"So what? Are you suggesting we credit Daemon for Aemon's achievement?" Viserys snapped, his voice strained with exasperation.
Alicent's frown deepened. "Aemon is Aemon. Daemon is Daemon. They are not the same and should not be conflated," she replied firmly. "No one should be allowed to steal that child's glory."
Viserys slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples. His wife's seriousness only made the weight on his shoulders feel heavier. "This war—it began because of two arrogant fools who were unhappy with my decisions."
He stared at the sealed letter in Alicent's hand, the one from Driftmark. "If I send troops now to support Daemon and Corlys Velaryon, what message does that send? That it's acceptable to ignore the king's will and act against his commands? And when things turn against them, they expect me to bail them out?"
He let out a bitter chuckle. "Now that the war turns sour, I'm supposed to clean up their mess?"
Alicent gently placed the letter aside. Her tone softened. "Perhaps people would say the king is generous. That he is a man who loves his brother and puts the realm above pride."
"Hardly," Viserys scoffed. "They'll only mock me. They'll say I'm weak."
He smiled bitterly, the lines around his eyes deepening with weariness.
Alicent tilted her head. "Then what do you believe, my king?"
The question struck a nerve. Viserys winced, a dull ache pulsing in his skull. "I believe I'm just a miserable wretch who can never please anyone!"
He stood and began to pace. "I try to be kind. I try to keep the peace. But no one respects my decisions. Everyone has an agenda."
Alicent said nothing, watching him weather the storm of his own doubts. When he paused to catch his breath, she spoke again. "Then let me ask plainly: What brings more stability to the realm—letting the Crabfeeder grow stronger, or stamping him out now?"
Viserys froze. Alicent's words struck a chord, echoing thoughts he'd long buried beneath layers of hesitation.
She continued, "You remember the noble lady who was captured. More will suffer if we turn our backs. Peace doesn't come from retreat—it comes from strength."
Viserys fell into a brooding silence.
Truthfully, he had hoped Daemon and Corlys would become entangled in the Stepstones. Their distraction spared the Iron Throne from internal power struggles. Let them burn resources and ambition in the east while he maintained order at home.
But this letter—this plea—revealed something else.
The threat wasn't truly to Corlys Velaryon, whose wealth and ships made Driftmark resilient.
The real danger loomed over Daemon.
Daemon had no lands. No deep-rooted house behind him. Just mercenaries paid with gold—and those mercenaries were abandoning him. He was now a lone wolf, isolated and exposed.
Vaemond's letter, Viserys suspected, was not just a cry for help. It was a calculated move by Corlys to further marginalize Daemon while drawing royal support—and rewards—for House Velaryon.
If they won, Velaryon would benefit.
Daemon would be left with nothing.
"That fool," Viserys muttered, rubbing his forehead. "He's in real trouble."
Despite their differences, Daemon was still his blood. Viserys had never possessed Rhaenys' cool detachment. No matter how much Daemon angered him, he couldn't ignore his brother's peril.
"I'll send aid," he said at last, voice low but resolute.
Alicent's expression relaxed, but she did not press him further. Instead, she changed the subject.
"What of Aemon?" she asked gently. "What will you give him?"
That caught Viserys off guard. "What do you mean?"
"He has made a name for himself," Alicent said calmly. "The court has seen it. The people whisper of it. And you—you are the king. Whatever reward you bestow will set the tone for the realm. It should be fitting."
Viserys chuckled, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "You're a clever lobbyist."
He looked at her, his tone more affectionate than accusing. Everyone in the Red Keep knew of Alicent's fondness for Aemon. Even his grandfather, the late King Jaehaerys, had once urged him to care for the boy as his own before his passing.
Perhaps that was part of why he had married her.
"Well?" she prompted.
Viserys rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That boy wants a title. But he's young. And he has no lands of his own."
"There's no royal precedent," Alicent said mildly.
Viserys raised an eyebrow. She had spoken with Aemon beforehand.
"Fine," he said after a pause. "Then let it be this—he shall be named Prince of the Dragon Clan. Let him choose an unclaimed land in the future, or add the title to Runestone when he inherits."
A noble title, with room to grow.
Not quite Prince of Dragonstone—but it would serve. Aemon would have something uniquely his own.
"Truly?" Alicent's eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"Truly," Viserys said, chuckling. "Daemon always calls himself Prince of the City, but that's just a nickname. Now his son will have an official title to rival his."
He grinned mischievously. "Let's see how he reacts to that."
Alicent smiled, relieved. Aemon's future was finally secure.
---
The next morning – Throne Room
The throne room bustled with unexpected energy.
Nobles from across the realm had gathered for the royal hunt, but they now found themselves attending a different kind of ceremony.
Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood proudly before the Iron Throne.
"In the name of Viserys the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," he declared in a booming voice, "Aemon Targaryen is hereby established as Prince of the Dragon Clan and heir to Runestone."
Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, draped in regal robes, the ancestral sword Blackfyre across his lap. He looked down at the boy below him—young Aemon, dressed in black formalwear, a shining red three-headed dragon badge pinned to his chest.
The lords murmured among themselves. This was a rare event—an unprecedented title granted to a boy barely old enough to ride a horse, let alone lead men.
Yet the applause came loud and proud.
Aemon bowed gracefully, smiling. The dragon badge on his chest shimmered in the hall's light.
"A prince without a fief," he thought to himself. "The first of my kind."
Still, it was a title. A start. And most importantly—it was legitimized.
The tale of "saving someone from a stag's jaws" was exaggerated, if not fabricated. But with Alicent's backing and Viserys' guilt, the reward had become very real.
After the ceremony, Lady Rhea stepped forward. "Your Grace," she said, "with your permission, I would like to return with my son to Runestone. It's time he became familiar with his future domain."
Aemon nodded dutifully. He knew it was the right move. His place was no longer the capital—at least, not for now.
Viserys feigned reluctance, but ultimately agreed.
And with that, the ceremony concluded.
---
Red Keep – Godswood
Under the canopy of the weirwood tree, the white stag rested peacefully among a carpet of red leaves.
Aemon, now changed into his dragonrider's gear, climbed awkwardly onto the stag's broad back.
Even lying down, the creature stood taller than him. He grunted, struggling with the stirrup. "If this is what it takes to mount a stag," he muttered, "riding a dragon must be like scaling a cliff."
He chuckled to himself. Dreamfyre was still in the Dragonpit, but someday he'd ride her. Or maybe Vhagar. The thought of climbing that monstrous she-dragon made his spine tingle.
"Aemon, you're here."
He turned at the familiar voice.
Rhaenyra approached, her smile mischievous. Beside her stood Laena, holding a small cage veiled in black cloth.
Aemon raised an eyebrow
. "What's in the cage?"
Rhaenyra grinned. "A gift for a prince, perhaps."
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