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𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐍 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ 𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑫
⛧°。 ⋆༺ sᴇᴀsᴏɴ ᴏɴᴇ ༻⋆。 °⛧
━━━━━━━━━━ .°୭̥ ❁ ˎˊ˗━

𝔗he halls of High Tide were cast in ghostly moonlight, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs the only sound breaking the stillness of the night-until hurried, panicked footsteps shattered the peace.

Vaegon stirred first, ever the lighter sleeper, his sharp senses attuned to the subtle shift in the atmosphere. A soft gasp followed by the urgent whisper of his name had his eyes snapping open. He turned his head to see Rhaena standing beside his bed, her face pale, her violet eyes wide with alarm.

"What is it?" he asked, voice hoarse from sleep but already alert.

Aeron groaned, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow. "It's the middle of the godsdamned night-"

"Someone stole Vhagar!" Rhaena burst out.

The panic in her voice was enough to have Aeron bolting upright, his earlier irritation vanishing as if it had never been.

Vaegon swung his legs over the bed, already moving. "What?"

"She's gone!" Rhaena's voice cracked. "Someone took her!"

Aeron was on his feet in an instant, all remnants of sleep forgotten. "Who?"

Rhaena shook her head, still in too much distress to form an answer.

The twins didn't wait for more explanation. They grabbed their tunics, pulling them hastily over their heads before rushing into the corridor. They barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Baela, who had Jacaerys and Lucerys in tow.

Baela's face was set in a stormy scowl, her fury palpable. "Come on!" she snapped, her voice thick with rage.

Vaegon and Aeron needed no further encouragement. They matched their sister's pace, their blood thrumming with a righteous anger that mirrored her own.

Aeron grabbed Rhaena's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze as they moved, but his own jaw was set in barely restrained fury. Who would dare?

The castle was eerily silent save for their rushed footfalls, the distant crash of the sea against the cliffs a grim accompaniment to the tension in the air. The night was heavy, thick with the scent of salt and storm.

As they reached the dragon pit, they were met with the unmistakable figure of Aemond Targaryen. He stood tall, his posture smug, his chin lifted with barely concealed triumph. The flickering torchlight illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows over his features.

Jacaerys tensed beside them. "It's him."

Aemond smirked. "It's me."

Rhaena stepped forward, fists clenched. "Vhagar is my mother's dragon."

Aemond tilted his head, utterly unfazed. "Your mother's dead," he said flatly. "And Vhagar has a new rider now."

The words sent a ripple of shock through the group, but it was the cruel certainty in Aemond's voice that made Vaegon tense. He stepped forward, fury burning hot in his veins. But before he could act, Aeron grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"She was mine to claim!" Rhaena's voice was shaking with hurt and rage.

Aemond sneered. "Then you should've claimed her." His lips curled into a smirk as he eyed her with disdain. "Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you."

Rhaena lunged at him.

Aemond barely flinched. He shoved her back with little effort, his voice ringing through the night like a whipcrack.

"Come at me again, and I'll feed you to my dragon!"

The words had barely left his mouth when Vaegon's fist connected with his cheek.

The impact was sharp and sudden, Aemond's head snapping to the side.

Then, chaos erupted.

Jacaerys launched himself forward, throwing a wild punch at Aemond. Lucerys followed suit, fists flying. The scuffle was a mess of limbs and anger, the young princes all tangled together in a furious brawl.

Aeron grabbed his twin, yanking him backward before he could dive back into the fight.

"What are you doing?!" Vaegon spat, struggling against his grip.

Aeron hissed in his ear, "That's the king's son, you bloody fool!"

But his words went unheard over the sound of fists landing, of grunts and yells and the scuffle of boots against stone.

Aemond was older, stronger, and though he had taken the first blow, he was quick to retaliate. He caught Lucerys by the collar, hauling him up with a sneer of contempt.

Then, with a voice dripping venom, he spat, "You will die screaming in flames just as your father did."

The word was a curse, a blade sharper than steel.

"Bastards."

Lucerys' face twisted with rage and hurt, his voice trembling as he choked out, "My father's still alive."

Aemond's gaze flickered to Jacaerys, and a cruel grin stretched across his face.

"He doesn't know, does he? Lord Strong?"

Jacaerys' breath hitched. Without hesitation, he drew a dagger.

Aeron's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Jacaerys. No."

But the warning went unheeded. Jacaerys lunged.

Aemond was ready. He knocked the dagger from Jace's grip with ease, shoving him backward. Jacaerys hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from him.

Lucerys scrambled for the blade.

Vaegon's voice rang sharp with warning. "Lucerys, stop!"

But Lucerys did not stop.

Aemond raised a rock high above his head, eyes burning with unbridled fury. He was going to bring it down on Jacaerys.

Lucerys lunged, the dagger flashing in the torchlight.

Then Aemond screamed.

Blood splattered across the stone floor as the blade sliced clean through his eye.

The wailing was deafening. Aemond crumpled to the ground, hands clutching at his face.

"Cease this at once!"

The authoritative bellow of Ser Harrold Westerling cut through the night. The Lord Commander stormed forward, shoving the children aside as he knelt beside Aemond.

The prince writhed in pain, his breaths coming in sharp gasps as blood trickled between his fingers.

Ser Harrold's face was grim as he gently pried Aemond's hands away to assess the damage. He exhaled sharply, murmuring under his breath, "Gods be good."

Without another word, he lifted Aemond and turned toward the main hall.

The remaining children stood frozen, panting, hands bloodied, their hearts still hammering in their chests. The night was no longer quiet. It rang with the echoes of violence, the sting of betrayal, and the weight of a wound that would never truly heal.

𝔗he great hall of High Tide was ablaze with the glow of torches, their flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across the stone floor. The salty tang of the sea clung to the air, but it did nothing to stifle the tension that thickened with each passing moment. The room, grand and adorned with Velaryon banners, was filled with nobles, guards, and the gathered royal family-each figure cast in sharp relief against the darkened chamber.

At the center of it all, Prince Aemond sat stiffly upon a carved wooden chair, his tunic stained with blood, his face pallid under the touch of the maester's wrinkled hands. The old man worked in silence, carefully dabbing at the ruined flesh around Aemond's eye, but nothing could undo what had been done. Beside him, Queen Alicent hovered like a mother dragon guarding her wounded hatchling, her hands twisting with nervous energy, her breath shallow and quick.

King Viserys, his once-magnificent frame now stooped with age and illness, stood before them, his golden crown glinting under the torchlight. Though his body was weak, his voice still carried the weight of his authority as he turned upon his guards, fury barely restrained beneath his weary features.

"How could you allow such a thing to happen?" he demanded, his voice sharp, his eyes flaring with anger. "I will have answers."

Ser Harrold Westerling, his white cloak flowing over the broad lines of his armor, bowed his head, regret clear in the lines of his face. "The princes were supposed to be abed, my King."

Viserys's gaze flickered toward the assembled Kingsguard, his frown deepening. "Who had the watch?"

Ser Criston Cole, ever loyal to the Queen, stepped forward, his expression smooth as polished steel. "The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace."

Viserys's fury grew, his lips curling into a snarl. "You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!"

Ser Harrold's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I am very sorry, Your Grace."

Criston Cole did not flinch. "The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace."

"That is no answer!" Viserys snapped, striking the arm of his throne with the flat of his palm.

Beside Aemond, Alicent's attention remained fixed upon the maester, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"It will heal, will it not, Maester?"

The old man hesitated. His fingers, delicate despite their age, finished wrapping the cloth around Aemond's wounded face. He sighed, his voice thick with solemnity.

"The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost, Your Grace."

A silence followed, heavy and suffocating.

Alicent's lips parted, as though she might speak, but the words did not come. Instead, she turned sharply, her gaze locking onto her eldest son. Aegon sat beside his sister Helaena, his posture slouched, the glaze of wine still evident in his unfocused stare. At his mother's sudden scrutiny, he blinked sluggishly. Helaena, quiet as ever, merely flinched at the sudden movement.

Then, without warning, Alicent strode forward and seized Aegon by the face, her nails digging into his jaw.

"Where were you?" she demanded.

Aegon's brows knit together. "Me?"

The response had barely left his lips before her hand struck his cheek in a sharp slap. The crack of it echoed through the hall.

Aegon yelped, recoiling. "Ow! What was that for?"

Alicent's eyes burned with barely-contained rage. "That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool."

Aegon muttered something under his breath, rubbing at his cheek, but he did not dare to argue.

Before the tension could mount further, the great doors of the hall swung open. The gust of wind that followed carried with it the scent of brine and storm, and with it came Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, his stride purposeful, his expression unreadable. Beside him, the formidable Princess Rhaenys moved with the quiet command of a woman who had long held power in her hands.

Trailing slightly behind them, dressed in the deep hues of Velaryon blue, was Saela Velaryon. Her silver hair, so like her mother's, was unbound, falling in wild waves past her shoulders, and her violet gaze flickered quickly over the assembled crowd, drinking in the tension like a flame finding dry kindling.

Corlys's voice cut through the hush like the blade of a sword. "What is the meaning of this?"

Rhaenys barely waited for an answer before her sharp eyes landed on her granddaughters. "Baela. Rhaena. What happened?"

At once, Baela and Rhaena tore themselves from their twin brothers and rushed toward their grandparents. Rhaenys opened her arms, gathering them close, her fingers brushing over their curls as she murmured soft reassurances.

Meanwhile, Aeron and Vaegon exchanged a glance. They, unlike the others, remained still, moving away from the center of attention and pressing themselves against the cool stone of the wall. It was not their place to draw further eyes to this matter.

And then the doors opened once more.

This time, it was Daemon Targaryen who strode inside, his presence commanding, his gaze alight with a glimmer of amusement that did not quite reach his lips. At his side, Rhaenyra Targaryen moved with all the regal fury of a mother prepared for war.

Vaegon and Aeron turned their heads toward their father, their expressions mirroring each other in a moment of identical shock.

Daemon caught their looks and, in true Daemon fashion, merely arched a brow, the edges of his lips twitching in amusement. He closed the space between them, leaning down with an air of mock curiosity.

"What happened?" he asked, voice low.

Vaegon's jaw tightened. Ever the bold one, he did not shy away from his father's scrutiny. "I may ask the same of you, Father."

Daemon smirked, but before he could offer a response, his attention shifted toward Rhaenyra, who had crossed the room to kneel beside her sons.

"Jace?" Her voice was urgent, her hands finding her eldest son's shoulders. Then, her gaze fell upon Lucerys, his nose bruised and swollen. Her breath hitched. "Luke! Show me. Show me."

Lucerys sniffled, tilting his chin up so his mother could see the damage done. Her fingers ghosted over the injury, her expression twisting in barely restrained fury.

"Who did this?" she demanded, her voice like a blade's edge.

Aemond did not cower. Despite the pain, despite the blood staining his tunic, he lifted his chin with pride. "They attacked me."

Jacaerys snapped, "He attacked Baela! He broke Luke's nose!"

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices, each child shouting over the other.

"He stole my mother's dragon!" Rhaena cried.

"Enough." Viserys's voice was a warning.

Lucerys, undeterred, shouted, "He was going to kill Jace!"

Aemond, enraged, spat, "I didn't do anything!"

Aemond's one remaining eye flickered toward his mother. For the first time that night, his bravado wavered, if only for a moment. The weight of the room pressed down upon him, yet still, he straightened his shoulders. His face was streaked with blood, his bandage damp from the wound beneath it, but his chin lifted with the defiant pride of a Targaryen prince.

Alicent, sensing the storm about to break, stepped forward, her voice urgent. "What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible."

Rhaenyra, still kneeling beside her sons, turned her head sharply, her dark eyes ablaze with fury. "It was a regrettable accident."

Alicent scoffed, incredulous. "Accident? The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son."

Rhaenyra rose now, a lioness prepared to bare her teeth. "It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them."

Viserys exhaled, rubbing at his weary brow. "What insults?"

Rhaenyra turned fully to her father now, her chin high. She would not be made to grovel before him or anyone else. "The legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly to question."

The air in the hall grew colder, despite the warmth of the torches.

Viserys's face hardened, his breath coming slow and controlled. "What?"

Jacaerys, voice quiet but unwavering, repeated, "He called us bastards."

A beat of silence stretched between them, long and dreadful.

The Sea Snake and his wife, Rhaenys, remained still, their faces unreadable. Saela, still standing at their side, kept her gaze steady, watching the scene unfold with calculating eyes. Her hands curled into the fabric of her skirts, knuckles paling.

Viserys turned his gaze upon Aemond, his expression sharp and expectant. His voice, when he spoke, was edged with warning. "Aemond... I will have the truth of what happened. Now."

The hush that had fallen over the hall was thick with tension, each breath drawn as though through water, slow and heavy with expectation. The torches along the stone walls flickered, their light casting distorted shadows over the assembled faces-visages of nobles, guards, and children alike, all caught in the web of a family at war with itself.

Rhaenyra, her grip still firm upon her sons, straightened her spine, her voice carrying across the chamber with measured resolve. "My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."

Alicent scoffed, her arms wrapping around Aemond's shoulders protectively. "Over an insult?" she shot back, her voice sharp as a blade. "My son has lost an eye."

Viserys turned toward the wounded boy, his weary gaze locking upon him. "You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?"

Alicent's grip on Aemond's shoulders tightened. "The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of boys. It was nothing."

Viserys did not spare his wife a glance. His gaze remained fixed upon his son, his patience thinning. "Aemond... I asked you a question."

Alicent's eyes gleamed with something sharper than grief. "Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys' father? Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter."

At that, Rhaenyra's face betrayed a flicker of unease. Her lips parted as though she wished to refute the words, but all she managed was a careful, "I do not know, Your Grace. I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk."

Alicent let out a breath, quiet but scathing. "Entertaining his young squires, I would venture."

At this, Rhaenys, who had remained composed, her hand resting upon Baela's shoulder, turned her sharp gaze upon Alicent. A storm gathered in her violet eyes, and for a moment, the Queen looked away.

Viserys, tired beyond measure, turned once more to his son. "Aemond... look at me." His voice was soft, but it carried an unyielding weight. "Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?"

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation.

Then, to the surprise of all, Aemond turned his head and pointed-not to one of his cousins, nor to a lord of the court, but to his own brother.

"It was Aegon."

The accusation seemed to hang in the air for a long, unbearable moment before Aegon blinked, snapping out of his drunken stupor. "Me?" he asked incredulously.

Viserys, now fully focused, stepped toward him. "And you, boy? Where did you hear such calumnies?"

Aegon flinched, his shoulders stiffening as he raised his chin.

The King's patience had run dry. His fury erupted. "Aegon!" His voice cracked through the hall like a whip, and the prince recoiled. "Tell me the truth of it!"

Aegon exhaled slowly, his lips twisting in something that was not quite defiance but lacked any regret. His voice was resigned, bitter even.

"We know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them."

A ripple of murmurs coursed through the gathered nobles. Viserys closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, his hand gripping the pommel of his cane with white-knuckled force. When he spoke again, his voice was tired, drained.

"This interminable infighting must cease!" His voice, though weary, rang with authority. His gaze swept over them all-his daughter, his wife, his grandchildren, and his knights. "All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!"

But Alicent was unmoved. Her hands trembled as she clutched Aemond's shoulders, her green gown rustling as she turned fully toward her husband.

"That is insufficient," she said, her voice thick with grief. "Aemond has been damaged, permanently, my King. 'Good will' cannot make him whole."

Viserys sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye."

Her breath hitched, but when she spoke, her voice was sharp and sure. "No. Because it has been taken."

Viserys tilted his head. "What would you have me do?"

Alicent inhaled sharply, steeling herself, before she turned, her expression one of quiet, unwavering resolve. "There is a debt to be paid," she declared, her voice ringing through the hall. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return."

The chamber erupted in a flurry of gasps and whispers, shock rippling through the court like a stone cast into still water.

From the shadowed wall where he had stood in silence, Daemon shifted. He took a single step forward, his lips curving into something that might have been amusement, were it not for the sharpness in his eyes.

Viserys's face contorted with disbelief. "My dear wife-"

Alicent's voice wavered, but she did not relent. "He is your son, Viserys. Your blood."

The King's features hardened. "Do not... allow your temper to guide your judgment."

Alicent straightened. "If the King will not seek justice," she declared, her tone trembling with fury, "then the Queen will."

She turned, her gaze latching onto Ser Criston Cole, who had been standing, ever still, at the edge of the hall.

"Ser Criston... bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon."

A cry of alarm burst from the boy in question. "Mother!" Luke gasped, scrambling back against Rhaenyra, whose grip upon him had tightened like iron.

"Alicent!" Viserys's voice was sharper now, his rage spilling over.

Alicent barely looked at him. "He can choose which eye to keep," she said, almost breathless with the weight of her own words. "A privilege he did not grant my son."

Viserys turned his gaze upon Criston Cole, his voice a growl of command. "You will do no such thing. Stay your hand."

Alicent's voice cracked as she turned back to Cole. "No. You are sworn to me!"

For the first time, Ser Criston hesitated, his fingers flexing at his side. Then, with a slow, careful bow of his head, he answered, "As your protector, my Queen."

Viserys's breath left him in a slow, measured exhale. His gaze was steel, his voice final. "Alicent, this matter... is finished. Do you understand?"

Silence fell over the hall once more.

Then, the King turned to the court, his eyes sweeping over them all. His voice, though quieter, was no less commanding.

"And let it be known," he decreed, "anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons shall have it removed."

A ripple of unease coursed through the gathered nobles, but none dared to protest.

Rhaenyra, still clutching her sons, lifted her chin, her voice quiet but certain.

"Thank you, Father."

The hall was a cacophony of voices, hushed whispers mixing with cries of alarm, but none louder than the roaring silence that followed Alicent's next action.

Her breath trembled with anger and grief, her fingers clenching as if to grasp something solid-something that could match the turmoil in her heart. Then, in a flash of movement, she did.

The Queen's hand shot forward, tearing Viserys's dagger from his belt. Gasps erupted like a wave, the flickering torchlight glinting off the blade's Valyrian steel.

Alicent turned, her eyes locked upon Lucerys, her vision tunneled, the grief and fury in her heart outweighing all else.

Harrold Westerling, standing beside the King, instantly raised his voice. "Your Grace! Stay with the King!"

Viserys himself, weakened but enraged, bellowed, "Alicent!"

Criston Cole, sworn to the Queen, took a step forward, his hand reaching for his sword. "Hold your approach!"

But before Alicent could close the space between herself and the boy, a force met her-strong hands seized her arms, halting her in her path.

Rhaenyra.

The Princess held her firm, their eyes meeting in a battle of wills, faces inches apart. Their struggle was not just of strength but of something deeper-years of resentment, of duty and defiance, colliding all at once.

Gasps filled the room as the two women grappled.

Criston Cole, ever the Queen's protector, began to move toward them, but another shadow was faster.

Daemon.

With a smirk playing at his lips, he stepped into Criston's path, his stance easy, but his hand already resting upon the hilt of his sword.

Aeron and Vaegon, sensing the shifting tides, moved instinctively to their father's side, their shoulders squared, determination in their gaze.

Harrold's voice rang out sharply. "Do not, Ser Criston!"

Viserys's face was red with fury. "Alicent!"

The Queen did not hear him.

Luke whimpered, tears streaming down his young face as he clung to his mother's skirts.

Criston Cole, his loyalty to Alicent outweighing caution, tensed as though he might draw his weapon.

Harrold's voice rose again. "Do not, Ser Criston!"

But it was the King's voice that cracked like a thunderclap over them all. "Alicent!"

Still, she did not let go of the blade.

Rhaenyra, her grip firm, her breath labored, hissed, "No!"

Harrold barked, "Stay your hand, Cole!"

The two women remained locked together, their struggle a clash of not just physicality but of all that had been left unsaid between them.

Rhaenyra's voice was sharp as steel. "You've gone too far."

Alicent, her face contorted with pain and frustration, shook her head. "I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law, while you flout all to do as you please!"

Viserys's breathing was ragged. "Alicent, let her go!"

The Queen's voice cracked. "Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?" She exhaled, bitterly. "It's trampled under your pretty foot again."

At last, Otto Hightower's voice cut through the tension, low but firm. "Release the blade, Alicent."

But she would not.

Her voice, broken yet unrelenting, rose again. "And now you take my son's eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!"

Rhaenyra's lips curled, her voice dropping to a whisper that only Alicent could hear. "Exhausting, wasn't it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness." Her expression shifted, victory flashing in her violet eyes. "But now they see you as you are."

Alicent let out a strangled cry, her body lurching forward, and in a final act of desperation, she brought the blade down.

The steel sliced through Rhaenyra's forearm.

A gasp rippled through the room as a thin, crimson line bloomed against her pale skin, the cut deep.

Rhaenyra barely flinched. Instead, she shoved Alicent back with a sharp breath.

Corlys Velaryon was at her side in an instant, his large hands gently catching her, his gaze flickering with both concern and anger as he reached for her wounded arm.

The room was thick with the weight of what had just occurred. The whispers had ceased, replaced only by the shallow breathing of those who had just witnessed the Queen herself draw blood against the heir to the throne.

And then, at last, Aemond spoke.

His voice was steady, assured.

"Do not mourn me, Mother."

Alicent turned, her face twisted in sorrow, but Aemond only lifted his chin, pride gleaming in his one remaining eye.

"It was a fair exchange," he continued, his lips curling. "I may have lost an eye... but I gained a dragon."

His words settled over the room like a funeral shroud.

Viserys, closing his eyes, exhaled a slow, pained breath. When he opened them, there was no more fury-only exhaustion.

"This proceeding is at an end."

And with that, the fate of the realm shifted forever.

𝔗he flickering glow of candlelight cast long shadows upon the stone walls of their chamber. The air was thick with the scent of melting wax and the faint trace of salt from the sea beyond the castle walls. The echoes of the night's chaos still seemed to cling to the room, though the great hall had long since quieted.

Aeron could not keep still. His boots struck the floor with restless purpose as he paced, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Every time he reached the far wall, he would turn sharply, his golden hair disheveled from running his fingers through it too many times.

Vaegon, ever composed, sat upon the edge of his bed, watching his twin with a look that teetered between amusement and irritation. He had long since discarded his outer tunic, leaving him in only a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was tired. And unlike Aeron, he had no desire to spend the entire night brooding over things beyond their control.

"You need to calm down," Vaegon muttered, rubbing his temple.

Aeron whirled to face him, his green eyes alight with frustration. "Did you see Father coming in with Rhaenyra?"

Vaegon sighed, shifting his weight back onto his hands. "Yes, and?"

Aeron threw up his arms. "It was the middle of the night, Vaegon! What were they doing together in the middle of the night?!"

His twin merely smirked, his voice laced with dry amusement. "Perhaps they went for a moonlit stroll, exchanged poetry, and gazed longingly into each other's eyes."

"Vaegon!" Aeron snapped, his irritation mounting.

Vaegon groaned, tilting his head back in exasperation. "It's the middle of the bloody night, brother. Can't we discuss this come morning?"

"Father is causing trouble!" Aeron persisted, his voice lowering as if the walls themselves had ears. He resumed his pacing, though now his steps were slower, more measured. "Princess Rhaenyra is married, and Father is barely out of mourning-"

Vaegon cut him off with an uninterested grunt. "I do not care."

Aeron halted, turning sharply to glare at his twin. "You should care."

Vaegon finally sat up, leveling his brother with a steady look. "And why is that?"

"Because Father does not act without intent," Aeron said, his voice laced with warning. "And whatever he is planning, it concerns us as well."

Vaegon exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. "Seven hells, Aeron. If you think I don't know that, you're a fool. But there is nothing we can do about it now. So unless you plan to storm into his chamber and demand an explanation, I suggest you stop fretting like an old crone and go to sleep."

Aeron clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Vaegon smirked at his silence, lying back against the pillows and shutting his eyes. "Thought so."

Aeron remained standing for a long moment before letting out a sharp breath. He cast one last glance toward the heavy wooden door, as if half-expecting it to open and deliver more troubles, then finally sat on the edge of his own bed.

The night, it seemed, would grant them no peace.

𝔗he days that followed the King's departure were thick with unease, the very stones of High Tide seeming to murmur with unrest. Though the Hightowers had left in a shroud of indignation, their absence did little to ease the tension that had festered within these halls. It was as if the castle itself held its breath, awaiting the next calamity. And then, in the dead of night, it came.

A cry of horror shattered the uneasy silence, carried upon the salt-laden winds that swept through the keep. Servants whispered in terror, their hands trembling as they pointed toward the great hearth of Lord Laenor Velaryon's chambers. There, amid the dying embers, lay a figure burned beyond recognition, the stench of charred flesh thick and cloying in the air.

The news traveled swift as a storm, darkening the faces of all who heard it.

Vaegon and Aeron stood in the dimly lit corridor outside their chambers when the whispers reached them. The flames from the sconces cast flickering shadows across their sharp features, their silver hair glinting like molten moonlight.

"Dead," Aeron murmured, his voice void of emotion. "Laenor Velaryon is dead."

Vaegon exhaled slowly, his arms crossed over his chest. "Or so they claim."

Aeron turned to his twin sharply, his brows knitting together. "You think it false?"

Vaegon's jaw tightened as he stared into the gloom of the corridor, as though he could see the truth hidden within the darkness. "I think it is convenient," he finally said.

Indeed, the rumors slithered through the keep like vipers in the grass-some whispered of assassins, others of treachery born within the very halls of Driftmark. And though none dared speak it too loudly, one name passed between lips like a curse: Daemon Targaryen.

And then, scarcely a fortnight later, another scandal ignited the court like wildfire.

Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon were wed.

No grand bells tolled to announce the union, no splendid feast was laid to honor the occasion. Instead, they were married in the ancient rites of Valyria, bound in the old ways-ways that spoke of fire and blood, of oaths sealed in sacrifice. There, beneath the eyes of those loyal to them, they clasped hands, their wrists wrapped in silk of crimson and black, their lips stained with the coppery taste of their own mingled blood.

The twins stood at the edge of the gathering, watching as the rite was performed. The firelight flickered upon their father's face as he bent his head to Rhaenyra's, their union now sanctioned by the very traditions that had forged their dynasty.

"It seems you were right," Aeron muttered, his voice edged with something unreadable.

Vaegon let out a quiet breath through his nose, though his gaze never wavered from the sight before him. "I usually am."

Aeron exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "And what now, then? Do we simply accept this?"

Vaegon's fingers curled at his sides. "What other choice do we have?"

They both fell silent, their minds a tempest of thoughts unspoken. Their father was now bound to the woman who would be queen, and the realm had shifted in ways they could not yet comprehend.

Neither spoke of the strange weight that settled in their chests. For though the union was now sealed, the ghosts of the past had not yet been laid to rest.

𝔗he days that followed were a blur of movement and whispers, of footsteps echoing through cold stone halls and murmured words that ceased the moment the twins entered the room. Servants cast them furtive glances, eyes darting away the moment they were met. The court at Driftmark, once a place of familiarity and security, now felt foreign-shrouded in tension so thick it pressed upon their chests like an iron weight.

Vaegon and Aeron Targaryen had not merely witnessed the shifting tides of fate; they had been dragged beneath them, tossed into the current with no shore in sight.

They were no longer just the sons of Daemon Targaryen, no longer simply princes with little claim to the world's great battles. In the span of weeks, they had become step-sons to Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne. Step-brothers to Jacaerys Velaryon, the prince who would one day wear their grandsire's crown.

It was a change neither of them had asked for-nor one they had been prepared to face.

But no one had asked them.

And now, they were leaving.

Aeron stood by the open balcony of their chambers, bracing his hands upon the stone railing as he stared out at the churning waters below. The sea had always been a thing unchanging, its tides a steady rhythm that had existed long before them and would continue long after. And yet, even the waves seemed restless this night, white foam cresting against the blackened rocks as if sensing the unrest within the halls of High Tide.

"Do you remember Dragonstone?" Vaegon's voice was quiet, but it carried in the stillness of the room.

Aeron did not turn from his vigil. "Only in the way a man remembers a dream."

They had not seen Dragonstone since they were mere babes, toddling through darkened halls under the watchful eye of dragon-carved stone. Their memories of it were fleeting-a castle of smoke and shadow, of howling winds and roaring beasts, of flickering torchlight casting long, eerie shapes against the walls.

Vaegon sat at the edge of his bed, his fingers idly tracing the embroidered hem of his tunic. His silver hair fell into his eyes, but he made no move to push it away. "Do you think they expect us to call her mother-or cousin?"

Aeron exhaled sharply through his nose. "I think they expect us to fall in line."

Vaegon scoffed, his gaze flicking toward his twin. "And will we?"

Aeron finally turned, his expression unreadable, though a muscle in his jaw twitched. "What choice do we have?"

Vaegon studied him for a long moment, his violet eyes cool and assessing. "We had a choice before Father threw us into this mess."

Aeron's grip on the balcony railing tightened, his knuckles whitening.

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Finally, Aeron spoke, his voice low and edged with quiet fury. "Everything is different now, Vaegon. We are no longer just the sons of Daemon Targaryen. We are players in this game whether we want to be or not."

Vaegon did not argue.

Because for all his reason, for all his careful, measured words, he knew Aeron was right.

Everything had changed.

And Dragonstone awaited.

Aeron turned from the churning sea, his expression shadowed by the flickering torchlight. His hands, once braced against the cold stone railing, now fell to his sides, fingers curling slightly as if grasping at something unseen-something just beyond his reach. His violet gaze settled upon his brother, unreadable but brimming with thought.

"Do you think he's always loved her?" he muttered, his voice barely more than a breath against the crackling silence of their chamber.

Vaegon did not answer immediately. Instead, he reclined further against the bedframe, his arms crossing over his chest in thought. The candlelight cast long shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the furrow in his brow. He exhaled through his nose, a sound neither amused nor annoyed, merely considering.

"Our father?" Vaegon finally asked, though the answer was plain enough.

Aeron's jaw tightened. "Who else?"

Vaegon hummed, tilting his head back as he stared at the ceiling's wooden beams. "Perhaps," he admitted at last. "Or perhaps it is convenient to love her now."

Aeron scoffed, turning back toward the open balcony. "He is not a man of convenience."

"No," Vaegon agreed, his tone almost teasing. "He is a man of impulse-and Rhaenyra directly links him to the throne."

Aeron did not argue.

For it was true.

Daemon Targaryen had never been one to bow to the expectations of others. He was wildfire given form, a man who seized what he desired and razed all that stood in his way. And now, he had taken Rhaenyra Targaryen-claimed her as his own before the world had even finished mourning her husband, or his own late wife.

Vaegon glanced toward his brother, watching the way his shoulders tensed, the way his silver hair caught the moonlight like strands of woven starlight.

"What does it matter now?" Vaegon asked.

Aeron did not turn. "It matters."

Vaegon sighed. "You will drive yourself mad picking apart his heart, brother. Our father is a man of many things, but introspection has never been one of them."

Aeron did not respond.

Because despite Vaegon's words, despite the futility of the question, the doubt had already taken root.

Had Daemon always loved Rhaenyra? Had he ever truly loved Laena? What of their mother-whom they knew little to nothing of?

Or had Rhea Royce been naught but a roadblock on his path to the woman he truly desired?

The thought settled like lead in Aeron's chest, heavy and unyielding.

Behind him, the sea roared, indifferent to the storm brewing within his heart.

Vaegon straightened, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them. His posture shifted from lazy indifference to something more resolute. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across his face, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, held a quiet intensity as he spoke. "Now that we're back in Westeros, do you think they'll seek you out? The Royce's I mean."

Aeron's gaze snapped toward Vaegon, his violet eyes narrowing slightly as if the question had struck a chord deep within him. He turned his head away from the sea once more, focusing entirely on his brother, his jaw tightening as the air between them thickened with unspoken tension.

Vaegon continued, unbothered by the silence that lingered. "You are, after all, heir to Runestone, to the Royce line." He let the words linger, as if the weight of them would bear down upon his brother and force him to face what he had been avoiding.

Aeron's lips parted, but no words came. The cold wind from the sea whipped his silver hair about his face as he stared out at the horizon, as if the questions could somehow vanish into the abyss beyond.

"I am blood of the dragon," Aeron muttered finally, his voice distant, though there was a sharpness to it that could not be ignored.

"And you are heir to Runestone," Vaegon pressed. "Our mother's house. Or have you forgotten the woman that bore us?"

The words stung. Aeron felt the weight of them pressing on his chest, the unspoken truth that had always sat between them like a phantom. They had never known their mother, not truly-not in the way they should have. Their memories of their mother were nonexistence, mere fragments of a time long past, a woman who had never been part of their lives in any real sense.

Aeron exhaled sharply. "We never knew our mother."

Vaegon leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he studied his brother. "And yet you cannot honor her? Why is it you despise the thought of any responsibility?" His voice held no judgment, but the challenge was evident in his words, as if he had known Aeron's resistance before he'd even spoken it aloud.

Aeron's fists clenched at his sides. "I do not despise-"

"You do!" Vaegon interrupted, his tone rising slightly with frustration. "If I had the pleasure of being born first, I'd take my place in Runestone happily-without question." His words were blunt, raw with the honesty that came with a lifetime of shared history.

Aeron's lips curled into a thin, angry line. His brother's words echoed through the silence like a battle cry. "It's not about being firstborn, Vaegon," he said, voice low and tight. "It's not about honor or some foolish title. It's about being shackled to a house I never knew. A name that means nothing to me."

Vaegon didn't flinch, but his eyes flickered with a mix of pity and frustration. "Yet you can wear the name Targaryen without hesitation, as if it were handed to you on a silver platter. Do you not see the hypocrisy in that, Aeron?"

Aeron's eyes flashed with something dangerous-something fierce-but Vaegon held his ground, the intensity between them palpable.

"I see no hypocrisy," Aeron said through gritted teeth, his voice quieter now, but still carrying a weight. "It is not the same thing."

Vaegon shook his head slowly, his frustration turning into something deeper, something rooted in a desire for understanding. "Maybe it's not the same," he said, "but it's still the same decision-to take or leave what is thrust upon you."

Aeron stared at him, words lost for a moment. The wind howled outside their chamber as if it, too, was waiting for the next exchange.

"You don't understand," Aeron muttered, as though his brother's words had struck a chord he couldn't quite comprehend himself. "I don't want any of it."

Vaegon's eyes softened, his posture relaxing just slightly. "Maybe," he said, quieter now, "but what if it's not about wanting it, Aeron? What if it's about choosing it? What if it's your responsibility-our responsibility-to claim what's ours, whether we want it or not?"

Aeron didn't answer right away. The sea roared below them, crashing against the rocks, a timeless sound, as if the world itself was reminding them of their duty.

Aeron turned toward the open window again, his eyes drawn to the stormy expanse of the sea stretching before him. The light from the torches flickered in his eyes, but it couldn't hide the uncertainty lurking there.

"I don't know if I can do it," he whispered, almost to himself. "I don't know if I want to."

Vaegon's voice was softer now, a quiet resolve beneath the words. "Then perhaps it's time to figure that out, Aeron."

And with that, the silence between them stretched on, thick and heavy. The storm raged on outside, but the storm within Aeron's heart, it seemed, was only just beginning.