Her children had already found Otto.

By the time a guard had come to tell her she had a guest, there was already talk all over the castle how the old Lord Hand was with his grandchildren. The fear that ran through Amalia was inexplicable. It was as though someone was holding onto her throat and gradually squeezing it tighter and tighter. Not my children, leave my children be.

Amalia had sent word to Daemon before anything. By raven to Dragonstone and Driftmark– wherever he was– and by mouth, asking Ser Luthor Largent to spread the word to all the Gold Cloaks who remained loyal to Daemon– whoever saw him first had to tell him at once that Otto was back. If he was flying in today or early tomorrow, one of them would surely catch him and prepare him if the letters didn't do so first.

How dare he be here? How dare he arrive the night before Vaemond was to make his claim for the Driftwood Throne? How dare he– anything? All of this had to be a scheme built up over time. Maester Orwyle, young and naive and easily malleable, had surely been placed for him to puppeteer. Alicent had surely been a spy before Amalia forced her to leave. Lord Wylde and Tyland Lannister were still in his web, perhaps Larys Strong had been even partially at some point. Lord Beesbury's death, perhaps the plan to have that Baratheon girl seduce Aegon and Aemond– all of that could have been part of the plan, his plan.

She had many cruel words swirling in her head, ready to spit out at her father, all of which were crammed right back down her throat when she found him in guest apartments, surrounded by her children. What could she say to him, here, with her children as witnesses? She'd told them so little about the things her father had done– to her and to other women, to people of the Realm– so as to not make them hate him. Hatred was a bad thing. Why then did she feel hatred seeing him there?

It was even worse to admit that she had missed her father's face. Over the years, it had been fading into distant memory. He was much more wrinkled now, and there were white hairs mixed in with the brown-red she and her siblings all had. Amalia had never looked much like her father, and could hardly find features they shared in common. While Alicent and her brothers had those same beady and judgmental Hightower eyes, Amalia had had Florent eyes. Otto had always told her that of the two, Amalia had resembled Alyrie the most because of it.

She'd never looked in the mirror and seen her father. Never allowed herself to give him more than a passing thought. She didn't want to think of him, didn't want to imagine missing his conversation. The few times she had, she always remembered why he wasn't there, what sort of things could happen when he was.

Yet still he was her father. Her aged father, once a doting grandfather to her children and now a man they hardly knew. A man they could still be fascinated by because he shared their blood, and regardless of what they knew, all understood that the one invisible thing Amalia shared with her father that none of her siblings did was his cunning and his wit.

"Mother!" said Jaehaerys pleasantly. "Grandfather's here!" He knew she could see it, but she knew how much it must have thrilled him to meet Otto Hightower for the first time– many still spoke highly of him. Even Amalia had to give her father a great deal of credit for several things, balancing the Realm under a King who liked to avoid all problems and pass them off to the next person.

"I was told of your arrival," said Amalia tightly, staring into her father's dark eyes. Eyes that hid easily what he felt, the eyes of Alicent and Gwayne and Norman and Bryndon. Eyes she did not share, for hers were light like her mother's. Part of her– the part that was a Queen and mother– wanted to slap him. The other part– the part that was still a young girl who never got what she needed from her father– wanted to take his hand, to ask him why, why, why. "It came unexpectedly."

"I presumed someone had told you," said Otto nonchalantly. No, I am sure you wanted to keep this secret until there was nothing I could do about it. I will find out how you managed this. I will find out who helped you. And when Daemon comes, I will ask Daemon to handle them, because I do not need to give him any explanations. If I ask him to end someone, he will end them for me. "Unfortunately, it seems, the message was lost. I was at Golden Tooth when His Grace summoned me."

That explains how you got here so quickly. "He says Alyrie's to be betrothed!" said Jaehaerys excitedly. Otto probably wished he hadn't spoken, but there was no quieting Jaehaerys. Daeron was quiet, looking between his grandfather and mother as Jaehaerys continued, "Lord Humfrey Lefford has a son her age, it would let her live closer to her mother if her father agrees."

Of course Tyland would agree, as much as he liked having her here. Amalia believed even he was happier without Alicent's influence, but perhaps she'd finally poked and prodded enough in her own ways. Otto might've been negotiating this if he'd heard even a whisper of how close Alyrie and Lucerys were. He might've even just been visiting Alicent, plotting all these things before he went there.

"That is wonderful for Alyrie, though she is young," said Amalia pointedly. She didn't like how interested Aegon and Aemond looked, the ones with the strongest memories of Otto. Helaena was more interested in a butterfly she had seated on her finger, but had her head tilted as if she knew there might be something important to hear– she was ever perceptive, and out of all of them, probably the one who knew most how fearful Amalia would be with Otto's presence. She couldn't blame her children for being curious about this.

"Children," said Otto, thin lips curling into a gentle smile, "if you might give me a moment alone with my daughter." Not 'your mother,' but 'my daughter.' It seemed so forced, as if to forge a bond where there wasn't one. When was the last time you truly loved me as a father should love a daughter?

"Of course," said Aegon, signaling for the others to follow. "It is good to see you again, Grandfather." He smiled so kindly. He could not contain his fascination. A boy who had always craved a father, who perhaps had more memories of Otto holding him than Viserys. Amalia used to pass Aegon between them as often as possible, to remind them to care. He'd bonded so much with them, even after he started to walk. By then, Aemond cared more about swords, but Aegon had always wanted to feel loved.

Amalia flicked out her hand, letting it brush past the arms of each of her children as they filed out. When the door shut behind Helaena, Amalia felt her face begin to burn. "What are you doing here?" she asked, perhaps more calmly than she intended.

"I came because Viserys asked it of me," said Otto. He almost seemed to believe it. "You forget that before I was Jaehaerys's Hand, I was a member of the court. I knew Viserys before he became heir. I served him for many, many years. We were friends for a very long time, and he is married to my daughter. His children are my grandchildren. Do you really believe we never once communicated after my departure?"

They might've, she admitted. Viserys had agreed to dismiss him, but he hadn't exactly been thrilled to do so. He'd gladly been willing to have Otto back as Hand until Amalia begged him to name Rhaenyra instead. Her husband forgave easily, he let bygones be, and had she not urged him to think of what Otto could use Helaena for that he decided to let her do as she pleased.

Perhaps he had sent a letter to Otto, wishing him well. Perhaps Otto had sent one first and Viserys replied. Perhaps Viserys had asked for his advice– who was she to know? She had as many trusted guards, servants, ladies-in-waiting, companions, septas, and maesters under her employ as possible, but almost all her focus had been on her children. She didn't have many of Viserys's in her grasp.

That was where she felt her mistake had been. Someone there who was partial to Otto or whoever else had been involved in this could have helped it happen. They would need to be dealt with. Daemon, where is Daemon? He would do it for me, if I only asked, if I only knew. Where is he when we need him? When his niece needs him, when his brother needs him? When I need him?

"I am sure you did," she replied at last, slowly coming to stand across from him. He remained seated in an armchair, his back so straight and his hands clamped over the armrests. He looked regal, even, though Amalia knew he was trying to portray more strength than he had. Her father was old. Weak. The years had not been the kindest to him. He was one-and-sixty now, surely his muscles ached, his fingers could no longer bend so easily. His eyesight must be going, too.

She sat down across from him, mimicking his posture. She would not show weakness, either. He made note of her dress– he'd still been there right when she changed her style and began to cover every bit of skin she could. Her dress today was a deep and dark blue, like the color of the night sky when the moon was bright enough to make a dent in the blackness. Frills ran along her neck and on her wrists, lace etching the outline of barely-visible flames that Helaena had stitched in for her. Amalia had left being a tower behind, and was more between being a sly fox and a seething dragon. Her father had to see that.

"I was saddened to hear of Lord Beesbury's passing," said Otto. I am sure you were. "He was a clever man I served with for many years. I have little experience managing coin as he did, but I should hope to do my best with what's been left for me."

"I do not know how you managed it," she replied, "but you are not Master of Coin. Viserys intends to name Daemon." Well, she had told Viserys as much, but had not been able to receive firm confirmation. Especially not when Daemon had yet to arrive. She was hoping he would be there for an announcement on the morrow, but her father's presence was going to make that difficult.

Otto started to smile– but it was not the warm smile she remembered from her youth. It was that cruel smile, the one he used to have when he spoke ill of Daemon. I used to join you for that, don't you remember? Together, we would speak our loathing. Then I realized Daemon is the least monstrous between the two of you. He became my obsession, now he is my friend. He cared more for my feelings than you ever did. Daemon would never have used me the way you did.

"Daemon? Surely you are joking. Viserys removed Daemon as Master of Coin decades ago. He would not install him again, certainly not with a predecessor like Beesbury. Since the position of Hand was filled, Viserys thought it right to bring me back to the Council in any capacity. His letter said as much– Rhaenyra would have need of my support."

"Don't pretend any of this is for Rhaenyra." Amalia wished she could claw at his face, make him truly see his own stupidity. "You are here to cause a problem, as you wished to years ago pushing Aegon to supplant her. Viserys sent you no such letter. You have created this farce, and many have believed it, but I will uncover the truth."

He was quiet, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a slip of parchment– aged and worn enough that it could have been originally made weeks prior. He offered it to her. When she took it, she found within careful script, and Viserys's seal– even his shaky signature at the end, ink splattered all over the bottom of the letter. It said everything her father claimed. That he had need for a Master of Coin, that he would like Otto to guide Rhaenyra when her time came.

"Am I truly a liar?" asked Otto. "Your husband's own scrawl is there. He would have been told what he was signing, Viserys was avoidant but he never once placed his quill on a document whose contents he did not know or understand." That much was true, if only because it kept consistent with how hesitant Viserys was to do anything. He needed evidence for every little thing before he made a move. Weeks ago... yes, well, he would have been conscious enough to ask what he was signing. Even with his aches, he could read words. He would have known if he was lied to about its contents.

The date on the letter was the same as when Lord Beesbury died. The only explanation Amalia could think of was that someone had been waiting for her to dash out of that room to do this. Who, that was yet to be seen. Gods, she wanted to hit herself now. While she'd been so occupied comforting Daeron, smoothing things over with the Beesburys, and keeping her sons safe from wild girls, someone had made a move against her and she had not known until it was too late. She might even have a traitor in her own ranks, for how had this been kept so silent? Someone was helping another sneak about in places she frequented.

"The truth will come to light," said Amalia, getting back to her feet. She kept the parchment– she felt she recognized the hand that wrote the main document, but she would need to compare it to an old letter from Orwyle to confirm it was him yet again– and offered her father a thin smile. "The Seven see all and will bring their justice about. Tomorrow, I will preside over the trial."

This seemed to surprise him and not at the same time. Perhaps he assumed she would try to, but was not sure if she would have the gall– or be allowed by another. He murmured, "Then may the Seven judge rightly."

-

She'd gone to Viserys before bed, holding his hand and whispering– pleading– for him to listen. To do what needed to be done, to find the strength to come to the throne room. She begged him to tell her then if he wanted her to arrange it, she could see that it was done in a way that would not aggravate him. Perhaps he could be carried– something, anything.

He only groaned in response, whispering that he was in pain, that he was sorry. When she asked him about Otto, he didn't seem to know who she was referring to. When it finally clicked, the dreaded moment came– he did remember recalling him. But he swore it was she who had asked it of him. How could that be? It brought more questions to mind than it answered.

Amalia felt such a failure. She'd failed her children and failed Rhaenyra. What could she do, if Otto was now here, able to support Vaemond no matter what he said? He could burst something out that they would find harder to deny. He could twist words exactly the right way to force Laenor to answer uncomfortable questions, or bring forth any farce of proof. Even with Harwin Strong so far away, her father could find something– anything– to prove Vaemond's point.

She'd only just laid into her bed when she heard the knocking at the passage again. Tiredly, she rose and moved the bookcase again, worried that Isa and Teak had something worse to bring her. Yet, when she opened the passage, it was a man in a cloak who awaited her, not two children. She almost sobbed with relief.

"Where have you been?" She wanted to scream it but only whispered, stepping aside to allow Daemon in. "No one told me you were back, where did–?"

"The girls and I chose to arrive at night," said Daemon. "The last thing I wanted was to be surrounded by people with questions I don't want to answer. I was found by one of my men– your father's returned."

She threw her hands in the air. "How could this be? Daemon, I asked Viserys what he remembers about this apparent document that recalled my father– he thinks that I asked him to sign it! All these plots, and I never thought they would bring my father back. I do not know what their intention is, but I am– I am even more afraid for the morrow than I was when Vaemond's first letter arrived."

He put his hands on her shoulders, a gentle touch that silenced her. His fingers ran down her arms, his stare burning into her. Those eyes, gods those purple eyes of his shined with such a mischief in the dim candlelight that she almost wanted to smile in the midst of everything. She remembered how adventurous life had been when Daemon had been wanting her attention. She missed that. She had needed that.

"There's naught you can do now," he reassured her. "You couldn't have known. This has been planned for quite some time. All of it is well-calculated. Whatever happened, we will handle it tomorrow. I have ideas of my own for Vaemond Velaryon. Our family cannot be seen as weak. If Viserys will not do it, if Rhaenyra will not– I doubt she would, she so badly needs to be seen as a good Queen that she cannot afford to be harsh– and if Rhaenys won't– she has little authority and has flown here only to support her grandson– then I will do it. Don't worry, Amalia, I will handle it all. If Vaemond wishes to wag his tongue, he can lose it."

She gave him a significant look. Her skin felt so warm with his persistent touch, the two of them so close together. She didn't know why she'd missed his touch, why her heart felt full seeing him here again, knowing he came here for his family. Viserys had always doubted Daemon cared, but ever since Amalia started getting to know him, she knew how intensely Daemon cared about his family.

He must have known what she was thinking, prompting her with a light smirk. "What? Go on, that Hightower look in you tells me you want to criticize my approach. Go ahead, Your Grace, rip me apart with your words, I'll have twenty new scars by morning."

He never failed to amuse her. "I only mean," she clarified, "cutting out Vaemond's tongue does not seem the right approach."

"What would you prefer?" asked Daemon. "Should I kill him? I'd gladly arrange it. Better yet, I can give you Dark Sister and let you swing at him yourself. I bet you wouldn't miss."

"Daemon." He tilted his head back as she said his name, as if she'd told him something far more soothing. She'd always liked how he said her name, and imagined perhaps he liked it when she said his. To think, she used to imagine whispering his name that way in a much different context. How she'd grown. And how I still want him, deep down. Gods, that urge will never truly go away, not as long as he is here for me this way, the way no one else is. "Cutting out his tongue, I believe, tells everyone that we fear what he will continue to say if left unchecked. It is as the day when Harwin beat into Ser Criston Cole– he all but admitted that Cole's slanders were true. To cut out Vaemond's tongue is to admit he is saying something that scares us."

He sighed, rolling his neck back until his head was tilted down at her anew. He let go of her at last, but only to pace about, one hand tight on the hilt of his sword. "He must be punished for these treasons."

"He can be," she agreed. "But to take his tongue only proves a point. Besides, at that rate you'd need to take his fingers as well– he could still write out what he wishes to say." That made him let out a small laugh. "In the end, Vaemond can be portrayed as an ambitious man who wishes to place himself above a child. We can twist it to make him seem jealous– unable to imagine that a young boy could be a better Lord of the Tides than he. Besides, Corlys himself never wavered on the decision. Rhaenys might be willing to say as much."

"Assuming he keeps his argument formal, I will do as you bid, Amalia," said Daemon. "But know that if he levies any crude insults..."

"I know." She could not expect any less from Daemon. "In which case... don't take his tongue. Take his head." She saw his smile widen, and was quick to say, "I would rather not resort to such violence when my children would be present, but it may be a good show of force if he gets far enough out of hand that he–"

This time, his hands did not go to her shoulders. His hand went to her mouth, carefully drifting down her nose and lips, until only his pointer finger was pressing between them to silence her. "Don't," she whispered, when his hand slid down to cup her face. "Daemon, we've spoken about this countless times."

"Years ago," said Daemon. "Nothing you do or say will ever stop me from admiring you. No other has ever managed to ignite in me what you do. You and I, for all the differences we once saw, burn with flames higher than the Wall. None can understand the intensity with which we'd protect someone who matters to us. From the moment I saw how much Rhaenyra meant to you, I knew that you would mean something to me. You've been loyal to my brother though none have been loyal to you. All I mean to say is... your wish will be my command."

She dared not say more, for if she tried, she knew she'd spill out all sorts of things she shouldn't say. First, scolding him. Then, admitting the same things she'd admitted years ago– she had had feelings for him, all that he knew, and the years had not exactly made that vanish in her. Daemon did not leave her room to humiliate herself. "Goodnight, Amalia," he said. "Get some rest. We'll see what happens on the morrow. Whatever it is... my sword is yours, always."

_

Her under eyes were dark and heavy with lack of sleep as she sat herself on a chair at the foot of the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra had told her that she was allowed to sit on the throne itself if she so wished, but Amalia did not quite like it.

The few times she had sat it to preside over audiences when Viserys had been ill and Rhaenyra otherwise occupied, she'd felt herself needing to wiggle too much to find a comfortable position. Then, there was the constant fear of being poked by those aged swords. She'd seen what those wounds did to Viserys, and the maesters had always had a terrible feeling the wounds had begun because he pricked himself on the Iron Throne.

She looked across at Rhaenyra, standing together with her children, siblings, as well as with Laenor, Daemon, Rhaenys, and the twins. Amalia offered them a weak smile– Rhaenyra had told her just hours ago that she'd gone to speak with Viserys in the hopes he would come, but her hopes had been dashed when her father had hardly reacted to her presence. It was on them today, and whatever they did would have to be enough.

"All of us are gathered today to discuss the petition brought forth by Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon," said Amalia, standing once the court had gathered– her father stood by Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Jasper Wylde, and unsurprisingly, Maester Orwyle. "Though myself, my children, and many of those in House Velaryon have prayed night and day for Lord Corlys to survive his grievous wounds, Ser Vaemond has posed to us the question of what is to occur should he succumb. I preside over this petition in the stead of King Viserys, and ask now that Ser Vaemond speaks."

She sat, prompting a few others to do so in chairs that'd been lined through the throne room and in the gallery. Both of which were uncomfortably full. Many had come from around the Realm to hear this, and the court had already been full as it was before Vaemond's letter was sent. Amalia would do her best to speak respectfully, though she might have liked to refuse Vaemond an audience altogether.

At any rate, it gave her the slightest bit of rapport with him. He smiled– not entirely kindly, but satisfied. "Thank you, My Queen." He looked so proud, drab in the brightest of Velaryon greens. "The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother's seat. I am Lord Corlys's own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins."

"As it does in my sons," said Rhaenyra curly. She was holding Lucerys's hand, gently caressing it. The boy was clearly anxious with all the eyes on him. Amalia saw him glancing to Alyrie, who stood with Ser Tyland. The girl offered him a comforting smile. "Children of Laenor Velaryon, grandchildren to Lord Corlys. If you cared so much about your house's blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition–"

Laenor himself grabbed Rhaenyra's arm, begging her to stop– it did little for their argument if it seemed she was becoming too easily upset. "What my wife means, Uncle," said Laenor, "is that the line of succession was decided long ago. I can no longer inherit the title of Lord of the Tides, not when I am Ser Prince Consort to our future Queen. Nor can my son Jacaerys inherit it, for he will be a future King of the Seven Kingdoms. Lucerys is my second eldest, and many here have witnessed how he excels both in the skies and in the seas–"

"Do not jest, nephew," said Vaemond. He showed Laenor little kindness. "Your wife knows nothing of Velaryon blood, and it seems you may not, either. You have made clear your duty to the Iron Throne. This petition is about the survival of the house you left behind."

That made Lucerys flush, intimidated as Vaemond glared at him. "My Queen, this is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother's successor... the Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides. There are many here who agree that, in the wake of my brother's illness, a man with experience should take this post."

"I hear this, Ser Vaemond," said Amalia cautiously. He went the route she thought, though to her it still seemed he'd been harsh enough with his tone to twist this into an argument about ambition anew. She had to wait to see what Rhaenyra said before she could give her own statement. Vaemond knew little of her and likely knew not to expect her to be partial to him, that was perhaps why he tried to be so cordial and direct. "Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon."

Rhaenyra stepped forward. "This audience is a farce, and if I am to grace it with any sort of answer beyond the explanation you've heard, then I will start by reminding all present that nearly twenty years ago in this very–"

The large oak doors creaked open. Amalia shot out of her seat, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard rippling with the rush of air, surrounding a figure with a crown on his head and a golden mask over half his face. Cane in hand, he limped towards her, the sight of it bringing tears to her eyes, for she had not seen Viserys walk in years.

"King Viserys of House Targaryen," announced Ser Erryk Cargyll. "The First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Amalia had a tight grip on her own hands, fighting her hardest not to sob before all these people. He's here, he's here, he's standing for her, he's standing for Luke, he's standing for his little girl. She was quick to move the chair she'd been seated on out of the path to the throne while he moved to it with great difficulty– or perhaps he was using Rhaenyra as a guide, for she stood in the center.

"My King." Amalia offered him her hand, but he did not take it. "I'm fine," he wheezed, smiling weakly, his cane tapping hard against the steps. She waited at the foot, feeling someone nearing her. Viserys stumbled, his crown toppling off. It was Daemon who swept past her, picking up his brother's crown and putting an arm around him, even as Viserys insisted he was fine.

But once he saw it was his brother, he did not fight, allowing Daemon to lead him the rest of the way to the Iron Throne. A tear slid down her cheek when Daemon placed the crown back over his head. This changed everything– what could Vaemond say about the succession when the most powerful man in Westeros had now entered the conversation? Who but the King could change successions at the drop of a coin?

"I must... admit..." panted Viserys, "my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes is the Princess Rhaenys."

His cousin smiled. "Indeed, Your Grace." She swept forward as Rhaenyra took her place between Lucerys and Laenor anew. "It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark pass through our son, Laenor, to our trueborn grandson, Lucerys Velaryon." It warmed Amalia further to hear her say this– she knew Rhaenys had grappled with doubt and anger years ago. "His mind never changed, nor did my support of him."

"Well," said Viserys weakly, though still loud enough to be heard. Amalia had never been so proud of him. "The matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides."

Where Amalia expected applause– which really only came from Helaena– there came further anger. Vaemond scoffed loudly, "You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it."

"Allow it?" It was Aemond who spoke, his one eye glaring deep at Vaemond. "Who are you to determine what my father, the King, is to allow?" However kind his intentions were, that only showed Vaemond that he was not going to get what he wanted.

He shouted, jabbing a finger towards Lucerys. "That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine!"

This time, it was Viserys who sounded angry. "Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you... are no more than the second son of Driftmark."

Vaemond snarled, "You... may run your house as you see fit... but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on account of this–" He stopped himself, but Amalia knew what he wanted to say. Beside her, she heard Daemon whisper his dare, "Say it."

Vaemond must have heard it, or perhaps he was ready to burst himself. "Her children are bastards!" he yelled furiously. "You cannot convince me that my cock-loving nephew sired them. She–" He looked at Rhaenyra as though he wished to drown her, "is a whore."

Viserys had become infuriated as well, and Laenor was looking unbelievably embarrassed. The King drew his dagger and spat, "I will have your tongue for that." Amalia had seconds to react, grabbing Helaena and turning her away as Daemon swept forward, the cry of steel sounding. Dark Sister swung out, cutting Vaemond's head diagonally, his body falling and the head skidding towards where Otto and his allies stood.

"He can keep his tongue," said Daemon, leaning down on his swords. Amalia's face was red– was it the shock of seeing that, or was she... attracted to his reaction? Gods, she would need to pray for years to take all these stains away, stains left by her persistent thoughts of Daemon, Daemon who never left her mind. Her sons were watching in fascination as the guards rushed at Daemon, who easily showed his surrender and sheathed his sword.

Viserys sat back down with difficulty, breathing heavily and fumbling to place his dagger back in its hilt. "These slanders... will not be tolerated. I will hear none... speak so ill of my daughter... of her husband... of her children." Vaemond had taken it far enough publicly claiming the children as bastards, but had done a cruelty addressing Laenor and Rhaenyra as such. Viserys groaned in pain, motioning Amalia towards him.

She left Helaena with Aemond, the girl being told gently by Daeron what her mother had stopped her from witnessing. She climbed the steps quickly, Viserys whispering, "You must tell them... what you wanted me to say..."

She turned to face the court. "The King wishes me to be the bearer of news we hoped would come without need for bloodshed. With the succession of Driftmark settled, we wish to celebrate good tidings in our family." She waited a moment for the guards to finish clearing away Vaemond's body. He would not be missed, but this was surely going to cause some sort of problem. "My sons, Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, will unite two branches of House Targaryen– and in fact join themselves closer to House Velaryon– through betrothals with their cousins, the Princesses Baela and Rhaena."

The twins looked shy as the spectators turned to them. They glanced at their betrothed– it was their first time being in the same room since they were told of this. Amalia hoped that despite what had just happened, they could approach one another calmly. "Additionally," she spoke quickly, hearing Viserys wheeze. He held onto her skirt, as if to hang on for dear life. "The King and I are proud to announce that a wedding will take place before the sixth moon of this year, between my daughter, the Princess Helaena Targaryen, and the King's grandson, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Heir to the Iron Throne."

She saw the look in her father's face change. Oh, he had not expected this. He was red– he was furious. And it came at the right time, for she felt Viserys beginning to slip behind her. She turned to him, hoisting him up, calling for the guards to help him back to his rooms.

"A dinner," he whispered to her. "I want... the family gathered. Bring... your father... your niece... all together. Please."

"I will see it done," said Amalia softly, caressing the back of his head. "Thank you. Thank you, Viserys."

He smiled weakly. "For my family... I would rise from the funeral pyre itself."