Being scolded in a calm, adult tone by a child, Ser Cole was stunned into silence.
He opened his mouth, trying to muster a retort, something to defend himself—
Bang!
A broad hand, like a fan woven from cattail leaves, slapped against his chest.
A towering figure loomed over him like a shadow swallowing the sun.
Gunthor had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere. His face was grim as stone. "White Cloak," he growled, "you're in our prince's way."
With that, he stepped forward, forcing Ser Cole to stumble backward.
Cole staggered, wide-eyed as the man's unshaven stubble—sharp as steel needles—nearly grazed his face.
The castle's forecourt was bustling with people, and the sudden commotion quickly drew attention. Ministers, nobles, and foreign guests turned their heads at once.
Now this was entertaining.
The scent of drama in the air brought onlookers swarming like flies to honey, whispering amongst themselves, delighted at the show.
Aemon looked up and called out, surprised but pleased, "Gunthor, you're here?"
"Mm," the big man grunted, eyes locked onto Ser Cole with undisguised contempt.
As it turned out, Gunthor had been left outside the main halls with two of the other guards. While the others were seeing to rooms and logistics, he'd taken to wandering the Red Keep, snacking and loafing.
It was by chance that he'd stumbled upon the tail end of Cole's posturing.
Gunthor cracked his lips and spat at Cole's feet with a loud, "Ha-tui!"
He didn't care for politics. But humiliating someone like Cole? That was catharsis.
Cole went pale at the blatant insult and immediately reached for the sword on his hip.
Gunthor bared his teeth in a grin, full of menace. "Go on. Try it."
He was daring him—welcoming the excuse to break bones.
Cole trembled with fury, glancing at the crowd. If not for the witnesses, he might've drawn then and there. But killing this uncouth brute in broad daylight, in front of nobles? He wasn't that stupid.
Aemon stood between them, eyes wide with curiosity, watching Gunthor with new appreciation.
Despite that scruffy, worn face etched with the exhaustion of a working man, Gunthor stood his ground with unwavering loyalty. He might grumble about duties and grumble louder about orders—but he showed up when it counted.
Standing there, shoulders squared, Gunthor made Ser Cole—tall and noble—look small.
He was a walking fortress.
So this is what it feels like to have a real bodyguard, Aemon thought with an admiring glance. Like standing behind the Bronze Giant himself.
Just as the standoff teetered on the edge of violence, a voice thundered through the air.
"Cole! What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!"
Everyone turned.
Marching in through the gates was a silver-haired man in his fifties, broad-shouldered and draped in the white and silver of the Kingsguard. His presence alone silenced the court.
Ser Harrold Westerling—Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Cole stiffened, his expression flickering as he bowed. "Commander."
Harrold's stern gaze swept across the scene. "I asked you a question, Ser Cole."
Cole stepped back and lowered his eyes. There was no defending this.
Aemon, standing casually, looked on without speaking. He wanted to see how Harrold would handle this.
The Lord Commander turned to him with a more cordial tone. "Prince Aemon, I hope this fool hasn't delayed your day?"
Aemon gave a small shake of his head. "It was a minor thing, Ser."
Harrold removed his helm and exhaled in relief.
Thank the gods.
Cole was still new to the White Cloak. He'd joined only after Queen Aemma's passing, and it wasn't entirely surprising that he hadn't yet met Prince Aemon. But that didn't excuse rudeness.
Just then, another figure stepped into the courtyard, curiosity written across her face.
Aemon caught sight of her and blinked.
It was a girl, around twelve, clad in a black riding outfit of fine make, with silver-gold hair cascading down her back. She pulled off her gloves as she walked, each step full of grace and casual authority.
Flawless skin. Eyes like polished amethysts. Her Targaryen blood practically shimmered in the sunlight.
They locked eyes.
The connection was immediate. Silver hair. Violet eyes. Blood called to blood.
Aemon's lips parted in recognition. "Rhaenyra."
Her face lit up at once. "Aemon! Gods, it is you!"
She strode over swiftly, her earlier foul mood forgotten.
It had been a while since she'd seen the boy.
Aemon gave her a cheeky smile. "I saw you this morning on dragonback. Very majestic."
Rhaenyra's face faltered briefly. "Ah… I didn't know you were here. Did I... fly over your ship?"
"You did," Aemon replied, rolling his eyes theatrically. And you knew it too, don't lie.
"I'm sorry. I was in a mood." She reached out and ruffled his hair. "Didn't expect to find you here."
His hair was soft, like silk with a bit of curl. She couldn't resist.
"I forgive you," Aemon said with a dramatic sigh. "But you owe me."
They both laughed.
The crowd, sensing the tension had defused, began to disperse.
Harrold gave Cole a warning glance. The younger knight understood and backed off without a word.
With the princess present, the dynamics shifted entirely.
Aemon noticed it all—but he had no interest in dragging it out. Cole had embarrassed himself enough. No heads needed to roll.
"Rhaenyra, did you just return from the dragonpit?" Aemon asked, taking her hand with a grin. "Could you take me there sometime?"
He'd seen Balerion's skull and earned a hundred points of essence. If he could get close to a living dragon—imagine the gains.
Rhaenyra tightened her grip on his hand, tugging him gently toward Maegor's Holdfast. "Not today. It's getting late."
"That's fine. Another day, then. Just don't forget me."
"I won't," she said with a smile.
That evening, candlelight danced across the walls of the King's private chamber.
King Viserys I Targaryen sat slumped in a padded chair, his limbs weary from court affairs. Yet his face held a quiet satisfaction.
"Well? What do you think?" he asked.
Across from him, Queen Alicent sat with her hands folded, thoughtful.
"You mean… about Aemon?"
Viserys nodded, lifting his bandaged ring finger and waving it lazily. "He's a fine choice."
He seemed genuinely pleased. "The Council didn't all agree, of course, but it's a start."
He'd lost countless nights' sleep worrying over Rhaenyra's future.
She was twelve now—nearly of age—and the flood of suitors had already begun. Letters from across the realm were piling up, taller than a hound.
Alicent frowned slightly. "Does my father approve?"
"Otto?" Viserys grinned. "Yes, surprisingly."
Alicent lowered her gaze, concealing the flicker of suspicion in her eyes.
"I don't doubt Aemon's qualities," she said carefully. "But… he's young. There may be others more suited."
Viserys leaned back, watching her with raised brows.
"The Council did consider Ser Laenor Velaryon," he mused aloud. "He's of age. Valyrian blood. Dragonseed."
But he didn't sound convinced.
The truth was plain: Aemon had support from Runestone, and more importantly, from Daemon.
Uniting those two houses could heal a rift that had festered too long.
Laenor, on the other hand, was the son of Corlys Velaryon—the Sea Snake. Powerful, yes, but a threat in his own right.
Viserys wasn't eager to tie himself tighter to that ambition.
And then came a knock at the door…
[To be continued]