Rhaenyra strode into the bedroom, carrying a large plate filled with bread, sausages, and fresh fruit.
"Careful, there's no need to rush," Rhaegar quickly reminded her before asking, "How is Runestone?"
"You're already this injured—just focus on recovering."
A trace of sorrow flickered in Rhaenyra's eyes; she didn't want to say more.
The traitor, Arnold, had colluded with the mountain clans, using a secret passage discovered years ago to infiltrate Runestone. They assassinated a cupbearer and poisoned the wine.
All the Vale nobles who drank at the banquet died from the poison, the stench of their tainted blood lingering in the hall for hours.
A wedding had turned into a funeral.
There was no greater tragedy.
Rhaegar could tell from Rhaenyra's expression that the situation in Runestone was dire.
After a moment of silence, he picked up the food and ate in large bites.
The Crown Prince and the Duke of the Eyrie had barely escaped an ambush with their lives—what chance did the unsuspecting Vale nobles have?
After finishing his meal, Rhaegar wiped the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief and asked, puzzled, "I heard someone screaming this morning. Was it the captured mountain clansmen?"
"It was Arnold!"
Rhaenyra lowered her head, recalling what she had seen when she went to fetch food. She spoke the truth.
The mountain clansmen who had infiltrated Runestone were killed on the spot.
Arnold, however, had been captured alive by Gerold and was now undergoing brutal torture.
Rhaegar listened to the entire account, his face darkening like a storm.
"Rhaenyra, get me a wheelchair and push me outside."
He needed to see Arnold with his own eyes—to witness his suffering and judge whether it was enough to atone for his sins.
"You're seriously injured. The maester said you need to rest for at least half a month."
Rhaenyra refused, repeating the warning firmly.
Rhaegar's wound was a deep, penetrating stab to his abdomen—piercing through from front to back, leaving a gaping hole of torn flesh.
Though the bleeding had been stopped and the wound bandaged, there was still a risk of infection and inflammation.
In Westeros, where medical knowledge was limited, an infected wound often meant death.
Rhaegar shot her a glance, then braced his right hand against the bed, using his arm strength to slowly sit up.
The Ouroboros had healed half of his abdominal injury.
The wound, once a brutal puncture, had mostly closed—just enough to avoid tearing open easily.
"Rhaegar! You're too reckless!"
Rhaenyra gasped in alarm, rushing forward to support him, pressing his body gently against her own.
"I'm fine. The flames grant me strength."
Feeling the warmth of her soft embrace behind him, Rhaegar smiled confidently.
Rhaenyra recalled the sight of him engulfed in fire the previous day.
Hesitantly, she asked, "Yesterday… were you really on fire?"
Rhaegar pressed his face against the smooth, snow-white curve of her neck, chuckling. "There is magic in Targaryen blood—I simply unearthed it."
Among the Forty Dragonlord Families, House Targaryen ranked in the lower half.
Their number of dragons and their stores of knowledge were limited, leaving little for their descendants.
As a result, Rhaegar's generation only knew how to tame dragons; they had never even seen magic before.
Perhaps Aegon the Conqueror had some knowledge of it, but he left behind only the prophecy of *A Song of Ice and Fire*, with no other valuable teachings.
Rhaenyra listened, confused. She gently ran her hand over his skin, cautiously asking, "Can I learn it too?"
"It's extremely difficult," Rhaegar replied bluntly.
His own bloodline had started with only 5% purity.
Even if it had increased with age, he estimated it would barely reach 10%.
Rhaenyra had bonded with a dragon at the age of seven—a remarkable talent—but even she would never reach 40% purity.
That meant it was nearly impossible for her to become a fire mage.
Rhaenyra lowered her head in disappointment, falling silent.
She had hoped she could learn magic too.
Noticing her dismay, Rhaegar added, "However, I've found a different kind of magic. Once I master it, I can teach you."
He was referring to runes.
The study and application of runes required only two things: mental strength and magic.
House Targaryen's blood already contained magic.
Mental strength, however, depended on individual talent.
"Really?!"
Rhaenyra's eyes lit up with excitement as she nodded eagerly.
Rhaegar smiled, rubbing his cheek against the smooth curve of her neck, closing his eyes in quiet contentment.
During the old Valyrian Freehold, the magical legacies of the Forty Dragonlord Families consisted of blood magic and fire sorcery.
House Targaryen had either lost that knowledge or never possessed it in the first place.
But now, rune magic would become their greatest asset—second only to dragons.
---
At noon, Rhaegar sat in a wheelchair as Rhaenyra carefully pushed him out of the castle.
The dazzling sunlight was blinding. Rhaegar raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked around.
In the castle's front courtyard, a newly erected three-meter-high cross stood, with a bloodied figure bound to it.
"Prince!"
The courtyard was filled with people, and Jero, his face stained with blood, was the first to spot Rhaegar.
Jero quickly approached, his voice trembling with concern. "Prince, you're seriously injured. Moving around like this won't help your recovery."
He had seen Rhaegar's wounds the day before.
If he had suffered the same kind of piercing injury, he would probably already be joining Rhaella in the afterlife.
"Lord Jero, is that Arnold?"
Rhaegar ignored the unnecessary words and got straight to the point.
The figure on the cross was a young man with curly chestnut hair, his entire body covered in whip marks. His breaths were shallow, barely hanging on to life.
"Yes, Prince."
Jero's eyes burned with hatred.
"Find a maester to treat him."
Rhaegar spoke calmly.
"Why!?"
Jero's reaction was intense.
Rhaegar met his gaze and said evenly, "Have you heard of House Bolton?"
"The great house of the North, often at odds with House Stark." Jero was confused about the relevance.
Rhaegar sighed. "The Boltons have a very cruel tradition."
Jero froze, deep in thought.
"Arnold's crimes are unforgivable. Don't let him die too quickly."
Rhaegar tapped his fingers twice against the wooden armrest of his wheelchair and said indifferently, "Flay him alive."
Jero's face tensed, momentarily unsure of how to respond.
"You have three days. The first day, below the knees. The second day, below the thighs. The third day, below the neck."
Rhaegar gazed at Arnold's battered figure and added thoughtfully, "Make sure to give him milk of the poppy."
As he spoke, Rhaegar wasn't sure what he was feeling.
But the sharp pain in his abdomen and shoulder reminded him—Arnold deserved every bit of it.
Jero instinctively took a step back and swallowed hard.
He had originally planned to torture Arnold for a few days before hanging him.
But he agreed with the prince's decision.
Jero hurried away to give orders to the executioner.
"Rhaegar, flaying is forbidden."
Rhaenys, standing beside the wheelchair, whispered a reminder.
Even the Boltons had been banned from practicing such cruelty. She didn't want Rhaegar to gain a reputation for brutality.
"It doesn't matter."
Rhaegar waved a hand dismissively, unconcerned.
The mountain clans' rebellion was tied to certain houses in the Vale. He intended to make an example of Arnold.
Perhaps it would serve as a warning.
But that didn't really matter.
When he had faced the mountain clans' ambush alone, Rhaegar hadn't expected to survive.
He had only wanted to hold out until the Devourer returned.
At least Rhaenys would have a chance to live.
Yet, when the arrows and spears pierced his body, something inside him shifted.
He wanted to live.
And he wanted to kill every fool who dared to plot against him.
Arnold was the first.
But he wouldn't be the last.
"Woo—woo—woo!!"
Suddenly, the sound of a horn echoed from the castle walls, resonating through Runestone.
A messenger shouted, "The knights of the Vale have returned! Shall we open the gates?"
(End of Chapter)