come in, come in."
Count Walder was very hospitable, immediately ordering salt and bread to be brought.
This was the Guest Right.
He knew where House Rivers stood; a rash invitation to Daeron could cause trouble for the other party.
Before long.
Daeron took his seat and had a pleasant conversation with his host.
As they talked, Count Walder suddenly sighed, as if he had something difficult to say.
Daeron played along: "My Lord, why do you sigh?"
"Alas, I am ashamed to say."
Count Walder said with a troubled face, "The so-called tourney was actually instigated by Prince Rhaegar behind the scenes. I didn't want to agree."
"But my brother Oswell is obsessed. If I didn't nod, he wouldn't let it rest."
In just a few words, he shifted the blame entirely.
Having reached this point, both sides were being frank.
Daeron asked, "You've shared this secret with me; what reward do you wish to exchange it for?"
"Prince, you misunderstand."
Count Walder waved his hands hurriedly. "I simply feel that Prince Rhaegar is doing something very dangerous."
"You are His Majesty's most beloved child. I hope you can find a way to stop this tourney."
He stated his purpose.
House Rivers was large and wealthy, but it could not withstand the carnage of a royal internal struggle.
The best way was to withdraw while they still could.
Daeron made no comment on this.
It was understandable that Count Haran wanted to extract himself, but things often don't go as planned.
House Rivers had long been labeled as Rhaegar's supporters; it wasn't something they could just walk away from.
Both sides tactfully left it at that.
Daeron mentioned he was weary from travel and needed rest.
Count Walder ordered the rooms to be cleaned to provide the Prince with a place to stay... The next day.
Early in the morning, Harrenhal welcomed guests once again.
Oswell rode his warhorse, returning to his family in high spirits.
He had also brought Clinton and Mysaria Mouton back with him.
"Uncle."
As the city gates slowly opened, Oswell saw his talented nephew coming out to greet him.
"You've grown stronger again."
Oswell patted his nephew's shoulder.
But his nephew didn't look as joyful as expected; instead, his smile was forced, as if he had seen someone unexpected.
"Where is your brother?"
Oswell sensed something was wrong and intended to find his elder brother first.
Rumble!
No sooner had he spoken than a slight vibration of galloping warhorses came from behind.
Oswell glanced back.
He saw a troop of cavalry galloping toward them, the leader clad in heavy armor, his presence like that of a fierce falcon.
To his left and right, the banners of House Blackwood, featuring "a flock of Ravens circling a Weirwood," fluttered in the wind.