"Any man who must say, 'I am the king,' is no true king."

―Tywin Lannister

…

Aemond's return to King's Landing was unannounced, a mere ripple against the backdrop of daily life, but the currents of his presence were deeply felt. Vhagar's wings stirred a wind that swept through the hills outside the city, heralding the prince's arrival as the ancient beast touched down beyond the walls. The prince dismounted, his movements fluid and deliberate, the great dragoness bending her neck with a kind of tacit understanding as he removed his pack from her saddle. With a lingering touch against Vhagar's flank, he left the dragon to watch over the open fields, striding with purpose towards the looming gates of King's Landing.

The Dragon Gate opened before him, guards of the City Watch snapping to attention with rigid salutes, their reverence unfeigned. They bowed their heads and murmured their greetings, but Aemond responded only with a simple nod, acknowledging their respect as it was his due, yet without vanity.

He entered the city unescorted, moving with the confidence of a man who had memorized every twist of cobblestone beneath his boots. The streets were bustling as always, merchants calling their wares, smallfolk lingering with open curiosity, and children scampering through the alleys. Those who recognized him paused to stare, their gazes mingling fear and admiration. Aemond greeted a few, his lips curving faintly as he nodded to a vendor, a young woman curtsying deeply in his path. The Red Cloaks on duty, who had been lounging idly, straightened at the sight of him, faces hardening into professionalism as he passed. Aemond's mere presence demanded composure, and that demand rippled across the city as he walked.

He reached the Red Keep without incident or delay, its great shadow swallowing him as he approached the gatehouse. The Keep's servants scattered in haste, whispers already spreading ahead of him, the courtiers' casual chatter stiffening with the knowledge that the One-Eyed Prince had returned. But Aemond had no interest in stirring the court's gossip; he moved quietly through the labyrinthine halls until he stood before the nursery doors, where his niece and nephew resided.

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, mere children who bore the weighty names of their ancestry, ran to greet him at the sight of his silhouette, their innocence cutting through the solemn air like sunlight piercing fog. Helaena rose with her usual ethereal grace, and beside her, Rowenna straightened, her expression a mixture of formality and familiarity. Aemond's attention, however, was immediately captured by the children, who clamoured for his notice, their eager faces lit with joy.

He smiled, his features softening in a manner that was rare. From his pack, he retrieved small trinkets—gifts from Oldtown—and presented them, his hands deftly unwrapping the contents as the children's eyes widened with wonder. Jaehaera took to her carved wooden wyvern with an excited squeal, while Jaehaerys examined his intricately wrought puzzle cube with intense curiosity, his small brow furrowed in concentration. Aemond knelt before them, murmuring softly, his voice low and warm, until the children, engrossed with their gifts, allowed him to finally straighten and acknowledge the adults in the room.

"Prince Aemond," Rowenna said, her formality tempered with familiarity. Helaena, watching the children fondly, turned to him with a brightened gaze.

"How fared our brother?" Helaena inquired, her voice soft, lilting. She was as she always was, a quiet presence with a perpetual air of mystery, her silver hair cascading down her back.

"Daeron performed admirably," Aemond assured her. "He's been returned safely to Oldtown." He watched Helaena's face ease, the tension in her gaze fading to something like contentment.

"And you?" Aemond asked, raising a brow as he looked at her.

Helaena's lips curved in a faint smile, "As well as always, brother." The simplicity of her words made Aemond huff a small laugh, the sound dry and amused. He knew what she alluded to, her eyes flickering to the side where silence veiled discomfort.

"I will speak to him," Aemond said, his voice tempered, a promise there, albeit one that hung heavily in the air. She gave a small nod, her eyes meeting his with a flash of gratitude.

Turning his attention to Rowenna, Aemond allowed the intensity of his gaze to settle on her. "Your colleagues," he said, "Where are they now?"

"In their chambers, my prince," Rowenna answered swiftly. "Shall I summon them? Are we to resume lessons today?"

Aemond shook his head. "No, not today. But ensure they remain within the Keep. There are other commitments I must see to." As if to punctuate his words, a servant appeared in the doorway, hesitating before stepping forward.

"My prince, the King requests your presence." The girl's voice quivered with the weight of the message. Aemond turned, his eye sweeping across the room once more before he made to leave.

"Must you really do this, brother?" Helaena asked, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes faraway, almost unfocused—a dreamy tone masking the sharpness of her question. Aemond paused, looking back at her, a faint smile on his lips.

"Sometimes, sacrifice is the only way forward," he replied, his voice an echo of something older, wiser, his words heavy with unspoken resolve. And with that, he left, his cloak trailing behind him as he made his way towards duty's inevitable call.

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The throne room was colder than Viserys remembered, a chill that seemed to gnaw at his ageing bones as he entered. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, its jagged edges gleaming under the torchlight, reflecting the flickering flames in fractured shards. The very sight of it had once filled him with awe; now it only inspired a weary dread. It seemed larger today, an indifferent beast made of a thousand swords, mocking his frailty. He hunched over, each step a struggle, his breath growing more laboured as he ascended the stone steps.

Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk Cargyll flanked him, their presence offering little solace. They moved to help as his knees buckled momentarily, but Viserys waved them off. His pride allowed no such charity. He refused to be seen as weak, especially not here, before that throne, before his court, and certainly not before an unruly son. With a grimace, he continued up the steps, his crown slipping, the ornate weight of it sliding from his head, clattering loudly upon the stone below. The sound echoed, deafening in the silence.

Viserys sucked in a breath, the cold air biting into his lungs, and he forced himself to turn back, painfully stooping to retrieve the fallen crown. The weight seemed greater than before, and his fingers shook as he righted it upon his brow, the circlet of gold pressing uncomfortably against his temple. He finally settled on the Iron Throne, the sharp edges of the ancient seat biting into his flesh, a reminder of its unforgiving nature.

Before him, the throne room lay in silence. On either side of the throne, Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander, and Grand Maester Orwyle bowed their heads in acknowledgement of his presence. Viserys nodded back, struggling to mask the agony in his bones, the burning ache in his knees. His eyes sought Aemond—the cause of this summons.

The young prince leaned casually against one of the columns halfway down the room, his silhouette partially obscured in shadow. He made no move, showed no urgency at his father's entrance. His one eye, glinting beneath his brow, was the only thing that caught the light, a cold gleam that seemed to judge Viserys without words. His face was calm, too calm, as if this was all beneath him, an inconvenience he was forced to indulge.

Viserys cleared his throat, his voice raspy and dry as he addressed the figure in the shadows. "Aemond," he began, his tone strained, "step forward."

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The prince moved slowly, deliberately, taking his time, each step echoing against the cold stone floors. He came to stand before the Iron Throne, his head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze unreadable. Viserys took him in—the set of his jaw, the chill in his eyes, the way he carried himself with a quiet arrogance.

"Your recent... actions," Viserys started, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied himself, "bewilder me. Vaemond Velaryon on the small council, your betrothal to Lady Jeyne Arryn, provocations against Braavos—all these done without my consent. Without even my knowledge."

The prince met Viserys' gaze, his expression unwavering, his eye reflecting none of the tension that Viserys felt. Aemond tilted his head, listening, though there was an indifference about him, a kind of quiet superiority. The prince allowed the question to linger, tasting the tension as if savoring it.

"The decisions were made for the betterment of the realm," he answered plainly in the end. His gaze bore into Viserys, unwavering, like a blade aimed at the heart. "It was not I who chose to act in secrecy. Rather, it is your failing health, Father, that demanded we take action — to keep the kingdom running."

The insinuation struck Viserys like a dagger. Fury surged through him, every muscle in his body stiffening. "You presume too much, boy," Viserys spat, his voice gaining strength from the fury bubbling within. "I am king. Not you. These matters are mine to decide, or Rhaenyra's in my eventual absence. You were put on the council to serve, not to command. You dare take it upon yourself to make decisions that only I, or my heir, shall decree?"

Aemond's lips twitched into what might have been a smile—a small, condescending curve. He inclined his head slightly, but not in deference; it was more a gesture of acknowledgement, as if he had already anticipated every word, every accusation. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, the words practised, as though he had rehearsed this moment countless times in his mind.

"The realm, Father, does not have the luxury of waiting," Aemond said, his tone calm, logical, the detachment in it like ice. "As I have said before, your health is failing. We cannot afford to stand idle. Decisions must be made for the stability of Westeros. I made them, as I believed was right."

Viserys felt the heat rising up his neck, his hands trembling as they clutched at the armrests. His breath quickened, each intake painful. "Everything!" he snapped, his voice loud enough to echo, sharp enough to cut. "You will reverse everything! Vaemond's appointment, your engagement, even this stupid conflict you wish to start with the Iron Bank! Everything! I will not have you, in your hubris and arrogance, complicate matters ahead of my daughter's ascension. Do you understand me, boy?"

The moment dragged on, tense, uneasy, yet no response came. Aemond held his gaze, his expression unchanging, his eye steady and cold. When the prince finally spoke, it was with a disdain that seemed to hold a metaphysical weight. "I seek only what is best for the realm," he said. "Your orders, Father, in this state, are flawed. Illogical. I cannot, in good conscience, carry them out."

Viserys's chest heaved, the shock of Aemond's words leaving him momentarily speechless. The gall of it—the absolute gall. His hands went to the dagger at his belt, the Valyrian steel glinting in the dim light as he drew it, the motion wild, almost desperate. He struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing.

"You will heed me, or by the gods, I will have your tongue for this insolence!" Viserys shouted, his voice cracking as he pointed the dagger towards Aemond.

Aemond looked at the blade, then back at Viserys, and there was something akin to pity in his gaze. He spoke slowly, with a maddening calm that made Viserys's blood boil. "It is a shame," the prince said, shaking his head. "Had you not been so blinded by your emotions, you might have made a somewhat passable ruler."

Viserys's dagger wavered, his grip unsteady. The room around him felt smaller, the faces of those watching faded to blurs. His breath rattled in his chest, fury mingling with something deeper, something far more unsettling—fear. Fear of the truth in Aemond's words, fear of his own failing strength.

"Guards!" Viserys rasped, his voice barely more than a croak, his eyes darting towards the Kingsguard. "Seize him! Seize the prince!"

For a moment, nothing happened. The silence was suffocating. Then the guards exchanged glances, uncertainty written on their faces. They shifted uneasily, their hands inching towards their swords, but none moved forward. None dared.

Viserys looked to Ser Harrold, and the Lord Commander turned on his men. "Did you not hear your king?" he demanded, anger evident in his tone. "Seize him!"

Still, the Kingsguard hesitated. The Cargyll twins shifted uneasily, their hands brushing the pommels of their swords but drawing nothing. There was an unspoken tension, an understanding that Viserys saw too late. They were not just weighing their loyalty to him against Aemond's. They were deciding who, in truth, wielded power.

Ser Harrold unsheathed his blade, his eyes darkening with determination. He stepped forward, his armour clanking as he approached Aemond. But, with a flash of steel, Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk crossed their blades in front of him, barring his way. The rasp of swords sliding against one another filled the room, and for Viserys, it was the sound of something breaking.

Viserys watched in mute horror as Ser Harrold's advance was halted, the blade of one Kingsguard knight meeting the other's in cold defiance. His heart pounded, the beat echoing in his ears. He saw the silent understanding among them, a consensus that turned his stomach. His son had undone him.

Viserys sank back onto the Iron Throne, the coldness of the metal biting into his skin, the sting of his own helplessness biting deeper still.

Aemond stared back, unblinking, his expression as cold and unreadable as stone. There was no triumph in his gaze, no satisfaction — only that same infuriating calm. The silence between them seemed to stretch, heavy and impenetrable, as the king's breath came ragged, his strength slowly ebbing away.

Viserys's hands still gripped the armrests, his knuckles white against the black iron. He could feel his power slipping, his authority eroding in the face of the indifference before him. Aemond had become a stranger, one he could no longer command, and as the prince looked at him, Viserys saw not his son, but a force he could not bend.

The air in the throne room was suffocating, the walls closing in around the king, pressing down with the weight of all his failures. Viserys watched as Aemond turned away, slowly, deliberately, as though the matter were settled, as though he had no fear of repercussion. He moved with a calm assurance that twisted the knife of humiliation in Viserys's gut. The king's hands clenched around the armrests, his knuckles whitening against the dark iron.

Aemond paused in his departure, turning back to face the throne, his gaze sweeping over Ser Harrold and the other knights. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that carried an unmistakable command.

"Take the king to his chambers and make sure he is not disturbed. None may see him without my explicit permission." The order came from a calm place, with words falling like a death knell in the quiet of the room. The prince's lone eye then fell upon Ser Harrold, and his expression hardened. "And the Lord Commander will be taken to a holding cell to reflect upon his actions. He has failed his duties."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," one of the younger Kingsguard knights said quietly as he approached the throne. He hesitated, his face filled with an unmistakable sorrow. His eyes would not meet Viserys' as he extended a hand to drag the king to his feet.