Night fell heavy over the royal camp.
The bonfires still burned in scattered circles across the Kingswood clearing, but King Viserys sat alone by a smaller flame on the edge of the tents. No servants, no guards—only the crackle of wood and the occasional hoot of an owl in the trees.
With a slow hand, he poured the dregs of his wine onto the fire. The flames hissed and flared.
Sizzle.
It was a small gesture. Petty, even. But it made him feel something.
He was weary—not just of the day's festivities or the hunt that never truly interested him—but of everything. Of the crown on his head, of the web of schemes that surrounded him, and most of all, of the choices that had defined his reign.
A soft voice broke the silence. "Your Grace?"
Alicent stood at the edge of the firelight, her hands folded before her, her green dress rustling softly in the breeze.
Viserys did not look up. "Rhaenyra was never meant to be queen," he muttered, as though speaking to the flames.
Alicent hesitated, caught off guard by the confession. "Your Majesty?"
He sighed. "I made her my heir not out of political foresight… but out of fear. I named her because I feared what Daemon might become."
Still he did not turn to face her. The firelight danced across the deep lines on his face, making him look older, more worn than he had that morning.
"She was my only child at the time," he continued, voice hollow. "And I was desperate. Aemma was gone. The babe… gone. The realm whispered. Daemon celebrated. It was too much."
Alicent remained silent. The night begged her to speak, but she sensed this wasn't the time for opinion. Not yet.
Viserys's voice wavered.
"Daemon... He was my brother. My best friend once. He would have waged war to see me crowned heir back during the Great Council of 101. He rallied lords, spent his gold, threatened rebellion if I wasn't chosen. Jaehaerys only called the Council because Daemon's devotion frightened him."
His hands trembled as he gripped the goblet again.
"And now... I've banished him."
He finally looked up at her, eyes reddened with wine and sorrow. "How did it come to this?"
Alicent knelt slowly beside him, the grass damp beneath her knees. "Daemon changed, Your Grace. You could not have known."
Viserys shook his head. "No. I changed. I grew afraid of him. After Aemma died… after he called my dead son the 'Heir for a Day'... I couldn't see him without rage in my heart."
He stared into the fire.
"I thought by naming Rhaenyra, I could bury that rage. That I could replace what I lost with something... purer."
He closed his eyes. "But it only brought more shadows."
Alicent gently placed her hand atop his, but his grip tightened around the goblet, knuckles white.
"Corlys Velaryon was another thorn," he muttered. "When Daemon was on the council, Corlys still showed me some respect. But once Daemon left... once I turned down Laena's hand…"
Viserys looked up at her now, the pain raw.
"He turned against me. Joined with Daemon. Now they fight in the Stepstones with their dragons and ships. Half the realm watches them and wonders: is this where true power lies?"
Alicent's brow furrowed. "You rejected Corlys's proposal because Laena was too young. It was the right thing to do."
He chuckled bitterly. "The right thing, maybe. But not the wise one."
The cup in his hand trembled again. "Every time I remove one threat, another rises. Daemon. Corlys. Otto... Even you."
She stiffened. "Me?"
Viserys let out a weary laugh. "Not yet. But one day. Everyone seeks something. Even those who pretend not to."
Alicent looked down, caught between protest and silence.
Viserys's voice turned quiet. "I once dreamt... of a son. Crowned in Aegon's helm, ruling over a realm united. It felt real—so real. I chased that dream for years. And I lost Aemma because of it."
He stared at the fire again, and for a moment, she thought he might weep.
"I gave up that dream the day she died. Told myself it was foolish. And then I made Rhaenyra my heir. To convince myself I didn't need the dream."
He looked at her again. "But I don't know if I made the right choice."
Alicent swallowed hard, recognizing the moment for what it was.
So she lied.
"She has worked tirelessly, Your Grace," she said softly. "She studies the realm. She rides her dragon. She loves you dearly. She's only withdrawn because she fears disappointing you."
Viserys blinked. "Truly?"
"She carries the burden with pride," Alicent continued, slipping her hand from his. "She wants to prove worthy of you. I've seen it."
It was a risk. A complete fabrication. But she had learned in recent days how to steer Viserys—gently, through his guilt and hopes.
And it worked.
Viserys's lip trembled. He nodded slowly, tears brimming in his eyes. "Thank you, Alicent. You always know what to say."
"This is my duty," she whispered, offering a smile.
He rose slowly, swaying from drink, and she helped him back toward his tent, his arm over her shoulder.
He chuckled softly to himself as they walked.
"A wise wife, a loving daughter. Perhaps I've not ruined everything after all."
Alicent didn't respond.
Behind his back, her expression faded. The smile vanished. Her eyes were cold.
Men.
---
Back in her own tent, Lady Rhea Royce tossed a blanket across the room.
"Sleep," she snapped. "Or go bunk with the squires."
Aemond caught the blanket mid-air, pouting as he looked between the two narrow beds.
The royal hunting expedition was not designed for luxury. Accommodations were sparse. And unfortunately, only Lady Rhea had come from the Vale.
"Can't believe I'm stuck like this," he grumbled.
"Don't play coy," she said without looking back. "You've been dancing around the Queen and Princess like a cat in heat."
"Mother!" he hissed, scandalized.
Rhea didn't even look up. "Save your breath. I raised you. I know the scent of manipulation."
Aemond wisely shut his mouth and slid into the smaller cot. He didn't need maternal warmth—he just needed a safe space to sleep with his prize: the four dragon eggs hidden deep in his pack.
The candle was blown out. The tent fell quiet.
Aemond tossed restlessly.
He had lit fires in both Alicent and Rhaenyra. After this hunt, Otto would fall. The Queen and the Princess would rise. And he'd be left in the middle of it all, dancing on a knife's edge.
He needed to get out of King's Landing before the real war began.
"Mother," he whispered into the dark.
"What now?"
"Can I borrow a team of Knights of the Vale tomorrow?"
Rhea's voice was sharp. "Why?"
"Rhaenyra wants to go hunting," he said quickly. "I want backup. In case it's... dangerous."
A partial lie.
He had other plans.
If he could find the white hart—rumored to be a royal omen—it might contain essence, maybe even power. And more importantly, it was the perfect excuse to vanish.
With that, he could slip away from the Greens, from the Blacks... from all of them.
Go back to the Vale. Establish a foundation. Train his people. And then return—with dragons and men sworn to him.
In the end, neither Alicent nor Rhaenyra would own him.
He would own them.
"Gunthor will ride with you," Rhea said at last.
"Love you, Mom."
There was a pause.
Then, finally: "…Mm."
Aemond smiled in the dark.
The Dance of the Dragons had not yet begun—but he already planned to end it on his terms.
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