Game of thrones: The fire lord

"I think Ser Lannino would make a good husband."

Queen Alicent spoke earnestly, seemingly unaware of her husband's subtle probing. "He comes from a noble house, is a dragonrider, and his character is beyond reproach."

The royal council had not yet reached a conclusion on the matter, but she was not one to shy away from stating her opinion.

King Viserys listened quietly before asking with a meaningful expression, "Is this your idea, or is it Otto's?"

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

Viserys nodded, smiling slightly. "Lannino is indeed a fine candidate, but he must also be suitable."

His question had served its purpose—to gauge the intentions of his Hand, Otto Hightower. Though Otto had expressed agreement in the council, many other lords had voiced their opposition.

The reason was simple. Daemon Targaryen was unpredictable and dangerous. No one wanted to risk giving him a path back to power. And since Otto was one of Daemon's most vocal opponents, Alicent's stance would naturally reflect his to some extent.

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

"You're right," Alicent said, nervously picking at her fingernails before continuing. "Rhaenyra prefers handsome and courageous knights. She wouldn't consider a mere boy."

Her tone was firm.

Viserys looked surprised. It was rare for his wife to speak so resolutely. Then, he chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. "Let's not speak of this further. The children will be returning soon, and a welcome feast has been arranged."

Alicent merely nodded, lowering her gaze.

"It's just conversation," Viserys reassured her, taking her hand as he stood and made his way toward the door.

As he passed by his favorite stone table, his eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

The Royal Banquet

That evening, the Red Keep was ablaze with candlelight as the feast commenced in the grand hall on the second floor.

Aemon had changed into fresh clothes and arrived early, accompanied by his ever-loyal Gunthor.

Rhaenyra followed soon after, having exchanged her dragonriding attire for a flowing beige gown. The warm glow of candlelight enhanced her already radiant features.

Aemon noticed and admired her silently.

"Westerners grow up fast. She looks so mature for her age."

He rested his chin on his hand, wondering, "Will I grow taller in the future?"

Before long, King Viserys and Queen Alicent arrived, walking hand in hand.

Creak!

The great doors swung open as Ser Harold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, entered, flanked by two guards who took their positions by the entrance.

"Your Grace," Aemon quickly stood and bowed in greeting.

Though mischievous at times, he knew better than to disregard protocol in public.

"Haha, no need for formality," Viserys said with a laugh as he strode into the hall, his eyes locking onto his young nephew. "Aemon, let your uncle have a good look at you."

Leaving Alicent behind, the king approached eagerly.

Aemon was slightly taken aback. He had never seen his uncle this enthusiastic before.

Viserys questioned him at length, clearly pleased with his answers, before finally relenting.

As Aemon let out a breath of relief and settled back into his seat, a tall man in a deep green tunic entered. His dark hair was combed meticulously, and a subtle but confident smile played on his lips. The embroidered sigil of a Burning Tower adorned his chest.

"Otto, you've arrived," Viserys greeted, turning toward him.

"It is an honor to receive Your Grace's invitation," Otto replied with perfect courtesy.

As the king's father-in-law and Hand, he was well within his rights to attend the royal family dinner.

Viserys' gaze swept across the table before he asked, feigning curiosity, "Aemon, will your mother not be joining us?"

"No, Your Grace. She's feeling unwell after the journey," Aemon replied smoothly, offering an excuse on behalf of his mother, who had no interest in courtly gatherings.

Viserys merely smiled. "Understandable. Your mother has never been one for idleness. She's more like a warrior than a lady."

Though his words seemed like praise, the smile in his eyes was cold.

Lady Rhea Royce had petitioned him multiple times to annul her marriage to Daemon, only to be denied on every occasion. Naturally, she bore no love for the Targaryen royal family.

And as the king, Viserys had little patience for his brother's stubborn wife.

The Feast

Once the pleasantries were exchanged, Alicent signaled for the servants to begin serving the meal.

The gathering was small—only close family and trusted individuals.

Viserys, in high spirits, frequently toasted with Otto while pulling Aemon into conversation.

For his part, Aemon found the attention overwhelming. He smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond.

His mother had always told him there was no place for him in King's Landing.

"Yet Uncle Viserys is so friendly… Does he want something from me?"

The boy glanced around, his sharp young mind considering the possibilities.

The moment his eyes landed on Rhaenyra, he realized something was off.

Since her father arrived, she had barely spoken. Even when Viserys addressed her directly, she only forced a small smile.

"Their relationship is strained," Aemon observed.

Then it hit him.

"Is this about Rhaenyra's marriage?"

A shiver ran down his spine.

He and Rhaenyra were of the same blood, but they were not siblings. Still, the mere thought of it—impossible!

"Aemon, what are you thinking?"

Viserys' voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Aemon quickly shook his head. "Nothing, Your Grace. Nothing at all."

He had heard stories of the Targaryens' infamous marital traditions, but he had no interest in river crabs—literal or figurative!

Viserys raised an eyebrow but did not press further. He merely assumed the boy was lost in childish daydreams.

After enjoying his wine, the king's gaze swept across the hall, lingering on Gunthor, who stood like a silent guardian in the corner.

Recalling what Harold Westerling had told him about the day's minor conflict, Viserys suddenly had an idea.

"Aemon," he said, setting his cup down, "you are eight now. Have you started training in swordsmanship?"

"Ah?" Aemon blinked, caught off guard. "No, not yet, Your Grace."

In Westerosi noble households, boys typically began training between six and eight years old. They were taught by experienced knights to prepare for knighthood.

But Aemon was different. His mother, Lady Rhea, had never concerned herself with his upbringing. Instead, she left his education to an old maester at Runestone.

Now that she had accepted him as her son, Aemon had been considering finding a proper instructor upon returning home.

"Just as I thought," Viserys mused. "Your guard does not seem the type to be patient with lessons."

He then smiled and declared, "I will arrange for an instructor for you. You will grow to be as strong as your father and grandfather."

"Really?" Aemon asked hesitantly.

"A king does not lie," Otto interjected smoothly.

Aemon caught the Hand's gaze—calm, unreadable, yet full of hidden depths.

"He has an agenda, too," the boy realized.

Daemon and Otto were bitter rivals. Surely, the Hand had his own motives.

"Ser Harold," Viserys continued, turning to the Lord Commander, "would it be possible to assign an instructor from the Kingsguard?"

Harold hesitated briefly—this had not been discussed before. But he was a seasoned knight and quickly composed himself.

"The Kingsguard consists of seven knights, Your Grace. While some must remain on duty to protect you, I believe one could be spared for the young prince's training."

Viserys grinned, clearly pleased.

Aemon, however, was beginning to realize—this was just the beginning.