Beneath the Royal Banner

The royal procession bound for the Kingswood resembled a great python studded with gold, silver, and jewels, slowly winding along the Kingsroad.

King Viserys's carriage sat at the center of the procession, drawn by eight white steeds. The Targaryen three-headed dragon was carved into its exterior, the gilded red dragons inlaid with rubies gleaming against black lacquer in the autumn sunlight.

Inside, Myrish carpets covered the floor, and the cushions were upholstered in crimson velvet. Gauze curtains hung over the small windows, admitting light while keeping out the dust.

Rhaenyra sat beside a window, with Aegon sprawled across her lap. His little hands clutched the sill as he peered through the gap at the knights riding past outside.

Sunfyre was not among the procession-

Ever since taking flight from the Red Keep, he had circled above the carriage like a moving sun, his golden form appearing and disappearing among the clouds.

"You ought to take a more active part, Rhaenyra."

Viserys sat opposite her with a rolled map in his hand, but his gaze rested on his daughter. "Hunts, feasts, tourneys...

These are more than amusements. They are part of governing.

The subjects of the Iron Throne need to see their future queen. They need to know you, to build trust."

But whatever Viserys said, Rhaenyra never took her eyes off the view outside.

"I attended."

"But you haven't engaged enough." Viserys set down the map and leaned forward. "The day before yesterday, in the Godswood, Alicent invited you to leave with her, and you refused. That delayed our departure. You left last night's feast early. This morning, you even wanted to take Aegon and fly straight to the Kingswood on Syrax-"

"It would have been faster." Rhaenyra finally turned her head, fixing her large violet eyes on her father. "Besides, no one would notice when I arrived. They would only notice Aegon and his dragon."

"What is wrong with being noticed?"

A trace of frustration crept into Viserys's helpless voice. "He is your brother. His glory will be yours as well, just as it is with Daemon and me. You are family."

"We are family." Rhaenyra repeated the words as flatly as if she were describing the weather. "So Father allows him to bring Sunfyre, but forbids me from riding Syrax there ahead of everyone. Because 'arriving directly on a dragon would frighten the subjects'-those were your exact words. What about Sunfyre, then? Isn't he a dragon?"

Viserys opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He looked at Aegon. The little boy lay across Rhaenyra's lap, watching a passing cavalry troop intently, his silver-gold hair shining in the light.

"Sunfyre... is different."

The king finally said, "He is still small, and his bond with Aegon... is special.

When people see him, they feel curiosity more than fear."

"Syrax is still small, too."

Rhaenyra's voice remained calm, but her hand tightened unconsciously around Aegon's. "She is only a few years older than Sunfyre.

And she is gentle. She has never hurt anyone."

"This is not a matter of size, Rhaenyra."

Viserys rubbed between his brows, a gesture that had grown increasingly frequent of late. "It is a matter of... bearing. You are the heir, the future queen. You need to present yourself as steady and approachable. Descending from the sky on a dragon is the bearing of a conqueror, not a ruler."

Rhaenyra fell silent for a few seconds, then said:

"No one is coming for me anyway."

She spoke very softly, yet the words pierced the carriage's false harmony as precisely as a dagger.

Viserys froze.

Hoofbeats, rumbling wheels, and soldiers' footsteps sounded outside, but inside the carriage there was only deathly silence.

Aegon, in Rhaenyra's arms, "keenly" sensed the change in the atmosphere. He turned and patted her arm with his little hand. "Sister..."

Rhaenyra looked down at him and forced a smile.

"It's nothing, Aegon. Look, there are so many horses outside."

But the boy did not look out the window.

He climbed onto Rhaenyra's lap and cupped her face in his small hands, just as he had in the Godswood. This time, however, he did not kiss her. He only gazed earnestly at her with his violet eyes. "Rhaenyra... best."

Then he turned toward Viserys and said, his words still halting but clear:

"Father... mean. Bad."

After all, counting both his lives, this really was Aegon's first time learning the Common Tongue of Westeros, so he truly had not known how to speak it before...

Viserys's expression, meanwhile, grew even more complicated-

Surprise, embarrassment, and a trace of hurt that was difficult to discern.

He looked at the son in his daughter's arms, barely over a year old-the child who had hatched a dragon in three days and spoken at three months-and suddenly felt an unfamiliar distance between them.

"I wasn't being mean, Aegon." The king's voice softened. "I was only teaching your sister...

Teaching you both how to become good rulers.

You will have lands of your own one day, too..."

"Together," Aegon said, gently taking Rhaenyra's hand and reaching his other hand toward Viserys. "Learn... together."

That simple gesture dissolved the tension.

Viserys took his son's little hand and sighed. "You're right. We'll learn together."

Watching them, Rhaenyra felt her resentment ease a little.

She hugged Aegon close, resting her chin lightly on his soft hair. A little child "did not understand" the complexities of politics, "did not understand" the delicate matter of succession, and "did not understand" 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 had been unable to get a word in between the heated father and daughter. Now, looking at her son in her stepdaughter's arms, she felt only a deep bitterness within.

The procession reached the Kingswood on the evening of the third day.

The setting sun painted the western sky gold and red, while the forest's edge looked deep and mysterious in the dusk.

This was a private hunting preserve belonging exclusively to the Targaryen royal family. After Aegon the Conqueror built the Red Keep beside the Blackwater Rush, he had claimed this vast forest as royal land.

Over the following century, trees along its edges had been selectively felled, clearings opened, and camps and hunting grounds established one after another.

But the Kingswood was markedly different that day.

Hundreds of people had already gathered outside the camp-not commoners, but nobles, knights, squires, stewards, and their attendants.

When the royal banner appeared at the end of the road, the crowd rippled like a wheat field swept by the wind, every face turning in that direction.

The royal carriage stopped at the entrance to the camp.

The king stepped down first, then turned to have a maid help the queen, who was pregnant again. Only afterward did he personally help Rhaenyra down-

The gesture seemed carefully arranged to display the closeness between father and daughter to everyone present.

When Rhaenyra emerged from the carriage carrying Aegon, a murmur of restrained wonder rose from the crowd.

Some of it might have been for the princess. She wore black-and-red hunting clothes that day, her silver-gold hair woven into elaborate braids, her violet eyes like jewels in the dusk.

But more eyes settled on the boy in her arms, and on-

The young dragon descending from the sky.

The golden dragon did not land immediately. He circled low overhead, the air stirred by his beating wings tossing the nobles' cloaks and hair.

Sunset burned across his scales, making him look less like a creature of flesh and blood than something out of legend.

He gave a long, clear, piercing cry, then landed ten yards behind Rhaenyra, folded his wings, and swept his golden eyes over the crowd.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then broke into even more excited discussion.

Viserys raised a hand for quiet. He wore a kingly smile, calm and unhurried, as though everything were under his control.

"Welcome! My subjects! My friends!" His voice carried slowly through the dusk. "Thank you for traveling so far to join this royal hunt and celebrate the name day of my son, Aegon Targaryen-

Though it comes a little late, fine wine is no worse for being drunk late, and neither is a grand hunt for beginning late!"

Polite laughter rose. The nobles began stepping forward to pay their respects, their order strictly determined by rank.

Naturally, the first were the lords paramount, who stood just below the king.

Borros Baratheon, the newly appointed Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, approached first.

He was a powerfully built young man, tall and broad, with House Baratheon's characteristic black hair and blue eyes and a carefully trimmed short beard.

His father, the late Lord Boremund, had been the maternal half-brother of King Jaehaerys, Viserys's grandfather.

Borros himself was famed for courage equal to his father's-and an even fiercer temper.

As Viserys's close friend, Septon Eustace, had said, "Lord Boremund was like stone: hard, strong, and steadfast. Lord Borros is like the wind: furious, yet ever changing."

"Your Grace." Borros knelt on one knee, his voice ringing like a bell. "The Stormlands pay their respects to you, and to the princess and the young prince."

When he raised his head, his gaze flicked between Rhaenyra and Aegon, giving no clear indication of his allegiance.

Beside him stood his wife, Elena Caron, a slender, composed lady, and his cousin, Olyver Baratheon, equally sturdy but with a more alert gaze.

Next came Mathos Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach. The Lord of Highgarden looked to be at least in his forties, with a kindly face and an ever-present smile, though shrewd calculation lurked in his eyes. He wore a green velvet coat embroidered all over with golden roses, symbols of his house and domain.

"Your Grace, may this hunt yield a rich bounty."

Mathos bowed with graceful precision. His wife, Lady Redwyne-

Who hailed from the Arbor and was famed for her beauty and her family's fleet-looked curiously at Sunfyre as she curtsied.

Behind the couple stood 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 Paramount of the Westerlands, caused a slight stir.

He was the elder twin brother of Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships. The brothers looked almost identical: golden-haired, green-eyed, handsome, and arrogant.

But Jason was more ostentatious than his younger brother. Rubies studded his armor, and his cloak was made of deep crimson sable.

"Your Grace." Jason bowed, though not as deeply as the others. "Casterly Rock will ever remain loyal to the Iron Throne."

There was nothing to fault in his words, but something in his tone made Rhaenyra frown slightly.

His gaze skimmed over her, lingered briefly on Aegon, then turned to the sky as though searching for something-

Perhaps he was hoping another dragon would appear.

Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, approached with the support of two attendants.

The old man was over seventy and unsteady on his feet, but his eyes remained clear.

"Your Grace..."

Grover's voice trembled. "Forgive these old bones for being unable to offer the full courtesies."

"There is no need for ceremony, old friend." Viserys supported him personally. "Your presence is honor enough."

Following the old man was his eldest grandson, Elmo Tully, a frail boy of about eight who looked nervous enough to faint.

He was House Tully's hope for the future-

And a fragile hope at that.

The nobles of the Riverlands had always chafed under their Tully overlords. A young heir would face countless challenges.

After the lords paramount came the other important nobles.

When Hobert Hightower, Earl of Oldtown, stepped forward, the atmosphere instantly grew delicate.

He was not merely Otto's elder brother, protector of the Citadel, and head of House Hightower, but also the Faith of the Seven's most powerful secular supporter.

Hobert was a few years older than Otto and had a sterner face. His gray hair was gathered into a neat knot, and his plain dark gray robes made him look more like a septon or maester than a lord.

"Your Grace."

Hobert bowed, his voice low. "May the Seven bless this hunt, bless the royal family, and bless the kingdom." His words were as rigid as scripture.

His eldest son, Mund Hightower, followed him, a man of about twenty with House Hightower's characteristic solemn features.

His gaze briefly met that of his uncle Otto, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Next came the members of the Small Council and other important figures who had traveled with the royal procession.

The Master of Coin, Earl Lyman Beesbury-

A round, kindly old man famed for being an "agreeable old soul"-

Almost tripped over his own cloak as he stepped forward to bow, drawing a few stifled laughs.

The Master of Laws, Earl Lyonel Strong, approached with his two sons.

The Earl of Harrenhal had stern features. Though he had lost his hair early, his bearing remained erect, and he looked more like a valiant warrior than a learned sage.

As he bowed, his eyes briefly met Viserys's with the unspoken understanding of old friends.

His eldest son was Harwin Strong.

Now commander of the City Watch's "Gold Cloaks," he was nicknamed "Breakbones," a giant of a man nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to carry a horse.

His armor clanked heavily as he knelt on one knee.

The younger son, Larys Strong, was entirely different.

He was slender, but one of his feet had been twisted since birth, forcing him to drag it as he limped along.

His limp was unmistakable when he walked-

Hence his nickname, "Clubfoot."

His movements were light and noiseless, like a cat's. His eyes were pale gray, and he always seemed to be assessing people when he looked at them. His bow was flawless, yet something about him made Rhaenyra instinctively uneasy.

Last came the Kingsguard, who had guarded them throughout the journey.

Their Lord Commander, Ser Harrold Westerling, led his six sworn brothers forward. All seven knelt in perfect unison, their white cloaks like seven patches of snow in the dusk.

Apart from Harrold, the other six were:

Ser Lorent Marbrand, from Ashemark in the Westerlands, a superb swordsman but a man of few words.

Ser Steffon Darklyn, from Duskendale in the Crownlands, renowned for his loyalty.

Ser Criston Cole, from the Stormlands, hailing from Blackhaven in the Dornish Marches, where his father served as steward to House Dondarrion. The princess had personally selected and appointed him a year earlier. Having defeated Prince Daemon Targaryen at a tourney, he was young, handsome, and much remarked upon.

Ser Rickard Thorne, from the Crownlands, a skilled horseman.

And Ser Alec Cargyll and Ser Arryk Cargyll-

Twin brothers, 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 an instant, so briefly that it was almost imperceptible, before moving away.

The formal greetings lasted nearly an hour.

Only when the final noble withdrew into the crowd did Viserys raise his hand again.

"The feast is ready!" Viserys announced. "Tonight, let us drink our fill, and tomorrow, let us hunt! For the Iron Throne! For House Targaryen!"

"For the Iron Throne! For House Targaryen!"

The crowd echoed him.

Torches were lit one after another, cooking smoke rose from the camp, and music began drifting through the air.

The nobles dispersed toward their tents and campfires, but their conversations continued to buzz like bees.

Rhaenyra remained where she stood, holding Aegon and watching it all.

Sunfyre stood behind her, firelight reflected in his golden eyes. Every noble who passed glanced at her-

Or rather, at the boy in her arms.

Those gazes held curiosity, calculation, appraisal, and ambition.

Aegon yawned and rubbed his eyes with his little hands. His young body truly could not bear several days of travel. "Sleepy..."

"You can go to sleep soon," Rhaenyra said softly.

Viserys came over and placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Do you see? This is your kingdom. These are the people you will one day rule."

Rhaenyra looked at the faces in the crowd:

Borros Baratheon was laughing heartily as he slapped a knight on the back; Mathos Tyrell spoke quietly with his wife.

Jason Lannister drank alone, his gaze distant; Grover Tully walked toward a tent, supported by his grandson; Hobert Hightower stood beside Otto, the two speaking in low voices.

There was also Lyonel Strong, who was watching his sons-

Harwin drank in great gulps, while Larys stood quietly in the shadows.

And the Kingsguard, seven white figures scattered throughout the camp, keeping vigilant watch.

"I see it, Father," Rhaenyra said.

She saw the seeds of loyalty and betrayal, the intertwining of ambition and fear, a kingdom whose calm surface concealed seething undercurrents.

And the boy in her arms, her little brother barely over a year old, this extraordinary child who had hatched a dragon three days after his birth, had already become the center of all those undercurrents.

Sunfyre gave a low rumble, wings trembling gently.

Night fell completely, and stars began to appear in the sky. Far to the east, in the direction of the Stepstones, perhaps Daemon Targaryen was gazing at the same stars.

The nobles' hunt had yet to begin, but the game of power had long been underway.

And the most crucial player in that game was, at that moment, resting against his sister's shoulder, drifting into dreams.