Chapter 3
Rhaegar couldn’t believe it. His father was dead; his heart clenched in his chest as the realization hit him. His father was dead, and he was now king.
He had always known that someday the crown would pass to him, but to actually have it happen felt surreal.
There was still much to do. The rebel forces had retreated to Riverrun after the usurper’s defeat. Robert was now his prisoner, and Rhaegar knew what he must do. His cousin must be put to death.
Then there was the sorcerer, Rugulus Black, the man who had defeated Robert Baratheon with a single wave of his wand. Rhaegar had tasked Barristan Selmy with keeping him safe. The soldiers were wary of the sorcerer, keeping a fearful distance, but one could never be too careful.
A million questions raced through his mind. Where was Regulus from, and why was he in Westeros? Were there more people like him? What did this mean for the Long Night?
He put his hand to his chest, feeling the muscle underneath. Why had Regulus saved him? Could Regulus have been sent to play a part in the Long Night?
Closing his eyes, he fell into a restless sleep.
He heard yells when he awoke. Scrambling from his bedroll, he dressed quickly and walked outside to a strange sight.
The sorcerer was sitting upon a broom, flying through the air. Rhaegar felt his eyes widen in wonder as he watched the man swerve and flip through the skies.
“My prince,” he turned to Barristan, who also looked just as surprised as Rhaegar.
“Please tell me you see him too,” asked Rhaegar, fearing the famed Targaryen madness had finally taken hold.
“I do, Your Grace. He emerged this morning from his tent with a broom in hand. I nearly dropped from fright when he mounted it and took it to the skies.”
They looked up to find the sorcerer balancing on the broom as he soared through the air, before landing gracefully and jumping off, the broom hanging suspended in midair.
“Fascinating,” said Rhaegar as he stepped forward. His hands ached to study the broom, but a glare from the sorcerer kept him at bay. “Tell me, did you create this invention?”
“No,” scoffed Regulus. “It was a gift from my father for joining the death—” His voice cut off as if he’d suddenly realized he’d said too much. “It was a gift.” Rhaegar watched as he pulled out a small pouch from his robes. His violet eyes bulged from his skull as the broom began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it slipped into the pouch.
“What? Have you never seen a wizard’s broom before? How do witches and wizards travel around here?”
“Magic has been lost for many years,” said the prince. “Since the times of my ancestors in old Valyria. Though there are still blood mages and shadowbinders in the lands of Asshai across the Narrow Sea.”
“Your ancestors?” Confusion crossed Regulus’s face.
“The dragonriders of old. My family conquered the Seven Kingdoms on the backs of dragons before most of them were lost in the Dance.” Regulus gave Rhaegar a blank stare, and Rhaegar frowned. Had this boy never heard of House Targaryen?
“You have dragons?”
“My family used to. A couple of centuries back, the last dragon died during the reign of my ancestor Aegon the Third.” The sorcerer frowned, pulling out his wand.
“Here, hold it for a second. I want to test something.”
“My prince, it could be a trick,” warned Barristan, but Rhaegar gripped his courage and took hold of the sorcerer’s wand. Light sparks flew from the tip, and he felt a warm tingle all over his body.
“So that’s why my wand reacted to you. It sensed the diluted magic in your blood,” said Regulus, snatching his wand back.
“Does this mean I could do what you do?” asked Rhaegar eagerly. “Would you teach me?”
“No, I said diluted magic. You are too old for that. I guess I’ll have to go to that Asshai place.”
“You can’t,” said Rhaegar. “No one who ever goes to Asshai returns.”
A smile formed on Regulus’s lips.
“A challenge? How exciting!”