Supported by the Kingsguard, the king staggered in at a run, his face pale as a yellow antelope, his breathing heavy and ragged.
His wife, Queen Alicent, followed close behind, her green gown neat and immaculate.
But the instant the queen's gaze fell upon the scene, her breath caught—blood marks on Aemond's face, the dagger in Jacaerys's eye. The queen raised a hand to cover her mouth, locking her shock behind her lips.
"Seven save us…" Viserys looked at the sight before him, his body swaying slightly. "This… this is…"
"Your Grace!" Rhaenyra, cradling her unconscious eldest son, turned back, tears carving tracks down her face. "Look! Look at what your good son has done!"
"He tried to murder my eldest son! He stabbed a dagger straight through his eye!"
"No, that's not how it was!" Alicent rushed forward, placing herself between Aemond and those accusatory stares.
"Look at Aemond's face!"
"He's injured too! This must have been an accident!"
"An accident?" Daemon's cold laugh echoed off the stone walls. "Your Grace, just how many coincidences does it take for a dagger to end up neatly inside a child's eye socket?"
"When children roughhouse, anything can happen!" Alicent's voice grew sharp.
"They must have struck first!"
"They slashed Aemond's face—Your Grace, look!"
"It was Lucerys who drew the dagger; he injured his own brother by mistake," Aemond repeated calmly, his violet eyes utterly unruffled.
"You're lying! I didn't!" Lucerys shouted at once.
"It was you."
"I saw it too—it was Aemond who stabbed Jacaerys." The other children chimed in, voices overlapping.
Chaos surged like a tide, drowning the dragonpit.
"Enough!" Viserys's roar tore through the clamor.
The king's gaze wavered in agony between his blood-soaked second son and his eldest grandson, barely clinging to life.
His kingdom, the peace he had labored so long to maintain, his family already as fragile as thin ice—all of it shattered completely in this moment.
"First… first save the child," he finally said weakly. "Maester! Where is the maester!"
The accompanying maester and his assistants hurried forward, then all drew in sharp breaths at the sight of the injuries.
They padded the area around the dagger with cloth and carefully lifted Jacaerys.
The unconscious boy no longer screamed; only broken, low moans escaped him, his body twitching from time to time.
Each twitch drained a little more color from Rhaenyra's face.
After Jacaerys was carried away, only a pool of dark red—nearly black—blood remained on the stone floor, along with a few drops of a clearer, thicker liquid.
The dragonpit fell into deathly silence.
All eyes were fixed on Aemond.
Alicent tried to shield her son more tightly, but Aemond gently pushed his mother's arm aside and stepped forward.
He stared at the pool of blood, met Rhaenyra's hollow, hatred-filled gaze, Daemon's amused scrutiny, and finally his father Viserys's face—woven with grief, fury, and a deep, crushing helplessness.
"Father, it wasn't me," Aemond's voice was clear and resolute. "It was Lucerys—"
"Five children have all identified you, and you're still quibbling!" Viserys said, brooking no argument, as his hand came down in a slap.
"Would five children band together just to falsely accuse you?"
"You're the oldest one here!"
Smack!
Aemond neither dodged nor retreated; a trace of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
"You would rather believe them… than trust your own flesh and blood?" He lifted his head and looked straight at that father.
Viserys stared at the defiant fire in his son's eyes.
In that instant, doubt slithered into his heart like a venomous snake—could he truly have been wronged?
"Your Grace! Would you rather trust these outsiders than your own blood?" Queen Alicent, seeing him strike his own son, flared with anger.
"Queen, mind your words. I am the king's eldest daughter," Rhaenyra shot back coldly.
"My sons also carry Targaryen blood and possess the right to inherit the Iron Throne."
"I am the king's own brother. In the queen's eyes, are my daughters also outsiders?" Prince Daemon spoke indifferently. "Besides, five children have spoken with one voice in accusing Aemond, Your Grace."
Aemond knew this all too well: on the scales of Viserys's heart, he had never weighed even a tenth as much as his elder sister Rhaenyra.
He turned his head, his resentful violet eyes sweeping over Lucerys; the boy lowered his head, not daring to meet his gaze.
The other lying children also averted their eyes one after another.
Smack!
Another slap landed.
Viserys was angered by the hatred in Aemond's eyes that refused to be extinguished.
"After everything that's happened, you still dare to threaten them!"
"Aemond! Don't be like this…" Alicent dropped to her knees and held her son tightly. "Your Grace—if you must strike someone, strike me instead!" The queen lifted her tear-streaked face.
"You… you…" Viserys looked at the pleading queen, his raised hand frozen in midair. Already frail, the king could not withstand the repeated shocks; his body slackened, and he nearly fainted.
"Your Grace!" The Kingsguard hurried forward.
Rhaenyra cast Aemond one last hateful glare. She had no time to spare now—Jace's fate hung in the balance, and she had to hurry to him at once.
Daemon watched Aemond, held tightly by his mother yet still standing with his spine straight. He raised a hand and lightly patted his own cheek, an undisguised provocation crossing his face.
He admired the boy's toughness—but unfortunately… he would always stand on Rhaenyra's side.
They were never meant to walk the same path.
And this time, this matter had to be used to make the Greens pay a price.
Daemon led the children away.
At that moment, heavy, measured footsteps came from the other end of the passageway—leather boots and a metal staff striking the stone floor in alternation, one beat after another, like blows landing on the heart.
A tall, imposing figure appeared at the entrance to the dragonpit, blocking part of the flickering torchlight.
Lord Corlys Velaryon had arrived.
He had not rushed here in haste; he was fully dressed, a deep blue velvet coat embroidered with a silver sea-tide sigil, his white hair impeccably arranged.
Every wrinkle on his face seemed carved by sea winds, his expression cold and firm as a reef.
Corlys did not immediately look toward the grandchildren who were leaving, nor did he look after the Jacaerys being carried away.
Although whispers circulated among the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms that Rhaenyra's three sons were in fact Strongs' bastards, Jacaerys was still his nominal eldest grandson, the bond linking House Velaryon to the Iron Throne.
Those sharp, hawk-like gray-blue eyes of his first swept over the shocking bloodstains and viscous fluid on the ground.
Corlys's gaze briefly met Daemon's as the latter was about to leave.
Between the two men, some understandings required no words.
They were both Blacks, the most steadfast supporters of Princess Rhaenyra.
The trace of amusement at the corner of Daemon's mouth deepened, while Corlys's expression was like the sea stilled before a storm—profound and unfathomable.
As the Kingsguard had just helped the king—who could barely keep his footing—to stand, and Queen Alicent was still weeping amid the chaos, Corlys's steady voice cut in like a blade: "Your Grace."
Viserys looked at him in anguish. "Corlys… you saw it all…"
"I saw the irreversible harm suffered by the heir of House Velaryon."
Corlys did not raise his voice, yet the dragonpit fell instantly silent. "And I also saw that the perpetrator is still standing here."
Alicent lifted her head sharply. "Lord Corlys! This was an accident! The children were fighting and lost control… it was Lucerys who, by mistake, injured his brother Jacaerys."
"Your Grace," Corlys inclined his head slightly, every courtesy observed, his tone nonetheless leaving no room for doubt, "when a weapon pierces a prince's eye socket, it has already gone beyond the bounds of children's roughhousing."
"This is an act of violence— a grave violation against the future of the realm, against Driftmark, and against the king's bloodline."
He stepped forward slowly, his staff tapping lightly against the ground. "Princess Rhaenyra is my daughter-in-law. Jacaerys Velaryon is my eldest grandson."
"Flowing in his veins is the blood of both Targaryen and Velaryon, inheriting the name of the tides."
"To harm him is an open provocation against Driftmark, against the entire Velaryon fleet, and against the royal navy of the realm."
"Your Grace," he turned toward the unsteady Viserys, "this incident occurred on Driftmark, beneath the roof of House Velaryon."
"As the lord of this land, and as the head of the injured family, I now demand—and must participate in—a full investigation and a just trial regarding this matter."
"The honor of House Velaryon, and even the stability of the realm, hinge upon this."
He did not explicitly call for Aemond's life or for punishment, yet the words just trial carried a crushing weight in every syllable.
Queen Alicent's face went deathly pale.
As the legitimate daughter of House Hightower, she understood all too clearly that this tragedy had escalated from a family conflict into a political storm between the two most powerful vassal houses beneath the Iron Throne.
Even if her son Aemond were telling the truth, every other child present claimed that it was Aemond who did it.
In terms of testimony alone, her side was already at a natural disadvantage…
Cradled in his mother's arms, Aemond understood the implication.
He calmly watched the old man known as the "Sea Snake."
This man was not here to mourn—he was here to reap.
He intended to trade what could be gained from a single eye for a firmer alliance, more advantageous concessions, and greater weight in the future succession of the throne.
After speaking, Corlys inclined his head slightly to the king once more, as though everything he had just said were merely a statement made in the line of duty.
Then, without another glance at Aemond or Alicent, he turned and strode steadily in the direction Rhaenyra had left.
After he departed, King Viserys—under the combined weight of overwhelming grief, fury, and naked political coercion—finally collapsed into unconsciousness.
"Your Grace!"
Cries of alarm rang out once more.
In the dragonpit, only Alicent, her ladies-in-waiting, and Aemond were left in the end.
The queen held her son tightly. What she felt was not only his trembling, but also a despair like falling into an abyss.
Aemond let his mother hold him as memories churned in his mind. In the original course of history, it was he who lost an eye, in exchange for his mother's knife-wielding frenzy and the Greens' even firmer resolve to stand by him.
The Blacks, taking the matter no further in return for his claim over Vhagar, had departed with ease.
In all of this, his father Viserys's favoritism toward Rhaenyra had played a decisive role.
But now, the one who had lost an eye was Jacaerys.
What this brought was an irreconcilable hatred with his elder sister Rhaenyra, a feud without end.
It would hand House Velaryon the most perfect pretext to launch an attack.
And he—Aemond Targaryen, only twelve years old—was to be nailed to the pillar of shame for attempted kin-slaying, his reputation utterly ruined throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Alicent turned around and cupped his face. Her fingers were icy, trembling slightly.
"Does it hurt, my child… what did they do to you…" Her voice was broken, tears gathering in her eyes.
Aemond did not answer.
He looked at his mother's anxious face and let out a silent sigh in his heart.
His father Viserys, who always tried to mend everything—just how many seeds of disaster had he sown for House Targaryen?
He had given dragons to House Velaryon, nourishing their ambitions.
He had coveted Alicent's youth, married his daughter's close friend, and driven former companions into open rupture.
He had also allowed House Hightower to glimpse a crack leading toward the Iron Throne.
Years earlier, the Great Council had already established male-preference succession, and Viserys himself had ascended the throne by virtue of that ruling.
Yet now the king insisted on naming his eldest daughter Rhaenyra as heir, running directly counter to the Great Council's decision,
planting the tinder for a future civil war.
Every act of goodwill and compromise by Viserys was pushing the entire House Targaryen closer to the abyss.
And this time, his father's favoritism still had not changed.