Texture

Sari Sicai had humbled the young prince, effortlessly defeating Rhaenar using any fighting style. Even Sari's crude imitation of a Westerosi knight surpassed Rhaenar's abilities.

"Fuck!" Rhaenar exclaimed. Sari had triumphed over the armoured prince using only his bare back and a wooden spear.

Rhaenar had argued that combat was akin to a game of "rock-paper-scissors," with different elements having advantages over others:

Light Armor > Skirmish Troops

Skirmish Troops > Heavy Infantry

Heavy Infantry > Cavalry

Cavalry > Light Armor

On and on it goes.

However, Sari quickly disproved this theory, relishing in Rhaenar's disbelief, much like Rhaenar enjoyed the reactions to his new artworks.

Where Sari had humbled, Phoenix broke.

Phoenix and Rhaenar collaborated, with Rhaenar serving as a test subject, to modify and refine the Unsullied training regimen.

Rhaenar desired to experience something specific, although I couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. If I were to hazard a guess, it bordered on masochistic behavior. Rhaenar wanted to feel the sting, the enduring burn as his persona eroded, and the power of stepping outside himself.

Even as I witnessed Rhaenar willingly endure abuse and transform into a hardened instrument of death, I paid it no mind.

Until then, I had assumed Rhaenar's ambitions were limited to his role. Perhaps once he became king or came of age, he would undertake some frivolous initiative. I couldn't have been more wrong.

"It's perfect."

The year was coming to an end, and the taste of 107 AC lingered in the air. Rhaenar stood in the rectangular courtyard of Maegor's Holdfast, an expansive area open to the sky. The layout of the royal apartments, with walkways encircling the courtyard, provided a unique vantage point for all who exited their chambers.

Previously adorned with lush plants and ivory, the courtyard had undergone a transformation. The cobblestone ground extended across the entire space, replacing the former garden.

In the heart of the courtyard, the entire cobblestone surface was occupied by a magnificent painting—a sprawling depiction of the vast continent of Westeros.

Meticulously rendered, the map covered the entire courtyard, capturing the realm's diverse landscapes, cities, and landmarks with intricate detail.

"Looks good," Theodore commented. "I'm surprised it took a century for someone to put a map here."

Rhaenar wore a sly smile as he stood on the map, positioned atop King's Landing.

"Aegon the Conqueror viewed Westeros as a single entity," he said. "But he understood the importance of people and their cultures."

I noticed that Rhaenar's map lacked definitive borders, instead featuring small illustrations for each region, depicting its lore.

Mountain lions in the Westerlands, tentacles rising from the Iron Islands' shallows.

White harts, direwolves, roses, falcons... Stags and suns pierced with spears. Fields of fire and kneeling kings.

Children fighting men. Men fighting each other. All fighting Others~

Indeed, Rhaenar delighted in taking artistic liberties. He even included a small illustration of Houses Bracken and Blackwood duelling over the inches of land that separated their borders.

Phoenix stood with his arms behind his back, his chin poised. He was deeply committed to his duties. In his mind, he was working, fully focused on ensuring Rhaenar's safety and training.

Sari sat to the side, using his dirk to pick dirt from his nails. A lifetime in a cage had quelled his wonderment with maps. Sari had no interest in the two-dimensional depictions of far-off places. Wake him up once we're there...

As I observed Rhaenar taking measured steps across his recently completed masterpiece, a peculiar air surrounded him.

His stride exuded a blend of confidence and possession, as if each footfall conveyed an unspoken message.

The way he traversed the meticulously painted landscape hinted at a subtle intention, an unspoken claim over the world he had brought to life.

It was not about understanding the realm or its secrets, but rather a display of personal conquest, an assertion of his place within the vast expanse he had rendered.

There was audacity in Rhaenar's movements, as if he believed that by treading upon the cities and landmarks, he could somehow make them his own. His steps bore a hint of possessiveness.

He lingered on certain points, his head subtly tilted as he surveyed his handiwork. The map had become more than a mere representation.

In that moment, I sensed a silent proclamation, a declaration of intent hidden within the seemingly innocent act of walking across his creation.

Rhaenar's ambitious spirit revealed itself, leaving me wondering about the grand plans that lay behind his enigmatic gaze as he continued to navigate the painted expanse before him.

Then, as if fate itself knew the timing, a courtier beckoned.

"Prince Rhaenar," he said, "The King requests your audience."

"With pleasure," Rhaenar replied, motioning for me and Theodore to follow along. Our new foreign friends had yet to earn their stripes to tag along.

Inside, the entire small council awaited us in their great chamber. Princess Rhaenyra smiled at her brother and quickly set about filling our chalices with wine.

"Rhaenar," King Viserys welcomed, "My son, how good of you to join us. I called you so we could discuss—"

Rhaenar cut him off, "Our nameday?"

"Yes, I'm sure you've given thought to this year's celebrations?"

Rhaenar shook his head, "I have, and I've decided I don't want the crown to waste any more coin on my account. I'd rather redirect the funds to more cerebral pursuits."

The King raised a brow, recognizing Rhaenar's calculated tone better than anyone. "You have a proposal, I take it."

"That I do, father," said Rhaenar, swirling the wine in his chalice. "Whether it's a redirection of nameday funds or a direct loan from the crown to me, I want the freedom to spend the gold as I see fit."

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace," Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, spoke with a reverent tone, seated at King Viserys' right hand.

"The crown allocates considerable funds for the annual celebration of the Prince and Princess. Even if we were to grant Prince Rhaenar half, nay— a mere quarter of 'his share', the requested amount would still be substantial.

"It would be unwise to lend such a sum without understanding the intentions behind this request," agreed Archmaester Runciter.

In the refined atmosphere of the council chamber, Ser Otto's measured words resonated, underscoring the importance of financial prudence and the need to thoroughly comprehend Prince Rhaenar's intentions before granting such a significant amount.

Ser Otto's respectful address to King Viserys punctuated a tone of deference and respect.

However, the King didn't take him too seriously.

"That's why I want to hear what the Prince says," the King remarked.

"It's true," said Rhaenar, a diplomatic twinkle in his eye, "Ser Otto speaks with wisdom. Indeed, I have good reason for my request."

"Well?" the King inquired, "We'd all like to hear it."

Rhaenar's gaze turned dark, and he swiftly downed his wine.

"I want to start a boot camp," he declared.

The King and his advisors exchanged queer glances, taken aback by Rhaenar's unexpected proposition. "A what?" they echoed, clearly surprised.

"Ah," Rhaenar snapped his fingers, and Theodore promptly laid tomes, scrolls, and ledgers on the council table.

"Allow me to explain,"

-Brien Flowers, 107 AC.