Game of thrones: The fire lord

Being scolded by a child in an adult tone left Ser Cole momentarily stunned. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but before he could utter a word—

Bang!

A large, calloused hand was pressed against his chest, stopping him in his tracks. A towering figure loomed over him.

Gunsor had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his expression dark.

"White cloak, you're in our prince's way," he said coldly.

With that, he stepped forward, his intimidating frame forcing Cole back.

The knight was momentarily caught off guard, his breath hitching as the burly man's stubble nearly brushed against his face.

The castle's forecourt was bustling with people, and the sudden confrontation immediately drew attention. Foreign ministers and noble guests turned their heads, watching with keen interest.

A spectacle worth witnessing.

More people rushed over, intrigued by the commotion.

Aemon, standing between the two men, looked up in surprise.

"Gunsor, you're here?"

"Hmm."

The large man responded with a calm grunt, his sharp gaze fixed on the white-cloaked knight, who now looked distinctly uncomfortable.

It turned out that Aemon's three escorts had been left in the outer courtyard, with the other two attending to the prince's chambers. Gunsor had been wandering alone, indulging in food and drink at the Red Keep.

He had happened to witness Cole's repeated harassment of Aemon.

Hah—ptui!

Without hesitation, Gunsor turned his thick lips and spat on the ground, just inches from Cole's feet, his contempt evident.

Cole's face turned a furious shade of red. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword.

"You want to try?" Gunsor grinned, unfazed by the knight's anger.

The challenge was clear.

Cole clenched his jaw, his body trembling with barely restrained fury. He glanced around at the gathering crowd.

If not for the many onlookers, he might have drawn his blade and struck down the insolent brute on the spot.

Aemon, caught between the two men, studied Gunsor with a curious expression.

Despite his usual indifference, the big man had stepped forward to defend him.

Aemon glanced between the two men—Gunsor and Ser Cole.

Even among knights, Cole was considered tall and strong. Yet compared to Gunsor, he looked like a mere squire. The bronze giant was built like a fortress, more than a head taller than the renowned knight of the Kingsguard.

So this is what true security feels like? Aemon mused, nearly tempted to applaud.

Just as the confrontation threatened to escalate—

"Cole! What do you think you're doing?"

A sharp, commanding voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Aemon turned toward the newcomer.

A tall, middle-aged man in his late fifties strode forward, exuding an authoritative presence. His silver armor gleamed under the sunlight, and the pristine white cloak draped over his shoulders marked his station.

Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Cole's expression shifted instantly. He lowered his head in greeting.

"Commander."

Harrold's stern gaze bore into him. "I asked you a question, Cole."

The knight hesitated for a moment before stepping back. He understood now—he had miscalculated.

Aemon observed quietly, curious about how the Lord Commander would handle the situation.

"Prince Aemon, I hope this little altercation didn't waste too much of your time," Harrold said, his tone considerably softer when addressing the young prince.

Cole was still a new addition to the Kingsguard, having taken his white cloak only after Queen Aemma's passing. It was understandable that he might not recognize Aemon. However, such mistakes needed to be corrected immediately.

"It was nothing," Aemon replied, nodding lightly. "It's been a while, Ser Harrold."

Harrold removed his helmet, exhaling a small breath of relief. At least the prince wasn't offended.

At that moment, another figure entered through the gates of the Red Keep.

Aemon turned his gaze toward the newcomer—and for a brief moment, he was taken aback.

A young girl, silver-haired and dressed in a black dragon-riding suit, walked toward them. She removed her gloves as she moved, her long legs carrying her forward with an effortless grace.

She was breathtaking.

Her features were delicate, her skin flawless, a near-perfect embodiment of the ethereal beauty of the Targaryen bloodline.

Rhaenyra's violet eyes locked onto Aemon's.

There was something instinctive about their connection, their shared blood pulling them together.

For a moment, she hesitated—until recognition dawned.

"Aemon?" she asked, her voice filled with surprise and joy.

Aemon grinned. "Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra's expression lit up. Her long strides quickened, her earlier moodiness vanishing instantly.

She hadn't seen him in a long time.

"You were flying this morning," Aemon remarked, "very majestic."

At his words, Rhaenyra's face shifted slightly, a hint of hesitation creeping in. "I... I didn't accidentally hit your ship, did I?"

Aemon rolled his eyes. "You tell me."

Rhaenyra quickly composed herself. "I was in a bad mood. I didn't expect you to be here."

She reached out, tousling his hair.

Soft.

Aemon smirked. "I forgive you. But you owe me for it."

The tension in the air dissipated. As the two cousins chatted, the surrounding spectators gradually lost interest and dispersed.

Ser Harrold gave Cole a knowing look. The knight, understanding the silent command, withdrew without another word.

With Rhaenyra present, any lingering conflict was now irrelevant.

Aemon noticed but didn't bother pursuing the matter.

Cole had already lost. Making more trouble wouldn't change anything.

"Rhaenyra, were you at the dragonpit?"

"Just returned," she confirmed.

Aemon took her hand, his tone filled with curiosity. "Take me with you next time."

The King's Chambers – Red Keep

Candlelight flickered across the chamber's walls.

King Viserys I Targaryen lounged comfortably in his chair, exhaustion evident in his posture after a long day. He exhaled slowly before speaking.

"Do you think my idea is reasonable?" he asked.

His long silver-gold hair draped over his shoulders, a slight stubble covering his chin. Though his features were ordinary, there was a warmth to his presence—one more fitting for a wealthy noble than a reigning monarch.

Queen Alicent Hightower sat beside him, her gaze distant. She blinked as his words registered.

"Aemon?"

"Yes, he's a good candidate," Viserys said, his tone brightening. He lifted his bandaged ring finger, clearly in high spirits. "The royal council had differing opinions, but at least it's a start."

Recently, his nights had been plagued with restless thoughts—primarily about his daughter's marriage.

Rhaenyra was twelve now. In two years, she would be of age, and the realm's noble houses had already begun flooding the court with marriage proposals.

Alicent frowned slightly. "Has my father agreed?"

"Of course," Viserys replied, his smile widening. "Otto's support was… surprising."

Alicent lowered her gaze, concealing the flicker of doubt in her eyes. "Aemon is young," she murmured, "perhaps there's a better match."

She had never been close to Rhaenyra, and she didn't want Aemon—a child she had come to care for—to be drawn into the inevitable conflict.

Viserys chuckled, standing up. "The council did consider Ser Laenor Velaryon," he admitted.

But his slight frown betrayed his true feelings.

Aemon had support from Runestone. He also had ties to Daemon.

Marrying him to Rhaenyra would strengthen royal authority and mend familial bonds.

Laenor, however, was the son of Corlys Velaryon.

And Corlys was a force Viserys wasn't keen to entangle with.

Politics.

Sometimes, even a king had no peace.