The royal procession heading to the Kingswood was like a giant python encrusted with gold, silver, and jewels, slowly crawling across the Kingsroad.
King Viserys’s carriage was in the center of the procession, drawn by eight white steeds; carved on the outside was the Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil, the red dragon gilded and inlaid with rubies against a black lacquered background, shining brightly in the autumn sun.
Inside, the carriage was carpeted with Myrish rugs, the cushions were deep red velvet, and the small windows were hung with sheer curtains that let in light while blocking out dust.
Rhaenyra sat by the window, with Aegon lying on her lap, his small hands clutching the windowsill as he watched the knights riding past through the gaps.
Sunfyre was not in the procession—
After taking off from the Red Keep, it had been circling above the carriage like a moving sun, its golden figure flickering in and out of the clouds.
“You should be more active, Rhaenyra.”
Viserys sat opposite her, holding a map, but his gaze fell upon his daughter.
“Hunting, feasts, tournaments…”
“These are not just entertainment; they are part of ruling a kingdom.”
“The subjects of the Iron Throne need to see their future queen; they need to know you to build trust.”
But no matter what Viserys said, Rhaenyra’s gaze never left the window.
“I attended.”
“But not with enough engagement.” Viserys leaned forward, putting down the map.
“The day before yesterday in the Godswood, Alicent invited you to set out together, and you refused, causing our departure to be delayed.
At yesterday’s feast, you left early.
This morning, you even wanted to ride Syrax and take Aegon to fly directly to the Kingswood—”
“That would have been faster.” Rhaenyra finally deigned to turn her head, her large purple eyes staring intently at her father.
“And no one would have noticed when I arrived.
They only notice Aegon and his dragon.”
“What’s wrong with being noticed?”
There was a hint of frustration in Viserys’s helpless voice.
“He is your brother; his glory will be your glory, just like Daemon and me.
You are family.”
“Family.” Rhaenyra repeated the word, her tone as flat as if she were stating the weather.
“So Father allows him to bring Sunfyre but forbids me from riding Syrax to arrive early.
Because ‘arriving directly on a giant dragon would frighten the subjects’—those were your words.
What about Sunfyre?
Isn’t it a dragon?”
Viserys opened his mouth to speak but stopped.
He looked at Aegon; the little boy was lying on Rhaenyra’s lap, focused on watching the passing cavalry, his silver-gold hair shimmering in the light.
“Sunfyre…
is different.”
The King finally said, “It is still small, and its bond with Aegon is…
special.”
“When people see it, they feel more curiosity than fear.”
“Syrax is also small.”
Rhaenyra said, her voice still calm, though her hand holding Aegon tightened slightly.
“She is only a few years older than Sunfyre.”
“And she is very gentle; she has never hurt anyone.”
“It’s not a matter of size, Rhaenyra.”
Viserys rubbed his brow, a gesture that had become increasingly frequent lately.
“It’s a matter of…
posture.
You are the heir, the future queen; you need to present a steady, approachable image.
Descending from the sky on a dragon is the posture of a conqueror, not a ruler.”
Rhaenyra was silent for a few seconds, then said:
“No one is here for me anyway.”
The words were spoken softly, yet they were like a dagger, precisely piercing the false harmony within the carriage.
Viserys was stunned.
Outside, the sounds of hooves, wheels, and soldiers’ footsteps drifted in, but inside the carriage, there was a dead silence.
Aegon, in Rhaenyra’s arms, “keenly” felt the change in atmosphere.
He turned his head and patted Rhaenyra’s arm with his small hand.
“Sister…”
Rhaenyra looked down at him and managed a small smile.
“It’s nothing, Aegon.
Look, there are so many horses outside.”
But the boy didn’t look out the window.
He climbed onto Rhaenyra’s lap and cupped her face with his small hands, just as he had in the Godswood, but this time he didn’t kiss her.
He only looked at her earnestly with his purple eyes.
“Rhaenyra…
best.”
Then he turned to Viserys and said in unpracticed but clear words:
“Father…
mean.
Not good.”
After all, considering everything, this was the first time Aegon, who was learning the Common Tongue of Westeros for the first time across two lifetimes, had actually spoken…
As for Viserys, his expression became even more complex—
He looked at this son, barely over a year old, in his daughter’s arms—this child who had hatched a dragon in three days and could speak in three months—and suddenly felt a strange sense of distance.
“I wasn’t being mean, Aegon.” The King’s voice softened.
“I was only teaching your sister…”
“Teaching you both how to be good rulers.”
“You will have your own lands in the future…”
“Together,” Aegon said, his small hand gently taking Rhaenyra’s, while reaching out the other to Viserys.
“Together…
learn.”
This simple gesture dissolved the tension.
Viserys took his son’s small hand and sighed.
“You’re right.
Together.”
Watching this, the resentment in Rhaenyra’s heart calmed slightly.
She held Aegon tight, her chin resting gently on his soft hair.
The child “didn’t understand” the complexities of politics, the subtleties of succession, or what lay behind his father’s contradictory decisions.
But he understood love, or at least how to show it.
That was enough.
As for Aegon’s mother, Alicent, she hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise before this fiery pair of father and daughter for half the day.
Now, looking at her son in her stepdaughter’s arms, there was only a deep bitterness in her heart.
The procession arrived at the Kingswood on the evening of the third day.
The setting sun dyed the western sky gold and red, and the edge of the forest looked deep and mysterious in the twilight.
This was the private hunting ground exclusive to the Targaryen royalty; since Aegon the Conqueror built the Red Keep on the banks of the Blackwater Rush, this vast forest had been designated as royal land.
Over a hundred years, trees at the edge had been selectively felled, clearings opened up, and camps and hunting grounds established.
But the Kingswood was especially different today.
Hundreds had already gathered around the perimeter of the camp—not commoners, but nobles, knights, squires, stewards, and their entourages.
When the royal banner appeared at the end of the road, the crowd rippled like a field of wheat blown by the wind, and everyone turned in that direction.
The royal carriage stopped at the entrance of the camp.
The King stepped out first, then turned to have the handmaidens assist the Queen, who was pregnant once more, before personally helping Rhaenyra down—
This gesture seemed carefully choreographed to display the intimacy between father and daughter to everyone.
As Rhaenyra stepped out of the carriage holding Aegon, the crowd let out a suppressed gasp of wonder.
Part of it might have been for the Princess; she wore a black and red hunting outfit today, her silver-gold hair braided intricately, her purple eyes like jewels in the twilight.
But more gazes fell upon the boy in her arms, and—
The young dragon descending from the sky.
The golden dragon did not land completely; it circled at a low altitude, the airflow from its flapping wings ruffling the cloaks and hair of the nobles.
The setting sun burned on its scales, making it look less like flesh and blood and more like a creature stepped out of myth.
It let out a long cry, clear and high-pitched, then landed ten yards behind Rhaenyra, folding its wings as its golden eyes scanned the crowd.
The crowd fell silent for a moment, then erupted into even more fervent discussion.
Viserys raised his hand, signaling for silence.
A kingly smile was on his face, calm and unhurried, as if everything were under control.
“Welcome!
My subjects!
My friends!” His voice spread slowly through the twilight.
“Thank you for coming from afar to join this royal hunt to celebrate the Name day of my son, Aegon Targaryen—”
“Though it is a bit late, fine wine is never too late to drink, and a grand hunt is certainly not afraid of a late start!”
Polite laughter rang out.
The nobles began to step forward to pay their respects, the order strictly determined by rank.
First, naturally, were the Great Lords beneath the King.
The new Lord of the Stormlands, Borros Baratheon, was the first to step forward.
He was a sturdy young man, tall and brawny, with the Baratheon family’s signature black hair and blue eyes, and a carefully trimmed short beard on his face.
His father, the late Lord Boremund, was the maternal half-brother of King Jaehaerys, Viserys’s grandfather.
Borros himself was known for the same martial prowess as his father—and an even greater temper.
As Viserys’s close friend, Septon Eustace, said: “Lord Boremund was like a rock—hard, strong, and steady.
Lord Borros is like the wind—furious but ever-changing.”
“Your Grace.” Borros Baratheon knelt on one knee, his voice as resonant as a bell.
“The Stormlands pay their respects to you.
And to the Princess, and the little Prince.”
As he raised his head, his gaze swept quickly between Rhaenyra and Aegon, making it difficult to discern his leanings.
Standing beside him was his wife, Elena Caron, a slender and quiet lady, as well as his cousin, the equally robust but sharper-eyed Orryn Baratheon.
Next was the Lord of The Reach, Mace Tyrell.
This Lord of Highgarden appeared to be at least over forty, with a kind face and a constant smile, though shrewd calculations were hidden deep within his eyes.
He wore a green velvet doublet embroidered with golden roses, symbolizing his house and domain.
“Your Grace, may this hunt be fruitful.”
Mace performed the salute with standard, elegant precision.
His wife, Lady Redwyne—from The Arbor, renowned for her beauty and her family’s fleet—cast a curious gaze upon Sunfyre as she curtsied.
Standing behind the couple was their only son, Garlan Tyrell, a young man of about twenty, who was staring wide-eyed at the golden dragon.
The approach of Jason Lannister, Lord of the Westerlands, caused a slight stir.
He was the twin brother of Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships, and the two brothers looked almost identical: golden hair, green eyes, handsome and arrogant.
But Jason was more flamboyant than his brother; his armor was inlaid with rubies, and his cloak was of deep red mink.
“Your Grace.” Jason bowed, though he did not bend as low as the others.
His words were impeccable, but something in his tone made Rhaenyra frown slightly.
His gaze swept past her, lingered on Aegon for a moment, then turned to the sky above, as if searching for something—perhaps expecting the appearance of another dragon.
Grover Tully, Lord of the Riverlands, was helped forward by two attendants.
The old man was over seventy and walked with a faltering gait, but his eyes remained clear.
“Your Grace…” Grover’s voice trembled.
“Please forgive this old bag of bones for being unable to perform a full salute.”
“No need for formalities, old friend.” Viserys personally steadied him.
“Your presence is the greatest honor.”
Following behind the old man was his eldest grandson, Elmo Tully, a frail boy of about eight who looked as if he were about to faint from nervousness.
He was the future hope of House Tully—but a fragile hope at that.
The nobles of the Riverlands had always been reluctant to submit to their liege lords, the Tullys, and a young heir would face countless challenges.
After the lords came other important nobles.
When Hobert Hightower, Count of Oldtown, stepped forward, the atmosphere instantly became subtle.
He was not only Otto’s brother, the protector of The Citadel, and the head of House Hightower, but also the most powerful secular supporter of the Faith of the Seven.
Hobert was a few years older than Otto, with a sterner countenance, gray hair combed into a neat bun, and dressed in simple dark gray robes, looking more like a septon or a maester than a lord.
“Your Grace.” Hobert bowed, his voice low.
“May the Seven bless this hunt, bless the Royal House, and bless the Kingdom.” His words were as rigid as scripture.
His eldest son, Ormund Hightower, followed behind him—a man of about twenty with the typical stern visage of House Hightower.
His gaze met his uncle Otto’s briefly, and he nodded imperceptibly.
After that came the members of the Small Council and other important figures accompanying the royal party.
Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin—a round, kindly old man known for his reputation as a “good fellow”—nearly tripped over his own cloak as he stepped forward to bow, drawing a few stifled chuckles.
Master of Laws Lord Lyonel Strong stepped forward with his two sons.
The Lord of Harrenhal had a resolute face; though balding early, his stature remained upright, making him look more like a brave warrior than a learned scholar.
As he bowed, his gaze met Viserys’s briefly; it was a silent understanding between old friends.
His eldest son was Harwin Strong.
Now the captain of the City Watch, the “Gold Cloaks,” nicknamed “Breakbones,” he was a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to carry a horse.
When he knelt, his armor clattered heavily.
His second son, Larys Strong, was completely different.
He was slender, but because one of his feet was twisted at birth, he could only drag it and walk with a limp.
He was visibly lame when walking—hence the nickname “Clubfoot.”
His movements were light and silent, like a cat, and his eyes were light gray, always seeming to evaluate something when he looked at people.
His bowing posture was flawless, but something about it made Rhaenyra instinctively uncomfortable.
Finally, there were the Kingsguard who had been providing protection.
Captain Ser Harrold Westerling led his six brothers forward, and the seven of them knelt in unison, their white cloaks like seven patches of snow in the twilight.
Besides Ser Harrold, the other six were: Ser Lorent Marbrand, from the Westerlands’ Ashemark, highly skilled with a sword but reticent; Ser Steffon Darklyn, from the Crownlands’ Duskendale, known for his loyalty; Ser Criston Cole, from the Stormlands, hailing from Blackhaven in the Dornish Marches, whose father was the steward to House Dondarrion.
He had been personally selected and appointed by the Princess a year ago, had defeated Prince Daemon Targaryen at a tourney, and was young, handsome, and much in the spotlight; Ser Rickard Thorne, from the Crownlands, skilled in horsemanship; and Ser Arryk Cargyle and Ser Ilic Cargyle—twins, also from the Crownlands, whom almost no one could tell apart; it was said that even their mother could not.
After the seven rose, Criston Cole’s gaze lingered on Rhaenyra for a moment, so briefly it was almost imperceptible, before he looked away.
The ceremony of paying respects lasted nearly an hour.
When the last noble retreated into the crowd, Viserys raised his hand again.
“The feast is prepared!” Viserys announced immediately.
“Let us drink tonight, and let us hunt tomorrow!
For the Iron Throne, for the Targaryen!”
“For the Iron Throne!
For the Targaryen!” the crowd echoed.
Torches were lit one after another, smoke rose from the camp, and music began to drift through the air.
The nobles dispersed, heading toward their respective tents and campfires, but the murmurs of discussion buzzed incessantly like bees.
Rhaenyra held Aegon and stood where she was, watching it all.
Sunfyre was behind her, its golden eyes reflecting the firelight.
As the nobles passed by, they would all cast a glance at her—or rather, a glance at the boy in her arms.
In those eyes, there was curiosity, calculation, evaluation, and ambition.
Aegon yawned and rubbed his eyes with his little hands; his young body could not withstand the last few days of travel.
“Sleepy…”
“You can go to sleep soon,” Rhaenyra said softly.
Viserys walked over and placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
“Do you see?
This is your kingdom.
These are the people you will rule in the future.”
Rhaenyra looked at the faces in the crowd: Borros Baratheon was laughing and slapping a knight on the back; Mace Tyrell was whispering with his wife; Jason Lannister was drinking alone, his gaze deep and distant; Grover Tully was being helped toward his tent by his grandson; Hobert Hightower was standing with Otto, the two whispering something to each other.
And there was Lyonel Strong, who was watching his sons—Harwin was drinking deeply, while Larys stood quietly in the shadows.
And the Kingsguard, seven white figures scattered throughout the camp, keeping a vigilant watch.
“I see, Father,” Rhaenyra said.
She saw the seeds of loyalty and betrayal, the interweaving of ambition and fear, and a kingdom with turbulent undercurrents beneath a calm surface.
And the boy in her arms, this brother of a little over a year, this special existence who hatched a dragon three days after birth, had already become the center of all those undercurrents.
Sunfyre let out a low whinny, its wings fluttering gently.
Night had completely fallen, and stars began to appear in the sky.
In the distant east, in the direction of the Stepstones, perhaps Daemon Targaryen was also gazing at the same starry sky.
The nobles’ hunt had not yet begun, but the game of thrones had already been underway for a long time.
And the most critical player in this game was, at this moment, resting on his sister’s shoulder, drifting into a dream.