Under the morning sun stood Maegor's Holdfast.
Aemond stood before a bronze mirror, tightening his belt.
Reflected in the glass was a face that had shed its boyishness. Silver hair was bound at the back of his head, violet eyes like stars, the line of his jaw hard and firm.
A measured knock sounded at the door.
"Enter."
Ser Criston Cole pushed the door open. His white cloak was spotless. He halted at the threshold.
"Your Highness, the hour has come. His Grace waits in the Throne Room."
Aemond did not turn. He continued fastening the clasps of his wrist guards. "And Ser Vaemond?"
"He awaits judgment outside the hall. Thirteen Velaryons accompany him. All are present."
Cole paused. Beneath his armor, his shoulders tightened slightly. "The Hand bids me remind you, Your Highness—today's trial… the matter is delicate. Pray be measured in your words."
"Measured?" Aemond finally turned. Sunlight grazed half his face.
"Do you think what is to pass today may be settled with caution?"
Cole was silent for a moment.
"No."
"But at the least… do not place His Grace in a difficult position."
"A difficult position?" Aemond shook his head.
"Then let none of it be done."
"Your Highness…" Cole began, then faltered.
"Come." Aemond cut him off and strode toward the door.
...
Within the Throne Room, the air lay heavy.
Along both sides stood the crownlords and envoys from the realms.
Their gazes shifted between the seats of the greens and the blacks.
At the center of the hall, a long path laid with deep red carpet stretched straight ahead.
It led to the Iron Throne, forged from the swords of a thousand vanquished foes.
Viserys sat upon it.
Today, the Iron Throne bore no cushions.
Though the King had heeded Aemond's counsel and once ordered them laid, this morning he had commanded every padding removed.
Now he sat directly among the keen blades.
The Valyrian steel crown pressed heavily upon his brow.
Those violet eyes, inherited from Targaryen forebears, held the dignity of a king.
Below the throne stood the Kingsguard, rigid in their watch.
At the left of the Iron Throne, slightly lower, stood a carved seat.
Rhaenyra sat there in composure. Her pregnant form was wrapped in a gown of white velvet, her belly plainly swollen.
Silver-gold hair was coiled into an intricate knot at the back of her head, set with small ruby pins.
Her face was calm.
Beside her sat Daemon.
This prince today, for once, wore full formal attire. Upon his deep black coat was the dark red three-headed dragon sigil, and at his waist hung the legendary Valyrian steel sword, "Dark Sister."
Behind him stood Rhaenyra's three sons.
Jacaerys stood at the front. The black eyepatch over his left eye was especially stark against his pale face.
Today he wore garments of black and red bearing the Targaryen dragon.
Lucerys and Joffrey stood on either side of their elder brother. The two boys pressed their lips tight, clad in sea-blue Velaryon dress marked with the silver seahorse.
To the right of the Iron Throne were the seats of the greens.
Alicent sat upright in her place. Her sea-green gown was like a still, deep pool. At her collar, the Hightower sigil was embroidered in silver thread, gleaming cold beneath the firelight.
Beside her, Aegon lounged against the back of his chair, his silver curls slightly disordered as he stifled a yawn.
Helaena sat on her mother's other side, her head lowered, silver-gold hair nearly veiling her whole face.
Aemond's seat stood empty.
Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, stood below the steps of the throne. His face was calm as water, yet his sharp eyes from time to time glanced toward the hall doors.
All were waiting.
At last, the heavy doors were slowly pushed open by the guards.
Aemond entered the Throne Room.
He halted before the throne and bowed his head toward the Iron Throne.
"Your Grace." His voice was clear and steady, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling like a stone cast into a well.
Viserys regarded his second son for a moment. "Return to your seat."
Aemond straightened and withdrew to the seats of the greens, taking his place upon the empty chair that was his.
Alicent turned her head and looked at the hard lines of her son's profile. She knew Aemond too well.
Beneath that calm exterior surged a kind of madness.
She understood clearly—if Vaemond insisted on pressing his accusation today, he would be courting death.
From between the strands of her hair, Helaena stole a glance at her brother. Aemond sensed her gaze and turned to her with a faint smile.
At that moment, the doors were pushed open once more.
Vaemond Velaryon entered.
The old knight of Driftmark wore full Velaryon formal dress. Upon his deep blue velvet coat spread the silver seahorse sigil. A cloak patterned like rolling waves hung from his shoulders, and his silver hair was combed without a strand out of place. His lined face bore no expression.
Behind him, thirteen Velaryons filed in.
There were white-bearded captains, kinsmen who oversaw the harbor, and hot-blooded young scions.
All wore the garb of their House, their faces solemn.
The entire Throne Room fell silent.
The nobles held their breath.
Vaemond walked to the center of the hall and stopped forty paces from the Iron Throne. He bowed deeply and spoke in a loud voice: "Your Grace, Viserys Targaryen I, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Viserys inclined his head slightly. "Ser Vaemond Velaryon. You have requested judgment before the throne. I have granted your petition."
"Speak. What matter do you bring?"
Vaemond straightened.
His gaze first swept across Rhaenyra and her sons to the left of the Iron Throne. That look passed over the three like a blade, before returning at last to the King. Then he spoke: "Your Grace."
"I stand here today not for myself, but for the blood, the honor, and the lawful inheritance handed down for a thousand years by House Velaryon."
He raised his right hand, pointing at Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.
"I accuse Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, our honored heir, of three grave crimes!"
A suppressed murmur rose among the nobles, like unrest before a storm.
Upon the Iron Throne, Viserys lifted a hand to quell it. Lord Commander Criston stepped forward and shouted sharply, "Silence!"
The noise subsided with difficulty.
Viserys leaned forward, fingers gripping the arms of the throne. "You understand that to slander the heir—though you are noble—I will not spare you."
"I understand. I know it well, Your Grace." Vaemond bowed his head. When he raised it again, fire burned in his eyes. "It is because I know that I must speak."
He turned sharply, his arm cutting through the air as he pointed again at Rhaenyra. His voice rose suddenly, ringing beneath the vaulted ceiling: "First—she has defiled her marriage vows, committing adultery within lawful wedlock and bearing bastards!"
"Second—she seeks deceit, attempting to pass these three baseborn whelps as true-born of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, to usurp the inheritance of the Iron Throne and of Driftmark!"
"Third—she tramples her vassals, scorns the dignity and laws of an ancient House, and stains the seahorse sigil with lies and falsehood!"
Each charge fell like a hammer upon stone, sending echoes through the hall.
The nobles fell wholly silent. Hundreds of eyes turned toward Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra's face remained calm as she sat.
Daemon rose to his feet.
The three boys were pale. Jacaerys' single eye fixed on Vaemond. Lucerys and Joffrey trembled faintly.
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