Blood of Old Valryia (Aemond Targaryen FF)

Chapter Thirty Two

"King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." Ser Arryk Cargyll's voice boomed across the cavernous Great Hall.

King Viserys stood bent over a cane that did little to support legs that no longer worked. As he descended the stairs, all but crawling into the Hall, every eye in the hall fell to his golden mask that obscured more than half his face—presumably covering their own untold horrors—and yet, the crippled King kept his one good eye on Rhaenyre. The King inched down the aisle, towards the daughter he cherished above all, nearly hunched over on all fours as he did.

Finally seeing him, Aesira knew she'd been right to argue the trip. Her uncle never should have gone to Oldtown, he should have stayed in the Keep where he could have rested.

Tears pooled in her eyes as he hobbled by them, heaving, wheezing, and struggling with each step he took. It was not her place to help him but she wanted to. Aesira fought the urge to cut through the crowd, to help the uncle who had loved her from the moment he'd laid his eyes on her.

Rhaenyra moved aside as the King neared the base of the Iron Throne, towards Alicent who held her hands almost outstretched towards him. She too, it seemed, wanted to help him. Be it from a place of genuine care or one of guilt for her role in furthering his ailments, her desire to help him was written plainly on her face.

Lord Otto had already descended the iron steps to meet the King as he whispered something to his Hand. Lord Otto gave him a small, shallow nod of the head before he too stepped out of the King's way. The crowd watched as the King hesitated before the daunting steps, catching his breath or grimacing at the number, Aesira couldn't be sure.

She watched as the Kingsguard closed in to aid the King in his climb but he shook them off. Though no one would fault him for their assistance, what good was a King if he couldn't reach his own throne?

The King tried, Aesira knew he did, but he'd barely made it a handful of steps before he hunched over and his crown tumbled from his head. Not caring how it would be perceived, Aesira blinked the tears from her eyes and lurched forward with every intention of helping her uncle climb onto his throne, his seat of power.

It was Jace who stopped her. Flinging a hand out to halt her approach, Jace stopped Aesira and when she glanced over at him, confusion thick on her face, he gave her a sympathetic shake of his head. Daemon had already weaved his way through the crowd.

Jace lowered his hand to thread his fingers through hers, a comfort and an understanding. All they could do was stand witness to Daemon aiding the King onto his Iron Throne and then crowning him.

The silence in the Hall was deafening as Daemon dismounted the throne and retook his place at Rhaenyra's side. With all eyes on the King, Aesira stole a glance at Aemond.

Standing between his siblings, Aemond had his icy stare pinned on Jace and Aesira's clasped hands. An innocent gesture between close cousins suddenly seemed wildly inappropriate. Not wanting to alarm Jace, Aesira released his hand to straighten the sheer cloak draped over her red dress, before clasping her hands against her belly. And yet, it did nothing to change her husband's icy stare. Aesira'd seen corpses with more life than the bland expression on his face.

Heaving, the King sighed, "I must...admit...my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present...who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys' wishes is the Princess Rhaenys."

Princess Rhaenys, having stood quietly aside to observe, stepped into the aisle before the throne to say, "Indeed, your Grace. It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son...Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys' granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree."

Secret smiles were shared between Luke and Rhaena, a stolen glance from Jace to Baela who grinned to herself. It came as a surprise, but a welcomed one. The paths had been paved a long time ago and for the first time in a long, long time, Aesira felt shut out. She had the man she loved, and she wouldn't regret it for as long as she lived but watching Jace and Luke betrothe themselves to Baela and Rhaena...it felt like they'd definitively positioned themselves in Rhaenyra's shadow and somehow, Aesira had been cast in Alicent's.

The secrecy, the lies, she was becoming a Hightower.

"Well...the matter is settled. Again." The King sighed atop his throne, "I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides."

Princess Rhaenys turned to give Rhaenyra a tight-lipped smile before stepping out of the aisle and reclaiming her spot beside Baela. Aesira couldn't tell if she was truly as happy as she claimed about the betrothals, for before she could glance at Princess Rhaenys, she caught sight of Vaemond's face.

Vaemond's breathing had shallowed, as he said, "You break law...and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare to tell me...who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it."

Of course, Vaemond changed his direction. Concern over the Velaryon bloodline—even on the taboo topic of questioning Luke's father—would be quelled once he married Rhaena. She had the Velaryon blood that he coveted, whether they believed Luke to have it or not. Rhaena had the blood, and Luke had the name.

"Allow it?" The King repeated sharply, "Do not forget yourself, Vaemond."

But he had.

Vaemond turned to thrust a finger at Luke as he hissed, "That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine."

"Go to your chambers," Rhaenyra threw over her shoulder towards her gathered children and Ward before standing between them and Vaemond, "You have said enough."

Before he could respond, the King boomed over him, "Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you...are no more than the Second Son of Driftmark."

"You...may run your House as your see fit...but you will not decide the future of mine. My House survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides." Still shaking with unbridled rage, Vaemond turned his venomous stare from the King to glare at Luke, "And gods be damned...I will not see it ended on the account of this..."

The word written on his face caught in his throat. The slur that would finally push him from enraged to treasonous. Aesira could see the fight in his eyes, the struggle to contain the anger and injustice he felt.

Vaemond danced on that ledge until finally, Daemon broke the spell and whispered, "Say it."

It was a challenge, to pick a side. It was a challenge Vaemond accepted as a lethal smile grew on his face, "Her children...are bastards! And she...is...a whore."

Whatever leg Vaemond had to stand on, was swept out beneath him. Having outlawed voicing the rumours, the King rose to his feet and unsheathed his Valyrian Steel dagger, "I...will have your tongue for that."

With her attention on the unstable King and the treacherous lord, Aesira hadn't noticed Daemon leaving Rhaenyra's side for the second time. Not until he unsheathed Dark Sister, the sword that hardly ever left his hip, and used her to slice the top of Vaemond Velaryon's head off.

"He can keep his tongue," Daemon muttered under his breath as Vaemond's body crumbled to the ground with the top of his head making a wet sound as it thumped to the floor. From behind the crumpled body, Aemond's obscured form became clearer and his face, Aesira realised, was not the mask of horror that spread through the court. On his face, she saw exhilaration, fear, and understanding.

A smile bloomed on his beautiful face as his gaze flickered between his nephews. Aesira couldn't stop the shudder that ran through her as she worried about what he'd realised, what he'd seen, what he'd concluded by witnessing Daemon's actions that could fill him with so much ire and understanding.

Lord Otto broke the air of shock, by yelling at the Kingsguard to disarm Daemon. But he simply cleaned the edge of his bloodied sword with his tunic and said, "No need."

He sheathed Dark Sister once more and stepped out of the aisle with as much ease as someone who'd stepped out to pick a fruit from a bush.

No sooner had Aesira heard a harsh rasping sound that she glanced up, only to see the King tumble down from his Iron Throne.