In truth, as Rhaenyra stepped out from the shadow of the tea party tent holding Aegon, the sunlight made her squint.
The camp had already regained a semblance of order—
Noble ladies conversed in low voices in small groups, squires cleared the remains of the tea party, knights returning from the hunt in the distance were dismounting, and hounds lay panting at their masters’ feet.
But everyone’s eyes, whether intentionally or not, scanned her, the boy in her arms, and the golden dragon perched not far away.
“Princess.”
The voice came from the left.
Rhaenyra turned and saw Lord Jason Lannister walking toward her.
The Warden of the West was dressed in magnificent hunting attire, his crimson coat embroidered with golden lions, and his blonde hair was almost blinding in the sunlight.
He held half a glass of wine, wearing that characteristic Lannister smile that was a blend of arrogance and charm.
“Lord Jason.” Rhaenyra nodded in greeting, her voice polite but distant.
Jason stopped before her, his gaze falling first on Aegon, lingering for about three seconds—
Long enough to convey a sense of evaluation, yet short enough not to be rude—
Then he shifted his gaze back to Rhaenyra’s face.
“I saw the commotion just now.” Jason took a sip of wine.
“That dragon…
Sunfyre, isn’t it?
A truly loyal guardian.
However, when I returned, I heard from the squires that he terrified a tent full of ladies, including my poor cousin.”
He tilted his head toward the tea party tent.
“Her face was white as milk when she came out.”
“Sunfyre just overreacted.”
Rhaenyra said, her arms involuntarily tightening slightly.
“He is as gentle as Syrax and doesn’t usually act like that.”
“Usually.” Jason repeated the word, his smile deepening.
“Interestingly, I hear he seems to only listen to your brother.
A one-year-old child…
In the West, we would consider that a miracle.
Of course, in the noble House Targaryen, it might just be…
a manifestation of pure bloodline.”
He paused, his gaze again scanning Aegon’s silver hair and purple eyes:
“Speaking of which, I am curious, Princess.
Was your second name day this grand?
Lords from nearly all the Seven Kingdoms gathered, the hunt lasting three days, and the wine for the feast said to flow all the way from The Arbor to Casterly Rock.”
Rhaenyra felt a familiar sting.
Her second name day?
“To be honest, I don’t remember it at all.”
Rhaenyra spoke slowly, her voice calmer than expected.
“And Aegon won’t remember this either.
What can a one-year-old child remember?”
However, Aegon, in her arms, was secretly thinking: That’s not necessarily true.
He clearly remembered every moment of his birth, the smell of the holy oil on the High Septon’s hands, and the sound of the dragon egg cracking when Sunfyre hatched.
But for now, he could only remain silent, burying his face in Rhaenyra’s shoulder and playing the part of a sleepy toddler.
Jason seemed not to have expected this answer; he froze for half a second, then laughed.
“Honesty!
I like honesty.
Many noble ladies only speak pretty pleasantries, but you…
you have a directness like a steel sword.”
He stepped closer, near enough for Rhaenyra to smell the wine and perfume on him.
“Let me speak some honest words, Princess.
The West is the wealthiest realm in the kingdom, and Casterly Rock is the strongest fortress on the continent.
Gold mines lie deep underground, inexhaustible;
Fleets guard the coast, invincible.
The only thing we lack is a Dragonpit.”
He paused, observing her reaction.
Rhaenyra remained expressionless.
“However,” Jason continued, his voice lowering, “a Dragonpit can be built.
Stone can be carved, caves can be expanded, and gold can buy the finest craftsmen.
For my future Queen…
for my future lady, I would be happy to build the most magnificent Dragonpit in the Seven Kingdoms.”
He looked her straight in the eye: “Of course, you can also understand it as my willingness to do anything for my Queen, or rather…
for my lady.”
The area around the tent went quiet.
A few passing squires slowed their pace, and the noble ladies talking in the distance stopped their chatter.
Everyone heard it—Jason Lannister, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and one of the most powerful bachelor lords in the kingdom, was proposing to Princess Rhaenyra.
No, it wasn’t a proposal, but a more direct hint: an alliance, a union, Lannister gold and Targaryen dragons.
Rhaenyra felt Aegon move in her arms.
She looked down and saw the boy’s purple eyes staring at Jason; that look was not that of a child, but more like…
Evaluation.
Then Aegon looked away, burying his face back into her shoulder, his small hand gently patting her back.
He seemed to be both comforting her and telling her: Handle it yourself, I won’t interfere.
Rhaenyra took a deep breath and looked up to meet Jason’s gaze.
She took the wine cup he offered—
This action made Jason’s eyes light up—
But she did not drink.
She simply held the cup, watching the deep red liquid swirl within.
“Thank you for your fine wine, Lord Jason.”
She said, her voice clear enough for everyone around to hear, “And thank you for your…
praise.
The West is indeed wealthy, and Casterly Rock is indeed strong.
But do you know?
My father often says that true strength lies not in gold or stone walls, but here.”
“As for the Dragonpit…” She handed the cup back to Jason, “Dragons do not need to stay in man-made nests forever.
They belong to the sky, to the volcanoes, to the free winds.
Those who try to keep dragons locked in stone houses will eventually end up consumed by dragonfire.”
She gave a slight nod and turned to leave.
Her pace was steady, her arms firmly holding Aegon.
Jason stood where he was, holding the returned wine, the smile on his face frozen.
A few seconds later, he grunted and tilted his head back to drain the wine in one gulp.
At that moment, Sunfyre moved nearby.
The golden dragon rose from his perch and spread his wings—not fully, but in a defiant half-stretch.
He tilted his head back, a low rumble echoing from deep in his throat, and then he spat a gout of flame.
It wasn’t an aggressive pillar of fire, but an arched, golden flame, like a rainbow across the sky, passing exactly three feet above Jason Lannister’s head.
The heat made the Lord’s golden hair fly.
He instinctively ducked and covered his head, an action that made him look like a startled crab.
Suppressed laughter came from the surroundings—
Several young knights quickly turned away to feign coughing, and noble ladies covered their mouths with fans.
Sunfyre retracted his wings and let out a sound somewhere between a screech and a purr, which sounded almost like…
Mockery.
Then he trotted to catch up with Rhaenyra, his pony-sized body moving with light, silent steps.
Jason straightened up, his face turning from red to white and back to red.
He stared at Rhaenyra’s back, then at the golden dragon, and finally smashed the empty wine cup onto the ground.
The sound of shattering glass was particularly jarring in the suddenly quiet camp.
“My Lord?” his squire asked cautiously.
“It’s nothing.” Jason squeezed two words through his teeth and turned to stride away.
Rhaenyra did not return to her own tent.
Holding Aegon, she walked straight toward the largest tent in the center of the camp—the King’s pavilion.
Sunfyre followed ten paces behind, like a massive golden guard dog.
The guards outside the tent saw her and, after a moment’s hesitation, lifted the flap.
Rhaenyra ducked inside with Aegon in her arms, while Sunfyre remained outside—though his size would have allowed him in, the rumors had already spread, and the Kingsguard at the door dared not let him enter.
Inside, Viserys was talking with the Master of Laws, Lord Lyonel Strong.
The King sat on a temporary oak chair, a map spread before him and a wine cup in his hand.
Lyonel stood opposite him, pointing at a spot on the map.
The Master of Ships, Ser Tyland Lannister, sat to the side, his expression somewhat awkward—
Clearly, he had heard the commotion outside and had already learned from the squires what his twin brother had just experienced.
“—So if Prince Daemon can hold Bloodstone,” Lyonel was saying, then looked up to see Rhaenyra enter and stopped, “Princess.”
Viserys turned, and seeing his daughter’s expression, his brow furrowed: “Rhaenyra?
What is it?
Your face looks like you’ve just swallowed a live frog.”
“Are you selling me off to someone?” Rhaenyra asked directly, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage.
“Jason Lannister was just outside…
making a proposal.
To build a Dragonpit for his lady.
His lady!”
Viserys and Lyonel exchanged a glance.
Tyland Lannister looked down, studying his boots.
“He made no formal proposal,” Viserys said, his tone attempting to be placating.
“It was just…
a gesture.
And Rhaenyra, you must marry sooner or later.
Lord Jason is the Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, and one of the most suitable bachelor nobles in the kingdom.
He is…
decent enough.”
“He is not!” Rhaenyra’s voice rose.
“He is arrogant, conceited, and sees nothing but gold and his own status.
And he is years older than I am!
Father, you surely don’t think—”
“Age is not an issue,” Viserys interrupted, rubbing his brow.
“Many marriages have an age gap.
What matters is the alliance, the politics, and the stability of the realm.
You are the heir; your marriage is no trivial matter.”
“I am still a child!” Rhaenyra held Aegon tighter.
The boy lay quietly on her shoulder, but his eyes were wide, observing everyone in the tent.
“I am only eleven!
I don’t want to marry, not Jason Lannister, not anyone!”
Viserys sighed and set down his wine cup.
“Rhaenyra, look at me.”
She stared at her father.
“This hunt,” the King said slowly, “is indeed to celebrate Aegon’s name day.
But it is also an opportunity.
The Lords and important vassals of the Seven Kingdoms are here, along with their brothers, sons, nephews, and heirs.
You can look around, get to know them.
It doesn’t mean an immediate betrothal, but at least…
start considering.”
Rhaenyra felt a sudden chill rise up her spine.
She scanned the tent—
Lord Lyonel avoided her gaze, Ser Tyland stared at the floor, and her father looked at her with an expression of apology, but more so, determination.
“So that is the truth.”
She whispered, “You invited the whole kingdom not just to celebrate my brother, but also to…
display me.
Like livestock at a market.”
“Rhaenyra!” Viserys stood up, anger finally entering his voice.
“Mind your words!
You are a Princess of House Targaryen, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; your marriage concerns the future of the realm!
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Do you think I enjoy treating my own daughter as a political pawn?
But this is duty!
This is the price of sitting on the Iron Throne!
Even I must bow to tradition and duty!”
A dead silence fell over the tent.
The fire crackled.
Aegon felt Rhaenyra’s body shaking—not from fear, but from anger, despair, and the pain of betrayal.
He decided to do something.
The little boy squirmed in Rhaenyra’s arms, let out a whimper, and then—wailed.
Tears flooded out instantly, his small face turned red, and his cry was loud and miserable.
But Aegon, still immersed in his Oscar-worthy performance, had forgotten one thing…
Everyone’s attention shifted immediately.
Rhaenyra instinctively rocked him.
“Aegon?
What’s wrong?
Don’t cry, don’t cry…”
Viserys’ expression softened.
He stepped closer, reaching out to pat his son’s head.
“Is he frightened?
Father wasn’t yelling at you—”
But Aegon cried even harder, his small hands flailing, “almost” hitting the King’s face.
Just then, the tent flap was lifted.
Otto Hightower entered, his face grave.
He first bowed to the King, then his gaze scanned the crying Aegon, Rhaenyra holding him, and the awkward Lyonel and Tyland, before returning to Viserys.
“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace,” Otto said, with a certain suppressed excitement in his voice.
“But news has just arrived that must be reported immediately.
The hunting party has spotted a White Hart to the northeast.”
The atmosphere in the tent changed.
A White Hart.
In legend, the White Hart is a sacred animal, the embodiment of the forest king.
In the Kingswood, it is called the “King of the Kingswood,” a sight seen once in a century.
And legend also says: the White Hart only reveals itself to a true king.
“A White Hart?” Viserys repeated, his eyes lighting up.
“Are you certain?”
“Quite certain.” Otto nodded.
“Three hunters saw it simultaneously just before sunset, drinking at a stream.
Pure white as snow, with twelve points on its antlers, like a crown.”
Lord Lyonel took a breath:
“Your Grace, this is a good omen.
For a White Hart to appear during your hunt…”
“To appear during the hunt for Prince Aegon’s name day,” Otto corrected gently, his gaze falling on the boy in Rhaenyra’s arms.
Aegon’s crying had subsided into whimpers, his purple eyes wetly watching Otto.
Aegon also remembered this part from the original House of the Dragon series, but he hadn’t expected Otto to be so direct…
Otto continued: “Your Grace, if I may be so bold.
The White Hart is an Imperial Omen.
That it chooses to appear during the Prince’s celebration…
the meaning is extraordinary.”
He stopped, but the unspoken words echoed in the tent: This is an Imperial Omen for Prince Aegon’s name day.
Not Rhaenyra’s, not Viserys’, but Aegon’s.
Wasn’t the subtext for Viserys to change his heir?
Rhaenyra’s arms stiffened.
She looked down at Aegon in her arms, and the boy looked up at her, eyes still tearful but gaze clear.
He understood, and she knew he understood.
A one-year-old child shouldn’t understand such political hints, but Aegon…
Aegon was always special.
Viserys’ expression became complex.
Joy, pride, doubt, guilt—all these emotions flashed across his face.
He looked at Aegon, then at Rhaenyra, and finally at Otto.
“Gather the best hunters,” the King finally said, his voice regaining its usual decisiveness.
“I want that White Hart.
Before sunrise tomorrow, the hunt begins.
I want it kept in the Red Keep.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Otto bowed.
“And tonight’s feast…”
“Will proceed as planned.”
Viserys waved his hand.
“But add an announcement: tomorrow we hunt the White Hart, and all nobles participating will have their chance.
Whoever brings back the White Hart will be heavily rewarded.”
Otto bowed again and exited the tent.
As he passed Rhaenyra, his gaze briefly met hers—devoid of expression, but something flashed in those gray eyes, too fast to capture.
The tent flap fell.
Viserys turned to Rhaenyra, wanting to say something, but finally just sighed: “Take Aegon to rest.
He is tired, and so are you.
Tonight’s feast…”
“If you do not wish to attend, you need not come.”
Rhaenyra said nothing.
Holding Aegon—the boy was no longer crying, just lying quietly on her shoulder—she turned and left the tent.
Her steps were steady, her back straight, but Aegon could feel her heartbeat, fast and heavy, like a trapped bird beating against its cage.
Stepping out of the tent, the sunset had already dipped below the treetops, and the sky had turned from gold to deep blue.
Torches were being lit around the camp, and squires preparing for the feast bustled about, the air filled with the aroma of roasting meat.
Sunfyre walked over, lowering his head to gently nuzzle Aegon’s leg.
A soft purr came from the golden dragon’s throat, as if in comfort.