The king's bedchamber at the top of Maegor's Holdfast was thick with the smell of medicine.
Heavy curtains shut out the night entirely. Only a single silver bedside lamp gave off a faint glow, barely illuminating the space around the bed.
Viserys lay upon it.
Aemond stood at the foot of the bed. He had been speaking for a long time—of seizing dragons from the Dragonpit, of hunting down Rhaenyra's three sons in Blackwater Bay, and of the recent dragon battle at Dragonstone.
He did not conceal the details. He did not soften the cruelty.
When he spoke of Jacaerys being publicly cut in half at the square of King's Landing—
Viserys had kept his eyes closed the entire time, listening, his breathing faint but steady.
Only after Aemond finished his final sentence did the room fall into a long silence.
At last, the king's eyelids trembled and slowly opened.
"Come here," Viserys said.
Aemond did not hesitate. He stepped closer to the bedside.
Viserys raised his right hand. It was little more than skin and bone. With all the strength he could muster, he struck Aemond across the face.
The blow was pitifully light—a dying old man's slap, so weak it barely made a sound.
Yet Alicent still gasped aloud.
Aemond's face turned slightly with the motion. He had expected it. His expression remained calm.
"You killed them…" Viserys's voice trembled.
"Jacaerys… Joffrey… Lucerys… they were still children…"
"Jacaerys was already fourteen. He was training bastards on Dragonstone to ride dragons, preparing to overthrow us," Aemond said.
"Joffrey was ten, yet he rode a dragon and took part in the dragon theft and arson, trying to reclaim the dragons we had seized."
"They chose that path. Then they must bear its consequences."
"But they were your kin!" Viserys roared, only to break into violent coughing. His hunched body convulsed atop the bed.
Alicent hurried to help him sit up, gently patting his back.
He coughed for a full half minute before finally recovering, a trace of blood foam clinging to the corner of his mouth.
The queen personally wiped the blood away with a silk handkerchief.
Only when his father's breathing steadied did Aemond continue: "Father—if we had lost, would they have spared us?"
Viserys fell silent.
He knew Daemon—his younger brother who had never bowed to restraint, the "Prince of the Narrow Sea" who had slaughtered without mercy in the Stepstones.
And Rhaenyra… after losing three sons, what she would become—he dared not imagine.
"You were the one who seized their dragons first…" Viserys said weakly, deep exhaustion in his voice. "They only wanted to take back what was theirs…"
"Not take back," Aemond cut in.
"This is theft, Father. The Velaryons are not fit to possess dragons. They are not Targaryens."
"The Velaryon house believes that by marrying Princess Rhaenys and producing heirs, they may lay claim to dragon blood."
"They are wrong. Dragons belong only to true dragon blood."
He leaned closer to his father.
"The Velaryons have grown too powerful, Father."
"Their fleet. Their wealth. And now—they want dragons as well."
"Corlys dreams of founding a kingdom in the east, of making the Velaryons into another dragonlord house."
"If I do not stop it, the consequences are unthinkable."
Viserys closed his eyes.
He thought of Corlys Velaryon—the proud "Sea Snake," the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, who had never truly bowed his head to anyone.
Corlys supported Rhaenyra not out of loyalty to House Targaryen, but because her sons bore the Velaryon name.
Because he dreamed of Velaryon blood upon the Iron Throne—of dragons, of an immortal dynasty.
"But…" Viserys opened his eyes again, tears within them.
"Aemond… you cannot… stain your hands with the blood of your own kin."
"How will the Seven Kingdoms see you?"
"How will the maesters write of you? You will be called a kinslayer, you will—"
"Father," Aemond interrupted calmly, "why should I care how the Seven Kingdoms see me?"
"Why should I care what the maesters write in their histories?"
He sat at the bedside and took his father's hand. It was cold. His voice dropped, heavy and steady.
"You have spent your life living within the praise of nobles."
"You listened to them. You studied their thoughts. You balanced their interests."
"You wanted to be loved. To be praised. To leave behind a name like King Jaehaerys—the Conciliator."
His grip tightened.
"But Targaryen rule has never been a request. It is a command."
Viserys tried to pull his hand back, but Aemond held it firmly.
The strength in the young prince's hand filled the old king with a strange fear—not fear of his son, but of something inevitable, something unstoppable.
"We are the descendants of conquerors," Aemond continued, fire seeming to burn in his eye.
"Aegon the Conqueror subdued the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons—not because he was right, but because he had power."
"Maegor crushed the Faith Militant without hesitation, slaughtered fifty thousand—because he was more ruthless."
"The Targaryens have ruled for a century not because we are loved—but because we are feared."
He released his father's hand, stood, and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly.
Outside lay King's Landing in the night, shrouded in mist. Even the nearest towers were little more than blurred silhouettes.
"You care too much about what they think," Aemond said, his back to him.
"But the truth is this—the Seven Kingdoms should obey the will of House Targaryen, not the other way around."
"Dragons above. Men below."
"Where dragonfire has burned—that is Targaryen land."
"Where dragon wings cast their shadow—that is Targaryen sky."
Viserys stared blankly at his son's back.
This sixteen-year-old boy—the son he had once thought rash, extreme, in need of strict discipline—was now speaking words that struck like hammers, shattering the beliefs he had held all his life.
Because he knew… his son was right.
For twenty years, he had tried to be a "good king," balancing interests, avoiding conflict, pursuing peace.
He had believed this would preserve the golden age of his grandfather, Jaehaerys.
And what had come of it?
The realm had fractured before his very eyes. His children were ready to slaughter one another.
If… if he had been as ruthless as Maegor…
If he had stripped Rhaenyra of her inheritance the moment she bore her first bastard…
If he had curbed the Velaryons the moment Corlys revealed his ambition…
If he… had not married Alicent, had not allowed Otto Hightower to grasp the power of Hand of the King…
Perhaps things would be different today.
Alicent watched her husband, tears silently falling. After twenty years of marriage, she knew him too well.
The pain on Viserys's face was not only for the kinslaying—but because he now realized that the philosophy by which he had ruled his entire life… might have been wrong from the very beginning.
After a long while, Viserys let out a deep sigh—carrying with it a lifetime of weariness, regret, and helplessness.
"You are right," the king said softly.
"Dragons… can belong only to the Targaryens."
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