Only then did Aemond turn back to the delegates.
"Lord William," he said, "you asked me just now—what if we insist on seeing the King? Now I give you your answer."
He took a step forward.
The guards' swords rose an inch in unison.
"Then I can only conclude that you are not emissaries."
"What?" Benjicot burst out, his voice trembling with fury. "Prince, have you lost your wits? We are the official representatives of the Wardens of the Realm!"
Aemond cut him off. "I have told you the King is gravely ill, yet you still demand to force your way into the royal chambers. What is that, if not assassination? By law, I could slay you where you stand."
Medrick finally broke free of those restraining him.
"What law? What law of the Seven Kingdoms says that a vassal who asks to see his king is an assassin? Aemond Targaryen, you are not the law!"
Aemond turned his head to look at the assembly, his eye unblinking.
"My law. Here, in King's Landing, in this throne room, I am the law."
The Four Kingdoms' representatives gasped, staring at the imperious prince before them.
"Do you wish to test it?" Aemond asked. "Shall we see whether your bones are harder, or my sword is swifter?"
Medrick trembled, rage nearly overwhelming him, but his attendants seized his arms.
At that moment, Sebastian Errol spoke.
The Stormlands' representative, who had been silent until now, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and spoke in a fawning voice.
"Your... Your Grace, the Stormlands have no such intention. Lord Borros... that is, Lord Boremund sent me only to convey his concern for His Grace's health. Since His Grace requires rest... we understand completely."
He paused, then added, "The matter of High Tide... that was the fault of House Velaryon. The traitors deserved their punishment."
The words were so blatantly flattering that even his own attendants looked uncomfortable. But Sebastian did not care. Lord Borros had already hinted to him. The Stormlands were about to change lords—the old lord Boremund was dying, and his heir Borros would soon ascend to his seat. He had no need to speak for a dying old lord at the cost of offending the future king and his liege lord.
The other three representatives looked at Sebastian with disbelief. Before coming, they had all agreed to advance and withdraw together.
Aemond glanced at Sebastian and nodded. "Lord Sebastian is wise. The Stormlands' loyalty shall not be forgotten by the Iron Throne."
He then looked at the remaining three.
William Royce's hands trembled. Not with fear—with suppressed rage. He fixed his gaze on Aemond and spoke, each word deliberate.
"Your Grace, do you know what you are doing?"
"No," Aemond corrected him, "I am telling all of Westeros that those who are loyal to the Iron Throne shall be rewarded. Those who rebel shall be punished. Is that not the essence of our pact? The lord protects his vassals, and the vassals are loyal to their lord. That is justice."
He returned to the platform of the Iron Throne, but did not ascend it, instead standing at its edge, looking down upon them all.
"Now I give you a choice." Aemond raised two fingers. "First: in three days' time, His Grace the King shall receive you, though His Grace's health is poor and he is often insensible. That is your only chance to see His Grace."
He lowered the first finger.
"Second: take the Small Council's formal response and leave King's Landing at once, return to your lands. Tell your lords: loyalty to the Iron Throne, loyalty to Prince Aegon—your lands, your titles, your rights shall remain as they were. I shall take some portion of the wealth from High Tide and Dragonstone to reward those who are faithful."
He lowered the second finger.
"But if any man wishes to play both sides, to secretly treat with the traitors in Tyrosh while swearing loyalty to me..." Aemond's voice turned cold. "Then let Creon Velaryon of High Tide and Robert Quince of Dragonstone serve as examples. One took his own life after parley; the other I beheaded with my own hands."
He paused a moment, letting the words settle.
"The choice is yours."
The hall was silent. Every breath seemed loud.
After a long moment, William Royce spoke, each word measured.
"I shall... await the audience with His Grace in three days." He lifted his head and met Aemond's gaze directly. "Your Grace, grant us leave to depart. Today... there is nothing more to be said between us."
He bowed—reluctantly, almost a stiff motion—then turned, signaled to Medrick and Benjicot, and gestured for them to withdraw.
Medrick stared at Aemond, Benjicot Blackwood cast one last look, and then they followed William.
Sebastian Errol hastily bowed and all but fled.
The Four Kingdoms' representatives and their attendants left the throne room. The great doors closed slowly behind them.
Aemond looked at Tyland Lannister. The Hand had been silent, watching, and only now spoke.
"Your Grace's methods today... were rather harsh."
"Did they work?" Aemond asked.
Tyland was silent a moment. "In the short term, yes. They were afraid. But the seeds of distrust are sown. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands—after today, they will not trust you. They would rather believe Rhaenyra's side."
"The so-called trust you speak of never existed to begin with," Aemond said. "I need their obedience. And if they will not obey..."
"Then they are enemies, not friends, my lord Hand." Aemond turned his head slightly to look at Tyland.
Tyland nodded and fell silent.
Aemond waved a hand, dismissing them all.
The Small Council, the guards, the servants—all began to file out of the throne room.
He was not concerned that the North would join Rhaenyra. He had the whole South behind him. And the key was the dragons: so long as the battles of dragons could be won, nothing else mattered. He had men. He had dragons.
And if three kingdoms should make war upon him, after the war he would have all the more reason to strip them of their lands. The Crownlands were still too small. The Vale—the very place where the Andals had first conquered Westeros a thousand years ago—was treacherous ground, its Bloody Gate enough to hold off any invasion, but within the Vale lay rich plains. And the Riverlands were fertile too, where a hundred rivers flowed. Yet the Riverlands were hemmed in between the West, the North, the Vale, and the Crownlands; whenever great conflict erupted in Westeros, the Riverlands always bore the heaviest blows.
Finally, the doors closed again, leaving only mother and son in the hall.
Alicent finally raised her head, tears streaming down her face. She looked at her son with an expression Aemond had never seen before, and wept quietly.
"They will question us. All of Westeros will question us. Why must you be so harsh? Some things could have been resolved by talk."
"Let them question," Aemond said, approaching the Iron Throne and gently placing his hands on his mother's shoulders. "We are the rightful rulers, Mother. Besides, I have long wanted to be rid of their hesitation. There is no cause for concern. The victor may claim all..."
Queen Alicent ceased her protest. She could not undo Aemond's will. Now all of King's Landing, the Crownlands, the South, and the lords of the realm stood with Aemond. The Seven Kingdoms had been at peace for too long. The younger generation thirsted for glory, for opportunity, for war.
"What would Father say?" Aemond continued. "Would he condemn me for taking High Tide and Dragonstone? Would he proclaim Rhaenyra the rightful heir?"
"He would not do that," Queen Alicent tried to argue.
"I do not know," Aemond interrupted. "But we cannot risk it. If Father speaks against us, the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands will fall behind Rhaenyra at once. Even the southern kingdoms might waver."
Alicent's tears flowed anew. "But... but your father... he loves you. You are his son..."
"He is also Rhaenyra's father," Aemond said calmly.
He looked up at the Iron Throne. That monstrous mountain of swords gleamed coldly in the torchlight.
"His Grace must understand something," he said, not looking back as he walked toward the doors.
Queen Alicent watched Aemond. "You will go to him tonight? You mean to force him to take a side?"
"It is not forcing," Aemond said. "It is making him see reality."
Aemond cast one last glance at his mother, Alicent.
"I shall tell him everything. Everything. And then let him choose."