Inside the royal box, Aegon stood as if awakened from stone.
He looked at his wife, younger than him yet somehow more mature. Her silver hair framed striking blue eyes, and her beauty was undeniable.
She had used the wealth of House Rogar to make friends and win favor at court, and her wisdom to help him manage himself.
And him?
Drink, find a woman, and avoid all duties.
Aegon felt a pang of guilt.
"You need not behave so immediately," Aeryn whispered.
"But I do need you to take responsibility. At least once, even if it is just for show.
Let the Seven Kingdoms see that the Green Party has more than Aemond—there is also the elder son, Aegon Targaryen, their future king."
She paused, then added,
"I have arranged everything for you.
You will ride in the tournament against a minor noble from the West. He will fall to you easily, but the scene will be impressive.
All you need to do… ride well, hold your spear firmly, and do not fall."
Aegon remained silent for a long moment.
He watched the field. Two knights clashed, their lances colliding, splinters flying. Cheers rolled across the stands like a tide.
"Very well," he said firmly.
Aeryn's eyes lit up.
She rose on tiptoe and lightly kissed him on the cheek.
"Go, prepare yourself."
"I've asked someone to bring your armor—a set of mithril steel from Kohor. Very light, very protective. You… will look magnificent."
Aegon nodded, turned, and moved toward the box's door.
The east-side resting area of the tournament field was divided into small rooms with makeshift curtains.
Aemond's room was the largest, with rugs, fruits, cheese, and wine on the table.
He had just removed his breastplate, wearing only a padded chainmail shirt, and wiped his face with a damp cloth.
Servants checked the prince's armor and harness, ensuring nothing would interfere with the next bout.
The curtain rose, and Helaena entered. She had changed into a pale silver-blue gown, her hair simply braided to fall over her shoulders.
In her hand was a small silver tray holding a glass of lemonade and a few almond biscuits.
"Mother asked me to bring this to you," she said softly, "to remind you that you are sweating and need to drink."
Aemond took the cup and drank it in one gulp. The cool liquid slid down his throat, and he exhaled calmly.
Then he broke a biscuit in half and offered it to Helaena.
"You should eat too."
She took it, nibbling gently. Her eyes never left his face.
"You were very powerful just now."
"All right," he said.
"But jousting is not my strength.
These people cheer for you.
Because they enjoy watching the spectacle.
Today they could cheer for me because I won.
Anyone who defeats me… will rejoice.
People are born to be strong," Helaena said proudly.
"But this is different. You will always be the strongest in my heart.
No one compares to you…"
At that moment, a servant's voice called from the door:
"Your Grace, Prime Minister Tyland wishes to see you."
Aemond and Helaena exchanged glances.
Helaena rose immediately:
"I'll return to the box first. Mother needs someone to look after Jaehaerys and Aethere."
The curtain was drawn aside and closed.
Tyland Lannister entered.
The younger brother of the Duke of the Western Borderlands and current prime minister wore a scarlet robe embroidered with golden lions, his gray-gold hair meticulously combed.
A polite smile graced his face.
"Your Grace," Tyland bowed slightly, "I hope I do not disturb you."
"Please, Prime Minister," Aemond gestured to the chair opposite, "what is it?"
Tyland sat and unrolled a thick parchment across the table.
It was densely filled with names, families, fiefdoms, and short notes.
"This is the list of recruits for the upcoming Praetorian Guard," he said.
"Per your request, only noble children aged eighteen to thirty, healthy and with basic military training, are included.
Over a thousand applications have arrived from across the Seven Kingdoms, though the distribution is uneven."
Aemond took the list and scanned it.
"So few from the North," he muttered, tapping the scarce entries from the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands.
Tyland smiled.
"The Riverlands are accounted for—at least House Bracken and the Vance family are here.
The Vale and North… absent."
He spoke tactfully.
"The northern kingdoms traditionally align with Princess Rhaenyra.
Though opinions are divided now, it will take time…"
"Time?" Aemond smirked.
"Does not matter. Just consolidate the South."
His finger traced the list: the river bends, western borders, Stormlands (partial), and kings. The names were tightly packed.
"Did House Tyrell send no one?" Aemond asked.
"The old Duke of Highgarden sent a messenger, citing illness, and wished the tournament success.
Regarding the Praetorian Guard, he said his younger kin are more suited to serve the family, so he regrets their absence."
Tyland's smile hinted at amusement.
"As for his vassals… Redwyn, Hightower, Peck, Rowan… those expected arrived; those sent to the Guard are all legitimate sons or important heirs."
"And Baratheon?"
"The Duke himself did not come, but many of his vassals did.
As for the duke… rumors say he has recently received messengers from Dragonstone frequently."
A cold light flashed in Aemond's eyes.
He said nothing, continuing to study the list.
Suddenly, his fingers stopped.
"What is this?" he asked calmly.
The prime minister leaned forward.
Aemond pointed to the last five entries—House Velaryon.
"Ah, those," Tyland explained. "Five members spared by His Grace after Lord Vermond Velaryon's passing. They took initiative and enlisted in the Praetorian Guard."
Aemond stared at the five names.
He remembered the stubborn old man, Vaimond Velaryon.
Now these five had taken refuge…
He must eliminate the Sea Snake and let the world know: families opposing the Targaryens end poorly.
Yet these five might inherit House Velaryon.
After this, Tyland saluted and left.
Once the curtain fell, Aemond remained alone, slowly unrolling the list and reading it from the beginning.
Every name represented a family's character.
To compel an heir to join the Praetorian Guard meant fully betting on the Greens.
What could be added to a second son or distant kin—investments.
And those absent…
Aemond's finger stopped at a few smaller houses along the bends.
Theoretically vassals of House Tyrell, though the duke remained ambivalent and wished to avoid conflict between the Black and Green parties.
He scanned the Stormlands; many of House Baratheon's vassals had arrived.
None from the Baratheon family joined the Guard.
The old, confused Duke of Baramond seemed determined to support Rhaenyra.
It did not matter. Tyrell, keeper of the river bend, and Baramond's Stormlands—friend or foe—would all fall under the future king.
A reason to take from Tyrell when the war ended.
He intended to divide the river bend into three: one portion to House Hightower, steadfast Greens; another to Tyrell as East Bay ward; the remaining—Lunci fortress to Lamburn River—under royal control.
Stormlands depended on Barax's interest.
Suddenly, Captain Hal raised the curtain.
"Your Grace, Prince Aegon is here. Has… has he won?"
Aemond raised an eyebrow, setting the list aside.
On the arena, Aegon Targaryen rode a white steed, spear in hand.
His opponent, a minor noble from the Western Kingdoms, had just been struck by Aegon's lance in the first round.
He rose from the sand, helmet fallen, bowed to the prince, and threw his towel to the judge.
Aegon raised his lance and saluted the crowd.
Sunlight glinted off his silver armor, blindingly bright.
A few strands of silver hair peeked from under his helm, fluttering in the wind.
From afar, he looked every bit heroic.
Applause erupted. The commoners shouted, "Aegon!"
Some nobles looked puzzled at the easily victorious prince.
Many had trained in martial arts since childhood, so they naturally read the moves…
But then they applauded—seeing but not revealing was basic etiquette.
The applause was warm.
In the box, Aeryn Rogar pressed her hands to her chest, her face glowing with pride and excitement.
Queen Alicent and King Viserys rose as well, applauding their eldest son, Aegon.