"Are you mad?" Otto demanded.
"Why? Do you not dare?" Aemon sneered.
"To take action now is equivalent to declaring war on your king," Otto warned sternly. Aemon was the king's favorite nephew and the princess's future husband. His loyalty had been proven. Who had turned him into this lawless person?
"The conditions were very clear, and yet you are the one pushing, step by step," Aemon's eyes were sharp as he advanced.
"Even if you must bear infamy? Be despised by the king, become the next usurper, deserted by all, like Maegor the Cruel?" Otto's pupils shrank, and his voice rose suddenly.
Swish! A cold light flashed as the ruby-studded Lady Forlorn was unsheathed.
Aemon's face was cold. "Are you done with your nonsense?" The blade pointed straight at him, radiating murderous intent.
Otto couldn't help but take a step back. The three Kingsguard immediately took action, leading the royal guards into a defensive posture.
The next moment—a dull boom came from afar, emitting a strong sense of oppression.
Otto's face changed slightly as he looked sideways toward the back of the Gates of the Moon. There is a saying: "The person who wronged you knows better than you how wronged you are." Otto knew that Aemon was neither heartless nor ungrateful, yet he had dared to come here on behalf of the king and summon Aemon for punishment. He had never considered that it would lead to a life-or-death crisis.
"Scream again," Aemon said, the corners of his mouth slightly raised.
Behind the Gates of the Moon was a rocky cliff. A majestic bronze dragon slowly crawled into view, its long, thick neck holding its head high. Sensing its rider's emotions, the dragon immediately moved to protect its master. Vermithor's bronze pupils narrowed, aiming at the small insects holding swords below. He let out a deafening roar.
Otto's heart skipped a beat, but he tried to maintain his dignity. In a cold voice, he said, "Everyone, put away your damn swords!" He was speaking to his own men.
Criston Cole was stunned but quietly sheathed his longsword. Looking back, he saw that everyone else did the same, not daring to bear the wrath of the Bronze Fury.
Aemon quietly admired the scene. He could see that this old fox was fierce on the outside but weak on the inside. Similar to Larys "Clubfoot," Otto was just the second son of a minor house with no soldiers of his own; at best, he was a conspirator behind the scenes. When confronted head-on, his weakness was exposed.
"Take him away," Aemon ordered.
The three Rune Guards moved quickly and approached Otto.
"What do you want?" Otto asked, surprised and angry. "I am the king's messenger, the Hand of the King! To be rude to me is treason!"
"Give him a slap in the face," Aemon said without ceremony.
Bang! As soon as the words left his mouth, Robb swung his arm and slapped Otto hard across the face. Otto's head buzzed, and he nearly exploded with rage.
"How dare you!" Ser Harrold was shocked and drew his sword again.
Swish! Swish! Two of the Kingsguard, Cole and Ser Adrian, followed suit and blocked the two Rune Guards, Ser Gerold and Adrian Redfort. As Otto said, he was the king's substitute. Hitting him was like hitting the king.
"Hiss—" Vermithor let out a long roar and took flight, his vibrating wings passing over the crowd in an instant. The men scattered in disarray.
"Take him!" Aemon was full of confidence. Robb, a man of action, put away his sword and seized Otto's arm.
"Insolence!" Ser Willis Fell's face changed drastically. He pushed Adrian Redfort aside and swung his sword at Robb. He was the queen's personal guard. Under Otto's influence, he secretly considered himself a member of the greens.
The moment he moved, he saw a cold light in the corner of his eye. Aemon raised his sword.
Crack! The silver-white helmet split in two, and half of the head slid diagonally to the ground. Ser Willis's eyes went dark, and his body collapsed into the crowd.
Ser Harrold and Ser Criston's eyes widened instantly, filling with shock and anger.
"Mad… completely mad," Otto stood there in a daze, muttering to himself.
"Our Hand will be warmly received at the Eyrie. The rest of you may do as you wish," Aemon said, glancing at the captured Otto.
"Prince, do you know what you are doing?" Ser Harrold's face was grim.
"Of course," Aemon shook the blood from Lady Forlorn and calmly said, "Ser Harrold, go back and tell my uncle not to let the Hightowers cause any more trouble. I will return to King's Landing later to apologize to him."
"Prince…" How could Harrold dare go back like this?
"Aemon, you are starting a war!" Otto panicked, struggling as he shouted.
Aemon looked at him and smiled. "Since you dared to take the risk, do not even think about getting away with it." He was one of the culprits who triggered the Dance of the Dragons. Now that he is here, he will not be leaving.
"Aemon, you… mmmph…" Otto was about to threaten him, but his mouth was blocked by a rag. Robb held his head high and asked, "Your Majesty, shall he be imprisoned in the Sky Cells of the Eyrie?"
Otto's face turned pale when he heard this.
"I will think about it," Aemon couldn't help but smile.
"Do not worry, everyone," Aemon said, taking Otto's old green backpack from his shoulders and waving to Harrold and the others. "The Vale does not lack for food."
Ser Harrold was panting heavily but dared not speak another word.
"Hiss…" Vermithor raised his head and rushed into the sky, disappearing into the clouds. Aemon swung the backpack over his shoulder and strode back toward the gate. Man and dragon retired, their mission accomplished.
Back at the Eyrie, Aemon went straight to the lord's bedchamber. He picked up a pen and paper and began to write furiously.
"It's over, it's over," he muttered softly. "Hurry up and write an apology letter to your uncle to prevent these 'treacherous ministers' from making slanderous remarks. You still have to marry Rhaenyra, and your uncle must acknowledge her." The swift and decisive action just now was a superficial show for outsiders. Behind the scenes… "Uncle, there were a lot of people outside just now…" Aemon was sweating profusely as his writing speed increased.
The letter was filled with useful information. For example, Jeyne Arryn threatened to die if he didn't marry her. The people of the Vale were unwilling to kneel so easily, and the cold weather was a concern. He shirked all responsibility. Your King of the Vale remains your good, pure, innocent nephew.
"Bless me, Balerion," Aemon wrote, hoping his uncle would see the 'truth' through the lies. The King of the Vale could not be separated from his family. The Vale was his foundation, and his family was the connection.
Creak! Jeyne pushed the door open. "Are you writing a letter?"
"Yes, bad things about you," Aemon replied seriously.
"Tsk," Jeyne smiled sarcastically. She believed it. Aemon knew she would, so he continued writing to Rhaenyra right in front of her.
"You should write something a little more frivolous. It will make me feel better," Jeyne said, reading over his shoulder and offering advice.
Aemon paused. "You are right." He tore up the letter and started a new one. Jeyne was not an ordinary woman. She was a typical shrew from the Vale; she appeared dignified, but she was actually narrow-minded. From the first day they shared a bed, she had seen through his character, just as his mother, Lady Rhea, had seen through Daemon. After a month of sleeping together, quarreling, and fighting, a pure hatred had been cultivated between them.
"Men," Jeyne's eyes were full of contempt.
Aemon ignored her. After writing the letter to Rhaenyra, he wrote another to Alicent. He had detained her father; he had to give an explanation. He wrote that Otto had deliberately mocked him, wanting to incite conflict between uncle and nephew, and that he could not bear it any longer.
"That will do," Aemon's eyes shone.
Knock, knock! Jeynesif knocked and entered, followed by Robb.
"Your Majesty, where is Otto to be imprisoned?" Robb asked seriously.
"The dungeons. Water every other day, a meal every three days," Aemon replied.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Robb retreated silently.
"That is the Hand of the King. Is this really alright?" Jeynesif whispered.
"No," Aemon mused. I am being too kind. If he had more time, he would send Otto to Runestone to mine coal with the mountain clans. Twelve-hour workdays, two shifts, no holidays.
"Is it really useful to write these?" Jeyne leaned against the table, shaking her head. "You killed a Kingsguard. No matter how kind the king is, he will not forgive you."
Aemon supported his chin and asked, "Of my three letters, which do you think is the most important?"
"What is the difference?"
"These two are the key," Aemon said, pointing to the letters for Rhaenyra and Alicent. The letter to his uncle merely expressed his attitude. The real heavyweights were Rhaenyra and Alicent. With their help, nothing would happen. The Vale was strong, and he had two adult dragons. With his wife and daughter trying to persuade him, using both soft and hard tactics, his uncle could only grit his teeth and swallow his anger.
"The king treats you well," Jeyne chuckled, contempt clear in her eyes. A lustful and calculating little man.
Aemon was not angry. "I am not a vassal to anyone. Without a political bottom line, there is no autonomy." If the Vale was not independent, how could its nobles sincerely submit? If he did not establish himself as king, how could he wage war across the Narrow Sea in the future? The conflict between him and his uncle was inevitable. It was better to have it out sooner rather than later, to set a new precedent.
"Hypocrisy," Jeyne didn't believe a word.
Aemon's face turned red with embarrassment. Of course, after ruling the Vale, there were also the rights and interests that came with the title of "King." If he was given a chance, how could he not take it?
"Wait a little longer. The situation in the Stepstones should change," Aemon leaned back, his mind drifting. He had made a mistake. Now he had to find someone who had made a bigger mistake. The royal family was weak; they could not do without his contribution. Even after his uncle's anger cooled, he would still need him.
That night, Tyrosh.
The bustling port city was brightly lit, its nobles and wealthy merchants immersed in wine and pleasure. Half a month ago, the Archon of Tyrosh had led fifty warships in an attack on the Stepstones. He had won consecutive battles and seriously injured the famous Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon. The war seemed nearly won.
Suddenly, a night breeze blew in from the sea, and clusters of light emerged from the dark water. The patrolling garrison squinted to observe them.
"Hiss!" A deep roar sounded, and a scarlet dragon flew out of the night sky, rushing over the port in the blink of an eye.
The next second—red dragonflame fell from the sky, accompanied by billowing black smoke.
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