The man strode through the hall with an air of arrogance, head held high as he approached the main seat of honor.
Stopping before Corlys Velaryon, he placed a hand over his chest and said, "Lord Corlys, Harro Noroton greets you."
"Welcome, Lord Harro," Corlys responded with a nod, his expression neutral, betraying nothing.
After addressing his soon-to-be father-in-law, Harro turned his gaze to the most important figure present.
"To His Majesty, King of the Iron Throne. It is an honor to meet you."
His bow was slight, and his words lacked warmth.
Harro then turned to Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra, offering brief courtesies that bordered on disrespect.
It wasn't clear whether his aloofness was deliberate—perhaps a show of defiance meant for Corlys—or if he was simply full of himself.
His attitude irked many in the room.
Before Viserys could react, Hand of the King Lyonel Strong glared at Harro, ready to rebuke him.
Only Viserys's raised hand stopped him.
The king, ever pragmatic, saw the situation differently.
Harro's behavior wasn't a reflection on him—it embarrassed Corlys and the entire Velaryon family.
After all, this man was Corlys's future son-in-law.
Viserys decided to sit back and enjoy the spectacle.
Harro, completely oblivious to the tension he was causing, moved toward Rhaenys.
He bowed deeply, saying, "To the esteemed 'Queen Who Never Was,' I offer my heartfelt blessings."
With that, he extended his hand, seeking to kiss hers.
Rhaenys's expression remained cold, but she offered her hand begrudgingly. After the brief gesture, she immediately wiped it with a napkin beneath the table.
"Ah…"
Aemon watched the scene unfold, shaking his head in disbelief.
The man, perhaps in his twenties, looked pale and weak—likely drained by a life of indulgence.
"This is the son of a former Sealord of Braavos? Seriously?"
Aemon frowned, perplexed.
"Corlys and Aunt Rhaenys don't seem like fools. Why would they choose such a lousy match?"
A quick glance at Rhaenys confirmed his suspicion. She was still discreetly wiping her hand, her displeasure evident.
This must have been Corlys's doing.
Then it clicked.
The former Sealord of Braavos had been assassinated.
The political value of this marriage had vanished with him.
No wonder Harro had been stuck on Driftmark for years, unable to finalize his engagement.
With his father dead, Harro was a man without a country—yet he strutted around like royalty, disrespecting the King of the Seven Kingdoms and throwing around titles like "Queen Who Never Was."
"If he doesn't die soon, it'll be a miracle."
Unaware of how close to death he was, Harro's curiosity was piqued by the silver-haired boy sitting quietly beside Rhaenys.
"Princess, who is this young man?"
Rhaenys rolled her eyes, clearly unwilling to engage.
But Harro, not wanting to look foolish, stepped closer to Aemon.
"You—"
Aemon didn't even glance at him.
"Leave."
Blunt and dismissive.
The young prince's disdain was palpable.
Harro froze, stunned.
Did he just… say that?
He glanced at Rhaenys, who appeared equally surprised by her nephew's boldness.
Realizing he hadn't misheard, Harro's face twisted with rage.
Ever since his father's assassination, he had endured countless humiliations. Being scorned here, at Driftmark, was the final straw.
"You—"
Harro's words died in his throat as a sharp gleam flashed past his cheek.
A dining knife.
It sliced through the air and nicked his face, cutting a lock of hair that fluttered to the ground.
Aemon tilted his head slightly, holding a fork in his other hand, ready to throw it next.
"I am Aemon Targaryen."
His voice was calm but commanding.
Harro stumbled backward, fear finally registering.
It dawned on him that he was facing a Targaryen prince—a dragonrider.
Aemon pointed the fork at him, his purple eyes cold and unyielding.
"Leave… or face dragonfire."
Harro's face turned from purple to white, his rage dissipating into fear.
Looking around, he saw that Rhaenys wasn't coming to his aid.
Her silence was damning.
Realizing he'd made a grave mistake, Harro clenched his fists and backed away.
"Ha… haha…"
He forced out a strained laugh, trying to save face as he slinked back to his seat.
The hall erupted in quiet laughter, nobles whispering behind their hands.
The Sealord's son, humiliated by a child.
Returning to his seat, Harro realized something else—his fiancée wasn't present.
He couldn't decide whether to be relieved that she hadn't witnessed his disgrace or furious that she hadn't deemed him worthy of her time.
At the head of the table, Viserys chuckled.
"An interesting man, your future son-in-law, Lord Corlys."
The king's tone dripped with disdain.
Corlys's expression darkened, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm.
Today's priority was the royal family.
Harro's embarrassment was irrelevant.
In fact, it might work to their advantage—proving his unsuitability as a match for his daughter.
Meanwhile, Aemon ignored the tension at the high table, content to savor his small victory.
He twirled the fork between his fingers, noting with satisfaction, "I've got good aim."
Aemon 'Deadeye' Targaryen.
Rhaenys, watching him with amusement, reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from his face.
Her touch was unexpectedly gentle, her expression softening.
Aemon blinked, caught off guard.
Why the sudden warmth?
He was used to her aloof demeanor.
Is she a slow warmer?
"Don't overthink it," Rhaenys said, her voice low and thoughtful.
"In my eyes, you are simply my nephew."
Her gaze lingered on him, as if lost in thought.
"Your name… it was my father's way of compensating me."
Aemon's eyes widened.
Of course.
Her father, Prince Aemon Targaryen, had been the heir to the Iron Throne before his untimely death.
Rhaenys had always believed she should have inherited his claim.
Instead, her cousin Baelon—the father of King Viserys—had taken the throne.
Rhaenys's fingers lingered on his cheek, and for a moment, her mind drifted to the past.
In Aemon's features, she saw a glimpse of her father.
But only for a moment.
Her father had been rugged and imposing, with blue eyes and short platinum hair.
Aemon was delicate, with soft silver hair and striking violet eyes.
"Come visit Driftmark whenever you wish," Rhaenys said softly, withdrawing her hand.
"Just… no more dragonfights."
Aemon nodded, his demeanor softening.
For all his bluster, he could sense genuine affection in her words.
The celebration continued, music filling the hall.
Aemon finished his meal and quietly slipped out of his seat.
The party would stretch long into the night.
He had better things to do—like finding Laena.
"Let's see how big Vhagar really is."
With one last glance at the crowded hall, he smirked.
"Women are nothing but trouble."
With that thought, Aemon vanished into the night.