When Vaemond Velaryon pushed open the heavy door of the Hand's Tower, his clandestine audience with Otto Hightower had come to an end.
He turned and inclined his head to the Hand inside the chamber.
"Thank you for your time… and I understand, my lord Hand."
"House Velaryon will remember this friendship."
Just as he was about to depart, his steps faltered.
Beyond the door—
Silver hair. Black garments. A calm, unwavering gaze.
Aemond Targaryen.
"Is it worth it?" Aemond asked suddenly.
"To raise a storm before the king, make a spectacle before the realm, and bare your neck beneath the executioner's axe—
is that truly worth it?"
Vaemond stiffened. He had imagined countless obstacles awaiting him in the Red Keep—threats, bargains, temptations.
But he had not expected this:
a question so direct, almost candid, from a prince of the Greens, a youth who by all rights should have stood in the opposite camp.
His blue eyes met those deep violet ones, and beneath their seeming calm he sensed a flicker—
something like resonance.
"It is blood, Your Highness," Vaemond said evenly.
"If a Velaryon cannot defend the purity of his blood, then what separates the future from shipwreck?"
"If His Grace believes it a sin to defend that purity—
if the Iron Throne thinks it can smother the flame of truth—"
His voice did not waver.
"Then let my blood flow beneath the Iron Throne of the Red Keep."
Aemond studied him in silence. There was no approval in his face, nor pity, nor resistance.
At last, he gave a slight nod, stepped aside, and yielded the stair.
Aemond turned, opened the door, and entered the Hand's chamber.
Otto Hightower stood before a vast arched window, his back to the doorway, gazing down at the lights burning in the courtyards of the Red Keep.
At the sound of the door, he slowly turned—and his dark green eyes widened slightly.
"In other words," Aemond said coldly,
"the moment he came to King's Landing, he meant to die."
Otto returned to his desk and seated himself in the high-backed chair, offering no denial. Vaemond's intent had been as naked as a drawn blade in daylight.
Aemond fixed him with his gaze.
"What are the lords of the Seven Kingdoms doing now?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"They are watching—to see whether House Targaryen will sit idle, or even yield… whether those children will openly usurp the lawful rights of House Velaryon's thousand-year inheritance."
"And what truly holds their breath," he continued,
"is what follows—once such a precedent is accepted by the royal house."
Otto lifted his head sharply.
"What are you saying, Aemond?"
"Or rather—what is it you intend to do?"
Aemond smiled faintly, the corners of his lips lifting.
"The ones named Strong?" He shook his head.
"I will never—never—regard them as kin."
"The positions they occupy, the air they breathe, the future they claim—
so long as they live, it is an insult to House Targaryen."
Otto's breathing hitched as he met Aemond's eyes—clear, unclouded, and filled with naked intent to kill.
Silence swallowed the chamber.
After a long while, Otto nodded heavily.
"Has Vaemond not asked for death himself?"
Aemond moved toward the window.
"His plan is clever—trade one old life for Rhaenyra, and ensure that the name of the heir is never again stained by blood that cannot be washed clean."
"It forces my indecisive father to sit upon the Iron Throne before the entire court and lance the abscess he most wished to hide."
Aemond turned his head. Against the windowlight, his profile was hard and cold.
"Some words are like arrows loosed from the string," he said quietly.
"They cannot be called back."
He exhaled, almost approvingly.
"The old man is ruthless enough."
"He wants every lord from Dorne to the Wall to see clearly—
that our noble heir is one who dares to toy with the blood of his own vassals and seat bastards in the line of inheritance."
"If one day the history of House Targaryen is written by future generations—"
He shook his head slowly.
"Then the names of that father and daughter will no longer be remembered as king and heir,
but as the most shameful footnote in Targaryen history."
"That is the truest betrayal—
and blasphemy—against the source of our blood."
"Such words," Otto snapped,
"if you dared speak even a single one of them in the streets—"
Aemond did not retreat a step. He merely looked at the old man calmly.
"Proof?" he said. "Is proof truly needed?
Silver hair and violet eyes against brown hair and brown eyes—
that is the plainest evidence there is."
"All of Westeros knows it," Aemond continued coolly.
"But no one dares risk their life to pierce that paper window—
no one, save Vaemond."
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Do not worry. I am not so foolish as to die just yet."
At the threshold, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Those bastards who steal high seats will one day pay the price their usurpation deserves."
"I promise."