Though Baelon disliked parting with the creature, he had no choice but to surrender the white hart to the grooms who hurried forward with ropes and gloves.
The stag tossed its crowned head once, snorting its displeasure, before being led away.
Queen Alicent, pale from fatigue yet sharp-eyed as ever, did not allow the matter to rest.
"See to it that a private enclosure is built for the hart," she commanded. She lifted a gloved hand, tracing the air as if visualizing its size. "Large enough for it to roam. Airy. Bring live shrubs and grasses from the kingswood. I want the creature at ease."
Her ladies exchanged glances, an undertaking of that scale would take days, perhaps longer, yet none dared question her. For now the hart would rest in a hastily cleared stall, its white coat gleaming like frost beneath torchlight.
After the long, jarring ride back from the hunt, both Viserys and Alicent retreated to their chambers, nearly stumbling with exhaustion. Servants closed the doors behind them, muffling the world.
Baelon turned to follow-
-but a hand shot out, seized his collar, and pulled him sharply sideways.
"Not so fast," Princess Rhaenyra growled under her breath.
Before he could protest, she dragged him down the corridor, skirts whispering furiously around her legs. A startled guard stepped aside as she pushed open her chamber door and all but shoved Baelon inside.
"You're not escaping," she said, fastening the door behind them. Her violet eyes blazed. "You will tell me everything, every detail of what happened in the forest."
Baelon sighed.
Gods, she was relentless.
He followed her deeper into the room, knowing the interrogation would last until dawn if she willed it.
While the royal family tended to their affairs, the Red Keep received another visitor, a broad-shouldered man in blackened mail, stride heavy as a hammerfall.
Ser Harwin Strong.
Gold cloaks at the gate straightened at the sight of their commander, hands coming reflexively to sword hilts in salute. Harwin said nothing as he passed. The weight of his armor alone announced him.
He climbed the spiral steps of Maegor's Holdfast and halted before a darkened chamber on the second floor. His knuckles rapped twice.
The door opened.
Otto Hightower stood within, the badge of the Hand gleaming coldly against his chest. He dismissed his attendants with a flick of the wrist, then stepped aside to let Harwin enter.
The room smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and cold stone.
"Will your method truly work?" Harwin asked, voice low, eyes narrowing as he eased the door shut behind him.
Otto poured himself a cup of wine. His movements were unhurried. Controlled. "Have no fear, Ser Harwin. Your goals do not conflict with mine. You covet the princess. I require the Iron Throne for Aegon."
Harwin's mouth curled in a humorless smile. "Wrong. If the princess does not lose her place, my own child benefits as well. Do you think I came here without considering that?"
Otto's expression tightened, only slightly. To anyone else, it would have passed unnoticed.
So the brute is even duller than I imagined, Otto thought, though he kept his smile thin and diplomatic.
"Ser Harwin," Otto said sharply, setting down the cup, "let us speak plainly. You will never wed a Targaryen princess. Any child born of you and Rhaenyra would be a bastard. A strong bastard"-Otto let the words hang-"but a bastard nonetheless."
Harwin's jaw clenched. For a man known across the Seven Kingdoms as Breakbones, the insult struck deep. His hand drifted, imperceptibly, to the hilt of his sword.
Otto noticed. He continued anyway.
"You should consider it a gift that I offer you even this much. With my support, Harrenhal will rise. Your children will carry dragon blood, your house may rise from lordship to ducal standing. That is more than fortune ever intended for you."
Harwin's fingers flexed around his hilt before he forced them still. He had tried, gods, he had tried, to draw the princess's eye. His strength, his looks, his lineage… none of it moved her. She scarcely spared him a glance, and each day her indifference stung anew.
If he wanted her, he would need help.
And the Hightowers, desperate for every ally in their ascent, were offering their hand.
"Very well." His voice was rough, but steady. "Let Lord Otto keep his promise. Should your plan bear fruit, Harrenhal will stand as the Hightowers' most loyal ally."
Otto inclined his head, satisfied. The Strong family was no minor house, Lyonel Strong sat on the small council, and Harwin commanded thousands of gold cloaks. Their backing would be valuable indeed.
"Good," Otto murmured. "Then listen closely. Here is what we shall do…"
He leaned in, whispering.
The candles flickered as though recoiling.
Three days later.
The Red Keep, Chamber of the Small Council
The lords of the realm gathered around the long table of carved weirwood, the air thick with wine, parchment dust, and restrained tempers.
King Viserys lifted a letter and tapped it once against the table. Fatigue lined his features; these days even good news seemed to weigh upon him.
"Lords," Viserys began, "word has come from the Stepstones. Corlys writes that his fleet has suffered heavy losses. Though Daemon and Caraxes are formidable, even dragonfire cannot melt mountains."
A quiet murmur rippled down the table.
Viserys continued: "Lord Corlys asks for aid from the Iron Throne. What say you?"
Otto was first to speak, stepping forward with practiced ease.
"Your Grace, I believe such aid would be ill-advised. Corlys and Prince Daemon went to war without your sanction. Their actions have offended the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands already. If the crown intervenes now, their war becomes your war, and resentment will only deepen."
Master of Coin Lyman Beesbury cleared his throat. "I concur, Your Grace. And desperate as Lord Corlys claims to be, his fleet recently destroyed a Myrish warship with Prince Daemon's help. They are hardly helpless."
Viserys exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Very well. Send word to Lord Corlys. The crown refuses to intervene."
He braced his hands on the armrests of his chair, preparing to rise, when Otto spoke again.
"Your Grace… there is another matter."
Viserys stilled. Weariness flickered into irritation. "Speak."
Otto folded his hands in front of him. "As your Hand, it is my duty to raise concerns, whether pleasant or otherwise."
Every lord in the chamber shifted.
"Prince Baelon has risen greatly in reputation since taming the white hart," Otto said smoothly. "I wonder if Your Grace might consider the matter of succession anew."
Silence struck the hall like a thrown spear.
All understood Otto's true aim. He was not advocating for Baelon, but weaponizing the boy's fame, driving a wedge between Viserys and Daemon's son.
Otto pressed on. "Prince Baelon is the eldest grandson of King Jaehaerys. His claim stands only behind yours and Prince Daemon's."
Viserys's face darkened with storm clouds. "I have no intention of changing my heir. Baelon is gifted, yes, but he shall serve Rhaenyra loyally."
Because in truth, Baelon was Daemon's child. And Viserys remembered too well the chaos Daemon once reveled in.
Otto bowed slightly. "Then perhaps Your Grace might consider assigning Prince Baelon duties elsewhere. To temper the fervor of his acclaim. As matters stand, the boy's popularity may soon surpass the princess's."
And this time, damn him, he was right.
The smallfolk adored the Dawn Prince, the white-hart rider. Rhaenyra, brilliant yet distant, commanded respect rather than love.
"No," Viserys said automatically. "I will not send Baelon away."
But the image rose unbidden: Baelon crowned in sunlight, nobles kneeling, the white hart bowing before him as if some ancient prophecy had awakened.
Viserys's certainty trembled.
"...We shall speak of this when Baelon is older," he said at last.
Delay. Always delay.
He stood-
-and the chamber doors slammed open.
Ser Harrold Westerling strode in, helm under his arm, face grave.
"Your Grace…" He approached the king with measured urgency, then leaned in to murmur words meant only for Viserys and Lyonel Strong.
Viserys's eyes widened.
"WHAT?!"
He surged to his feet, fury cracking through his voice. The table rattled as his fist struck it, parchment scattering.
He rounded on Lyonel Strong, who stared back in bewilderment.
"Where is Rhaenyra?" Viserys demanded. "Is she unharmed?"
Ser Harrold bowed his head. "Princess Rhaenyra was given a… drink. A potion meant to inflame desire. Thanks to Prince Baelon's intervention, Grand Maester Mellos administered an antidote in time. She sleeps now."
The king's fists trembled on the table.
"Guards!" Viserys roared. "Bring Harwin Strong to me at once! And Lord Lyonel-" he jabbed a trembling finger toward the Master of Laws, "-you will not leave this room."
Lyonel stared, stunned. "Your Grace-what is the meaning of this? What has happened?"
But the chamber had already descended from policy-
-into chaos.
And soon, into blood.
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A/N- wanna know what happened?
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