"Prince, are we truly going hunting?" Ser Steffon asked, eyes scanning the mossy woods around them, seeking a break in the heavy air.
Aemond blinked at him and smiled faintly. "Of course, Ser."
Why overthink everything? There was no way to break the stalemate yet. He could only hope that Granduncle Viserys didn't allow things to spiral out of control. Someday, when he was older and stronger, when he had tamed an adult dragon of his own, he would move independently. He would not be a piece on the Black or Green chessboards—but a player of his own.
A third force, independent, unbent.
Because in war, a triangle was always more stable than a line.
"Hyah!" Ser Steffon spurred the white horse forward, hooves thundering across a patch of open ground.
Aemond straightened in the saddle, wind tousling his silver hair. "I heard," he said eagerly, "there's a white hart in the Kingswood. Let's find it."
He remembered his dream the night before—digging gold beneath a tree in a silent forest. Was it a prophecy? A vision of something sacred or magical?
Perhaps the white stag of legend would appear to him.
"No finer goal for a hunt, my prince," Ser Steffon replied.
He reached behind his saddle and pulled out a simple wooden bow, passing it to Aemond. "Before you learn the sword, you must master strength and aim."
"Can I draw it?" Aemond asked, his excitement palpable.
He remembered, with some pride, how accurately he'd thrown the goblet earlier in the tent. He had an instinct for aim.
Ser Steffon nodded. "This one's sized for you. Just mind the string—keep it taut."
Aemond tested the bow. It creaked under his grip, the string bending in a tight arc as he drew it into a full crescent moon. His strength surprised even the knight beside him.
"Good," said Ser Steffon, genuinely impressed. "You have the arms of a rider."
---
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the Kingswood, the royal hunting party was in disarray.
Prime Minister Otto Hightower had taken it upon himself to proclaim that a white stag—an omen of kingship—had been spotted in the woods. Dozens of highborn lords, eager to curry favor or boast of their valor, had charged after the phantom quarry, their dogs howling, horns blaring.
---
Back at the royal pavilion
"I did not name Rhaenyra heir on a whim!" King Viserys bellowed.
His voice echoed across the tent, rattling goblets and silencing nearby attendants. "And I expect every lord of the realm to remember it!"
A strained silence followed.
The golden-haired Duke Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock, still flushed from his recent rejection, bowed stiffly. "Of course, Your Grace. Please accept my gift and my apologies."
He retreated hastily, crimson-faced and humiliated.
Viserys slumped into his seat, jaw tight, fingers clutching the stem of his wine goblet. The day's frustrations threatened to boil over.
He had just spoken with Laena Velaryon.
The girl who had once nearly become his wife now stood before him a poised and dangerous young woman. Graceful like her mother, cunning like her father, and bold enough to ride the largest dragon alive—Vhagar.
Laena's tone had been respectful, but her message was clear: her family's support was not guaranteed. Her uncle Vaemond's call for aid in the Stepstones, she insisted, was not an official plea from House Velaryon—but if needed, she and her mother, Rhaenys, could shift the tides with dragonfire.
It wasn't a threat.
But it may as well have been.
The Velaryons held half the royal fleet and three dragons. The royal house, after casting Daemon out, had only Rhaenyra and her small mount, Syrax.
Too little. Viserys thought bitterly. Too little to balance their weight.
And then—Jason Lannister had entered, proposing marriage to Rhaenyra. With the arrogance only a Lannister could possess, he spoke of "compensating her" for the inevitable moment when she would be replaced as heir.
As if she were cattle to be bartered.
Bang!
Viserys slammed his hand against the armrest, rattling plates and silencing murmurs. His eyes narrowed, teeth clenched.
"Arrogant fool," he spat. "He's not worthy of her."
What he didn't know—what no one had dared tell him—was that Jason had approached Rhaenyra earlier, uninvited, with greasy flattery and poorly masked entitlement. When rebuffed, he'd pivoted to Viserys, offering himself like a gift.
Just then, Otto Hightower entered the tent.
"Your Grace," the Hand said, bowing slightly, "the huntsmen have loosed the hounds. The white stag will soon be cornered."
Viserys gave him a sidelong look.
He didn't believe in the white stag. He never had. He saw it for what it was: Otto's attempt to spin a symbol for his grandson. Let Aegon glimpse the creature, and the court would whisper that it was a sign.
Otto said nothing more. He simply took his seat beside the king and folded his hands.
Viserys waved for wine.
His mind reeled—Vaemond's summons, Laena's dragon-backed diplomacy, Rhaenyra's growing isolation, and Otto's encroaching ambition.
One problem at a time.
"I suppose we should speak of Rhaenyra's match," Viserys said at last, slowly. "What do you think of Duke Jason's proposal?"
Otto straightened in his seat. "He's arrogant. Not fit."
That much, at least, Viserys agreed with.
Otto continued, carefully, "Princess Rhaenyra is your daughter. And your subject. You have the right to command her."
Viserys winced. "I don't want to command her. I want her to be happy."
Not everyone was so quick to marry off their daughters like cattle, he thought bitterly. He had named Rhaenyra heir not just to block Daemon, but because he loved her—because she was his legacy.
Otto leaned closer. "If not Casterly Rock, then perhaps someone closer to home."
Viserys raised an eyebrow.
Otto hesitated just long enough to feign humility. "A union that would settle disputes and silence proposals alike."
"Who?" Viserys asked, already suspicious.
Otto glanced toward the back of the tent.
There, in a playpen under the nursemaid's watchful eye, little Aegon sat chewing on a wooden lion, drooling all over his fine tunic.
Viserys followed his gaze, and his face fell.
"You cannot be serious."
Otto did not back down. "It would secure Rhaenyra's place. And Aegon's. No faction would dare oppose a united front."
Viserys stared at him, then burst into laughter—not from amusement, but disbelief.
"He's two," he said flatly.
Otto pressed. "A betrothal now would end speculation. End the pressure."
"You want to marry my daughter to a toddler," Viserys muttered.
The laughter faded. The wine turned bitter in his mouth.
Otto didn't stop.
"It would be better than Daemon's son, surely. Aemond has Daemon's blood. That blood is... dangerous."
A silence fell.
Viserys turned to him slowly.
His gaze was not angry. Not yet.
It was cold.
Dead.
"Otto," he said, voice low, "I came to hunt today. Not to be strangled by your scheming."
He raised his hand and mimicked
tightening fingers around his own throat.
Otto said nothing.
But inwardly, he knew—he had pushed too far.
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