When the morning light completely crested the treetops, illuminating the clearing in the forest, Viserys’s hunting party finally caught up with the target they had been pursuing for half a day.
It was not a White Hart.
At least, not the White Hart people had imagined.
In the clearing, a stag stood by the stream drinking water.
Its size was indeed larger than an ordinary stag, and its antlers had twelve points as the witnesses described, as majestic as a crown.
But its coat was not the legendary pure snow-white; instead, it was a deep brownish-black, with only a bit of light gray on its belly and the insides of its limbs.
The morning light shone on its damp fur, giving it a luster like black satin.
“This…” Borros Baratheon, young, aggressive, and impatient, was the first to break the party’s silence, his voice full of disappointment.
“This is the so-called King of the Kingswood?
Isn’t this just an ordinary black stag?”
Lyonel Strong dismounted and approached slowly.
The stag noticed the movement and raised its head, but did not flee immediately.
Its eyes were a gentle brown, alert but not panicked.
“The coat is indeed quite dark,” Lyonel observed carefully.
“But the size and the number of antler points match the description.
And look—”
He pointed to the stag’s hind leg.
“There is an old scar on the left hind leg with a unique shape.
Yesterday, the hoofprints found near the droppings showed the left hind hoof was shallower than the right, likely due to uneven force caused by this old injury.”
Viserys remained on his horse, silently watching the stag, which the squires and guards had already begun to rush forward and tie to the ground with ropes.
The sunlight hit his face from the side, illuminating the flow of complex emotions in his eyes—
First expectation, then confusion, and then…
relief.
A deep relief that almost made his shoulders relax.
“So,” the King spoke slowly, his voice calm, “this is the White Hart.”
It was not a question, but a statement.
Otto Hightower stood by the King’s horse, his gray eyes staring intently at the stag.
His facial muscles were perfectly controlled; only a nearly imperceptible tightness at the corner of his mouth betrayed his inner feelings.
For two days, the hints he had carefully laid, the expectations he had skillfully guided, and the seed of omens and destiny he had planted in Viserys’s heart—
At this moment, before this black stag, it seemed so pale, so…
ridiculous.
“Perhaps,” the incredulous Hand finally spoke, trying to use the tone of “soothing a close friend” to mask his true feelings, his voice steady but slightly faster than usual, “it’s a matter of the light.
Or perhaps it is shedding season; it might grow white fur in the winter—”
“Otto,” Viserys interrupted, turning to look at his dear friend with a faint, relaxed smile on his face.
“It is just a stag.
A beautiful, sturdy stag that has lived in the Kingswood for a long time.
Nothing more.”
Otto fell silent.
He bowed slightly and took half a step back, moving his gaze from the black stag to the distant woods, as if re-evaluating something, planning something.
Just then, Jason Lannister spurred his horse forward from the rear.
After being soothed and enlightened by his twin brother Tyland along the way, the Lord of the West had finally adjusted his mood, and that Lannister-style smile—a mix of arrogance and charm—was back on his face.
“Your Majesty!” Jason’s voice was booming as he took the magnificent spear presented yesterday from a squire and offered it to Viserys with both hands.
“Whether it’s a white deer or a black deer, it’s a fine catch!
Please allow me to present this honor to you—to complete this hunt with your own hands!”
Viserys looked at Jason, looked at that face full of fawning smiles, remembered the foolish things this man had said in the tent last night, remembered Rhaenyra’s disgust for him, and remembered the name he had already crossed out in his heart.
But he still took the spear.
The King dismounted, his movements slightly clumsy—
He was not a true hunter, after all.
Gripping the spear, he walked toward the stag already pinned to the ground by ropes near the stream.
The stag seemed to sense danger; its hind legs strained and its antlers lowered in a defensive posture.
Lyonel wanted to say something, but Viserys raised a hand to stop him.
He moved forward alone, his boots making soft crunching sounds on the gravel by the stream.
The sunlight, the shadows of the trees, the babbling stream, the deer’s breathing, the distant birdsong—everything was exceptionally clear at this moment.
Viserys stopped two or three paces from the stag.
He raised the spear, aimed, and then—
Thrust.
The spear tip pierced the side of the stag’s neck, not deep, but fatal enough.
The stag let out a short, mournful cry, its front legs buckled, and then it collapsed onto its side.
Blood stained the pebbles by the stream red, flowing slowly and forming a striking contrast with the clear water.
The hunting party erupted in cheers.
Jason Lannister led the applause, his voice the loudest: “Fine strike!
Your Majesty is indeed valiant!”
Others echoed him.
Borros Baratheon laughed along with the crowd, Mace Tyrell nodded with a smile, Garlan Tyrell observed the King’s movements seriously, and old Grafton Tully opened his eyes, a glint of understanding flashing in his cloudy gaze.
Viserys pulled out the spear and handed it to a squire.
He looked at the stag on the ground as its twitching gradually ceased, looking at the crown-like antlers and the brownish-black fur.
A White Hart?
An imperial omen?
The Prince That Was Promised?
It was just an ordinary deer, dead under an overly ornate spear.
He took a deep breath; the morning air in the forest was cold and real.
“Clean it up.” The King turned around, his voice regaining its usual composure.
“Bring the antlers back to the Red Keep; the venison will be for tonight’s meal.
As for the hide…”
He paused.
“Give it to Aegon.
Otto bowed slightly: “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Viserys mounted his horse and pulled the reins: “Back to camp.
I want a drink.”
The party began to head back.
Squires stepped forward to handle the deer carcass, skillfully tying and lifting it.
Jason Lannister rode beside the King, continuing his flattery, but Viserys only nodded occasionally, his mind already elsewhere.
Otto fell slightly behind the party, riding alongside Lyonel.
The two rode in silence for a while.
“A pity,” Lyonel finally whispered, unclear if he meant the color of the deer or something else.
“Indeed,” Otto replied, his voice flat.
But deep in his gray eyes, something sharper and calmer was coalescing once more.
One failure meant nothing.
This game of thrones was long, the board was large, and there were many pieces yet to play.
And the White Hart?
Maybe it existed, maybe it didn’t.
But regardless, he had already let the seed fall into the King’s heart.
Colors fade and memories dim, but once doubt is born, it grows quietly like a vine.
The party moved through the woods, sunlight filtering through the leaves to cast dappled light and shadow.
In the clearing they had left, the stream continued to flow, washing away the blood and carrying off that brief, illusory expectation of an omen.
As for the White Hart?
Who could say if it truly existed or not?
At the same time, deeper in the Kingswood.
Rhaenyra reined in the small white horse she had “borrowed” when leaving the camp and stopped by a clear stream.
The trees were denser here, and the sunlight could barely reach the ground, with only sparse patches of light dancing on the water.
The air was filled with the scent of damp earth and moss, and the faint roar of a waterfall could be heard in the distance—they had ventured deep into a rarely visited area of the Kingswood.
“It should be safe now.” Rhaenyra dismounted, her movements slightly clumsy from holding Aegon.
She placed the boy on a flat bluestone by the stream and stretched her aching back.
Sunfyre followed close behind.
The golden dragon no longer pretended to be stealthy; it strode to the stream, lowered its head to drink, its tongue curling up the water with a satisfied purr.
Its size seemed particularly massive in the dense forest, its golden scales acting like a self-luminous source in the dim light.
Aegon sat on the bluestone and looked around.
It was beautiful here, primal and serene.
The stream was crystal clear, revealing small swimming fish and colorful pebbles at the bottom.
On the opposite bank was a steep rock wall covered in thick vines and ferns.
The sound of the waterfall came from behind the rock wall; it shouldn’t be far.
But soon, practical problems arose.
Rhaenyra untied the small pouch by the saddle—the one she had grabbed when “borrowing” the horse, thinking it contained rations.
After opening it, there were indeed items inside:
A leather waterskin, half full;
A small jug of ale;
And a piece wrapped in coarse burlap…
Black Bread.
She took out the Black Bread and weighed it in her hand.
The bread was as hard as a rock, its surface dark, and up close, it had a faint smell of mold.
She drew the small dagger from her boot and tried to cut a piece, but the blade only made shallow marks on the surface of the bread.
The siblings looked at each other.
AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite
Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose: “Can this…
be eaten?”
Aegon reached out a small hand to touch the bread; it felt like a block of wood.
He looked up at Rhaenyra, his purple eyes full of doubt: “Hard.”
“Maybe it would work if we soaked it?” Rhaenyra said uncertainly, but looking at the stream and then at the bread, it was clear she had no confidence in the idea herself.
The two were silent for a few seconds.
Then, almost simultaneously, Rhaenyra handed the bread to Aegon, and Aegon pushed the bread back to Rhaenyra.
“You try?” Rhaenyra said.
“Sister first.” Aegon insisted.
Rhaenyra stared at the bread, took a deep breath, as if about to make a great sacrifice.
But in the end, her shoulders slumped, and she placed the bread on a bluestone: “Forget it, I’m not hungry.”
Aegon nodded: “I’m not hungry either.”
But the almost synchronized, slight rumbling in their stomachs betrayed them.
From slipping out of the camp in the early morning until now, nearly two hours had passed; children needed food.
Rhaenyra bit her lip, her gaze falling on Sunfyre.
The golden dragon had finished drinking, and was now lying by the stream basking in the sun, eyes half-closed, looking thoroughly content.
“Sunfyre,” Rhaenyra asked tentatively in Valyrian, “are you…
hungry?”
Sunfyre opened its eyes, its golden pupils turning toward the Black Bread on the bluestone.
Rhaenyra picked up the bread and carefully tossed it over.
The bread traced an arc in the air, landing on the ground in front of Sunfyre.
The golden dragon lowered its head, brought its nose close to the bread, and sniffed.
Then it raised its head, its eyes actually revealing a hint of…
disdain?
Then, Sunfyre opened its mouth, and a golden light ignited deep in its throat.
A small wisp of flame sprayed out—not an aggressive pillar of fire, but a precise, focused beam that struck the Black Bread dead center.
“Hiss—”
The bread didn’t burn; instead, it instantly carbonized, turning into a charred, hard lump from the outside in, then disintegrated into powder in the open air, blown away by the morning breeze, leaving nothing behind.
A few seconds later, Rhaenyra burst into laughter, laughing harder and harder, until finally, she was squatting on the ground, clutching her stomach.
Aegon couldn’t help but grin—although the scene was a bit of a waste of food, Sunfyre’s look of disdain and the precise “destruction of evidence” were just too human.
“Even it doesn’t want it!” Rhaenyra was even laughing to the point of tears, “Bread that even a dragon doesn’t want!”
Aegon looked helplessly at Rhaenyra’s expression as she looked at him, and had no choice but to clap his hands in feigned agreement: “Sunfyre…
is picky!”
The laughter echoed through the woods, startling a few birds.
At this moment, the tension of fleeing, the worries about succession, and her father’s disappointment seemed to temporarily fade from Rhaenyra’s heart.
Just a sister and brother, and a dragon, deep in the forest, laughing over a piece of bread that even a dragon despised.
And behind a thicket of dense bushes not far away, Criston Cole reined in his horse, watching this scene quietly.
He had been following all the way, keeping a safe distance.
Seeing the princess dismount to rest, seeing her embarrassment when she took out the Black Bread, seeing her interaction with the prince, seeing her profile tilted back as she laughed—
Sunlight filtered through the treetops, spilling onto her silver-gold hair and illuminating her purple eyes; at that moment, she was not a princess, not an heir, just a young girl adventuring in the forest.
Cole’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
He had dry rations in his bag—
Jerky, cheese, fresh bread, all specially prepared before setting out from King’s Landing, just in case.
He wanted to go out, wanted to approach, wanted to say “Princess, I have brought food,” wanted to see her surprised expression, wanted to do something for her.
But he hesitated.
Rhaenyra had snuck out.
She clearly didn’t want to be discovered.
If he appeared suddenly, what would she think?
Would she be angry at being followed?
Or would she accept his help?
Just as Cole hesitated, Sunfyre moved.
The golden dragon suddenly stood up, its ears—if dragons had ears—pricked up, its head turning toward the depths of the forest.
A low rumble emitted from its throat, not a threat, but more like…
the excitement of discovering prey.
Then, to the surprised eyes of Rhaenyra and Aegon, Sunfyre spread its wings.
Although the space within this dense forest wasn’t enough for them to fully unfurl, it still flapped them hard, and its pony-sized body instantly took to the air, skimming over the treetops and disappearing into the depths of the dense woods.
“Sunfyre?” Rhaenyra stood up, somewhat worried.
Aegon, however, was relatively calm.
He sat on the bluestone, resting his chin in his small hands, deep in thought.
The Sunfyre in the original story…
that dragon had suffered heavy injuries during the Battle at Rook’s Rest, one wing almost torn off, left to recuperate in place after falling.
But even so, it was later able to scare off the “dragon-slayers” who attempted to kill it, and eventually flew back to Dragonstone to reunite with Aegon.
To survive, it even hunted alone and killed its own kind, Grey Ghost.
A dragon with such survival instincts and combat intelligence, plus himself—who was smarter than Aegon—how could it possibly let its rider go hungry?
Sure enough, less than a quarter of an hour later, the sound of flapping wings approached from afar.
Sunfyre had returned.
It was carrying something in its mouth—not one, but two plump wild rabbits, their fur white and gray, already dead.
The golden dragon landed nimbly, placed the rabbits at Rhaenyra’s feet, then raised its head, looking at her with golden eyes, a slight, almost smug rumble emitting from its throat.
Rhaenyra widened her eyes, looking at the rabbits, then at Sunfyre, and then at Aegon.
Aegon had no choice but to helplessly go along with the “performance,” smiling at Rhaenyra and giving a thumbs-up with his small hand: “Sunfyre…
is amazing.”
Rhaenyra squatted down and carefully touched the two wild rabbits.
The bodies were still warm, with precise bite marks on their necks, a fatal blow.
She looked up at Sunfyre, and the golden dragon tilted its head, as if saying “Hurry up and praise me.”
“You…” Rhaenyra’s voice was even a little choked up, “How did you know we were hungry?”
Sunfyre wouldn’t answer.
It just nudged the rabbits with its nose, then turned its head toward the stream, a rumble emitting from its throat.
Rhaenyra understood.
She drew her dagger and began to process the rabbits—this wasn’t her first time doing it; when she was young on Dragonstone, she had learned basic skills from an old hunter.
Although her movements were unfamiliar, they were sufficient to get the job done.
Aegon watched quietly.
Rhaenyra was focused on skinning and cleaning the innards, her silver hair somewhat disheveled, her cheeks stained with a bit of blood, but her eyes were earnest.
At this moment, she was not a princess, not the heir, just a sister trying hard to take care of her brother in the wild.
He suddenly remembered that cruel future from the original story—Rhaenyra fleeing back to Dragonstone, being captured, and under Aegon’s orders, Sunfyre breathing dragonfire, swallowing her in six bites.
Aegon closed his eyes, banishing this image from his mind.
It won’t happen; since he was here, since Sunfyre hatched early, since Rhaenyra was here with him processing wild rabbits—the future had already changed, it must change.
He just hoped that his “silly sister” would never know about these things…
“Done.” Rhaenyra’s voice pulled him back to reality.
She had finished cleaning one rabbit and skewered it with a branch, looking up expectantly at Sunfyre, “Sunfyre, can you…
start a fire?”
The golden dragon understood this simple request.
It stepped back a few paces, aimed at the small twigs and dead leaves Rhaenyra had prepared and piled on a dry rock, and sprayed a small wisp of flame.
The flame precisely ignited the tinder, without spreading, without burning the surrounding plants.
Rhaenyra carefully set up the rabbit and began to roast it.
The aroma of meat soon wafted through the air.
Aegon felt his stomach growling even more.
Rhaenyra turned the rabbit as it roasted, her gaze drifting toward Aegon from time to time, a gentle smile on her lips.
Sunlight filtered through the branches and leaves, spilling onto her, the firelight reflecting on her face; at this moment, the forest, the stream, the roasted meat, her brother, the dragon—composed a scene so peaceful it was almost surreal.
And behind the bushes, Cole let go of the reins of his horse.
He watched the princess skillfully roast the rabbit, watched her smile at the prince, watched her stroke Sunfyre’s head, watched the firelight dance in her eyes.
He didn’t need to appear; she had the ability to take care of herself, to take care of her brother, she had her brother’s dragon to protect her.
But he would not leave; he would stand guard here, in the shadows, ensuring no danger approached.
This was his, Criston Cole’s, duty.
And it was also his, Criston Cole’s…
willing choice.