chapter 17
As William and his father made their way through the labyrinthine alleys of King's Landing, the sounds of the bustling city faded into the background. The air grew crisp with anticipation as they arrived at Kingswood, the site of the nameday hunt. The courtyard buzzed with activity, like a beehive in full swing. Servants scurried to and fro, attending to the myriad preparations for the grand feast that would follow the hunt.
The fragrant aromas that wafted through the air teased their senses, promising sumptuous delights that awaited them. They were directed to a tent that had been arranged for them by house members who had gone ahead. Its canvas flaps billowed gently in the breeze, inviting them into its embrace.
Once settled in their temporary abode, William accompanied his father as they ventured out to immerse themselves in the vibrant tapestry of the event. The noble and knightly figures were engaged in animated conversations, their voices blending together in a symphony of gossip, alliances, and whispered rumors. It was a mosaic of intrigue that captivated William's attention.
Suddenly, a commotion rippled through the crowd, drawing their eyes toward the grand entrance. A carriage, proudly displaying the Targaryen sigil, made its grand arrival. The air seemed to still, and a hush fell over the courtyard as the current ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Viserys Targaryen, emerged from the carriage.
Behind Viserys stood Queen Alicent Hightower, her green gown flowing with grace as she cradled their youngest child, Aegon Targaryen. The assembled guests erupted in applause, their voices united in celebration of this auspicious occasion.
"Hail, hail Aegon, the Conqueror-Babe, Second of His Name! Here's to His Grace on his second nameday!" a guest's voice rang out, capturing the spirit of revelry that filled the air.
William's gaze was drawn to the young Aegon, his innocent eyes and cherubic features capturing his attention. Thoughts of the future and the path that lay ahead for the boy filled his mind. How cruel the world could be, he mused, contemplating the transformation that awaited Aegon in the later episodes of House of the Dragon.
Curiosity tugged at William's attention, and his eyes flickered toward the carriage. There, he caught sight of Princess Rhaenyra, seated alone. Her presence exuded a sense of both vulnerability and resilience, like a solitary flame flickering in the darkness.
Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and in that instant, William couldn't help but offer a warm smile. It was a silent greeting, a wordless acknowledgment of their shared presence in this grand tapestry of events. His lips formed the word "Hello," barely audible even to himself, as if whispering a secret to the universe.
Princess Rhaenyra's gaze held a flicker of surprise, her features softening with a glimmer of recognition. It was as though they had momentarily broken free from the confines of their predetermined roles, connecting on a more personal level amidst the sea of masked faces and masked intentions.
A cough interrupted the revelry beside William, drawing his attention to the source. To his surprise, it was none other than his own father, Boremund Baratheon, wearing a sly smirk upon his weathered face.
"It seems you've taken a fancy to the princess," Boremund remarked, his eyes gleaming with a hint of a hint of knowingness.
William's gaze met his father's, his expression carefully composed. "No, Father," he replied, his voice steady and devoid of any revealing emotion. "I've merely had the pleasure of meeting her on a couple of occasions."
Boremund's smirk widened, a subtle nod of understanding passing between them. They shared a moment of silent communication, a shared secret locked within their eyes.
"I'll excuse myself then, Father," William said, his tone firm yet respectful, before his father could utter another word. He turned away, leaving Boremund staring after him, a flicker of curiosity and intrigue dancing in his eyes.
As William made his way through the throng of nobles and knights, he could feel the weight of his father's gaze lingering on his retreating figure. Boremund was a shrewd man, wise in the ways of the world, and it was clear that he had discerned more than his son had intended to reveal.