The skinny mercenary hadn't expected Rhaegar to stab himself first.
He froze on the spot.
Driving a blade into someone else could fill a man with savage excitement, but stabbing yourself was another matter entirely.
Running away from a duel was absolute disgrace.
A mercenary who did that could never show his face in the trade again, especially when the opponent was just a boy.
The other four mercenaries stepped aside, leaving space for the skinny man.
Under the gaze of everyone present, he hesitated again and again before slowly walking toward the knife.
"He's stalling!"
"He's waiting for Rhaegar to bleed to death, coward!"
The diners in the hall had insulted Rhaena earlier.
Now they finally saw a chance to make amends.
One after another, they began shouting in Rhaegar's defense.
Exactly the effect Rhaegar wanted.
Everyone had heard the terms of the duel.
Rhaegar had already taken his stab.
Now it was the skinny mercenary's turn.
Rhaegar suddenly bent forward and charged.
He rushed straight toward the mercenary, lowering his body as if preparing to leap.
"HA!"
He shouted loudly as he reached the man,
But instead of jumping, he ducked.
The skinny mercenary swung a punch.
Rhaegar dodged it by hunching down and swung his left arm upward toward the man's groin.
A seasoned mercenary knew well enough that nothing must ever endanger his manhood.
The skinny man easily caught Rhaegar's left hand.
"Killing you would be easier than slaughtering a pig, boy!"
Their limbs tangled together.
The mercenary's foul breath washed across Rhaegar's face.
But the moment he finished boasting, the man's expression twisted.
He looked down.
The dining knife in Rhaegar's right hand had pierced through clothing and driven straight into his heart.
Everyone had assumed something.
After taking a knife to the shoulder, a man's arm should be useless.
Adults believed that.
A wounded adult's arm lost strength, so surely a boy's arm would be completely disabled.
The mercenary had ignored the knife hanging loosely at Rhaegar's side.
The strength drained from the mercenary's grip.
Rhaegar shoved his weakening body away.
"I'm sure the only reason you ever cut off ten heads…"
"…was because you worked as an executioner!"
Rhaegar pulled the knife free.
The mercenary clutched his chest.
Blood sprayed between his fingers as he collapsed to the floor, staring at Rhaegar in disbelief.
"Excellent!"
"What a duel!"
"Bandage Rhaegar's wound quickly!"
Whether they had clearly seen the fight or not, the entire hall erupted in cheers for the victor.
They were also secretly relieved.
If Rhaegar had died, none of them would escape Rhaena's wrath.
"Only useless men make threats," Rhaegar said coldly.
His right hand, dripping with blood, pointed the knife at the lame mercenary.
"Come collect the corpse."
What did it feel like to kill someone?
Only fear.
Extreme fear.
The body trembled uncontrollably, muscles spasming, legs weakening, sometimes even losing control of one's bladder or bowels.
Those who vomited after their first kill?
Often they were just trying to hide their soaked trousers.
But nobles in Westeros were raised differently.
From childhood they hunted.
Proper etiquette required them to personally open the carcass of the animal and distribute the best cuts to the men they admired and the women they favored.
Rhaegar had joined many royal hunts organized by Rhaena.
Guttings and disembowelments were routine.
So after killing a man for the first time, he felt no discomfort at all.
Under pressure from the crowd, the four remaining mercenaries quickly carried away the skinny man's body.
Servants rushed forward and dragged Rhaegar into the kitchen.
Three white-haired veterans surrounded him.
They cut away his blood-soaked shirt with knives, washed the wound with hot water, and prepared to fetch Maester Naelin for medicine.
"Go fetch me new clothes from my room," Rhaegar ordered.
His shirt and trousers were completely soaked in blood.
Once the maids left, Rhaegar had one of the old soldiers remove his coat and give it to him.
"Where are you going?" the old soldier asked.
Rhaegar pulled on the clothes, grabbed his sword, and headed for the door.
"You all saw what happened today."
"The remaining four mercenaries won't let this go."
"When you cut weeds, you remove the roots."
"I prefer to strike first."
"We're sorry- we can't help."
"You mustn't go!"
"Let's fetch Princess Rhaena, she'll find a solution!"
The three veterans, each with a different temperament but all fiercely loyal, tried desperately to stop him.
In this world, boys of eight or nine often went to war.
Young nobles served as squires to knights, learning combat while assisting them.
Perhaps Rhaena had forgotten.
Or perhaps she didn't want to ask favors.
Either way, Rhaegar had never been placed as a squire.
The duel had happened quickly.
Rhaena, who rose early each day, was likely only just being awakened by servants.
"Tomorrow I'm traveling with her to Dragonstone," Rhaegar said.
"I'll finish this tonight and come back."
"When Rhaena arrives, just tell the truth. She won't blame you."
With that, he dashed out of the kitchen.
Would those mercenaries come seeking revenge?
Rhaegar didn't know.
They called themselves mercenaries, but change their clothes and they'd be indistinguishable from bandits.
This world had no widespread law enforcement.
Rhaegar had to assume the worst.
They had committed the crime of insulting a member of the royal family.
Legally, that only warranted cutting out their tongues—not death.
But Rhaegar knew men like that.
Some would rather kill to protect their tongues.
If they murdered both Rhaena and himself and left no witnesses—
They would be innocent.
And Rhaena?
Rhaegar knew her well enough.
She would write to the king and wait for justice.
But by the time royal agents arrived-
It would already be too late.
The three old soldiers couldn't come either.
They could barely run two steps without gasping.
They were better left guarding the travelers still inside the castle.
Rhaegar slipped away unnoticed and returned briefly to his bedroom.
"HP-bar warrior. What do I have to fear?"
"I'll take them all myself."
"And besides…"
He pulled a small glass vial from a hidden hole in the wardrobe.
Inside was a thick, murky liquid with sediment at the bottom.
Poison.
Something he had mixed together out of boredom.
Spider venom.
Snake venom.
Toad toxins.
And various other questionable substances.
He had never tested it.
He didn't even know if it had expired.
But there was plenty of it.
That was good enough.
A moonless night, perfect for killing.
With the help of his stamina bar, Rhaegar searched through the forest for hours.
Near midnight he finally found the mercenaries' camp on a small hill near the Kingsroad.
The Kingsroad was a packed-earth highway wide enough for three wagons to travel side by side.
Everyone knew they could stop at Harrenhal for food and shelter.
Yet tonight the road was empty.
Rhaegar crept toward the glow of a campfire.
Passing through dense trees, he reached the edge of the mercenaries' camp.
Clothes hung drying on a thick branch over the fire.
Rhaegar recognized them immediately.
They belonged to the four mercenaries.
Then he noticed something strange.
"Six tents?"
Five mercenaries had existed earlier.
One had died.
So why were there six tents?
Rhaegar uncorked the vial and smeared the poison along his sword blade.
Keeping low, he moved silently forward.
He lifted the corner of one tent.
Empty.
The next one-
Also empty.
Suddenly-
BARK! BARK! BARK!
A dog started barking nearby.
A bare-chested man with a vicious-looking hound emerged from the woods.
Then more figures appeared behind him.
One.
Two.
Three.
Until finally ten men stood before him.
Ten mercenaries.
And one dog.
Rhaegar stood alone.
The advantage was obvious.
"I heard you were injured tonight," the scar-faced man holding the dog said.
"My dog smelled your blood from far away."
"I had to beat it half to death to make it stop barking."
"That debt will be paid by you."
The man grinned, the scar across his face twisting hideously.
The fat man, who had acted as the peacemaker earlier in Harrenhal—now dropped the act.
The lame mercenary stepped forward, gripping an axe.
"Well, well, little Rhaegar."
"We were just about to come find you."
"And here you are."
The scarred man tugged impatiently on the dog's leash.
"Enough talking."
"Cut off the brat's hands first."
"My dog needs something to chew."
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