Wails echoed in the stone corridors long after the fight was over. The air in High Tide's great hall hung thick and salt-damp, vibrating with fury, fear, grief, and the metallic tang of blood. Aemond was still on the table, choking sobs wringing his chest, pressing the bloody cloth closer to where his eye had once been.
Aegon stood over him, one hand on his brother's uninjured shoulder. The prince's fingers were sticky with his brother's blood, sweat cooling against his skin. He kept his chin high—not out of pride, but necessity. With every heartbeat, the room filled with more people, more noise, more blame.
The storm of voices built until Lord Harrold bellowed, "Cease this at once!" Guards backed away from Aemond, yielding as the maester pressed in—voice trembling as he said, "Gods be good…" and tried to steady the sobbing boy.
From the dais, King Viserys forced his broken body upright, trembling with rage and the realization of his impotence. "How could you allow such a thing to happen?" he thundered, sweeping the hall with an accusatory glare. "I will have answers!"
Knights and guards stammered apologies, none willing to meet the king's eyes. "The princes were supposed to be abed, Your Grace," Lord Harrold faltered.
"Who had the watch, then?" Viserys snapped.
Ser Criston was quick, but rigid: "Young Prince Aemond was attacked by his cousins, Your Grace."
Aegon bristled. It's already being spun, he thought.
"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!" the king barked, voice cracking and desperate.
Harrold bowed his head. "Very sorry, Your Grace. The Kingsguard…has never had to defend princes from princes."
"That is no answer!" Viserys pounded the armrest.
Maester Kelvyn bent over Aemond and sighed, voice grave: "The flesh will heal, Your Grace…but the eye is lost."
A hush rolled through the hall—guilty, angry, hungry for guilt.
Alicent's voice pierced the silence, cold as a drawn knife. "Where were you?"
Aegon struggled for patience. "Me?"
But Aemond flinched, hissing, and Aegon—barely thinking—slapped him on the arm. "Ow! What was that for?"
Aegon snapped back, "Nothing, compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool." The sting stopped Aemond's wailing for a moment, replaced by a hard, narrow look.
The doors banged open. Corlys swept in, Rhaenys following, faces thunderous. "What is the meaning of this?" Corlys demanded. "Baela, Rhaena—what happened?"
Suddenly all the children were screaming.
"He attacked me—!"
"He broke Luke's nose!"
"He stole my mother's dragon!" Rhaena's voice rang sharpest, her grief raw.
"Enough," Aegon called—just loud enough for those closest to hear, and just commanding enough to still a few trembling voices.
Lucerys pointed, voice cracking, "He was going to kill Jace!"
"I didn't do anything!"
"It should be my son telling the tale!" Rhaenyra demanded.
"He called us—"
"Silence!" Viserys roared, fists slamming down.
A moment of real silence rippled out—unbearable.
"Aemond," the king's voice quivered. "I will have the truth of what happened. Now."
But the accusations tumbled on, each one sharper than the last.
"Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible!" Alicent declared, fury swelling.
"It was a regrettable accident," Ser Criston offered, but Alicent's rage would not be checked: "Accident? Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!" She turned to the crowd. "It was my sons who were attacked, and forced to defend themselves!"
"Vile insults were hurled," she pressed on. "The legitimacy of my sons' birth was loudly questioned."
Aegon caught Rhaenyra's proud, tight-lipped smile—a performance for the lords, nothing more.
"What insults?" Viserys asked.
"He called us bastards," Lucerys blurted, eyes darting between the adults.
Rhaenyra seized the moment, voice smooth as venom. "My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons! Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."
Viserys, tired, looked at Aemond. "Over an insult? My son has lost an eye. You, boy—where did you hear this lie?"
Alicent, softer but still poised, said quickly, "The insult was training yard bluster. Boys' talk, nothing more." She turned to Aegon, eyes flecked with ice: "Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys' father? Perhaps he might have something to say."
Rhaenyra replied smoothly, "I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not sleep. Had gone out to walk."
Aegon's eyes flicked toward her once, then he said, cold and clear enough for those near to hear:
"Is that so? Perhaps some find rest in shadows better than in truth. One wonders if all fathers are as present as they claim."
A few lords exchanged knowing looks.
Viserys fixed Aemond with a tired, ancient gaze. "Aemond, look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?"
A tense pause.
Aemond's voice was cold and clear: "It was Aegon."
The room turned.
"Me?" Aegon feigned surprise. The lie in Aemond's voice was calculated—Aegon almost admired it.
Viserys flared. "And you, boy, where did you hear such calumnies? Aegon! Tell me the truth of it!"
Aegon's face hardened. He let the silence stretch, then shrugged.
"We know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them."
It wasn't only an answer. It was a gauntlet—Aegon's way of forcing the question back at those who dared to pretend.
Immediately, murmurs sparked in the crowd. A few lords glanced between Rhaenyra and her sons, and Rhaenyra—to his satisfaction—narrowed her eyes, knowing the damage was done. Daemon, watching from the edge of the hall beside a pillar, offered the ghostliest hint of a smirk—a wolf circling, ready to see how this played out.
Viserys pounded his fist. "This interminable infighting must cease! We are family! Make your apologies and show good will to one another."
Aegon's lips curled. Rhaenyra would never apologize unless forced; nor would Daemon. But this, too, he could use.
Alicent's voice broke the illusion of peace. "That is insufficient. Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. Good will cannot make him whole."
Viserys sighed. "I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye."
Alicent's voice sharpened. "No, because it's been taken. There is a debt to be paid."
The murmurs grew darker.
"I shall have one of her son's eyes in return."
Viserys shook his head helplessly: "My dear wife—he is your son, your blood."
"Do not…" he pleaded, "allow your temper to guide your judgment."
Alicent would not yield. "If the king will not seek justice, the queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon."
Aegon watched the tension snap.
Helaena shrieked, "Mother!" and even Daeron, fidgeting in the corner, stumbled forward, pale.
Viserys thundered, "Alicent! Stay your hand!"
Ser Criston hesitated, hand hovering over his sword.
Aegon read the moment like a chessboard—a single move and Alicent would start a blood feud right here.
He stepped forward swiftly, louder than he'd been all night:
"Mother—let go of this madness. All you'll reap is more loss."
Alicent's face twisted in shock and fury, but her hesitation gave Aegon his opening.
He raised a hand, voice steady but fierce:
"If you take an eye, they'll call us butchers in every corner of the realm. And ask—if her sons are bastards, whose sin brought this curse to our doors? Rhaenyra has always cloaked herself in costly virtue, but ask the lords of court what they whisper about her at their tables."
Rhaenyra's face burned as a few lords looked away, not denying it.
"And as for Daemon," Aegon continued, "let no one forget who taught our kin to answer slights with steel, not sense—whose hands are always red, whose tongue always poised to strike at family."
Daemon arched an eyebrow, dark amusement flickering, but little more.
Aegon stared at Lucerys, then around at the family. "If there is debt, the council will judge it. But my brother's pain will not heal if we stain ourselves further. Let the world see the queen and her sons hold fast to honor, not vengeance—while others hide behind rumors and knives in the night."
The tension began to shift. Several lords murmured in approval; others, sensing which way the wind was blowing, stood a little taller on Aegon's side.
Corlys, voice gravelly, looked to Viserys: "Your Grace, the realm needs united strength—not more reason to tear us apart. Let us judge with open ears, not blind swords."
Aegon nodded in agreement:
"We will convene council at first light. All parties, all witnesses. Let the truth be weighed properly. Any man who takes violence into his own hands before then will face the king's justice—and mine."
Alicent, breathing hard, held Aegon's gaze. For the first time, she seemed to see not just her son, but the strong-willed man he'd become.
Viserys slumped with relief, his hand sliding from the arm of his throne.
Daemon's smirk faded, replaced by a narrowed, calculating look; Rhaenyra's mask of composure cracked—but she said nothing more, lips pressed white.
Aegon leaned closer to Alicent, quietly so only she could hear:
"If you want vengeance, mother, trust me to get it with words—our knives can wait."
She nodded with a stiff, cold kind of pride.
Before the crowd, Aegon declared:
"Let it be done. The prince's injury will not be forgotten. Nor will those who mock our blood with sly smiles and silent lies."
He never spoke the words "Green" or "Black" in front of the king. But as he left the center of the hall—with Aemond held upright, and Alicent silent but steady—every faction in the room knew their lines had been drawn not with crude violence, but with the sharp edge of wit, rumor, and resolve.