"Prince, you..."
A middle-aged maester glared angrily and reached out, trying to stop him.
Rhaegar curled his lips. "Self-sacrifice?"
Sizzle—
A fireball floated nimbly through the air, hitting the middle-aged maester square in the chest, instantly burning a hole straight through him.
For a moment, the entire space seemed frozen in time.
Not only were the remaining maesters stunned, but even Aegon and Aemond stood rigid in place, their eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets.
Rhaegar glanced at them sideways and said, "Watch carefully—I'll only teach this once."
His fingers curled slightly, forming seven connected points of crimson light that arranged themselves into an unusual seven-pointed star.
This was a fire spell he had comprehended during his time meditating at the Starry Sept.
By using his five fingers as a foundation for magical circulation, he could construct a pentagram and release five fireballs.
The fireballs could vary in size and be controlled with precision through the source points in his fingers, responding as smoothly as an extension of his own will.
What Rhaegar demonstrated now—the seven-pointed star—was an improved version of this technique.
By developing additional magical source points on the second joint of his index finger and his palm, he had advanced the spell to summon seven fireballs.
Any more than seven was impossible—one hand could only sustain a maximum of seven fireballs.
Conversely, having fewer than five would disrupt the magical pathways of the pentagram, resulting in a loss of control and fluidity.
"Gulp!"
Aegon swallowed hard, practically wanting to lie down and observe more closely.
Aemond widened his single eye, staring intently at the fireball-manipulating hand.
With a flick of his wrist, Rhaegar sent the remaining five fireballs into a tight formation, swiftly rotating around the seven maesters.
The maesters reacted quickly, instinctively shielding the most important among them—Maester Lewyn.
Rhaegar cast a sidelong glance, then lightly tapped his fingers.
Four of the fireballs seemed to come alive, homing in on four maesters and reducing them to ashes within moments.
In an instant, only three of the original nine Council maesters remained.
And a floor covered in ashes.
Among the survivors were Maester Lewyn, the youngest maester, and an elderly, imposing figure.
Rhaegar remained indifferent, with only the second joint of his index finger still glowing crimson.
From the moment he arrived at the Starry Sept and saw that the full Council wasn't present, he had already made up his mind to kill.
Ten members were too many—two were enough.
Buzz—
The fireballs trembled gently, ceasing their high-speed rotation and hovering over the remaining three maesters, radiating a heat as intense as miniature suns.
Drip.
Maester Lewyn remained motionless as a bead of sweat rolled down his wrinkled face and hit the floor.
The young maester, eyes full of terror, clenched them shut, his entire body stiff with fear.
The scorching heat fueled their terror, like a sword hanging over their heads, ready to pierce their skulls at any moment.
"Hah... hah..."
The last remaining elderly maester, drenched in sweat, couldn't contain his fear any longer. He staggered, nearly collapsing.
Rhaegar glanced at him. The fireball shot downward at lightning speed, engulfing him from head to toe.
The old maester didn't even have time to scream before his life was extinguished painlessly.
Rhaegar remained unfazed, retracting his hand as the seven-pointed star disappeared.
Fire execution was one of the cruelest punishments in Westeros. The least he could do was make it quick and minimize their suffering.
A small mercy.
Thud! Thud!
Maester Lewyn and the young maester collapsed onto the floor, completely drained of strength, their rough robes drenched in cold sweat.
Glancing at their fallen colleagues' remains, their hearts clenched violently, sorrow and terror intertwining.
They had envisioned countless ways this negotiation might go—
Threats, persuasion, bargaining...
Never had they imagined that the Crown Prince would resort to bloodshed so quickly.
"Gentlemen, have you had enough rest?"
Rhaegar's voice was cold.
Scholars were a particularly irritating group.
Arrogant to the core, looking down on worldly authority, believing they alone held the truth of the world.
But had they ever truly considered—was truth found in books and ink?
Or in the bronze of the First Men, the steel of the Andals...
Or perhaps, in the dragons of House Targaryen?
Maester Lewyn and the young scholar trembled, finally realizing the true nature of power. Their knowledge-laden heads slowly drooped in submission.
—
A while later.
Creak—
The doors of the guest chamber swung open as Rhaegar emerged, hands clasped behind his back, his two younger brothers following closely.
"Prince, take care."
Earl Bulwer held the door handle with one hand and removed his horned helmet with the other, forcing an obsequious smile.
Rhaegar waved a hand casually. "You'll stay here in the Citadel and cooperate with Maester Trystane."
"Understood! I will carry out the mission without fail!"
Earl Bulwer snapped to attention, his demeanor serious.
In the corridor, Lord Mound stood dumbfounded, as if he was seeing his own bannerman for the first time.
"Is this... really that same brute?"
It had only taken a cup of tea's time—so much for that talk of "dying before surrendering."
Sensing the gaze on him, Earl Bulwer shot Lord Mound a glare before coldly brushing past him.
Half of the dozen knights present stepped forward to follow him out.
"This... this..."
Lord Mound's jaw nearly hit the floor, shaking with disbelief.
Rhaegar placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, smiling. "I'll take a tour of the library first. I'll visit the Hightower later."
With that, he turned and disappeared around the hallway's corner.
Aegon and Aemond cast a sympathetic glance at their great-uncle before quickly following.
"Huh?"
Monde was completely stunned when he suddenly noticed the open guest room door.
The young doctor, his pants visibly damp, helped up the trembling Dr. Levin.
But… where were the other doctors?
Suddenly, Monde lowered his head and saw a pile of ash and debris on the floor.
"That residue… why does it look like… cremated remains?"
The thought sent a chill down his spine. The more he looked, the more it resembled ashes.
Without hesitation, he turned around and bolted out of the room!
---
Nightfall.
The Starfall Cathedral was shrouded in shadows beneath the night sky as a massive figure descended onto the square.
Rhaegar slid off the dragon's back, stroking its fearsome snout before ascending the steps into the cathedral.
He had spent the entire afternoon raiding the city's archives for precious books.
There was no doubt that this scholarly city held a monopoly on Westerosi culture—its collection of books was seemingly endless.
The grand library was like an ocean of knowledge, so vast that Rhaegar worried a single earthquake could send the bookshelves toppling, burying him alive in an avalanche of literature.
Before long, a nun led him to the cathedral's inner chambers, where guests were accommodated.
Though called an "inner chamber," it was actually a spacious, sunlit room with simple yet elegant decor.
Just as he reached the door, a soft melody drifted through the wooden panels—an old Valyrian lullaby.
Rhaegar paused, gently turning the doorknob to create a narrow opening.
With a faint smile, he peered inside.
Rhaenyra, dressed in a crimson gown, knelt on the carpet with her back to the door.
Beside her was a cradle, which she rocked gently to soothe the baby within.
In her arms, she held another child, patting them softly as she lulled them to sleep.
Rhaegar stood entranced, unconsciously pushing the door open wider.
"Hmm-hmm-hmm~~"
Rhaenyra, sensing something, continued humming while tending to the children, her voice warm and soothing.
Rhaegar recognized the tune immediately—it was Shepherd's Dusk.
When they were young, Rhaenyra often held him close and sang that very song to lull him to sleep.
"Rhaenyra," he called softly, his voice filled with tenderness.
The lullaby came to an abrupt stop.
But Rhaenyra did not turn around. She continued tending to the children as if she hadn't heard him.
Rhaegar hesitated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
Glancing around, he noticed two young nuns standing silently against the wall, their gazes fixed on the ground.
He tilted his head slightly, recalling her cold demeanor earlier that day.
Ahem.
Rhaegar cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to draw her attention.
Great. I've angered the mother dragon again.
"Rhaenyra, I'm back," he said with an exaggerated grin, waving off the nuns before crouching beside the cradle.
Rhaenyra cast him a brief glance, then wordlessly handed him baby Aemon.
"Hold him for a bit while I tidy up," she said calmly.
"Alright." Rhaegar obediently took the baby into his arms.
With a stern expression, Rhaenyra turned away, pulling open the front of her gown and dabbing at herself with a handkerchief.
Rhaegar tilted his head, sneaking a glance.
Only then did he notice—there were two damp patches on the front of her dress. The red fabric made them subtle, but they were there.
His gaze remained innocent as he whispered, "Engorged?"
"Yes!!"
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushing slightly.
Her body was remarkably resilient, nothing like mothers who struggled post-childbirth.
Just days after delivering the twins, she had already regained her strength, and her milk supply was more than sufficient—there was no need for a wet nurse.
Still… sometimes she'd experience engorgement or leakage, making her breasts uncomfortably firm.
Rhaegar shuffled closer, his tone utterly sincere. "Want me to fetch some hot water for a warm compress?"
Rhaenyra: …
There was a language called speechlessness.
Rhaegar watched as her face turned a deeper shade of red, almost as if steam was about to rise from her head.
Glancing around, he casually placed baby Aemon back in the cradle and got up to fetch water.
Traveling really is inconvenient—can't even get the servants to do things properly.
Before long, Rhaegar returned with warm water, soaking a towel and carefully applying it.
Rhaenyra leaned against the cradle, closing her eyes as the warmth seeped into her skin.
The swelling gradually subsided.
Her previously furrowed brows eased, and her mood visibly improved.
---
Late into the night.
Under the soft glow of moonlight, the two infants lay peacefully in the cradle, sound asleep.
Rhaegar lay on his side, watching quietly.
Rhaenyra, facing away from him, rested her head on her arm.
"I'll take care of the babies. You should sleep," he whispered.
"Mhm…"
Rhaenyra, already half-asleep, barely responded before drifting off completely.
Before long, the sound of her breathing evened out.
Rhaegar propped himself up and blew out the candle, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face.
Complex emotions stirred within him.
The nuns must have already told her everything she needed to know.
Otherwise, he wouldn't be absentmindedly lulling the child to sleep alone.
Rhaenyra did not bring it up on her own, which could be considered tacit approval.
"You're so kind."
Rhaegar buried his head in her neck, whispering softly, "I'm just giving the child a surname, nothing more."
Alicent's political meddling had made him wary.
Even if he were to take more wives in the future, one queen in King's Landing would be enough.
In Old Valyria, polygamy was an established custom.
The first wife held equal status with her husband.
The rankings of additional wives varied based on their lineage and social standing, but they rarely surpassed the first wife.
"Queen…"
Rhaegar murmured, his thoughts drifting far away.
The Sealord of Braavos' wife had no formal title, while the Prince of Pentos' wife was seemingly called a princess.
The imperial court of the Ghiscari Empire wasn't much different, blending various titles together.
—
The next morning.
The Citadel, library.
A large number of soldiers swarmed in, hauling away bundles of books and loading them onto carriages.
Standing at the library's entrance, Trystane, towering and obese like a wall, kept a close eye on the rough-handed soldiers.
Behind him, dozens of maesters bustled about, organizing research instruments.
Downstairs, over a hundred maester assistants frantically scoured the archives, determined to seize every useful blueprint and document, as if they intended to empty the entire Citadel.
On the rooftop, Archmaester Lewyn leaned against the window, his heart aching as he watched the scene unfold.
Everywhere he looked, young scholars—his comrades through hardship—had joined the looting effort, leading the charge in carrying off valuable equipment.
Yes, he had betrayed them…
No, he had found the truth!
Invited by the crown prince himself, he had accepted the position of second-in-command at the Royal Citadel, breaking free from the decay of the old order.
And so, the Conclave was now left with only Archmaester Lewyn struggling to hold it together.
—
The Library.
Rhaegar sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by towering piles of ancient tomes.
His attire was strikingly different from the day before.
A white undershirt, a pale red vest, and a perfectly tailored fit accentuated his upright posture, making his figure stand out.
It was clear that someone had carefully dressed him.
At this moment, Rhaegar sat with his head bowed, engrossed in an ancient book filled with illustrations of dragons.
"Brother!"
Aemond suddenly called out, emerging from a mountain of books and holding up a parchment-bound volume. "I found another ancient text about the lineage of dragonlords!"
Rhaegar lifted his gaze, glancing at the seven or eight similar tomes already stacked at his feet.
In another heap of books, Aegon lay sprawled out, looking utterly drained. His eyes were vacant as he muttered, "Rhaegar, I found one too. Now let me go."
(End of chapter)