They followed the blood trail for nearly half an hour, shooting several rabbits and pheasants along the way, before they heard a faint, mournful cry from the woods ahead.
Viserys was in the lead. As soon as he heard the cry, he raised a hand to signal a halt, motioning for everyone to wait where they were.
He quietly parted a clump of bushes blocking the path and peered ahead. Besides the mournful cry, he had heard other sounds.
Sure enough, the wounded stag lay slumped beside the roots of an old tree. Blood still seeped from the wound in its hindquarters, staining the fallen leaves and grass beneath it.
Broken cries rose from the stag's throat. Its forelegs still kicked occasionally, but its remaining strength was no longer enough to lift its body.
Viserys's gaze, however, did not linger on the wounded stag.
He looked toward the swaying grass ahead. Another deer stood there, a size smaller than the wounded stag, its coat pure white without a trace of any other color.
In the sunlight filtering through the trees, its coat seemed gilded with a faint golden glow, giving off a soft sheen.
Its antlers were white as well, like polished ivory. They were neither large nor heavily branched, but their points were sharply defined.
It stood beside the wounded stag with its head lowered, its nose close to the wound, as though sniffing the scent of blood.
Its movements were unhurried, its four hooves planted firmly on the fallen leaves. It did not startle at the sound of Viserys parting the bushes.
Viserys remained in a half crouch, motionless, his gaze fixed on the White Stag. His breathing was steady, but his fingers did not loosen their hold on the bow's limb.
The women behind him stopped as