In the king's chambers atop Maegor's Holdfast, the smell of medicines was overpowering.
Thick curtains shut out the night completely; only the silver night lamp beside the bed cast a faint glow, barely illuminating the square of space around the canopy. Viserys I lay in the bed.
Aemond stood at the bedside, speaking at length. From the dragonpit to the hunting of Rhaenyra's three sons in the Gullet, to the dragon battle at Dragonstone not long past. He concealed no details, softened no cruelties. When he spoke of Jacaerys's public beheading in the square of King's Landing, Viserys listened with eyes closed, breathing weak and even.
When Aemond had spoken his last word, a long silence filled the chamber.
At last, the king's eyelids fluttered and slowly opened.
"Come here," Viserys said.
Aemond did not hesitate; he stepped to the bedside.
Viserys raised his right hand. The hand was thin, skeletal; he summoned all his strength to strike Aemond. The force was pitifully weak; the dying old man's slap was scarcely audible. But Alicent cried out nonetheless. Aemond's face turned with the blow—he had expected it, and his bearing remained calm.
"You killed them..." Viserys's voice trembled. "Jacaerys... Joffrey... Lucerys... They were children..."
"Jacaerys was fourteen, and he trained his bastard dragonriders on Dragonstone to overthrow us," Aemond said. "Joffrey was ten, but he rode a dragon and joined the attack to free the captive dragons. They chose their path. They met the end they earned."
"But they were your own blood!" Viserys roared, then fell into a violent coughing fit, his frail frame convulsing on the bed.
Alicent quickly helped him sit up, patting his back. After half a minute of coughing, the king calmed, a trace of blood at the corner of his mouth. The queen wiped the blood from her husband's lips with a silk cloth herself.
Aemond waited until his father's breathing steadied before continuing. "Father, if we had lost, would they have spared us?"
Viserys was silent. He knew Daemon, the brother who had been unruly since childhood—the "Prince of the Narrow Sea" who had carved out his own kingdom in the Stepstones. As for Rhaenyra... he could not imagine what she would have become after losing three sons.
"You seized their dragons first..." Viserys's voice was weak with deep weariness. "They only wanted to take back what was theirs..."
"Not to take back what was theirs," Aemond cut in. "To steal what was not. Father, the Velaryons do not deserve dragons. They are not Targaryens. House Velaryon thought that by marrying Princess Rhaenys, their descendants would be tainted with dragon's blood. They were wrong. Dragons belong only to the true blood of the dragon."
He leaned in, moving closer to his father.
"The Velaryons had grown too powerful, Father. Their fleet, their wealth—and now they wanted dragons as well. Corlys dreamed of founding a dynasty in the East, of making House Velaryon another family of dragon kings. If I had not stopped it, the consequences would have been unthinkable."
Viserys closed his eyes. He remembered Corlys Velaryon, the proud "Sea Snake," the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, who had never truly bowed to anyone. Corlys supported Rhaenyra not out of loyalty to House Targaryen, but because Rhaenyra's sons bore the Velaryon name. Because Corlys dreamed of Velaryon blood upon the Iron Throne, wielding dragons, founding an eternal dynasty.
Viserys opened his eyes, tears streaming.
"Aemond... you cannot do this alone... stained with kinslayer's blood. What will the Seven Kingdoms think of you? How will the histories write of you? They will call you kinslayer, they will..."
"Father." Aemond interrupted calmly. "Why should I care what the Seven Kingdoms think of me? Why should we care what the maesters write in their histories?"
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking his father's cold hand in his own, and spoke in a low voice.
"Your whole life, you have lived for the praise of the lords. You listened to them, weighed their thoughts, balanced their interests. You wanted to be loved. You wanted to be praised. You wanted to leave behind the reputation of a wise king, like Jaehaerys before you."
He squeezed his father's hand.
"But the rule of House Targaryen was never about asking. It is about commanding."
Viserys tried to pull his hand away, but Aemond held it firmly. The strength in the young prince's hands filled the old king with an inexplicable fear—not for his son, but for something inevitable, unstoppable.
"We are the blood of the Conqueror," Aemond continued, fire burning in his eye. "Aegon the First conquered the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons not because he was wise, but because he was strong. Maegor crushed the Faith without hesitation and slaughtered fifty thousand devotees because he was merciless. The Targaryens have ruled for a hundred years not because we are loved, but because we make the world afraid."
He released his father's hand, stood, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain a fraction.
Outside, King's Landing lay shrouded in the dark night. Fog covered the city; even the nearest towers were no more than blurred outlines.
"You have cared too much about what they think," Aemond said, his back to his father. "But the truth is simple: the Seven Kingdoms must submit to the will of House Targaryen, not the other way around. Where dragonfire burns, that is Targaryen land. Where dragon wings shadow, that is Targaryen sky."
Viserys gazed blankly at his son's back.
This boy of sixteen—this son he had once thought extreme, impulsive, in need of a firm hand—his words now fell like hammer blows, shattering the convictions of a lifetime.
Because he knew his son was right.
For twenty years, he had worked to be a "good king." Balancing the interests of all sides, avoiding conflict, seeking peace. He had thought this would continue the golden age of his grandfather Jaehaerys.
And what had come of it?
The realm was splitting apart before his eyes. His children were at each other's throats.
What if... What if he had been as merciless as Maegor? If he had stripped Rhaenyra of her claim decisively when she bore her first bastard. If he had crushed the Velaryons when Corlys's ambitions grew too bold. If he had not married Alicent, had not allowed Otto Hightower to serve as Hand...
Perhaps things would be different now.
Alicent looked at her husband, tears streaming silently down her face. Twenty years together—she knew him too well.
In this moment, Viserys's face held agony—not only for the deaths of his grandsons, but because he understood that the governing philosophy of his entire life might have been flawed from the very beginning.
After a long time, Viserys let out a heavy sigh, carrying within it the weariness, the regret, the helplessness of a lifetime.
"You are right," the king said quietly. "Dragons... they belong only to House Targaryen."