King's Landing
The docks of King's Landing.
As Vaemond Velaryon stepped onto the gangplank, his footing faltered slightly.
They had just disembarked from the ships that had come from Driftmark.
Behind him followed more than a dozen members of House Velaryon, their expressions grim. Most of them wore heavy looks, their hands never straying far from the weapons at their waists, their eyes warily sweeping over the bustling, chaotic crowd on the docks.
They knew exactly what they had come to do, and at Vaemond's instruction, they remained on constant guard.
"Ser Vaemond."
A magnetic, hoarse voice came from the side.
Vaemond turned his head and saw a gaunt man leaning on an exquisitely carved blackwood cane, standing not far away and limping toward him step by step.
The man appeared to be around thirty years old. His complexion was pale, his brown hair combed meticulously, dressed in dark gray trousers and tunic, with a black cloak draped over his shoulders.
Most striking of all were his eyes—their color very light, almost a pale hazel.
"By order of His Grace the King," the man said with a slight bow, his bearing flawless.
"I am here to receive you all. I am Larys Strong, the current Master of Whisperers on the Small Council."
The surname "Strong" struck Vaemond like a red-hot needle, as though it had stabbed straight into his ear.
His aged eyes flew wide open, a flush of agitation surging across his face.
"Strong?!" he nearly roared, his withered finger stabbing toward Larys. "You Strongs still have the nerve to appear before me?"
"Ser Vaemond," Larys interrupted calmly.
"I fully understand your anger."
"But at this moment, I speak to you in my capacity as the Master of Whisperers, charged by the King to deliver His Grace's spoken command."
Feeling the hostile gazes of the Velaryon men upon him, he swallowed before continuing: "His Grace hopes that you will all return to Driftmark at once."
"The matter of House Velaryon's succession is an internal family affair and should be resolved through internal family deliberation."
"His Grace does not wish to see this matter escalate, and even less does he wish for it to provoke unnecessary… unrest."
Leaning forward on his cane, Larys lowered his voice, yet every word was perfectly clear: "His Grace has instructed me to tell you that if this continues, it will benefit no one."
At this moment, some of the common folk and passing merchants on the docks were drawn by the Velaryons' distinctive silver hair and blue eyes.
But they were soon forced back by the cold stares of several dozen armored guards who had arrived together with Larys.
Hearing this, Vaemond's chest heaved violently. He stared fixedly at Larys's pale, placid face, then suddenly let out a hoarse, grief-filled cold laugh.
"Benefit no one? Ha!"
He swept his hand toward the direction of the Red Keep.
"Go back? Stand by and watch those Strong bastards steal the Velaryon legacy with our own eyes? Absolutely impossible!"
"I will take this matter all the way to the Small Council!"
"Let the King, the Hand of the King, and all the lords sit in judgment!"
"If His Grace and the Hand refuse to receive me—"
Carrying the madness of one who had staked everything, he went on, "—then I will go to the Reach, to the Westerlands, to the North…"
"I will walk the length of the Seven Kingdoms and tell every noble what kind of humiliation House Velaryon is suffering!"
"I will tell them how the Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne is defiling our bloodline with bastards!"
Larys listened quietly to the outburst, his expression utterly unmoved.
When Vaemond finally stopped, gasping for breath, Larys limped forward, closing the distance between them.
"Ser Vaemond," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine sincerity, "personally… I admire your courage and your resolve."
"To stake your own life for the honor of your House."
Vaemond paused, staring at him warily.
Leaning on his cane, Larys lowered his gaze.
"As for my… deceased, utterly contemptible elder brother, Harwin Strong, and what he did to Princess Rhaenyra—and the damage that brought upon the good name of House Velaryon…"
He raised his eyes again. In those pale hazel irises flickered unmistakable remorse.
"I, in the name of House Strong's current lord… offer you, and House Velaryon, my deepest apologies."
The fury on Vaemond's face stiffened. He studied Larys with suspicion, as though weighing whether this apology was genuine.
A man of House Strong—especially this Larys the Clubfoot, infamous for his cunning—apologizing for his family's disgrace?
Yet the guilt in the man's eyes, and the heaviness of his tone, did not seem feigned.
The tension in Vaemond's shoulders eased ever so slightly. He snorted through his nose, a grudging acceptance of this sudden "apology."
Larys keenly caught that moment of slackening.
He immediately pressed the advantage.
"Ser, though I have come at His Grace's command to urge you to return, as Master of Whisperers I am duty-bound to report your grievance in full."
"In fact," he paused briefly, his gaze sweeping the surroundings to ensure no one was listening, "Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, places great importance on the situation you have brought to light…"
"The Hand believes this matter concerns the inheritance of ancient houses and the gravity of the realm's lawful order—it is by no means a trivial affair."
"The Hand of the King… hopes to meet with you privately, to hear your full account in person."
Vaemond's eyes narrowed.
The Greens? What were they after? To use his hatred of bastards to stir trouble for the Blacks?
But… was that not exactly what he needed at this moment?
It was plain that King Viserys intended to favor his eldest daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, and to suppress the matter.
Without powerful backing, even if he shouted himself hoarse in King's Landing, he would scarcely shake the Iron Throne's decision in the slightest.
To become the Greens' blade?
Yet now, the very core of his House's survival was under the most fundamental threat…
He remained silent for a long time.
Behind him, his kinsmen waited anxiously for his decision.
At last, Vaemond raised his head. In his eyes there was only the resolve of one who had burned all bridges.
"Tell the Hand," he said firmly, "that so long as this can stop bastards from usurping House Velaryon's inheritance, I… am willing to speak with him."
Even if it meant becoming the sharp blade the Greens drove into the Blacks, he would not hesitate.
The blood of the House stood above all else.
A faint smile appeared on Larys's face as he inclined his head slightly.
"A wise decision, Ser. I will make the arrangements at once."
"For now, please come with me. The Hand has prepared temporary lodgings for you all—absolutely quiet… and secure."
··
At the same time, deep within the Kingswood outside King's Landing, an entirely different scene was unfolding.
The autumn sunlight was cut into shards of gold by dense forest canopy, scattering across ground carpeted with fallen leaves.
More than five hundred youths, clad in uniform, simply fashioned leather armor dyed black, moved in groups of ten through the woods—maneuvering, encircling, lying in ambush, and launching assaults. In their hands they carried blunted training short swords and wooden staves with cloth-wrapped ends.
Aemond Targaryen sat astride a white horse, halted upon a slightly elevated clearing within the forest, dressed in a neat suit of black hunting garb.
He watched calmly as the squads scattered through the woodland, advancing and maneuvering, listening as each team leader relayed commands using the simple hand signals and whistle calls he himself had taught them.
Tella stood at his horse's side, dressed in dark brown hunting leathers suited for movement, her hair cut short, the bow that never left her back slung over her shoulder.
"Anyone who falls behind!" an instructor bellowed. "For the next month, you'll be washing the victors' clothes, wiping down everyone's weapons, reduced to two meals a day—and cleaning the latrines!"
The moment the order was given, the youths' movements in the forest grew visibly more desperate.
No one wanted to lose. No one was willing to endure that kind of public, humiliating punishment.
After observing for a short while, Aemond tilted his head slightly and looked toward Tella beside him.
"In the Kingswood," he asked evenly, "how many of those scraping out a living are still left?"
At his words, Tella's body tensed almost imperceptibly.
She hesitated for a moment before answering with care.
"Your Highness, over these past few months, the… disturbance you've caused in the Kingswood hasn't been small."
"Those who used to survive by poaching, gathering, or secretly clearing small plots of land—anyone who wasn't deaf or blind has already fled far away."
"They're like rabbits in the forest. At the slightest stir of wind or grass, they dive into the deepest holes."
She paused, then added cautiously, with a note of appeal in her voice: "Most of them are simply poor souls who couldn't survive otherwise. There may have been petty theft, but bandits of any real scale…"
"They were mostly wiped out years ago."
Aemond replied calmly, "Don't worry, Tella. I'm not looking to purge them."
"My lands need people. I will grant them land free of charge."
"I will give them the status of free folk, rather than leaving them to wander the Kingswood as they do now."
"In return, they will only need to pay their taxes each year, as required."
"At the same time, I need guides familiar with the Kingswood. Can you arrange that?"
Hearing this, Tella nodded.
Absorbing the Kingswood's drifters—this was, for those living hand to mouth, nothing short of an opportunity fallen from the sky.
"Your Highness," she took a deep breath, "I… can try."
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