At first light the guards found a body in the Kingswood.
It belonged to the minor lord who had shouted “Prince Aegon forever!” the day before—the same man the king had marked with quiet anger.
The corpse was a ruin.
The belly had been emptied of every organ.
The tongue had been cut out with deliberate care.
Viserys summoned the captain of the watch and demanded answers in a voice tight with fury.
A royal hunt prepared for the return of the firstborn heir was no place for an omen this black.
“Every approach has been examined, Your Grace.
Nothing appears forced.” “Could it have been a black bear?
Or a private enemy of the dead man?” Viserys drew a long breath.
Both possibilities existed, yet neither mattered as much as the need for a culprit.
“Otto, this is yours.
Find the killer before the hunt ends.” “Yes, Your Grace.” Otto’s brow furrowed as he left.
A death of this sort was almost unheard of in Westeros.
To have it occur here, among every great house of the realm, risked drawing dangerous eyes toward House Hightower.
Once Otto was gone, Viserys prepared to ride out with his huntsmen and scouts.
The maesters of the Citadel claimed the white hart was more than the ancient emblem of the Kingswood—its blood possessed rare healing power.
The gods had already returned his son to him.
Perhaps they would grant the hart as well.
Baelor stepped forward.
“Father, may I come with you to seek the white hart?” He loved the clean air of the forest far more than the confined scent of the camp.
Viserys laid both hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“The chase will be long and hard, my child.
Your body cannot bear it.
Forgive your father this once.” Baelor did not press.
“As you wish.
May I at least ride the nearer woods?
Ser Erryk will stay with me.” “You may—if you swear you will keep clear of danger.” “I swear it by the Seven.” Viserys kissed his brow, then turned to the white cloak.
“Guard the prince with your life.” Erryk removed his helm and bowed.
“While I draw breath, no harm will touch him.
I swear it on the white cloak.” The king’s hunting party thundered away.
Baelor mounted a quiet palfrey and prepared to ride west with his shadow.
“Where is my sister?” “The princess rode out with Ser Criston Cole, my prince.
I do not know their destination.” Baelor only shook his head.
“A pity.
She will miss the view.
Come, Ser.” They rode west through the trees.
By the time the sun began to sink, Erryk had led them to a high ridge.
From the crest the entire royal camp lay visible below, and far beyond it the distant haze of King’s Landing.
“Help me down, Ser.” Erryk lifted the slight body from the saddle.
Baelor walked to the edge of the drop and slowly opened his right hand, as though measuring the camp and the capital against his palm.
“So that is what the books mean by ‘within reach.'” He had never forgotten Maester Orville’s lesson: a thousand books equal a thousand miles walked.
“The slope is steep, my prince.
Have a care.” Erryk stayed close, terrified the boy might simply vanish over the edge.
“I will not place myself in—” Baelor stopped.
To his left stood a white hart of impossible size—nearly five meters at the shoulder, antlers like a crown, every line of it noble and ancient.
Amber eyes regarded him without fear.
“The king of the forest,” Baelor whispered.
He knew the histories.
Before the Targaryens had claimed Westeros, this creature had ruled the Kingswood and been called an omen of true kingship.
Erryk’s sword cleared its scabbard at once.
“It is strong, my prince.
In single combat I can still get you clear.” The hart tilted its head, gaze fixed past the knight on the boy.
Then it flicked its neck in a clear, almost human summons.
“It is calling me, Ser.
Stay where you are.” Baelor stepped out of Erryk’s reach and walked forward without haste.
“Prince—!” Erryk moved to follow.
The hart instantly lowered its head and presented its antlers to the knight, mild manner vanished.
“It means me no harm,” Baelor said.
“I can feel it.
Do not interfere.
That is a command.” Erryk had no choice.
He sheathed the blade and waited a short distance away.
The hart relaxed.
It lowered its great head and sniffed the air around the boy.
Baelor raised a hand and laid it against the pure white coat.
The fur was soft as silk and somehow weightless, as though the beast wore a robe of living light.
“Why have you come to me?” he asked quietly.
He did not believe the meeting was chance.
The dream of the Cannibal still lingered.
The moment the words left his mouth, blood welled from the white fur in sudden rivers.
It ran over both of Baelor’s hands and up his arms, soaking into skin and vanishing as though it had never been.
He jerked his hands away.
Blinding white light swallowed everything.
When his vision cleared he was seated once more on the palfrey.
Erryk rode ahead, reins in hand.
“You woke, my prince.
We have reached the overlook.
Shall I help you down to see the view?” Baelor blinked, still half in the strange dream.
“Yes… help me down.” Erryk lifted him from the saddle.
This time Baelor did not walk to the cliff.
He turned at once to the left.
The white hart stood exactly where it had before.
Only now the left side of its coat was stained deep scarlet, several drops of blood still wet among the hairs.
It did not approach.
The moment Baelor’s eyes met its own, the creature turned and vanished into the trees.
At the same instant Baelor felt a slow, spreading heat bloom in both of his palms.