Autumn, 108 AC.
Before dawn on the second day at the Kingswood encampment.
The color of night had not yet fully faded; the sky above the encampment was still a tapestry of deep blue and gray, while the eastern horizon faintly revealed threads of gold and red, like candlelight hidden behind heavy curtains.
On the other side of the sky, the moon had not yet completely set, and a few stars still glimmered faintly.
Together with the rising sun and the fading night, they outlined the scene of dawn, dimly illuminating everything within the encampment…
The camp was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the watch fires and the restless stamping of horses in the distant stables.
A candle flickered in Rhaenyra’s tent, casting a dim, swaying light.
The young girl stood in the center of the tent, having already shed her nightgown, and was clumsily pulling on a dark black coarse-cloth hunting tunic.
However, the cloak she had prepared was clearly borrowed from a handmaiden—it was far too large for her, the sleeves needing to be rolled up several times, and the hem nearly reaching her calves.
Frustrated, she cinched her waist with a leather belt, her movements slightly rough with anger.
Aegon lay quietly on the low cot covered in furs nearby, watching her with open eyes.
In truth, after feigning sleep yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t slept much all night.
On one hand, he wasn’t accustomed to the hard ground of the wilderness camp; on the other, he was exhilarated—his “pit-trap” bloodline system had remained unresponsive ever since Sunfyre hatched and bound to him.
Aside from a riddle-like panel, there were only a few large red characters indicating “to be unlocked.”
After the news of the White Hart arrived yesterday afternoon, it had finally reacted.
For him, having already slept enough due to the limited activity of his young body, how could he possibly fall asleep?
However, as he watched Rhaenyra changing clothes in the dim candlelight, a sense of absurdity welled up within him.
The strange view of destiny in the world of Ice and Fire, he thought.
Even with his interference, which had slowed down the timeline of the hunt from the original work and changed Rhaenyra’s solo forest excursion from afternoon to dawn, this stubborn “silly girl” would still run off in a fit of pique.
Eleven-year-old Rhaenyra was both a sensitive and precocious heir to the throne, as well as a girl who would throw tantrums, act willful, pout, and believe that by “sneaking away,” she could “escape reality,” “attract attention,” and “receive love.”
However, the “rustling” sound of fabric suddenly stopped.
Rhaenyra turned her head and discovered that Aegon was watching her with his eyes open.
Candlelight danced in those purple eyes, which were far too alert for a toddler who had just woken up.
Her face turned red instantly, blushing all the way to her ears.
“Aegon!” she whispered, trying to keep her voice low, both embarrassed and annoyed.
“Close your eyes!
Don’t look!”
She hurried to the side of the cot and covered Aegon’s eyes with her hand.
Her palm was warm, carrying the faint scent of soap and the unique fragrance of a young girl.
Aegon closed his eyes helplessly.
He thought to himself: Setting aside the memories of his past life and his own mental age, even just considering the education he received in his previous life, how could he be interested in this eleven-year-old girl whose body hadn’t even begun to develop?
He was not his father in this life, Viserys—the King who married a young handmaiden not long after his wife died in childbirth—nor was he his uncle Daemon, known for his philandering ways.
In terms of aesthetics, he did share similarities with the Aegon II of the original work: a preference for more mature women.
However, like the Aegon II of the original, he was not as desperate as his future younger brother, Aemond, to believe that “women are like fine wine; the older, the better”…
He liked those “big sisters” who were of the right age, with young faces and figures, of course…
Ahem, this was slightly damaging to his image as the wise and mighty Emperor Aegon.
It must be that his “rebirth” hadn’t been thorough enough, and the “sinful” soul of “Aegon II” was “influencing” him…
Yes, it must be the reason of “Aegon II”; he was, after all, a wise and mighty transmigrator…
As for his future “rebellious brother” Aemond, once he was born, he, as the older brother, would definitely have to “educate” him properly.
As for those “forest witches” of unknown age, he would just have to bear that burden for him…
Ahem, how did his thoughts wander so far off?
It was all “Aegon II’s” fault!
Back to the main point: why did Rhaenyra “slander” him so much…
Who told our “silly Realm’s Delight” to always forget to avoid him, her “year-old younger brother,” when changing clothes?
“Are you done?” Aegon asked, returning to his senses, his voice carrying the slurred tone of someone feigning just-woken sleepiness.
“Almost…
don’t open your eyes!”
Rhaenyra peeked out of the tent, then immediately retreated in a panic to the center, hurriedly continuing to dress.
She pulled on an inconspicuous old wool cloak; it was dark red with frayed edges, but thick enough to keep out the cold.
Finally, she pulled on a pair of sturdy leather boots and tucked a small dagger into the side—a gift from her father, Viserys, for her name day last year.
The blade was only a palm’s length, inlaid with rubies, and looked more like a decorative piece than a weapon.
Once dressed, she turned to look at Aegon.
The boy was still “obediently” keeping his eyes closed, his silver eyelashes casting tiny shadows in the candlelight, his small face appearing exceptionally soft in the dim light.
The sky outside the tent had brightened; the deep blue had faded to a grayish-blue, and the gold and red in the east had begun to stain the clouds.
The first birdsong came from within the camp, followed by a second, then a third, and soon it merged into a chorus.
Rhaenyra bit her lower lip, struggling internally.
Should she take this “little rascal” with her?
If she didn’t, he would surely cry and make a fuss.
But if she did…
A child of just over a year old, in the forest…
what if something happened…
She turned her head to look at the brightening sky through the gap in the tent flap, then looked back at Aegon on the cot.
The boy seemed to sense her hesitation and opened his eyes.
Their eyes met.
Aegon’s eyes were like two amethysts in the dim candlelight, clear and bright, watching her expectantly.
That gaze was like the two brightest little stars in the night sky, flickering with a plea that made one’s heart soften.
But when he slightly pouted his lips, the expression turned into a naked “threat”—if you dare not take me, I will cry immediately.
Rhaenyra glared at her “rebellious brother,” and Aegon glared back.
A few seconds later, the young girl closed her eyes in defeat and took a deep breath.
“Come here,” she whispered, her voice full of helplessness.
Aegon immediately scrambled up, his movements far too agile for a toddler of a year old.
Rhaenyra wrapped him in her cloak and gathered him into her arms, leaving only his little face exposed.
The boy’s body was warm and soft, resting obediently on her shoulder, his small hands wrapped around her neck.
“No making a sound,” Rhaenyra warned.
“No moving around, no causing trouble.
Otherwise, I will never take you out again.”
Aegon nodded, burying his face in the crook of her neck to signal absolute obedience.
Rhaenyra lifted a corner of the tent flap and peered out.
The camp was still half-awake; only a few early-rising servants were adding firewood to the hearths, and smoke was rising from the kitchen tents in the distance.
She lowered her hood, hugged Aegon, and slipped out of the tent like a dark red shadow.
Once out of the tent, the cold morning air rushed to meet her.
“Colder than I expected,” Rhaenyra shivered, wrapping Aegon tighter in her arms.
She moved along the edge of the tents, avoiding the main path, and circled toward the back of the camp—where it was actually closer to the forest and the guards were relatively sparse.
But she had forgotten one thing.
Having walked only a dozen steps, a golden figure rose from the shadows.
Sunfyre had been curled up on the open ground not far from Rhaenyra’s tent, like a sleeping mountain.
Now it raised its head, its golden eyes like two small lamps in the morning light, staring straight at the siblings.
Rhaenyra froze.
Aegon saw Sunfyre through the gap in the cloak and sighed inwardly: This silly girl, how could she forget this “door-blocking” bodyguard when she left?
Sunfyre stepped closer, its movements light and silent.
Having undergone “abnormal growth,” it had already grown to the size of a small pony, but it walked like a big cat, its paws making almost no sound as they touched the ground.
It lowered its head, its nose nuzzling close to Aegon in Rhaenyra’s arms, the hot breath it exhaled carrying the scent of sulfur.
Rhaenyra looked at the golden dragon, then at Aegon, who wore an innocent expression in her arms, and finally, she made a reluctant decision.
She extended her free hand, pressed her index finger to her lips, and together with Aegon in her arms, they made a “shh” gesture in perfect unison.
Then, she pointed at Sunfyre, made the “shh” gesture again, pointed toward the forest, and finally mouthed in Valyrian: “Quiet, follow, me.”
Sunfyre tilted its head.
The intelligence of dragons is immeasurable, but this golden dragon, which hatched in its master’s cradle in less than three days, was clearly extraordinary.
It seemed to understand, blinking its golden eyes, and then—
It performed an action that nearly made Rhaenyra laugh out loud.
Sunfyre tucked in its foreclaws (those forelimbs integrated with its wings; the Valyrian dragons in A Song of Ice and Fire are wyverns, because the original author, Martin, believes four-legged dragons are just lizards with wings) and, like a cat, “tiptoed,” supporting its body only on its hind legs.
It pressed its wings tightly against its sides, even lifting its tail, with the tip slightly curved, as if trying hard to maintain its balance.
The whole appearance was like a child trying to sneak into the kitchen to steal a snack, tiptoeing along, both comical and cute.
Rhaenyra couldn’t help but chuckle, lowering her head to plant a big kiss on Aegon’s forehead as a reward for his “good training.”
Aegon, however, rolled his eyes in her arms—this silly girl, it was clearly she who misled Sunfyre with her body language, yet now she was giving him the credit.
Furthermore, the way she stroked his hair was just like petting an obedient puppy.
Forget it, for the greater good, he would endure it.
The two of them and the dragon, in this bizarre posture, moved silently toward the back of the camp.
Rhaenyra carried Aegon, with Sunfyre tiptoeing three steps behind, its golden scales reflecting a faint shimmer in the brightening daylight.
And what they didn’t notice was a figure watching everything silently from behind a tent at the edge of the camp.
Ser Criston Cole leaned against his mount, wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard, but covered with a dark grey cloak for disguise.
He should have rested after his shift at dawn, but after hearing the report about the White Hart yesterday, and then hearing about the conflict at the princess’s tea party and the farce of Jason Lannister’s marriage proposal, he, with his heart “tied” to the princess, found it truly hard to sleep.
So he rose early, using the excuse of a patrol, when in reality he wanted to clear his thoughts.
Then, he saw Princess Rhaenyra, whom he had been thinking of.
The princess was holding the prince, her hood pulled low, sneaking toward the forest.
Sunfyre’s comical walking posture behind her should have been laughable, but Cole couldn’t laugh.
He saw the stubbornness on her face when Rhaenyra turned to gesture at the dragon, saw the strength in her arms as she held her brother tightly, and saw the determination in her stride as she walked toward the forest.
Without hesitation, Cole mounted his horse.
His mount was a dark grey steed; he had specifically wrapped its hooves in cloth, making its movement almost silent.
He kept his distance, following far behind the siblings and the dragon, his gaze vigilantly scanning the surrounding forest. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Although the Kingswood was nominally a royal hunting ground, it was vast, and deep within, there were still wild boars, wolf packs, and even rumors of shadowcats.
It was too dangerous to let the princess and the prince enter alone.
And just as Rhaenyra, carrying Aegon, with Sunfyre following behind and Cole following in the distance, slipped out from a gap in the back fence of the camp, awkwardly “borrowed” a small white pony, and stepped into the oak forest at the edge of the Kingswood—
At the front of the camp, the sound of a horn rang out.
Woo—woooo—
The deep, resonant horn sound pierced the morning silence, startling countless birds in the forest.
Then came the second blast, the third, seven long calls in total, representing the King’s hunt.
The hunting party of Viserys I set out from the front gate of the camp.
The King himself rode a gentle white mare, dressed in magnificent hunting attire, even his cloak featuring the black and red colors of House Targaryen.
On his left was, naturally, our Ser Otto Hightower.
Our Lord Hand had also specially changed into hunting attire today, his grey hair combed meticulously, a long sword at his waist; although he hadn’t hunted personally for many years, his posture remained upright.
If Ser Otto was on the left, then on the other side of His Majesty—the right—was naturally His Majesty’s other good friend, Lord Lyonel Strong.
This Master of Laws looked like a true hunter just by his appearance, his gaze scanning the forest sharply.
The party included various great lords:
Borros Baratheon rode a temperamental black horse, his laughter booming;
Mace Tyrell’s eldest son, Garlan Tyrell, elegantly controlled his mount, whispering to his mother beside him;
Beside Tyland Lannister, Jason Lannister’s expression remained somewhat gloomy.
Apparently, after being rejected by the princess yesterday afternoon, someone else had upset him, but he still put on light hunting armor under the “urging” of his twin brother, Tyland;
Old Grover Tully sat on a gentle old horse, his grandson Elmo leading the reins.
The Kingsguard accompanied him, all except Cole, with six white figures scattered around the King.
Squires, hunters, and dog handlers formed a grand procession, totaling nearly a hundred people.
The hounds barked excitedly, the sound of hooves was like muffled thunder, and banners fluttered in the morning breeze—
The three-headed red dragon of Targaryen, the crowned stag of Baratheon, the roaring lion of Lannister, the golden rose of the green fields of Tyrell…
“Today’s target is the White Hart!” Viserys announced loudly, his voice carrying far in the morning air, “This is an auspicious sign bestowed upon us by the Seven, the King of the Kingswood!
Whoever can bring it back shall be rewarded with a thousand gold dragons!”
The crowd cheered.
The horn sounded again.
The procession was like a colorful giant python, slowly slithering deep into the Kingswood, heading toward the oak valley in the northeast where the white stag had been spotted yesterday.
Meanwhile, at the back of the camp, at the edge of the oak forest, Rhaenyra also heard the horn blasts and cheers, her steps faltering for a moment.
She turned back, and through the gaps in the trees, she could vaguely see the receding banners and the rising dust.
Aegon, in her arms, felt her body stiffen for an instant.
“They have gone to find the White Hart,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice filled with complex emotions—
Anger, grievance, and perhaps a trace of loneliness from being left out.
Then she turned her head back and continued riding the small white pony toward the depths of the forest, the horse’s pace faster and more resolute.
Sunfyre no longer tiptoed, returning to its normal gait behind her, but remained silent.
And not far away, Criston Cole reined in his horse, stopping at the edge of the woods.
He watched the princess disappear into the deeper shade of the trees, then looked back at the direction where the King’s party had gone.
After hesitating for a moment, he gently kicked his horse’s belly, choosing to follow Rhaenyra.
Three paths extended in different directions in the Kingswood on that autumn morning.
Rhaenyra and Aegon, toward Sunfyre, toward the tranquility and freedom of the forest.
Cole, toward duty and secret guardianship.
Viserys and the entire kingdom’s nobility, toward legends, auspicious signs, and the symbols of power.
The morning light finally spread fully, painting the eastern sky in gold and red.
The mist in the forest began to dissipate, and dew twinkled on the grass like diamonds.
Birdsong rose and fell, and the murmuring of a stream came from afar.
The forest had awakened.
And in the deeper shadows, something was also waking up.
Aegon lay on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, watching the retreating trees and the brightening light and shadows in the forest, when the system interface deep in his consciousness suddenly flickered:
[High concentration of magical residue detected…]
[Location: Deep within the Kingswood]
[Attribute: Nature/Prophecy/Fate]
[Associated Event: The White Hart (Omen of Kings)]
[Warning: Approaching…]
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the forest’s morning air.
Cold, fresh, carrying the scent of soil, decaying leaves, and an indescribable ancient aura from afar.
The game had entered a new map.
And the first real challenge was waiting, deep in the mist-filled forest ahead.