A thin trail of dust curled into the spring air as the royal procession made its way into the outer edges of the Kingswood. Sparrows startled from the trees, flitting into the canopy above, while the slow rhythm of hooves and creaking wheels echoed through the underbrush.
The forest opened into a wide glade, where sunlight broke through the boughs of towering oaks and elms. There, the royal hunting camp had been raised, bright pavilions sprawled across the grass in orderly rows, their silken peaks catching the breeze. Banners of crimson, gold, silver, green, and blue stirred in the midday light, each sigil marking the presence of the realm's great houses.
Aegon leaned slightly out of the carriage window, the wind ruffling his silver-gold hair. He watched the camp draw nearer, smoke curling from cookfires, stablehands tending to horses, young attendants darting about in livery.
"We're here," he murmured.
Beside him, Daemon drained the last of his wine and gave a lazy grin. "Your moment to shine, little brother." He gave Aegon a nudge with his elbow. "Try not to set anyone on fire. Unless it's someone annoying. Like that Lannister whelp out there, the one yapping about his bloody horse."
He tilted his chin toward a golden-haired boy outside the carriage, loudly bragging to a cluster of squires about the "impeccable gait" of his steed.
Viserys, seated opposite, was fussing with his doublet for the third time. He gave his collar a cautious sniff and frowned. "Gods, I hope I don't reek like wine." He reached into his satchel, uncorked a small glass vial, and dabbed a drop of rose oil onto his neck.
"Now you smell like a maiden on her name day," Daemon mocked.
"And you look like you rolled out of a hedge," Viserys snapped. "Fix your laces. At least pretend to be nobility."
"I am nobility. Just the better-dressed kind."
The carriages stopped. Outside, horns blared, and the camp stirred to attention. Footmen moved quickly, banners shifted in the breeze, and a fresh waft of roasting meat drifted through the air, venison, crackling bread, and the sweeter note of spiced mead. The door of the royal carriages opened with a polished snap.
King Jaehaerys stepped down first, composed in every movement. Queen Alysanne descended beside him, her presence quiet but commanding. Their arrival stilled the crowd, lords bowed, ladies dipped in curtsies. Behind them came Prince Baelon, Septon Barth, and a few other court figures.
Aegon climbed down from the carriage with Daemon and Viserys close behind. A few eyes turned his way. Some held curiosity, others something more uncertain.
A white-cloaked knight approached.
"Prince Aegon," he said with a formal nod. "Her Grace has asked that you join them."
Aegon glanced at his brothers. Daemon gave a nonchalant shrug. Viserys raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Aegon gave them both a nod and turned to follow the knight.
Queen Alysanne was waiting, her hands folded neatly before her, a calm expression resting on her face. She looked up as he approached, her gaze softening.
"Come, Aegon," she said gently. "Walk with us."
He fell in beside her without hesitation. King Jaehaerys walked ahead, his pace even and deliberate, while Septon Barth and Prince Baelon followed a few steps behind. Courtiers and noblemen parted respectfully as they passed, some bowing low, others casting sideways glances at the young prince who had begun to stir rumors.
They reached the entrance of the royal pavilion, its silken panels stirring in the breeze. From within, the low hum of conversation filtered out, nobles exchanging pleasantries over wine, alliances stitched together over bread and meat.
Just before stepping inside, Alysanne reached out and touched Aegon's forearm lightly.
"You don't need to dazzle them," she said in a quiet voice, warm and reassuring. "Just be who you are. That's more than enough."
Aegon nodded, then stepped inside.
The interior of the royal tent was lit with muted gold, sunlight filtering through silk like liquid fire. Velvet-lined chairs flanked long trestle tables. Tapestries hung from the poles, and above the dais, the dragons of House Targaryen twisted and coiled in fine embroidery. The scent of beeswax candles mingled with the ever-present forest air, grounding opulence in earth and pine.
The King and Queen ascended their thrones without fanfare, their motions practiced and unhurried. Aegon was shown to a chair at the Queen's right. He sat, spine straight, eyes steady.
He felt them on him, the glances, the subtle tilts of heads, the whispered speculations. Lords with lined brows. Ladies with fans held too close to their lips. No one stared openly, but none ignored him either.
Aegon found his father Baelon having conversation with Lord Arryn; Viserys laughing with Otto Hightower; Daemon predictably at the food tables, already with a drumstick in hand.
Scanning the room, Aegon noted several other familiar faces. Aemma, whom he had last met in Rhaenys's wedding, stood in a pale gown beside her father, her eyes drifting with curiosity.
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood composed, his sea-silk robes catching the light like ocean foam. He was joined by his nephew Vaemond who seemed to be whispering something to him.
Rhaenys was nowhere to be seen, either absent from the gathering or simply occupied elsewhere, most likely caring for little Laena.
Lord Hobert Hightower hovered near the rear, surrounded by green-and-white-clad knights.
"Aegon," came the King's voice. low, but clear.
Aegon stepped forward.
Septon Barth rose beside the throne, his posture solemn.
Jaehaerys checked his grandson carefully. "It's time," he said, voice even. "I'll speak first—welcome the lords, speak of the hunt. And when I call on you… show them what you showed us at the Painted Table. No more, no less."
Aegon nodded, his expression settling into calm seriousness.
Queen Alysanne leaned toward him, her voice gentle. "Show them what you showed us that night," she said with quiet pride. Then, more dryly: "And try not to burn down the pavilion. It's a fine tent."
Aegon allowed himself a brief smile. "I'll try."
A flicker of a smile crossed Jaehaerys's face before he turned to Septon Barth, all warmth gone from his gaze.
"Let's begin."
The septon stepped forward. Though his voice was not loud, it carried with effortless clarity through the pavilion.
"Lords and ladies of Westeros."
The hum of conversation dwindled. Goblets were lowered. Servants stilled. A hundred pairs of eyes turned toward the dais.
"His Grace, Jaehaerys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
Jaehaerys rose slowly, hands resting before him. His voice was calm.
"Welcome." He looked out over the gathered lords and ladies. "This hunt, as you know, is no ordinary gathering. It is not merely for sport, or feasting, or fellowship. It is for something more."
A quiet pause followed.
"Two moons past, on Dragonstone, a power stirred. A power long buried—thought extinguished. A fire not seen since the days of old Valyria… rekindled in the blood of my grandson."
Heads turned to Aegon again.
"You've heard the stories. Whispers. Claims. Doubts." His gaze moved across the tent, steady. "I offer you more than words. I offer you witness."
He lifted his hand and gestured toward Aegon.
The boy stepped forward with measured pace, his boots soft against the velvet runner. His face showed neither anxiety nor arrogance, only calm.
He stopped in the center of the pavilion.
Raised one hand.
A breath. A stillness. Then…a flicker.
A spark bloomed in his palm. It spun slowly, gently, as if lifted by a breeze none could feel. It grew, not wild, but deliberate, until a sphere of fire hovered just above his skin. Golden-orange light danced across the tent's inner walls, flickering against faces now held in awe.
Gasps rose. A dropped goblet clattered to the floor.
The flame began to shift. Its edges curled, bent inward, shaping. It stretched, split, two wings unfurling from its sides. A tail coiled beneath. In a matter of seconds, the flame had reshaped itself into a tiny dragon of living fire.
No smoke. No heat. Just light, and motion.
The flame-dragon beat its wings once. Twice. Then it lifted, rising through the air to circle the peak of the pavilion, casting shadows over the onlookers as it glided in slow, measured arcs.
No one spoke.
The flame hovered once more, then drifted downward, curling back into Aegon's open palm. He closed his fingers around it.
It vanished.
The silence that followed felt deeper than before. Like the whole world had exhaled and was waiting to breathe again.
Then…a single clap.
The King.
He clapped again, this time louder. Then stood.
"The blood of Valyria endures," Jaehaerys said, voice quiet but unwavering. "In House Targaryen. In my grandson."
Septon Barth stepped forward once more.
"May its flame never falter," he intoned, the words carrying a weight that settled into the bones of every listener.
At first, there was only the King's applause.
Then another clap. And another.
Slowly, like a tide creeping in, the sound grew. A cautious wave of applause rolled through the pavilion, hesitant at first, nobles glancing at one another as if seeking permission.
A few clapped with stiff decorum, too schooled in politics to do otherwise. Others sat stunned, their hands forgotten in their laps, eyes still fixed on Aegon with something between awe and unease.
Aegon didn't bow.
He simply stood where he was, the echoes of fire fading from his palm.
The applause slowly began to fade, not because of lack of fervor, but because the King raised a hand.
Jaehaerys's voice filled the quiet again.
"Let it be known," he said, "that today, we ride not just for sport or honor. We ride to mark the return of something far older than crowns and keeps. The fire that once shaped Valyria has stirred again. And it stirs in our blood."
He paused, letting the moment settle.
"And so…let the hunt begin."
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