The whole incident of Rhaegar making the four children contribute money happened right under Rhaena's nose.
She herself loved pears, and the children certainly weren't short on gold. As long as Rhaegar wasn't stealing or causing real trouble, she let him do as he pleased.
The lord of Harrenhal, Lord Maegor Towers, was frail and could barely move. He had neither the money nor the energy to manage anything.
So he was actually pleased to see Rhaegar starting a small enterprise around the castle.
Unfortunately, he never lived long enough to see the pear blossoms bloom.
Farmers were hired to plant pear seeds purchased from the Arbor.
By the time the saplings reached half a man's height, Maegor Towers died quietly in a chair inside his bedroom.
He was only seventeen years old.
With his death, the once-prominent noble house finally died out completely.
Years earlier they had supported King Maegor I in war. After the Riverlands fell into chaos, Maegor had granted them Harrenhal.
Maegor Towers had even been named in honor of that king.
As soon as Towers died, King Jaehaerys immediately granted full ownership of Harrenhal to Rhaena alone.
She also took in the three aging soldiers and the lone cook who had served Lord Towers.
The pear saplings grew to a man's height.
Rhaegar's small stash of money had long since been spent.
Rhaena then hired another group of farmers from Riverrun to care for the orchard full-time.
That same year, Lord Rogar Baratheon of Storm's End died of illness.
Ten-year-old Boremund Baratheon returned from King's Landing to inherit the lordship.
Meanwhile, King Jaehaerys, seeking to restore the Seven Kingdoms' devastated agriculture and economy, ordered the construction of the Kingsroad.
The first section began at the southern gate of King's Landing, passed through the Kingswood, entered the Stormlands, and connected all the way to Storm's End.
The pear trees grew to two meters tall.
Rhaegar had already explored every corner of Harrenhal.
Beyond the castle walls, the orchard spread outward in widening rings.
The pear grove was beginning to take shape.
Prince Aemon was formally named Prince of Dragonstone, confirming him as the heir to the Iron Throne.
At the ceremony, Rhaegar noticed Aemon and Jocelyn exchanging glances full of unspoken meaning.
To restore the kingdom's population after the plague, the king and queen, who loved traveling, toured the realm constantly.
They even set an example themselves, producing four more children over the following years.
With fewer people and fewer problems, the realm remained relatively peaceful.
Only a few small skirmishes occurred here and there.
By 66 AC, the pear trees had grown even taller.
Their branches were thick with leaves.
Construction of the northern branch of the Kingsroad, linking King's Landing to Winterfell, had begun.
The stretch through the Crownlands passed not far from Harrenhal's outskirts.
BANG!
The wooden doors of Harrenhal's small dining hall were kicked open violently.
Two old soldiers standing guard halfway drew their swords.
But when they saw it was Rhaegar, they sheathed them again.
The hall was filled with the smell of food.
Two long tables held plates of bread, fruit, and honeyed water, along with small portions of meat.
The bustling dining room fell instantly silent.
Dozens of travelers and merchants turned to stare at the furious boy striding through the doorway.
Rhaegar wore a fitted black leather jerkin and trousers, with a white embroidered shirt beneath.
A longsword hung at his waist.
It was the fashionable attire of a ten-year-old noble boy.
Only his straight black shoulder-length hair and foreign-looking features made him stand out.
Most of those present were passing traders and travelers.
Rhaegar marched straight toward a table of mercenaries and kicked a skinny man's chair.
BANG!
The chair slammed into the table.
The thin mercenary sprang to his feet.
"Black-haired brat! You-"
He was about to spit out a string of threats when a companion grabbed his arm and stopped him.
Rhaegar roared back:
"Get the hell out of Harrenhal, you bastard!"
A limping mercenary nearby sneered.
"We all ate Rhaena's salt and bread. What are you going to do, bastard—drive us out?"
"Guest right?" Rhaegar shouted.
"You think eating a host's salt and bread means the host must protect you?"
"You're not guests-you're scum!"
His voice rang clearly through the hall.
Rhaegar pointed at a merchant nearby.
"You! Yesterday you said Rhaena was a whore!"
Then he pointed at a young man he didn't even know.
"And you! You claimed you slept with her!"
Then he jabbed a finger at the skinny mercenary.
"And you, you scrawny rat! You called her a witch!"
Rhaegar swept his gaze across the room.
"Which one of you hasn't slandered her behind her back?"
"You eat the food she provides, sleep in the warm beds she offers-"
"Yet behind her back you spew nothing but filth!"
"Guest right was never meant for scum like you!"
Some people lowered their heads.
After all, they really had been eating Rhaena's food while mocking her behind her back.
"Black-haired brat, I'll remember you," one mercenary snarled.
"Remember this, Rhaegar," another added coldly. "Never make enemies of mercenaries."
Five of them grabbed their packs and began heading toward the door.
Mercenaries lived by violence.
They fought wars for nobles and carried out shady work.
Even if their trade was dishonorable, they had to maintain their reputation among their peers.
People were forgetful.
Or perhaps the older generation had all died in the plague.
Only a few years of full stomachs, and they had already forgotten Rhaena's past.
They had forgotten that if she had not stepped aside willingly, the one sitting the Iron Throne today might have been her.
Now, passing travelers saw only an aging widow living quietly at Harrenhal.
A woman with no title, a handful of old servants, and a bastard grandson.
Someone easy to mock.
As she grew older, Rhaena's heart had only grown kinder.
She could not bear to see travelers sleeping hungry and exposed along the Kingsroad.
So she invited them into Harrenhal, offering them shelter and free food.
But kindness had earned her nothing but gossip and ridicule.
Perhaps it began with a drunk's careless remark.
When Rhaena didn't punish him, others became bolder.
Soon every traveler passing Harrenhal treated her as entertainment.
Kindness invites contempt.
And in Westeros, reputation meant everything.
Rhaena could endure it.
But Rhaegar could not.
Today he intended to kill a chicken to scare the monkeys.
A metal dining knife clattered behind the mercenaries.
Clink. Clink.
They turned around.
Rhaegar held another knife in his hand.
"Want to duel, black-haired brat?" one of them laughed.
The five mercenaries, hardened killers who lived by the blade, were not intimidated by a half-grown boy.
"You seem to have forgotten something," Rhaegar shouted.
"Rhaena's last name is Targaryen!"
"Insulting a member of the royal family is punishable by having your tongue cut out!"
Then he pointed the knife at the skinny mercenary.
"Everyone here is a witness!"
"I, Rhaegar Therys, formally challenge you to a duel!"
"With these knives!"
"To keep it fair, we each stab ourselves once in turn…"
"Until one of us dies!"
Harrenhal's armed force consisted of only three aging soldiers.
They could never subdue five young mercenaries.
If Rhaegar wanted them punished today, he had to rely on himself.
A duel was the only legal way to stop them from leaving.
The skinny mercenary laughed.
"Kid, I've cut off dozens of heads. This isn't a joke you should make."
He kicked away the knife on the ground.
He only wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
But leaving wasn't his choice anymore.
Rhaegar switched the knife to his left hand-
And drove it straight into his right shoulder.
The blade sank in until only the handle remained visible.
Gasps erupted throughout the room.
Rhaegar slowly pulled the knife out and switched it back to his right hand.
Blood instantly soaked his white shirt.
"The duel has begun!" he shouted.
"I stabbed myself first."
"Now it's your turn."
The spectators were stunned.
A boy challenging a grown mercenary normally had no chance.
But Rhaegar had turned the duel into something else entirely.
It was no longer about strength or skill.
Now it was about who could stab himself to death first.
The wound in his shoulder hurt badly, but it wasn't fatal.
His right arm hung limp, though he was only pretending.
Before his eyes, numbers floated:
-2
-2
-1
-0
Rhaegar felt no fear at all.
His cheat ability had awakened two bars:
Health and Stamina.
And the dragon-claw brand on his shoulder also had a function.
For years, Rhaegar had been experimenting with these three elements.
Even blades strong enough to sever a wrist only cut flesh.
They never truly crippled him.
Blood might flow briefly when pierced-
But it would stop almost immediately.
Unless his HP bar was completely emptied, the attack could not even damage his bones.
Rhaegar, the HP-bar warrior, had only two states:
Alive.
Or Dead.
There was no such thing as crippling injury.
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