Aegon glanced at Aemond, then back at his father.
"I don't understand this."
"You will learn," Viserys said quietly. "Aerin will help you. I will have the Hand guide you. And Aemond will stand beside you."
"You must take responsibility now, my son."
Aegon wanted to say more, but Aerin stepped forward first and gently touched his hand.
He turned to her and met the near-pleading look in his wife's eyes—be quiet, accept it, don't be a fool.
"…Yes, Father," Aegon said at last, lowering his head.
Viserys nodded, as though a thousand pounds had been lifted from his chest.
He turned to Aemond, seeking the reaction of his second son.
Aemond met his gaze.
There was no anger in his eye—no envy, no disappointment, not even surprise.
"Aemond," the king said, "you will help your brother, won't you?"
"Of course, Father," Aemond replied.
"Family. Duty. Honor."
"That is my responsibility."
"Good… good," Viserys murmured.
Weariness washed over him again. He waved a hand.
"The House of Roqar has sent gifts. Bring them."
Servants carried forward two heavy wooden chests.
The lids were lifted, and silver light spilled out—two suits of Qohorik mithril armor, exquisite works of craft.
Aemond rose to inspect them.
He ran his hand across the smooth plates, rapped the breastplate to test its strength, and worked the joints.
"Fine armor," he said.
"If you like it, take one set," Viserys said.
"The other is for Aegon—though I doubt he will ever wear it."
Aegon stepped closer and tapped the cuirass casually.
"It's beautiful. But I don't need it. I won't be entering the tourney."
Behind him, Aerin stared at her foolish husband.
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms admired courage.
A bold heir inspired loyalty. Even if he lacked skill, once he entered the lists no knight would dare strike him in earnest.
Viserys only smiled.
"If you are content, Aegon."
With that, he passed little Jaehaerys back to Aerin and gestured again.
Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward carrying an ebony box.
He knelt and opened it.
Inside lay a greatsword.
Dark rippling patterns of Valyrian steel flowed beneath the sunlight. The blade was nearly four feet long, broad and heavy—the classic two-handed war sword.
Aemond inhaled sharply, his eye alight with a warrior's reverence.
Viserys stared at the sword, his expression conflicted.
Then he looked to Aegon.
"Aegon," the king said, "this blade… I give it to you now."
All eyes turned to Aegon.
He looked at Blackfyre—the legendary sword of Aegon the Conqueror, a symbol of conquest, kingship, and Targaryen blood.
A single thought crossed his mind: It must be exhausting to swing. My arms would ache after a few blows.
And it was a two-handed sword.
The last time he trained with one, four years ago, he had nearly cut his own leg.
He swallowed.
"It's too precious."
He glanced at Aemond, a stray thought slipping free.
"Aemond is far better with a sword than I am. He likes it…"
Silence fell like a blade.
Aerin's face drained of color.
Queen Alicent stared at her eldest son in disbelief.
Viserys fixed Aegon with his clouded right eye.
Even Aemond froze for a heartbeat—but his brother had spoken, and such chances came only once.
He moved.
Stepping forward, Aemond grasped Blackfyre with both hands.
The motion was effortless, as though the sword had always belonged there.
Being Valyrian steel, it was lighter than it appeared.
Turning to Aegon, Aemond smiled—sincere and bright.
"Thank you, brother, for your thoughtfulness and generosity."
Then he faced Viserys, lowered his head, and held the sword upright.
"Father, if you believe me unworthy of Blackfyre, I will return it at once."
Aegon's mind went blank.
No— I— I was just being polite!
He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry and no words came.
Viserys watched the scene, his heart twisting.
Aegon's foolishness.
Aemond's resolve.
Blackfyre—the blade of Aegon the Conqueror, emblem of royal succession—had changed hands.
"If Aegon has given it to you," Viserys said at last, calmly,
"then you may keep it. Use it well… in service to your House."
"Thank you, Father," Aemond said.
"I will prove worthy of this blade."
He saluted formally with the sword, then turned and walked into the Godswood to practice.
Aerin bit her lower lip until she tasted blood.
She looked at her husband—still stunned, still unaware of what he had done—and despair flooded her chest.
She whispered under her breath:
"A weak brother… handing the king's sword to another…"
"…Just like before."
Alicent turned sharply, catching the dread in Aerin's eyes.
Viserys heard it too.
His dull right eye drifted from Aerin, to Aemond, to Aegon—and to Blackfyre.
And then he remembered.
Aenys I, weak and indecisive, ruled by the Faith and the lords.
His brother Maegor…
After Aenys died in fear, Maegor returned from exile, slew Aenys's son Aegon, and seized the Iron Throne.
A chill crept up Viserys's spine.
"I am tired," the king said at last.
"Take me back to my chambers."
Alicent hastily signaled the servants.
The chair was wheeled from the Godswood, its wheels whispering through fallen leaves.
Only then did Aegon react.
He stormed toward Aemond, who was practicing his cuts among the trees, his face flushed.
"You—why did you actually take it? I was just being polite!"
"That is the king's sword—it should be mine—"
"It was given to me by your own hands," Aemond interrupted calmly.
"But if you wish, I can return it now."
Aegon met the cold violet eye—and choked on his words.
He dared not offend Aemond.
In the end, he only sighed helplessly.
Aerin took his hand.
"That's enough, Aegon. Back to our chambers."
She led him away, casting one last look at Aemond before they left.
Aemond did not care.
He looked down at Blackfyre, his fingers brushing the dragon-head pommel.
"Did you do that on purpose?" Helaena's voice asked softly beside him.
"He gave me the chance."
Helaena looked at him with unease.
Aemond turned to her, smiled gently, and said:
"Don't worry. He's my brother. I won't harm him."