*Creak—*
Aelmon pushed open the door, and the scene before him left him stunned.
Inside the room, the fireplace blazed, dispelling the lingering chill of early spring.
Rega sat on a small stool, roasting two sizzling sausages over the fire.
On the soft couch, the previously unconscious Lord Tully had somehow woken up. Now, he sat upright, full of energy, biting into a pear that bore numerous teeth marks.
Beside him sat Count Lyman, who had been missing since the previous night. He cast a look of disdain at the elder Tully.
The two exchanged sharp words, engaging in a battle of wit and scorn.
"Grandfather, you're awake?"
Aelmon's voice trembled, overwhelmed by the unexpected scene in the room.
Rega, calmly turning the sausages on the skewer, remarked indifferently, "Not exactly accurate—your grandfather didn't close his eyes all night."
And because of that, neither did Rega. Now, he sat there, stomach growling after a sleepless night.
Aelmon's gaze flickered as his mind raced.
"Come here, Aelmon."
Lord Tully, seeing the hesitation in his grandson's eyes, beckoned him over.
His voice was low and hoarse, tinged with weakness, evidence that his body was still recovering from illness.
Aelmon didn't dare refuse. Knowing he couldn't avoid his fate, he gritted his teeth and stepped forward.
"You did well," Lord Tully said, casually tossing away the pear core. His praise was delivered in a soft voice.
Aelmon's head snapped up, his eyes gleaming with surprise.
Lord Tully grinned. "You acted swiftly, capturing both your uncles in one move—just like your grandfather in his younger days."
"Grandfather, were you pretending to be sick?" Aelmon asked cautiously, uneasy about the answer.
Lord Tully waved a hand dismissively. "I did have a terrible headache a few days ago, but bleeding a little took care of it."
Aelmon subtly pointed toward Count Lyman and whispered, "Did you invite the Count here as well?"
In his memory, the proud Count Lyman had never held much regard for his third uncle.
Since the Count was now here, sitting beside Lord Tully, there had to be some connection between them.
"I wouldn't come for a bunch of Tullys unless there was a war," Count Lyman scoffed.
He sheathed his greatsword, which he had just finished wiping down, and said in a deep voice, "The Ironborn raided the coastal fishing villages. I came to Riverrun to request supplies for relief."
He had two sons and several daughters and valued honor above all else. There was no way he would come to Riverrun just to act as an enforcer for a foolish son-in-law.
It was only after Lord Tully had repeatedly pleaded with him—to prevent unnecessary bloodshed among his own kin—that he reluctantly agreed to a few duels to keep himself sharp.
Aelmon turned to his grandfather for confirmation.
At this moment, he finally chose to trust him.
Lord Tully sighed and nodded, his expression dark with concern for the family's future.
Two sons and a grandson—no matter who he favored, they were all his flesh and blood.
Feigning illness had been his only way to step back and let nature take its course in selecting a successor.
But the results were disappointing.
Aelmon had indeed imprisoned his two uncles, but only after repeated urging and reminders from Rega.
His methods lacked decisiveness—he merely locked them up instead of eliminating the threat entirely.
For someone in whom Lord Tully had placed great hopes, it was a bitter disappointment.
*Sizzle, pop—*
The sausages crackled as they released their juices into the fire, causing the flames to snap and hiss.
Rega, unbothered by the heat, grabbed a cooked sausage and took a bite. The rich, spiced meat filled his mouth with flavor.
As he chewed, he pulled out a letter sealed with the sigil of a roaring lion.
Ignoring the grandfather-grandson discussion, Rega focused on reading the letter.
It had come from Stormlands, sent by Tyland Lannister, who was overseeing the construction of the Prince's Palace.
The letter first reported on the progress of the construction—about a third of it was completed.
Rega had chosen not to spread the method of forging Black Dragonstone.
That form of blood sorcery was akin to a strategic weapon, and with so many eyes in the palace, it was too risky to let such knowledge leak out.
Next, the letter contained intelligence about Dorne.
Dorne, with its arid desert climate, suffered from chronic drought and water shortages.
A growing horde of displaced people had gathered near the Vulture Mountains, eyeing the Prince's Pass with hostile intent.
Tyland suggested that these Dornish outlaws might attempt an attack on the pass to seize the fertile lands of the Reach.
Rega frowned, biting off another piece of sausage.
Since the last war in the Stepstones—
Oh, no.
The war in the Stepstones had never truly ended.
To be precise, after the last raid on the Three Daughters' city-states, their castles had suffered catastrophic damage, fueling their hatred for House Targaryen to new heights.
Even though open war had died down, small skirmishes continued unabated.
Pirates frequently raided garrisons on the Stepstones, ambushing royal supply ships from the Narrow Sea.
The Three Daughters had even allied with the Free Cities, enforcing trade sanctions against Westeros.
Goods that were once reasonably priced had skyrocketed in value.
Tariffs on Westerosi merchants had increased, and their earnings were being heavily skimmed.
Recently, it was rumored that Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne had married the widow of Braavos' Sealord, sealing an alliance between the two powers.
All signs pointed to Qoren Martell still scheming for war.
Three years of relative peace had done little to quell the growing undercurrents.
"The Three Daughters… the Free Cities…"
Rega muttered as he studied the letter.
He still remembered the promise he had once made to Rhaenyra.
And his father's relentless obsession with dividing the realm among his heirs remained fresh in his mind.
Perhaps, Essos was the key.
After all, House Targaryen had always laid claim to a portion of that land.
Shaking off his thoughts, Rega exhaled and pushed those ambitions aside.
It wasn't time yet.
The Targaryens were not yet stable, nor had they reached their peak strength.
Daemon's Caraxes was still recovering from injuries, and Rhaenyra's Syrax was ill-suited for battle.
At present, the only dragonriders the crown could call upon were himself and Aegon.
**Aegon was a complete slacker of a youth, and the Sunfyre he rode had only just reached maturity, making his overall strength unimpressive.**
If he wanted to set his sights on the continent of Essos, he would have to wait for his younger brothers to grow up. Only with their combined strength, mounted on dragons, could they set out on an expedition.
Aemond was already ten years old but had yet to claim a dragon of his own.
Perhaps he could consider traveling to Dragonstone to attempt taming one of the three unclaimed dragons on the island.
Daeron had just celebrated his seventh birthday, and Tessarion, the dragon close to him, was only slightly larger than a horse. The two had yet to take to the skies together properly.
For the next ten years, these two younger brothers would be of no use.
Besides, Alicent and Otto were also a source of trouble.
During his absence from King's Landing, the Hightower father and daughter had been busy, rallying minor noble houses that had been sidelined.
It was unclear whether they were eyeing the throne or still holding a grudge over the matter of lands and titles.
*"Dark currents are stirring. Not a single one of them is letting me rest easy."*
Taking the last bite of his sausage, Rhaegar unfolded a letter, scanning the final piece of news.
*"Duke Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End is gravely ill. The maesters predict he does not have long to live..."*
Suddenly, Rhaegar straightened, his expression turning serious.
Duke Boremund was no mere Lord Tully—a mediocre figure ruling a region as unstable as the Riverlands.
During the reign of his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I, Boremund had been a major figure of renown.
His greatest claim to fame was the Battle of Shipbreaker Bay, where he led the armies of the Stormlands and played a crucial role in securing victory.
Boremund himself was a man of great wisdom and composure.
Though he supported his niece, Princess Rhaenys, he never openly defied royal decrees.
He was a man deserving of respect.
If Boremund passed away, his only heir would be his eldest son, Borros Baratheon—a vain fool obsessed with glory.
Unlike his father, Borros held a poor opinion of the royal family.
During the war in the Stepstones, he had botched operations due to his drunkenness and was known for underhanded schemes.
Moreover, he was not particularly close to either the royal family or Rhaenys, making his loyalties highly unpredictable.
After reading the letter, Rhaegar crushed it in his hand, his expression darkening.
The Stormlands were an essential region for House Targaryen.
They guarded against the Dornish to the south and stood as a shield against threats from the Narrow Sea.
If King's Landing were ever in danger, Storm's End could send reinforcements immediately via the Kingsroad.
The death of Duke Boremund would be a serious blow to the royal family.
After a moment of contemplation, Rhaegar rose and walked toward the couch, voicing his displeasure:
*"Old Tully, Aelmont has defeated his two uncles. It's time a decision was made regarding the inheritance."*
Had he not uncovered Old Tully's act of feigning illness, he might have still been in the dark, laboring for that old schemer.
But now, he had no interest in playing along.
He would tell Aelmont directly: If he wanted the title, he had to fight for it. No hesitation—cut through the mess with a sharp blade.
Hearing this, Aelmont's eyes gleamed as he looked at Old Tully, eager for the answer he had been waiting for.
Old Tully glanced around, his expression uncertain, before speaking:
*"Not yet. Aelmont has done well, but he still hasn't met my expectations."*
In his mind, Aelmont should have seized the moment when his uncles made their move—striking first and eliminating the threat before it could take root.
But he had not. Instead, he had sat idly, waiting for the storm to pass.
Had it not been for Rhaegar's reminder, he might have continued letting his uncles stir up trouble.
This was not the decisiveness a true ruler should possess.
*"Grandfather, what conditions must I meet to earn your approval?"* Aelmont asked without fear, directly seeking the answer.
The upheaval of the night before had given him newfound courage.
Old Tully thought for a moment before responding:
*"The prince has told me about the upcoming tournament. You and your two uncles will all participate. Whoever ranks the highest will be named heir."*
*"A contest of strength?"* Aelmont asked in surprise.
*"No! You may choose a knight to fight in your stead. I care only for the results,"* Old Tully replied, shaking his head.
None of his three descendants had the necessary ruthlessness, determination, or exceptional talent.
If Aelmont had been truly resolute, he would have killed his two uncles last night, removing all competition in one swift move.
But then again, those two were still Old Tully's own sons—he could not say too much.
Since things had come to this, he would instead test their ability to rally allies and influence others.
He would see who was most capable of securing the title of Duke of Riverrun.
Without hesitation, Aelmont agreed:
*"Very well, I will compete."*
After last night, his reputation in Riverrun had already surpassed that of his two uncles. Winning the tournament would not be difficult.
**Knock, knock...**
A knock sounded at the door, followed by the voice of a sworn knight:
*"My lord, two monks from the Faith of the Seven request an audience with Young Lord Aelmont."*
The sworn knight, standing guard, was well aware of Old Tully's true condition.
Old Tully frowned upon hearing the request and scoffed:
*"Monks? What nonsense. Why should my grandson go to see them?"*
He knew all too well what those monks had been up to in Riverrun.
Greedy, lustful, inciting one son to murder another.
Hiding behind the name of the Seven while committing acts more vile than common criminals.
**(End of Chapter)**