The Naming Feast of the Godswood
Silence lay heavy over the feast held in honor of the Godswood's naming.
The great heart tree stood thick and ancient, its carved face—hewn from pale, fish-bone white bark—seeming to smile rather than weep beneath the pulsing sunlight.
A long table was draped in white velvet, gilded cutlery gleaming softly in the day's glow.
The high seat stood elevated above the rest.
Viserys was still displeased with Aemond's conduct at the last court session.
When Grand Maester Mellos presented the king's nameday gift on Aemond's behalf, Viserys merely replied evenly,
"Thank you for the courtesy,"
his voice calm, betraying no emotion.
Aemond's eyes met Helaena's across the table. She regarded him quietly, then gave a faint nod to the maid beside her.
The maid stepped forward, holding a plain, dark-gray wooden box, and offered it to Aemond.
"It is from your grandfather," Alicent said softly.
Aemond accepted the box and lifted the lid.
A ring lay silently upon the velvet lining.
The metal was dull gray, unadorned, rough and almost primitive in shape—
yet etched clearly upon it in sharp High Valyrian were the words:
"Blood is fire. Son of the true dragon."
"Dragonfire can burn anything," Alicent said, her green eyes fixed on her son.
"But it cannot command the hearts of men."
The Godswood fell utterly silent.
Aemond lifted the ring.
Then he raised his eyes—violet and crystalline—meeting his mother's tense gaze.
"So," he asked calmly,
"in your eyes… am I Maegor?"
The question was simple.
Alicent looked at her son—at the composure in his eyes, far beyond his years.
Aemond smiled.
He slipped the Valyrian steel ring onto the index finger of his right hand.
The metal slid over his knuckle, cool at first, then settled evenly at the base of his finger.
It fit perfectly.
"Mother," he said, shaking his head slightly.
"Queen Visenya had only one son. She had no choice."
He stood, his figure outlined by sunlight.
"I am different."
His gaze dropped briefly to the ring.
"I am not Maegor.
And I am not Daemon."
He paused, then smiled faintly.
"I am Aemond Targaryen."
He raised his hand once more, studying the ring, and quietly recited the Valyrian words engraved upon it.
The Promenade of High Tide (Climax City)
More than a dozen members of House Velaryon stood solemnly behind the guards, holding their breath.
There were captains with real authority, kin responsible for port affairs, and even young children bearing strong bloodlines.
Footsteps approached, breaking the tense stillness.
Rhaenyra Targaryen emerged from the shadowed corridor, dressed in deep mourning black that clung to her slightly rounded figure—
a sign of her new pregnancy by Daemon.
Her silver-gold hair was carefully arranged.
Behind her came her three sons:
Jacaerys, with his right eye covered by a black patch;
Lucerys at his brother's side;
and little Joffrey clutching his mother's skirts.
Daemon Targaryen followed last, clad in plain black, Dark Sister resting at his hip.
"Uncle Vaemond," Rhaenyra said calmly, stopping before the assembled guards.
"My lord should lower his voice."
"My poor cousin Laenor has only just been committed to the sea," she continued coolly,
"the black mourning veils are still upon the doors—
and yet I hear you can hardly wait to arrange a marriage alliance with…"
She gestured toward Daemon.
"…this prince?"
Vaemond stepped forward sharply.
"Then take these children with you as well."
Jacaerys swallowed, then lifted his chin.
"My lord, the blood of the Sea Snake—our grandfather—runs in our veins.
We are Velaryons."
"The Sea Snake's blood?!"
Vaemond recoiled as though burned by the words.
He turned, spreading his arms toward the gathered kin behind him.
"Did you hear that? What a marvelous declaration!"
"But it does not change the truth!" he shouted.
"Bastards! All three of them—bastards!"
"Vaemond!" Rhaenyra's voice rose sharply as she stepped forward, shielding her sons.
"I warn you—mind your words!"
"Their right to inherit the Iron Throne, and their lawful claim to Driftmark, is unquestionable! Least of all by you!"
"The Iron Throne?!"
Vaemond laughed harshly, chest heaving as he turned back to his people.
"Did you hear that? Our Princess uses the Iron Throne to trample the affairs of House Velaryon!"
He spun back toward Rhaenyra, eyes blazing with near-mad resolve.
"I cannot command what happens upon the Iron Throne—
but Driftmark! The Velaryon fleet!"
"Every inch of land, every warship, every sailor beneath the Seahorse banner—
I, Vaemond Velaryon, will never see them fall into the hands of mongrels of unknown seed!"
"You shameless whore!" he roared.
"Lying with that butcher who may well have murdered his own wife—
birthing a litter of wild seeds!"
"And now you would stain the foundation my brother fought for all his life with their filthy blood?!"
"House Velaryon's glory will be destroyed by your hand!"
The moment the words fell—
Daemon moved.
His hand rested lightly upon Dark Sister's hilt, his voice soft and deadly calm.
"Judging by what you have just said," he murmured,
"I will personally draw your tongue from your mouth—
slowly."
The guards of High Tide froze, hands tightening on their swords, faces pale with panic.
On one side stood Princess Rhaenys.
On the other, Ser Vaemond—respected, powerful, backed by much of the clan.
Where should a blade be pointed?
The air was drawn tight as a bowstring, ready to snap.
Crack.
The chamber door flew open.
Rhaenys Targaryen stepped out, clad in a long red gown, her face worn and hollowed by grief.
Her gaze swept the tense crowd and finally settled on Vaemond.
"Rhaenyra. Daemon," she said, never taking her eyes from him.
"Take the children and leave. Now."
"Rhaenys—he—" Rhaenyra began.
"I said now," Rhaenys repeated sharply.
Rhaenyra's chest rose and fell before she cast Vaemond a final hard look, gathered her sons, and departed swiftly.
Daemon lingered just long enough to give Vaemond one last glance—cold, murderous—before turning away.
Only when their footsteps had fully faded did Rhaenys exhale.
She faced Vaemond and the armed kinsmen behind him.
"Vaemond," she said hoarsely, weary but sincere,
"I understand your anger. I know the family's fears over bloodlines. But this is more complicated than you believe."
"With Laenor gone, Corlys has collapsed. Driftmark cannot endure civil strife. Give me time—when Corlys wakes, he will explain—"
"Explain?" Vaemond cut in sharply.
"Explain so those wild seeds can root even deeper in High Tide?"
He spread his arms, voice ringing with desperate resolve.
"I will wait no longer! I will gather every kinsman who still knows my name—and we will go to King's Landing!"
"Before the Iron Throne, before all the lords, I will demand King Viserys judge this matter!"
"To publicly challenge the named heir is treason!" Rhaenys warned.
"You will be executed!"
"Treason? Execution?"
Vaemond threw back his head and laughed bitterly.
He glanced through the doorway at Corlys's unconscious form.
"What I do is worthy of the Velaryon ancestors buried beneath the sea!"
Drawing a deep breath, he spoke his final words like oath and curse combined:
"If Viserys I executes an old man for defending his true blood—
if he dares stain the blood of his loyal House Velaryon—"
"Then I, Vaemond Velaryon, will die worthy of the Seahorse sigil!"
With that, he turned away.
"Come!"