Morning sunlight pierced the tall windows of Maegor's Holdfast like a sharpened blade.
Aemond stood before a bronze mirror, fastening his belt.
The reflection showed a face no longer touched by boyhood—silver hair bound neatly at the nape of his neck, violet eyes like cold stars, and a jaw set hard with resolve.
"Enter."
Ser Criston Cole pushed the door open. His white cloak was immaculate as ever, and he halted at the threshold.
"Your Highness," he said.
"The time has come. His Majesty awaits you in the Throne Room."
Aemond did not turn, adjusting the buckle of his bracer with care.
"Where is Ser Vaemond?"
Cole paused. His shoulders tightened slightly beneath his armor.
"The Hand, Lord Otto, asked me to remind you of today's hearing," he said carefully.
"The matter is… delicate. Choose your words with care."
He hesitated, then added more quietly,
"At the very least… do not make things harder for His Majesty."
"Harder?" Aemond shook his head faintly.
"Then he should have done nothing."
"Your Highness—" Cole began, then stopped himself.
—
Eyes shifted back and forth between the Greens and the Blacks.
At the center of the hall, a long crimson carpet stretched straight ahead, leading to the far end—
to the Iron Throne, forged from a thousand enemy blades.
King Viserys I sat upon it himself.
There was no cushioning on the throne today.
Though the king had once followed Aemond's advice to pad the seat, this very morning he had personally ordered all padding removed.
Now he sat directly among the jagged edges of steel.
The Valyrian steel crown weighed heavily upon his brow.
Yet the violet eyes inherited from ancient Targaryen forebears still upheld the dignity of a king.
Just below and to the left of the Iron Throne stood a carved seat.
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat there firmly. Her pregnant form was wrapped in a long white velvet gown, her belly unmistakably rounded beneath the fabric.
Her silver-gold hair was gathered into an intricate knot at the back of her head, adorned with tiny ruby pins.
Her expression was calm.
Beside her sat Daemon Targaryen.
The prince wore rare formal attire today—a dark coat embroidered with a deep crimson three-headed dragon. At his waist hung the legendary Valyrian blade, Dark Sister.
Behind them stood Rhaenyra's three sons.
Jacaerys Velaryon stood at the front, a black patch covering his left eye, stark against his pale face. He wore black-and-red Targaryen colors, cut in the fashion of a dragonlord.
Lucerys and Joffrey stood slightly apart from their elder brother, lips pressed tight. The younger boys wore sea-blue Velaryon garments bearing the silver seahorse sigil.
Nearby, Aegon Targaryen lounged lazily against the back of his chair, silver curls tousled, stifling a yawn.
Helaena sat on the other side of her mother, head lowered, long silver-gold hair veiling her face.
Aemond's seat stood empty.
All were waiting.
At last, the heavy doors swung open under the guards' hands.
Aemond Targaryen entered the Throne Room.
He stopped before the throne and bowed his head, eyes lifted toward the Iron Throne itself.
"Your Majesty," he said. His voice was clear and even, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling like a stone dropped into a deep well.
Viserys studied his second son for a brief moment.
"Return to your place."
Queen Alicent turned her head slightly, watching her son's cold, restrained profile. She knew Aemond too well.
Beneath that calm surface churned something close to madness.
She also knew that if Vaemond Velaryon insisted on pressing his accusation today, he would be courting his own death.
Helaena peeked at her brother through the curtain of her hair. Aemond caught her gaze and offered her a small smile.
At that moment, the doors opened once more.
Vaemond Velaryon entered.
The old knight of Driftmark was dressed in full Velaryon regalia—a dark blue velvet doublet densely embroidered with silver seahorses, a flowing cloak draped over his shoulders. His silver hair was neatly combed, his lined face unreadable.
Thirteen Velaryons followed behind him—
aged captains with white beards, stewards of the harbor, kinsmen of the blood, and even children hardened by salt wind and sea spray.
The nobles held their breath.
Vaemond advanced to the center of the hall, stopped forty paces from the Iron Throne, bowed deeply, and spoke in a loud, steady voice.
Viserys inclined his head slightly.
"Ser Vaemond Velaryon. You petitioned the Crown for judgment, and now you have it."
"Speak. What is it you seek?"
Vaemond straightened.
A low murmur rippled through the nobles, like the unease before a storm.
Upon the Iron Throne, Viserys raised his hand. Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward and barked sharply:
"Silence!"
The sound barely faded.
Viserys leaned forward, fingers digging into the armrest of the throne.
"Do you understand," he said, "that to slander the heir to the Iron Throne—even as a nobleman—is a crime I will never forgive?"
"I understand, Your Majesty," Vaemond replied, lowering his head.
When he lifted it again, his eyes burned.
"That is precisely why I must speak."
"First: she defiled her marriage pact, committed adultery while lawfully wed, and bore bastards."
"Second: she seeks to deceive the realm by disguising these three children of unknown seed as trueborn heirs of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, in an attempt to usurp the inheritance of the Iron Throne and Driftmark!"
"Third: she tramples her vassals, scorns the laws and dignity of an ancient house, and defiles the Velaryon sigil with lies and deceit!"
Each accusation fell like a hammer upon stone, echoing through the hall.
The nobles fell utterly silent.
Hundreds of eyes turned as one toward Rhaenyra.
Her face remained composed.
Daemon rose to his feet.