King's Landing
The docks of King's Landing.
When Vaemond Velaryon stepped onto the pier, his stride faltered for the briefest instant. They had just disembarked from the ship at Tidel-Head.
Behind him followed more than a dozen Velaryons, their faces grave and watchful. Most never removed their weapons from their belts, their eyes sweeping the bustling crowd on the pier with quiet intensity. They knew their purpose, and each remained alert, following Vaemond's command to the letter.
"Lord Vaemond."
A hoarse, magnetic voice called from the side. Vaemond turned and saw a lean man approaching, limping slightly, leaning on a finely carved black wooden cane.
The man was perhaps thirty, pale-skinned, with neatly combed chestnut hair, garbed in dark gray tunic and trousers beneath a black cloak. But it was his eyes that struck most—a pale, almost amber brown, luminous against his gaunt face.
"By command of His Grace the King," the man said, inclining his head with impeccable bearing.
"Welcome. I am Larys Strong, current Master of Whisperers on the King's Council."
The name "Strong" cut into Vaemond like a red-hot needle, piercing his old ears. His eyes widened, his face flushing with a sudden, fierce heat.
"Strong?!" he nearly bellowed, his thin fingers stabbing the air in accusation. "You dare show your face before me?"
"Lord Velaryon," Larys interrupted, calm, precise.
"I understand your anger fully. Yet I come bearing His Grace's words, as your king-appointed Master of Whisperers."
"The King hopes you will return to Tidel-Head at once. Regarding the inheritance of House Velaryon, this is a matter for the family alone, to be settled in council amongst themselves. His Grace wishes not for this matter to become a cause for scandal—or needless strife."
He leaned forward on his cane, lowering his voice, though every word was sharp and clear:
"His Grace bids me tell you that none shall cause trouble."
Some common folk on the pier, merchants come to play the markets, had paused to gawk at the silver hair and blue-eyed banner of the Velaryons. But dozens of armored guards, eyes sharp and unyielding, pressed forward, keeping the crowd at bay.
Vaemond's chest rose and fell sharply. He fixed Larys with a gaze full of grief, fury, and incredulity.
"No good? Ha!" he spat.
"Return? To watch these rabid beasts steal the very foundation of House Velaryon? Impossible!"
"I will make trouble before the king himself for this!"
"Let the king, the Hand, let all the lords face judgment!"
"If His Grace and the Hand do not act—"
Vaemond's voice rose to madness, desperate and wild:
"I will ride the bends of the river, west, north…
I will carry this shame across every holdfast and hall in the Seven Kingdoms, and I will tell every lord how the Targaryen bastard has sullied my house!"
Larys said nothing, listening to the roar, his face unreadable.
When Vaemond's lungs stilled, he limped closer to Larys.
"Lord Velaryon," Larys said, his tone genuine, "I… I admire your courage and determination."
"For the honor of my house," Vaemond said, chest heaving, "I will hesitate at nothing."
For a long moment, he studied the man leaning on his cane. Then Larys lowered his eyes, voice softer now.
"For me… my late half-brother Harwin Strong, what he did with Princess Rhaenyra, and the ruin it brought to the name of Velaryon…"
He looked up, amber eyes burning with shame.
"On behalf of the present head of House Strong, I offer you and your house my sincere apology."
Vaemond's face froze, suspicion warring with faint relief. Could these Strongs—especially this crippled, cunning Larys—truly speak such words without deceit? But the shame and the weight in his eyes betrayed no falsehood.
Larys pressed the advantage:
"My lord, though His Grace bade me persuade you to return, I must report your request in full. The Hand of the King sees this as a matter touching on ancient inheritance and the laws of the realm—it is no trifle."
Vaemond's eyes narrowed. The Green faction? he thought. What game were they playing, trying to twist hatred of bastards into a dagger for intrigue? But now the very survival of his house rested on the line.
He remained silent for long, the Velaryon kin behind him tense.
At last, he lifted his head, resolve settling in like molten iron:
"Tell the Hand," he said, voice steady, "that so long as I can prevent the bastard from seizing the Velaryon legacy, I will… speak with him myself."
Even if it cuts like a sword through the Green faction's schemes, he would not hesitate. Blood of the house came before all else.
A faint smile touched Larys' lips, and he inclined his head with respect.
Meanwhile, deep within the Imperial Wood outside King's Landing, an entirely different scene unfolded.
Autumn sunlight sifted through thick branches, painting the leaf-strewn ground in broken gold.
Some five hundred youths, clad in plain dark-green leather armor, crept through the forest, flanking, ambushing, attacking in bands of ten. They carried blunt training daggers and wooden staves wrapped in cloth for safety.
Terra stood beside Aemond's white steed, dressed in sepia hunting attire for ease of movement, short hair tucked neatly, her bow never far from hand.
"The stragglers," shouted an instructor, "next month you will answer for shoddy gear, polishing all weapons, meager rations, and cleaning the pits."
At the order, the forest boys moved with renewed desperation.
Aemond inclined his head slightly, observing Terra.
"How many in the Imperial Wood plead for their lives?"
"They are like rabbits," she said cautiously, body taut. "At the slightest provocation, they tumble into the deepest holes."
Aemond's violet eyes were calm.
"Fear not, Terra. I do not seek to cull them. My lands need people. I will grant them free holdings, give them status as free folk instead of wandering the forest, and taxes only once a year."
Terra nodded. The inclusion of the Imperial Wood refugees could be a godsend for those left adrift, she realized.
"And guides," Aemond continued, "those who know the forest—can you organize them?"
Terra gave a subtle, determined nod.