The third knock had barely sounded when, before Ser Harrold Westerling could announce him, someone kicked the door open from outside.
Bang!
The heavy oak door slammed against the stone wall with a deafening crash. The Silver Goblet on the table jumped, spilling a few drops of wine onto the white tablecloth, where they spread into dark stains.
Morning light flooded through the open doorway, gilding the little figure standing there with a dazzling golden outline.
Aegon stood in the doorway.
He was still wearing that pale blue lace nightdress, his silver-gold hair sticking up in a tangled mess like the mane of a bristling little lion.
His bare foot rested on the cold stone floor, still held in the pose of his flying kick-in truth, because kicking the door had hurt. His little chest heaved, and his purple eyes were full of anxiety and panic, as though some terrible beast were chasing him.
The entire room fell deathly silent.
Ser Harrold Westerling froze in the doorway, his hand still on his sword hilt, disbelief written all over his face.
He had been standing guard right outside, yet he had not even seen how this four-year-old prince had slipped around him while he helped knock, much less how he had kicked open that heavy oak door. And was this really the prince he remembered? Was he sure Prince Daemon had not possessed him through some sorcery?
And Aegon's display of "rebellion" had stunned more than Ser Harrold Westerling, who stood behind him without having stopped him.
Inside the room, the bashful Rhaenyra and the two old friends, Viserys and Lyonel, who had been grinning mischievously at her embarrassment, were all equally dumbfounded.
Lyonel, who had just been congratulating himself on his successful counsel, felt his heart thrown into turmoil once