Now, only father and son remained in the cell.
Viserys staggered inside and looked around: the stone walls, the bookshelf, the wooden bed, the desk, and the marks Aemond had carved into the wall with a pen.
"You are living well enough," the King finally said, sitting opposite Aemond, in the very seat Mushroom had occupied moments before.
The raised stool made him look faintly ridiculous, yet he paid it no mind.
Aemond replied calmly, "By your grace.
"There are books to read, food to eat, and company to keep… I fare better than many prisoners."
He knew well that his father had come to test him.
If he answered poorly, it would mean exile.
Viserys fixed his gaze upon his son.
He tried to find anger, resentment, or at least a trace of grievance upon that young face...
Yet he saw only a stillness as deep as a dark pool.
The King spoke slowly. "It has been a month. Have you come to understand?"
"Understand what, Your Grace?"
Viserys spoke with restraint.
"Your fault."
"You drew steel in the throne room, stood blade to blade against Prince Daemon, and defied my will before all the nobles."
"These are your faults."
Aemond regarded his father in silence.
Firelight flickered upon the wall and danced across his face, making his violet eyes at times bright as stars, at times sunk in shadow.
He asked softly, "What fault have I committed?"
Viserys's brows knit together.
Aemond continued, "Ser Vaemond acted for his house."
"He defended the purity of the Velaryon blood with his life. Though his manner was fierce, his intent was beyond reproach."
"And I prevented Prince Daemon from killing before the throne, and carried out your command in executing a traitor. That too was for our house."
He paused, meeting his father's eyes.
"To seat those brown-haired, brown-eyed children of Strong blood upon the Iron Throne would be the true profanation of House Targaryen."
"Our strength comes from dragons, and the dragons' strength comes from blood."
"A bloodline thinned, devoid of Targaryen traits—that is the beginning of decline."
"Only blood is our foundation…"
Viserys raised a hand and pointed at Aemond. "So you admit it?"
"You admit you are acting against Rhaenyra and her children?"
Aemond shook his head. "I act against no one. I act only against what is wrong."
"Had Rhaenyra borne no such bastards, had her heir carried the pure blood of House Targaryen—"
"I would never have opposed her."
"I would have been her most loyal supporter, as I ought to have been."
He rose to his feet and looked at Viserys.
"But those three Strongs are the source of turmoil."
"Ser Vaemond has proved that with his life."
"Today it is the succession crisis of Driftmark; tomorrow it will be the succession crisis of the Iron Throne."
"Your Grace, are you truly willing, after your death, to have the lords of the Seven Kingdoms bend the knee to a Strong king?"
"Do you believe these lords would sincerely submit to a bastard?"
Viserys's breathing grew heavy.
He wished to refute him, yet Aemond's words were like needles, piercing the truth he had long avoided.
Over the past month, he had received countless ravens—from the North, the Westerlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands… Ancient houses of every realm had, in veiled language, expressed their concern over the blood of the heir's children.
The loyalty of the lords was indeed wavering.
The King spoke with difficulty. "You… are you truly doing this for the house? Or for yourself?"
Aemond smiled.
"If it were for myself, I would at this moment be at Dragon's Roost, training soldiers and forging alliances."
"Not here, in a dungeon, reading books sent by the Grand Maester and listening to the dwarf's jests."
He met Viserys's eyes.
"I do not care who sits that iron chair."
"I care that the one who sits it is worthy of the name Targaryen."
Viserys fell silent for a time.
His gaze moved again and again over his son's face, yet he could not see through him. Since the matter of Driftmark, he had no longer been able to read this second son.
At last, Viserys spoke.
"If your sister… or your brother…"
"Were to stand in your path, would you cast them aside?"
Aemond returned his gaze steadily.
"Father, House Targaryen stands upon the edge of a cliff."
"You have seen it—the rift between the Greens and the Blacks deepens by the day."
"The Greens will not accept Rhaenyra placing bastards upon the Iron Throne. Otto will not. The Hightowers will not. Half the Seven Kingdoms will not."
"And Rhaenyra and Daemon will never yield the Iron Throne."
"The root of all this lies in those three Strongs, who ought never to have been born."
He lowered his voice slightly and spoke more clearly.
"I will not cast aside my sister or my brother."
"But if Rhaenyra cannot renounce her error, then I beseech you to abide by the decision of the Great Council and act in accordance with male primogeniture."
"The lords once accepted Rhaenyra, though with misgivings, only because at that time there was no scandal of bastardy upon her."
"Now all is changed."
"The Seven Kingdoms will never acknowledge children of uncertain parentage upon the Iron Throne. If they are silent now, it is only from fear of dragons."
"If the root of disaster is not cut away, the future of House Targaryen…"
"If the royal house is the first to trample the rules, others will follow. Once the rules crumble, the Targaryen dominion will likewise vanish."
"Unless you mean to slaughter every lord in the Seven Kingdoms."
"But can you?"
"These houses have endured for a thousand years. Their descendants are beyond counting."
"They are already bound together—you in them, and they in you…"
"Even Maegor, with Balerion the Black Dread, praised as a warrior made flesh and slayer of tens of thousands of rebels, could not accomplish such a thing."
"And we Targaryens… are few in number now."
"Without dragons, we cannot rule the Seven Kingdoms."
"If one day the dragons are gone, what awaits us is the fall of the realm and the extinction of our house."
He paused slightly, firelight flickering in his violet eyes.
"As for Rhaenyra… if she insists on standing with that which will destroy our house, then yes, I will do what I must."
"For the survival of our house, for blood untainted, for dragons not to perish."
Viserys felt a wave of dizziness and braced himself against the edge of the table.
Aemond spoke so calmly, so certain, as though he were not uttering a prophecy but stating a fate already written.
And most terrible of all, Viserys knew in his heart that Aemond might be right.
The King raised his moist eyes.
Perhaps Daemon had spoken cruelly, yet truthfully—the best fate for those three boys might well be the Wall.
Only Rhaenyra…
His thoughts were in turmoil. He did not know how he might persuade his daughter.
He looked at Aemond, at this son so young as to unnerve him, yet so composed as to frighten him.
"Swear," Viserys said suddenly. "Swear that you will not covet the Iron Throne. Swear that you will not seek the crown."
Aemond did not hesitate.
He raised his right hand and placed it upon his chest.
"I swear in the name of Targaryen, and by the blood of the true dragon that flows within me."
"I, Aemond Targaryen, shall never become King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I desire only that House Targaryen be made great again, and that dragon's blood endure without end."
"I shall be the sword and shield of our house, the pillar that upholds the throne."
The oath echoed through the dungeon and sank into the stone.
Viserys stared at him, searching those violet eyes for a trace of falsehood, for the slightest flicker of insincerity.
He saw only sincerity.
Yet within Aemond's heart, there were words unspoken.
'That I do not become king does not mean I cannot choose who shall be king.'
The dance of blood and dragons will one day erupt. Someone must bear the name of kinslayer and usurper.
He would not be king, but his descendants would sit secure upon the Iron Throne.
And he would stand behind the throne, wielding the true power.
After a long while, Viserys finally nodded.
"Tomorrow."
The King rose, his steps heavy.
"You shall be released and return to your lands."
"Hereafter, you are not to enter King's Landing again without summons."
He reached the door and did not turn back.
"Remember your oath, Aemond."
"Remember all that you have said today."
The cell door closed once more.
Aemond sat alone in silence for a time. Then he reached for the book upon the table, Valyrian Bloodlines and Dragons, and turned to the page he had marked before.
Between its pages was a passage written in High Valyrian, with the Grand Maester's gloss beside it:
"Blood and fire are of one source; dragon and man are joined."
"When dragon wings darken the sky, the bloodline takes the crown."
"But if the blood grows thin, the bond shall break."
"Thus the dragonlord is bound to blood."
"This is the unchanging decree of Valyria through the ages."
He gazed at the words for a long while, his fingers lightly tracing the raised ink upon the parchment.
Then, slowly, he closed the book.
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