The Stronghammer - CH - 93

Ever since Prince Aemond Targaryen returned from Essos to King’s Landing, the skies over the Crownlands had not been quiet.

Citizens of Fleabottom and the nobles of the Dragonpit District alike had grown used to the massive shadow of Vermithor circling the skies.

Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes at night.

Aemond didn’t speak of it, but those who knew him well—knew what it meant.

He was angry.

He was frustrated.

He was hurt.

And flying was the only thing that gave him peace.

The court of the Red Keep had become a den of whispering snakes. Ever since his return from Lorath, where he had ruled as Lord under Stormrage, Aemond had expected to walk into the halls of Westeros as a rightful heir—or at least a serious candidate for the throne.

Instead, he was met with stone-faced silence.

Every time he spoke in council, he was ignored.

Every suggestion—no matter how measured, no matter how insightful—was discarded without consideration.

Behind the silence, Aemond recognized the faces.

Men he had cast out of Lorath.

Former advisors who had once groveled before him and now sat smugly at the king’s table. They resented him for shaming them. For seeing through their pride and ambition. And now they wielded their revenge through subtle cruelty.

Even worse was his father, King Viserys, whose health was failing and whose judgment felt increasingly clouded.

Aemond confronted him in private.

"Why did you call me back?" he asked.

Viserys only stared into the fireplace.

"If not to name me heir, then why bring me here? I was a lord in my own right! The people of Lorath loved me. I had a dragon. A fleet. A voice. And here, I am the spare again."

Viserys closed his eyes. "You are my son."

"Then treat me like it," Aemond snapped.

That night, Aemond flew again. Vermithor soared above the Blackwater Rush, the dragon’s wings casting a shadow over the city that had turned cold.

He watched the Red Keep from above, feeling like a hawk circling a corpse.

"They don’t want me here," he muttered to himself. "But I didn’t come back to be ignored. I didn’t give up Lorath to become a ghost in the court."

He thought of Zeagan.

Of Emperor Robert.

Of Eddard, who had said plainly: "If you’re going to be king, then go take it."

Going back to Lorath wouldn’t work. Robert had said as much. He had replaced him.

If Aemond stayed in Westeros… he would rule. Or he would burn everything trying.

“I came to be king,” he whispered into the wind, clutching Vermithor’s reins.

“And I will be.”

The Red Keep was still steeped in tension when another raven arrived, carrying news that cast a deeper shadow over the court of King’s Landing.

Laenor Velaryon—once husband to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and heir to Driftmark—was dead.

Murdered.

Though Aemond and Rhaenyra had long been estranged, she was still his sister by blood, and the death gave Aemond the political opportunity he needed to leave the suffocating halls of the capital.

A funeral would be held at Driftmark, and Aemond declared that he would attend.

But the political murmurs didn’t stop at murder.

They dug deeper.

Laenor had been slain by his companion, Ser Qarl Correy, during a fair in Spicetown. Dozens of merchants witnessed the two men arguing heatedly before steel was drawn.

Accounts differed.

Septon Eustace was quick to declare the cause as jealousy—Qarl believing Laenor had abandoned him for a younger, more attractive male favorite.

But the whispers did not end there.

Because Laenor’s death reopened old wounds.

The court remembered that Princess Rhaenyra’s sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—all bore the look of Harwin Strong, not Laenor Velaryon.

And now that Laenor was dead, the question on everyone’s lips was no longer just about who killed him.

It was why.

Was it a crime of passion?

Or was it orchestrated?

Did Rhaenyra want him gone to bury the final shred of doubt about her sons’ heritage?

In the small council, lords argued.

In the halls, servants whispered.

In the streets, commoners questioned the legitimacy of the queen’s line.

And in his chamber, Aemond packed in silence.

He looked to the sky, where Vermithor waited.

"Perhaps at Driftmark," he thought, "the truth will finally start to unravel."

Or perhaps... it would become even more tangled.


The great bronze beast Vermithor cut through the sky like a blade, his mighty wings stirring the sea winds below. On his back rode Prince Aemond Targaryen, his silver hair swept by the wind, his expression unreadable.

He was bound for Driftmark.

Aegon’s funeral had long passed before his arrival. His ashes interred in the crypts of King’s Landing, his name now a whisper in the halls.

Still, Aemond visited his brother’s tombstone whenever he could, speaking to it in private.

“Everyone seems to forget you,” he once said aloud to the marble likeness of Aegon. “But I won’t.”

Now he rode to attend the funeral of Laenor Velaryon, a man who had been many things to the realm—consort to Rhaenyra, heir to Driftmark, and a walking controversy.

As Vermithor descended from the clouds, the isle of Driftmark stretched out below—grey cliffs, white sands, and the grand seat of High Tide looming against the morning sun.

The dragon landed on the beach with a tremor of sand and salt spray.

Aemond dismounted, and the guards quickly approached with bows and quiet deference.

“Welcome, my prince,” said the captain of the watch. “Princess Rhaenyra awaits.”

Vermithor chose to remain by the shore, curling into the sand like a waiting god.

Aemond, cloaked in Targaryen black and crimson, was escorted through the winding paths of Driftmark’s holdfast.

Inside the hall, Rhaenyra stood, regal and grim, flanked by her sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—and her sworn guard.

They stared at Aemond as he entered.

He, in turn, studied them carefully.

Each boy bore features undeniably Targaryen—sharp brows, violet eyes, noble cheekbones. But their hair…

Black.

Not silver.

Not pale.

Black as coal.

Rhaenyra offered him a nod. “Brother.”

“Sister,” he replied with measured politeness.

Jacaerys stepped forward, offering a formal bow, as did his brothers. But Aemond could see it—the tension behind their eyes.

He returned the bow slowly, then let his gaze linger.

“These are not Velaryons,” he thought. “They never were.”

But he said nothing.

Not here.

Not yet.

The funeral was about to begin.

And the realm still held its breath.

The funeral of Laenor Velaryon was solemn, cloaked in grey mist and sea-wind. But for Prince Aemond Targaryen, it was also an opportunity.

All across Westeros, influential lords had gathered at Driftmark to pay respects. They came draped in silks, wrapped in pride, and whispering behind clasped hands.

Aemond watched them carefully.

He remembered Holden Cross, his former advisor in Lorath—not just a soldier, but a man who wielded political thought as keenly as a blade.

"In a room full of power," Holden once said, "you don’t need to shout to lead. Just speak when others listen."

So Aemond didn’t shout.

He made quiet introductions.

He offered condolences and discussed security.

He listened—truly listened—to the frustrations of Westerosi lords who felt ignored by the royal court.

And slowly, carefully, he built a base.

By the time the funeral ended, Aemond had laid the first stones of his claim.

Returning to King’s Landing, he began his political maneuvers in earnest.

Laenor’s death gave him cover. The realm knew the man had been openly homosexual, and though that mattered little in Essos or within the liberal wings of House Velaryon, it mattered greatly to the Faith of the Seven.

In whispered corners of court, Aemond made sure the old rumors resurfaced:

That Princess Rhaenyra’s children were not Laenor’s.

That they were bastards, fathered by Ser Harwin Strong.

He never said it aloud in court.

But others did.

Clerics. Knights. Lords of the faith.

The realm recoiled.

“To support Rhaenyra,” they whispered, “is to place a bastard on the Iron Throne.”

The more devout among the Faith of the Seven were especially outraged.

They spoke in temples.

They condemned in letters.

They murmured of prophecies and cursed lines.

And through it all, Aemond Targaryen remained calm.

He never shouted.

He didn’t need to.

He planted the seeds.

And now, they were growing.


Prince Aemond Targaryen sat at the table of his private chamber in King’s Landing, a map of Westeros spread before him, small tokens representing lords and alliances. He had spent weeks carefully laying the groundwork—visiting noble families, whispering to septons, planting seeds among the Faithful.

Then came the knock.

The steward entered with a bow. "My prince, Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell requests audience."

Aemond blinked in surprise. "Stark? Send him in. Immediately."

Moments later, the Warden of the North strode in, clad in black furs lined with grey, snow-dusted from travel. His expression was stern as ever, but his eyes softened as he saw Aemond.

"Prince Aemond," he greeted. "You look well."

"Lord Stark," Aemond stood and extended his arm. They clasped forearms like soldiers. "What brings you to the lion’s den?"

Cregan cracked a rare smile. "A favor. From a friend."

He sat across from Aemond and placed a sealed scroll on the table.

"From Prince Eddard Stormrage."

Aemond's brow rose. "Eddie sent you?"

"He did," Cregan confirmed. "He cannot speak publicly. He is, after all, heir to another empire. But privately, he supports you. And he’s asked me to do the same."

Aemond stared at the fire for a moment, touched.

Cregan continued, "You and I—both friends to Eddard. Now I offer you my support. All of it. Winterfell stands behind your claim."

Aemond breathed deeply, nodding slowly. "I never thought Eddie would... I mean, of course, he’s my friend. But this?"

Cregan leaned back. "There’s more. I’m betrothed to Lady Cassandra Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands. When I marry her, I’ll have sway with Lord Borys. And you already have favor there."

Aemond nodded. "I did rescue Cassandra from pirates. The Baratheons haven’t forgotten."

He reached for parchment and quill. "Then I must act before others can. I will write to Lord Borys now."

Cregan stood, hand on hilt. "Strike while the sword is hot, Prince Aemond. Winter is watching."

Aemond smiled genuinely. "Tell Eddie... thank you."

Cregan nodded once. "He already knows."


Aemond knew his sister Rhaenyra would be working behind the scenes, rallying her supporters. Lords who had once pledged loyalty to her would still honor those oaths—especially if King Viserys passed unexpectedly.

And that was what haunted him most.

His father’s health was deteriorating. Slowly. Relentlessly.

Each cough, each missed council session was a reminder that time was not his ally.

Aemond had tried again and again to persuade his father to name him the heir to the Iron Throne.

But Viserys was reluctant.

“Rhaenyra was named before either of you were born,” the king had said. “The realm will fracture if I reverse it now.”

“But the realm will burn if she sits that throne,” Aemond had replied.

Still, Viserys would not budge.

And so Aemond changed his approach.

He requested an audience.

The king, pale and tired, received him in the solar, seated by the fire. His once proud frame now leaned heavily against cushions.

Aemond knelt. “Father, if I cannot change your mind with words, then let me do so with deeds.”

Viserys raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Give me a task,” Aemond said. “A mission. A challenge worthy of a king. Let me prove to you that I am ready—not just to inherit your crown, but to protect this realm.”

Viserys was silent for a long while.

Then he spoke slowly. “You seek a proving ground, then?”

“I do,” Aemond said.

“Very well,” Viserys whispered. “There is one matter… but it will not be easy. And it will not earn you praise. Only scrutiny.”

Aemond stood. “Then it is perfect.”

The king looked up at his son, truly studying him.

“Let us see, then,” Viserys said, “if you are the steel Westeros needs.”