Inside the private box, Aegon stood there, as though he had been struck awake.
He looked at his wife—the girl younger than he was, yet more mature. She had silver hair and blue eyes, and a striking beauty.
In King's Landing, she used the wealth of House Rogare to help him befriend and win over court officials; with her wit, she maneuvered on his behalf.
"Alyn…" Aegon said, somewhat ashamed.
"I do not need you to become that kind of man at once," Alyn said softly.
"But I need you to stand forth. Even once—if only for show."
"Let the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms see that the Greens have not only Aemond, but also the eldest son, Aegon Targaryen—their future king."
She paused, then added, "I have arranged it all for you."
"You will enter the lists. You will face a minor lord from the Westerlands. He will lose to you at the proper moment, and the spectacle will be pleasing to behold."
"You need only… remain in the saddle, hold your lance tight, and not fall."
Aegon was silent for a long while. He looked toward the field, where two knights were charging—lances colliding, splinters flying.
The cheers surged and fell like the tide.
"Very well," he said firmly.
Alyn's eyes brightened.
She rose on her toes and pressed a light kiss to her husband's cheek.
"Go and make ready."
"I had your armor brought—the Qohorik steel set. It is light, and well-forged. You will look… most gallant."
Aegon nodded and turned toward the door of the box.
...
On the eastern side of the tourney grounds, the rest area had been divided into small chambers by temporary curtains.
Aemond's chamber was the largest, carpets laid upon the floor, fruit, cheese, and wine set upon the table.
He had just removed his breastplate and wore only the mail shirt beneath, wiping his face with a damp cloth.
Attendants were inspecting the prince's armor and tack, lest anything hinder the bouts to come.
The curtain was lifted, and Helaena stepped inside. She had changed into a lighter silver-blue gown, her hair simply braided and falling over one shoulder.
In her hands she bore a small silver tray, upon it a cup of lemon water and several almond biscuits.
"Mother bade me bring this to you," she said softly. "She said you have sweated much and must take water."
Aemond took the cup and drained it in a single draught.
Then he took a biscuit, broke it in two, and handed half to Helaena.
"You eat as well."
Helaena accepted it and took small bites.
Her eyes never left Aemond's face.
"You were formidable just now."
"It was passable."
"The lance is not my strongest suit."
"They cheered for you."
"They cheer for whatever spectacle they are given."
"They cheer for me today because I won."
"Should another defeat me, they would cheer for him as well."
"Men are born to admire strength."
Helaena spoke with sweet pride.
"That is not the same. In my heart, you will always be the strongest."
"No one can surpass you…"
Just then, a servant's voice came from beyond the curtain: "Your Highness, the Hand of the King seeks audience."
Aemond and Helaena exchanged a glance.
Helaena rose at once. "I shall return to the box."
"Mother needs someone to watch over Jaehaerys and Ysera."
The curtain was lifted, then fell closed again.
Tyland Lannister stepped inside.
The younger brother of the Warden of the West and now the Hand of the King wore a dark crimson robe embroidered with golden lions. His pale golden hair, streaked with gray, was combed without a strand out of place.
A courteous smile rested upon his face.
"Your Highness," Tyland said with a slight bow, "forgive the intrusion upon your rest."
"No need for courtesy, Hand," Aemond said, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. "What is it?"
Tyland sat and drew from his robes a thick roll of parchment, which he spread upon the table.
It was crowded with names—houses, lands, and brief remarks set beside each.
"This is the list of candidates for the future Kingsguard," Tyland said.
"As you commanded, only those between eighteen and thirty years of age, in sound health, and with basic military training among the sons of noble houses have been included."
"We have received more than a thousand applications, from across the Seven Kingdoms—though the distribution is not… even."
Aemond took the list and cast a glance over it.
"Few from the North," he said, tapping the sparse entries from the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands.
Tyland smiled faintly. "The Riverlands are tolerable. House Bracken and House Vance have at least sent men."
"The Vale and the North… none at all."
The Hand spoke with careful restraint.
"The northern territories have long been closer to Princess Rhaenyra."
"Though their present stance is ambiguous, it will require time…"
"Time?" Aemond gave a soft laugh.
"No matter."
"It is enough to bind the whole of the south."
His finger moved across the dense entries from the Reach, the Westerlands, the Stormlands (in part), and the Crownlands.
The names there were thick upon the parchment.
"House Tyrell sent no one?" Aemond asked.
"The old Lord of Highgarden sent a messenger," Tyland replied, "claiming ill health and regret at being unable to attend in person. He offered his wishes for the success of the tourney."
"As for the Kingsguard, he stated that the younger members of his house are inclined to serve their own blood, and thus offered his apologies."
A trace of mockery colored Tyland's tone.
"As for his bannermen… you see here—House Redwyne, House Hightower, House Peake, House Rowan…"
"Those who should come have come, and those sent to contend for the Kingsguard are all trueborn sons or principal heirs."
"And House Baratheon?"
"Lord Boremund himself did not attend, yet many of his bannermen have."
"As for the lord himself…" Tyland paused. "It is said he has lately received envoys from Dragonstone with some frequency."
A flicker of cold light passed through Aemond's eye.
He said nothing, and continued reading.
Then suddenly his finger stopped.
"What is this?" he asked evenly.
The Hand leaned closer to look.
Aemond was pointing to the final entries upon the list—five names set together, marked as belonging to House Velaryon.
"Ah, that," Tyland explained. "After Vaemond Velaryon's death, His Grace ordered that five members of his house have their tongues cut out, though their lives were spared."
"They have now volunteered to join the Kingsguard."
Aemond stared at the five names.
He recalled the stubborn old man, Vaemond Velaryon.
And now these five had come to place themselves in his service…
The Sea Snake's line he would surely wipe out. He would let the realm know that scheming against House Targaryen led only to ruin.
But these "Silent Five" might be allowed to inherit House Velaryon.
Afterward, Tyland bowed and withdrew. Once the curtain had fallen closed, Aemond remained alone in the chamber. Slowly, he unfolded the list again and read it once more from the beginning.
Every name was the measure of a house's stance.
Those who sent their heirs to join the Kingsguard were wagering wholly upon the Greens.
Those who sent second sons or distant kin were merely investing.
And those houses that sent no one at all…
Aemond's finger paused over several minor houses of the Reach.
In theory, they were bannermen to Lord Tyrell, yet Tyrell's position was ambiguous, unwilling to be drawn into the strife between the Blacks and the Greens.
He shifted his gaze to the Stormlands. Many of Lord Boremund Baratheon's bannermen had come.
House Baratheon itself had sent no one to the Kingsguard. It seemed that the muddled old lord Boremund was resolved to support Rhaenyra…
No matter. Whether Lord Tyrell of the Reach and Lord Baratheon of the Stormlands wavered or stood against him, it changed little.
In time, the Crownlands would swallow the entire Riverlands.
Tyrell wavers?
When the war was ended, that would serve well enough as cause to carve flesh from him.
He would divide the Reach into three. One portion would go to House Hightower, steadfast in support of the Greens, styled Warden of the Western Reach. Another would remain to Tyrell, as Warden of the Eastern Reach.
The remainder—from Dragon's Roost to the Blueburn River and the Mander—would be brought under direct rule of the Crownlands.
As for House Baratheon of the Stormlands, that branch kin to the Targaryens… whether they were spared would depend upon how wisely they chose.
Suddenly, Captain Hall of the guard lifted the curtain and announced, "Your Highness, Prince Aegon has entered the field. He… he has won?"
Aemond arched a brow and set the list aside.
Upon the tourney grounds, Aegon sat astride a white destrier, a lance unbroken in his hand.
His opponent—a minor lord from the Westerlands—had been struck by Aegon's lance in the first pass.
The man had risen from the sand, helm cast aside, bowed to the prince, and yielded before the judges.
Aegon raised his lance and saluted the crowd.
Sunlight struck his silver armor, flashing bright.
Strands of silver hair slipped from beneath his helm, stirring in the wind.
From afar, there was indeed something of gallantry about him.
Cheers followed. The smallfolk cried out "Aegon!"
Some of the nobles watched the prince's easy victory with narrowed eyes.
Most of them had trained at arms since childhood; naturally, they perceived a trace of…
Yet soon enough, they applauded as well. To see through and not speak of it was the most basic courtesy.
The applause swelled.
Within the box, Alyn clasped her hands before her breast, pride and excitement plain upon her face.
Queen Alicent and King Viserys also rose to applaud their eldest son, Aegon.
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