SICKLY AND SILVER | AEMOND

I.XIV

THE KING'S WROTH

SILENCE RESTED HEAVY in High Tides' hall, filled by fatigued members of the court, who were all woken from their beds with the news of an attack upon the King's son by the King's grandson. Never before had Viserys' court faced infighting at this level. Kin assaulting kin.

Queen Alicent, who was in her chambers when the incident took place, only to be fetched by a worried Ser Criston Cole, reverted to old habits at the sight of her maimed boy and distressed girl: nervously picking at the delicate flesh around her fingers. A Maester with a thick bread of black and grey crouched beside the Prince, finishing the nimble stitches that now covered much of Aemond's face. Not once did he wail or whimper, however; an occasional hiss could be heard but nothing more. When Rhaella was by his side, he refused to show infirmity — since he was carried in by Ser Harrold Westerling and Ser Karlon Knott, one of her warm and comforting hands held onto his, stroking her thumb across his. Nerves subsided.

Suddenly, Viserys Targaryen looked angrily between the Kingsguard Knights and finally erupted: "How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers."

"The Princes and Princess were supposed to be abed, my king." Shamefully Harrold answered, forcing what he believed to be the truth from his lips. The Royal children were not expected to rise from their chambers and start an all-out war in the dead of night. Prophets could not have predicted it. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was charged with protecting the King, his consort and his children from threats, seldom were threats from within the Royal Family.

"Who had the watch?" Demanded the King, who had yet to speak directly to his children. Queen Alicent, on the other hand, refused to let them out of her sight, going so far as to order her daughter's most trusted handmaiden, Marla, her own handmaiden, Talya, and a few other servants to ready extra beds in her rooms; Alicent's middle and youngest child would spend their night watched over by Alicent.

Criston, the dark-haired Knight from the Dornish Marches, responded in a tone of disbelief. "The young Prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace." Like his Lord Commander, the Queen's sword did not anticipate this, instead, his attention lay somewhere else.

"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!" Viserys yelled, spit flying from his open men. Never before had Rhaella seen her father enraged to act irately publicly; emotions for a King should be closed off and not dictate every command and order and rule should be well thought out with a clear head. This was a building block for a King, a Lord or anyone in power.

"I'm very sorry, Your Grace."

Fixated on the idea his duty did not include looking for attacks from within the Targaryen House, Ser Criston counteracted his liege lord, who only grew more furious: "The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace."

"That is no answer!"

His Grace was in ill health now — physically worsening every passing day, a walking stick was essential as were rests after standing and long hours confined to his bed — he neared fifty years of age and twenty on the Iron Throne, but he masked it, the Realm needed strength not and an ageing, ailing man. Even his eldest and most beloved daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, was not fully aware of her father's state considering she left King's Landing for Dragonstone some moons ago when Prince Joffrey was considered a newborn. Under normal circumstances, his doting wife would fret for him, asking him to rest lest his state worsens. However, no such action was taken. Alicent the Wife was notably devoted yet nothing surpassed the love Alicent the Mother had for her white-haired children. For them, she would spend eternity in the deepest of the Seven Hells. "It will heal, will it not, maester?" Neglecting her husband, who continued reprimanding his Guard, Alicent questioned the Maester once he completed the stitches.