Chapter 172: Jenny’s Forbidden Glance

Second floor, balcony.

Rhaenyra leaned against the railing, watching the fight in the back garden.

"Rhaegar is still so playful," she remarked.

"Very brave and skilled," Jeyne commented objectively beside her.

Rhaenyra moved closer, caught a glimmer in Jeyne's eye, and laughed, "Are you going to be hanging out with Jessamyn all the time?"

"She and I are friends, soothing each other's souls," Jeyne replied lightly.

Then she shifted the conversation, asking, "Do you intend to follow the Targaryen tradition?"

Rhaenyra understood the implication and smiled, "Rhaegar will go for it."

"Bless you," Jeyne said, lowering her eyes and picking up a glass of red wine.

Rhaenyra sensed insincerity in her words. She watched Jeyne's demeanor closely, trying to discern her true feelings.

Jeyne turned her head, looking at the silver-haired Rhaegar with envy in her eyes.

"Jeyne," Rhaenyra called out.

Jeyne looked over.

"Have you ever farmed?"

"That's a farmer's job."

Rhaenyra continued, "Yes, I've never farmed either, but I've seen the farmers in the crownlands do it."

Jeyne looked puzzled, her eyes quizzical.

Rhaenyra explained, "The farmer plants seeds in the spring, tends them diligently, waters and loosens the soil, and then harvests the grain in the fall."

Under Jeyne's increasingly bewildered gaze, Rhaenyra became serious.

"I've been with Rhaegar from the moment he was born. I've been there at every moment of his life."

"Now that he's grown up, it's time for me to reap the rewards."

Lifting her glass from the table, Rhaenyra clinked it against Jeyne's. A crisp buzz echoed as Rhaenyra drank it all in one go, picked up Rhaegar's clothes, and strutted away.

Suddenly, she realized that her only remaining best friend was not pure of heart.

It made her wary.

A gust of wind ruffled her hair, and Jeyne awoke from her thoughts. The bewildered expression vanished, replaced by a determined look.

With Rhaenyra now out of sight behind the beaded curtains, Jeyne glanced up at the blue sky and the white clouds. The air carried a hint of summer warmth.

"Rhaenyra, now it's summer," she murmured to herself.

...

In the back garden, at the martial arts arena, the atmosphere froze as no one was left to fight Rhaegar.

Gerold asked Rhea about it, but she was lost in her memories and remained silent for a long time. After much thought, Gerold sighed and decided to handle the situation himself.

"Prince, your swordsmanship is unrivaled. I would like to ask you for a lesson," Gerold said, drawing his sword and walking towards Rhaegar in the center of the grass.

Rhaegar smiled, "Gerold, you are the groom today. Do you want to join in as well?"

"It's rare to see sword skills like yours. I want to give it a try," Gerold replied, holding his sword with a resolute gaze.

He wanted to test the prince's strength, much like he had wanted to test Daemon's.

"Very well, come on then," Rhaegar agreed, pleased with his persistence.

Gerold charged forward, swinging his sword with the wildness characteristic of a knight of the Vale. The Dragon Claw rose, and their blades clashed, sending sparks flying. Rhaegar twisted, his sword sliding against Gerold's.

Having watched several bouts, Gerold was familiar with the prince's fast sword. He quickly retracted his sword and slashed again. His movements were swift, his body full of force, and his two-handed sword cut through the air with a soft sound.

Rhaegar took two steps back, feigning a flaw, and raised his sword to block the heavy chop. Seeing the prince's chest exposed, Gerold pressed down on his long sword and lifted his leg to kick. But as soon as he lifted his right leg, he saw Rhaegar's triumphant smirk.

"Foiled," Gerold thought, realizing his mistake.

Rhaegar changed his stance, turning to the side. His opponent's long sword and right leg were now exposed. Without hesitation, the Dragon Claw flashed, and the sword slashed down.

The Dragon Claw struck Gerold's longsword, and the two swords met with a resounding clang. The Valyrian steel proved superior, and Gerold's two-handed sword broke with a snap. The broken sword flew out and fell onto the grass.

The hearts of the onlookers seemed to tremble with the broken sword. Gerold stood there, holding the broken sword, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. He realized that on the battlefield, it would have been his leg that was cut off.

Looking at Rhaegar, who smiled apologetically, Gerold forced a smile, though it was more a grimace.

"The loss was clear and decisive," he thought.

"Lord Gerold, I am sorry for the sword," Rhaegar said, sheathing his Dragon Claw and extending a hand.

"Your swordsmanship is truly outstanding!" Gerold replied, discarding his broken sword and gripping the prince's hand firmly.

Looking around at the stunned guests, Gerold suddenly laughed loudly, raising both hands and shouting, "My lords, do you accept such an heir?"

Silence. The nobles of the Vale looked at each other with varied expressions. The scene was cold for a moment, and Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as he observed.

"Damn, what a fast sword technique! Whoever dares to disobey, I will not spare him first!" someone in the crowd shouted, followed by loud laughter.

The next moment, everyone began to laugh, beat their chests, struck the hilts of their swords on their waists, and chanted in a chaotic manner, "Long live the Targaryens! Long live the Heir!"

Rhaegar held the Dragon Claw in one hand and raised the other above his head. His stoic face melted into a radiant smile as he joined in the laughter.

The people of the Vale followed the tradition of honoring the strong, much like the people of the North in the Winterlands. Rhaegar's swordsmanship had convinced them, and they willingly offered their praise and allegiance.

With Gerold's mediation, the tournament came to an end. The guests returned to the castle, surrounding Rhaegar, singing, and intent on celebrating the great contest with alcohol.

...

Night.

Rhaenyra lay in Rhaegar's arms, a note clasped in her hand.

"Jeyne's leaving tomorrow. Are we coming with her?" she asked.

Rhaegar stroked her hair gently. "A letter from Erryk. The Mountain Clans' movements in the Mountains of the Moon are unknown."

Enjoying the soft touch, Rhaegar closed his eyes and sighed. "The battle at Longbow Hall is also stagnant. With Yorbert seriously injured, the Mountain Clans might make a big move."

"Do you think they'll launch a major attack?" Rhaenyra asked softly.

"I don't know," Rhaegar replied. "First, we'll escort Jeyne back to the Eyrie. If the Mountain Clans dare to show up in force, the Cannibal will burn them all."

He tossed the note aside, his expression indifferent. "The Mountain Clans are just savages. They're troublesome when they wander, but weak when they gather."

Rhaenyra nodded. "That's fine. Erryk's letter said he's already brought troops to the Bloody Gate to meet us."

With the allies in Gulltown secured, their trip to the Vale was halfway complete. King's Landing and the Stepstones Islands still awaited their return.

"Go to sleep. No touching!" Rhaenyra slapped his hand playfully.

Rhaegar arched his back in dissatisfaction, burying his face deeper into the softness.

Rhaenyra laughed in exasperation, wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing it vigorously.

This pig just couldn't get enough of it.

(Word count: 1,217)