Sunlight filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, casting vibrant, fractured patterns across the people gathered in the great hall for the audience.
The Iron Throne loomed high above them, forged from a thousand blades surrendered by defeated enemies, the ultimate, terrifying symbol of Aegon the Conqueror's supreme authority.
The melted swords faced upward, their rusted tips sharp and menacing.
Aemond Targaryen sat composed upon the Iron Throne.
He wore a fitted tunic of black velvet under a deep crimson surcoat embossed with the three-headed dragon.
His long silver hair fell over his shoulders, gilded by the light streaming from the high windows.
Blackfyre rested casually across his lap; his long fingers rhythmically tapped the Valyrian steel scabbard, producing a crisp, metallic ting-ting.
Behind him stood Alyn of Hull, his newly appointed squire.
The thirteen-year-old Velaryon bastard wore a crisp new black uniform, standing with a rigidly straight back and a gravity that entirely belied his young age.
In the center of the cavernous Throne Room stood a tense group of nobles.
At the front was Lord Ormund Hightower, dressed in a magnificent deep blue robe with the White Tower embroidered in silver thread at the collar.
Beside him was Prince Daeron Targaryen; the thirteen-year-old youth wore a black-and-red surcoat similar to his older brother's, his silver hair neatly combed.
Further back stood Otto Hightower, clad in simple, unassuming grey robes, his head bowed so low his expression was entirely hidden.
Lady Margaery was also present, clutching ten-month-old Lord Lyonel tightly to her chest; her face was pale, and her eyes darted nervously around the imposing hall.
Behind them stood several branch members and sworn vassals of House Tyrell, along with various representatives from the Reach families.
Alyn took a deep breath and announced loudly:
"The Regent for the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen!"
His voice echoed sharply through the hall, carrying a youth's crispness but also a hard-earned, undeniable dignity.
The crowd bowed their heads in unison. Aemond's single violet gaze swept slowly over the crowd, finally landing on Daeron.
He smiled, not his usual cold sneer, but a genuine smile with a rare trace of warmth.
"Daeron," he said softly.
His voice wasn't loud, yet it cut exceptionally clearly through the quiet room.
"How long has it been? You've grown taller."
Daeron looked up at him and smiled back tentatively.
"Brother."
Alyn's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth, about to bark a sharp rebuke,
'How could Prince Daeron not address the Regent by his proper title?', but Aemond raised a single hand, signaling him to stop. Alyn immediately fell silent.
"Mother missed you," Aemond said gently.
"Helaena missed you too."
Daeron looked up at Aemond, at that peerless, sharp face and that deep, unfathomable purple eye, and felt a sudden wave of complex emotions.
How long had it really been? At their last meeting, his older brother was merely a fierce youth, but he didn't possess this... this suffocating aura that made it physically difficult to look him in the eye.
Now, sitting effortlessly upon the Iron Throne, Aemond seemed to be one with the chair of blades.
Wherever the Regent's gaze passed, proud lords lowered their heads, not daring to meet his eye.
"Brother," Daeron said softly, his voice tinged with awe.
"I almost didn't recognize you."
Aemond smiled slightly and did not answer.
Within the crowd, Otto Hightower raised his head just a fraction, staring at his grandson on the throne with a deeply unreadable look.
Aemond's gaze shifted seamlessly from Daeron to Lord Ormund Hightower.
"Lord Ormund."
Ormund immediately took a brisk step forward and bowed deeply.
"Lord Regent."
"The Iron Throne is grateful," Aemond declared, his voice carrying through the hall.
"In these treacherous times, House Hightower has remained the absolute firmest pillar of the Crown."
Ormund looked up, his face painted with perfect sincerity.
"The Lord Regent honors us. House Hightower's loyalty is eternal; we would never allow anyone to tarnish it. That pretender Rhaenyra poisoned the late King and incited a bloody civil war; she deserves ten thousand deaths! House Hightower fights only for the true succession!"
Aemond nodded, a faint, approving smile on his face. Ormund felt a secret, massive sense of relief wash over him.
Before arriving in the capital, his uncle Otto had told him many terrifying things about Aemond's brutal nature.
He had been incredibly nervous, but Aemond seemed quite polite and reasonable to him now.
Then, Aemond's gaze turned sharply toward Lady Margaery. She clutched Lord Lyonel tightly, her head down, her body trembling slightly under the sudden scrutiny.
"Lady Margaery."
Margaery looked up, desperately squeezing out a smile.
"L-Lord Regent."
"I have heard," Aemond began, his voice suddenly dropping to a chilling calm, "that House Tyrell has grievances against the Throne?"
Lady Margaery immediately sank to her knees, clutching the child, and said earnestly, "No, Lord Regent! Absolutely not!"
"Is that so?" Aemond said mildly.
"Then why did you completely ignore the Iron Throne's royal invitations three separate times?"
Margaery opened her mouth to explain, but no sound came out.
What could she possibly say? That they didn't want to get involved in a dragon's war?
That they desperately wanted to stay neutral? Were they terrified of picking the losing side?
"Lord Regent," she stammered, desperately searching for safe words.
"It was only... my child is so very young, and the journey is long and arduous... I am deeply grateful to House Hightower for remaining loyal to the King in his hour of need and escorting us here."
"Grateful for what?" Aemond interrupted smoothly.
Margaery was struck speechless. Aemond watched her in heavy silence for a moment, then smiled.
It was a gentle, beautiful smile, but Margaery felt a spike of pure ice rise from the base of her spine.
"Since you have come this time," Aemond said magnanimously, "I will not pursue the matter further."
Margaery exhaled a ragged breath in relief, about to offer her profuse thanks, but Aemond spoke again.
"Let me see the child."
Margaery's heart leaped violently into her throat.
Alyn stepped forward, bowed slightly to her, and reached out his hands.
"My Lady."
Margaery looked at the young squire. Staring into those bright blue eyes, she desperately didn't want to give up her child, but she knew she had absolutely no choice.
She slowly, agonizingly handed him over.
Alyn took the infant, cradling him carefully, and walked up the steep iron steps toward the throne.
Aemond reached out and took the one-year-old boy into his lap.
Lord Lyonel Tyrell stared with wide, innocent blue eyes, curiously observing the silver-haired stranger.
He didn't cry; he only made a few happy gurgling noises and reached out a chubby hand to grab a lock of Aemond's hair.
Aemond looked down at him, a genuine smile touching his lips.
"Lady Margaery," he said, his voice carrying a trace of dark playfulness.
"I wish to take little Lyonel as my royal ward. What do you think?"
Margaery's face turned paper-white.
Ward.
That was just a polite, courtly way of saying hostage.
"T-this... I..." she stammered, entirely unable to form a coherent sentence.
"Well?" Aemond's voice dropped a degree colder, the playfulness vanishing.
As Margaery hesitated in terror, Lord Ormund spoke up smoothly from beside her:
"My Lady, this is a wonderful, unprecedented honor!"
Margaery looked at Ormund, seeing the smug, sycophantic smile on his face, and felt a crushing surge of despair.
She lowered her head and forced the words out through gritted teeth, "That my son can become the ward of the Lord Regent is... is House Tyrell's greatest good fortune."
Aemond looked at her, then back down at the child.
"In that case," he said lightly, "Lyonel and My Lady shall remain in King's Landing for a few years. I have grown quite fond of this child."
The words caused a tense stir in the room. Several branch members of House Tyrell looked at each other with expressions of deep dissatisfaction.
A middle-aged Tyrell man couldn't help but step forward, opening his mouth to speak.
Aemond's gaze swept over him; it was merely a light, passing glance, but it carried such weight that it caused the man's words to lodge painfully in his throat.
Aemond stood up slowly. "What?" he asked into the quiet.
"Do you have an objection?"
The man remained paralyzed in silence.
Aemond didn't wait for an answer, turning instead to the entire Tyrell entourage, his voice rising with power: "Everything House Tyrell possesses today was granted by House Targaryen."
His violet gaze swept over every single one of them.
"The Wardenship of the South, the Lordship of Highgarden, who gave you these titles?"
No one dared speak. Lady Margaery took a deep breath, raised her head, and spoke with forced, slow clarity:
"The Lord Regent is entirely correct. House Tyrell will defend its loyalty to the Targaryens with its very life."
Aemond held the child and looked down at her, the corner of his mouth curling upward.
"Which Targaryen?"
Margaery's heart skipped a beat. She gritted her teeth and made her final, inescapable decision:
"We serve King Aegon II. That pretender Rhaenyra forged a will and attempted to usurp the Iron Throne. House Tyrell will not associate with such traitorous scum."
Aemond watched her in silence for a long moment. Then, he laughed softly.
"Excellent."
He began to clap slowly. The sound echoed sharply through the cavernous Throne Room.
Lord Ormund was the first to react, eagerly clapping along, followed quickly by the Hightowers and the terrified Tyrell branch members.
The applause grew louder and more rhythmic until it filled the great hall.
Aemond stopped, and the applause died instantly.
"Lady Margaery," he said smoothly, "I hope to see House Tyrell's 'attitude' manifested on the battlefield."
Margaery breathed out sharply, her face utterly solemn.
"I will immediately notify our vassals to muster an army as quickly as possible to fight for the Iron Throne."
Inwardly, she sighed a long, defeated sigh. She had no choice. She and her son were trapped in King's Landing, firmly in Aemond's hands.
If she didn't comply, the Reach houses eyeing the Tyrell position, the Florents, the Hightowers, and others, would strike Highgarden immediately.
The Greens would never tolerate a Black-supporting Tyrell in the South.
She could only stand with the Greens now. At least, by doing so, she could keep her son safe.
Aemond nodded approvingly and waved a dismissive hand.
"You may go. Lord Ormund and Daeron, stay."
Lady Margaery felt a massive wave of relief. She hurried up the steps, took back her child from Aemond, and followed the tense crowd out of the Throne Room.
The massive oak-and-iron doors slowly closed behind them with a heavy thud. In the vast hall, only Aemond, Daeron, Ormund, and Alyn remained.
Aemond sat back down on the throne and looked at his brother.
Daeron looked back, his gaze complex and searching.
"Lord Ormund," Aemond said, shifting his attention back to the Lord of Oldtown.
Ormund stepped eagerly forward.
"What are the Lord Regent's commands?"
Aemond spoke slowly, letting the words hang in the air.
"What do you think of the position of Warden of the West?"
Ormund was stunned.
'Warden of the Western Reach?' He never expected Aemond to offer such a massive political prize directly.
"Lord Regent... this..." his voice trembled with greed.
"You are unwilling?" Aemond asked mildly.
"Willing! Most willing!" Ormund bowed frantically.
"This is the reward for House Hightower's loyalty to the Targaryens," Aemond continued smoothly.
Ormund's face grew flushed; he bowed deeply again, his voice shaking with pure excitement.
"Lord Regent, rest assured of my absolute service."
Aemond nodded. "I shall witness your loyalty on the field."
After swearing several more impassioned oaths of fealty, Lord Ormund finally withdrew from the hall. The heavy doors closed once again.
Now, only the two royal brothers and Alyn, standing quietly in the corner, remained.
Aemond looked at Daeron in silence for a long while.
"Daeron. In truth, I would prefer it if you were the Warden of the West... or even its King."
Daeron faltered, his eyes widening.
"In the future, you shall replace the Hightowers. What do you think?"
Daeron's expression shifted drastically.
"Brother, you..."
"The Hightowers are too powerful," Aemond interrupted calmly.
"We must be on guard."
Daeron's eyes widened in sheer disbelief.
"You view the Hightowers as enemies as well?!"
"Now? No," Aemond said smoothly.
"In the future? Perhaps."
"They are our mother's house!" Daeron raised his voice, stepping forward.
"Mother's own kin!"
"I know," Aemond said, his face impassive.
"Then why, "
"Because they are inherently ambitious," Aemond interrupted, his violet eye staring directly through his younger brother.
Daeron was silent for a long time, struggling to process the cold pragmatism. Then he spoke slowly: "Brother, why are you doing this?"
Aemond didn't answer.
"I thought," Daeron said, his voice pleading, "you were only dealing with the Blacks. I thought that once this civil war ended, everything would return to peace. But I didn't expect you to treat your own mother's house as a future enemy."
Aemond stood up slowly from the Iron Throne and looked down at him.
"My ultimate goal is to restore absolute Targaryen rule over the Seven Kingdoms. No obstacle will stop me from restoring Targaryen glory."
Daeron looked up at him, a flicker of defiance in his eyes.
"Maegor also thought to strip the high lords of their power. You should know that those lords, when their core interests are touched, have very stiff spines. Maegor failed. What makes you think you can succeed?"
Aemond gave a light, breathy laugh. In that instant, Daeron saw something dark and terrifying burning in his brother's eye.
"Maegor failed," Aemond said, his voice low, but every word hammered relentlessly into Daeron's heart.
He walked slowly down the iron steps, approaching Daeron and leaning in close.
"Daeron, do you know how I felt the very first time I killed a man?"
Daeron didn't speak, paralyzed by the intensity of the gaze.
Aemond continued softly, "Holding a sword to a man. Striking his neck. And the blade... got stuck."
His voice was perfectly calm, but the recounting made Daeron's skin crawl.
Aemond paused, a chilling smile appearing on his lips.
"Later, I understood. If a sword doesn't cleave the bone, there is no other reason than your blade isn't sharp enough."
He reached out and patted Daeron's rigid shoulder.
"Do you understand?"
-----
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