At night, within the banquet hall of the Red Keep.
Upon the walls hung tapestries depicting Aegon the Conqueror and his two wives, Aenys I, Maegor I, and Jaehaerys I—those former Targaryen kings of old.
Candle flames flickered restlessly atop silver candelabra, while the long table was laid with deep crimson velvet.
Viserys sat at the place of honor, in a specially padded high-backed chair. A black brocade robe hung loosely from his increasingly emaciated frame.
To the king's left sat the Greens.
Alicent sat upright, the sea-green gown she wore accentuating the long, swanlike line of her neck.
She appeared to have little appetite, only occasionally prodding at the food on her plate with her fork.
Beside her, Aegon kept his head down as he worked on a piece of beef drenched in sauce, silver hair falling forward, nearly covering his eyes.
Aemond sat below Aegon, dressed entirely in ink-black. His silver hair was bound tightly behind his head, and candlelight cast sharp shadows across his youthful profile. He sat half-turned, the food before him untouched.
Helaena sat close beside him, silently eating in small bites.
At the far end on the left sat Otto Hightower, quietly observing everyone present.
Criston Cole and Rickard Thorne, two members of the Kingsguard, stood watch at the doors.
To the king's right sat the Blacks.
Rhaenyra wore dark red, the color marking her status as heir. Her silver-gold hair was arranged in an elaborate coiffure, and her pregnant belly was already clearly visible.
From time to time, she smiled and spoke softly with her father, Viserys.
Daemon lounged lazily against the back of his chair, turning the wine cup in his hand, his gaze fixed on Aemond from beginning to end.
Rhaenyra's three sons sat in order.
Jacaerys sat below his mother, a black eyepatch covering his left eye. His remaining right eye occasionally flicked toward Aemond, filled with resentment. Lucerys and Joffrey sat pressed close to their elder brother, holding their breath in tense silence.
Maidservants moved back and forth, serving the dishes.
Viserys's gaze slowly swept across the long table.
"Of late… I have heard certain rumors."
He looked toward Otto. The Hand immediately set down his knife and fork and inclined his head slightly. "Your Grace, they are merely discontented nobles gossiping about family trifles…"
"I have already ordered people to keep watch. These petty murmurs will not be allowed to disturb the peace of everyone in King's Landing."
"Rumors are born of rifts." Viserys shook his head.
"We are dragonlords. We are Targaryens."
"The last embers of ancient Valyria."
His heavy gaze passed over each of his children's faces.
"Dragons may contend, may tear and bite, but they must not slaughter one another."
"If there are disagreements, they should be resolved within this hall, before the witness of family, with wisdom rather than impulse."
"Not by making the Seven Kingdoms laugh at us."
Rhaenyra immediately leaned forward, hands clasped and resting before her belly, her posture deferential. "Your Grace speaks truly. It is precisely because rumors wound so deeply that your daughter humbly begs you—tomorrow, before all—to proclaim Jacaerys's rights."
"He is my eldest son, the lawful heir to the Iron Throne, and your blood as well."
She looked toward her one-eyed son, a gentle, maternal light softening her gaze.
"If you would acknowledge the heir to the Iron Throne with your own words, many needless suspicions would naturally be laid to rest."
The great hall fell into silence.
Alicent's features tightened. Otto lowered his head, staring at the wavering reflection in his cup.
Aegon's motions as he cut his meat did not pause in the slightest.
Aemond calmly regarded the Black faction.
On the Blacks' side, Daemon slowly sipped his wine. Jacaerys straightened his back, while Lucerys and Joffrey held their breath.
Viserys fell silent.
He looked at his daughter, then at Jacaerys, his gaze lingering for a moment on the black eyepatch.
Under the candlelight, the three children's hair was an ordinary brown, their eyes a common brownish hue.
He had never personally confirmed Jacaerys's right to inherit the Iron Throne—and this was precisely why.
"Inheritance…" he finally spoke, his voice dry. "Let me consider it a little longer."
A shadow flickered through Rhaenyra's eyes, but she immediately smiled again. "Your Grace is thorough in your deliberations. I was too hasty."
"However," she glanced toward Helaena across the table, then back to the king, "little Jace will turn eleven next month."
"As for his marriage to Helaena, I was thinking that once he reaches thirteen, we could hold their betrothal ceremony."
"This union may well make the bonds of our family even stronger."
Alicent's face went pale at once.
She looked toward Viserys, lips parting, her throat working, yet no sound emerged.
Viserys seemed to relax somewhat. In a few years, if Jacaerys were to wed Helaena, confirming the succession then might not be unacceptable.
He looked at Helaena, who kept her eyes lowered, then at the silent Jacaerys, and slowly nodded.
"The matter of the betrothal will be discussed again when Jacaerys turns thirteen. If by then… all aspects are suitable, I will consent."
"Thank you, Father!" Rhaenyra's smile blossomed. She cast a glance across the table at the queen, whose face was drained of color.
Helaena, head bowed, looked at a loss.
At that moment, beneath the table, Aemond gently took her hand. Helaena looked toward her brother, and Aemond gave her a slight nod.
Just then, Aemond set down the silver table knife in his hand.
The knife struck the porcelain plate with a clear clink, the sound piercing in the stillness.
Aemond lifted his head, his gaze sweeping across Rhaenyra and her sons.
"Only birds that cannot build nests of their own are forever trying to seize another's branches."
"For example, cuckoos like to lay their eggs elsewhere, letting other birds rear their chicks."
At last, Aemond's eyes settled on Jacaerys, word by word. "And when those chicks grow, they will push the nest's true eggs out and smash them."
"Enough." Viserys restrained his anger.
Aemond met his father's gaze and waved a hand, his expression utterly calm.
He lifted his wine cup and drained the dark red liquid in a single swallow.
Across the table, Daemon let out a low laugh. He swirled his wine, his gaze hooked and sharp. "My nephew, your teeth are certainly sharp."
"But…" he paused deliberately, drawing everyone's attention to himself, "I have heard something even more interesting."
"They say you can ride two dragons at once—Vhagar, and that hatchling that crawled out of a dead egg?"
At those words, Rhaenyra and her sons all changed color.
Jacaerys's single eye flew wide open, while Lucerys and Joffrey stared at Aemond in disbelief.
Aemond calmly returned Daemon's gaze. He even refilled his cup, raised it slightly in salute. "That is a gift of Targaryen blood, Uncle."
"Only pure power favors pure blood."
His tone shifted, casual and light. "And tainted blood only stains what is pure."
"What do you mean by that!" one-eyed Jacaerys slammed the table and rose to his feet.
"Heh. I was only speaking offhand—someone took it seriously?"
Aemond smiled. "Or is it that… a counterfeit is still a counterfeit, in the end?"
"You!" Jacaerys's fury nearly burst from his chest.
"Silence, Aemond! This is a family banquet!" Viserys shouted harshly.
Aemond lowered his head, without the slightest trace of remorse. "Your Grace, I was never targeting anyone."
"It is only that some people care very much?"
It was nearly pointing at someone's nose and cursing them outright.
Daemon lifted a hand, signaling Jacaerys to sit. The smile faded from his face, a sharp glint flashing through his violet eyes.
"Youth is a fine thing—full of edge."
"But… be careful not to let your wings grow too fast, or they may break in the wind."
"Thank you for your advice, Uncle." Aemond smiled and nodded.
The atmosphere had fallen to freezing point.
The servants stepped forward nervously to change the plates.
A young serving girl approached carrying an enormous silver platter. Upon it lay a suckling pig, roasted to a crisp golden brown, an apple clenched in its mouth, fat glistening beneath the candlelight.
She carefully set the silver platter down in the empty space before Aemond and lowered her head, about to withdraw.
At that moment.
Lucerys looked at the roasted suckling pig, then flicked a glance at Aemond. Thinking of something, he failed to hold back an extremely soft snort of laughter.
The sound was faint, yet in the deathly silence it was like a stone dropped into still water.
Aemond seemed not to have heard it.
He calmly picked up the sharp carving knife the serving girl had left by the platter for cutting the pig. The blade was long and narrow, its cold gleam catching the light.
He did not cut into the ribs or the leg meat. Instead, with a steady wrist, he guided the blade precisely along the joint at the pig's neck.
Hiss.
The faint sound of skin and flesh separating was infinitely magnified in the silence.
With a few crisp, efficient cuts, the intact pig's head—roasted glossy and scorched golden—was cleanly severed from the body.
Aemond directly picked up the pig's head with his hand and turned toward Lucerys.
A calm smile appeared on his face. His voice was clear, ensuring every corner of the hall could hear him.
"Here, Lucerys."
His wrist flicked lightly, and the pig's head traced a short arc through the air.
Thud!
With a dull sound, it landed squarely in the empty plate before Lucerys.
The pig's head lay tilted to one side, its charred mouth stretched open in a grotesque grin, the apple clenched between its jaws seeming to mock in silence.
Aemond set the knife down, then unhurriedly took up a napkin and wiped his fingers. Smiling, he said, "Eat more. As your uncle, I wish you… to grow "strong" quickly."
In an instant, all sound vanished.
Viserys froze in his seat, one hand still pressed to his chest.
Alicent clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
The last trace of Otto's practiced smile vanished completely.
The color drained from Rhaenyra's face. Daemon slowly set down his wine cup, violet eyes narrowing as he watched Aemond.
Cold fury churned in Jacaerys's single eye. Joffrey shrank closer to his brother in terror.
Lucerys stared at the pig's head lying inches away on his plate. Young as he was, his anger rose and fell violently in his chest.
The serving girls and servants stood rigid, scarcely daring to breathe.
Only the candle flames still flickered uneasily, casting every face—shock, rage, and fear—into stark relief.
Then, Aemond rose to his feet, took the newly poured wine from the trembling attendant beside him, and raised his cup toward Lucerys.
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