Dawn had barely broken over the Kingswood when the horns first sounded.
Mist clung low to the forest floor, silvering the undergrowth as nobles gathered in riding leathers and hunting cloaks, their breath visible in the chill of the early morning. It was the ninth morning of festivities, and with it came the first grand Royal Hunt: an event that drew an impressive crowd. Lords and ladies alike took to horseback, accompanied by hounds, trackers, and retainers, eager for sport. The woods promised no shortage of quarry—red deer, stags, bucks, rabbits, hares, even wolves—but all knew there was only one true prize.
The White Hart.
Sighted only a week prior, the creature had a near-mythical status. Pale as bone and swift as shadow, it was whispered to be no ordinary stag, but something older—something chosen. To bring it down would not simply mark a hunter’s skill, but their fortune… perhaps even their destiny.
The hunt began with order.
It did not remain so.
The first mishap came quietly.
Somewhere deeper in the wood, where the ground grew uneven and treacherous, a hidden pit lay concealed beneath branches and leaves—a trap set long ago for beasts. Neither Lucion Reyne nor Nyessara of Pentos saw it in time.
The ground gave way beneath them and they fell hard.
The drop was deep enough to steal breath and sense alike, the impact sending pain sharply through bone. The Queen’s ankle sprained hard, her cry of pain echoing faintly upward, while Lucion, landing poorly, felt the unmistakable fracture in his foot the moment he tried to stand. Trapped at the base of the pit, the walls too steep to climb, they could do little but call out and wait, voices growing hoarse as time stretched on.
It was not until much later that help came.
Marissa Qoherys was the first to hear them, pausing mid-step before breaking toward the sound. Not far behind were Erol Stark and Alester Royce, drawn in by the urgency of the cries. Together, they found the pit and those within it.
Elsewhere, the forest proved just as disorienting.
Victaria Hightower and Gyles Tyrell had each strayed too far from their parties, the winding paths of the Kingswood twisting back upon themselves until direction became guesswork. Their meeting was by chance, two figures emerging from opposite ends of the trees, both equally misplaced, both equally reluctant to admit it at first.
What followed was an alliance, necessity outweighing pride as they worked together to find their way back.
When the White Hart was spotted at last by both Daeynara Targaryen and Esra Stark, the creature was startled before any clean shot could be taken. Arrows loosed too hastily by both women, struck bark and brush instead, and the great stag—magnificent and silvery-pale—bolted in sudden, frenzied panic. It tore through the forest with terrifying speed, crashing through undergrowth, heedless of anything in its path.
And directly into the path of Argella Baratheon.
She had dismounted moments before as the grass had grown too dense to ride properly and soon unfortunately had her foot caught fast in a rabbit hole. She was struggling to free herself when the sound reached her : the thunder of hooves, the breaking of branches, something coming far too fast. By the time she turned, it was already upon her.
There would have been no time to move. No time to escape.
Only the certainty of impact—
Until an arrow flew.
Clean. Precise. Unerring.
It struck true, sinking deep into the lower half of the White Hart’s body. The creature staggered mid-charge, its momentum faltering just enough for salvation to come to the Ruling Lady of Storm’s End.
Aenyx Targaryen lowered his bow as the white stag collapsed, his dragonglass-tipped arrow having found its mark.
Silence followed.
The White Hart lay still.
At the same time, deeper within the shadowed paths of the Kingswood, the most harrowing moment of the hunt unfolded.Daemon Targaryen had ridden ahead of the others, wholly absorbed in the thrill of the chase, his focus fixed on the trail before him. The young prince did not notice the figure moving through the trees behind him—silent and deliberate. Cloaked and hooded, the stranger kept their distance, bow already in hand.
Not far off, Danelle Tully had dismounted, drawn briefly from the hunt by a rare flowering bush, its petals pale and delicate against the forest floor. It was there, crouched low, that she saw it: the flicker of movement, the unnatural stillness of someone watching rather than hunting. Her gaze followed the line of the drawn bow.
Toward the prince.
There was no time to think.
Only to act.
She sprang forward, shouting; a sharp, desperate warning as she threw herself toward him. The force of her push sent Daemon off balance just as the arrow was loosened.
It struck her instead.
The impact drove the breath from her, a cry tearing from Danelle’s lips as she staggered, clutching at her side. For a moment, it seemed as though she might yet remain standing…but then her body betrayed her. Her limbs trembled, then seized, her breath hitching into something shallow and wrong. A sickly pallor spread across her skin, her lips tinged faintly blue as she began to convulse, the telltale signs unmistakable.
Poison.
“HELP!” Daemon’s voice broke through the trees, raw and urgent as he caught her before she could collapse fully, lifting her into his arms. “HELP!”
Panic shattered the quiet of the forest. Birds took flight overhead as his cries echoed outward, desperate and unrelenting. Somewhere in the distance, riders turned, voices rising in alarm, but for those few, terrible moments, it was only the prince, the dying Ruling Lady of the Riverlands in his arms—
When & Where: Dornish showcase on the evening of the 8th Day a couple of hours after the semi-final jousting.
The Cultural Pavilion had been transformed.
Silks in hues of burnt orange, deep red, and sun-gold draped from high beams, stirring gently in the warm afternoon air. The scent of Dornish wine and citrus hung sweetly over the gathered crowd, mingling with the low hum of music; lutes, hand drums, and the soft chime of bells. It was Dorne brought to life within the heart of the Red Keep—vivid, sensual, and unapologetically itself. And the evening seemed to unravel flawlessly with each Dornish performance.
Princess Arianne Martell took to the center of the pavilion like a flame given form. Silks trailed from her wrists, catching the light as she moved, slow at first, then fluid before becoming utterly mesmerizing. Each step was deliberate, each turn utterly hypnotic, her flexible body weaving a story older than the Conquest itself. The crowd fell silent, drawn in completely, as if the very air had stilled to watch her. When she finished, the loud applause was warm, reverent and highly approving by every single individual there.
All eyes turned then to her younger sister.
Eleana.
Where Arianne had been picture-perfect grace and embodying the loveliest pure light of the moon, expectation for Eleana was of a more bolder beauty, perhaps something dazzling but nevertheless, something equally worthy of praise and most importantly: polished.
What they received instead…was fire.
She stepped forward clad in lighter silks, her expression set with something sharper, something daring. In her hands were two staffs, their ends wrapped and already lit, flames flickering bright against the dimmed pavilion light.
A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd. Then the drums began, getting louder and faster with each passing second. Eleana moved.
The staffs spun in arcs of fire, carving circles of light around her body as she twisted and turned with startling precision. Flame followed her every motion, bending and dancing as if in answer to her will. It was both dangerous and exhilarating. A performance that demanded not quiet admiration, but breathless attention. The crowd was completely captivated.
Eleana pressed further. Faster spins, tighter turns, the fire whipping dangerously close to silk and skin alike—
—and for a moment, it was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
In the final flourish, as she spun both staffs in a crossing arc, her grip faltered just slightly. But that was enough to be a dangerous mistake. One staff slipped free. Time seemed to stutter as it left her hand, spinning end over end….and struck the edge of a richly embroidered Targaryen banner hung along one of the pavilion pillars.
Flame caught instantly and quickly. Sharp yells and screams tore through the crowd as the fire climbed the fabric, bright and sudden. In the confusion, shock and alarm, nobles started to move in a dozen directions. In the sudden chaos, one noble lost their footing and fell hard against the ground, another collided blindly into one of the wooden supports with a dull crack, while a third, too slow to move, yelped as the edge of their sleeve caught a brief lick of flame, singeing the fine cloth.
Servants rushed forward, beating at the fire with cloths, others hauling buckets of water as the blaze flared, then sputtered before finally dying beneath frantic effort.
Smoke lingered in the air. The music had long since stopped.
And where moments before there had been awe, there was now something else entirely.
Silence that was both uneasy and tense.
Eyes shifted not just toward Eleana, who stood frozen where the staff had left her hand, but toward Dorne itself. Was the whole of Dorne just as impulsive, bold, defiant and dangerous as its princess?
The fire had been small and able to be quickly contained.
But the scene itself lingered far longer than the flames themselves. In the hush that followed and the tight, careful smiles that replaced earlier warmth. Conversations resumed, but softer now, edged with unease. Glances were exchanged, subtle but telling, and more than a few began to wonder—quietly and cautiously as to whether this alliance with Dorne was as wise as it had once seemed.
The Great Dining Hall of Dragonstone blazed with torchlight and reflected fire, the long tables heavy with roasted aurochs, buttered crabs, Dornish citrus tarts, Arbor reds, and towering silver platters of sugared almonds dusted with chocolate flakes.
Banners from across the realm hung proudly, all gathered beneath the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. At the center of the hall stood a magnificent cake worthy of a Conqueror king. Five tiers high, white-frosted and edged in spun sugar flames, each layer crowned with delicate red dragons sculpted from candied glass. Fifty slender black candles crowned the topmost tier, their flames trembling in the draft of the sea-wind sneaking through the high windows.
The celebration of the fiftieth nameday of King Aegon I Targaryen had been grand beyond measure. Laughter echoed. Goblets clinked. Musicians played a lively tune while lords and ladies toasted to twenty years of conquest rule, peace and fire-forged unity. However, when the king rose, the hall gradually quieted.
Aegon stood tall beside the cake, one hand resting lightly against the hilt of Blackfyre. The candlelight carved his features into something almost mythic.
“My lords, ladies and lieges,” he began, his voice deep and resonant. “You honor me beyond measure by gathering here not merely to mark my nameday, but to reaffirm your oaths. Twenty years ago, this realm stood divided. Today, it stands united. You have renewed your vows to crown and kingdom. In doing so, you strengthen not only my reign — but the future of your children and your children’s children.”
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the Dornish delegation.
“And it is to that future that I now look.”
The hall stilled.
“It is my wish to bind the peace between our realms in a manner that no wind nor whisper of war may undo. Thus it is with pleasure that I announce that my eldest son and heir shall be betrothed to the eldest daughter of House Martell. And my eldest daughter shall be betrothed to their crown prince.”
Murmurs and whispers then broke out like the sound of the heavy rustling of leaves as stares were then cast upon the parties involved. Some faces shone with approval whilst some creased to contemplative concern. A few held calculating expressions. Several faces tightened with barely concealed disapproval and even anger. Especially of faces from the Vale and Stormlands. Aegon raised his goblet.
“To unity. To prosperity. To a realm stronger than ever!”
The hall erupted into polite applause and a few cheers as goblets lifted in toast for who would dare openly defy the king at this pivotal moment?
And then —
The doors of the hall burst open. A young nobleman stumbled inside, half-collapsed against the stone, his face ash-streaked, eyes wild.
“Your Grace!” he screamed, voice breaking. “The Dragonmont — the last tour — it—”
The music died instantly.
“What of it?” the king asked, steady as stone.
The noble choked on smoke and horror. “He is dead! Burned alive before us all! The second son of Lady Hightower…he tried to speak the commands for he had the confidence in his study of the Valyrian tongue. And when the dragonkeepers backs were turned, he mimicked the dragonkeepers gestures and spoke again…but he failed…he failed… and the beast….Your Grace, there was nothing any of us could do.”
Silence fell so heavy it seemed to press upon every chest.The noble’s words seemed to hang in the air like smoke.
Burned alive.
Tried to command it.
A cacophony of voices began to speak as nobles reacted with expressions of shock, horror and speculations on further details of the tragic incident that had yet to be revealed. Further down the hall, a few septons and maesters made the sign of the Seven, whispering something fervent beneath their breath, no doubt praying for the soul of the man who flew to close to the sun.
At the Hightower table, the Hightower matriarch rose so abruptly her chair scraped harshly against stone. Ash-blonde hair was now unbound, her composure gone entirely.
“Which dragon?” she demanded, voice cracking.
The messenger swallowed.’ Vaewroth, my lady. Lord Maegor’s dragon.”
“I must see him,” the deceased’s mother whispered hoarsely as she rushed out of the hall, social decorum forgotten as the grieving mother ran to ascertain the death of her beloved son, forgetting all about the presence of the king.
Myrcella Durrandon had slipped away from the last Dragonmont tour when the dragonkeepers turned their attention to a clutch of excitable nobles, vanishing down a narrow basalt path carved into the cliffs of Dragonstone. She had not come to marvel at dragons. She had come to understand them and possibly weed out any possible weaknesses that could help the Ashen Promise. As she steadied himself against a jagged outcrop, her boot dislodged a slab of volcanic rock. Beneath it, hidden in a carved cavity untouched by time, lay a weathered leather case marked with ancient High Valyrian glyphs , older than the Targaryen sigil.
Within, she found a brittle tablet etched with a long High Valyrian text and runes as well as an unusual-looking spiraled horn tied with an old parchment. As she squinted over the stone tablet, her command of High Valyrian was average— but the first line was clear enough to chill her as she translated it: “Zaldrīzes may bleed.” Dragons may bleed. The rest of the text was dense, technical, beyond her in that moment. The parchment attached to the horn bore careful instructions in the same script. For what, she did not yet know.
She did not linger any further for she could be found at any moment if she stayed too long at the same spot. Gathering the scroll, the horn, and the accompanying parchment, the wily Durrandon concealed them beneath her cloak. Whatever this was, a weapon, warning, relic ; it would be studied properly, in secrecy, with members of the Ashen Promise.
Barely two hours after the race’s conclusion, the city still rang with excitement. The victorious were being toasted beneath silk canopies and shaded courtyards whilst exhausted riders bathed away sand from their skin or collapsed gratefully beside wine and food. Servants rushed endlessly through the palace carrying trays of citrus water and strongwine alike. Laughter echoed from open terraces. Stories of daring overtakes and disastrous falls were already growing more exaggerated with every retelling. Liege Heir Rhogar Qoherys’ victory was upon nearly every tongue.
Others, however, nursed bruised pride far less gracefully.
Among them was Maegor Lannister.
Already infamous for his volatile temper and brutal competitiveness despite his young age, the Lannister heir being one of the most humiliating and funniest moments of the race had soured him beyond reason after his disastrous tumble upon the dunes. Witnesses claim the fault largely lay with Maegor himself, who had recklessly driven his mount into a full sprint up one of the steepest slopes of the Red Dune Expanse before horse and rider slid backward in humiliating fashion before much of the crowd. The extremely proud boy himself currently seemed incapable of accepting such embarrassment.
And so the fury followed him back to the stables.
His exhausted horse had merely turned its head away from the boy when he approached. Whether from fear, exhaustion, or simple stubbornness, none could say. But something inside Maegor seemed to snap at the gesture.
In a sudden burst of rage, the young lion seized a whip and in a shocking act of cruelty, he began striking the poor beast repeatedly. The horse’s cries soon drew the attention of stablehands nearby, one of whom attempted to intervene—only for Maegor to turn the whip upon him as well.
The screaming, now a combination of both servant and horse, only worsened.
The situation escalated further when a Lady Yronwood, who had been nearly and close to stablehand, rushed forward in an impulsive attempt to pull the boy away. Witnesses claim Maegor violently flung her aside with enough force to send her crashing painfully against a stable wall and crumpling motionless onto the ground. For one terrible moment, it seemed that either horse or the stablehand might be whipped to death.
Then another voice shouted from the stable entrance.
Lord Desmond Manderly.
The northern lord had been passing nearby when the chaos erupted and immediately rushed forward without hesitation, placing himself into the volatile scene. The interruption gave the injured stablehand just enough opportunity to carry the unconscious Lady Yronwood away from the violence whilst Desmond shouted at the other stablehands to run for help.
However by then, Maegor’s rage had fully turned. Though nearly 18 years separated them in age, the difference mattered little.
Maegor Lannister may have only been twelve, but he was monstrously large for his age and frighteningly well-trained in combat. Years of the finest instructions had made the boy something far more dangerous than his age suggested. Desmond, by contrast, possessed almost no true fighting experience and just a small amount of actual formal training. The fight was thus horrifically one-sided.
Witnesses spoke later of Maegor attacking with terrifying savagery, fists and elbows crashing into Desmond with startling force as the older man struggled desperately merely to shield himself. The stable rang with shouts, crashing wood, panicked horses, and the sickening sound of repeated blows.
By the time guards finally stormed the stables and dragged the young lion away by force, Lord Manderly had been beaten into a near-bloody pulp upon the stable floor, his face barely recognizable beneath bruises and blood.
The news of the incident spread through Sunspear with alarming speed, casting a grim shadow over what had until then been a triumphant day of festivities.
Whispers now follow House Lannister through the palace halls and market streets alike.
At first they spoke only of Maegor’s temper. However by nightfall, others had begun whispering something far more unsettling: that there was something deeply wrong with the boy.
