When the morning light had completely dispersed the fog, the hunting party led by Viserys had already ventured deep into the heart of the Kingswood.
The forest grew more ancient here.
The trunks of oaks, ashes, and sentinel trees were as thick as castle towers, their crowns weaving into a dense green canopy high above, allowing only sparse shafts of light to slant down and cast shifting patches of brightness on the floor of decaying leaves.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, the faint musk of fungi, and the ethereal sweetness of distant wildflowers.
The pack of hounds darted ahead, their black-and-white forms appearing and disappearing in the thickets, letting out excited short barks.
They were following a scent—
Not the White Hart, but the more common tracks left by wild boars or deer herds.
But no one urged them to turn back, for everyone understood that the true target would not be easily found by hounds.
The White Hart was a legend, an auspicious omen; it would only appear at the time and place it chose.
Viserys sat atop his white mare, his gaze sweeping across the trees on either side.
His expression seemed focused, but those familiar with him could see the absent-mindedness beneath that focus.
His fingers unconsciously tapped on the reins, a habitual motion when he was thinking or anxious.
To his left, Otto Hightower controlled his mount to maintain a respectful distance of half a horse-length.
Though the Hand of the King had specifically chosen an unassuming dark grey hunting outfit today, it was well-tailored, making his figure appear upright.
His gaze rarely lingered on the trees or the hounds; more often, he was observing the King, observing the other dukes, and assessing everyone’s expressions and interactions.
To the right, Count Lyonel Strong looked much more like a true hunter.
Already burly, the bald man leaned his body slightly forward, his dark brown eyes sharply scanning the ground for tracks, broken twigs, and the freshness of droppings.
Occasionally, he would raise a hand to signal the party to change direction, his movements decisive and professional.
“To the left,” Lyonel whispered, “there are fresh hoofprints.
Not the White Hart, but likely a herd.
The White Hart might also be mixed in with common deer.”
The party turned.
The horses’ hooves made a dull rustling sound as they stepped on the thick fallen leaves.
Behind the King and his ministers, the nobility, led by several dukes, formed a loose column.
Borros Baratheon had long since grown impatient; he urged his horse forward a few steps to ride alongside Viserys.
“Your Grace, are we just going to wander aimlessly after the hounds?” the young Lord of the Stormlands’ voice was booming, startling several forest birds.
“If you ask me, we should split up.
The Kingswood is so vast that a single deer, even a White Hart, could hide from us for ten days.”
Viserys glanced at him and gave a forced smile.
“Patience, Borros.
The essence of the hunt is not in the result, but in the process.”
“I’ve had enough of the process,” Borros grumbled, but he still slowed down and retreated to his original position.
His brother, Orys Baratheon, shook his head at him, signaling him to speak less.
Garlan Tyrell, son of Mace Tyrell, followed quietly behind his parents.
This young heir to The Reach had the typical handsome face of the Tyrell family, but his gaze was steadier than his father’s.
He would occasionally converse in low tones with his mother, Lady Redwyne, but most of the time he was observing his surroundings and learning.
The brothers Jason Lannister and Tyland Lannister lagged slightly behind the party.
From the start of the journey until now, Jason had hardly spoken, his face as dark as a sky before a storm.
His twin brother Tyland had tried to speak with him several times, only to be brusquely rebuffed.
Everyone knew the reason—
Yesterday afternoon in the camp clearing, he had been publicly rejected by Rhaenyra and then toyed with by Sunfyre’s flames, becoming a laughingstock.
Of course, there were other reasons as well…
Old Grafton Tully, his horse led by his grandson Elmo, rode in the safest middle section of the party.
The old man had his eyes closed, seemingly dozing, but whenever the party changed direction or someone spoke, his eyelids would quiver slightly.
The six Kingsguard, led by Ser Harrold Westerling, were dispersed at key positions throughout the party, their white cloaks particularly conspicuous in the green woods.
Their hands were always near their sword hilts, their eyes alertly scanning every shadow.
The party continued deeper, but everyone’s thoughts were different.
Time wound back to yesterday afternoon, when Prince Aegon’s fake crying led Rhaenyra to carry him out of Viserys’s tent as the sun began to dip but had not yet set.
The same forest, a different group of people.
Viserys had taken a small group of confidants—
Otto, Lyonel, Harrold, as well as Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand of the Kingsguard—
After learning news of the White Hart, he actually couldn’t wait for the large-scale hunt the next day and personally entered the forest to search.
At that time, the camp was still preparing for the banquet, with cooking smoke curling up, and most nobles were resting or socializing.
They found tracks.
On the soft mud by a small stream, there was a string of clear hoofprints, larger and deeper than those of a common stag.
Following the tracks for half a mile, they found fresh droppings in a patch of ferns—dark brown, clumped, and still emitting a slight steam.
“It just left,” Lyonel checked personally, squatting down to twist apart a clump of droppings.
“There are undigested acorns inside.
It was feeding here.”
Viserys’s eyes brightened.
“Can we catch up?”
Lyonel looked toward the west, where the sun was already close to the treetops and the light in the forest was beginning to dim.
“Your Grace, in an hour at most, it will be completely dark.
Hunting deep in the Kingswood at night is too dangerous, and…” He paused.
If it doesn’t want to be found, we won’t catch it.”
Disappointment flashed across the King’s face.
He stared at the pile of droppings as if trying to read an oracle from them.
Otto stepped forward then.
Standing half a step behind Viserys’s side, he spoke in a peaceful but clear voice with a hint of “suggestion.”
“I have never been superstitious about omens, Your Grace.
But if the gods truly wish to show their favor…”
He paused intentionally, letting his words hang in the twilight.
“And it is getting late; the sun is about to set.
Better to wait until tomorrow when there is plenty of light, organize more people, and have more certainty.”
Viserys was silent for a few seconds.
He looked up at the sky, at the narrowing golden gap between the treetops, and finally sighed.
“You are right.”
He smiled and patted Otto’s shoulder with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Tomorrow.
Tomorrow we will surely find it.”
On the way back to camp, Viserys’s mood clearly improved.
He even hummed an old Westerosi folk song; the tune was a bit off, but no one corrected him.
At that time, he didn’t realize that this brief stag-hunting trip, along with Otto’s seemingly casual remark, had already planted a seed of expectation in his heart.
By the time Viserys and his party returned to camp yesterday, the sunset had completely faded, and the first star had risen in the east.
Just as Viserys dismounted and before his squires could help him out of his hunting gear, Jason Lannister arrived.
The Lord of the Westerlands held a spear in his hands.
It was no ordinary hunting spear—
The shaft was polished white ash wood, inlaid with golden patterns;
The spearhead was made of fine steel, shimmering with dark ripples under the torchlight;
Below the tip, a bundle of deep red ribbons was tied, and each ribbon was even adorned with small rubies at the end.
“Your Grace,” Jason knelt on one knee, offering the spear with both hands.
“A small token for your hunt tomorrow.
Fine steel can pierce any hide, gold symbolizes glory, and rubies…”
Represent Lannister loyalty.”
Viserys took the spear and weighed it.
It was very light and perfectly balanced, indeed a masterpiece.
He nodded.
“Thank you, Lord Jason.
A beautiful weapon.”
Jason stood up, a smile immediately plastered on his face.
“It is my honor to serve you, Your Grace.
And…”
He lowered his voice, but several people nearby could still hear, “If I am fortunate enough to marry the Targaryen princess, it would be the greatest honor for House Lannister in a thousand years.
I assure you, Lannister will fully support the Iron Throne, and I personally will treat the princess well to compensate for her…
loss in political status.”
The atmosphere froze instantly.
The smile vanished from Viserys’s face.
He stared at Jason and asked slowly,
“What?
What loss?”
Jason didn’t sense the danger and continued, “Isn’t the princess’s status as heir to be returned to Prince Aegon?
After all, the Prince is male, and the White Hart appearing on his name day is clearly the will of the gods.
Of course, the princess will still be an important figure, and I will ensure she enjoys the highest courtesy in the Westerlands—”
“Is that so?” Viserys interrupted, his voice icy.
“How is it that I didn’t know?”
Jason was stunned.
He looked at Tyland beside him; his brother was desperately signaling him with his eyes, but he hadn’t understood at all just now.
He opened his mouth to explain, “Uh…
I feel, many of us feel…”
“Feeling so,” Viserys said, emphasizing every word, “is questioning my choice.
To question my choice is rebellion.”
He took a step forward.
Though he was not as tall as the young and strong Jason, the King’s presence made the Lord of the Westerlands instinctively back away.
“If you hear anyone else ‘rebelling’ again, please tell me immediately.” Viserys’s voice was not loud, but as he “smiled” now, every word was like an icicle.
Jason’s face turned pale.
He opened his mouth and finally only squeezed out, “Yes…
yes, Your Grace.
Thank you for your…
reminder.”
He practically stumbled as he retreated.
Tyland Lannister cast an apologetic look at the King and hurried after his brother.
Viserys stood where he was, still holding that ornate spear.
He stared in the direction Jason had left, his breathing heavy.
The nobles inside Viserys’s tent also dispersed.
Watching the nobles “file out,” Otto, who had been waiting outside for a long time, pulled back the tent flap and looked at the still-fuming Viserys with a face of concern.
“Your Grace,” he said in a calm tone, “is Lord Jason…
acceptable?”
Viserys turned to look at him.
Seeing no outsiders left in the tent, he finally removed his royal mask and said in the complaining tone of an old friend,
“Acceptable my foot!
Arrogant, conceited, self-important—no wonder Rhaenyra looks down on him…”
Otto bowed slightly.
“You are the King; the princess must follow the King’s arrangements.”
“But I don’t want to force her.” Viserys sighed, walked to a chair and sat down, leaning the spear against the table.
A squire nearby handed him a wine cup, which he took and drank from in a large gulp.
Otto waited for him to set down the cup before slowly speaking, “In that case, I have another suitable candidate.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Prince Aegon.”
Viserys was stunned, then burst out laughing.
“The child is barely over a year old, Otto…”
“Yes.” Otto nodded, his voice softer but his pace faster.
“But this would stop the endless stream of suitors for the princess.
As the princess grows older, these people will only increase.
Betrothing the Prince and Princess would not only silence the rumors but also ensure harmony between the siblings for their future joint rule—”
“I came here to hunt.” Viserys laughed as he interrupted, though there was an imperceptible hint of anger in his laughter.
Otto stopped.
“Not to be suffocated by this pile of damned political affairs.” The King continued, staring at the deep red liquid in his wine cup.
“The White Hart, autumn scenery, fine wine, old friends…
This is what I want.
As for betrothals, inheritance, who marries whom—” He waved his hand as if shooing away flies, “We’ll talk another day.”
Otto was silent for a few seconds, then bowed slightly.
“Then we shall not mention it.”
He had intended to goad, but it backfired and nearly became provocation.
Viserys drank his wine in a foul mood, and the atmosphere in the tent was heavy.
Just then, Lyonel Strong lifted the curtain and entered.
He had just finished arranging the night watch.
Seeing the King’s expression and then looking at Otto, he roughly guessed the situation of his two friends.
“Your Grace,” Lyonel spoke in his steady and reliable tone, “perhaps consider the family of your cousin-in-law, the’Sea Snake’ Corlys Velaryon, and your cousin, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, ‘The Queen Who Never Was.'”
Viserys looked up.
Laenor stepped closer.
“The Princess could marry their son Laenor, and the Prince could also marry Laenor’s sister Laena.
Especially the Princess and Laenor; they are of pure blood, similar in age, and a perfect match.
Most importantly, it would bring the Sea Snake’s family back into the fold.”
The tent was quiet.
Everyone understood the deep implications of this proposal—it was almost a mirror of Corlys Velaryon’s previous suggestion for Viserys to marry Laena.
At that time, the King had refused because he was still immersed in the grief of losing his wife and had already developed feelings for Alicent.
But now, transferring the same alliance to the next generation…
Furthermore, House Velaryon had three dragons: Rhaenys’s Meleys, Laenor’s Seasmoke, and the largest living dragon ridden by Laena—Vhagar.
This power was enough to balance any internal dissent.
Viserys did not take a stance.
He stared at the hearth fire for a long time, finally saying only, “I have noted it.”
Then he waved his hand.
“Everyone, leave.
I wish to be alone.”
Otto and Lyonel bowed and withdrew.
Before the tent curtain fell, Lyonel looked back—
His dear friend Viserys sat on the chair inside the tent, alone with his back to the entrance…
At this moment, the figure of this “Young King” appeared exceptionally lonely in the light of the hearth fire.