He had seen the bronze dragon and heard about the dragon fight over the docks of Shipbreaker Bay.
There was no doubt—Laenor had lost.
The Sea Snake lowered his gaze, locking his eyes on the silver-haired boy before him. He studied the boy's demeanor, as if trying to see through his calm exterior and peer into his soul.
"I thought you were too busy to join us," Aemon said with feigned surprise, arms crossed in the distinctive Targaryen style.
The young prince didn't say the customary words of release.
Corlys Velaryon remained bowing, replying, "Indeed, today is busy, but duties must be fulfilled."
A polite yet distant answer.
Aemon nodded slightly, his smile never faltering. "Please rise, Lord Corlys."
Despite the tension, he wasn't cruel enough to make his elder kneel for long.
After all, he wasn't a boy who abused his power.
"Thank you, my prince. Please, come inside. His Majesty has been waiting," Corlys said, standing tall and gesturing toward the entrance of High Tide.
His manners were impeccable, every gesture carefully measured.
Corlys clearly believed that he could handle the situation by treating the boy like a typical child—impressionable and easily placated.
Aemon made a show of politeness. "After you, my lord."
Corlys didn't hesitate, leading the way with his younger relatives in tow.
After a few steps, he realized that Aemon hadn't followed.
"Prince Aemon?" Corlys turned back, puzzled.
And then, he saw something he would never forget.
The silver-haired boy smiled gently and stepped through the crowded garden courtyard of High Tide.
Boom!
As Aemon crossed the threshold, enormous bronze wings unfurled behind him, blotting out the sun.
The colossal dragon stood tall behind the stone archway, casting a vast shadow over the courtyard.
Vermithor—the Bronze Fury—rose to his full height, powerful hind legs digging into the earth as he launched into the sky with a single, mighty leap.
"Screee!"
The dragon's roar, as loud as thunder, sent waves of sand and wind through the courtyard.
Aemon remained calm, his small figure standing tall against the chaos, slinging his little satchel over his shoulder.
Corlys's pupils contracted sharply. His expression remained composed, but his mind was racing.
His wife's words echoed in his mind.
"There is still a man among the Targaryens."
Corlys's thoughts spiraled. "Even an eight-year-old boy?"
Every time a Targaryen was born, the gods tossed a coin to decide whether they would be great or mad.
This boy was not mad.
"Is something wrong, Lord Corlys?" Aemon's innocent tone cut through the silence.
Corlys shook his head, masking his inner turmoil. "Congratulations on taming King Jaehaerys's dragon."
"Thank you. And congratulations to you as well—there are still dragons on Driftmark."
Aemon's tone was courteous, but his words stung like a dagger.
He wasn't one to hold back.
Corlys remained silent, his expression darkening.
The young prince, seemingly oblivious to the tension, strolled into the castle.
Above, Vermithor circled through the clouds, his thunderous roars echoing over High Tide, like a warning to House Velaryon.
Two white-cloaked Kingsguard knights—Erik and Arryk Cargyll—followed close behind Aemon, shielding him from curious onlookers.
Despite his small stature, Aemon carried himself with the presence of a king.
Inside High Tide's Nine Voyages Hall, the festivities were in full swing. Servants arranged tables and laid out lavish dishes.
"Come sit next to me, Aemon," Rhaenyra called out warmly, beckoning her cousin.
She already knew about his success with Vermithor.
Rhaenyra was thrilled.
And upon hearing about Laenor's injury and his absence from the celebration, she couldn't hide her satisfaction.
"Serves him right," she thought smugly.
King Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming with pride.
Unlike the subdued man who had arrived in Driftmark, he now appeared lively and invigorated.
His nephew, an eight-year-old boy, had tamed Vermithor—the second-largest dragon alive, in the prime of his strength.
House Targaryen's power had surged overnight.
And Aemon's victory over the young dragon Seasmoke was an added bonus, weakening House Velaryon's dragonrider numbers.
This shift in power left Viserys ecstatic.
"What a fine boy," he thought to himself. "If only he were my son."
"Damn you, Daemon!"
"I'll pass, thank you," Aemon declined Rhaenyra's offer with a polite wave before walking toward a lower seat at the table.
He didn't want to draw too much attention.
After all, he had already made quite the entrance today.
Thud, thud, thud!
The rhythmic beating of ceremonial drums signaled the start of the official celebration.
"Your Grace."
Corlys entered the hall, bowing his head to the king before taking a seat near the head of the table.
He was accompanied by a striking woman with dark hair streaked with silver.
"Cousin," Rhaenys greeted Viserys warmly.
They exchanged pleasantries, embracing briefly.
Meanwhile, Alicent and Rhaenyra offered polite greetings to Rhaenys, giving the illusion of unity between the two houses.
As Corlys took his seat, he spoke with the charm of a seasoned statesman, his expression betraying nothing of the power struggle beneath the surface.
But then, something unexpected happened.
Rhaenys ignored her husband's gaze and walked past the main table.
Instead of taking her rightful seat beside Corlys, she chose an empty chair near the lower end of the table.
Aemon caught a faint scent of lavender as she sat down beside him.
"..."
After a moment of silence, Aemon whispered softly, "Happy name day, Aunt Rhaenys."
"Thank you," she replied, her keen eyes studying her young nephew.
So, this was the boy who had humiliated her son Laenor and reduced him to tears.
Aemon turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze with calm defiance.
Go ahead and stare, he thought. I know I'm good-looking.
Thud, thud, thud!
The second round of drumming echoed through the hall, urging the remaining guests to arrive.
Aemon glanced around but saw no sign of his father.
"Could he really not show up?"
It wasn't like Daemon to miss a spectacle like this.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the doors of the hall opened, and a tall, lean figure stepped inside.
"Ah, there he is."
Aemon's eyes lit up with recognition.
Viserys and Corlys both turned toward the entrance, their expressions hardening.
Daemon Targaryen strode in, dressed in sleek black attire, a smirk playing at his lips.
He walked casually, as if he were in his own home.
Spotting his son, Daemon's eyes gleamed with pride.
He had already heard the news—his son had tamed Vermithor, his grandfather's legendary dragon.
It was a feat unheard of in Targaryen history.
Even though he disliked the Royces, Daemon couldn't help but feel proud.
"You've done well," he said as he took a seat across from Aemon.
Aemon nodded. "Thank you, Father."
Whether Daemon was referring to taming Vermithor or defeating Laenor was anyone's guess.
Rhaenys shot Daemon a disapproving glance, unimpressed by his smirk.
The drums thundered again, signaling the arrival of the final guests.
The hall doors opened once more, revealing a procession of richly dressed Braavosi nobles.
At their head was a tall, handsome man with dark hair, wearing an ornate sword at his waist.
This was the second guest of honor—the son of the former Sealord of Braavos.