Before dragons ever ruled the skies of Westeros, before Valyrian steel gleamed beneath the sun, the First Men whispered of another sovereign creature, the white hart, lord of the deep forests. To them, it was not merely a beast, but a sign of kingship bestowed by the old gods themselves.
King Viserys had grown up with such tales. When word reached him that fresh tracks had been found near the Kingswood encampment, the old stories stirred in him like embers catching flame.
Destiny. That was the shape he saw in the prints stamped deep into the earth.
If he captured the white hart alive, if it bowed its noble head before the crowned dragon, then the ancient tokens of the First Men and the majesty of Valyria would join under House Targaryen. No kingdom, no lord, no storm or winter could gainsay that omen.
"Do not harm it," Viserys ordered, cheeks flushed with wine and anticipation. "I would have it captured, kept, and honored. Every future Targaryen shall bear the blessing of the white hart."
The master of the hunt bowed low. "As you command, Your Grace. We will set traps along its path."
He rushed out, boots striking the earth with hurried purpose.
Left alone, Viserys drank again. He watched the nobles gather around young Prince Aegon, his first son, golden-haired and laughing as lords fawned over him. Their smiles were sweet as honey, yet ambition always had a scent. Viserys smelled it thick in the air.
For a moment, unease flickered across his face.
Then he looked across the tent. Rhaenyra stood there, silver hair bright in the torchlight, Baelon at her side. She bent down as her younger brother spoke to her, their faces softened by closeness. Something in Viserys settled. The moment of doubt passed like mist under dawn.
"Fetch Rhaenyra," he said.
Baelon's fingers tightened around the wooden cup in his lap. He knew what would happen.
Viserys would speak of alliances. Rhaenyra would protest. Voices would rise, tempers flare, and at last she would storm away into the Kingswood, furious and alone.
And this- this- was how she was meant to meet the white hart.
He didn't try to stop it.
Moments later, shouts erupted across the pavilion. Rhaenyra's voice cut through the royal camp like a blade. Nobles tensed; whispers spread like sparks along dry grass.
Then she was gone, boots striking hard against the ground as she strode toward her horse. The mare reared once before she swung onto the saddle and vanished between the darkened trees, swallowed by the forest without a backward glance.
Viserys sank onto the small wooden throne set beneath the pavilion canopy, fingers pressed to his temples, wine sloshing forgotten at his side.
*
Dawn
Baelon was shaken awake while the sky was still black and the campfires smoldered low.
"Up, my prince," murmured Ser Cantell, the knight who had watched over him since infancy. The man's voice was gentle, but insistent, as he helped Baelon into a padded jerkin and small riding cloak. "The white hart has been sighted. His Grace wishes you to accompany him."
Baelon yawned so hard his jaw cracked. "It isn't even morning," he mumbled thickly. "I'm six. This must violate some law of the gods…"
Cantell gave a faint chuckle as he lifted the half-asleep boy onto the saddle. "His Grace would be disappointed to hear you say so."
"I'm sure he would," Baelon muttered, already leaning against Cantell's chest as the knight mounted behind him.
The hunting party moved through the forest with torches held high, their breaths steaming in the cold air. Baelon's eyes drooped shut as the steady rhythm of hooves rocked him back into drowsiness.
He slept until the peace shattered.
Shouts broke across the camp. Men cheered. Horns blared triumphantly.
Baelon jerked awake.
The royal hunters had cornered a massive brown stag, powerful and broad-chested, antlers wide enough to crown a small wagon. Hunters dragged it forward, ropes tight around its neck.
Nobles stared as if they beheld a creature out of song rather than a deer found in countless forests.
Baelon rubbed his eyes. "Gods," he muttered, still thick with sleep. "It's a stag, not a dragon."
He tugged lightly on Cantell's sleeve. "Let's stand farther away. They're loud."
Cantell guided their horse to the shade of a towering oak, out of the crowd's fervor.
Baelon slid off and found a comfortable place at the base of the tree. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and closed his eyes again, half sleepy, half annoyed, hoping for even a few stolen minutes of quiet. Cantell remained close, helm turning as he watched the surrounding brush with dutiful vigilance.
Then-
"…thump… thump…"
Something moved. Not the rustle of a deer fleeing, nor the scamper of smaller beasts. Something heavier.
Baelon's eyes cracked open.
"What was that?"
He turned toward the thicket.
And froze.
A great white head rose slowly from behind the brush, massive, regal, crowned with antlers sharp and pale as carved ivory.
The white hart.
Real. Living. Close enough that Baelon could see the fine mist of its breath stir the cold air.
It stepped forward until its full form emerged, towering, moon-pale, every line of its body honed and powerful. It seemed drawn from winter's first snowfall and given shape.
It looked at him, and only him.
One child. One ancient king of the wild. And an impossible, fateful silence between them.
Baelon's breath hitched. This wasn't how it happened or should have happened. The hart was meant to stand before Rhaenyra. To bow to her. To mark her as the chosen heir.
Why me? Was it the strange aura clinging to him since birth? The lingering echo of a life long past?
He did not move. Neither did the hart. Their breaths mingled between them in ghostly puffs of white.
Slowly, inch by inch, Baelon took a single step backward, trying to draw nearer to Cantell without startling the beast.
But with every step he took-
The white hart followed.
Perfectly matched. Perfectly measured.
Its hooves made scarcely a sound on the damp earth.
Baelon swallowed. The creature stood nearly two meters at the shoulder, antlers spreading like branching lightning. Its coat gleamed faintly in the dawn light, soft and impossibly pure.
Eyes- bright, ancient and intelligent, held him in their calm, unsettling regard.
Cantell finally sensed something amiss. He turned-
And saw it.
"My prince!" he gasped.
His sword flashed out in a single fluid movement.
"Stand back!"
"No!" Baelon hissed, hand shooting out. "Don't come any closer! You'll frighten it!"
Cantell froze where he stood.
For a heartbeat.
Then his training overwhelmed his caution.
He raised his voice to the forest canopy.
"HELP! The prince is in danger!"
His cry tore across the woods like a warhorn.
Hunters turned at once. Boots thundered, men shouted, swords rasped from scabbards. The stag the nobles had captured was abandoned where it stood.
Steel gleamed through the trees.
And the white hart, sensing the sudden swarm closing in, shifted.
Its muscles tightened beneath its pale coat, legs bracing. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Leaves trembled. A bird burst from a branch overhead, shrieking as it fled.
The creature's hooves scraped the earth, preparing either to flee-
Or to charge.
Baelon raised his hands slowly, palms open, like one soothing a terrified horse.
"Easy…" he whispered. "Easy…"
But the forest behind him erupted with voices.
"Protect the prince!"
"Stay back!"
"Drive it off!"
No one heard him.
And the ancient king of the Kingswood trembled on the edge of instinct and fear, moments away from breaking the fragile calm.
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