Sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, illuminating those who had come to pay homage in the Throne Room.
The Iron Throne loomed high above them, forged from a thousand swords surrendered by defeated enemies, a symbol of the Conqueror Aegon's supreme authority.
Its blades pointed upward, their edges still sharp.
Aemond sat upon it with complete ease.
He wore a fitted black velvet doublet beneath a dark crimson cloak embroidered with the three-headed dragon. His silver hair spilled across his shoulders, gilded by the sunlight pouring through the high windows.
Blackfyre rested across his knees. His fingers tapped lightly against the blade, producing a crisp, rhythmic ring.
Behind him stood Alyn Waters, his new squire.
The thirteen-year-old Velaryon bastard wore a brand-new black uniform.
His back was straight, his face carrying a seriousness far beyond his years.
A group of people stood in the center of the hall.
At their head was Lord Ormund Hightower, dressed in an ornate dark-blue robe with the White Tower embroidered upon its collar.
Beside him stood Prince Daeron Targaryen. The thirteen-year-old prince wore black-and-red robes similar to Aemond's, his silver hair combed neatly into place.
Further back stood Otto Hightower, clad in a plain gray robe, his head lowered so that his expression could not be seen.
There was also Lady Margaery, holding the ten-month-old Lord Lyonel in her arms. Her face was pale, her eyes uneasy.
Behind them stood members of cadet branches of House Tyrell and their bannermen, along with representatives from the noble houses of the Reach.
Alyn took a deep breath and announced loudly: "Protector of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Defender of the Realm—Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen!"
His voice echoed throughout the Throne Room. It still carried a trace of youthful clarity, but also the authority he was trying his best to project.
Everyone lowered their heads in respect.
Aemond's gaze swept across the crowd before finally settling on Daeron.
He smiled.
It was different from his usual cold smile.
This one was genuine, carrying a hint of warmth.
"Daeron," he said. His voice was not loud, yet in the silent hall it carried clearly. "How long has it been? You've grown taller."
Daeron raised his head and smiled as well.
"Brother."
Alyn frowned and was just about to speak.
How could Prince Daeron address him without using his title?
But Aemond raised a hand and gave a slight wave.
Alyn immediately fell silent.
"Mother misses you," Aemond said. "Helaena misses you as well."
Daeron looked at Aemond—at that impossibly handsome face, at those violet eyes—and felt a complicated emotion rise within him.
How long had it been since they last met?
The last time, his brother had still been a youth.
But he had not possessed this... this presence that made people afraid to meet his eyes.
Now he sat upon the Iron Throne, seeming almost fused with the seat forged from swords.
Wherever the Regent's gaze passed, heads lowered and eyes turned away.
"Brother," Daeron said softly, "I almost don't recognize you anymore."
Aemond merely smiled and did not answer.
Among the crowd, Otto lifted his head and stared at his grandson upon the Iron Throne, his expression complicated.
Aemond's gaze left Daeron and settled upon Ormund.
"Lord Ormund."
Ormund immediately stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Grace."
"The Iron Throne is grateful," Aemond said. "Grateful that House Hightower chose to remain loyal to the Iron Throne even in its hour of peril."
Ormund lifted his head, sincerity written across his face.
"You honor us, Your Grace. House Hightower has been loyal for generations. We would never allow anyone to stain that loyalty."
"Rhaenyra, that false queen, poisoned the late king and plunged the realm into civil war. Her crimes deserve death. House Hightower stands ready to fight for the true line."
Aemond nodded, a faint smile on his face.
Ormund quietly breathed a sigh of relief.
Before coming here, his uncle Otto had told him many things about Aemond.
He had been nervous.
But so far, Aemond seemed reasonably courteous toward him.
Then Aemond's gaze shifted to Lady Margaery within the crowd.
Lady Margaery held Lord Lyonel in her arms, her head lowered, her body trembling slightly.
"Lady Margaery."
She looked up and forced a smile.
"Y-Your Grace."
"I've heard," Aemond said calmly, "that House Tyrell has grievances with the royal family."
Lady Margaery immediately dropped to her knees, still clutching the child.
"No, Your Grace! Absolutely not!"
"Is that so?" Aemond asked. "Then why did you refuse the Iron Throne's invitations time and time again?"
Lady Margaery opened her mouth to explain, but no words came.
What could she possibly say?
That they wanted no part in this war?
That they wished to remain neutral?
That they feared backing the wrong side?
"Your Grace," she said desperately, searching for the right words, "it's only... only that my child is still very young. The journey was long and difficult, and I feared—"
"Feared what?" Aemond interrupted.
Lady Margaery had no answer.
Aemond looked at her in silence for a moment.
Then he smiled.
The smile was gentle, but all Lady Margaery felt was a chill crawling up her spine.
"Since you've come this time," Aemond said, "I won't pursue the matter any further."
Lady Margaery let out a breath of relief and was about to offer her thanks when Aemond spoke again.
"Let me see the child."
Her heart immediately tightened once more.
Alyn stepped forward and stopped before her. Bowing slightly, he extended both hands.
"My lady."
Lady Margaery looked at him, at those blue eyes.
She did not want to hand over the child.
But she had no choice.
Slowly, she passed the child into his arms.
Alyn accepted the child and carried him carefully toward the Iron Throne.
Aemond reached out and took the one-year-old boy into his arms.
Lyonel stared at him with wide blue eyes, curiously studying the silver-haired stranger before him.
He neither cried nor fussed. He merely babbled a few incomprehensible sounds before reaching out to grab Aemond's hair.
Aemond looked down at him, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Lady Margaery," he said, a trace of amusement in his voice, "I would like to take Lyonel as my ward. What do you think?"
Lady Margaery's face turned pale once more.
A ward?
Wasn't that simply another word for hostage?
"Th-this..." she stammered, unable to find the words.
"Well?" Aemond's voice grew slightly colder.
Lady Margaery was still hesitating when Lord Ormund spoke up beside her.
"My lady, this is a great honor!"
Lady Margaery looked at the lord, at the ingratiating smile on his face, and felt despair wash over her.
Lowering her head, she gritted her teeth and said, "For my son to become the Prince Regent's ward is... is a blessing for House Tyrell."
Aemond nodded and smiled.
"In that case," he said, "Lyonel and his mother will remain in King's Landing for a few years. I rather like the boy."
The moment the words left his mouth, a disturbance spread through the crowd.
Several members of House Tyrell's cadet branches exchanged glances, displeasure written plainly across their faces.
A middle-aged Tyrell man could not help stepping forward, preparing to speak.
Aemond's gaze swept over him.
The look was mild.
Yet the man's words died instantly in his throat. He could not utter a single syllable.
Aemond rose from the Iron Throne.
"What is it?" he asked. "Do you object?"
The man remained silent.
Aemond did not wait for an answer. Instead, he turned toward the Tyrells and raised his voice slightly.
"Everything House Tyrell possesses today was granted by House Targaryen."
His gaze passed over each of them in turn.
Every head lowered.
No one dared meet his eyes.
"Warden of the South. Lords of Highgarden. Who gave you those honors?"
No one answered.
Lady Margaery drew a deep breath, raised her head, and spoke slowly.
"Your Grace is correct."
"House Tyrell swore an oath. We pledged our lives to House Targaryen."
Holding the child in his arms, Aemond looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Which Targaryen?"
Lady Margaery's heart skipped a beat.
She clenched her teeth and made her decision.
"We are loyal to King Aegon the Second. That false queen, Rhaenyra, forged a will in an attempt to usurp the throne and has now plunged the realm into civil war."
"House Tyrell will never join her in such treason."
Aemond looked at her in silence for a moment.
Then he smiled.
"Excellent."
He began to applaud.
The sound echoed through the Throne Room.
Lord Ormund was the first to react, quickly joining in.
Then came the Hightowers.
Then the Tyrell cadet branches.
The applause grew louder and louder, more and more unified, until it filled the entire hall.
Aemond lowered his hands.
The applause ceased at once.
"Lady Margaery," he said, "I expect to see House Tyrell's loyalty demonstrated in action."
Lady Margaery drew a deep breath, her expression solemn.
"I will immediately notify our bannermen and begin raising an army as quickly as possible to fight for the Iron Throne."
Yet inwardly she could only sigh.
She had no choice.
Both she and her son were in King's Landing, in Aemond's hands.
If she refused to obey, if she sided with Rhaenyra, the Reach houses that had long coveted Tyrell power—the Florents, the Hightowers, and others—would move against her immediately.
Nor would the Greens tolerate a Tyrell regime in the south supporting the Blacks.
There was only one path left to her now.
She had to stand with the Greens.
At the very least, it would keep her son alive.
Aemond nodded and waved a hand.
"You may leave. Lord Ormund and Daeron will remain."
Lady Margaery let out a sigh of relief. Carrying her son in her arms, she followed the crowd out of the Throne Room.
The great doors slowly closed behind them.
In the vast hall, only Aemond, Daeron, and Alyn—standing beside the Iron Throne—remained.
Aemond returned to the throne and sat down, looking at his younger brother.
Daeron looked back at him, his expression complicated.
"Lord Ormund."
Aemond turned his gaze back to Ormund.
Ormund immediately stepped forward.
"Your Grace, what are your commands?"
Aemond looked at him and spoke slowly.
"What do you think of the position of Warden of the Western Reach?"
Ormund froze.
Warden of the Western Reach?
He had never imagined that Aemond would offer such a prize outright.
"Your Grace, this..." His voice trembled slightly.
"You don't want it?" Aemond asked.
"I do! I do!" Ormund bowed at once.
"This is House Targaryen's reward for House Hightower's loyalty," Aemond continued.
Ormund's face flushed red.
He lowered his head deeply, his voice shaking with excitement.
"Your Grace, you have my word."
Aemond nodded.
"I shall judge that loyalty for myself."
After that, Lord Ormund offered a few more declarations of devotion before quietly withdrawing from the Throne Room.
The doors closed once more.
Now only the two brothers remained, along with Alyn standing silently in a corner.
Aemond looked at Daeron and was silent for a moment.
"Daeron."
"Truthfully, I would rather see you become Warden of the Western Reach—or perhaps Prince of the Reach."
Daeron froze.
"In the future, you could replace the Hightowers. What do you think?" Aemond continued.
Daeron's expression changed.
"Brother, you..."
"The Hightowers are powerful," Aemond interrupted calmly.
"We cannot afford not to guard against them."
Daeron stared at him in disbelief.
"You consider the Hightowers enemies too?"
"Not now," Aemond replied.
"In the future, perhaps."
"They're our mother's family!" Daeron's voice rose. "They're Mother's kin!"
"I know," Aemond said.
"Then why—"
"Because they have always been ambitious," Aemond interrupted, his violet eyes fixed on him.
Daeron fell silent for a long time.
Finally, he spoke.
"Brother... why are you doing this?"
Aemond looked at him without answering.
"I thought," Daeron said, "that you were only fighting the Blacks."
"I thought that once the war was over, everything would return to peace."
"But I never imagined you'd treat even your own mother's family as potential enemies."
Aemond rose from the Iron Throne and looked at him.
"My goal..."
"...is to restore House Targaryen's rule over the Seven Kingdoms."
"No hardship will stop me from restoring Targaryen glory."
Daeron looked up at him.
"Maegor wanted to strip power from the nobles too."
"You should know how stubborn those lords become when their bottom line is threatened."
"Even Maegor failed."
"Why do you think you can succeed where he couldn't?"
Aemond let out a quiet laugh and looked at him.
For an instant, Daeron saw something burning within his brother's eyes.
"Maegor failed," Aemond said. His voice was low, but every word struck like a hammer.
"But I won't."
He descended from the throne and approached Daeron.
Lowering his head slightly, he locked eyes with his younger brother.
"Daeron, do you know what it felt like the first time I killed someone?"
Daeron said nothing.
Aemond continued.
"You hold a sword."
"You swing it at a man."
"One strike across his neck."
"Then the blade gets stuck..."
His voice remained calm, but Daeron felt his scalp go numb.
After a brief pause, a faint smile appeared on Aemond's lips.
"Later, I understood something. A sword doesn't fail to cut through bone for any mysterious reason."
"It's simply because your sword isn't sharp enough."
He reached out and patted Daeron on the shoulder.
"Do you understand?"
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