King's Landing
The docks of King's Landing.
Vaemond Velaryon stepped onto the gangplank, his gait a little unsteady.
They had just disembarked from a ship from Tidepool Island.
Behind him, more than a dozen Velaryon clansmen followed, their expressions grim.
Most of them looked grave. Their hands never strayed far from the weapons at their waists, and their wary eyes swept over the jostling, chaotic crowd on the docks.
They knew what they had come to do. At Vaemond's command, they stayed on their guard at all times.
"Ser Vaemond."
A deep, raspy voice came from nearby.
Vaemond turned and saw a thin man leaning on an ornately carved blackwood cane. He stood a short distance away, limping toward him.
The man looked to be around thirty. His face was pale, his brown hair meticulously combed, and he wore dark gray clothes beneath a black cloak.
What stood out most were his eyes: very light in color, almost pale brown.
"At the command of His Majesty the King," the man said, inclining his head with impeccable poise.
"I am here to welcome you all. I am Larys Strong, the current Master of Whisperers."
The surname "Strong" struck Vaemond like a red-hot needle in the ear.
His old eyes widened, and a flush of anger rose across his face.
"Strong?!" he roared, jabbing a bony finger at Larys. "Your House Strong still has the nerve to show its face before me?"
"Ser Vaemond," Larys interrupted him.
"I understand your anger completely."
"But at this moment, I am here as the Master of Whisperers appointed by the king, to relay His Majesty's oral message."
Feeling the hostile stares of the Velaryon clansmen, he swallowed.
"His Majesty hopes you will all return to Tidepool Island at once."
"Matters concerning House Velaryon's inheritance are internal family affairs and should be settled through discussion within the family."
"His Majesty does not wish to see this matter escalate, nor does he want it to cause unnecessary... turmoil."
Leaning forward on his cane, he lowered his voice, but each word was clear.
"His Majesty asked me to tell you that carrying on will do no one any good."
By now, some commoners and passing merchants on the docks had also been drawn to the Velaryons' distinctive silver hair and blue eyes.
But the sharp-eyed guards in armor who had come with Larys soon sent them retreating with a single look.
At this, Vaemond's chest heaved. He fixed his gaze on Larys's pale, composed face, then let out a hoarse, bitter laugh.
"No good? Ha!"
He pointed toward the Red Keep. "Go back? And watch those Strong bastards steal House Velaryon's legacy? Never!"
"I'll take this matter all the way to the royal court!"
"Let the king, the Hand, and every lord hear the case!"
"If His Majesty and the Hand refuse to receive me..."
With desperate, all-or-nothing fury, he continued, "I'll go to the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the North..."
"I'll travel across the Seven Kingdoms and tell every noble what shame House Velaryon is suffering!"
"How the Targaryen Crown Prince is using bastards to sully our family's bloodline!"
Larys listened quietly to the tirade, his expression unmoved.
When Vaemond finally stopped to catch his breath, Larys limped closer, bringing them nearer together.
"Ser Vaemond," he said, with a note of sincerity, "I personally... admire your courage and determination."
"To risk everything for your family's honor."
Vaemond paused, eyeing him warily.
Leaning on his cane, Larys lowered his gaze. "As for my... late, utterly wretched brother, Harwin Strong, and what he did to Princess Rhaenyra... and the damage it caused to House Velaryon's reputation..."
He raised his eyes, remorse glinting in their pale brown depths. "As the current head of House Strong, I... offer my deepest apologies to you and to House Velaryon."
The anger on Vaemond's face stiffened. He studied Larys suspiciously, as if trying to decide whether the apology was genuine.
A man of House Strong... especially Larys, the "Clubfoot," famed for his cunning, was apologizing for his family's disgrace?
But the remorse in the man's eyes and the weight in his voice did not seem false.
His tense shoulders relaxed a fraction. He snorted through his nose, a grudging acceptance of the unexpected "apology."
Larys keenly picked up on that slight softening.
Larys immediately pressed his advantage.
"Ser, although His Majesty sent me to urge you to return, as Master of Whisperers, I must report your petition in full."
"In fact," he paused slightly, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, "Lord Hand Otto Hightower takes the matter you have raised... very seriously."
"The Hand believes this concerns the succession of an ancient house and the solemn laws of the realm. It is no trivial matter."
"His Lordship hopes to meet with you privately and hear your full account in person."
Vaemond narrowed his eyes. The Greens? What were they after? Did they mean to exploit his hatred of bastards and cause trouble for the Blacks?
But... wasn't that exactly what he needed right now?
King Viserys clearly favored his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, and wanted to suppress the matter.
Without powerful backing, even if he shouted himself hoarse in King's Landing, he feared he would hardly make the Iron Throne budge.
Become a blade for the Greens?
But now, the core interests that ensured his family's survival were under the gravest threat...
He remained silent for a long time.
Behind him, his clansmen waited anxiously for his decision.
At last, Vaemond raised his head, his eyes holding nothing but a desperate resolve.
"Tell the Hand," he said firmly, "that if he can stop bastards from usurping House Velaryon's estate, I... am willing to speak with him."
Even if it meant becoming a blade for the Greens to strike at the Blacks, he would do it.
His family's bloodline came before everything.
A faint smile appeared on Larys's face, and he bowed slightly.
"A wise decision, Ser. I'll arrange it as soon as possible."
"Now, please come with me. The Hand has prepared temporary lodgings for you all—somewhere quiet... and safe."
Meanwhile, deep in the Kingswood outside King's Landing, an entirely different scene was unfolding.
The autumn sunlight was broken into shards of gold by the dense trees, spilling over the leaf-strewn ground.
More than five hundred youths, dressed in uniform, simple black leather armor, moved through the woods in squads of ten, circling, ambushing, and striking. They held training blunted short swords and wooden clubs padded at the ends.
Aemond Targaryen sat astride a white horse on a slightly elevated patch of ground among the trees, dressed in practical black hunting clothes.
He calmly watched the squads spread out and move through the woods, listening as their captains used the simple hand signals and whistles he had taught them to pass along orders.
Terra stood beside his horse in practical dark brown hunting clothes, her hair cropped short. The bow she never went anywhere without was strapped to her back.
"Those who fall behind," the instructor bellowed, "will spend the next month washing the winners' clothes, cleaning everyone's weapons, having their meals cut from three a day to two, and cleaning the latrines."
At the order, the youths in the woods visibly threw themselves into the exercise with greater desperation.
No one wanted to lose. No one wanted to endure a public punishment meant to humiliate them.
After watching for a moment, Aemond turned slightly toward Terra.
"How many people are still trying to make a living in the Kingswood?"
At his question, Terra's body tensed almost imperceptibly.
She hesitated, then answered cautiously.
"Your Grace, the... commotion you've caused in the Kingswood these past few months hasn't been small."
"Anyone who used to survive by poaching, foraging, or quietly clearing a little land has long since gone far away, unless they're deaf and blind."
"They're like rabbits in the woods. At the slightest disturbance, they burrow into the deepest holes."
She paused, then added carefully, almost pleadingly, "Most of them are just unfortunate people who can't make ends meet. There may be petty thieves, but as for any organized bandits..."
"Most of them were wiped out years ago."
Aemond replied calmly, "Don't worry, Terra. I'm not going to wipe them out."
"My lands need people. I'll give them land for free."
"I'll grant them the status of freefolk, instead of leaving them to wander the Kingswood as they do now."
"All they have to do is pay their taxes as usual each year."
"At the same time, I need some guides who know the Kingswood well. Can you arrange that?"
Hearing what Aemond said, Terra nodded.
Taking in the wanderers of the Kingswood? For those who never knew where their next meal would come from, it was an opportunity that had fallen from the sky.
"Your Grace," she said, drawing a deep breath, "I... can try."
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