The King's tent was in disarray. Bloodied linen, scattered glass, and stunned nobles stood frozen in the wake of Aemond Targaryen's small but seismic outburst.
The City Watch arrived in a clatter of boots and steel, summoned by the noise and chaos. Their golden cloaks gleamed, though they hesitated at the entrance, unsure whether to storm in or bow.
Meanwhile, Aemond stood tall among the ruins of protocol, his young face fierce with conviction.
"My father is out there conquering the Stepstones for the good of the realm!" he shouted, voice clear and loud. "He's risking his life to rescue the innocents kidnapped by pirates—and you sit here sneering? Anyone who disagrees can find me in Runestone!"
His eyes darted to the cluster of ladies who had drawn his ire—noblewomen now pale and trembling beneath their paint and pearls.
"You," he pointed at the Redwyne matron, "your house profits from sea trade, yet you do nothing to help. Your fleet sails from the Arbor—have you even raised a sail against the Triarchy?"
The ladies flinched under his verbal assault.
"You don't serve the realm, yet you sit here wagging your tongues about those who do. You're not fit to whisper my father's name."
He stood on the moral high ground, even if his voice was yet unbroken and his frame still soft. But in that moment, none could deny the Valyrian fire behind his eyes.
Then, without warning, Aemond turned on his heel.
"Hmph. Time to slip away."
He dashed from the tent before anyone could gather the nerve to detain him.
---
Back inside, chaos festered.
Alicent stood frozen, hands trembling slightly, unable to form words.
Viserys blinked several times as if clearing a fog, staring at the scene as though it were a mirage. A few of the ladies—those not too stunned—were wailing dramatically, clutching at scratched faces and ruined gowns.
Lord Lyonel Strong stepped beside the king and quickly whispered the gist of what had happened.
Viserys exhaled, equal parts exasperated and amused. "Daemon's blood, through and through."
But he wasn't angry.
A child defending his family, a prince defending his father and his future queen? Could anyone truly fault that?
Ser Harrold Westerling stepped forward at the king's nod and quietly took command of the situation, ordering the maesters to tend to the wounded and gently escorting the more indignant ladies out. Calm slowly returned to the royal pavilion.
---
Outside, Aemond was already making his next move.
He spotted Ser Steffon, his sworn sword, patrolling nearby and immediately raised a hand in greeting.
"Ser! I need your help!"
Ser Steffon approached at once, his expression wary. "My prince, is everything alright?"
Aemond beamed. "Take me riding. I want to see the Kingswood."
Ser Steffon hesitated. "I… suppose. But should we not inform your lady mother first?"
"No need," Aemond replied with a winning smile. "She's busy."
Ser Steffon blinked, and before he could object again, Aemond had already begun walking toward the stables.
There was no real danger—he knew that. Today, of all days, he had full cover. He had made his point in the tent. Now he needed to vanish just long enough for the storm to cool.
Aemond's timing was precise. Uncle Viserys couldn't punish him too harshly. At worst, he'd be called "headstrong." At best, he'd be praised for loyalty.
"Ride with me," he said cheerfully. "Let's explore the Kingswood. Maybe we'll spot a boar."
Ser Steffon retrieved a white courser from the royal stables. With Aemond seated before him, they rode into the shaded glades of the Kingswood, where birds chirped in the canopies and sunlight flickered through leaves.
As they rode, Ser Steffon spoke low. "Prince… that business in the tent. You've stirred more than wine and blood."
Aemond smirked. "I know."
"You embarrassed both the princess and the queen. That will not go unnoticed."
"It wasn't for them. It was for Daemon. And for Rhaenyra. Someone had to say something."
The knight gave him a long look, then nodded once. "Your father would've done the same."
---
The forest air cooled his thoughts, and Aemond leaned back into the saddle, brooding.
Half his anger had been real—those old women had tried to shame Rhaenyra in public and mock Daemon as a warmonger. The other half was strategy.
Rhaenyra cannot flinch, he thought. If she continues to retreat, the court will eat her alive. She needed fire, and I gave it to her.
But as the adrenaline faded, Aemond analyzed the moment with sharper clarity.
"Those women weren't just gossips," he muttered. "They were tools—planted there to bait Rhaenyra."
Ser Steffon raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"
Aemond shrugged. "They're old, rich, and from Oldtown. I'd wager Otto Hightower sent them. But... I don't think even Alicent expected them to go that far."
He recalled the queen's stunned expression. For a moment, it had looked like guilt.
Alicent and Rhaenyra, he mused, they're both mascots.
They were figureheads. Icons. Neither truly in control. The true power sat behind them—Otto Hightower on one side, Viserys on the other.
If he wanted to prevent the future catastrophe—the war to come—he needed to understand the roots of the power struggle.
And that meant understanding the Small Council.
---
After just three days in King's Landing, Aemond had already begun to see the outlines of the factions forming beneath the surface.
There were three dominant parties within the Council:
1. The King's Party – loyal to Viserys, consisting of men like Lyonel Strong, who was granted Harrenhal and served as Master of Laws. Lyonel was respected, loyal, and carefully chosen to counterbalance Otto.
2. The Oldtown Faction – led by Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Archmaester Mellos, a staunch ally of the Hightowers, supported him from behind the scenes. Their goal was clear: push Prince Aegon to supplant Rhaenyra as heir and secure Oldtown's grip on the realm.
3. The Fence-Sitters – men like Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, whose loyalty was split due to his Hightower overlords. And Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, second son of the Lannisters, hoping to rise through clever neutrality but ending up mistrusted by both sides.
Aemond exhaled through his nose. "It's a web of ambition and broken trust."
Alicent, though queen, wielded little actual influence. Rhaenyra, while heir, was more symbol than sovereign. Both were being used as shields by the powers behind them.
"Neither of them holds the leash," he muttered.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had hoped to simply cozy up to both women—gain their protection, ride their influence, and avoid the inevitable bloodbath.
But now, he saw that neither woman had the strength to prevent what was coming.
Then I'll have to rely on myself.
He looked up through the forest canopy.
According to the histories, Otto Hightower would soon be dismissed as Hand. Viserys would appoint Lyonel in his place. That meant—for now—the king would regain control. Rhaenyra's claim would be protected.
But it would come at a cost.
"Viserys wins," Aemond said aloud, "but the war only simmers. The seeds of the Black and Green divide will take root."
And once Alicent took full control of her faction, and Rhaenyra stopped hiding behind her father's shield, the storm would break in earnest.
Two women. Two banners. One Iron Throne.
Aemond closed his eyes and whispered, "They're like children holding swords."
They would turn the realm to ash, and he would b
e expected to pick a side.
But he wouldn't. Not yet.
Not until he understood every piece on the board.
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