Night. Within Aemond's chamber in Maegor's Holdfast, candlelight burned bright.
Helaena sat by the table, her silver hair glowing softly in the flickering light.
She was sewing a nearly finished coat—black, embroidered with the three-headed golden dragon. Every stitch was fine and precise.
It was meant for Aemond tomorrow. Though the royal household had the finest tailors, she insisted on making something for her husband with her own hands.
The door opened.
Aegon entered, leaning on a cane. His face was pale. Though he had changed into plain clothes, he looked drained and dispirited.
Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsguard remained outside, gently closing the door behind him.
"Brother," Helaena set aside her needlework and rose, offering a slight curtsy.
Aemond lifted his head from the desk and teased, "Your Grace? Why are you not resting yet?"
"Spare me that," Aegon limped forward and sat opposite him. "There are no outsiders here."
Helaena, sensing the moment, gathered her sewing basket. "I'll go check on Mother… and on Jaehaerys and Ysera."
She spoke softly and withdrew from the room.
When the door shut, the brothers looked at each other.
Aegon was the first to avert his gaze, staring at the candle flame on the table. "I heard about Crackclaw."
"They refuse to submit to us?"
"Yes."
"Then many will die."
"They will," Aemond said. "I'll see to it myself."
Aegon fell silent. After a long while, he asked, "Will we… win?"
"We will." Aemond answered without hesitation.
"And what makes you so certain?"
"Because we must." Aemond rose, stepped behind Aegon, and placed both hands on his shoulders—heavy, deliberate. Aegon felt the weight of it.
"If we lose, we all die."
"Mother. Helaena. Daeron. Jaehaerys and Ysera. And your daughter, Jaehaera…"
"All of them will die miserable deaths."
Aegon gave a bitter smile. "I don't believe it. Rhaenyra and Daemon may be our enemies…"
"But we share the same blood."
Aemond's gaze grew complicated.
He knew the original tale.
In it, the Greens lost.
They lost terribly…
The Blacks won—but at a dreadful cost.
Aemond and Daemon perished together at the Gods Eye.
Alicent was imprisoned until her death. Aegon II, crippled, was poisoned. Helaena leapt to her death. Daeron was burned alive in his sleep.
The Green children were slaughtered one by one—tortured, dismembered…
In the end, only Aegon's young daughter Jaehaera remained.
Forced into marriage with Aegon III of the Blacks… only to die soon after.
The bloodline of the Greens—extinguished.
And the dragons of House Targaryen, under the rule of Aegon III—the Dragonbane—would decline toward extinction.
From that moment, Targaryen rule began its slow decay.
"The war has already begun," Aemond said coldly.
"Hatred will only deepen."
"Our supporters—House Hightower, House Lannister… they will drive us forward, toward a fight to the death."
"And the same goes for Rhaenyra. The Starks, the Arryns… they will force her to show no mercy."
Aegon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I understand."
"Then… what can I do?"
"Heal your leg," Aemond said. "Then ride again."
"Sunfyre needs you. The war needs you."
"You may not be a good king—but you must be a Targaryen dragonrider."
"What if… I'm afraid?" Aegon's voice trembled slightly. "At Dragonstone last time, I nearly died."
"These past nights, I've had nightmares—of being consumed by dragonfire…"
"I feel like a coward."
Aemond studied him for a long moment, then looked down at him and said: "Then think of Dragonstone."
"Think of the moment you flew Sunfyre straight into Grey Ghost to save me."
"You weren't afraid then. Why are you afraid now?"
"There was no time to think then," Aegon shook his head. "Now there is—and I'm afraid."
"Then don't think so much." Aemond patted his shoulder. "Fly. Breathe fire. Kill."
He said it lightly—but Aegon knew it was anything but simple.
To him, dragon warfare was nothing short of the seven hells.
At first, he had been exhilarated.
But now, when he thought about it, all he felt was dread.
He had seen it at Dragonstone.
A dragonrider's body was no different from any man's—pierced by arrows, burned by flame.
He did not possess Aemond's body—one that could withstand dragonfire and live.
Seven save them… his brother might well be a monster.
"I'll try," Aegon said at last.
"Not try. You must," Aemond replied.
Aegon nodded, then rose with his cane. When he reached the door, he stopped, not turning back: "Aemond… at the end… was Father in pain?"
The question caught Aemond off guard.
He remembered that night.
His father—eyes wide open, blood pouring from his mouth. There had been pain in his gaze, confusion… perhaps even a trace of relief?
"No," Aemond lied. "The poison worked quickly. He passed as if falling asleep."
Aegon turned to look at him.
He knew Aemond was lying—but did not expose him.
"That's good," he said, and slowly walked away with his cane.
When the door closed, Aemond stood still for a long time.
He went to the window and pushed it open. The night wind swept in, carrying the fragrance of night-blooming flowers from the Red Keep's gardens.
"Your Grace… Father…" Aemond murmured, "I hope you can forgive me…"
There was no answer.
Only the wind.
...
In the early hours before dawn, Hall stood at the entrance to the Red Keep's dungeons, frowning.
The newly appointed captain of the Red Keep guard looked down at the imprisoned young nobles, calculating.
In just two days, over a hundred had been arrested—young nobles and their families accused of "spreading rumors" and "slandering the royal house."
Now they were crammed into the dungeons, their cries and pleas echoing without end.
"My lord." A subordinate hurried over, lowering his voice. "Are we really releasing them?"
"Release them for now." Hall turned toward the stairs. "Tomorrow is the coronation. With so many noble sons and their kin locked up, their fathers will not be pleased."
"By Prince Aemond's order, we grant amnesty."
"Yes, my lord." The subordinate hesitated. "My lord… the coronation is tomorrow?"
"His Grace has only just passed…"
Hall stopped and turned his head.
The look in his eyes silenced the man at once.
"His Grace is dead. The Seven Kingdoms cannot be without a king," Hall said coldly.
"Moreover, Prince Aegon was named heir by King Viserys I. His coronation is only right."
"Do you understand?"
"I do, I do."
Hall said no more and ascended the walls.
The night wind was cold, carrying the briny scent of Blackwater Bay.
He looked toward the old sept upon Visenya's Hill.
That was where the prince—tomorrow's king—would be crowned.
Workers labored through the night, hanging the black banners bearing the three-headed golden dragon of the Greens.
It was rushed.
Far too rushed.
But Hall understood—they needed time.
If Prince Aegon Targaryen did not take the throne first, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen would be crowned on Dragonstone.
Suddenly, the sound of hooves rose from below the walls.
Hall looked down and saw a cavalry unit approaching, bearing the black banner of the three-headed golden dragon of the Greens.
Around two hundred riders, clad in ornate white armor adorned with black-and-gold dragon motifs, plumes rising from their helms.
This was the newly formed Royal Guard—made up of southern noble sons who supported the Greens.
"Open the gates!" at the gate of the Red Keep, Commander Gwayne Hightower shouted.
Hall waved a hand.
The portcullis rose slowly, and the knights of the Royal Guard rode in one by one.
The iron-shod hooves struck the stone, sharp and loud in the silent pre-dawn.
They had come to ensure the coronation proceeded without incident.
The Royal Guard would escort Prince Aegon to the Great Sept on Visenya's Hill—and see him safely seated upon the Iron Throne.
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