The Royal Hunt ended earlier than planned.
Though the sun shone over King's Landing, the mood returning from the Kingswood was not one of festivity. Word of Princess Rhaenyra's fright and Lord Jason Lannister's near-death encounter with the white stag had already spread like wildfire. And so, by royal command, the hunt concluded, leaving the lords and ladies to whisper behind goblets of wine and fans of silk.
...
The next morning, the gates of King's Landing were flung open.
A pure white royal wheelhouse, bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, rolled solemnly past the Gold Cloaks and into the city. Beside it walked a creature rarer than any foreign prince or warhorse—an enormous white stag, its antlers sprawling like the branches of a godwood tree, each step measured and regal.
"Big White, behave," Aemond murmured, clutching the white stag's mane gently. "No stealing apples today."
The stag, seemingly understanding, turned its head away from a nearby fruit stand and marched on with proud grace. Aemond, perched atop its back, sat tall in his ornate black riding robe, the silk threads shimmering in the morning light. His silver-gold hair framed a young face too poised for his years, his purple eyes shining with triumph and calculation.
Cheers erupted from both sides of the cobbled street.
"The white stag!"
"A royal omen!"
"Targaryen magic lives on!"
The people of the capital loved stories, and this one would pass swiftly among the taverns and bakeries, carried by merchants and stablehands alike: the young prince who rode into the city not on a dragon, but on a symbol of kingship itself.
Behind Aemond rode Ser Steffon, upright on a white destrier bearing the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen. To his other side, Lord Gunthor Royce bore the black-orange sigil of House Royce, a silent declaration of Aemond's dual heritage.
A dozen Vale knights, clad in iron-grey and burnished bronze, flanked the procession. Their presence was not lost on the crowd. Murmurs followed in their wake.
"That one's a mountain lord."
"Why would knights from the Vale guard a Targaryen prince?"
The young prince smiled to himself. Everything was unfolding as it should. A high profile, a grand entrance.
He had, after all, ridden the white stag back alone.
...
Inside the white wheelhouse, King Viserys leaned against the plush interior wall, lifting the curtain just enough to watch the cheers outside. His expression twisted.
Charisma. Grace. Awe.
Everything the people saw in the boy outside—they once saw in Daemon.
He shut the curtain with a heavy sigh.
...
Noontime in the Small Council Chamber.
The red-and-black banners of House Targaryen framed the long oak table. Sunlight spilled through high-arched windows, glinting off glass goblets and polished metal sigil balls. The king had summoned his council without delay.
"Gentlemen," Viserys said, fingers tented before him. "What reward befits the prince who returned to us riding the White Hart and rescuing both my daughter and the Lord of Casterly Rock?"
There was a pause.
Master of Coin Lyman Beesbury, the oldest among them, blinked through his wrinkled eyes and offered, "He is your nephew, Your Grace. Surely the court would see a gesture of generosity..."
"Your Grace," Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, cut in smoothly. "Might I suggest—"
Beesbury fell silent, folding his hands in his lap.
Viserys gestured for Otto to proceed.
"Prince Aemond is brave and sharp, yes. And yet he is Daemon's son. The same Daemon whose willful nature once brought unrest to your court. The boy's reward should be practical—gold, perhaps land in the Vale to aid his return."
Master of Ships Tyland Lannister chuckled dryly. "He owns no land."
"He will," Otto said flatly.
Viserys leaned back, lips twitching.
"And yet," said Master of Laws Lyonel Strong, placing his stone ball gently in its holder, "Prince Aemond has only just returned to us. A gift of land and titles would send him away. He should be asked what he wants. Children, even bold ones, are rarely greedy."
Otto narrowed his eyes. "He has Daemon's blood. Bold may not be the word—ambitious, more like. Riding through the city like a crowned king."
"He is a boy," Lyonel said with calm steel. "And a Targaryen boy, nonetheless."
"That boy," Otto replied sharply, "commands the loyalty of Vale knights and the eye of the people. If he stays in the capital, he becomes a threat—to Princess Rhaenyra, and perhaps to Prince Aegon as well."
The room grew quiet.
Viserys tapped a finger on the table.
"Enough," the king said, voice low but firm. "This matter will not be settled here. I shall ask the boy himself."
...
That evening, within the Queen's solar at Maegor's Holdfast.
A knock.
"Enter," said Alicent.
The door burst open, and Aemond flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around her waist.
"Alicent! I need your help."
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms arched a brow, brushing back a lock of his windblown hair.
"Oh? And what mischief has my little prince stirred now?"
He leaned in, speaking quietly.
"I want to leave King's Landing. But not empty-handed."
Alicent's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Aemond raised his head, eyes full of false innocence and real cunning.
"You're the only one who knows how."
She studied him—this boy who charmed dragons and deer, who stood
between black and green and bowed to neither.
A moment later, she smiled.
"Very well, my prince. Let's begin."
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