Late last night, a large bonfire blazed in the center of the camp.
Viserys, having just erupted in the “Wrath of the Young King,” did not join the nobles’ drinking revelry.
He sat on a low stool some distance from the fire, with Alicent by his side.
The Queen wore a thick cloak, her hand resting on her bulging belly, her face carrying the weariness and softness characteristic of a pregnant woman.
The firelight illuminated their profiles.
Laughter, singing, and the clinking of wine cups drifted from afar, but it was relatively quiet here.
“I nearly lost my temper with Jason Lannister today,” Viserys said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
Alicent gently took his hand:
“I heard.”
“He actually called Rhaenyra’s status as heir a ‘loss’…” Viserys shook his head.
“Sometimes I truly don’t understand what these people are thinking.
They support me, they obey me, but at every opportunity, they want to sway my decisions and arrange my children’s lives.”
Alicent did not respond, only gently stroking the back of his hand.
After a moment of silence, Viserys continued, his voice lower: “Alicent, do you know what is more important than dragon riders for House Targaryen, though dragons are indeed vital?”
“Dreamers,” Viserys said, turning to look at her, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
“Because Dreamers can foresee the future.
As far as I know, there have been two confirmed Dreamers in our family’s history.”
He held up one finger: “The first is the ‘Dreamer’ Daenerys (some versions also translate her name as Daenys), well-known to the people of Westeros.
She dreamed of the Doom of Valyria and insisted the family leave early, saving all of House Targaryen.”
A second finger: “The second, however, is better known to the world for his military might—Aegon the Conqueror.
In the oral traditions of the kings, he dreamed that Winter is Coming, and that the legendary White Walkers would strike from the north, crossing the Wall.
Though it has not come to pass, that dream was a major reason, beyond ambition, that urged our ancestor Aegon I to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.”
Alicent listened quietly.
This was a secret of House Targaryen, a mystical part of their bloodline.
As a member of House Hightower, though she was now the Queen of House Targaryen and had heard bits of it from The Old King himself while serving as his handmaid in his later years, hearing it again today still made her feel a certain sense of detachment.
“And I, too, once had a ‘dream’.”
Viserys’s voice became ethereal.
“When Aemma was pregnant, I dreamed our son was born, wearing the Conqueror’s Crown, sitting upon the Iron Throne with the lords of the Seven Kingdoms kneeling before him.
Ending the doom that ancestor Aegon dreamed of…
That dream was so real, so bright…”
His voice choked up.
“It was this obsession that led to Aemma and Baelon…
I was convinced then that I was a Dreamer, convinced that the dream was a prophecy.
And the result?”
He gave a bitter smile and took a large gulp of wine:
“From that day on, I decided I was no Dreamer.
I was just a fool who had a ridiculous dream.”
“But,” the King interrupted, turning his head to look at her with his wine cup raised, his eyes filled with confusion, hope, and deep conflict.
“I never expected to remarry.
I married you.
And then we truly had a son—Aegon.”
He paused, his voice softer: “And during the hunt in the Kingswood held to celebrate his name day, calling together the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, the White Hart—the symbol of kingship—appeared.”
The fire crackled.
In the distance, someone began to sing a song about knights and beauties, the tune mournful.
“Could the son I dreamed of…
be this son?”
Viserys seemed to be asking Alicent, or perhaps himself.
“Am I truly a Dreamer?
Do I really have to…
change my heir?”
He shook his head and took another swig of wine: “I never thought of remarrying, never thought I’d actually have a son.
When I named Rhaenyra heir, I was sincere.
I swore to the Seven, I swore to the spirits of my father and grandfather, that I would stand by this decision.
But what if I was wrong?
What if that dream was real, and because of my stubbornness, I lead the realm in the wrong direction?”
Alicent looked at him.
In the firelight, the edges of her auburn hair shimmered with gold, and her emerald eyes held complex emotions—maternal love, ambition, and worry.
“Viserys,” she said finally, “whatever decision you make, I will support you.
But please remember, Aegon is your son, and Rhaenyra is your daughter.
They are both your flesh and blood.”
The King did not answer.
He stared at the bonfire for a long, long time.
Aegon’s birth had shaken his settled heart once more.
Though he supported Rhaenyra with his words, internally he was deeply conflicted.
Thus, he stubbornly feigned drunkenness while speaking these “drunken ramblings” to Alicent.
At that time, Rhaenyra and Aegon were sleeping in each other’s arms in a tent not far away, completely unaware of this conversation by the bonfire.
Rhaenyra was exhausted from the day’s conflicts and her father’s hints, while Aegon was immersed in the excitement of his system finally responding; both were deep in slumber.
Or perhaps Aegon knew—
As a Transmigrator, he might remember this scene from the original show.
But on this night, in this body, he was merely a one-year-old toddler, held by his sister, breathing evenly with a satisfied curve at the corners of his mouth.
He forgot.
Or rather, an infant’s instinct made him choose to temporarily forget those complex politics, wanting only to enjoy this moment of warmth and peace.
The mists of memory cleared completely, and time returned to the present.
The hunting party came to a fork in the road.
The path to the left led deeper into the oak forest, the direction where the White Hart’s tracks were found yesterday;
The hounds hesitated at the fork, sniffing in both directions.
Lyonel dismounted and carefully examined the ground.
A few minutes later, he stood up:
“There are hoofprints on the left, quite old, likely left by the White Hart yesterday.
On the right…
there are fresher marks, but not from a deer.”
“What is it?” Viserys asked.
“Unsure.
Could be a wild boar, or perhaps…” Lyonel frowned.
“Something larger.
The tracks are deep and the stride is wide.”
Otto also dismounted to investigate.
He crouched beside Lyonel, spoke in low tones for a few moments, then rose: “Your Grace, I suggest we split up.
You take the main force to the left to continue the pursuit of the White Hart.
Let another small party go right to scout what animal it is.
If it’s a dangerous beast, it’s best to clear it out early to ensure the safety of the hunt.”
Viserys hesitated.
He looked at the path to the left—the direction of the White Hart, the direction of the auspicious omen, the direction of his internal conflict.
Then he looked toward the right—
The unknown, potential risks.
Morning light filtered through the gaps in the leaves, cutting patterns of light and shadow across the forest clearing.
The wind blew, and the treetops rustled like countless people whispering.
“Your Grace?” Lyonel prompted softly.
Viserys took a deep breath and made his decision.
“Ser Harrold, take ten men and go right first.
Be careful; if it’s a bear or some other great beast, do not force a confrontation.
Return and report.” Then he turned to the party, “The rest of you, follow me to the left.
The White Hart awaits us.”
The horn sounded, and the party split into two.
As Viserys reined his horse toward the left path, he glanced back at the road to the right.
Harrold had already set off with his men, their gray figures quickly vanishing among the trees.
For some reason, a flicker of unease crossed the King’s heart.
But he shook his head and rode forward.
The White Hart was waiting for him.
The prophecy was waiting for him.
And fate, in some corner of the forest, had already spread its net, waiting for everyone to step in.