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The hearing is a mess.
It's a farce and nothing good will come out of it, Aemond is sure.
Even though father himself had found some misplaced strength and crawled into the throne room, essentially taking the hearing from Otto Hightower's hands, it's yet to quench the vigorous anger that burns Vaemond Velaryon alive.
Is it the need for the justice and truth, Aemond wonders, or is it a roguish attempt to grab the power while his older brother is rumored to be lost at the sea?
Regardless of the man's intentions, hearing is in full force.
The longer Lord Velaryon speaks, the sharper Daemon's face becomes; it will take a few blinks before the man has signed his own execution paper.
Only it doesn't come, because the moment Vaemond opens his mouth to say another brazen thing, double doors to the throne room open and a plead of men marches in.
Everyone turns around.
Aemond, who was looking at the heir of the Driftmark the entire time, doesn't miss the way Lucerys' face transforms; surprise and something akin to wonder taking place.
Are they here for him then, all these man in salt skin, faces weathered by the strong waves and merciless wind?
For him, this child of a man who was hiding behind his mother's skirts?
For this bastard?
"What's the meaning of this?" Viserys demands, peering into the faces of men before him.
They're different in height, shape, coloring and looks.
One thing that inevitably unites them all together is what they're sailors. Captains of the best ships on this side of the Narrow sea; most of them are from Velaryon fleet, but some are not.
And yet they stand there in front of their king and their gods. One of them, the leader, Aemond supposes, makes a step forward.
"Your majesty," he begins. "We're begging for forgiveness for the interruption, but we couldn't ignore the blatant disrespect what seems to be taking place," he sends Lord Velaryon the nasty look.
"We're the One Hundred Captains, the best what the Velaryon and concerned fleets can offer. We're, in our own way, the lords of the sea. And it sends us into the absolute fit of rage to see this man," he gestures at Vaemond, "using the excuse of his lord-brother being away at the sea to try and stripe his grandson of his birthright."
Lucerys's eyes are wide now, gaze flickering from one man to another; some acknowledge him with a nod, others with but a smile.
He knows them, Aemond realizes with a chill. How can he know all of them?
"It's not his birthright!" Vaemond roars and Aemond can see Lucerys wincing at that.
He stands straighter now though, shoulders spread, hand torn away from his mother's comforting grip.
He stares at One Hundred Captains with some cathartic joy Aemond doesn't recognize.
"This is not for you to decide," the captain replies evenly. "My lord." He adds then, even though everyone in the room is aware Vaemond Velaryon is no lord of any of the sea dogs present.
"It is the word of Lord Corlys what decides that, but since he is at the sea and you're unable to follow his lead," the prince sees some captains snickering as Vaemond's face distorts with the rage of very different origin. "We propose the Trial of the Drowned God to settle this issue once and for all."
"No!" Aemond hears his older sister scream at the same time as another voice cuts through the air.
"I accept," Lucerys Velaryon declares, more sure of himself than Aemond has ever seen him.
"Luke, no," Rhaenyra tries again and reaches for him, but he steps away; hands safely clutched behind his back, far away from her grip. "You can't."
"Why can't I?" he wonders. "It's the way things are being done at the sea. It's the sure and honorable way to prove my claim," he turns to his grandfather. "Your Grace, please allow the Trial of the Drowned God."
Viserys seems unsure, looking from his daughter to her son.
"This is madness," and Aemond is surprised to find his own mother taking a part. "Viserys, you can't allow this blasphemy to take place."
Lucerys gives her a chilly unimpressed look.
"You call it a blasphemy, but the Faith of the Drowned God was around before Faith of the Seven was ever brought upon these lands," he replies evenly. "It is the faith of the ironmen and the sailors, and underestimating or insulting it would be a grave mistake," Aemond hears agreeing murmurs of the captains, some of them nodding grimly, others sending his mother the queen angry glares.
"Especially considering what King's Landing is a port city and, as much as Dragonstone or Driftmark, is completely at mercy of its free sailors and the fleet."
That rewards some cheering from the said captains of free sailors and the fleet.
Alicent pales, looking back and realizing how many men she might have just made her enemies.
"Let me prove to be worthy of my title," Lucerys begs his grandsire.
"In the way that matters. Issues of blood," he glances back at Vaemond. "Will stay just that. But it requires something more than simple blood ties to be the Lord of the Tides. Let me prove my upbringing to be fair and me - worthy of the honor Grandfather Corlys bestowed on me."
Viserys looks at his grandson for a long time; at his sure posture, at his defiantly raised head. Even the slight tremble of the boy's fingers doesn't ruin it.
He, Aemond has to admit, is of a brave kind; defending his right to drown to death to prove something to the world.
If a foolish one.
"So be it," Viserys declares and the captains cheer as the boy smiles and his mother pales and has to grab her husband's hand for support.
What Daemon thinks of is anyone's guess, his face is as blank and impassive as one's can be.
"The Trial will take place in the evening on the beach just outside the city," Viserys continues. "Make all the preparations and, my boy," he addresses Lucerys once more. "You need to choose the men responsible for holding you down through the trial."
Lucerys looks away, observing the crowd.
"Captain Mallory," he calls out. "And captain Tillbet. Will you give me an honor?"
The said captains step forward, one of them - Mallory - being the one who spoke on behalf of his kinsmen; the other - a tall and bulky man of age, with grey strands already sneaking into his sand-cololored hair.
"We will be pleased to," Mallory responds for both of them.
The Trial takes place in the evening.
There's a huge crowd gathered, ready to watch the spectacle what the drowning of the second son of Rhaenyra Targaryen will be.
Rhaenyra herself is there, pale beyond comparison, hands knotted in a nervous gesture.
Her other sons are right by her side; Jacaerys sporting a permanent scowl and little Joffrey holding his mother's skirt and looking around in wonder. He has never seen so many people gathered together before.
Both of Daemon's daughters are there as well, secured safely by either side of their stepmother, Baela's hand on the woman's forearm as Rhaena grasps another arm in the similar motion.
It looks like the girls and the princess are close, if the way they huddled around her protectively has anything to do with it.
Daemon himself is there as well, a little to the side, standing next to his cousin and former mother in law Rhaenys Targaryen.
Rhaenys' face is a stoic mask and only a tight line of thin lips betrays her real feelings.
She might not love the boy as much as Corlys does, but she seeks no death of his.
Aemond's family is standing on the other side of the semi-circle.
Aegon is already with the bottle at hands, no doubt borrowed from one of the sailors.
Helaena peers into the sea attentively, as if the sea is telling her some great secrets.
Mother is next to Aemond, hands clutched in the way - he can't ignore the realization - Rhaenyra does it, nail beds red and bleeding.
It's stressing her almost as much as it's stressing Rhaenyra and Aemond has a load of questions why.
He voices none of them.
Even father attended, being brought in the chair he seems to spend more and more time these days.
Father is dying and it's plain and clear to anyone who as much as looks at him.
Otto Hightower is next to the king, as always.
The rest of the crowd is mostly captains and sailors, with Vaemond Velaryon sticking from it like a sore thumb.
Then there's a commotion and the crowd parts, letting three men through.
Two of them are old seasoned sea dogs, hardened by the stories of their own.
The third one is just a boy of ten and four, eyes wide with emotion, but jaw firmly set. He's wearing light clothing in Velaryon blue, easy to clean and not too expensive to be drenched in.
Or drowned.
They come to the shore, all three of them; the prince reaches to take off his boots and puts them aside on the sand.
He nods to his companions and they proceed to the water, into its depths until the level is to the prince's waist.
Then they turn around.
"Are you ready?" Daemon calls out, apparently taking the task of overseeing the Trial into his own hands.
The boy nods grimly.
"I'm ready," he announces, eyes searching over the people on the shore before they land on Aemond and stay there, gaze locked.
Captain Mallory clears his throat and begins:
"Let Lucerys your servant be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel. Listen to the waves, listen to the God. He is speaking to us, and he says we shall have no lord but Lucerys Velaryon. Let the sea wash your follies and your vanities away. Let the old Lucerys drown. Let his lungs fill with sea water, let the fish eat the scales off his eyes. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. What is dead may never die!"
"What is dead may never die!" roar One Hundred Captains as one.
Aemond catches his own brother murmuring the words, eyes wide in fascination as he stares straight ahead, his bottle forgotten.
"What is dead may never die," Lucerys echoes as he stares right into Aemond's soul, gaze never wavering.
And then he's plunged into the cold water by two pair of strong muscled arms.
Rhaenyra cries in anguish and moves to stop them, but her stepdaughters hold her firmly close to themselves.
Even from the distance Aemond can see the body resisting, the fruitless attempts of the flesh to free itself.
There are bubbles breaking the surface of the sea, fast and violent in their desire to reach the air and join it.
In the distance there's the dragon's roar, full of panic and pain.
Everyone at the shore knows it to be Arrax.
And then the body stills and the water calms down, no more bubbles coming to the surface.
Rhaenyra shakes uncontrollably as the sobs tear themselves from her throat.
Alicent's own face is damp, lips bitten till the blood appears.
Rhaenys' face is pale, eyes fixed on the figure underwater, being held town to his death by his own order.
Daemon looks at the ghost of peace what settled over the water and commands.
"Alright, that's enough, bring him out!"
And they follow, two seasoned captains appointed by the boy to drown him, and as they drag the body of Prince Lucerys Velaryon to the shore, Aemond notices what their hands are trembling.
Rhaenyra is at her son's side the moment he's laid on the sand; skin pale and of sickly color, no breath and no heartbeat present.
She wails as another wave of sobs rushes through her body, reaching to bring her little boy close, his head on her lap.
The men who did the task step away respectfully, but do not leave. They stare at the little lord they just drowned and Aemond can almost hear the words they're muttering.
What is dead may never die.
What is dead may never die.
What is dead may never die.
Aemond stares at the limp, lifeless body of the boy he thought he hated and there's a vile taste rising up his throat, a bitter afterglow of...what is it?
Grief? Loss?
Why is he mourning Rhaenyra’ bastard boy, the one who took his eye and faced no repercussions for his actions?
Why does his chest hurt so much as he looks at the pale frame of the young man who had much more fire in him than Aemond gave him credit for?
The fire what is now quenched by the ruthless sea, by the cruel demand to prove himself.
The demand to which Lucerys rose up readily, even though he knew well enough he might not live.
Gods are cruel like that.
This is wrong, Aemond thinks, hollowed. This is not how it was supposed to end.
His mother comes to live next to him, face stricken with tears is quickly filling up with the fury.
She marches up ahead and, before anyone can as much as understand what's going on, lands a harsh slap on the face of Vaemond Velaryon.
"Are you satisfied?" She demands from the man too shocked to reply. "Was the boy's life worth your puny ambitions? The Prince is dead because of you; this, I'll let you know, is a treason."
The man pales and opens his mouth to give some smart retort, but is interrupted mid sentence.
Lucerys Velaryon sits upright with a gulp, before he crouches to the side and vomits saltwater.
He coughs and empties his stomach and groans all the way through it.
These are not the sounds of the dead man.
Lucerys Velaryon is alive.
"What-" he tries as soon as he has stopped retching, but his mother doesn't let him finish, wrapping her hands around him tightly as she lets out another cry.
He is alive, chants in Aemond's mind with every frantic beat of his own heart. He is alive, he's alive.
And if Prince Aemond Targaryen feels immense relief upon the miraculous revival of his nephew, then it's no one's deal.
"What is dead may never die," Lucerys finally manages between his mother's frantic kisses.
The deafening roar of the crowd is his answer.
It starts as a whisper, one captain mentioning it to another; it spreads out and gathers the volume, until the entire beach rings with the chant.
"Lord of the Tides," shout the captains.
"Lord of the Tides," smiles Daemon, pleased.
"Lord of the Tides," chant Lucerys' siblings, joyful and ecstatic, Helaena unexpectedly joining in.
"Lord of the Tides," Aemond sees his own brother murmur.
"Lord of the Tides," his king father whispers, tired but content. "It is settled then."
Lucerys stares around, at all these people chanting his title, praising him, being happy he's alive.
Two strong sets of arms tug him upwards the same way they brought him down before.
Lucerys Velaryon, second son of Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Driftmark and the future Lord of the Tides, stands straight and looks around at all the people supporting his claim, chanting for him.
He's wide eyed, face lit up with something akin to wonder.
His gaze travels from the one friendly face to another, until it finds Aemond.
And then he smiles.
And Aemond can't help but smile back.