She slowly raised her right hand, folding it with a solemn and ceremonious posture, as if taking an oath in a sacred hall.
"I, Rhaenys Targaryen, swear upon the true dragonblood that runs through my veins, with honor, that my husband, Corlys Velaryon, and his house shall not be defiled in any way."
Her voice echoed throughout the hall.
"While on Driftmark, Prince Aegon Targaryen shall be regarded as one of our own."
"He shall receive the finest education, learn seamanship, governance, and knighthood, and shall be treated with the same respect and care as Jacaerys and Lucerys."
"No Velaryon shall ever despise him, cause him harm in any form, nor subject him to undue slights or suffering."
She lowered her hand, her eyes burning with intensity. "If I break this oath, may the Seven forsake me and curse me, that upon my death my soul may forever fall into sevenfold hell and be consumed by the fire of cleansing!"
The weight of the vow was so great that even the skeptical Green faction nobles were moved.
"Has the peace upheld by generations of former kings been shattered by our own?"
All eyes turned to the king.
"…Indeed."
Seeing her father still attentive to her, Rhaenyra exhaled in relief. Yet the fruits of this victory were soaked in blood and tears of their kin, and tasting them brought only bitterness and salt, with no joy.
"My children… my beloved family… the ministers I rely upon…"
His voice was hoarse, like worn velvet:
"You have turned my house into a Colosseum…"
No one replied, but even the hardest of men felt a trace of sorrow in that moment.
Viserys' gaze involuntarily fell upon his second son, Aemond, no longer subdued, sitting alone on the floor, a touch withdrawn.
That son… strength, cleverness, care for his mother, and even the madness that had once consumed him…
A sudden, chaotic, absurd thought flashed uncontrollably through Viserys' mind—impossible, yet clear.
But Aemond's demeanor today was sharply changed—cold and resolute beyond his years.
He was not the brooding, withdrawn boy the king remembered; he was no longer himself.
Viserys stopped looking at anyone, pushing aside the Imperial Guard who stepped forward to aid him, and stumbled down the dais as if sleepwalking.
The nobles bowed one by one, their voices a mixture of respect, pity, and perhaps scorn.
"The fire… it has passed…" A wandering voice, ghostlike, finally vanished through the door.
Princess Rhaenyra was the first to turn and depart, followed by her entourage, leaving the hall steeped in solemnity.
Their eyes exchanged glances over the marriage and the important hostage.
Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, looked at his eldest grandson, Aegon, still stunned, mumbling complaints.
Foolish, cowardly, weak… he judged him coldly in his mind.
His attention immediately shifted to his second grandson, Aemond, now free from his suppression, seated on the floor, his eyes burning with a terrifying, icy light.
Otto knew that with the sharpness of the Sea Snake Corlys and the pride of the "Queen Who Never Was" Rhaenys, they would never act foolishly to harm Aegon.
Yet, what worried him most was that they would likely pamper Aegon with luxury—finest delicacies, richest wines, the most charming ladies, and endless flattery…
Spoiling the already weak-willed eldest grandson with every indulgence.
Two years later, softened by wine and wealth, he would return to King's Landing, ambitious no more, with nothing but pleasure and vanity.
What chance would Aegon then have to compete with his sister, Rhaenys, for the Iron Throne?
And Aemond…
Perhaps the Hightowers, and the hopes of the Greens, should focus less on the eldest son.
From now on, invest in cultivating, guiding, and training Aemond, who could one day challenge Aegon for the Iron Throne…
It was the choice most aligned with the Hightowers' long-term interests.
The crowd in the hall gradually dispersed.
At that moment, a slender white hand, fingertips trembling from tension and cold, reached toward Aemond, still seated on the floor, lost in thought.
Aemond slowly lifted his head. His silver hair was slightly tousled, and his pale left cheek bore traces of bruises, yet deep within his violet eyes a quiet flame seemed to burn.
It was Helaena. At some point, she had returned, standing alone, attempting a comforting smile that barely masked her heartbreak.
"Helaena," Aemond said hoarsely, "you don't need to… this was too much for me."
"We are family," Helaena replied softly, but with unusual clarity and firmness. "I… I cannot watch you lose yourself…"
She paused, gathering courage, then continued:
"If all these disputes can be resolved…"
"I am ready," she said, willing to protect her younger brother, whose personality had shifted so suddenly overnight.
Even if forced into marriage, she would give up her own future to defend him.
Aemond remained silent. His gaze fell upon her outstretched, trembling hand.
After a long moment, he slowly reached out and took her slightly cold, small hand.
Warmth and lingering hostility radiated through their palms.
Yet as Helaena thought he would rise, he suddenly lowered his wrist and gently pulled her closer!
"Ah!" Helaena gasped, caught off guard, losing her balance, and fell forward into Aemond's surprisingly firm embrace.
For an instant, time froze. Through thin clothing, their racing hearts were palpable, and the contrasting temperatures of their bodies could be felt.
Helaena's pale cheeks blushed a vivid crimson, spreading to the base of her ears and slender neck.
Her mind went blank, her violet eyes filled with confusion, panic, and disbelief.
A soft "pop" sounded—not a strike, but an instinctive, frightened reaction.
She touched Aemond's right cheek gently, where there was no wound, so he would not feel pain.
Helaena seemed to recoil, retreating a few steps before standing firmly.
She covered her hand, trembling slightly at the fingertips.
Her beautiful violet eyes shimmered with tears, panic, shame, and a faint pulse she barely noticed herself.
"You… you… this is too much, Aemond…" she whispered, her voice frail as a mosquito's.
Aemond—strange, dangerous, and unpredictable—left her slightly bewildered.
She dared not linger, hurriedly lifted her skirts like a startled deer, and fled down the cold, empty corridor, her long silver hair trailing in panic.
Aemond remained seated, slowly raising his hand to shield the right cheek that had just been struck.
A brief daze and momentary clouding in his eyes was stirred awake by the cold corridor wind.
His gaze shifted quickly to a deeper, more intense, and unwavering flame.
"I have not lost yet…" he whispered hoarsely.
Aegon had played his part and remained behind at the cost of returning to King's Landing.
Without Aegon, the Hightower resources would favor him, leaving him the sole prince after King Viserys.
But he would never accept Helaena marrying Jacaerys.
Suddenly, he laughed, unbidden.
The laugh started quiet, repressed in his throat, then gradually rose, bold, unrestrained, and mischievous.
He stood, swaying slightly, body still weak but back straight.
He commanded Vhagar.