Kinslayer | Aemond Targaryen ☾

II. Truth Demands Blood

Naerys

King Viserys sits upon his throne, the Hand standing dutifully at his right. To his left stand the Queen, flanked by three of her four children, deliberately arranged in order of birth—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond. Each member of the family wears demure, impeccable attires with varying shades of green, honoring House Hightower. All but the youngest, whose black leather doublet sets him apart.

The solemn expression on their faces soon matches that of the courtesans as they take notice of their father rising from his seat, shakily aiming for his dagger.

"I...will have your tongue for this," he breathes, his trembling hand gripping the hilt of his blade with what little strength he has left. Gasps ripple through the high walls of the Throne Room at his words, but not to the ones that ignited his fury. Vaemond Velaryon has brazenly called my mother a whore, and us her bastards before the entire court—yet not a sound was uttered at the insult. Because for them, it is no insult at all. It is solely the truth.

Before the King has had time to even walk down one step to the dais, silence reigns once more at the sound of Daemon's sword sliding out of its sheath. A swift nod from my mother is all he needs to act. The simplest gesture, announcing that Vaemond's life has come to an end. With a precision only his war experience can give, his sword cuts off his head with a single strike just below the ears, leaving his tongue intact. Fresh, crimson blood pools from his fallen body, flooding all the way to our feet.

"He can keep his tongue," Daemon retorts, a proud sneer on his face as he admires his work. The King falls back to his throne with a deep sigh, content with his brother's response.

I press my lips together, trying to conceal the sliver of contentment that ripples through me as his blood spreads all over the cold marbled floor. I stare at it, lost in its color. Red. Same as mine. Red. Trueborn, or not.

"Disarm him!" The Hand commands, voice sharp with authority. The guards move instantly, starting towards him.

"No need," Daemon replies, wiping Dark Sister clean on his dark tunic before nonchalantly sheathing it back at his waist.

No one but him could behead someone in presence of the king, with no precise instructions or permission to do so—and bear no consequences. Not that some sort of punishment would do anything to subside his impulsive nature, of course. That, I think, both the King and my mother have learned.

A hand tugs at my dress from behind. Luke. His face is ghostly pale, hazel eyes turning glassy as he avoids the sight of blood. His sincere distress pierces through me, making me feel wretched for the thoughts I've just entertained.

"It'll be fine," I murmur, reaching to squeeze his hand in reassurance.

"I did not wish for this," he whispers, immediate guilt gnawing at him.

"I know."

But it was necessary. Vaemond has not only insulted our family. He has also questioned the King, deeming his chosen heir unfit. If he had gone unpunished for his disobedience and false claims, the rest of the court would in time learn to do the same.

"Fetch the maesters! Please!" The Queen shouts, desperately climbing the steps to the throne where the King winces in pain. I glance around the room, searching for any of them who might have been in attendance—then my eyes meet Aemond's cold stare. He stands utterly still, unfazed by his own father's affliction. Instead, his gaze is solely focused on me. He needs not speak for me to know what is crossing his mind.

Ilībōños.

That's all I am to him. All I will ever be.

No true Velaryon. No real princess. No worthy heir.