“A heathen…
Lord Raegon, I beg of you, cast out this heathen…
by the Seven Hells…”
Septon Balbon’s knees buckled.
Had Assistant Maester Gremenson not caught the old man beneath the arms, he would have collapsed onto the beer-stained planks from sheer apoplexy.
The tavern latch lifted, and Raegon strode into the taproom, towing a nervous Aethan by the sleeve.
Lord Raegon…
he will see justice done.
The septon stared at the boy as if clutching a line thrown into stormy waters, his trembling lips murmuring ragged appeals for order.
Raegon offered a gentle, reassuring smile that immediately put the old cleric at ease.
Yet beside him, Aethan felt a cold prickle run down the back of his neck.
He recognized that smile.
During the previous year’s visit to Dragonstone, Raegon had worn that exact expression across the cyvasse board, right before slipping a hand beneath the table to overturn the pieces.
“Septon Balbon is not merely a devout brother of the cloth; he is an elder of this island,” Raegon said, his tone cooling as he turned his mismatched eyes upon Rhaegar.
“My friend, humiliating an old man under the roof of House Targaryen is hardly the conduct of a welcome guest.”
“And who might you be?” Rhaegar took two wary steps back, his chin raised in sharp defiance.
Aethan scratched his temple, utterly bewildered.
Nothing made sense.
He knew his brilliant, uncontrollable cousin better than anyone.
Proud to a fault, contemptuous of authority, and driven by an insatiable hunger for the written word, Rhaegar had cursed his own lord and uncle Daemon to his face during household disputes and once sprinted naked through a port market chasing a merchant who had stolen a rare Valyrian scroll.
He had traded screams with an archmaester in the plaza of Oldtown, then struck the Citadel’s seneschal to defend an abused novice.
Even his mentor’s favor could not save him from a brutal thrashing before being tossed into the Honeywine like a drowned hound.
The boy had been barely three-and-ten.
Aethan had never seen Rhaegar back down when holding the upper hand in debate, yet here he stood, retreating before a single sentence from a twelve-year-old prince.
“Raegon Targaryen,” the boy replied evenly.
“As protector of this harbor and liege to House Velaryon, I require you to offer your apologies to this elder for nearly driving his heart to bursting.”
Aethan pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
This is not the Raegon I know.
The Raegon he knew spent his afternoons scheming escapes from the training yard and flipping game tables when cornered.
He did not deliver patient, measured judgments to settle disputes in dockside taverns.
“Septon Balbon,” Raegon continued, his voice softening with deferential warmth, “you are an anointed brother and a man of great mercy.
I trust you will not allow a heated exchange of words to poison the ancient bond between Dragonstone and Driftmark.
The lad before you is Rhaegar Velaryon.
He has not taken his vows at the Citadel, meaning he remains a trueborn son of the tides.”
Raegon narrowed his eyes, the brilliant gold of his right iris catching the lantern light beneath his silver brow.
“The faithful of the Seven and the sons of the sea should not draw blood in the shadow of the dragon.”
Aethan looked between them, his jaw slightly slack.
Even with his slow wits, he could tell both of them were putting on a performance.
Raegon had seamlessly shifted the nature of the quarrel, turning Rhaegar’s heresy into simple bad manners toward an elder, while reducing the septon’s rage to an insult against highborn blood. Read the latest chapters at novelping . com.
Where the Faith held little temporal dominion, its clergy walked softly around the nobility.
Only in the Reach or the Vale, where the holy orders and sworn swords enforced doctrine with cold steel, did septons stand tall before lords.
Dragonstone was no such place.
Septon Balbon had traveled across the Seven Kingdoms before being sidelined to this lonely island outpost.
Though wine had clouded his later years, the sharp instincts of his wandering days had not entirely drowned in the casks.
The old man caught his breath.
“Young master…” The septon motioned for Gremenson to guide him to an empty bench.
Reaching for a battered timber flagon, he drank deep from the watered honey-wine, letting the rough vintage steady his nerves.
He looked at Rhaegar, whose brow was still swelling from the thrown tankard.
“I grant that you have powerful protectors, lad,” Balbon muttered, setting down the flagon.
“Had Lord Raegon not arrived, you would have seen what the folk of this harbor do to those who mock their faith.
Yet…
I grant there was truth in your harsh words.”
The old man wiped his mouth with a rough woolen sleeve.
“The scriptures teach us to keep our bodies clean: no falsehood, no strong drink, no gluttony, no fornication…”
“Yet the High Septon of the Stormlands maintains a camp of mistresses large enough to muster a vanguard,” Rhaegar muttered, unable to bite his tongue entirely.
“The clergy in the Riverlands bow to King Harren’s bloody iron, and the High Septon in Oldtown—”
“The High Septon wears a crystal crown and counts his coin, while his council wipes their boots with the sacred parchment,” Balbon broke in with a bitter, rasping laugh.
A faint flush returned to his leathery cheeks.
“Even an old fool like me finds peace only in the bottom of a barrel.
Life is harsh, boy.
Wine is the only draught that lets a man forget his own failures.”
The old cleric pushed himself up from the bench, his fury entirely spent.
“A handsome lad, though not quite as fine as our young lord here,” the old man said, looking upon Rhaegar with tired eyes.
“Forgive an old pilgrim’s temper.
In my youth, I questioned the heavens as well.
But for the smallfolk, who work the mud until their backs break, the lords never look down upon them.
Only the Seven watch their suffering.
That is why the Faith endures.”
That is the only reason it exists, the septon thought quietly.
Rhaegar fell silent, offering a low, respectful nod.
“Forgive my insolence, holy father,” Rhaegar said, his apology stiff and awkward, though sincere enough to pass.
“Seek truth if you must, child,” Balbon murmured, exhaustion dragging his head toward the tabletop.
“By the Seven Hells, thank Lord Raegon that you are whole.
The beast called truth has a way of demanding blood for every secret it yields…”
The old man’s forehead met the oak with a dull thud.
Within moments, heavy snores rattled the timber walls. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Only then did the tavern keeper crawl out from behind the counter, trembling from head to toe.
“Lord Raegon…”
Raegon let out a soft breath, twisting a heavy gold button from his velvet doublet and tossing it onto the counter.
“For the wine consumed by Septon Balbon and this guest from Driftmark.
Use the remainder to replace your rotted floorboards.” He gave the splintered floor an unamused look.
“Before I find mice nesting in the flagons.”
“At once, my lord!
At once!” The keeper clutched the gold to his chest as if it were a talisman.
“Come along,” Raegon said, nudging Aethan toward the doorway.
Rhaegar pressed a rag to the cut on his temple and followed them into the salt mist.
Leaving the Siren’s Call behind, they took Daemion’s Path through the heart of the village toward the winding mountain trail leading up to the keep.
At the lower gatehouse, the castle guards were taking turns eating their midday meal.
When a feast was held in the Great Hall, the excess roast and fine bread routinely made its way down to the garrison, making it the finest meal the men would see all moon.
“You two know each other?” Aethan finally blurted out, unable to hold back his question any longer.
Raegon nodded, jerking his thumb toward Rhaegar.
“When the gray robes beat him half to death and tossed him into the Honeywine, Aegon and I were visiting Oldtown.
I grew sick of the sweetmeats at the Hightower and slipped out through the gardens, only to fish this carcass out of the river.”
“I was not a carcass,” Rhaegar countered sharply.
“I was breathing.
And you were not tired of their pastries; you were running from Lord Loren Hightower, who would not stop parading his daughters, nieces, and granddaughters before you.
When I opened my eyes on the riverbank, you were still chewing on an apple tart.”
“Hold your tongue,” Raegon muttered with a smirk.
“As you command,” Rhaegar replied with a shrug.
The silver-haired youth looked down at the cobblestones, his violet eyes softening.
He would never forget that afternoon.
One moment he was lying in the cold mud, broken and betrayed by his peers; the next, a cheerful, mismatched-eyed prince was kneeling beside him, muttering strange words while pressing a cool balm against his ruined skin.
Within minutes, the lash marks, the burns from the hot iron, and the deep bruises had faded without leaving a scar.
It was no art taught by the maesters.
After hours of wild, impossible conversation on that riverbank, Rhaegar had felt his world turn upside down.
He had once proclaimed to the Citadel: I bow to truth, not to kings or unseen powers.
Yet in that boy, he had found the path toward the truths he sought.
He had set aside his pride and bent his knee.
“If you truly held a grudge, you would not have given me the purse to travel across the Narrow Sea,” Rhaegar said quietly.
Aethan’s eyes widened in realization.
That explained why his wayward cousin had returned from Essos, and why he had risked his father’s fury just to board the flagship bound for Dragonstone.
Before Aethan could piece the rest together, Raegon turned to Rhaegar with a furrowed brow.
“That reminds me.
You were supposed to be in Norvos examining the rituals of the Bearded Priests.
Why have you returned to Westeros?”