Bonus at 150 stones
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Storm's End, The Round Hall.
During the feast, Cassandra Baratheon threaded through the crowd and stopped at the Velaryon table.
She was fourteen, bold and beautiful, with the black hair and blue eyes of her house.
"Young Master Jacaerys," she said sweetly, "I hear your eye was injured on Driftmark?"
"Such a pity… a handsome face, ruined."
Jacaerys's expression darkened instantly.
"Still," Cassandra continued, glancing toward Aemond, who was laughing with Helaena nearby, "I do feel sorry for you."
Lucerys rose. "My Lady, what do you mean by that?"
"Did I say something wrong?" Cassandra blinked innocently.
"I only meant… if a man can't even keep hold of his betrothed's heart, it's rather tragic."
She curtsied gracefully and walked away, leaving three furious boys behind.
Jacaerys's hand clenched into a fist.
His one good eye fixed on Aemond and Helaena in the distance, heads together, Helaena stifling a giggle behind her hand.
"I'm going to ask her to dance," Jacaerys said suddenly.
"What?" Lucerys stared at his brother.
"I said, I'm asking Helaena to dance." Jacaerys stood, straightening his doublet.
"We're to be betrothed; it's my right."
"My lords and ladies!" Lord Boremund Baratheon struck a silver cup; the hall fell silent.
"Thank you for braving the journey. The Stormlands have a saying: the fiercer the wind, the deeper the roots."
"Seventy years I've held Storm's End. I've weathered storms enough, and each has taught me one truth: a house's strength lies in blood, duty… and loyalty."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room.
"Tonight we gather, kin, friends… and those who stand apart. Yet beneath the roof of Storm's End, let us set quarrels aside. For family, for legacy, for the future of the Seven Kingdoms, drink with me!"
"For the Seven Kingdoms!" the nobles answered, cups raised.
The feast resumed. Servants bore in dishes; bards sang of Baratheon forebears.
When the dancing began, Jacaerys crossed the floor to the Greens' table.
The boy bowed, impeccable. "Princess Helaena, may I have the honor of this dance?"
Helaena blinked, looking instinctively to Aemond.
Daeron spoke first, his voice bright with mockery.
"Nephew, with that troublesome left eye, you might tread on my sister's feet, hardly a pretty sight."
Color flared in Jacaerys's cheeks, but he held his temper.
"Thank you for your concern, Uncle. One eye is more than enough to see the steps."
"Is it?" Daeron tilted his head.
"Yet some, I hear, can't even see what they truly are."
The air turned icy.
Prince Aegon frowned. "Daeron, mind your courtesy to our nephew."
Daeron looked away; he knew Greens and Blacks were already at daggers drawn.
Aemond met Jacaerys's gaze.
"Helaena is unwell tonight; she will not dance. Return to your seat."
Jacaerys's hand balled into a fist. Behind him, Lucerys and Joffrey glared.
At that moment, Corlys's voice cut through the tension. "Jacaerys."
The three youths turned. The Sea Snake sat unmoved. "Come back. Do not disturb the feast."
Jacaerys drew a breath, bowed stiffly, and withdrew.
At the high table, Rhaenyra had watched every second, fury barely hidden, her son had been shamed.
Daemon noticed, impassive. "Rhaenyra, not here," he murmured.
"Remember courtesy to our hosts…"
Rhaenyra closed her eyes, then smiled again toward Lord Boremund.
"Little Viserys is newly born," she said gently.
"A match with House Baratheon would bind our blood even closer."
Boremund's heir, the forty-year-old Ser Borros Baratheon, frowned.
"My youngest girl is five. If we wed her to Prince Aegon, why not to Aegon himself?"
"Aegon is already promised," Rhaenyra replied smoothly.
Borros's eyes flashed irritation.
Lord Boremund sensed it and raised a hand for silence.
"I will consider the match," the old Lord said.
"The Stormlands will stand by you, Rhaenyra."
Ser Borros bowed, his smile forced.
Later, as the feast waned, Corlys Velaryon struck a silver cup.
The hall quieted.
"My lords," the Sea Snake's voice rang out, "on this occasion, I have an announcement."
"From this day forth, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey are declared true scions of House Velaryon."
"They are the lawful sons of Laenor Velaryon and shall bear the Velaryon name and the inheritance of Driftmark."
"They, and their descendants, renounce all claim to the Iron Throne."
A ripple of gasps swept the hall.
Rhaenyra rose. "I have written to the King; I will ride for King's Landing to lay the matter before him. Meanwhile, my son Aegon Targaryen shall be proclaimed my heir."
Nobles exchanged weighted glances: the succession was being fixed.
The Strong boys were being removed from the line of royal succession to secure Rhaenyra's claim.
Aemond stood. "Lord Corlys is generous. Yet I would ask, now these nephews are Velaryons, what of their dragons: Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes?"
Corlys answered calmly, "As was done when Princess Rhaenys wed into House Velaryon."
"You mean the beasts are only lent to Velaryon?" Aemond pressed.
Rhaenyra intervened. "Dragons remain Targaryen. Velaryon… is merely a guardian."
Aemond caught Daemon behind her, cradling baby Aegon, shaking his head with a look of warning.
Understanding, Aemond asked no more and sat.
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The Western Gallery, Storm's End.
When the feast ended, moonlight lay deep over the castle.
Aemond stood on the western gallery, gaze sweeping Shipbreaker Bay, waves pounding the cliffs without end.
Footsteps approached, unhurried.
"Fine view," Daemon said, leaning on the parapet beside him.
Side by side, their silver hair gleamed cold beneath the moon.
"You shook your head," Aemond said without preamble.
"Why?"
Daemon watched the sea. "Know what I admire most in you, Aemond?"
"Speak."
"We are the same kind."
Daemon turned; violet eyes were fathomless in the dark.
"Love is love, hate is hate, want is want."
Silence stretched, broken only by the surf.
At last, Daemon murmured, "I've done many mad things… yet never regretted, until now."
He paused.
"Velaryon will hold four dragons, and blood that can ride them… you know what that means."
Daemon faced him fully.
"I want those three boys dead."
"Can you do it?"
Aemond smiled.
"I can."
Daemon nodded, satisfied.
"I intend to win."
"I want my son on the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra crowned. But a true Targaryen, silver of hair, purple of eye, pure of blood. No bastard pretender may defile it."
He held Aemond's gaze.
"I love Rhaenyra, so hear me: if war comes, I'll fight for the Blacks with everything I have."
"Should we fail… I would still rather see the Greens take the throne than a Targaryen seat usurped by bastards and outsiders."
Aemond studied the uncle, eyes unreadable.
Daemon raised a hand, fingers brushing Aemond's shoulder.
"Good fortune, boy."
"When that day comes, I won't hesitate, and I'll show no mercy."
"Nor I."
Daemon turned away, black cloak lifting on the wind, footfalls fading into the roar of the waves.
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