Throne Room.
Viserys sat upon the high Iron Throne, his expression solemn. Aemon and the other lords stood in attendance on either side of the hall.
"Welcome the envoys of Braavos, Pentos..."
"...and the Triarchy!"
Announced by the Kingsguard, a diverse procession of foreign envoys entered the hall. Their skin and hair were of many colors, and they were clad in fabrics unique to their homelands: the finest lace silks from Myr, the deep purple cloth that was a specialty of Braavos.
"State the purpose of your visit," Viserys commanded, his voice echoing in the chamber.
The foreign envoys raised their heads in unison, their eyes fixing on the king. With his silver hair and purple eyes, he wore the golden circlet of the Old King, Jaehaerys, and held the legendary Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, in his hand. The artifacts lent a sliver of majesty to his otherwise kind and ordinary features.
Ser Harrold Westerling stepped forward. "Before you stands Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
The string of titles was enough to make any man feel small.
"Your Grace of the Iron Throne," one began, "we come bearing the demands of our respective city-states."
The envoys had separated into three groups, each putting forth a representative. Aemon watched quietly, his hands clasped behind his back. Magisters of coin and law from Braavos and Pentos—powerful men in their own right—stepped forward. They were followed by a sellsword captain and two magisters representing Tyrosh. Finally, a group of eight men from Myr and Lys, all former magisters of the Triarchy, advanced together.
"The Free Cities have traditionally kept their distance from the Iron Throne," Viserys said bluntly. "Why should we entertain your demands now?"
"Do you feign ignorance of the fact that your own kin and his bannermen have invaded our sovereign city?" the Tyroshi magister protested.
"Outrageous!" Lord Lyonel Strong boomed.
Swish!
Several of the Kingsguard drew their swords halfway from their scabbards. The Tyroshi magister's face turned a shade of purple, but his eyes remained defiant.
"Do you all seek to cause trouble?" Viserys asked, his gaze sweeping over the other envoys. Whether or not they were prepared for war, they could not show weakness.
"Your Grace, it is as you say," the Braavosi envoy interjected smoothly. "The Iron Throne and the Free Cities do not interfere in each other's affairs. Your vassal's occupation of Tyrosh—was this at your command, or was it their own venture?"
The representatives from Myr and Lys echoed the question in a more roundabout manner.
Viserys's expression soured. When the Triarchy's pirates were plundering the Stepstones, no one had cared. Even when Pentos and Braavos were locked in a bloody war with the Three Daughters, the world had looked the other way. But now that a lord of Westeros had claimed a city for himself, they all crawled out of the woodwork to demand answers, terrified that the Iron Throne might gain an advantage at their expense.
"If you came all this way for such a ridiculous question, then you will leave disappointed," Viserys said in a low, dangerous voice.
"Your Grace, the true Archon of Tyrosh is gathering his forces in the Stepstones, preparing to retake his city at any moment."
"That's right! That pretender, the Sea Serpent, cannot hold out for long."
The envoys began to speak over one another, their words laced with threats. Viserys, as king, could not lower himself to their level. Lord Lyonel stepped forward, but he could only sputter with indignation.
"Two great powers are in negotiation! You must show some decorum—"
Aemon was dumbfounded. This is nothing but a war of words.
"King Viserys," the Tyroshi magister threatened, stepping forward again, "if you cannot command your subjects, our Archon will be forced to wage a war of retribution."
In an instant, the throne room fell silent.
"You..." Viserys's eyes were bloodshot with rage. "I... I should have your tongue for that!" He reached for the Valyrian steel dagger at his hip. Throughout his life, nothing enraged him more than being threatened with war.
The Tyroshi stood his ground, craning his neck in defiance.
Swish!
A flash of cold steel, and blood sprayed through the air. The magister's body went rigid as his head was sliced clean off from the temple to the jaw. Brain and bone splattered across the stone floor. The body crashed down, its severed head leaving a grotesque, gaping mouth open to the air.
The violence was so sudden it caught everyone off guard. The hall was stunned into silence. Aemon, now standing where the Tyroshi had been, shrugged innocently. "He can keep his tongue."
"Disarm him!" Ser Harrold shouted, realizing too late that the prince had slipped through the crowd. The speed was inhuman.
"No need." Aemon was perfectly calm. He wiped the blade of his sword, Lady Forlorn, on the dead man's tunic before sheathing it and rejoining the line of courtiers. He wasn't trying to imitate anyone; he simply could not abide someone acting more arrogant than himself. As if they thought a Targaryen was soft. With a final thought, he kicked the mutilated corpse in contempt.
Ser Harrold froze and looked to the king for guidance.
Viserys was on his feet, shocked beyond words. He felt like a villain, and it felt... good. But as the shock subsided, a wave of worry washed over him. An envoy is not to be harmed, even in times of war.
Aemon glanced at his uncle, seeming to read his thoughts. Expressionless, he turned his cold gaze upon the foreign envoys. "Did you think the dragons of House Targaryen had grown old and toothless?"
Complete silence. The envoys' faces paled as they finally seemed to notice the silver-haired man who had acted so decisively.
"Dragon-Slayer" Aemon. A man's reputation precedes him. While he was infamous in the Seven Kingdoms, his name was spoken with fear across the Narrow Sea. Tales of his ruthlessness had long since spread across Essos.
"Prince Aemon?" the Pentoshi envoy swallowed hard, recognizing him now.
"Do you want war?" Aemon's tone was flat, devoid of emotion.
"No! No!" The Pentoshi waved his hands frantically, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He had been an eyewitness to the Battle of Pentos; the screams of dying pirates were said to still echo on the night wind from the ruins of their labyrinthine port, a horror story told to frighten children.
"Then be silent. And give Prince Reggio my regards when you return," Aemon said with a wicked smile.
The Pentoshi envoy retreated without another word.
"Prince Aemon, we are here in the interest of lasting peace," the magister from Lys ventured, summoning his courage.
Aemon said nothing, turning instead to look at his uncle. Your move.
Viserys's face was as dark as a thundercloud. He first glanced at his councilors. The very same ministers who would argue for hours over trivialities now stood utterly useless. Even the Hand of the King, Lyonel, was red-faced with anger but offered no words, no solution. Utterly spineless.
"Hah..." Viserys took a deep breath and shot his nephew a look. Do as you see fit. If he relied on his council, he would die of a heart attack.
Aemon smiled. "The Iron Throne does not recognize the Sea Serpent's claim as Archon of Tyrosh, nor will it command its subjects to abandon the spoils of war."
"So you will simply let this stand?" the Lyseni asked.
"No," Aemon said, his gaze sweeping over them. "As the fiancé of the heir, I speak for the Iron Throne. If your cities have a challenge to make, I will answer them all."
A chill went down the envoys' spines.
"Now," Aemon commanded coldly, "arrest them."
"Aye!" Ser Harrold was the first to act, leading the Kingsguard to seize the ten remaining magisters of the Triarchy. The envoys from Braavos and Pentos watched, frozen in terror, grateful the prince had ignored them.
"Your orders, Prince?" Ser Harrold asked.
"They spoke treason against their king. Cut out their tongues," Aemon replied without mercy.
"You cannot do this! The Free Cities stand behind us!" one of them shrieked.
Aemon's expression remained calm. "For that outburst, take their right hands as well."
Muffled screams and curses filled the air as the Kingsguard subdued them.
Viserys watched, his hands gripping the arms of the Iron Throne so tightly that his knuckles were white. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain. His right hand had clenched over one of the throne's blades, slicing through his leather glove. His face went pale as he subtly peeled back the fabric to inspect the wound, only to find that the large emerald ring on his finger had blocked the blade.
It didn't cut me. Viserys's pupils trembled slightly.
Pfft! Pfft!
The Kingsguard were swift and efficient. Aemon's eyes were indifferent as his hand rested on the pommel of Lady Forlorn. The reputation of House Targaryen had been eroded by the constant provocations of men like these. His uncle was too gentle, but he was not. His uncle was weak-willed, but he would be his strength.
The Targaryens were dragons. All others were merely lambs for the slaughter.
Who is the true dragon? Aemon muttered to himself.
The King's Chambers.
Viserys stared into the distance, turning the jade ring on his thumb. He occasionally glanced at his Hand, who stood respectfully with his head bowed. Today, his nephew had opened his eyes to the truth. At the same time, he had seen the cowardice of his own council.
Lord Lyonel looked deeply ashamed and dared not speak.
"Will the Free Cities dare to retaliate?" Viserys suddenly asked.
"Likely not, Your Grace," Lyonel answered, his voice strained.
The Iron Throne was hesitant to start a war, but the Free Cities, which were hardly a unified front, would dare even less. Furthermore, Prince Aemon had just issued a murderous threat. No city-state would risk being the first to provoke a young, vigorous dragon in his prime.
Viserys nodded slightly. In the end, the real threat remained the Sea Serpent and the remnants of the Triarchy. Peace gained through compromise is no peace at all, but peace won through struggle endures. The crown could no longer play deaf and dumb; it was time to issue a proper warning to those who still sought to test them.
"The royal wedding approaches, yet Aemon's seat on the Small Council remains undecided," Viserys said, his displeasure evident.
"Then... then the position of regent," Lyonel stammered, trembling with fear.
"Hmph," Viserys snorted, venting his frustration. "I spoke to the boy after we left the throne room. He has no interest in the position." When Aemon heard the word 'regent', he had practically fled.
Lyonel felt a cold sweat drip down his back. The king's dissatisfaction was not with Prince Aemon, but with him. Today proved that one loyal Targaryen was more effective than the entire Small Council. Rhaenyra's future was tied to that boy. The king would spare no expense to win his loyalty.
Lyonel wiped his brow, his mind racing for a way to remedy the situation. He had to convince Prince Aemon to accept a position and remain in King's Landing.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside the door.
"What is happening?" Viserys frowned.
Creek!
The door opened, and Ser Harrold entered. "Your Majesty, it's the Commander of the City Watch, Ser Harwin Strong. He was arrested by Ser Steffon Darklyn for openly slandering the princess's honor in a brothel. He's been taken to the black cells."
"What!?" Viserys was stunned.
Lyonel spun around, his eyes wide with disbelief.
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