The Tower of the Hand, King's Landing.
When Vaemond pushed open the heavy door of the study, he had just concluded a private meeting with Otto Hightower that had lasted the entire afternoon.
He turned back and nodded to the Hand inside the room.
"Thank you for your time and... understanding, Lord Hand. House Velaryon will remember this kindness."
Just as he was about to leave, his footsteps halted.
Outside the door, a figure waited in the shadows.
Silver hair, black clothes. He watched him calmly.
Aemond Targaryen.
Vaemond's expression froze for a moment before he bowed slightly with courtesy.
"Prince Aemond."
Aemond nodded, returning the gesture with an almost regal stiffness.
"Is it worth it?" Aemond suddenly spoke.
"Taking it before the Throne, making it known to the whole world, even going so far as to offer your neck to the axe's blade?"
Vaemond was slightly taken aback. He had imagined countless obstacles, threats, or inducements he might encounter in the Red Keep.
But he had never expected such a blunt, almost philosophical questioning from a Prince of the Green faction.
His blue eyes met those deep violet ones. Beneath that seemingly calm gaze, he seemed to catch a glimpse of something, a resonance.
A smile appeared on Vaemond's face as he spoke with pride.
"It is the bloodline, Prince."
"It is the dragon's bone and the ship's anchor. If House Velaryon cannot even defend the purity of its bloodline, how would its future differ from a shipwreck?"
He straightened his spine.
"If His Grace considers defending this purity a crime, if the Iron Throne believes it can extinguish the flames of truth... then let my blood flow beneath the Iron Throne in the Red Keep."
Aemond watched him silently. There was no expression on his face, no approval, no pity, and no opposition.
Finally, he gave a slight nod and stepped aside, making way for the stairs.
Vaemond spoke no more, taking heavy yet exceptionally firm steps as he descended the spiral staircase toward his fate.
Only then did Aemond turn and push the door open to enter the Hand's study.
Otto Hightower was standing before a massive arched window, his back to the door, looking down at the lanterns lit in the courtyard.
Hearing the door, he slowly turned around. Seeing who it was, dark undercurrents swirled in his deep green eyes.
"You heard it all?" Otto asked.
Aemond walked straight to the large desk and stated a cold fact.
"He is seeking his own death."
The boy looked up, his violet eyes clear yet complex in the room's brighter light.
"Or rather, he came to King's Landing specifically to die."
Otto walked back to the high-backed chair at the desk and sat in silence.
He did not refute it; Vaemond's intentions had been as obvious as a drawn sword.
Aemond stared at Otto.
"What are the lords of the Seven Kingdoms doing right now? They are not waiting for a verdict on a domestic matter of Driftmark."
He took a step forward and lowered his voice.
"They are watching to see if the Targaryen family will stand by, or even acquiesce, to those children openly usurping the legal rights of House Velaryon's thousand-year heritage. And what makes them wait with bated breath is what comes after, once such a precedent is sanctioned by the Crown..."
Otto looked up, staring at his grandson.
"What are you trying to say, Aemond? Or, what do you intend to do?"
Aemond smiled, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.
"Those named Strong?" He shook his head gently.
"I have never, and will never, consider them kin. The positions they occupy, the very air they breathe, the things they covet... as long as they live, they are an insult to House Targaryen."
Otto's breath hitched slightly as he looked into Aemond's eyes; there was pure, undisguised killing intent.
The study fell into a deathly silence.
After a long while, Otto nodded heavily.
"Isn't Vaemond seeking death?" Aemond paced to the window, looking out at the dark city.
"His idea is quite good: trade an old life to ensure Rhaenyra's title as Heir Apparent is forever stained with indelible filth. To force my indecisive father, while seated upon the Iron Throne and before all the courtiers, to personally tear open the festering wound he most wishes to hide."
Aemond turned his head, his profile sharp and cold against the light from outside.
"Some words are like arrows shot from a bow; once released, they can never be taken back. Some matters are like a collapsing castle; once the first stone moves, the rest follow in destruction."
He spoke with grim admiration.
"The old man is ruthless enough. He wants every lord from Dorne to the Wall to see clearly that our noble Heir Apparent is someone who dares to toy with the bloodline of her own vassals, using her bastards to inherit..."
"To put it bluntly: What kind of woman is she? What is she made of?"
"She treats the thousands of years of pride and legal tradition of Targaryen and Velaryon as toys to be smeared and shaped to her whims. She is far too greedy..."
Aemond's smile deepened, but a chilling light gleamed in his eyes.
"If one day posterity writes the history of House Targaryen, and the books record that Viserys I and his daughter Rhaenyra established the precedent of bastards inheriting the royal line and vassal titles..."
He shook his head gently.
"Then the names of that father and daughter will no longer be King and Heir Apparent, but the most shameful footnotes in the history of the Targaryen family. It is the most complete betrayal and desecration of the very source of our bloodline!"
"Aemond!" Otto barked sharply.
"Mind your words! His Grace has already passed judgment on the parentage of those three children! If you dare utter a single word of such treacherous talk outside..."
"I am speaking of ironclad facts, Grandfather."
The smile on Aemond's face vanished instantly, returning to his usual, emotionless mask.
He didn't even take a step back at Otto's rebuke, merely staring back at the old man calmly.
"Evidence? Is it needed? Silver hair and violet eyes against brown hair and brown eyes, that is the most naked evidence! Everyone in Westeros knows it in their hearts; it's just that no one dared to stake their life like Vaemond to tear through this paper-thin secret!"
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Rest assured, I won't be foolish enough to go to my death now."
He stopped at the door and turned halfway.
"But lying low does not mean forgetting. I swear by the blood of the dragon. I will not let these Strongs sully Targaryen. One day, these bastards who occupy high positions will pay the price they deserve for their usurped status."
"I promise..."
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