Defile

The naming feast in the godswood settled into a hushed quiet.

The thick heart tree, its weirwood-carved face seeming to smile and weep in the shifting sunlight.

The long table was draped in white velvet, gilded silverware glinting under the sun.

The high seat loomed above.

The King had not come.

Viserys was still displeased over Aemond's last defiance in the small council.

Aemond cut into the beef on his plate, dressed today in an unadorned black robe, his silver hair pulled back immaculately.

When Archmaester Meuros presented the King's Name Day gift on his behalf—a dagger set with sapphires, the word "Restraint" etched into the blade—Aemond rose.

"Many thanks for Your Majesty's gift," he replied calmly, his voice betraying nothing.

The feast dragged on in a tacit unease.

Until Helaena suddenly stopped toying with the food on her plate, lifted her head, and looked at Aemond with her violet eyes, speaking softly:

"I hate cheese. And red."

"Helaena?" Queen Alicent turned, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.

The handmaiden beside her asked cautiously, "Your Grace, do you mean...?"

"Then clear it all away," Aemond cut in.

His gaze met Helaena's, and those eyes were quietly watching him.

So... she had sensed something?

The handmaidens moved swiftly, removing the silver platters of red berries and assorted cheeses from the table.

Garvin Hightower raised his cup at the right moment, his smile carrying his usual tact: "A toast to my young and valiant nephew."

In response, Aemond lifted his own cup and drained it in one go.

And Alicent looked around the long table.

The empty high seat of the King, her father Otto far away negotiating in the Stepstones, her eldest son Aegon left behind on Tidepool Island...

A familiar hollow ache and bitterness rose in her heart.

She gave a slight nod to the handmaiden beside her.

The handmaiden carried a plain dark gray wooden box before Aemond.

"From your Grandfather," Alicent said gently.

Aemond took the box and lifted the lid.

A ring lay quiet on the velvet.

Dull, rough, unpolished steel, with only a line of Valyrian inscription on the band, the engraving deep and sharp.

"This was Queen Visenya's gift to her son Maegor," Alicent murmured.

She began to tell that story...

And how Visenya's line had ended completely on that Iron Throne.

She offered no lesson, no warning.

"Dragonflame can burn everything," she said, her green eyes fixed on her son. "But it cannot rule men's hearts."

At that moment, the godswood fell utterly silent.

Aemond picked up the ring.

Then he raised his eyes, his violet gaze clear as glass, reflecting his mother's tense stare.

"So," he said calmly, "in your eyes, I'm like Maegor?"

The question, blunt and direct.

Alicent looked at her son. At the stillness in his eyes that did not belong to his age.

But in the end, she only slowly nodded once.

Sometimes, admitting the truth takes more courage than lying.

Aemond smiled.

He pinched the dark Valyrian steel ring and slid it onto the index finger of his right hand.

The metal slipped over the knuckle, cool, settling snugly at the base—a perfect fit.

"Mother," he said, shaking his head.

"Queen Visenya only had that one son. She had no choice."

He continued, "Maegor was too foolish. He left himself no way out."

He rose to his feet, his figure standing in the sunlight.

"I am different."

He lowered his head slightly, his gaze falling on the ring between his fingers.

"I am not Maegor, nor Daemon."

He paused, then said with a smile:

"I am Aemond Targaryen."

He repeated it once more.

"Aemond Targaryen."

Finally, he raised his hand, stared at the ring on his finger, and spoke the motto in Valyrian.

"Blood is fire, and I am the true-born son of the dragon."

With that, he did not look again at his mother's conflicted expression, turned, and left.

·········

The corridor outside the sickroom at High Tide.

Vaemond Velaryon stood before his brother Corlys's door.

Behind him, more than a dozen Velaryon cadet members held their breath in solemn silence.

There were captains with real power, relatives who managed the harbormaster's duties, and hot-blooded young scions.

They clustered around this uncle of the family.

Not far off, footsteps shattered the oppressive atmosphere.

Rhaenyra Targaryen emerged from the shadows of the corridor, her slightly fuller figure wrapped in deep black mourning garb.

It was the mark of her new pregnancy with Daemon.

Her silver-gold hair was combed into an immaculate bun.

Her three sons followed close behind: Jacaerys with a black eyepatch over his right eye, Lucerys pressed against his elder brother, and little Joffrey clutching his mother's skirts.

Daemon Targaryen walked at the rear, clad in unadorned black, with the sword "Dark Sister" at his hip.

"Uncle Vaemond." Rhaenyra stopped before the sickroom door, speaking with forced cordiality. "The lord needs quiet."

"Please take your clansmen and kin and leave. This is not the time for us to quarrel."

Vaemond's face turned ashen in an instant. He stared hard at Rhaenyra, and when his gaze swept over the three children behind her, the disgust in his eyes could no longer be concealed.

"Quiet?" he said, suppressing his fury. "My dear niece—oh, forgive me, perhaps I should address you as Your Highness the Crown Prince?"

"After all, my poor nephew Laenor has just been buried at sea, the funeral black still hanging on the doors, and I hear you've already been eager to join this..."

He pointed at Daemon: "...to join this prince in marriage?"

Vaemond stepped forward: "Then take these children away as well."

"The bloodline of Tidepool Island must not be defiled. The halls of Velaryon do not welcome bastards of unknown origin."

Jacaerys's Adam's apple bobbed, but he lifted his head to explain: "My lord, we carry the blood of our grandfather the Sea Snake. We are Velaryons too."

"The Sea Snake's blood?!" Vaemond staggered back as if burned by the claim, then turned to his kin with arms outstretched, speaking passionately. "Hear that! What a stirring declaration!"

"But it changes nothing! Bastards! All three of you! Every one of you is a bastard!"

"Vaemond!" Rhaenyra's voice shot up as she stepped forward, shielding her sons behind her.

"I warn you, watch your tongue!"

"My sons are the lawful, wedded offspring of me and Laenor Velaryon!"

"Their inheritance rights were personally confirmed by my father, King Viserys I!"

"Their place in the line of succession to the Iron Throne, and their lawful claims to Tidepool Island, are not to be questioned by anyone—least of all you!"

"The Iron Throne?!" Vaemond laughed as if he had heard the world's most absurd joke, his chest heaving as he turned to his clansmen.

"Did you all hear that? Our Crown Prince intends to use the Iron Throne to crush the Velaryon family's private affairs!"

"But I tell you, Rhaenyra!" He spun back, his eyes burning with near-mad stubbornness.

"I care nothing for the squabbles over the Iron Throne!

"But Tidepool Island! The Velaryon fleet!

"Every inch of land beneath the Seahorse banner, every warship, every sailor—I, Vaemond Velaryon, will never stand by and watch them fall into the hands of a few mongrels of dubious blood!"

"You shameless whore! You've birthed a litter of bastards!

"And now you want to use their filthy blood to defile the legacy my brother built with his life?

"The glory of Velaryon will be destroyed by you, this slut!"

The moment the words landed.

Daemon's hand had already moved to his sword hilt the instant Vaemond spat out the first filthy word.

At that moment, he moved.

He only lowered his head, staring at his own hand resting on the sword hilt, his voice soft and slow:

"Ser Vaemond," he used the most formal address.

"With what you just said... I will personally, slowly, pull your tongue out of that shit-spewing mouth of yours, inch by inch."

"Clang!"

Behind Vaemond, more than a dozen collateral kin drew their longswords almost in unison.

The High Tide guards, who had been stationed at the sickroom door and both ends of the corridor, now stood with hands on their sword hilts, exchanging glances, their faces etched with panic and indecision.

On one side stood Princess Rhaenyra; on the other, Ser Vaemond, a man of high prestige in the family, backed by numerous powerful kin—where should their swords point?

The air was taut as a drawn bowstring, bloodshed a hair's breadth away.

"Creak."

The wooden door of the sickroom was pushed open at that moment.

Rhaenys Targaryen stepped out. She wore a red gown, her face haggard.

Her gaze swept over the tense crowd, finally settling on Vaemond's face:

"Rhaenyra, Daemon," she said, her eyes still fixed on Vaemond, "take the children and leave. Now."

"Rhaenys, he—" Rhaenyra was unwilling.

"I said, now!" Rhaenys snapped.

Rhaenyra's chest heaved violently. At last, she shot Vaemond a venomous glare, shielded her three sons, turned, and strode away.

Before turning, Daemon cast one last glance at Vaemond, his eyes cold and murderous.

Only when their footsteps had completely faded did Rhaenys slowly let out a breath, turning to face Vaemond and his kin, who still held their swords in fury.

"Vaemond," she said, her voice hoarse, laced with earnestness and exhaustion, "I understand your anger. I know many in the family are troubled by the bloodline. But matters are far more complex than they seem."

"Laenor has just passed, Corlys lies unconscious. Tidepool Island cannot withstand internal strife. Give me some time. When Corlys wakes, he will explain everything to you..."

"Explain?" Vaemond cut her off roughly, his eyes unwavering.

"Will explanations make those bastards sink their roots deeper into High Tide?"

He waved his arm, his voice ringing through the corridor with desperate resolve: "I will wait no longer! On this matter, I will gather every kinsman who still knows his name, and we will go to King's Landing together!"

"Before the Iron Throne, in front of all the lords, I will ask King Viserys to pass judgment!"

Rhaenys's face darkened instantly: "Vaemond! You've lost your mind!"

"To openly question the Crown Prince and challenge the legitimacy the king has acknowledged—this is treason! You'll be sent to the executioner's block!"

"Treason? Execution?" Vaemond laughed as if he had heard the greatest joke. He threw his head back, letting out a hoarse, mournful cackle.

"So what?! Rhaenys! My good sister! I would rather be burned to ash by Dragonflame than live to see the glory of House Velaryon stolen and defiled by those bastards of unknown origin!"

Through the crack in the door, he looked at the unconscious Corlys: "Everything I do must honor the Velaryon ancestors who lie at the bottom of the sea!"

He took a deep breath, his final words like an oath, or a curse:

"If Viserys I means to execute an old man fighting to defend his family's bloodline with the charge of treason..."

"Then let him kill me! I will use my blood, my life, to make the Seven Kingdoms see clearly that Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but a shameless whore!"

"She bore bastards! She defiled her marriage vows! She knows no shame!"

"And she dares to taint the blood of her own bannermen, House Velaryon!"

"As for me, Vaemond Velaryon—I will die worthy of the seahorse sigil!"

With that, he no longer looked at Rhaenys's faltering figure. He turned around.

"Let's go."