Inside the tent the maesters of the Citadel set to work with practiced indifference.
They opened a vein in the prince’s arm and studied the color and thickness of his blood.
They collected his waste and urine, sniffing and peering with clinical detachment.
One even prepared a large tub of green, bubbling liquid and announced an enema.
Baelor’s shout brought Erryk and Rhaenyra bursting through the flaps before the maesters could proceed.
Rhaenyra pulled her brother behind her.
“What is the result?” The senior maester bowed.
“Princess, the blood is sound in every respect.
The remaining examinations will require until morning.” Relief softened her face.
“Then we are finished for now.
I am taking him to rest.” The maesters bowed them out and returned to their jars.
In the royal pavilion Rhaenyra settled Baelor on the bed and waited until his breathing evened.
“Brother, Ser Erryk swears the two of you never saw a white hart.
Explain.” Baelor held nothing back.
He told her everything—the ridge, the creature’s summons, the blood that soaked into his skin, the flash of white light, and the second glimpse of the bloodstained hart.
“I do not believe it was a dream, sister.
The touch felt too real.” Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed.
She knew the long years of nightmares that had wasted his body; she had brought Citadel healers more than once, all without lasting effect.
“Perhaps we should speak to Father.
Once, when he was deep in his cups, he told me our house has produced dreamers—people whose sleep shows them truths.
The description sounded very like you.” The memory was old and blurred.
Baelor only shrugged.
His body felt strong now.
With a proper knight to train him he would become a worthy heir soon enough.
“I am too tired to wonder.
I have been walking half the day.
Sleep first.” He kicked off his boots and burrowed into the blankets.
Rhaenyra sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and kissed his forehead.
“Good night, little brother.
Dream well.” At dawn a raven reached the king.
Viserys abandoned the hunt and rode hard for camp, arriving before the maesters finished their final report.
“How is my son?” The healers, having spent the night examining every sample, delivered the news under the king’s direct gaze.
“Your Grace, every test confirms robust health.
The prince is still somewhat weak, yet with proper rest and food he will soon be as strong as any boy his age.” The sudden joy left Viserys momentarily speechless.
He recovered, dismissed the maesters with a purse of gold, and turned to a servant.
“Where is the prince now?” “In the royal pavilion, Your Grace.
The princess keeps watch beside him.” Viserys strode there at once, leaving his guards outside.
“Rhaenyra—how is he?” Baelor set down the bread he had been eating and met his father’s eyes with bright excitement.
“I am well, Father.
Yesterday in the Kingswood I dreamed of the white hart.
It came to me and blessed me with its blood.
That is why I am whole again.” At the word “dream” the king’s expression changed.
“Tell me exactly what you saw.” Baelor repeated the account he had given Rhaenyra.
Viserys gripped both of the boy’s shoulders.
“If I am not mistaken, your dreams carry the power of foresight.” Rhaenyra spoke carefully.
“Father, is this the same gift you once mentioned—the dreamers of our house?” Viserys looked at her with startled pride, then with something deeper.
The white hart, living emblem of kingship, had never shown itself to him.
Yet his firstborn, on his very first visit to the Kingswood, had not only seen the creature but received its blood.
Such fortune was almost beyond belief.
He drew from his belt one of the three ancestral treasures of House Targaryen—the dagger with the dragonbone hilt—and placed it in Baelor’s hands.
“Look closely.
Tell me what you see.” Baelor raised the blade.
Tiny, dense High Valyrian letters covered the steel.
He had studied the tongue for years in Oldtown; few living could read it more fluently.
“‘The prince that was promised… the savior of legend… shall once more drive the fire…'” He rendered the sense in plain speech.
Viserys’s face shone with quiet satisfaction.
Both the Citadel and Rhaenyra had told him how diligently the boy studied.
“You have it right, my son.
These words record the dream of Aegon the Conqueror—the Song of Ice and Fire.
Not a singer’s fancy, but a true prophecy.” He spoke with deliberate weight.
“From this day you carry a burden no ordinary king has known.
Remember the Long Night.
Remember the cold that comes with it.
Tell your children, and their children after them.” Baelor bowed his head.
The words stirred an old phrase he had read in the histories: Winter is Coming, the words of House Stark.
Was there a thread that bound the two?
Rhaenyra, less burdened by such thoughts, simply stared at her father, newly aware of the weight he had borne alone.
Viserys sheathed the dagger and pressed it firmly into Baelor’s grasp.
“I give you this not only as a blessing for your new strength, but as a reminder.
The Iron Throne is never a seat of ease.
It is a trial the gods set upon every king.” He turned and left the pavilion without waiting for a reply.
Baelor remained where he stood, the dragonbone dagger balanced across his palms.
He studied the ancient letters once more, then the reflection of his own face in the polished steel.
Am I the prince the prophecy spoke of?
The question settled quietly in his mind and would not leave.