The salty sea air filled the quiet nighttime village of Wellingworth. Thirty years of revenge stoked mister Rhaegar's embittered rage. Succulent shrimp was cooked on the flames, as laughter echoed along the rocky cliffs. A secret flask of moonshine appeared in Rhaegar's stooped hands. Droplets scattered over the spiny sea urchins as Rhaegar's beady eyes narrowed. Dark cloaked shadows crept along the narrow pier. Soft footfalls drew closer, approaching where Rhaegar sat alone. The cloaked figure loomed behind him, a glint of steel flickering in the moonlight. A fateful blow sliced the unsuspecting Rhaegar's throat, his gurgling breaths the only sound as he died. The assassin fled silently into the night, leaving Rhaegar to bleed out on the now-silent fishing dock. The rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore slowly masked the final flow of Rhaegar's blood, the mystery of his death throbbing with life under the pulsating stars. The village of Wellingworth would remain ensnared forevermore in the book of its history, as recorded by the mystery of Rhaegar's death forever marked the page.