Chapter 195: Rhaegor’s Expedition (Part Seventeen) – Betrayal 

North of Harrenhal, beyond the Trident, the Kingsroad forks—one branch crosses the river toward the Bloody Gate, the most vital land passage into the Vale, while the other stretches north through the damp, treacherous Neck, all the way to Winterfell. 

While Rhaegor and his companions were still watching the tourney, no one noticed that the fallen Cain had quietly slipped away from the grounds. 

"Hyena, spare me! I was wrong!" Jaime trembled as he stared at Cain, who had suddenly appeared before him. "How… I clearly—" 

"You clearly ran off long ago, didn't you?" Cain spun his longsword lazily. "Pity. Even with that fool's coin purse, you still missed the ferry." His eyes flicked to Jaime's belt. "You must've seen what was inside that pouch by now." 

"You—" Jaime's heart pounded. He knew exactly what was in that pouch—not coins, but half a bag of stones. "You're not Cain. Who are you?" 

"Do you know who that black-haired, green-eyed boy we've been following is?" 

Cain Mudd did not answer. Instead, he drew his sword and pressed the flat of the blade against the old knight's cheek. Jaime was confused, but fear drowned all other thoughts. This man was nothing like the Cain Mudd he knew. 

He should have realized it sooner. 

"Even if he's a prince, it's none of our concern." Jaime steeled himself. All he cared about now was uncovering this imposter's identity. How had he fooled a seasoned sellsword like him? He and Cain had been partners since before Albin was born—only splitting during the Dance of the Dragons. "Who the hells are you?" 

"I am Hyena," Cain grinned. "I am Cain Mudd." He planted a boot on Jaime's chest and slowly dragged his sword to the old knight's throat. "So… aren't you curious about who that boy really is?" 

"Seven hells—" Jaime tried to spit at him but failed. "What does it matter who he is? You can't be Cain." 

Cain shrugged. "For now, I am Cain Mudd. That's enough. So, Scarface—do you want to live? Or better yet, do you want to live as a lord, not as a lowborn sellsword or some hedge knight sleeping under a tree?" 

He withdrew his sword and stepped back. Jaime scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting to his fallen warhorse—his only warhorse, now dead. Cain had killed it with a method Jaime couldn't even comprehend. 

He hadn't even seen the strike. 

"What do you mean?" Jaime couldn't deny his sudden spark of hope. Becoming a lord had been his lifelong dream—a plot of land to call his own, maybe even a castle. 

"Patience." Cain ignored the question. "Are you afraid of dragons?" 

Jaime was baffled. What did that have to do with anything? But he nodded anyway—yes, he feared dragons. 

"No surprise. You fought at the Red Fork. Well, that boy is the son of Prince Draezell Vaelarys, the Rider of Bronze Fury." 

"Impossible!" Jaime nearly jumped. How could that black-haired boy be the son of Draezell Vaelarys? The Dragon Prince was a godlike figure—silver-haired, purple-eyed. There was no way he'd sired a dark-haired, green-eyed bastard. "He's a Tarly bastard!" 

"Shhh." Cain pressed a finger to his lips. "Simple. Because you and I are going to die." His tone was eerily calm. 

Jaime was even more confused. Just moments ago, this man had promised him land—now he was talking about their deaths. 

How could a dead man claim a lordship? 

"Jaime Hill and Cain Mudd will both perish," Cain said. "But you—with a new face, a new name—will go south and take your land. If you cooperate." 

"You want to kill someone?" Jaime pointed at himself. "Us? No, no—you've seen that…" He hesitated, then accepted Cain's title for Rhaegor. "…Prince. You know his skill. I couldn't take him even if there were twenty of me!" 

"Did I say anything about killing?" Cain chuckled, tapping Jaime's wrinkled cheek again. "He is my liege. I would never harm him." 

"Then why tell me this?" Jaime's fear surged. As a veteran sellsword, he knew the more you knew, the quicker you died. 

"Because Jaime Hill must die." Cain shook his head. "Westeros is too peaceful. Prince Draezell needs to teach Rhaegor a real lesson—but he lacks the right opportunity. So, I found you." 

"What about Albin?" Though Jaime felt a strange numbness at the idea of his own death, he accepted it. Despite the trauma Draezell had inflicted on him during the Dance, he had, oddly enough, become one of the prince's fervent admirers afterward. 

The Dragon Prince's men don't lie. 

"Albin?" Cain scoffed. "Too young. A child raised in summer and peace could never meet His Grace's demands. And that boy is important. My 'Mudd' name is false—the ancient First King house of the Rivers and Hills is long extinct. But Albin… his blood carries the legacy of another River King." 

Cain's lips twisted into a grotesque smile. "When Prince Rhaegor marches north, that boy's blood will serve him well." 

"You mean..." Jaime's hands trembled slightly. He felt he had already heard far too much—things no man should know. 

"Albin Rivers—his true name is Albin Justman." Cain Mudd smiled faintly. "His childhood was not as he remembers. His father was a descendant of a cadet branch of House Justman. After the fall of the Justman dynasty, their line faded into obscurity, stripped of status and power. But make no mistake—his blood traces back to Benedict Justman himself. By lineage alone, he is purer than Lucifer Justman, who lived four centuries ago." 

Cain muttered under his breath, words meant only for himself: 

"The blood of the First King." 

Then, as if remembering something, he chuckled. "Ah, but you really shouldn't know this much. Don't worry—once you wake in your new life, with the lands the Prince has promised, you won't remember any of this." 

"Do I even have a choice to refuse?" 

Cain shook his head. "Regrettably, no." 

Jaime gritted his teeth. "Fine. I'll do as you say. Tell me—where is this land you're offering?" 

"A small keep near Dustonbury." Cain didn't bother hiding the terms. "I'll compensate you with a warhorse now. After your 'death', someone will deliver a chest of gold dragons to your new holdings—enough to sustain you comfortably. And when you awaken, you'll be a sworn vassal of Lord Lucas Strong." 

He studied the old knight with amusement. "Rest easy. The keep oversees three villages and four mills. Plenty of space." 

The offer struck Jaime like a hammerblow. 

So what if I have to die once? With Cain's guarantee, he could finally achieve his life's ambition. 

"My lord... what must I do?" 

"The Neck needs a guide." Cain's voice was cool. "The Vale's mountain clans have been slaughtered en masse. Lord Joffrey Arryn called his banners to purge the highlands—even sought aid from Lord Joffrey Velaryon. Between steel and dragonfire, the clansmen are desperate. Some fled to the Neck. And the crannogmen... well, they're no saints either." 

His smile widened. "Do you understand now?" 

Jaime did. And it sent another chill down his spine. 

He and the real Cain had done similar work before—colluding with robber knights in the Westerlands to lure merchants into ambushes, splitting the spoils afterward. But they'd rarely indulged. Too risky. 

Which meant one thing: 

This impostor knew far too much. 

Who in seven hells is he? 

"Don't bother wondering who I am." 

"Cain Mudd" suddenly grinned, his head tilting unnaturally. His features melted like wet clay, flesh-toned droplets oozing down his dissolving face—yet never falling. His eyeballs slid free from their sockets, dangling by bloody threads. 

"Someone can be anyone." 

The liquefied face twisted like kneaded dough, morphing between faces—Albin, RhRhaegon, Elarion, even Jaime himself—before settling into a young, handsome stranger's visage. Then, finally, it snapped back to Cain Mudd's familiar features. 

Jaime understood. 

As a sellsword who'd traveled the breadth of Westeros, he knew the songs, the legends—and the whispered warnings of an organization no man dared cross. 

Faceless Men. 

"So. No more questions. Go back." Cain's smile returned, pleasant as ever. "Guide Prince Rhaegor. I'll play my part." 

"Y-yes." 

Jaime didn't know whether to tremble in fear or leap in exhilaration. 

He could only adjust his clothes and mount the horse Cain had brought. 

Only Rhaegon noticed Jaime's absence. But when the old knight returned, dusty and bearing wine, he asked no further questions. They were temporary companions—loyal in duty, but little more. 

Truth be told, Rhaegon trusted neither Cain nor Jaime. Only Albin, the fool boy, escaped his suspicion. 

As for Rhaegor? 

He didn't care about trust. Only one thing mattered: 

Can they serve my purpose? 

Cain and Jaime were capable guides. He rewarded competence generously. Albin, though impulsive, had survived years as a wandering knight—his skills were proven. 

Reward merit. 

Punish failure. 

That was Rhaegor's way. 

Soon, the tourney at Harrenhal ended. 

Rhaegor's party resumed their journey. 

After half a month's travel, they reached the northern edge of the Trident's plains, where the Kingsroad stretched onward. 

And far, far to the south— 

In Oldtown... 

The once-great city, the second largest in Westeros, now lay in ruins. Though no longer as pristine or prosperous as in its heyday, its strategic location at the mouth of the Honeywine ensured it remained the most vital port in the Reach. 

Yet, tragically, the royal stewards sent by Jacaerys and Daemon had been nothing but leeches and incompetents. They grew fat on bribes from merchants and pirates, neglecting the city's governance. 

Now, Oldtown had become a smuggler's paradise. 

A merchant ship slowly departed the harbor, its hold laden with grain, luxuries, and wine from the fertile Reach—and a few passengers. 

A few silver-haired, purple-eyed passengers. 

"Are you certain a dragon-riding Targaryen lives on that island?" 

An older silver-haired man nodded. "I swear it. A disinherited Targaryen dwells there. Whatever his status, his blood is still that of the dragonlords." 

"And he has a dragon," added a well-dressed man, "though it is not by his side." 

"The Dragonpit in King's Landing holds a green dragon—hatched from his egg. Yet the Targaryens of the Red Keep denied him his birthright." 

The youngest and highest-ranking of them frowned. "Then why are we going? To provoke the Silver Dragon's wrath? If we sought blood, we should have brought our daughters or sisters—not a ship full of men. And if we sought dragons, what use is a man without one?" 

"He is worth courting," the older man replied smoothly. "Worth enlightening. Worth telling his own story to, my lord." 

A Targaryen without a dragon was worthless. 

But a Targaryen who knew he was owed one? 

That was a man of limitless potential. 

That was why they sailed for Ghaston Grey. 

"My lord, if he has ambition, we will aid him. Have we not brought enough maidens? If he lacks fire… well, our plans can still proceed." The silver-haired man's voice turned icy. 

"For the dragon's blood."