"The power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it."

―Muad'Dib

…

The descent to Dragonstone was, in Aemond's estimation, an exercise in the futility of theatricality. Perched upon the saddle of Vhagar, he regarded the fortress below, smoke rising faintly from fissures in the rock, the wind carrying the sulfurous tang of its volcanic heart.

Vhagar's shadow, vast and ominous, had stretched across the churning waves as she circled the fortress with a deliberate slowness that Aemond found nearly tedious. Such grand gestures were expected, he supposed, yet he could not resist the narrowing of his eye at the thought: if they did not already fear him, no number of circles in the sky would correct the deficiency.

When Vhagar landed upon the bleak, storm-battered beach, the reaction was as predictable as it was unremarkable. The garrison spilled forth from Dragonstone's gates in an undisciplined rush, swords sheathed and steps hesitant. They came no closer than necessary, their courage arrested by the sight of his mount, who lounged upon the sands with the air of a great beast entertaining an interruption it could scarcely bother to notice.

Aemond dismounted, his boots sinking into the wet earth. He adjusted his cloak with a certain deliberateness, as though to illustrate his utter lack of concern. "Summon the Princess Rhaenyra," he called to the garrison, his voice booming over the waves. "I come under a flag of parley."

He needn't have waited long. The sound of beating wings announced their arrival before they came into view. Moments later, the Princess descended from the skies astride Syrax, her golden dragon gleaming even beneath the ashen sky. At her side flew the blood wyrm, his serpentine body twisting through the air. The pair landed close to the gates, their riders dismounting with a flourish of righteous indignation that, in Aemond's view, bespoke an exhausting need to prove something he couldn't be bothered with.

Rhaenyra's gaze met his, and he observed at once the cold fury that animated her every movement. "You dare to darken my shores, Aemond?" she spat, her voice as sharp as the salt-laden wind. "You vile, wretched beast! Leave Dragonstone at once!"

Aemond did not so much as flinch. Instead, he inclined his head, allowing a faint, knowing smile to touch his lips. "Good day to you, Princess," he replied, his tone polite. "I bring news of great import."

The tension hung thick, a force as palpable as the presence of dragons. Rhaenyra's expression remained a mask of cold anger, but her knuckles whitened where they gripped her skirts. Daemon, ever the tempest, stood poised as though awaiting the merest excuse to be foolish. "Speak, then," his wife demanded before he had the chance, her eyes flashing with impatience.

"It is my solemn duty to inform you," Aemond began, his voice carefully measured, "that our father, King Viserys, has passed from this life."

Another man might have expected anger, or perhaps denial, but Aemond received the silence expected. A quietude so absolute it seemed to swallow the sound of the sea itself. Rhaenyra faltered, her expression slowly collapsing into one of disbelief, her hand grasping at her side as though the very air betrayed her. Beside her, Daemon's reaction was swifter and more animated: his hand flew to the hilt of Dark Sister, his gaze narrowing with suspicion.

"You finally killed him," the older prince accused, his voice a low growl. "You and your vipers on the council. Tell me, did the Hightower snake slit his throat while he slept, or was it you, boy, with your single, pitiful eye?"

Aemond arched a brow, tilting his head with the faintest trace of mockery. "Do you truly believe me so lacking in subtlety, uncle? The King's passing was natural, though inevitable. And, as is proper, his will was executed without delay. King Viserys named my brother, Aegon, his rightful heir. And as per the Queen's will, he was crowned in the dragonpit, before the masses."

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The words hung heavy in the air, their weight pressing down on all who heard them. Rhaenyra's expression crumbled into further disbelief, her hand clutching at her stomach. Her lips moved as though to form words, but none came. Daemon's fury, meanwhile, similarly deepened with each passing moment.

"You dare," Daemon snarled, stepping forward. "You dare come here and speak of usurpation as though it were ordained? The Iron Throne belongs to Rhaenyra, named heir by Viserys before the whole of the realm. To think you would try to snatch her crown with falsehoods and treachery. Say what you mean, boy, and draw your blade if you dare."

Aemond did not answer immediately. Instead, he regarded Daemon with a faint air of annoyance, as one might observe an overeager dog barking at a storm. "I did not come here for violence," he said at last. "I came with terms."

"Terms?" Daemon repeated, the word dripping with scorn.

"Indeed," Aemond replied, turning his attention back to Rhaenyra. "King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne; in exchange, his Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. And, in the event of your demise, it will pass to Aegon the Younger, your firstborn son by Daemon—ensuring its rightful Targaryen succession."

Rhaenyra's gaze flickered to Aemond, widening in ever-growing disbelief, but the prince pressed on, indifferent. "Your other children," he continued, pausing just long enough to let the implication linger, "the ones sired by Ser Harwin Strong, shall not be disinherited. They will retain the Velaryon name and their honours. As for their sibling, young Viserys will receive a seat of high honour at court as the king's squire and cup-bearer."

The terms immediately proved themselves rather too much to bear. Rhaenyra staggered then, her breath catching sharply. Aemond's gaze followed her as her hand pressed to her abdomen. She cried out faintly, her knees buckling, and Daemon was at her side in an instant, his fury momentarily replaced by concern.

"Get her to the Maester!" The older prince barked at the nearest guards. Two men rushed forward, bearing her away as Syrax growled in distress.

Daemon turned back to Aemond then, his hand once again on Dark Sister. "This is your doing," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage as he drew the blade. "You vile creature!" The garrison, emboldened by their prince's rage, did the same. Behind them, Caraxes and Syrax snarled, their aggression mounting.

But Vhagar shifted then, her massive frame blotting out the sun as she rose to her full height. Her maw opened slightly, and the faint glow of death illuminated the cavernous depths of her throat. The heat of her breath warped the air, and her growl deepened into a sound that resonated through the soft earth into the feet of every man present.

In response to everything, Aemond merely arched a brow, his gaze panning to Daemon. "Do you truly mean to fight me, uncle?" he asked. "Here? With so many you care for within half a dozen wing beats of my dragon?"

At this, Vhagar growled again, somehow deeper this time, steam curling from her maw. Syrax and Caraxes bristled in turn, but neither advanced.

Daemon hesitated, his fury warring with the cold calculus of survival. Aemond, however, did not wait for his reply. Turning his back to the enemy, he strode towards his mount with deliberate calm. "I will await your answer on the morrow," he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying over the sounds of dragons and waves alike.

"Do choose wisely."