In the great hall of High Tide Castle, it had never been so crowded—and never so quiet.
The enormous hearth crackled along the wall, stretching people's shadows long across the floor.
The air was thick with the damp, cold sea breeze, the scent of medicinal salves, and suppressed, labored breathing.
King Viserys I sat high upon the central seat, his complexion sallow and waxen.
The old man wore a deep crimson velvet robe and the Valyrian steel crown, yet beneath the robe his body was slightly hunched. His left hand gripped the armrest tightly, the knuckles white.
The Kingsguard stood on either side, like statues carved from stone.
Below the dais, the factions were already clearly divided.
On the left, Princess Rhaenyra stood at the very front.
She had changed out of her bloodstained nightgown and now wore a jet-black dress. Her silver hair was tightly bound at the back of her head. The tear marks on her face had already dried, leaving only coldness behind.
Those violet eyes of the princess looked as if they were sealed in ice, yet deep within them burned like raging fire.
Daemon stood beside her, clad in a black-and-red leather coat, one hand casually resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. His gaze swept across the hall as he waited for the drama that was about to unfold.
Corlys stood slightly behind them, his staff touching the floor, his posture straight as a mast, gray-blue eyes fixed upon the king.
There was also the wife of "the Sea Snake," Rhaenys Targaryen—the elderly woman known throughout the realm as the "Queen Who Never Was."
And this elderly woman was continually sweeping her gaze across her own side of the crowd. Such a great matter had occurred today: little Jace had been stabbed and blinded in one eye—Laenor Velaryon, her son and Princess Rhaenyra's husband, being his nominal father.
Her heart was filled with restless irritation. Where had her son Laenor run off to fool around this time?
The very thought of "fooling around" made Rhaenys feel profoundly uncomfortable.
The elderly woman glanced at Rhaenyra and at Daemon standing beside her.
She disliked her nominal daughter-in-law, Rhaenyra—capricious and trampling tradition.
She had cuckolded her eldest son, Laenor, three times.
All of her so-called grandchildren—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—had been born of Rhaenyra's adultery with her sworn shield, Harwin Strong, known as "Breakbones."
As for the reason—was it not simple? Was it not obvious? Her own son had silver hair and blue eyes, and Rhaenyra also had silver hair and violet eyes.
Yet the three grandchildren all had brown hair, brown eyes, and flattened noses—clearly not the features of either Targaryens or Velaryons.
Although she herself did harbor affection for these three grandchildren, and her husband Corlys did not concern himself with whether they were bastards or not, deep down, she loathed Daemon and Rhaenyra.
Daemon Targaryen—her youngest cousin—had married her daughter Laena, a match she had opposed from the very beginning.
Yet her daughter Laena had fallen for Daemon, like a moth flying into a flame. The two had secretly become betrothed, fled together riding dragons, and escaped to the eastern continent.
In the end, for the sake of her daughter and in the hope of having her return to her side, she had been forced to pinch her nose and agree to the marriage.
Not long ago, Laena had gone into labor once more, only to give birth to a malformed baby boy who died shortly after.
Grief-stricken and weakened, Laena contracted childbed fever. Even though Daemon brought in maesters proficient in medicine, nothing could be done. Three days later, her daughter passed away.
Before her death, Laena had tried to get out of bed and mount her great dragon, Vhagar, one last time. But in her weakness she collapsed on the stairway and fell into an eternal sleep.
And now, at her daughter's funeral, Daemon Targaryen—that bastard, that scoundrel—was once again secretly carrying on an affair with her daughter-in-law, Princess Rhaenyra, who was also Daemon's own niece.
The Targaryens, after all, had always had a tradition of marrying within the family.
As for her son Laenor—he liked men and turned a blind eye to all of this. Now that such a grave matter had occurred, no one even knew where he had gone off to fool around.
Her husband, the Sea Snake, also maintained his silence on these affairs.
Seven gods above! What kind of mess was this?
Rhaenys shook her head in sorrow. She felt that her entire family had been ruined far too cruelly by her cousin King Viserys I and Viserys's brother Daemon.
At last, Rhaenys turned her head and looked toward her grandsons and granddaughters.
Behind her, Lucerys, Joffrey, Rhaena, and Baela stood together.
The children had already changed into clean clothes, yet the bruises on their faces and the fear in their eyes could not be hidden.
Lucerys was deathly pale, his head lowered as he avoided everyone's gaze.
On the right side stood the faction led by Queen Alicent Hightower.
The queen wore a dark green velvet gown symbolizing House Hightower. A pearl circlet bound her brown hair. Her chin was lifted slightly as she struggled to maintain a queen's dignity, but the faint tremor of her body betrayed her.
Her father, Hand of the King Otto Hightower, stood one step away at her side, his hands folded within his sleeves, his expression calm—only the sharp glint in his eyes flickering.
Aegon and Helaena stood a little farther back.
Aegon impatiently rubbed his still-aching cheek.
Helaena lowered her head, twisting the hem of her skirt between her fingers. From time to time she looked up, her gaze anxiously fixed on Aemond standing at the center.
The middle of the great hall had been cleared out, like an arena.
And Aemond stood there alone, at the very heart of the storm.
Medicine had already been applied to his face. The wound beneath his left eye had stopped bleeding, but the swelling had not gone down, leaving his face looking slightly asymmetrical.
His silver hair was still damp, hastily wiped dry, with a few strands clinging to his forehead.
He wore only a simple linen shirt and leather trousers—the cleanest clothes that could be found in the rush.
By order of his father, the king, he stood barefoot on the icy stone floor.
Yet Aemond's back was ramrod straight, his violet eyes unflinchingly meeting every gaze turned upon him—those filled with hatred, scrutiny, pity, calculation…
Viserys drew in a deep breath, the sound like a sigh in the dead silence.
"Tonight… a tragedy has occurred on Driftmark."
His pained gaze swept past Rhaenyra, then across Aemond.
"My blood… my children… harming one another."
"May the Seven show mercy."
He paused, as if gathering his strength.
"Jacaerys… my eldest grandson… he—"
"He has lost an eye, Father."
Rhaenyra's voice cut in, cold and clear, each word striking the ground like a hailstone.
"He may be blind forever. And the dagger that pierced his eye…"
"Your Grace!" Alicent rushed forward. "Aemond is injured as well! Look at his face!"
"This was a fight! An accident!"
"All the children were involved! You cannot blame only my son!"
"Participated?" Daemon let out a soft chuckle, utterly devoid of warmth.
"Your Grace the Queen, taking part in a scuffle and using a dagger to stab out an eye are two very different things."
"It is like attending a banquet and killing someone with poisoned wine—completely different in nature."
"Prince Daemon speaks correctly." Corlys brought his staff down with a dull thud. "Your Grace, every child present, including my own grandchildren, has testified that it was Prince Aemond who wielded the knife."
"Do the testimonies of five children still fail to establish the facts?"
"They were taught to lie!" Alicent turned toward the children standing behind Rhaenyra, her blazing gaze fixing on Lucerys.
"Lucerys!"
"Look into my eyes!"
"Do you dare swear before the Seven and the King?"
"Swear that you saw with your own eyes Aemond drive the dagger into your brother's eye?"
"Swear it in your mother's name!"
Already burdened by guilt, Lucerys began to tremble all over, his lips quivering.
Seeing Lucerys's reaction, Alicent became even more convinced that her son Aemond had spoken the truth and had not deceived her.
But even if Aemond had lied, Alicent would still stand at her son's side—this was an instinctive protectiveness born of motherhood…
Aemond looked at his mother, roaring like a lioness shielding her cubs, having utterly cast aside all decorum. In his heart, only gratitude remained.
Rhaenyra reached out and pressed a steadying hand on the trembling shoulder of her second son, Lucerys, her gaze colliding with Alicent's in midair.
"Enough!" Viserys raised his voice from the seat—only to be seized by a bout of racking coughs.
"Cough… cough…"
He bent forward, coughing until his face flushed a deep purple. The Kingsguard at his side hurriedly handed him a silk handkerchief.
The cloth was already stained with bright red.
When the king's coughing finally eased, the great hall fell into deathly silence, broken only by the crackle of the torches.
The king lifted his head, his eyes filled with exhaustion and pain.
"Aemond. You say… you did not do it."
"But the other children say that you did."
"Whom am I to believe?"
Aemond stepped forward from the center.
The icy stone floor surged straight up from his bare feet to his head, leaving him all the more calm and clear-minded.
"Father," he said, his voice carrying a youth's clarity yet remaining unusually steady.
"I never touched that dagger."
"It was Lucerys who drew the dagger first."
"During the scuffle, he lost his balance."
"And Jacaerys happened to run into it."
"And Lucerys, holding the dagger, stabbed toward his own brother."
"Lies!" Lucerys leapt up and screamed, tears spilling out.
"I didn't stab him!"
"The truth is, you pushed me!"
"Then you tripped my brother! He accidentally ran into my dagger!"
"This was all caused by you!"
Before the words had even finished, an uproar swept through the entire hall.
The corner of Aemond's mouth lifted slightly. That brainless fool Lucerys had, as expected, exposed himself.
Admitting that the dagger was in his hand—didn't that prove it wasn't I who stabbed out the eye?
The looks in Alicent's and Otto's eyes changed.
On the other side, Rhaenyra remained expressionless, while Daemon and Corlys darkened slightly in expression.
Lucerys, too, realized that he had misspoken and became flustered and at a loss.
"Then why is there no blood on your hands?" Aemond suddenly asked.
"Lucerys."
"You said you held the dagger, but stabbing out an eye would certainly cause blood to splatter."
"So why are your hands completely clean right now?"
All eyes focused on Lucerys's hands.
The child instinctively drew them behind his back.
Daemon narrowed his eyes, reassessing this nephew.
Corlys's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
"I… I wiped it off myself…" Lucerys stammered.
"When?" Aemond pressed step by step. "And how did you wipe it off?"
"Or is it," he turned toward Daemon, "that someone wiped it off for you?"
Realizing that he was being led into a verbal trap, Daemon's smile vanished. He cut in bluntly, "Boy, what are you getting at?"
"Uncle, I am pointing out inconsistencies," Aemond replied without yielding. "Whose dagger was it?"
"What markings were on it? Who gave it?"
"And why would a ten-year-old carry a dagger with him into the dragon pit?"
"That was my dagger!" Lucerys shouted. "It was a nameday gift from Grandfather Corlys!"
"It has the sea-tide sigil on it! I carried it because… because I liked it!"
"So," Aemond turned to the king, "Father, a Velaryon dagger, held in the hands of a Velaryon child, injured the Velaryon heir."
"And I—a Targaryen—was unarmed, my face bearing wounds, yet I am accused of being the culprit."
"Father, where is the logic? Where is the justice?"
From that moment on, Aemond seized the initiative.
He understood full well that the more one tried to prove one's own innocence, the more easily one sank into the mire—into the trap of self-justification.
Questioning others was the key to breaking the deadlock.
At present, Aemond would absolutely not accept the charge of attempted kin-slaying being placed upon him.
Even if it were an eye for an eye.
He would never accept that charge.