The Young King's Wrath

By the time the morning light had fully dispersed the mist, the hunting party led by Viserys had ventured deep into the Kingswood.

The forest grew more ancient here.

The trunks of oaks, ashes, and sentinel trees were as thick as castle towers. Their crowns intertwined overhead into a dense green canopy, allowing only scattered shafts of light to slant through and cast shifting patches across the ground carpeted with decaying leaves. The air carried the scent of damp earth, the faint musk of fungi, and a trace of sweetness from distant wildflowers.

The hounds ranged ahead, their black-and-white bodies appearing and disappearing among the bushes as they gave short, excited barks.

They were following a scent-

Not the White Hart's, but the more common trail of boars or deer.

Yet no one urged them to change course, for everyone understood that their true quarry would not be so easily found by hounds.

The White Hart was a creature of legend, an auspicious omen. He would appear only when and where he wished.

Viserys rode a white mare, his gaze sweeping the trees on either side.

He appeared intent, but those who knew him could see the distraction beneath that focus.

His fingers tapped unconsciously against the reins, a habit of his whenever he was thinking or anxious.

On his left, Otto Hightower kept his mount a respectful half-length behind.

Though the Lord Hand had deliberately chosen an unassuming dark gray hunting outfit that day, its fine tailoring accentuated his upright figure.

His gaze rarely lingered on the trees or the hounds. More often, he watched the king and the other dukes, assessing every expression and exchange.

Earl Lyonel Strong, on the right, looked far more like a true hunter.

Already a burly man, he leaned slightly forward, his bald head exposed as his sharp, dark brown eyes examined tracks on the ground, broken branches, and the freshness of droppings.

Occasionally, he raised a hand to signal a change of direction, his movements decisive and practiced.

"Left," Lyonel said quietly. "Fresh hoofprints. Not the white hart's, but perhaps a herd of deer. The white hart might be mingling with an ordinary herd."

The party turned. Hooves rustled dully through the thick layer of fallen leaves.

Behind the king and his ministers, the nobles formed a loose procession headed by several dukes. Borros Baratheon had long since grown impatient. He urged his horse forward a few paces until he rode beside Viserys.

"Your Grace, are we just going to wander blindly after the hounds?" The young Duke of the Stormlands spoke so loudly that several birds startled from the trees. "I say we should split up. The Kingswood is vast. One deer, even a white one, could hide well enough to keep us searching for ten days."

Viserys glanced at him and forced a smile. "Patience, Borros. The essence of hunting lies not in the outcome, but in the process."

"I've enjoyed quite enough of the process," Borros muttered, though he slowed his horse and fell back into place.

His younger brother, Olyver Baratheon, shook his head at him, signaling that he should say less.

Mathos Tyrell's son, Garlan Tyrell, followed quietly behind his parents.

The young heir to the Reach possessed the handsome features typical of House Tyrell, but his eyes held a steadiness greater than his father's.

Occasionally, he exchanged a few quiet words with his mother, Lady Redwyne. More often, he observed his surroundings and learned.

The brothers Jason and Tyland Lannister rode somewhat farther back.

Since their departure, Jason had barely spoken. His face was as dark as the sky before a storm.

His younger twin, Tyland, had tried several times to speak with him, only to be curtly rebuffed.

Everyone knew why-

Yesterday afternoon, in the clearing at camp, Rhaenyra had rejected him in public, and Sunfyre had toyed with him with his flames, making him a laughingstock.

Of course, there were other reasons too...

Old Grover Tully rode in the safest part of the procession, near the middle, with his grandson Elmo leading his horse.

The old man's eyes were closed as though he were dozing, but whenever the party changed direction or someone spoke, his eyelids fluttered faintly.

Six members of the Kingsguard, led by Ser Harrold Westerling, were stationed at key points throughout the party, their white cloaks strikingly conspicuous amid the green forest.

Their hands remained close to their sword hilts, their watchful eyes searching every shadow.

The party pressed deeper into the woods, but their thoughts lay in very different places.

Time slipped back to yesterday afternoon, after Rhaenyra had carried the pretending-to-cry Aegon out of Viserys's tent, when the sun was sinking westward but had not yet set.

The same forest, a different company.

Viserys had taken a small party of trusted men-

Otto, Lyonel, and three members of the Kingsguard: Ser Harrold, Ser Steffon Darklyn, and Ser Lorent Marbrand-

After hearing news of the White Hart, he had been unable to wait for the next day's grand hunt and had entered the forest himself to search.

At the time, the camp had still been preparing for the evening feast. Cooking smoke curled into the air, and most of the nobles were resting or socializing.

They had found tracks.

In the soft mud beside a stream lay a clear line of hoofprints, larger and deeper than those of an ordinary stag.

They followed the prints for half a li and discovered fresh droppings among a patch of ferns-dark brown clumps that still gave off a little warmth.

"He hasn't been gone long." Lyonel crouched to examine them himself, breaking a clump apart between his fingers. "There are undigested acorns in here. He was feeding in this area."

Viserys's eyes lit up.

"Can we catch up with him?"

Lyonel looked west. The sun was already close to the treetops, and the light beneath the canopy had begun to fade.

"Your Grace, we have an hour at most before full darkness. Hunting deep in the Kingswood at night is too dangerous, and..." He paused. "The White Hart is a sacred creature. If he does not wish to be found, we cannot catch him."

Disappointment crossed the king's face. He stared at the droppings as though hoping to read a divine revelation in them.

Otto stepped forward then. He stood half a pace behind Viserys's side, his soothing voice calm but clear, carrying a hint of suggestion.

"I have never put faith in omens, Your Grace. But if the gods truly wish to show their favor..."

He deliberately paused, leaving the words hanging in the dusk. "And it is getting late. The sun is about to set.

"We would do better to wait until tomorrow, when there is ample light. With more men, our chances would be better."

Viserys remained silent for several seconds. He looked up at the sky, at the ever-narrowing strip of gold between the treetops, and finally sighed.

"You're right."

He smiled and patted Otto's shoulder with the easy familiarity of an old friend. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow we will surely find him."

On the way back to camp, Viserys's spirits visibly improved.

He even began humming an old Westerosi folk song. He was somewhat off-key, but no one corrected him.

He had not yet realized that this brief search for the hart, and Otto's seemingly casual remark, had already planted a seed of expectation in his heart.

By the time Viserys and his companions returned to camp yesterday, the sun had disappeared completely, and the first star had risen in the east.

Viserys had just dismounted, and his attendants had yet to help him out of his hunting clothes, when Jason Lannister arrived.

The Duke of the Westerlands held a spear in his hands. It was no ordinary hunting spear-

Its shaft was smooth-polished white ash, inlaid with golden patterns;

Its head was forged from fine steel, dark ripples shimmering across it in the torchlight;

A cluster of crimson ribbons was tied beneath the spearhead, with even the end of each ribbon adorned with a small ruby.

"Your Grace." Jason went down on one knee and offered the spear in both hands. "A small gift for tomorrow's hunt. Fine steel can pierce any hide, gold symbolizes glory, and rubies...

"Represent Lannister loyalty."

Viserys accepted the spear and tested its weight.

It was light and perfectly balanced, a fine piece of craftsmanship indeed. He nodded. "Thank you, Duke Jason. A beautiful weapon."

Jason rose, immediately plastering a smile across his face. "It is my honor to serve you, Your Grace. And..."

He lowered his voice, though several people nearby could still hear him. "If I were fortunate enough to marry a Targaryen princess, it would be House Lannister's greatest honor in a thousand years. I assure you, House Lannister would lend its full support to the Iron Throne, and I myself would treat the princess well, making up for the... loss of her political standing."

The atmosphere froze.

The smile vanished from Viserys's face. He stared at Jason and asked slowly:

"What? What loss?"

Jason failed to sense the danger and continued, "Isn't the princess's position as heir to be restored to Prince Aegon?

"After all, the prince is male, and the White Hart appeared on his name day. That is plainly the will of the gods.

"Of course, the princess would remain an important figure. I would ensure that she received the highest honors in the Westerlands-"

"Is that so?" Viserys interrupted, his voice icy. "Why have I heard nothing of it?"

Jason froze.

He glanced at Tyland beside him. His brother was signaling frantically with his eyes, but Jason had completely failed to understand him earlier.

He opened his mouth to explain. "Well... I thought, many of us thought..."

"To think that," Viserys said, stressing every word, "is to question my choice. To question my choice is rebellion."

He stepped forward. Though he was shorter than the young, powerfully built Jason, the king's commanding presence made the Duke of the Westerlands retreat instinctively.

"If you hear anyone else speaking of 'rebellion,' inform me at once." Viserys did not raise his voice, but though he was still "smiling," every word struck like a shard of ice. "Every lord in the realm would do well to remember that."

Jason went pale. His mouth opened, but all he finally managed was, "Yes... yes, Your Grace. Thank you for your... reminder."

He almost stumbled as he withdrew. Tyland Lannister cast an apologetic glance at the king and hurried after his brother.

Viserys remained where he stood, still gripping the ornate spear. He stared in the direction Jason had gone, breathing heavily.

The nobles in Viserys's tent dispersed as well. Watching them file out, Otto, who had long been waiting outside, lifted the tent flap and regarded the still-fuming Viserys with a concerned expression.

"Your Grace," he said evenly, "Duke Jason... did he prove agreeable?"

Viserys turned toward him. Seeing that no outsiders remained in the tent, he finally dropped his kingly mask and complained as he would to an old friend.

"Agreeable, my arse! Arrogant, full of himself. No wonder Rhaenyra won't have him..."

Otto bowed slightly. "You are the king. The princess must abide by the king's arrangements."

"But I don't want to force her either." Viserys sighed and went to sit beside the table, propping the spear against it. An attendant offered him a cup of wine, which he accepted and drank deeply.

Otto waited until he lowered the cup before speaking slowly. "In that case, I have another suitable candidate."

"Who?"

"Prince Aegon."

Viserys stared, then laughed. "The boy is barely a year old, Otto..."

"Yes." Otto nodded, his voice growing softer but his words coming faster. "But this would put an end to the endless stream of men seeking the princess's hand. As she grows older, their numbers will only increase. Betrothing the prince and princess would silence the gossip and ensure harmony between brother and sister, allowing them to rule together in the future-"

"I came here to hunt." Viserys interrupted with a loud laugh, a barely perceptible thread of anger beneath it.

Otto stopped.

"Not to be suffocated by this pile of damned political affairs," the king continued, staring at the dark red liquid in his cup. "The White Hart, autumn scenery, good wine, old friends...

"That is what I want. As for betrothals, succession, who marries whom-" He waved a hand as though shooing away flies. "We can discuss it another day."

Otto was silent for several seconds, then bowed slightly. "Then we shall say no more of it."

He had meant to goad the king into action, but his ploy had backfired and nearly provoked his wrath instead.

Viserys brooded over his wine, and a heavy silence settled over the tent.

Just then, Lyonel Strong lifted the flap and entered.

He had just finished arranging the night watch. Seeing the king's expression, then looking at Otto, he roughly guessed what had passed between his two friends.

"Your Grace," Lyonel began in his steady, dependable voice, "perhaps you might consider the family of your cousin's husband, the Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon, and your cousin, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Uncrowned Queen."

Viserys looked up.

Lyonel took a few steps closer. "The princess could marry their son, Laenor, and the prince could marry Laenor's elder sister, Laena.

"The princess and Laenor, in particular, are of pure blood, similar in age, and equal in standing. Most importantly, it would bring the Sea Snake's family back into the fold."

The tent fell silent. Everyone understood the deeper implications of the proposal-it was almost a repetition of Corlys Velaryon's earlier suggestion that Viserys take Laena as his second wife.

The king had refused then because he was still grieving his wife and had already developed feelings for Alicent.

But now, the same alliance could be passed on to the next generation...

Besides, the Velaryons had three dragons: Rhaenys's Meleys, the Red Queen; Laenor's Seasmoke; and Laena's mount, Vhagar, the largest living dragon. Such strength would be enough to counterbalance any internal divisions.

Viserys gave no answer. He stared into the fire for a long time before finally saying only, "I'll bear it in mind."

Then he waved a hand. "Leave me, all of you. I want some peace."

Otto and Lyonel bowed and withdrew.

Before the tent flap fell shut, Lyonel glanced back-

His dear friend Viserys sat alone in a chair inside the tent, his back to the entrance...

At that moment, the young king's figure looked extraordinarily lonely in the firelight.