Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

With the king's triumphant return to King's Landing, the royal hunt came to an abrupt end.

Everyone knew the reason:

The princess had been startled, and the Westerlands' lord nearly got himself killed by a stag.

When King Viserys personally decreed the hunt's conclusion, no one dared object.

The Next Morning

At the gates of King's Landing, the royal caravan entered slowly.

Crowds of citizens lined the streets to greet the returning party.

Under the rule of King Viserys I, who had inherited the prosperity of King Jaehaerys, Westeros was at its wealthiest.

There were no wars, no famines—just peace.

The people adored their king, the "Young Monarch," and took pride in the name Targaryen.

"Big White, don't touch their food," Aemon scolded, gripping the silky white mane of the majestic stag beneath him.

The great white stag, graceful and intelligent, hesitated for a moment before pulling its head away from a vendor's apple stand, resisting the temptation.

Its enormous antlers, over three meters across, swung with menacing weight.

"White stag!"

"That's the royal stag!"

The sight of such a majestic creature drew gasps and cheers from the crowd.

A true white stag—living proof of the king's favor from the gods—had returned to the city.

The crowd erupted with excitement.

"Big White," as Aemon had named it, walked with slow dignity, exuding an aura of majesty.

Aemon sat astride its back, his hands steady on the reins. His porcelain-white complexion, silver-gold hair, and piercing violet eyes, paired with his fine black attire, made him the very image of a prince.

Behind him rode Ser Steffon on a white horse, holding aloft the three-headed red dragon banner of House Targaryen.

Beside him was Gonsor Royce, mounted on a black stallion, carrying the banner of House Royce: an orange field displaying two lines of runes framing a pile of stones.

The banners left no doubt—this young boy was of both Targaryen and Royce descent.

The knights of the Vale, clad in gleaming armor, marched behind in formation, flanking Aemon with an air of unwavering loyalty.

The crowd, initially boisterous, fell silent for a moment.

The display was grand.

It was brazen.

Aemon scanned the faces in the crowd, his posture straight and proud.

This was exactly the reaction he wanted.

There was no hiding when one rode a white stag into the city. If he couldn't keep a low profile, then he would turn his entrance into an unforgettable spectacle—one that would overshadow the king's meager catch of a brown stag.

"I wonder if Uncle will be so impressed that he'll try to send me away," Aemon mused to himself, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Inside the royal carriage, Viserys pulled back the curtain to glance outside.

His heart grew heavy as he caught sight of his nephew.

Aemon's commanding presence was undeniable—his silver-gold hair gleaming like molten metal, his figure upright and composed on the white stag.

The sight was hauntingly familiar.

"It's just like my dream," Viserys murmured, his voice barely audible.

In his dreams, he had seen a son—his son—wearing the crown of the Conqueror, bathed in light, destined to lead the realm.

He quickly closed the curtain, his mood darkening.

"Damn Daemon," he muttered under his breath. "How does he always get so lucky?"

The Small Council

That afternoon, the Small Council convened in the Red Keep.

"Bang!"

The doors to the chamber shut firmly, sealing in the voices of the kingdom's most powerful men.

"Now then, what sort of reward should we give young Aemon?"

Viserys leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, a smile playing on his lips as he addressed the council.

The long table was flanked by familiar faces.

To the king's left sat the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, his posture rigid and authoritative.

To his right sat Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, who placed the symbolic stone of office into its slot as he took his seat.

Beside them were Grand Maester Mellos and Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin.

At the far end of the table, Tyland Lannister sat awkwardly, a recent and relatively inexperienced addition to the council as Master of Ships.

The king's question was met with mixed reactions.

"Your Grace," began Lord Lyman hesitantly, his age-worn face creased with thought, "as your nephew and a prince of the blood, surely—"

"Your Grace, if I may," Otto interrupted smoothly, cutting Lyman off mid-sentence.

Viserys raised an eyebrow but allowed his Hand to continue.

"I believe young Prince Aemon has displayed remarkable bravery and wisdom," Otto began, his tone measured. "It would be fitting to reward him, perhaps with something practical—gold, gems, or other resources."

At this, Tyland Lannister quipped, "The prince doesn't yet hold lands of his own."

Otto cast him a pointed look. "He will."

Viserys steepled his fingers, his expression contemplative. "Go on," he urged Otto.

Straightening his tunic, Otto elaborated, "Prince Aemon will eventually return to the Vale. Resources would ensure his success and support the realm's stability."

This was a veiled suggestion to send Aemon away—removing a potential rival from King's Landing while keeping him loyal with generous gifts.

"Gold and gems?" Viserys echoed, shaking his head slightly.

Before Otto could continue, Lyonel Strong interjected, "Your Grace, Aemon has only just arrived. Why not ask him what he desires? A child's heart is rarely greedy."

Viserys nodded in agreement, leaning forward.

Otto, however, did not back down.

"Your Grace," he said gravely, "we mustn't forget that Aemon is Daemon's son. He shares his father's impulsive nature, as evidenced by his ostentatious display with the white stag."

The tension in the room thickened. Otto's words cast a shadow of doubt over Aemon, suggesting he could become a threat to Rhaenyra's claim.

Viserys frowned deeply. Aemon was undeniably extraordinary, but his brilliance was both a blessing and a curse.

"Enough," the king said sharply, silencing the growing argument. "I will speak to Aemon myself."

The Queen's Chambers

"Knock, knock!"

The sound of frantic knocking echoed through the room.

Alicent opened the door, only to find herself nearly tackled by a small, silver-haired boy.

"Alicent, you have to help me!" Aemon cried, clutching her waist with surprising strength.

Caught off guard, Alicent blinked in confusion.

"What's happened now?"

"I need to get out of King's Landing," Aemon declared, his violet eyes wide with determination.

Alicent sighed, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Start from the beginning," she said patiently.

As Aemon began explaining his predicament, Alicent's expression shifted from surprise to thoughtfulness.

For better or worse, her young friend had a knack for turning even the direst situations to his advantage.