New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤 ✦ “How is my sister now?” Aelor asked.
Ser Erryk’s expression turned troubled.
“The princess rode out of camp before I arrived.
The guards say she went into the Kingswood.
Ser Criston pursued her.” Aelor looked toward the trees.
“What exactly did my father order you to do?” “To bring Prince Aelor back and keep him safe.” “Good.” Aelor turned toward the horse lines.
Erryk immediately understood.
“Your Grace, no.” “You said you were ordered to protect me.” “Within the camp.” “Did my father say within the camp?” Erryk paused.
Aelor had already reached the horses.
He chose a tall black mount with a glossy coat and a calm eye, then lifted both hands toward the reins.
Erryk caught his wrist before he could try climbing.
“Prince Aelor, the Kingswood is not a garden.” “I know.” “There are boars, poachers, snakes, broken ground, and men drunk enough to shoot at shadows.” “Then it is good I will have a white cloak with me.” Erryk’s jaw tightened.
“Your Grace…” Aelor glanced at the horse’s rear leg, then reached toward a tuft of hair close to its flank.
Erryk’s face changed.
“Do not.” “If it kicks me, you can tell my father I stayed in camp.” “Seven hells,” Erryk muttered.
He seized Aelor under the arms, lifted him into the saddle, and mounted behind him in one smooth motion.
“You will obey me the moment we leave the camp,” Erryk said.
“If I say stop, you stop.
If I say down, you duck.
If I say run, you hold on.” “Agreed.” Erryk took the reins and turned the horse toward the trees.
“Do you know where Rhaenyra went?” Aelor asked.
“Ser Criston left marks along the way.” Aelor relaxed a little.
Men did not earn white cloaks by being careless.
The black horse entered the Kingswood beneath a canopy of green and gold.
At first, the trail was easy enough to follow.
Broken twigs.
Fresh hoofprints.
A scrape on bark where a rider had passed too close.
But as noon gave way to afternoon, the marks grew harder to read.
Then they stopped.
Erryk dismounted to examine the ground.
His mouth tightened into a grim line.
“The marks are gone.” “Gone?” “Brushed out.” Aelor shut his eyes.
Rhaenyra.
She must have realized Criston was marking the trail and erased them to make sure no one else followed.
It was clever, stubborn, and deeply inconvenient.
They searched until the sun dipped lower through the trees.
By then, Aelor’s strength was fading.
Sweat dampened his hair.
His face had gone pale, and each breath came thinly through his nose.
Erryk noticed.
“We turn back.” “Not yet.” “Your Grace.” “Not yet.” The words were stubborn, but the body behind them was failing.
Erryk was about to argue when something rustled ahead.
He drew his sword at once and guided the horse back.
“Poacher,” he whispered.
“Or boar.” The brush parted.
A white hart stepped into the fading light.
Aelor forgot how to breathe.
It was enormous, nearly six and a half feet at the shoulder and perhaps sixteen from nose to tail, with a coat pale as moonlit snow.
Its antlers spread like the branches of a winter tree, each point polished silver in the dusk.
Before dragons ruled Westeros, kings had taken the white hart as an omen of rule.
For more than a century, men said they had all vanished.
Yet one stood before him now.
Erryk did not lower his sword.
“If it charges, I may have one chance in two of stopping it,” he said quietly.
“With you on the horse, pray it does not.” The white hart did not charge.
It looked at Aelor instead.
There was no fear in its dark eyes, only a calm curiosity that felt almost human.
“Put me down,” Aelor whispered.
“Absolutely not.” “Ser Erryk, put me down.” “That thing could break you in half.” “It will not.” “You do not know that.” “No,” Aelor said softly, “but I know what it is.” Erryk hesitated.
At last, he lifted Aelor down from the saddle and stayed close at his shoulder.
Aelor held out one trembling hand.
“Come here, my friend.” The hart lowered its antlers.
Erryk’s grip tightened on the sword.
But the creature only stepped closer, sniffing at the small boy who dared speak to it.
Aelor fumbled at the little pouch tied to his belt and drew out a few red grapes.
“I brought these from the table,” he murmured.
“They are sweet.” The white hart’s nostrils flared.
It took another step.
Erryk shifted.
“Ser,” Aelor said, still looking at the hart, “sheathe your sword.” “Your Grace.” “Please.” Erryk breathed once through his teeth, then slid the blade back into its sheath.
His hand stayed on the hilt.
The white hart lowered its head toward Aelor’s palm.
✦ ✦ ✦ Want to keep going?
I hope this chapter gave you another reason to stay with the story.
There’s still plenty ahead, and things are only starting to unfold.