The Godswood, King's Landing.
The Name Day Feast was shrouded in silence.
The face carved into the thick Heart Tree, the ancient Weirwood, seemed to smile and weep simultaneously under the dappled sunlight.
Its red sap eyes watched the Targaryens dine.
The long tables were covered in white velvet, with gilded silverware shimmering in the sun.
The high seat was empty.
King Viserys did not attend. He was still displeased with Aemond for his defiance regarding the Rogar marriage proposal.
Aemond cut the beef on his plate with deliberate precision.
Today, he wore a plain, ink-black tunic, his silver hair tied back meticulously.
When Grand Maester Mellos presented the King's name day gift on his behalf, it was a dagger inlaid with sapphires, with the word Restraint engraved on the blade.
Aemond stood up. "I thank His Grace for the gift," he replied calmly, his voice devoid of emotion.
"It is most instructive."
The feast proceeded slowly in a sort of unspoken tension.
Until Helaena suddenly stopped picking at her food. She looked up with her wide, unfocused violet eyes at Aemond and said softly:
"I hate cheese. And the red ones."
"Helaena?" Queen Alicent turned her head, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.
"You loved cheese tarts."
A nearby handmaid also asked cautiously, "Princess, you mean... the berries?"
"Then take them all away," Aemond interjected, his voice cutting through the chatter.
His gaze met Helaena's. Her eyes were watching him quietly, filled with a knowledge that wasn't quite of this world.
'She knows,' Aemond realized.
'Or she feels the echoes of what I did.'
The handmaids moved quickly, removing the silver platters of red berries and various cheeses from the table.
Gwayne Hightower raised his cup at the right moment, his smile carrying its usual smoothness.
"A toast to my young and valiant nephew. thirteen years. A man grown."
In response, Aemond raised his own cup and drained it.
Meanwhile, Alicent looked around the long table. The King's empty seat.
Her father Otto is away negotiating in the Stepstones. Her eldest son Aegon remaining on Driftmark as a hostage.
A familiar sense of emptiness and bitterness welled up in her heart.
She gave a slight nod to the handmaid beside her.
The handmaid carried a plain, dark grey wooden box and walked up to Aemond.
"From your grandfather," Alicent said gently.
Aemond took the box and lifted the lid.
A ring lay quietly on the velvet.
It was grey, coarse, with an unpolished surface; only the line of Valyrian inscription on the face was deeply and sharply engraved.
"This was given by Queen Visenya to her son Maegor," Alicent spoke softly.
She began to tell the story of how Visenya's line eventually ended completely on the Iron Throne, alone and unloved.
She didn't preach a lesson or offer a warning directly. She simply let the history speak.
"Dragonfire can burn everything," she said, her green eyes fixed on her son, "but it cannot command the hearts of men."
At that moment, the Godswood fell completely silent.
Aemond picked up the ring. It was heavy, cold Valyrian steel.
Then, he looked up, his purple eyes clear as day, reflecting his mother's tense face.
"So," he began, speaking calmly, "in your eyes, I am like Maegor?"
The question was direct.
Alicent looked at her son, seeing a composure in his eyes that did not belong to his age.
But in the end, she only gave a slow nod. Sometimes, admission requires more courage than lying.
Aemond smiled.
He picked up the dull ring and slid it onto the index finger of his right hand.
The metal slid over the knuckle, slightly cool, settling firmly at the base of his finger. The fit was perfect.
"Mother," he shook his head.
"Queen Visenya had only this one son, so she had no choice. You have three."
He continued, "Maegor was too foolish; he left himself no way out. He ruled through fear alone."
He stood up, his figure silhouetted in the sunlight.
"I am different."
He lowered his head slightly, his gaze falling on the ring on his finger.
"I am not Maegor, nor am I Daemon."
He paused and said with a smile: "I am Aemond Targaryen."
He repeated it, tasting the name.
"Aemond Targaryen."
Finally, he raised his hand, staring at the ring, and recited the motto in High Valyrian.
"Blood like fire, son of the true dragon."
Having spoken, he did not look back at his mother's complicated expression.
He turned and walked out of the Godswood, the steel ring glinting on his finger.
---------
High Tide, Driftmark.
The corridor outside the sickroom was thick with tension.
Vaemond Velaryon stood before the door of his elder brother, Corlys.
Behind him, more than ten members of the House Velaryon cadet branches stood in breathless silence.
Captains, cousins, hot-blooded young men, all crowded around this uncle of the family.
Not far away, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the heavy atmosphere.
Rhaenyra Targaryen emerged from the shadows of the corridor, her slightly plump figure wrapped in deep black mourning clothes.
It was the sign of the new life she shared with Daemon, and the death she mourned for Laenor.
Her three sons followed close behind: Jacaerys wore a black patch over his right eye, Lucerys stayed close to his brother, and the youngest, Joffrey, clutched their mother's dress.
Daemon Targaryen walked last, dressed in plain black, with Dark Sister at his waist.
"Uncle Vaemond," Rhaenyra said, stopping before the sickroom and speaking politely.
"The Lord needs quiet. Please take your kinsmen and leave; now is not the time for us to argue."
Vaemond's face instantly turned ashen. He glared at Rhaenyra, and as his gaze swept over the three children behind her, the disgust in his eyes could no longer be hidden.
"Quiet?" he said, suppressing his rage.
"My dear niece, oh, forgive me, perhaps I should address you as Her Highness the Heir Apparent? After all, my poor nephew Laenor has just been buried at sea, the mourning veils are still hanging on the door, and yet I hear you are already impatient to be joined in marriage with this..."
He pointed his finger at Daemon.
"...with this Prince?"
Vaemond took a step forward.
"In that case, please take these children away as well. The blood of Driftmark shall not be defiled. The halls of Velaryon do not welcome bastards of unknown origin."
Jacaerys's Adam's apple bobbed, but he looked up and explained:
"My Lord, the blood of our grandfather, the Sea Snake, flows in our veins. We are also Velaryons."
"The blood of the Sea Snake?!" Vaemond staggered back as if burned by the statement.
He turned to the kinsmen behind him and spread his arms, saying excitedly, "Listen! What a beautiful declaration! But that doesn't change the facts! Bastards! All three of you! You are all Strong bastards!"
"Vaemond!" Rhaenyra's voice rose sharply.
She stepped forward, shielding her sons behind her.
"I warn you, watch your words! My sons are the legitimate children born of my marriage to Laenor Velaryon! Their right of inheritance was personally confirmed by my father, King Viserys!"
"Their place in the line of succession for the Iron Throne, and their legal rights to Driftmark, shall not be questioned by anyone, especially not you!"
"The Iron Throne?!" Vaemond acted as if he had heard the most absurd joke in the world.
His chest heaved violently.
"Did you all hear that? Our Heir Apparent wants to use the Iron Throne to suppress our Velaryon family matters!"
"But I tell you, Rhaenyra!" He turned back, his eyes burning with a near-maniacal stubbornness.
"I don't care about the disputes over the Iron Throne! But Driftmark! The Velaryon fleet! Every inch of land, every warship, and every sailor under the Seahorse banner, I, Vaemond Velaryon, will never stand by and watch them fall into the hands of a few mongrels of uncertain lineage, everything my brother built!"
"You shameless bitch! Giving birth to this litter of bastards! And now you want to use their filthy blood to defile the legacy my brother spent his life building?"
"The honor of House Velaryon is to be destroyed at the hands of a whore like you!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the air froze.
Daemon moved.
He simply looked down at his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, his voice soft:
"Ser Vaemond," he used the most formal title.
"For the words you just spoke... I will personally, slowly, pull your tongue out of that filth-spewing mouth of yours, bit by bit."
Clang!
Behind Vaemond, more than ten cadet members drew their swords almost simultaneously!
The High Tide guards, stationed at the sickroom door, gripped their hilts in panic.
On one side was the Crown Princess; on the other was Ser Vaemond, highly respected in the clan.
Where should their swords be pointed?
The air was as tense as a drawn bowstring.
Creeeak.
The wooden door of the sickroom was pushed open.
Rhaenys Targaryen stepped out. She wore a long red dress, her face haggard from grief and sleepless nights.
Her gaze swept over the people at each other's throats, finally landing on Vaemond's face.
"Rhaenyra, Daemon," she said, her eyes still fixed on Vaemond, "take the children and leave. Now."
"Rhaenys, he, " Rhaenyra began.
"I said, now!" Rhaenys said sternly.
Rhaenyra's chest heaved. Finally, she gave Vaemond a harsh glare, shielded her three sons, and turned to leave quickly.
Before turning, Daemon gave Vaemond one last look, his eyes cold and murderous.
Only when the sound of their footsteps had completely faded did Rhaenys slowly let out a breath.
She looked at Vaemond and his kinsmen, who were still glaring with swords drawn.
"Vaemond," she said, her voice raspy.
"I understand your anger. I know the concerns. But matters are far more complicated than they appear. Laenor is gone, Corlys is unconscious, and Driftmark cannot afford internal strife. Give me some time; Corlys will explain it to you once he wakes..."
"Explain?" Vaemond interrupted rudely.
"Explain so that those bastards can take deeper root in High Tide?"
He waved his arms, his voice echoing through the corridor with desperate resolve.
"I will wait no longer! For this matter, I will gather all the kinsmen who still have their wits about them, and we will go to King's Landing together!"
"To the Iron Throne, before all the lords, to ask King Viserys for a judgment!"
Rhaenys's face darkened.
"Vaemond! You're mad! To publicly question the Heir Apparent and challenge the legitimacy recognized by the King, that is treason! You will be sent to the scaffold!"
"Treason? Execution?" Vaemond laughed, a raspy, sorrowful sound.
"And what of it?! Rhaenys! I would rather be burned to ash by dragonfire than live to see the honor of House Velaryon stolen by those bastards!"
He looked through the crack in the door at the unconscious Corlys.
"What I do must be worthy of the Velaryon ancestors buried beneath the sea, i will not see Corlys efforts wasted on bastards!"
He took a deep breath, his final words sounding like an oath and a curse.
"If Viserys I wishes to execute an old man for fighting to defend his family's bloodline... then let him! I will use my blood, my life, to let everyone in the Seven Kingdoms see clearly that Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but a shameless whore! She bears bastards! She desecrates her marriage vows!"
"And I, Vaemond Velaryon, will die worthy of the Seahorse sigil!"
With that, he turned away, no longer looking at Rhaenys's trembling form.
"Let's go!"
-----
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