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Daervon enters the Hall of Nine with his sworn protector, finding everyone already gathered. The hall is dimly lit, shadows dancing wildly from the harsh flickering of the fire. The grand space feels suffocating, filled with tension and raw emotion.
Daervon's body tenses as his gaze lands on Aemond, seated near the roaring furnace. The harsh light accentuates the cruel stitches and raw redness of Aemond's left eye, a stark contrast to the swollen, tear-rimmed exhaustion in his remaining eye. Daervon's heart aches at the sight, each detail of Aemond's pain cutting into him deeply, his own sorrow mirrored in the boy, a desperate urge to share that burden surging within him.
He learns from the murmurs that an altercation had broken out between Rhaenyra's, Daemon's, and Alicent's children. Luke had slashed at Aemond with a knife, severing his left eye. The scene is chaotic, emotions running high, and blame being cast in every direction.
Rhaenyra rushes to her sons, her face a mask of worry and fury. Luke is crying, trying to explain himself amidst the cacophony of voices. The children argue vehemently over who started the fight, their shouts blending into a discordant symphony until Viserys roars for silence, his voice echoing through the hall.
"Aemond," Viserys demands, his voice stern and weary, "I will have the truth of what happened. Now."
Alicent steps forward, her eyes wild with grief and fury. "What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible."
"It was a regrettable accident," Rhaenyra interjects, her voice strained but controlled.
"Accident?" Alicent scoffs, her voice dripping with venom. "The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son."
"It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves," Rhaenyra retorts, her voice rising. "Vile insults were levied against them."
"What insults?" Viserys demands, his face a mask of confusion and anger.
"The legitimacy of my sons' birth was loudly put into question," Rhaenyra explains, her voice trembling with rage.
"What?" Viserys turns to Jace, seeking confirmation.
"He called us bastards," Jace states firmly, his young face twisted with indignation.
"My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons," Rhaenyra declares, her eyes blazing. "Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."
