Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

"I think Ser Laenor would make an excellent consort for Rhaenyra."

Alicent spoke earnestly, strongly recommending him: "He comes from a noble lineage, is a dragonrider, and possesses impeccable character."

The Small Council had yet to reach a conclusion, so voicing her opinion didn't overstep any boundaries.

Viserys listened quietly, then asked pointedly, "Is that your idea or Otto's?"

"This has nothing to do with my father," Alicent replied, shaking her head in denial.

Viserys nodded, his smile returning. "Laenor is indeed a fine choice, but it's important to ensure the match is suitable."

His earlier question had been a test to gauge the Hand of the King's stance.

While Otto had voiced support for the match during the Small Council meeting, many others had cast dissenting votes.

The reason was simple: Daemon's disruptive nature made everyone wary of giving him any opportunity to return to a position of influence.

And Otto Hightower, Daemon's fiercest adversary, was Viserys's most reliable ally. Alicent's opinion, to some extent, reflected her father's.

In Viserys's memory, Otto and Daemon had always been at odds.

"You're right," Alicent replied, her hands nervously gripping each other. She added firmly, "Rhaenyra admires handsome, valiant knights. She wouldn't consider a child."

Her tone remained resolute.

Viserys was momentarily taken aback, not having expected his wife to be so adamant.

He then waved dismissively, smiling. "Let's set that aside. The children will be back soon, and we'll have a welcoming feast for them tonight."

Alicent murmured her agreement, bowing her head so low it almost touched her lap.

"Just idle chatter," Viserys said, squeezing her hand before rising to leave.

As he passed his beloved stone sculpture table, his eyes narrowed slightly.

That Night

The Red Keep glowed brightly with candlelight as a private dinner was held in the second-floor hall.

Aemon, freshly dressed, arrived early, accompanied by Gonsor Royce.

Rhaenyra arrived shortly after, having swapped her dragonriding attire for a cream-colored gown that highlighted her radiance under the flickering flames.

Aemon couldn't help but admire her.

"Westerners really do grow fast," he mused, propping his chin on one hand, filled with hope. "I'll grow tall one day too, won't I?"

Soon, the King and Queen entered hand in hand.

Creak!

Ser Harrold Westerling opened the door, positioning two Kingsguard at the entrance.

"Your Grace!"

Aemon immediately rose, bowing respectfully.

While he could be mischievous, he knew when to observe proper decorum.

"Haha, no need for formalities!"

Viserys's face lit up with a broad smile as he strode toward the table, his gaze fixed on his nephew. "Aemon, let your uncle have a good look at you!"

Leaving behind Alicent, who seemed momentarily hesitant, he approached the boy enthusiastically.

Aemon, unaccustomed to such warmth, felt slightly overwhelmed as Viserys peppered him with questions.

After what felt like ages, Viserys finally let him go, clearly satisfied.

Relieved, Aemon returned to his seat, only to have his attention drawn to the door once more.

A middle-aged man entered, clad in impeccably tailored green robes and bearing the sigil of the Hightower of Oldtown, a burning tower.

His demeanor was polite, his smile measured, yet his subtly raised chin hinted at his pride.

"Otto, you're here," Viserys greeted warmly.

"I'm honored by your invitation," Otto replied, bowing with just the right amount of deference.

As the King's father-in-law, he had every right to attend such an intimate gathering.

Once everyone was seated, Viserys glanced at the empty chair meant for Rhea Royce. Feigning confusion, he asked, "Aemon, isn't your mother joining us?"

"No," Aemon replied smoothly. "The journey wore her out, and she's feeling unwell."

It was an excuse he'd prepared in advance, knowing his mother had no interest in facing the King.

Viserys didn't mind. Smiling, he said, "That's understandable. Your mother is no quiet lady; she's more like a warrior."

His tone was complimentary, but the lack of warmth in his eyes betrayed his true feelings.

Years ago, Rhea Royce had petitioned to annul her marriage to Daemon, only to be denied repeatedly. Since then, her disdain for the royal family had been mutual.

As the meal commenced, Alicent directed servants to bring in the dishes.

Being a small, family-style dinner, the gathering was cozy.

Viserys was in high spirits, frequently toasting Otto and chatting with Aemon about family matters.

For Aemon, the evening was bewildering. Forced to keep up a polite smile, he thought, "Mom was right. There's no place for me in King's Landing."

The King's sudden warmth surely meant he had an agenda.

"But what could a King want from me?"

Aemon's eyes darted around until they landed on Rhaenyra, who was quietly nibbling her food.

From the moment Viserys entered, Rhaenyra had seemed distant, her responses to him lukewarm at best.

The strained father-daughter relationship was obvious.

At that moment, a chill ran down Aemon's spine.

"Could this be about Rhaenyra's marriage?" he wondered, his stomach tightening.

Though they had different parents, Aemon and Rhaenyra shared the same grandfather.

"No, no, no! That's impossible!"

"Aemon, what's on your mind?"

Viserys's voice interrupted his thoughts. The King, sipping wine, had noticed his nephew's pale face.

"Nothing, nothing!" Aemon quickly waved his hands, forcing a smile.

But internally, he was panicking. "Daemon's busy catching crabs on the Stepstones, but I'm terrified of getting caught in this mess!"

Viserys, puzzled by the boy's reaction, let it go, chalking it up to childish nerves.

As the wine flowed and his mood lightened, his eyes swept the hall.

He noticed Gonsor Royce standing in a corner, serving as Aemon's guardian. The man's towering presence was impossible to ignore.

Recalling Ser Harrold's earlier report about the day's minor altercation, Viserys had an idea.

At that moment, Aemon, still reeling from his earlier fears, was burying his head in his plate, eating furiously.

Then Viserys's voice rang out:

"Aemon, you're eight now. Have you begun learning swordsmanship?"

"Huh?" Aemon froze, looking up with a blank expression. "Not yet."

In Westeros, noble children typically began sword training around six to eight years old, with dedicated instructors teaching them knightly skills.

But Aemon had been an exception. His mother, Rhea Royce, had shown little interest in raising him properly, delegating only academic lessons to an elderly maester.

He had recently gained her approval to find a skilled instructor back at Runestone. After all, he had the system to help him grow stronger.

"I figured as much," Viserys said, chuckling. "That big fellow behind you doesn't look like the patient teaching type."

Grinning, the King made a grand declaration: "Let me arrange for a proper tutor. I'll ensure you grow into a warrior as mighty as your father and grandfather."

"Really?" Aemon asked skeptically.

"Kings don't lie," Otto interjected with a smile, smoothly complimenting Viserys.

Turning to glance at Otto, Aemon caught a subtle, calculating gleam in the Hand's eyes.

"Great," Aemon thought wryly. "Even the Hand has an agenda. Probably because of Dad's feud with him."

"Ser Harrold," Viserys continued, "what do you think about choosing a tutor from among the Kingsguard?"

The Lord Commander was momentarily taken aback, as this had not been discussed beforehand.

Still, his composure held. Bowing respectfully, he replied, "The Kingsguard can spare one of our brothers, Your Grace. It would be an honor to train the prince."