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The Docks of King's Landing.
Vaemond Velaryon's steps faltered slightly as he stepped onto the dock's gangplank.
The smell of the Blackwater Rush, brine, rot, and commerce, hit him like a physical blow.
They had just disembarked from a ship from Driftmark.
Behind him, more than a dozen Velaryon clansmen followed with solemn expressions.
Most of them looked grave, their hands never leaving the weapons at their waists.
Their eyes scanned the bustling, chaotic crowd on the docks with vigilance.
They knew what they were there to do and, following Vaemond's instructions, remained on guard at all times.
"Ser Vaemond."
A magnetic, raspy voice came from nearby.
Vaemond turned his head and saw a thin man leaning on an exquisitely carved blackwood cane, standing not far away, limping toward him.
The man was about thirty years old, pale-faced, with brown hair meticulously combed.
He wore a set of deep grey clothes and trousers, covered by a black cloak.
Most striking were his eyes, very light in color, almost hazel.
"By order of His Grace the King," the man nodded slightly, his posture impeccable despite his twisted foot.
"I am here to welcome you all. I am Larys Strong, the current Master of Whisperers on the Small Council."
The surname Strong was like a red-hot needle stabbing into Vaemond's ears.
His old eyes widened instantly, and a flush of agitation rose to his face.
"Strong?!" he almost roared, his withered finger pointing sharply at Larys.
"Do you people of the Strong family still have the face to appear before me?"
"Ser Vaemond," Larys interrupted him calmly.
"I fully understand your anger. But at this moment, I am here in my capacity as the King's appointed Master of Whisperers to convey His Grace's verbal message."
Feeling the hostile glares of the Velaryon clan members, Larys swallowed hard, though his eyes remained cool.
"His Grace hopes that you will return to Driftmark immediately. Matters regarding the inheritance of House Velaryon are internal family affairs and should be resolved through internal consultation. His Grace does not wish to see this matter escalate, nor does he want it to cause unnecessary... unrest."
Leaning forward on his cane, he lowered his voice, yet every word was clear:
"His Grace asked me to tell you that continuing this will benefit no one."
At this moment, some commoners and passing merchants on the docks were drawn by the hallmark silver hair and blue eyes of the Velaryons.
But they were quickly forced back by the sharp gazes of the dozens of armored Gold Cloaks who had come with Larys.
Hearing this, Vaemond's chest heaved violently. He stared fixedly at Larys's pale, calm face and suddenly let out a raspy, cold laugh full of grief and indignation.
"Benefit no one? Ha!"
He waved a hand toward the Red Keep towering above them.
"Go back? To watch those Strong bastards steal the legacy of Velaryon with my own eyes? Absolutely impossible!"
"I will bring this matter before the court! Let the King, the Hand, and all the lords come to judge it!"
"If His Grace and the Hand will not grant me an audience..."
His voice carried a desperate madness.
"I will go to the Reach, to the Westerlands, to the North... I will travel across the Seven Kingdoms and tell every noble how House Velaryon is being disgraced! How the Heir Apparent is using bastards to defile our family bloodline!"
Larys listened quietly to this roar, his face showing no emotion whatsoever.
Waiting for Vaemond to stop, gasping for breath, he limped forward until the two were closer.
"Ser Vaemond," he said with a touch of sincerity, "I personally... admire your courage and determination. To sacrifice yourself for family honor."
Vaemond was taken aback and looked at him warily.
Leaning on his cane, Larys lowered his eyes.
"Regarding my... deceased, absolute scoundrel of a brother, Harwin Strong, and what he did to Princess Rhaenyra... as well as the resulting damage to the reputation of House Velaryon..."
He looked up, his hazel eyes flickering with remorse.
"I, in the name of the current head of House Strong... offer you and House Velaryon my deepest apologies."
The anger on Vaemond's face froze. He sized Larys up suspiciously, as if judging the sincerity of this apology.
A member of the Strong family... especially this Larys, the Clubfoot known for his cunning, would actually apologize for the family's scandal?
But the remorse in the other's eyes and his heavy tone did not seem faked.
His tensed shoulders relaxed slightly, and he let out a snort from his nose, grudgingly accepting this sudden 'apology'.
Larys keenly caught this slight softening. He immediately struck while the iron was hot.
"Ser, although I am under His Grace's orders to persuade you to return, as Master of Whisperers, I must report your demands in full."
"In fact," he paused slightly, scanning the surroundings to ensure no one was eavesdropping, "the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, attaches... great importance to the situation you've raised."
"The Hand believes this concerns the inheritance of an ancient House and the seriousness of the Kingdom's legal traditions; it is by no means a small matter."
"The Hand... wishes to meet with you privately to hear your detailed account in person."
Vaemond's eyes narrowed.
'The Greens? What did Otto want? To use his hatred for the Bastards to cause trouble for the Blacks?'
But... wasn't this exactly what he needed most right now?
King Viserys clearly intended to favor his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, and wanted to suppress the matter.
Without powerful support, even if he shouted his lungs out in King's Landing, he would likely fail to move the Iron Throne's decision an inch.
'Become a blade for the Greens?'
But now, the core interests of his family's survival were under fundamental threat...
He remained silent for a long time.
Behind him, his clansmen waited anxiously for his decision.
Finally, Vaemond looked up, his eyes filled with nothing but the resolution of one burning his bridges.
"Tell the Lord Hand," he said firmly, "as long as it stops the bastards from usurping the Velaryon legacy, I... am willing to talk with him."
Even if he became the blade the Greens thrust at the Blacks, he would not hesitate.
The family bloodline was above all else.
A slight smile appeared on Larys's face, and he bowed slightly.
"A wise decision, Ser. I will make the arrangements as soon as possible."
"Now, please follow me. The Lord Hand has prepared a temporary lodging for you all. It is perfectly quiet... and safe."
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Summerhill
Meanwhile, deep within the Summerhill, there was a completely different scene.
The autumn sunlight was cut into fragmented gold by the dense trees, spilling onto the leaf-covered ground.
About five hundred youths, wearing uniform simple leather armor dyed black, were moving through the woods in squads of ten, flanking, ambushing, and charging.
They held unsharpened short swords for training and wooden sticks with cloth-wrapped tips.
Aemond Targaryen sat on a white horse, stationed on a slightly elevated clearing in the woods, dressed in sleek black hunting gear.
He watched calmly as the squads dispersed and moved through the forest, listening to the squad leaders use simple hand signals and whistles he had taught them to convey commands.
Terra stood by her horse, wearing deep-brown hunting gear suited for movement, her hair short, carrying the bow that never left her side.
"Those who fall behind," the instructor roared, "will be responsible for washing the winners' clothes, polishing everyone's weapons, having their meals reduced from three to two, and cleaning the latrines for the next month!"
As the order was given, the movements of the youths in the forest became visibly more desperate.
No one wanted to lose; no one wanted to endure that kind of public, humiliating punishment.
After observing for a moment, Aemond tilted his head slightly toward Terra beside him.
"How many more people are there making a living in the Summerhill?"
Hearing this, Terra's body tensed imperceptibly.
She hesitated for a moment before answering cautiously.
"Prince, the... commotion you've made in the Summerhill these past few months has not been small. Those who originally survived by poaching, gathering, or secretly clearing small plots of land have long since hidden themselves away, unless they are deaf or blind."
"They are like rabbits in the woods; at the slightest sign of trouble, they retreat into the deepest burrows."
She paused and added carefully, with a hint of pleading, "Most of them are just poor souls who can't survive otherwise. There might be some petty theft, but as for organized bandits... they were mostly wiped out years ago."
Aemond said calmly, "Don't worry, Terra. I'm not here to wipe them out."
"My territory needs people. I will distribute land to them for free."
"I will grant them the status of freemen instead of having them wander the Summerhill as they do now. In return, they only need to pay taxes normally every year."
"At the same time, I need some guides familiar with the Summerhill. Can you arrange that?"
Hearing what Aemond said, Terra nodded.
Incorporating the refugees of Summerhill? For those living hand-to-mouth, this was undoubtedly a godsend.
"Prince," she took a deep breath, "I... can go and try."
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