The banquet progressed with a calculated rhythm. Between gulps of heavy wine, Aegon Targaryen spoke of his sovereignty over the Stepstones, laying his claim bare before Vaemond Velaryon. Yet, the Prince soon realized that his guest operated on a much simpler, more jagged frequency. Vaemond was not a man of subtext; his intellect was as blunt as a warhammer, and his heart was consumed by a singular, burning grievance.
As the strong liquor took hold, Vaemond's caution dissolved into a slurry of bitterness.
"My uncle has surely lost his wits," Vaemond spat, his voice thick with intoxication. "To name that little bastard Lucerys as his heir... even Baela's blood is purer, and she is a girl!"
He was a man obsessed with the sanctity of the seed. To Vaemond, the world was built upon the bedrock of lineage, and any deviation was an affront to the gods.
"History remembers more than names, Prince," he growled, slamming his cup onto the trestle table. "It remembers the blood. The Velaryons have walked the seas for a thousand years, and never—not once—have we had an heir with hair the color of dirt and eyes like a commoner's."
Aegon donned a mask of grave concern. "Mind your tongue, Ser Vaemond. We all know the truth of the matter, but truth is a dangerous guest at a royal table. Be careful you do not invite a disaster you cannot outrun."
The Prince's words were meant to soothe, yet they acted as oil upon a guttering flame. Vaemond's face contorted with rage.
"That whore calls herself a Queen, but she lacks the dignity of a camp follower! Had she given birth to but one silver-haired child, the whispers would have died in the cradle. I would have held my peace! But two dragonriders of the purest Valyrian stock coupling to produce three brown-haired runts? It is an insult. It is a pile of dung thrown upon the reputations of two Great Houses!"
He gnashed his teeth so loudly the sound carried over the crackle of the hearth. In the courts of the Seven Kingdoms, the mockery was already a dull roar. The "Strong" boys were a joke told in every tavern from Oldtown to White Harbor.
Aegon leaned in, his eyes shimmering with a cold, golden light as he poured another measure of wine. "And what does your complaint buy you, Ser? You have no lands. You command no army. You possess no right of inheritance. Without a voice of steel, you are destined to remain here, garrisoning a salt-stained rock, exposed to the elements while bastards lounge in the halls of your ancestors. It seems... a cruel injustice."
Vaemond's expression froze. He drained his cup, the weight of his own insignificance suddenly pressing down on him.
He was the son of a second son. Even if Laenor and Laena were both in their graves, the laws of the Realm and the stubbornness of Lord Corlys stood like a wall between him and the Driftwood Throne. Corlys was a man of pride; he would rather see a bastard sit on the throne than admit his house had been cuckolded.
"I am the blood of Driftmark," Vaemond whispered, his voice cracking with resentment. "But the succession will never find me."
"Perhaps... it is not entirely beyond hope," Aegon murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial silk.
"What hope is there?" Vaemond scoffed.
"We all know that bastards have no right to inherit," Aegon said, watching the man closely. "And Baela and Rhaena bear the Targaryen name. They are of the blood royal, yes, but they are not Velaryons by law."
"So? My uncle will still find a way to place them over me. He would see a dog inherit before he saw his second brother's line prosper."
"And what of a King's decree?" Aegon's lips curled into a sharp, predator's smile.
Vaemond went still. The realization hit him like a physical blow, his eyes widening as he stared at the Prince.
The King could not easily meddle in the internal squabbles of a vassal, but a King's word was law. If Aegon sat upon the Iron Throne, he could strip the illegitimates of their standing and name Vaemond as the "First Legitimate Heir" of House Velaryon.
For a brief, flickering moment, Vaemond was unusually shrewd. He raised his cup, his gaze steady. "Prince Aegon, your kindness is noted. I shall toast to your health. But the future is a mist, and no man knows what lies within it."
He leaned back, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Lord Corlys sent word three days ago. He ordered me to withdraw from Bloodstone immediately. But I told myself I would not leave this isle until you arrived. To do otherwise would be to hand the Stepstones to the enemy on a silver platter."
"I am in your debt for that," Aegon said, raising his own cup in return. "And what of your plans once you return to Driftmark?"
"I do not know," Vaemond sighed. "To rest. To brood. To watch the bastards play in my halls."
"Are you interested in a more... active pursuit?" Aegon chuckled, extending the olive branch at last. To win Vaemond was to plant a cancer in the heart of his sister's support. "Help me win this war."
"If I have no duties elsewhere, I would be honored to help Your Highness deal with the Kingdom of the Three Whores and those sun-scorched Dornishmen."
"Splendid," Aegon said, a warm smile masking the cold calculation in his heart. "With your experience, the Triarchy shall be little more than a nuisance."
Inside, however, Aegon was cursing Corlys Velaryon. Only five days ago, he had written to the Sea Snake seeking an alliance in the Stepstones. The old man had responded by ordering his garrison to withdraw—a petty, spiteful move designed to leave Aegon vulnerable.
Disgusting, Aegon thought, his smile never wavering. Let the Sea Snake play his games. Once I have cleared these islands, the merchant fleets will pay a ten percent tax to pass. But for House Velaryon? For them, the price shall be thirty.