When Vaemond Velaryon pushed open the heavy door of the Hand's Tower study, he had just concluded an entire afternoon of private talks with Otto Hightower.
He turned back and inclined his head toward the man inside the study.
"Thank you for your time and… your understanding, Lord Hand."
"House Velaryon will remember this goodwill."
Just as he was about to leave, his steps halted.
Outside the door.
Silver hair. Black attire.
He was calmly watching him.
Aemond Targaryen.
Vaemond's expression froze for a brief instant. Then he bowed slightly, observing proper courtesy.
"Prince Aemond."
Aemond nodded in return, acknowledging the courtesy.
"Was it worth it?" Aemond suddenly asked.
"To make such a commotion before the court, to make it known to all the realm, to willingly stretch out your neck toward the axe?"
Vaemond was momentarily taken aback. He had imagined countless forms of obstruction, threat, or inducement he might encounter in the Red Keep.
Yet he had never expected a question so nearly… blunt, coming from a Green prince—a youth who should have belonged to the opposing camp.
His blue eyes met those deep violet pupils. Beneath their apparent calm, he seemed to glimpse something—a faint resonance.
A smile appeared on his face as he spoke with pride: "It is blood, Your Highness."
"It is dragonbone, and it is an anchor."
"If House Velaryon cannot even defend the purity of its blood, how would its future differ from a wrecked ship?"
"If His Grace deems the defense of that purity a crime, if the Iron Throne believes it can quench the flames of truth…"
"Then let my blood flow beneath the Iron Throne of the Red Keep."
Aemond watched him in silence. His face showed no expression—no approval, no pity, and no opposition.
At last, he gave a slight nod and stepped aside, yielding the path to the stairs.
Vaemond said nothing more. With heavy yet unusually resolute steps, he walked down the spiral staircase.
Only then did Aemond turn back, push open the door, and enter the Hand's study.
Otto stood before the vast arched window, his back to the doorway, gazing at the lights being lit in the courtyard of the Red Keep below.
Hearing the door open, he slowly turned around. When he saw who had entered, dark currents stirred beneath the deep green of his eyes.
"You heard it all?" Otto asked.
Aemond walked straight to the broad desk and stated a cold fact to him: "He is looking for his own death."
The youth raised his head. Under the brighter light of the chamber, his violet eyes were clear, yet laced with complexity.
"Or rather, he came to King's Landing to die."
Otto walked back in silence and sat down in the high-backed chair behind the desk. He did not argue. Vaemond's intent had already been as obvious in his words that afternoon as a sword drawn from its sheath.
Aemond fixed his gaze on Otto. "What are those lords of the Seven Kingdoms doing right now?"
"They are not waiting for a ruling on Driftmark's family matter."
He stepped forward, lowering his voice.
"They are watching whether House Targaryen will stand by—or even tacitly allow—those children to openly usurp the lawful rights of House Velaryon's thousand-year inheritance."
"And what makes them hold their breath even more is what comes after this—once such a precedent is acknowledged by the royal house…"
Otto lifted his eyes and stared at Aemond. "What are you trying to say, Aemond?"
"Or what do you intend to do?"
Aemond smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Those who bear the name Strong?" He gave a faint shake of his head.
"I have never—and will never—regard them as kin."
"The positions they occupy, the breath they draw, the things they covet…"
"So long as they live, they are an insult to House Targaryen."
Otto's breath caught slightly. In the way Aemond looked at him, there was pure, undisguised killing intent.
The study fell into dead silence.
After a long while, Otto nodded heavily.
"Isn't Vaemond seeking death?" Aemond paced to the window.
"His idea is quite good—to trade an old life for Rhaenyra's title as heir being forever stained with blood that can never be washed away."
"To force my indecisive father, upon the Iron Throne and before all the courtiers, to tear open with his own hands the festering sore he most wishes to conceal."
Aemond turned his head. The lines of his profile were hard and cold in the light from outside the window.
"Some words are like arrows loosed from the bow—once they leave the string, they can never be taken back."
"Some things are like a castle on the verge of collapse. Once the first stone shifts, what follows is utter ruin."
He spoke with open admiration: "This old man is ruthless enough."
"He intends to make every lord—from Dorne to the Wall—see clearly that our noble heir is someone who would dare to trifle with the bloodlines of her own bannermen, daring to have her bastards inherit in their stead…"
"Let me put it bluntly."
"What kind of thing is she?"
"What is she made of?"
"She treats the thousands of years of Targaryen and Velaryon pride and lawful succession as toys to be smeared and reshaped at her whim."
"Too greedy… far too greedy."
The smile on Aemond's lips deepened, yet his eyes gleamed with icy light.
"If one day the history of House Targaryen is written by later generations…"
"And the books record that Viserys I and his daughter Rhaenyra established the precedent of bastards inheriting the royal line and the rights of sworn lords…"
He shook his head lightly.
"Then the names of that father and daughter will no longer be remembered as king and heir, but as the most shameful footnote in the history of House Targaryen."
"This is the most thorough betrayal and blasphemy against the very source of our blood!"
"Aemond!" Otto barked sharply.
"Mind your words!"
"The matter of those three children's birth has already been settled by His Grace!"
"Such heart-piercing words—if you dare utter even half of them beyond this room—"
"I am speaking of ironclad facts, Grandfather." The smile vanished from Aemond's face in an instant, returning to his usual cold, emotionless mask.
He did not retreat even half a step under Otto's rebuke, merely meeting the old man's gaze in calm silence.
"Evidence? Is it needed? Silver hair and violet eyes against brown hair and brown eyes—this is the most naked proof of all!"
"All of Westeros knows it in their hearts. No one dares, however, to wager their life to tear through that final veil as Vaemond did!"
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Rest assured, I am not foolish enough to go courting death just yet."
He stopped at the doorway and turned halfway back.
"But lying in wait does not mean forgetting."
"I swear by the blood of the true dragon."
"I will not allow these Strongs to defile House Targaryen."
"These bastards who squat in high places will, one day, pay the price their usurped status demands."
"I promise…"
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