Aemma's eyes widened. "Sorcery? Viserys, the Maesters swear such things died in the fires of the Doom."
"The Maesters know nothing," I replied bitterly. "The Emperor demanded blood. He took vials of it from Father, Daemon, and Vaegon. In exchange, he taught Father how to forge a Valyrian Blood Oath to ensure that very blood could not be used against us in ritual. Father intends to search for Maegon's Vault on Dragonstone for our own lost knowledge. The entire foundation of what we believed true has been shattered."
I looked away from her, actively swallowing the rest of the conversation I had witnessed. The furious shouting match between Father and Vaegon regarding Rhaenys. My uncle's careless, treasonous suggestion to make Daemon the heir. Grandfather's cold, unyielding decree that I would sit the Iron Throne after Baelon. Those words had set a fire in my blood but bringing them into this room would only spark unnecessary panic. The question of succession was a jagged blade that cut every hand that dared to grasp it. I would not burden Aemma with it. Not tonight.
"And Daemon?" Aemma asked, bringing my focus back to my brother. "Is he suffering? To go from a prince of the realm to a common labourer..."
A tired huff escaped my lips. "That is the strangest part of this entire ordeal. According to Father, Daemon did not seem miserable with his fate. He has managed to draw the eye of the Emperor's eldest daughter. Princess Liliana."
Aemma blinked in genuine shock. "An Imperial Princess? But... Daemon is wed to Lady Rhea."
"I know," I said, rubbing my temples as a dull headache began to throb behind my eyes. "Grandfather knows. Father knows. Yet the Princess invited him to dine, to spar. Father believes she seeks our assent without explicitly demanding it. We have bought my brother's life with a mountain of gold, but he has embroiled himself in a courtship that could force us into a marital dispute with the Vale."
Aemma tightened her grip on my hand. She looked out the window, watching the shadows stretch across the city below. "He always did have a talent for finding the eye of the storm."
"And dragging the rest of us into the rain," I finished.
A soft rap at the door shattered the peace of my chambers.
"Enter," I called out, straightening my posture.
A maid slipped into the room, dipping into a hasty curtsy. "My Prince, my Princess. Forgive the intrusion, but Ser Otto Hightower requests an audience with you, Prince Viserys."
Aemma gave my hand a final, firm squeeze before standing. "I shall leave you to your business. I will have the kitchens prepare something light for your supper with your father."
"Thank you, Aemma," I murmured, watching her glide toward the door.
Otto Hightower stepped into the room just as she reached the threshold. He offered a crisp, perfectly measured bow. "Princess Aemma. It is a joy to see you, as always."
"Ser Otto," she replied with a polite incline of her head, slipping past him and disappearing down the corridor.
I remained seated by the window, gesturing to the vacant chair opposite mine. "Sit, Otto. What brings you to my chambers at this hour?"
Otto closed the heavy doors behind him and crossed the room. He bypassed the offered chair, preferring to stand. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, his dark green doublet immaculate. Yet, the usual calm calculation in his eyes had been replaced by a tense, restless energy.
"I was deeply unnerved by the proceedings within the Great Hall today, my Prince," Otto began, his voice tightly controlled. "The Crown Prince's report... it sounded entirely like capitulation. A foreign power holds a Prince of the Blood captive, demands a staggering ransom, and forces the Iron Throne to formally recognise their stolen conquests. Such terms are an insult to the King and to House Targaryen."
I let out a tired sigh, turning my gaze back to the darkening waters of the bay. "Today's events would certainly stump many men, Otto. The reality of our situation is far more complex than simple pride or insult."
"Complexities aside, my Prince, such a public yielding sets a dangerous precedent," Otto pressed, taking a half-step closer. "If the Iron Throne allows this Emperor to dictate terms so blatantly, what is to stop the Triarchy or the Braavosi from attempting the same? The Iron Throne must project strength, especially now." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "Do you know if His Grace intends to contest these demands? Surely, once he has had time to properly review the situation, he will see the necessity of a stronger response."
I looked up at him. Otto was a brilliant political mind, perhaps the sharpest in the Red Keep, but his entire worldview was anchored in the rigid, predictable rules of Westerosi statecraft. He could not possibly comprehend the arcane terror Father and Vaegon had witnessed.
"The King agrees with the terms, Otto," I stated flatly. "He has absolutely no intention of contesting the Emperor's demands."
Otto's brow furrowed in genuine disbelief. "He agrees? Without a counteroffer? Viserys, we have dragons. We have the military might of the Seven Kingdoms. To simply hand over three hundred and fifty thousand Swarnas and validate their conquest without a fight—"
"This is not a matter of fielding armies or deploying dragons," I interrupted, my voice sharpening. "Father stood before this Emperor. Vaegon stood before him. They have both urged the King to accept the terms, and the King has listened. The matter is settled."
Otto held my gaze for a long moment. He was searching for a definitive answer, probing for the hidden truth I was withholding. Finding an impenetrable wall, he slowly bowed his head.