Blood of the Dragon

Vaemond Velaryon pushed open the heavy door of the Hand's Tower study, having just concluded an afternoon of secret talks with Otto Hightower.

He turned back, nodding to the Hand within the room: "I thank you for your time and... understanding, Lord Hand."

"House Velaryon will remember this debt."

Just as he prepared to leave, his steps halted in place.

Outside the door.

Silver hair, black attire. He watched him calmly.

Aemond Targaryen.

Vaemond's face froze for a moment, then he bowed slightly with courtesy: "Prince Aemond."

Aemond nodded, returning the gesture.

"Was it worth it?" Aemond suddenly spoke.

"To drag it before the court, to make it known to all the realm, to willingly offer your neck to the blade?"

Vaemond paused. He had imagined countless obstacles, threats, or temptations he might face in the Red Keep.

But he never expected such a... blunt question, from a prince of the Greens, a youth who should be his opponent.

His blue eyes met those deep violet irises. Beneath that seemingly calm gaze, he seemed to glimpse a trace of... resonance.

A smile spread across his face, laced with pride:

"It is blood, Your Highness."

"It is both the dragon's bone and the anchor."

"If House Velaryon cannot defend the purity of its blood, what future awaits us but a sunken ship?"

"If His Majesty deems defending that purity a crime, if the Iron Throne believes it can extinguish the flame of truth..."

"Then let my blood flow beneath the Iron Throne in the Red Keep."

Aemond watched him silently. His face bore no expression—no approval, no pity, no opposition.

Finally, he gave a slight nod and stepped aside, clearing the path to the stairs.

Vaemond said nothing more. With heavy yet unwaveringly firm steps, he descended the spiral staircase.

Only then did Aemond turn and push open the door to the Hand's study.

Otto Hightower stood before the great arched window, back to the door, gazing at the torches lit in the Red Keep courtyard below.

Hearing the door, he turned slowly. Seeing who it was, a ripple stirred in his deep green eyes.

"You heard everything?" Otto asked.

Aemond walked straight to the broad desk and stated a cold fact:

"He's seeking death himself." The youth lifted his head, his violet eyes clearer and more complex under the brighter indoor light.

"Or rather, he came to King's Landing to die."

Otto silently walked back to the high-backed chair behind the desk and sat down. He did not refute it. Vaemond's intent had been as obvious as a drawn sword in his afternoon words.

Aemond stared at Otto: "What are the lords of the Seven Kingdoms doing right now?"

"They're not waiting for a verdict on Tidepool Island's domestic affairs."

He stepped forward, lowering his voice:

"They're watching to see if House Targaryen will sit idly by, or even tacitly allow those children to openly usurp the lawful rights passed down through House Velaryon's thousand-year legacy."

"And what holds their breath even more is what comes after—once such a precedent is silently sanctioned by the crown..."

Otto raised his eyes, fixing them on Aemond. "What are you trying to say, Aemond?"

"Or what do you intend to do?"

Aemond smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Those named Stron?" He shook his head lightly.

"I have never, and will never, regard them as kin."

"The positions they occupy, the breath they draw, the things they covet..."

"As long as they live, it is an insult to House Targaryen."

Otto's breath caught for a moment as he looked into Aemond's eyes—pure, undisguised killing intent.

The study fell into dead silence.

After a long while, Otto nodded heavily.

"Isn't Vaemond seeking death?" Aemond paced to the window.

"His idea is quite good. Trade one old life to forever stain Rhaenyra, that Crown Prince's name, with indelible blood."

"Force my indecisive father on the Iron Throne, before all the courtiers, to personally tear open the festering wound he most wants to hide."

Aemond turned his head, his profile sharp and cold against the light from outside the window.

"Some words are like arrows loosed from a bow—once they leave the string, they can never return."

"Some things are like a castle about to collapse—once the first stone shifts, the rest comes crashing down in an unstoppable tide."

He spoke with admiration:

"That old man has real nerve."

"He wants every lord from Dorne to the Wall to see clearly that our noble Crown Prince is someone who dares to toy with the bloodlines of her own bannermen, using her bastards to inherit..."

"To put it bluntly."

"What kind of creature is she?"

"What is her substance?"

"She treats the millennia of pride and law of House Targaryen and House Velaryon as toys to be painted however she pleases."

"Too greedy by far..."

Aemond's smile deepened, but his eyes turned icy:

"If one day, the history of House Targaryen is written by later generations."

"And the book says that Viserys I and his daughter Rhaenyra set the precedent of bastards inheriting the throne and the seats of lords..."

He shook his head lightly:

"Then their names, father and daughter, will no longer be King and Crown Prince, but the most shameful footnote in the history of House Targaryen."

"This is the most thorough betrayal and desecration of the source of our bloodline!"

"Aemond!" Otto snapped sharply.

"Watch your tongue!"

"His Majesty has already ruled on the parentage of those three children!"

"If you dare breathe even half a word of such treasonous talk outside..."

"I speak nothing but iron truth, Grandfather." The smile vanished from Aemond's face in an instant, replaced by his usual cold, emotionless mask.

He did not retreat a single step at Otto's rebuke, merely meeting the old man's gaze calmly.

"Evidence? Do I need it? Silver hair and violet eyes against brown hair and brown eyes—that is the starkest evidence of all!"

"Everyone in all of Westeros knows it in their hearts; only no one dares to do what Vaemond did, staking his life to tear down that veil of pretense!"

He turned and walked toward the door.

"Don't worry. I'm not foolish enough to go throw my life away now."

He stopped at the threshold, half-turning back.

"But lying low does not mean forgetting."

"I swear it by the Blood of the Dragon."

"I will not let these Strongs defile House Targaryen."

"These bastards who have stolen high positions will one day pay the price they owe for their usurped identities."

"I promise..."