Warning

King's Landing

At the King's Landing docks, Vaemond Velaryon stumbled slightly as he stepped onto the gangplank.

They had just disembarked from their ship at Tidepool Island.

Behind him, a dozen or so members of House Velaryon followed with grim expressions.

Most wore heavy faces, hands never straying far from the weapons at their waists, eyes scanning the bustling, chaotic crowd on the docks with wary vigilance.

They knew what they were here to do, and per Vaemond's orders, they stayed on guard at all times.

"Ser Vaemond."

A magnetic, raspy voice came from the side.

Vaemond turned to see a gaunt man leaning on an intricately carved blackwood cane, limping toward him from not far away.

The man was around thirty, pale-faced, with brown hair combed immaculately. He wore a dark gray tunic and trousers beneath a black cloak.

What stood out most were his eyes—pale, almost tawny.

"By order of His Majesty the King," the man said with a slight nod, his posture impeccable.

"I am here to receive you. I am Larys Strong, currently Master of Whisperers on the small council."

The surname "Strong" struck Vaemond's ears like a red-hot needle.

His aged eyes flew wide, a flush of agitation rising to his face.

"Strong?!" he nearly roared, his bony finger jabbing at Larys. "You Strongs have the nerve to show your faces before me?"

"Ser Vaemond," Larys cut him off.

"I fully understand your anger."

"But at this moment, I am here as the King's appointed Master of Whisperers, to convey His Majesty's verbal command."

Sensing the hostile glares from the Velaryons, he swallowed and continued:

"His Majesty hopes that you will all return to Tidepool Island at once."

"Matters of inheritance within House Velaryon are internal family affairs and should be resolved through internal negotiation."

"The King does not wish to see this escalate, nor does he desire any... unrest as a result."

He leaned forward on his cane, lowering his voice yet making every word crystal clear:

"His Majesty bade me tell you: pushing this further will benefit no one."

At that moment, some commoners and merchants on the docks were drawn to the Velaryons' distinctive silver hair and blue eyes.

But they were quickly driven back by the sharp gazes of the dozens of armored, keen-eyed guards who had accompanied Larys.

Hearing this, Vaemond's chest heaved violently. He stared at Larys's pale, calm face, then let out a hoarse, bitter laugh brimming with grief and fury.

"No benefit? Ha!"

He flung a hand toward the Red Keep. "Go back? Watch those Strong bastards steal the foundations of House Velaryon with my own eyes? Never!"

"This matter—I will take it all the way before the small council!"

"Let the King, the Hand, and every lord hear the case!"

"If His Majesty and the Hand refuse to see me,"

he said with a desperate, reckless edge, "I will go to the Riverlands, to the West, to the North..."

"I will travel the Seven Kingdoms and tell every noble in them what disgrace House Velaryon is suffering!"

"How the Crown Prince of House Targaryen defiles our bloodline with bastards!"

Larys listened to this tirade in silence, his face unmoved.

When Vaemond paused to catch his breath, Larys limped closer until they stood nearly face to face:

"Ser Vaemond," he said, with a touch of sincerity, "I personally... admire your courage and resolve."

"To risk yourself for the honor of your house."

Vaemond blinked, eyeing him warily.

Larys leaned on his cane and lowered his gaze. "As for my... late, utterly wretched brother Harwin Strong, and what he did to Princess Rhaenyra... and the damage that has brought to the reputation of House Velaryon..."

He looked up, his tawny eyes glinting with remorse, "I, as the current head of House Strong, offer you and House Velaryon my deepest apologies."

The fury on Vaemond's face froze. He studied Larys suspiciously, as if weighing the sincerity of this apology.

A Strong—especially this "Clubfoot" Larys, infamous for his cunning—actually apologizing for his family's disgrace?

But the regret in the other's eyes and the weight in his tone didn't seem feigned.

His tense shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he let out a snort, grudgingly accepting this sudden "apology."

Larys caught that slight loosening.

Larys struck while the iron was hot:

"Ser, though His Majesty commanded me to urge your return, as Master of Whisperers, I must present your grievances in full."

"In fact," he paused slightly, scanning the surroundings to ensure no one eavesdropped, "Lord Hand Otto Hightower... takes the matter you've raised... most seriously."

"The Lord Hand believes this concerns the legacy of an ancient house and the sanctity of the realm's law—no trivial affair."

"The Lord Hand... wishes to meet with you privately, to hear your detailed account firsthand."

Vaemond's eyes narrowed. The Greens? What did they want? To use his hatred of bastards to stir trouble for the Blacks?

But... wasn't this exactly what he needed now?

His Majesty Viserys clearly intended to favor his Eldest Daughter Rhaenyra and bury the matter.

Without powerful backing, even if he screamed himself hoarse in King's Landing, he could hardly budge the Iron Throne's decision an inch.

Become the Greens' blade?

Yet now, the core interest of his house's survival faced its most fundamental threat...

He was silent for a long time.

Behind him, his kin waited anxiously for his decision.

At last, Vaemond raised his head, his eyes filled with nothing but desperate resolve:

"Tell the Lord Hand," he said firmly, "if it can stop bastards from usurping House Velaryon's legacy, I... am willing to speak with him."

Even if it meant becoming the Greens' sword aimed at the Blacks, he would not hesitate.

The blood of the house was above all else.

A faint smile crept across Larys's face as he gave a slight bow:

"A wise decision, Ser. I'll arrange it promptly."

"Now, follow me—the Lord Hand has prepared temporary lodgings for you all, utterly quiet... and secure."

Meanwhile, deep within the Kingswood outside King's Landing, a completely different scene unfolded.

Autumn sunlight, fractured by dense foliage into shards of gold, scattered across the leaf-strewn ground.

Some five hundred youths, clad in uniform black-dyed leather jerkins, moved in squads of ten through the woods—weaving, encircling, ambushing, charging. They wielded blunted training shortswords and cloth-wrapped wooden cudgels.

Aemond Targaryen sat astride a white horse on a slightly elevated clearing in the forest, dressed in sharp black hunting attire.

He watched calmly as the scattered squads maneuvered through the woodland, listening to squad leaders relay commands with the simple hand signals and whistles he had taught them.

Terra stood by his horse's side, in a practical dark brown hunting outfit, her hair short, her ever-present bow slung across her back.

"Those who fall behind," the Instructor bellowed, "will spend the next month washing the victors' clothes, polishing everyone's weapons, eating two meals a day instead of three, and cleaning the latrines."

At the command, the youths' movements in the woods grew visibly more desperate.

No one wanted to lose. No one was willing to endure such public, humiliating punishment.

After observing for a moment, Aemond tilted his head slightly toward Terra beside him:

"How many people are still making a living in the Kingswood?"

At his words, Terra's body tensed almost imperceptibly.

She hesitated briefly before answering cautiously:

"Your Highness, your... activities in the Kingswood these past months have been no small matter."

"Anyone who used to live by poaching, foraging, or secretly tilling a patch of land—unless they were deaf or blind—has long since fled far away."

"They're like rabbits in the woods—at the slightest rustle, they burrow into the deepest holes."

She paused, then added carefully, with a note of pleading: "Most of them are just poor souls struggling to survive. Maybe a bit of petty theft, but organized bandits..."

"Were mostly wiped out years ago."

Aemond said calmly, "Rest assured, Terra. I'm not here to purge them."

"My lands need people. I'll give them land for free."

"I'll grant them the status of freemen, instead of them wandering the Kingswood as they do now."

"All they need do is pay their taxes on time each year."

"Also, I need some guides familiar with the Kingswood. Can you arrange that?"

Hearing Aemond's words, Terra nodded.

Taking in the Kingswood's drifters? For those living hand-to-mouth, this was undoubtedly a heaven-sent opportunity.

"Your Highness," she took a deep breath, "I... can give it a try."