The naming-day feast in the godswood lay under a blanket of quiet.
The stout heart tree stood there, its carved face of pale weirwood seeming to smile and weep at once beneath the shifting sunlight.
Long tables were draped in white swan velvet, gilded silverware glinting as the light fell upon it.
The high seat stood raised.
The King did not come.
Viserys was still displeased with Aemond for his earlier defiance at the Small Council.
Aemond cut the beef upon his plate. Today he wore a plain, unadorned robe of ink-black, his silver hair bound neatly behind his head.
When Grand Maester Mellos stepped forward to present the King's nameday gift on His Grace's behalf—a dagger set with sapphires, the blade engraved with the word "Restraint"—
Aemond rose to his feet.
"Thank you for His Grace's reward," he replied evenly, his voice betraying no ripple of emotion.
The feast continued, slow and measured, bound by a tacit and shared restraint.
Until Helaena suddenly stilled her fingers as they toyed with the food on her plate. She lifted her head, her violet eyes fixed on Aemond, and spoke softly: "I dislike cheese. And red things."
"Helaena?" Queen Alicent turned toward her, a flicker of confusion crossing her eyes.
A maid beside her asked with careful hesitation, "Princess, do you mean…?"
"Then take them all away," Aemond interjected.
His gaze met Helaena's, and her eyes were resting on him in quiet stillness.
It seemed… she had sensed something?
The servants moved swiftly, clearing the table of the silver platters laden with red berries and the assorted cheeses.
Gwayne Hightower raised his cup at just the right moment, his smile carrying his usual smooth affability. "To my young and valiant nephew."
In response, Aemond lifted his own cup and drained it in a single swallow.
Meanwhile, Alicent's eyes swept across the long table.
The vacant seat of the King, her father Otto away negotiating in the Stepstones, her eldest son Aegon remaining on Driftmark…
A familiar hollowness and ache welled up in her chest.
She gave a slight nod to the maid at her side.
The maid carried forward a deep gray wooden box, utterly unadorned, and stopped before Aemond.
"From your grandfather," Alicent said gently.
Aemond accepted the box and lifted the lid.
A ring lay quietly upon the velvet lining.
Dull, coarse, its steel surface left unpolished, bearing only a single line of Valyrian script upon the face of the ring—its carved strokes deep, sharp, and severe.
"This was given by Queen Visenya to her son Maegor," Alicent said softly.
She began to recount that chapter of history… and how, in the end, Visenya's line was utterly severed upon that iron-forged throne.
She did not lecture him. She did not issue a warning.
"Dragonfire can burn away everything," she said, her green eyes fixed tightly on her son. "But it cannot master the human heart."
At that moment, the godswood fell utterly silent.
Aemond picked up the ring.
Then he lifted his gaze. His violet eyes were clear to the depths, reflecting his mother's tense, unblinking face.
"So," he said calmly, "in your eyes, I resemble Maegor?"
The question was blunt and unadorned.
Alicent looked at her son—at the composure in his eyes, a stillness that did not belong to one of his years.
In the end, she only nodded, slowly.
At times, admitting the truth requires more courage than lying.
Aemond smiled.
He pinched the dull Valyrian steel ring between his fingers and slipped it onto the index finger of his right hand.
The metal slid over his knuckle, cool to the touch, settling firmly at the base of his finger. The fit was exact.
"Mother," he said, shaking his head.
"Queen Visenya had only that one son, so she had no choice."
He continued, "Maegor was too foolish—he left himself with no path of retreat."
He rose to his feet, his figure standing in the sunlight.
"I am different."
He lowered his head slightly, his gaze falling upon the ring on his finger.
"I am not Maegor, nor am I Daemon."
He paused, then smiled and said, "I am Aemond Targaryen."
He repeated it.
"Aemond Targaryen."
At last, he raised his hand and fixed his gaze upon the ring, reciting the maxim in Valyrian: "Blood is fire. The trueborn son of the dragon."
When the words ended, he did not look again at his mother's complicated expression. He turned and left.
··
The long corridor outside the sickroom of High Tide.
Vaemond Velaryon stood before the door to his brother Corlys's chamber.
Behind him, more than ten collateral members of House Velaryon stood in silent attention.
There were captains who held real authority, relatives who oversaw port affairs, and hot-blooded young kinsmen.
They clustered around this uncle of the family.
From not far away, approaching footsteps shattered the oppressive stillness.
Rhaenyra Targaryen emerged from the shadows of the corridor, her slightly fuller figure wrapped in deep black mourning garments—the trace of new life she carried with Daemon.
Her silver-gold hair was arranged into a neat chignon.
Three sons followed close behind her: Jacaerys with his right eye covered by a black patch, Lucerys pressed close to his elder brother, and the youngest, Joffrey, clutching at his mother's skirts.
Daemon Targaryen walked at the rear, dressed in plain black without ornament, Dark Sister hanging at his waist.
"Uncle Vaemond," Rhaenyra said as she halted before the sickroom, her tone mild. "The Lord needs quiet."
"I ask that you take our kinsmen and leave. This is not the time for us to quarrel."
Vaemond's face turned iron-gray in an instant.
He stared hard at Rhaenyra. When his gaze swept over the three children behind her, the loathing in his eyes could no longer be concealed.
"Quiet?" he said, his anger forced down. "My dear niece—oh, forgive me. Perhaps I should address you properly as Princess of Dragonstone?"
"After all, my poor nephew Laenor has only just been committed to the sea. The black mourning cloth still hangs upon the doors, and already we hear that you cannot wait to enter into a marriage pact with this—"
He pointed a finger at Daemon.
"—with this prince?"
Vaemond pressed a step forward. "Then take these children away as well."
"The blood of Driftmark will not be sullied. The halls of House Velaryon do not welcome baseborn whelps of unknown stock."
Jacaerys's throat bobbed, but he lifted his head and spoke. "My lord, the blood of our grandsire, the Sea Snake, flows in our veins. We are Velaryons as well."
"The Sea Snake's blood?!"
At those words, Vaemond staggered back as if scorched by the claim. He spun toward his kin behind him, flinging his arms wide, his voice rising with fervor. "Hear that! What a fair and pleasing declaration!"
"But it changes nothing! Bastards! You three—every one of you—are bastards!"
"Vaemond!" Rhaenyra's voice rose sharply as she stepped forward, placing herself before her sons.
"I warn you—mind your words!"
"My sons are the lawful issue of my marriage to Laenor Velaryon!"
"Their rights of inheritance were personally affirmed by my father, King Viserys the First!"
"Their place in the line of succession to the Iron Throne, and their lawful claim to Driftmark, are not to be questioned by anyone—least of all you!"
"The Iron Throne?!"
Vaemond laughed as if he had heard the most absurd jest in the world. His chest heaved as he turned back to his kin.
"Did you all hear that? Our Princess of Dragonstone would use the Iron Throne to crush the affairs of House Velaryon!"
"But hear me, Rhaenyra." He turned back again, a near-mad stubborn fire burning in his eyes.
"The quarrels of the Iron Throne are none of my concern!"
"But Driftmark! The Velaryon fleet!"
"Every span of land beneath the seahorse banner, every warship, every sailor—I, Vaemond Velaryon, will not stand by and watch them fall into the hands of a pack of bastards of uncertain blood!"
"You shameless whore!" he roared. "You gave birth to this litter of bastards!"
"And now you would use their filthy blood to defile the legacy my brother fought for all his life?"
"The glory of House Velaryon is to be ruined in the hands of a wanton like you!"
The moment the words fell.
Daemon's hand had already moved toward his sword at the first filthy word that spilled from Vaemond's mouth.
Now, he moved.
He merely lowered his head, gazing at the hand resting on the hilt, his voice slow and measured: "Ser Vaemond," he said, using the most formal address.
"For the words you just spoke… I will personally, and slowly, pull your tongue out of that mouth of yours that knows only how to spew filth—bit by bit."
Clang!
Behind Vaemond, more than a dozen collateral kinsmen drew their swords almost in unison!
The guards of High Tide, who had been stationed at the sickroom door and along both ends of the corridor, now stood with hands on their hilts, exchanging looks of panic and confusion.
On one side stood Princess Rhaenyra. On the other, Ser Vaemond—an elder of standing within the house, backed by numerous powerful kin.
Where were their swords to be pointed?
The air was drawn taut as a bowstring, bloodshed ready to erupt at a touch.
Creak.
At that moment, the wooden door of the sickroom was pushed open.
Rhaenys Targaryen stepped out. She wore a red gown, her face worn and weary.
Her gaze swept over the drawn blades and tense faces, before settling on Vaemond.
"Rhaenyra. Daemon." Her eyes never left Vaemond. "Take the children and leave first. At once."
"Rhaenys, he—" Rhaenyra protested.
"I said, at once!" Rhaenys cut in sharply.
Rhaenyra's chest heaved. In the end, she shot Vaemond a fierce, cutting glare, gathered her three sons to her, and turned away in quick strides.
Before turning, Daemon cast Vaemond one last glance—cold, edged with killing intent.
Only after their footsteps had completely faded did Rhaenys slowly let out a breath, turning to face Vaemond and the kinsmen behind him who still stood with swords drawn.
"Vaemond," her voice was hoarse, heavy with entreaty and fatigue. "I understand your anger. I know many within the family fear for the bloodline. But matters are far more complex than they appear."
"Laenor has only just passed. Corlys lies unconscious. Driftmark cannot withstand internal strife. Give me some time—when Corlys awakens, he will explain everything to you…"
"Explain?" Vaemond cut in roughly, his eyes showing not the slightest wavering.
"Explain so those bastards can sink their roots even deeper into High Tide?"
He flung his arm out, his voice echoing through the corridor with a desperate, all-or-nothing resolve. "I will wait no longer! On this matter, I will gather every kinsman who still remembers what blood is—and we will go to King's Landing!"
"We will stand before the Iron Throne, before all the lords of the realm, and demand judgment from King Viserys!"
Rhaenys's face darkened at once. "Vaemond! Have you lost your wits?!"
"To publicly question the heir, to challenge what the King himself has affirmed—you are committing treason! You will be dragged to the block!"
"Treason? Execution?" Vaemond threw back his head as though he had heard the greatest joke in the world, bursting into a rasping, grief-stricken laugh.
"And so what?!" he cried. "Rhaenys! My good goodsister! I would sooner be burned to ash by dragonfire than live to see the glory of House Velaryon stolen and defiled by a handful of bastards of unknown birth!"
He looked through the crack of the door toward the unconscious Corlys. "What I do must be worthy of our Velaryon forebears who lie upon the seabed!"
He drew a deep breath. His final words rang out like an oath—and like a curse: "If Viserys means to execute an old man for treason because he dares to fight to defend his family's blood…"
"Then let him kill me! I will use my blood—my life—to make all Seven Kingdoms see clearly that Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but a shameless harlot!"
"She bore bastards! She profaned her marriage vows! She knows no shame!"
"And she would even seek to defile the blood of her own vassal house, House Velaryon!"
"And I, Vaemond Velaryon—dead or alive—will answer to the seahorse sigil!"
With that, he did not spare another glance for Rhaenys's unsteady form. He turned away.
"We go!"
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