"Empty rhetoric!"
A voice rang out, cutting off the thoughts of Viserys upon the high seat.
Corlys tapped his staff lightly against the stone floor, producing a dull knock.
"Prince Aemond, you are attempting to use sophistry to obscure the facts."
His gray-blue eyes, like those of a snake locking onto its prey, reconstructed the events with clarity and cold precision as he spoke:
"The fact is, you tamed Vhagar without any authorization."
"This was, without question, a usurpation of Rhaena's and Baela's priority right to first attempt to tame their mother's remaining dragon."
"The fact is, Rhaena and Baela came with Jacaerys and the others to question this. Was that unreasonable?"
"And you were the first to speak viciously, to provoke and hurl insults."
"The fact is, when the conflict had once eased, it was you—Prince Aemond—who struck again because of a single insult directed at your mother."
Each "fact" was like a cold nail, seeking to pin Aemond firmly to the pillar of shame as the principal culprit.
Corlys did not entangle himself at all over who had taken the dagger.
From the root of the matter, he intended to assign the cause and primary responsibility for this tragedy to Aemond.
Aemond felt his throat tighten. This old man…
He could not deny the first two points; they were the mess left behind by the original body.
That stifling sense of having no way to argue back burned at his reason.
"He insulted my mother!"
Aemond snapped his head around. The suppressed flames in his violet eyes were on the verge of erupting as he stared hard at Lucerys.
"As a son, upon hearing someone so slander one's own mother, could anyone remain calm?"
Lucerys shuddered under that gaze, yet he still shrieked back, "It was… it was you who called us Strongs' bastards first!"
He shouted out that taboo surname.
Strong.
That word, like a poisoned needle, pierced the stagnant air of the hall.
At once, the expressions of many nobles turned subtle and complex, and whispers rose again.
It struck at the kingdom's most sensitive and deeply buried rumor.
Corlys was not led astray by Aemond. He spoke calmly: "Jealousy, resentment, long-standing grievance… Prince Aemond."
"We have ample reason to suspect that this was not a momentary impulse, but that you harbored motive—and perhaps even acted with intent."
He leaned forward slightly and said coolly: "For example, amid the melee, you seized the moment to shove Lucerys while he held the dagger, and cleverly tripped Jacaerys."
"Making everything appear as an unfortunate tragedy?"
His words left Aemond feeling as though thorns were at his back.
"Motive?"
Aemond suddenly let out a low laugh, shook his head, and his violet eyes swept over Corlys, then passed over Rhaenyra and Daemon, as he said: "Lord Corlys, if I truly harbored ill intent and meant to murder Jacaerys, would I choose Driftmark?"
"Would I act on territory you Velaryons run like an iron fortress?"
"In full view of everyone?"
He stepped forward and abruptly raised his voice: "If I truly possessed the kind of deep and calculating scheming you describe—"
"I would have chosen a more concealed time, a place known to no one, ensuring that I could withdraw cleanly!"
"Not stand here as I am now—being accused, being judged!"
His gaze finally settled on Rhaenyra as he spoke with cold composure: "Moreover, what benefit would harming Jacaerys bring to me—to any of us?"
"To let all Seven Kingdoms feast their eyes on the spectacle of Targaryen kin slaying kin?"
"To plunge our father, His Grace the King, into utter grief?"
"Or to tear Hightower and Velaryon completely apart, pushing the realm to the brink of division?"
He drew a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. The unhealed wound on his left cheek seeped fine beads of blood with the surge of emotion: "If I truly wished to contend for anything, Lord Corlys, what I should do is win over allies, form alliances, and demonstrate my worth."
"Not bear the stain of attempted kinslaying and become the target of all."
"Dragging myself, my mother, and our entire house into utter ruin!"
His voice was decisive, echoing through the hall: "I am only twelve years old, Lord Corlys. But I am not a fool."
"At the very least, not so foolish as to plot an accident so stupid, so riddled with holes, that it harms others only to harm myself even more!"
In Alicent's tightly clenched fist, her nails had already dug deep into her palm; thin lines of blood seeped out, yet she felt none of it.
The queen cast a pleading look toward her father, Otto, the Hand, her eyes filled with entreaty.
Otto, however, merely stood there in silence, weighing matters.
Aegon stared with his mouth agape, looking at his younger brother as though he were a stranger.
When had this younger brother—usually gloomy, withdrawn, and the object of his mockery—come to possess such sharp and forceful eloquence?
Helaena—her violet eyes fixed on Aemond as he was hunted from all sides—was filled with worry and fear. Seven save him… please protect my brother…
"Someone who can master Vhagar at twelve years of age is, of course, no fool."
Daemon suddenly let out a scoff, breaking the brief silence.
With his arms folded, head tilted, he examined Aemond with a scrutinizing gaze.
"You are ambitious, little one."
"You want to prove yourself. You want everyone to see that you are more worthy of Vhagar than Rhaenyra's children…"
He deliberately drew out the last words, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cold sneer: "Or perhaps… more worthy of something else?"
The unfinished words hung over everyone's hearts.
Rhaenyra's gaze sharpened abruptly as she studied this half-brother of hers with true seriousness for the first time.
A strong sense of wariness rose within her. His difficulty far exceeded her expectations.
"Enough!"
Viserys slammed his hand against the arm of the throne, the crown upon his head—never seated all that securely—tilting askew.
"I did not come here to hear you accuse one another and scheme against each other!"
His voice was hoarse and trembling as he said, "One of my grandsons… lies there, having lost an eye—his life uncertain!"
"My other child… stands accused by you of plotting to harm his own blood!"
He swept his gaze over them all: "This is my family! This is the blood of House Targaryen! You… you…"
He bent forward, coughing so hard he nearly lost his breath. The Kingsguard hurried to step in.
When his breathing steadied somewhat, he lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Aemond, his expression exceedingly complex.
"Aemond… you mounted Vhagar."
"Without permission—was this a fact?"
Aemond was silent for a moment. Meeting his father's gaze, he answered plainly, "Yes."
"Why?" Viserys's voice was heavy with exhaustion and confusion. "Why at this moment? In this way?"
Aemond raised his head. His eyes were bright and resolute.
"Because the dragon chose me, Father."
His voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly through the hall: "In the storm, I walked toward her."
"She did not unleash dragonfire. She did not give a warning roar."
"She lowered her head to me."
"That was the oldest living dragon, the proudest of them all."
"I climbed onto her back, and she did not cast me off."
Gradually, his tone took on an almost fervent intensity: "Dragons acknowledge only Targaryen blood."
"Vhagar once belonged to Lady Laena Velaryon, but Lady Laena has already returned to the embrace of the Seven."
"And now, Vhagar has chosen me! That is her will!"
"That was my mother's dragon!"
Behind Daemon, Baela could no longer hold back. She cried out through her tears, "His Grace promised that my sister and I would be allowed to try first!"
"You took her without permission—you stole her!"
"Baela."
Daemon pressed a hand to his daughter's trembling shoulder, yet his gaze never left Aemond. Cold as frost, he said: "So you admit that you stole my daughters' chance?"
"I did not steal anything!"
Aemond's voice rose sharply, his expression turning feral.
"Dragons are not chairs! Not necklaces! Not playthings for you to sit upon or hang around your necks to show off!"
"They are the source of House Targaryen's power!"
"They are living blood and fire!"
He raised his hand and pointed at Lucerys: "And you—you are angry not because of some damned 'stolen chance'!"
"You are angry because of envy! Because of fear!"
"Because you cannot accept that the gloomy, solitary uncle you have bullied since childhood—the one you said was only fit to ride pigs—was acknowledged by Vhagar!"
"While you do not even have the courage to approach her!"
Aemond turned his gaze to Lucerys, whose eyes wavered in uncertainty.
"Lucerys, tell me—when you drew that blade, a blade capable of killing…"
"Did you ever think that I am your uncle? That I am your blood?!"
Corlys closed his eyes, a sigh rising in his heart. This boy had circled back again…
As long as Aemond clung tightly to the point that Lucerys drew the dagger first, seized upon that crucial fact, he could push part of the responsibility back onto Lucerys.
Aemond's chest heaved violently. The bloodstains on his face stood out all the more clearly, yet his eyes shone with a frightening intensity: "I did say the words 'bastards'! I admit it!"
"But I already apologized!"
"I apologized for calling them bastards!"
He turned toward the children of the Blacks and hurled his questions at them, calling them out one by one in a harsh voice: "Lucerys Velaryon! Joffrey Velaryon! Rhaena Targaryen! Baela Targaryen!"
"Before the Seven and before the King, search your consciences and say it—did I not apologize on the spot for those words?!"
"Do you dare swear that I am lying?!"
All of the children of the Blacks fell silent. In the end, they gave faint nods.
Aemond pressed his advantage, his voice hoarse with agitation: "I wanted to end this foolish dispute!"
"I wanted the adults to decide the ownership of Vhagar!"
"But you—Lucerys! It was you!"
"After I apologized and tried to ease matters, you used the most vicious words to insult my mother!"
"You were the one who let the conflict spiral out of control!"
"And I—from beginning to end, even at my angriest—never once thought of truly harming any kin!"
"I never once thought of taking anyone's eye, or their life!"
Lucerys's face turned deathly pale. He staggered back a step, mouth open, yet no sound would come out.
Guilt and fear at having harmed his brother drowned him.
The hall fell into dead silence. Only the crackling of the torches could be heard, along with the people's suppressed breathing.
"Enough…"
Rhaenyra closed her eyes and murmured softly.
She could no longer endure this blood-soaked tug-of-war built upon the tragedy that had befallen Jacaerys…
Moments later, she opened her eyes again and looked toward her father upon the throne, tears sliding down soundlessly.
"Father, at this point… I no longer care who it was."
Those words stunned everyone into silence.
She walked slowly toward the center of the hall and stopped only three steps away from Aemond.
Both bore the unmistakable silver hair and violet eyes of House Targaryen.
Yet at this moment, it was as though an uncrossable glacier and abyss lay between them as they faced each other.
"Aemond," Rhaenyra spoke softly. Beneath that calm lay an inexpressible coldness.
"You hate me. And you hate my children."
"You believe that I took from your mother the respect she deserved."
"You believe that my existence obstructed you and Aegon from the inheritance that should have been yours…"
"These things, perhaps, I can understand."
She paused. More tears rolled down, yet she did not wipe them away, letting them slide freely across her pale cheeks: "Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps everything truly was nothing more than a chain of misfortune—an accident born of your foolishness and the children's impulsiveness."
Her voice suddenly sharpened, her gaze cutting into Aemond like a blade: "But when the accident happened, the cause lay with you!"
"You were there!"
"You were involved from beginning to end!"
"This entire sequence—from your unauthorized taming of a dragon, to the quarrel, to the brawl, and finally to the tragedy…"
"All of it led to my eldest son, Jacaerys, forever losing one eye!"
"No matter how you argue, this outcome cannot be changed!"
She drew a deep breath, as though gathering every last ounce of strength she had: "Lucerys bears his share of responsibility—he must answer for it."
"But you as well, Aemond Targaryen—you also will never escape this responsibility!"
As her words fell, before the stunned gazes of all present, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the proclaimed heir to the Iron Throne, slowly and resolutely went down on both knees before her father, the King.
"Father," she lifted her head. Tears blurred her vision, yet her gaze burned as if it could set the air alight.
"I do not ask for vengeance—an eye for an eye."
"I do not ask that you punish Aemond."
"I ask for only one thing."
"Justice."
When Viserys saw his daughter kneel, it was as if he aged many years in an instant.
He struggled to rise, leaning forward and reaching out his hand.
"Rhaenyra… rise… my daughter, rise first…"
"What kind of justice do you seek?"
Rhaenyra straightened her back, letting the tears flow freely. Her voice was clear and firm as it carried through the deathly silent hall: "I ask that you, in the name of the King, publicly acknowledge and proclaim that Jacaerys Velaryon, your eldest grandson, my eldest son—"
"—shall be the future, indisputable first heir to the Iron Throne!"
"His place in the succession is to be made explicit, before Aegon and Aemond!"
"I ask that you swear before the Seven and before the realm that, no matter what may happen in the future, no matter what accusations or rumors may arise, Jacaerys's right of succession will not be shaken in the slightest because of this injury!"
"I ask that you issue a royal command and proclaim this throughout the Seven Kingdoms, to establish it beyond doubt."
She paused, then delivered her "terms" of exchange, calm and precise: "So long as you grant these things, I, Rhaenyra Targaryen, will accept that tonight was nothing more than a grievous accident."
"Aemond will face no punishment over this matter. The ownership of Vhagar shall likewise, in accordance with the dragon's will, belong to Aemond."
"The events of tonight end here."
The hall erupted completely.
Cries of alarm, sharp intakes of breath, and murmurs of discussion broke out at once.
The color drained entirely from Alicent's face. She staggered, nearly fainting, held upright only by the servants behind her who clutched her tightly.
Otto saw his pupils contract to pinpoints; the mountain-steady composure he had maintained at all times finally showed a crack.
Beside him, the faction of Green nobles burst into irrepressible agitation.
At the corner of Corlys's mouth, the slightest upward twitch appeared—then vanished at once.
Prince Daemon looked at Rhaenyra kneeling on the floor, a flash of approval crossing his eyes.
She had finally understood that at moments like this, tears and pain could be the softest of weapons—and also the hardest of bargaining chips.
Jace had already lost an eye. Nothing could be undone.
Better, then, to secure his right of succession.
By now, the focus of contention had long since shifted—from who had blinded whose eye, entirely toward that cold iron chair.
Aemond stood alone at the eye of the storm in the center of the hall, looking at his father upon the throne, trapped in hesitation and inner struggle, looking at his sister kneeling on the floor, retreating in order to advance, yet pressing forward step by step.
An indescribable sense of absurdity welled up in his heart.
This kind of favored, fearless calculation—so naked, so cruel, and yet so utterly taken for granted.
He would not gamble on the chance that Rhaenyra, or Jacaerys, should one day become King, would ever spare him…