At this moment, everyone's gaze fixed on the goblet Aemond had raised.
Aemond wore that inscrutable smile as he slowly spoke, "Come, my dear nephews."
He turned toward the three children and recited their names one by one: "Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey."
Those violet eyes swept over the boys' faces, flushed red with anger.
"I drink a toast to you."
He lifted his cup and turned to Jacaerys.
"May the Seven bless my nephews. May each of you be clever, handsome…"
His gaze lingered for a brief moment on Lucerys.
"… and strong."
He spoke the final word slowly and clearly.
"Aemond!"
"What exactly are you trying to do?"
The King had already risen to his feet.
"Your Grace," Aemond turned to his father, his expression open and innocent, "I am only… offering them my blessings."
"Is it not fitting for an uncle to hope that his nephews… possess such fine qualities?"
"This is also my most sincere wish."
Viserys was momentarily at a loss for words.
He glanced at Alicent beside him, signaling for her to intervene.
Alicent looked at her son and called softly, "Aemond…"
She knew this son of hers too well—using the most courteous words to drive the sharpest blade.
Every sentence struck precisely at the weakest points of Rhaenyra's children.
Rhaenyra stared darkly at Aemond, the hand beneath the table trembling slightly.
Daemon noticed and gently pressed her arm.
"Do not rise to it, this is exactly what he wants."
"Aemond," Alicent said in a commanding tone, "enough. Sit down."
Aemond seemed not to hear.
"I drink to you," he continued, raising his goblet once more.
"To these three… 'strong' boys."
He drained the cup in one swallow.
"Say that again if you dare!"
Across the table, Jacaerys sprang to his feet, his chair scraping across the floor with a harsh screech.
His intact right eye locked onto Aemond, as if ready to spit fire.
Aemond set down the empty cup and tilted his head.
"What? Your uncle is celebrating you—surely that is a good thing?"
"Or is it that…"
"you do not think you are… worthy of the word 'strong'?"
"You fucking—!"
Jacaerys was completely ignited.
Like an enraged lion cub, he rounded the long table and lunged at Aemond.
His fist cut through the air, driving straight toward Aemond's face.
Aemond was prepared; he shifted aside with ease.
"Today is a family feast," Aemond said coolly, his gaze edged with icy mockery.
"I have no wish to strike you, nephew, lest someone say I am bullying you."
Jacaerys threw another punch, this one aimed at Aemond's abdomen.
But Aemond was faster.
He caught the youth's swinging wrist firmly, his five fingers tightening like iron clamps.
Jacaerys let out a muffled grunt. Pain shot through his wrist bones, but he stubbornly clenched his teeth and refused to cry out.
Almost at the same moment, Lucerys moved as well.
"Enough, Lucerys," Aegon said, stopping him.
"There is no need."
"Let go of me!" Lucerys struggled, his eyes rimmed red. "He insulted us! You heard him!"
"That was only a blessing," Aegon sighed, casting a complicated look at his younger brother.
"Today is a family feast. His Grace is watching."
Just as Lucerys broke free, Aegon's foot seemed to extend forward quite casually.
"Ah!"
Lucerys was tripped. His whole body pitched forward, and he fell hard onto the floor, landing with a dull thud.
Seeing that both of his brothers had suffered, Joffrey charged without thinking toward Aemond's back.
The collision of a seven-year-old had no form or method, yet Aemond did not even turn his head.
His free left hand pushed back casually, pressing squarely against Joffrey's chest.
The force was measured precisely—enough to make the child lose his balance and fall backward onto the floor, but not enough to injure him.
"Stop them! All of you, stop!"
Viserys's roar exploded through the hall.
The attendants beside him hurried forward to support the King, only to be shoved aside with a sweep of his hand.
Ser Criston Cole and Ser Rickard Thorne had already rushed in.
Rickard restrained the enraged Jacaerys, while Cole positioned himself in front of Aemond.
The other guards also poured in through the doors, quickly separating Lucerys—who was trying to scramble up and grapple with Aegon—from Joffrey, who was still sprawled on the floor.
The scene descended into chaos.
Platters and silver cups clattered to the ground, chairs toppled, and wine splashed across the finely woven carpet.
Alicent strode quickly to Aemond's side, seizing his arm and demanding in a low voice, "Why?"
"Why must you say such things in front of them!?"
Aemond looked at his mother.
"Mother, I was merely expressing… my care for them."
He lifted his head, his gaze passing over Ser Criston Cole's shoulder and settling on Jacaerys, who was firmly held back by Rickard yet still glaring at him.
"But it seems my nephews…"
"…are not very proud of their family?"
"Aemond Targaryen!"
Rhaenyra had already risen to her feet, one hand braced against the table to steady herself, the other shielding her abdomen.
Daemon stood at her side, one hand resting lightly at her lower back to support her.
"Princess," Alicent turned, placing herself in front of Aemond, shielding him. "Aemond is only offering his sincere blessings to your children."
Her green eyes met Rhaenyra's directly.
"What fault is there in his words?"
"Clever, handsome… which of these is not a fine wish?"
The Queen's gaze swept over Lucerys and Joffrey as the guards helped them to their feet.
"And besides, Jacaerys struck first. Everyone saw it."
"Blessings?" Rhaenyra laughed in anger.
"Words like that? A look like that?"
She took a step forward, and Daemon's hand immediately shifted from her waist to her arm.
"Do not pretend you do not know what this means!"
Daemon moved.
He circled the table, his pace unhurried, silver hair catching a cold gleam in the candlelight.
At last, he stopped five paces from Aemond.
"My dear nephew," Daemon spoke, "your eloquence… is truly impressive."
"Do you know? In Dorne, there is a snake called the black whistle. Its fangs are venomous, and its bite is painful."
"But they always die first."
"Because they are too conspicuous—everyone wishes, before they can cause trouble…"
A cold light flashed through Daemon's violet eyes.
"…to cut off their heads."
Aemond met Daemon's gaze without the slightest fear.
He even gently pushed aside his mother who stood before him and took two steps forward.
Only three paces remained between them.
The same silver hair, the same violet eyes, the same straight-backed posture—now standing in opposition, like two sides of a mirror.
"Thank you for the warning, Uncle," Aemond replied calmly, his tone polite. "However, I have also heard another story from the Vale."
"An old eagle lives too long and believes it can still hunt as it did in its youth."
"When it dives from the high sky, it only then discovers its claws have grown dull, and its wings heavy."
He paused, looking at Daemon.
"In the end, it crashes to the ground and is torn apart by wild dogs."
Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly.
The hand resting upon Dark Sister had been restrained all this while.
Beside Aemond, Ser Criston Cole watched Daemon's every movement, his hand already tight upon the hilt of his sword.
"Interesting," Daemon finally spoke again.
"But, Aemond," he said coldly, "a blade too sharp is easily turned upon oneself."
His gaze swept over Aemond's youthful face.
"Especially… when it has only just been newly honed."
"You are quite right," Aemond said.
"But I shall be the one who holds the blade."
"As for how it is used…"
Aemond looked directly into Daemon's eyes, speaking each word clearly.
"In the end, that is for me to decide."
Daemon's pupils contracted sharply. He stared at Aemond for several long seconds.
Then he suddenly let out a low laugh. It gradually broadened into a smile touched with a certain appreciation.
"Good. Very good." Daemon nodded and stepped back several paces.
He no longer looked at Aemond, but turned and returned to Rhaenyra's side.
"Let us go," he said to his wife.
Rhaenyra seemed about to speak, but Daemon had already drawn her about and turned away.
Aemond remained where he stood, watching the party of the Blacks depart.
Viserys looked upon all that had occurred.
"Seven above…"
"Look at you."
"Look at what you have all become!"
He had wished, through this family feast, to restore harmony among them.
Yet Aemond and Rhaenyra, and those three children, seemed born never to agree.
His gaze finally settled upon Aemond, and it was exceedingly complex.
There was hope, anger, disappointment—but also a trace of wariness he himself was unwilling to admit.
This son—this son whom he had always tried to understand, yet never truly command.
Each time he wished to place great expectations upon Aemond, the boy would in turn commit some act that filled him with fury.
Again and again… over and over…
Were he not his own son, he would have the heart to see him beheaded.
At last, Viserys let out a sigh.
"That is enough for today."
"All of you… return to your chambers."
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