The king had given his blessing—there was no turning back now.
Viserys beamed, clearly pleased. "Excellent. Now, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, do you have anyone in mind?"
"Uh…" Ser Harold Westerling hesitated, mentally running through the roster of white cloaks.
Strength was the first requirement. Harold, older now, rarely saw battle himself, remaining at the king's side or standing vigil over the princess.
Among the remaining Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole was without question the strongest. He'd bested both the Cargyll twins—who were no slouches themselves—in the tourney lists and was at the very height of his skill.
But Cole was already tied closely to the princess, whispered to be her personal protector, if not something more.
Harold frowned, uncertain. Besides Cole and himself, the Cargyll brothers and Ser Lorent were all accomplished warriors—men capable of taking on ten foes apiece. They were too valuable to spare from the king's defence.
Which left only two other names…
Finally, a thought came to him. He stepped closer and whispered the name into the king's ear.
"Him?" Viserys blinked, then smiled with dawning comprehension. "Ah, yes."
He turned towards the two white-cloaked knights flanking the door. "Ser Steffon—your king calls upon you."
Aemon, seated nearby, glanced towards the door.
Both white knights turned at the sound of the king's voice. The one on the right was familiar—he was the same knight who'd driven the wheelhouse to meet Aemon when he first arrived.
"Your Grace?" Ser Steffon approached with dutiful steps, expression sincere.
Viserys straightened his tunic, face composed with gravity. "From this day forward, I wish for you to serve as knight-instructor to Prince Aemon Targaryen. Help him become a true knight of the realm."
"Train the prince?" Steffon was taken aback. He'd not expected this.
The king raised a hand gently. "If this is an imposition, you may speak freely."
"Indeed," Ser Harold added, standing at attention. "You may refuse, Ser Steffon. The White Cloak binds you to service, not silence."
Steffon quickly gathered himself. "It would be my honour, Your Grace."
Viserys smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. Then it's settled." He turned to Aemon. "What say you, nephew? Shall this knight take you under his wing?"
Aemon rose, wiping his hands on a cloth and setting his expression into a solemn mask. "I would be honoured, Your Grace."
Refusing wasn't an option—and besides, this was a boon.
The Kingsguard, at this point in history, still held true to their vows. They were valiant, incorruptible, and above all, loyal. Not like the crumbling order they'd become in later decades.
He was young still, and needed a loyal sword at his back. If nothing else, it meant he wouldn't have to mutter insults about his uncle under his breath quite as often.
Viserys chuckled. "Well said."
His affection for Aemon was plain to see. Perhaps it was guilt—for all the years he'd ignored his nephew, choosing instead to shore up his claim to the Iron Throne. But things were changing. His bloodline was growing. He felt, perhaps, a twinge of familial duty.
That round, pale face was endearing. Certainly more agreeable than the wild, thoughtless nature of his bastard brother.
Aemon returned to his meal.
"What a fine boy," Viserys thought, watching him with quiet pride.
The Next Day
The Red Keep was awash with colour and noise as the court prepared to celebrate Prince Aegon's second name day—a warm-up, really, for the royal hunt to come.
Guests flowed through the halls, nobles and knights from all corners of the realm, all gathering for a glimpse of the king's heir.
A gaggle of lords surrounded the child in question, who was currently being cradled by a plump wet nurse while Queen Alicent beamed at her side. She offered polite smiles, basking in their praise.
"He's got his father's hair," someone said.
"No, no, it's the eyes that are just like the king's."
"What about the nose?" Viserys chimed in, lifting a cup of wine as he pinched his son's chubby cheek. The boy squealed in protest, drawing laughter from the crowd.
Elsewhere in the banquet hall, Aemon was doing his best to blend in with the dessert table, stacking his plate high and feasting happily.
No one here really knew who he was—and he preferred it that way.
"Prince Aemon," came a voice from beside him. It was Ser Steffon, dressed in his white cloak and polished silver plate. "A growing boy should pace himself. Smaller meals, eaten more often."
Aemon glanced up, jam smudged at the corners of his mouth, and grinned sheepishly. "Yes, Ser."
He was already stuffed.
Steffon nodded approvingly. The lad wasn't what he'd expected.
Word of the clash with Ser Cole had reached his ears, and he'd braced for a little troublemaker. But this boy was… polite. Even a touch shy.
Aemon wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. If only the knight knew what he was really like.
You're too quick to be pleased, old man.
Still, Aemon glanced sideways, examining his new guardian with quiet appraisal.
Not as terrifying as Gunthor. Not as dashing as the Seagull Knight. Steffon was squat, plain-featured, with the weary lines of a man who'd seen too much too young. Always seemed like he was thinking about something grim.
But he looked dependable.
"Right then," Aemon thought, "I'm the boss now."
He set down his plate and scanned the hall. He was looking for one person in particular.
Rhaenyra had promised to take him to the dragonpit today. He hadn't forgotten.
"Huh… not here?"
He stood on tiptoe, peering through the crowd—but no sign of her.
At that moment, a new arrival cut through the hall and approached the king with urgency.
Viserys had just coaxed another laugh from little Aegon and was enjoying the flattery of his lords.
"Your Grace," whispered Ser Tyland Lannister, slipping close, "urgent word from the Stepstones."
Viserys glanced at him, recognising the Sea Lord's son by his fine black doublet and golden hair.
"Your Grace—"
"Not now, Tyland," Viserys interrupted with a weary wave. "We're celebrating."
"But—"
"Let the Sea Snake and Daemon sort it," the king muttered. He turned away, nibbling on some candied plums, clearly unwilling to dampen his mood.
From his table, Aemon watched it all unfold.
Viserys caught his eye and smiled again, like nothing had happened.
Aemon smiled back, then slipped away.
The Stepstones? So the battle had begun.
He wasn't worried. Craghas Drahar might be a tough nut to crack, but eventually, he'd end up with a sword through the belly all the same.
A few steps away, Tyland was still pestering the king, who finally used his daughter as an excuse to flee.
"I'll go find her."
Alicent, who had overheard the exchange, sighed and nodded. She probably had a good idea where Rhaenyra had gone—likely sulking in their old secret haunt.
The two had been thick as thieves once. But since Alicent's marriage and the birth of Aegon, things had changed. The princess had become increasingly distant.
Aemon's eyes lit up. "I'll go with you!"
"No," said Alicent without looking. "You can help me look after the baby."
"What? Why me?!"
"I'm still a child," he muttered to himself.
"Yahhh~~" Aegon was shoved into his arms, wailing in protest.
"Stop that. I'm protesting too," Aemon scowled.
The little prince kicked and squealed. "Yahh~~"
"Speak properly," Aemon snapped. "You're two, not fresh from the womb like Helaena."
"Yahh~~"
"Fine. You want to scream? I can scream louder."
Grinning devilishly, Aemon cradled the squirming toddler and ducked away from the crowd—nabbing a plate of blueberries on his way out.
Time to show this brat what a real tantrum looks like.