The Golden Wyrm

"Hands turn loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread…"

―Helaena Targaryen, from "The Red Sowing"

…

​

Aemond sat rigid in the high-backed chair, the warmth of his blood trickling down his cheek as Maester Kelvyn stitched the wound and his mother fumbled over him. His face was as still as the surface of a frozen lake, his remaining eye evaluating, weighing all present.

Corlys Velaryon entered then, Rhaenys at his side. Rhaenyra followed, her face flushed, a storm of emotions darkening her eyes—fear, anger, confusion. She rushed to her sons, Jace and Luke. Daemon followed after, arms crossed behind his back, then came Lyonel Strong aiding the king. Vaemond Velaryon, accompanied by his cousins, strode in last, his gaze searching, landing on Aemond's and widening in surprise.

King Viserys stood at the centre of the room, a crumbling statue of a man. His eyes, clouded with illness and regret, drifted over those gathered, past a shackled Harwin Strong, pausing at Aemond.

"How did this happen?" Viserys asked, his voice echoing through the hall, strained, raw. He leaned on his cane, his once-powerful frame now frail, his authority fraying in the presence of the factions he struggled to keep united. The Kingsguard stood silent, faceless beneath their helms.

Maester Kelvyn stepped back, his fingers red with Aemond's blood, the stitching done but crude, a raw line across the young prince's face. Aemond took a slow breath, letting the sting of the wound pull him deeper into the moment. Pain was a tool, a whetstone for the mind. He focused, and when he spoke, his voice trembled in it.

"I was attacked," Aemond began. He paused, letting the silence thicken, a blade hanging in the air. "Jacaerys and Lucerys, they attacked me when I claimed Vhagar."

He gestured to his stitched eye, the movement slow, calculated. "They meant to beat me for it, for stealing Rhaena's dragon, they said. When I defended myself, Ser Harwin Strong arrived." He let his gaze drift towards Harwin, allowed vulnerability to flicker, just for a heartbeat—a boy standing against his oppressor. "He held me down, and Jace took my eye as punishment."

A murmur rippled through those present, shock evident on many faces. Corlys exchanged a glance with Rhaenys, dark and troubled. Rhaenyra's face flushed crimson, her lips trembling as she opened her mouth to protest. Daemon's gaze narrowed. Alicent's voice cut through the growing din—incandescent.

"This is outrageous!" the queen said, eyes like molten steel as she faced Viserys. "He held my son down, Viserys! He mutilated him! Crippled him! He must pay for it!"

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice trembling but loud. "Aemond lies! Ser Harwin would never do that. This... this is a manipulation—a cruel game." Her gaze moved to Harwin, seeking some confirmation, some anchor in this chaos.

Harwin stood, his hands open, his face a mask of wounded pride, but before he could speak, the Velaryon guards—those who had been present at the scene of the incident—stepped forward.

"We were there, Your Grace," one of them spoke, his voice steady, though his eyes darted to Rhaenyra. "We saw it all. Ser Harwin held the prince down... while Jacaerys moved to maim him."

Rhaenyra turned toward the guard, her face blanching. "This... this cannot be..."

Alicent's lips twisted into a snarl. She cast a loathing glare at the bound man before turning back to Viserys. "Lord-husband! Aemond has been damaged permanently! A prince! Your son! Surely, you would not let such an insult pass unanswered."

The king hesitated. "...What would you have me do, Alicent?" he asked finally, frustration clouding his face.

An incredulous chuckle escaped the queen's chest. Then her eyes grew dark as she realised Viserys intended not to act. "A debt must be paid, my King," she spat in the end, before turning vengeful eyes at the bound knight. "I shall take his head in exchange."

The hall erupted then. Rhaenyra shouted, Alicent responded, their voices rising and clashing like waves in a tempest. Accusations, threats, insults. Lord Strong, pale as a corpse, stared at his son, his heir, unmoving. The Kingsguard shifted uneasily, their hands resting on sword hilts, waiting for the storm to break. Viserys looked as if he might shatter, his gaze flicking between the women, his raised hand trembling, trying and failing to quiet them.

It was then that Aemond spoke, his voice a calm amidst the chaos. It cut through the noise, deceptively soft, almost gentle, yet unmistakably commanding. He leaned forward, his one good eye fixed on Harwin.

"Perhaps," Aemond began, his words deliberate, every syllable weighted, "we should allow Ser Harwin a way to prove his innocence." He paused, watching the reactions. "Let us have a duel, here and now, as it is the old way. If he is innocent, the Gods will show us."

Alicent's face blanched, her eyes turning toward her son, horrified. "No! What rubbish are saying!"

Rhaenyra, however, seized upon the offer, a lover's fierce hope shining through. "Aemond, you wise child! Yes, let Ser Harwin clear his name, as befits a knight!"

Viserys faltered. He looked at Aemond, at the stitched wound, at the cold resolve in his son's gaze. His gaze flickered to Alicent who looked wroth to the nine hells and back, then to Rhaenyra trembling in desperation. A decision was made in that moment.

"Very well," Viserys said at last, without truly considering the offer, his words just as Aemond knew they would be. "A duel will decide this matter. Here and now."

Ser Harwin was freed and made to step forward, suspicion darkening his gaze. A waster was fetched for him and another for Aemond so none might maim the other. Armed, the knight stepped into the cleared space, his posture easy, confident—he would not harm the child, he thought, but he would finally put an end to this farce, whatever it was.

Aemond rose, slow and deliberate. He moved to the centre, feeling every eye upon him. They thought him a boy, thought him outmatched—a child before a seasoned knight. They did not know. Waster struck waster, then the true strike came, fast, behind a feint and a sidestep, and with a swift, decisive motion, sharpened dragon-bone sliced across Harwin's throat. The room seemed to hold its breath, the world suspended in that heartbeat before the crimson spray erupted. Ser Harwin staggered, his eyes wide, hands clutching at his neck, his legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the stone floor.

A collective gasp swept through the room, the Velaryons and Targaryens alike frozen, their eyes wide with horror. Rhaenyra's scream tore through the silence, raw and filled with anguish. Alicent stared, her face drained of colour, her hands flying to her mouth. The Kingsguard moved, but too late—the deed was done.

Aemond stood over Harwin's crumpled form, his expression impassive. Staring at the corpse at his feet, he flicked his blade clean before sheathing it back by his waist. Suppressing a sigh, he turned then, his gaze sweeping over the shocked faces before resting on Viserys.

"The Gods have spoken," Aemond said, his voice clear, the words echoing in the stunned hall. "The debt has been paid. Now, if you will forgive me, Father, I must retire to my room to recover."

With that, he turned and left, abandoning Viserys to mismanage the fallout as he hoped he would.

***

In the days following Ser Harwin Strong's death, the court seemed to hang in a state of uneasy silence, like a great beast holding its breath. Word spread quickly of the prince's cold, ruthless strike, and whispers of his vengeful will filled every corner of the realm. For some, his victory had been an omen; for others, a warning.

Rhaenyra did not linger. Disgusted by her father's reluctance to avenge her sworn knight, she departed Driftmark with her sons and sailed for Dragonstone, leaving the greens to their schemes and her father to his increasingly feeble rule. Soon after, Lord Lyonel Strong resigned his post as Hand of the King, unable—or unwilling—to serve in a court that harboured the kind of carelessness that had slain his son. With a heavy heart, he returned to Harrenhal, leaving the king's side and the burden of rule.

Daemon Targaryen, too, vanished from Westeros's shores, retreating to Pentos with his daughters, Baela and Rhaena. Yet blood calls to blood. It was not long before Rhaenyra sent for him, and within months, Daemon and his girls settled on Dragonstone, a watchful presence at the princess's side. With the three dragon riders united on the ancient Targaryen seat, a sense of gathering storm settled over the realm.

In King's Landing, however, the tides shifted to favour the greens. With Lyonel Strong gone, Otto Hightower was once again summoned to serve as Hand. The old fox returned with renewed vigour, ever-ready to bolster his family's influence over a king who now seemed more spectre than sovereign. Viserys, wracked with illness, withdrew from council meetings, leaving governance to those who circled him like vultures.

Young Aemond Targaryen, now fifteen, seized his opportunities. He assumed the position of Master of Coin, displacing the ancient Lord Beesbury after demonstrating a deft grasp of numbers that far outstripped that of any Maester. His ambition drove him to found the "Dragon's Bank" the following year, a challenge to the Iron Bank's shadow over Westeros. The enterprise was a success, filling the royal's coffers and granting Aemond resources to reshape King's Landing as he saw fit.

Named Lord Commander of the City Watch, the prince set his sights on reform. With funds from his bank, he raised the numbers of the City Watch tenfold, bringing order to the capital on a scale unseen before. Side by side with Jasper Wylde, who saw in Aemond's ambitions a mirror of his own, he overhauled the city's laws, bending them to his will. Together, they carved a new bureaucracy, granting themselves an iron grip on the capital.

That year brought other dark tidings. Laenor Velaryon, the prince consort, fell to his death from a balcony under circumstances as murky as the sea at night. Within the month, his estranged widow, Rhaenyra, wed her uncle Daemon on Dragonstone, her mourning cloak barely cast aside. Some whispered of dark deeds behind the prince consort's fall; others called it fate, a stroke of the gods. But to all who bore witness, it was yet another sign—the cracks within House Targaryen had widened, and the dragon's blood grew ever more volatile.

And so, the realm edged closer to the precipice, while King Viserys sat unmoving, a fading shadow upon the Iron Throne, and Aemond's star rose steadily in King's Landing—a young prince, sharp as a knife, and with ambitions as vast as the sea.