Cont. from INTERLUDE(True Power)
The older prince watched as his younger sibling fiddled with a stick, drawing squiggles in the soft earth. "...So, will you tell me?" the boy said in the end. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"I've heard rumours. From the dragonkeepers in the Pit. Some say you dabble in old Valyrian magic. Is that how you were able to master the Direwolves?"
Aemond leaned back, stretching his spine as he did. "Valyrian magics are costly things to invoke, brother. I would not call on them to pacify mere wolves."
"So, you do know them?"
Aemond arched a brow as he tossed a piece of jerky into his mouth.
"Yes."
✥✥✥
Present
Daeron's arse was numb, his thighs aching, and his throat parched from the dust that clung to the air. King's Landing sprawled before him, a jagged cluster of roofs and walls, the Red Keep perched above it all like a basking dragon. He shifted in the saddle, gritting his teeth as his knees ached in protest. He'd never been fond of long rides.
"About bloody time," muttered Ser Gwayne Hightower at his side, wiping the sweat from his neck with a gloved hand. "I was starting to think we'd marched to the edge of the world."
Behind them, the host of the Reach stretched back like a river of steel, banners snapping in the breeze. A few dozen sigils on a few thousand shields, all loyal to Lord Ormund Hightower. And above, gliding lazily in the sky, was Tessarion, her sapphire scales glittering like a thousand polished blades. Daeron watched as she banked sharply, her wings stretching wide as she descended in the direction of the Dragonpit. For a moment, his heart ached, wishing to be riding her, to feel the rush of the wind against his face as they dived and spun. Yet, there was a lesson in restraint. Aemond would have reminded him of that. Today, dignity required that he enter the city as a prince, not as a dragonlord.
The Old Gate loomed before them, its ancient stones draped with banners of green and gold. The city guards were resplendent in polished armor, their cloaks a deep, rich crimson, saluting sharply as Daeron passed. As the host entered King's Landing, the throng of people grew thicker, cheering and waving as petals were flung from balconies above. Their laughter and shouts filled the air, an outpouring of adoration.
Daeron sat taller in his saddle, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. News of their triumphs over the rebels in the Reach had evidently preceded them. There had been no battle of note; their enemies had surrendered readily enough when faced with the might of Lord Ormund's army and the promise of dragonfire. It had been more a campaign of parley and submission than conquest. Yet victory was victory.
As they passed through the bustling streets, Daeron could not help but notice the changes. The King's Landing he remembered was a foul and filthy place, its air thick with the stench of rot and piss. Now, the air was uncommonly clean, tinged with the faint scent of blossoms. Colorful murals adorned the buildings, vivid depictions of dragons soaring over fields of wheat, and golden crowns encircling the realm. Plants hung from archways and windows, vines intertwined with flowers in shades of crimson and gold.
The streets were cleaner too, swept free of filth and mud. Even the cobblestones seemed newer, polished by the countless feet that trod upon them. And the people… Daeron's brow furrowed as he studied them. They were better clothed than he remembered, their faces less drawn and more content. There were fewer beggars lining the streets, and the few he did see were not the skeletal wretches of old, but healthier-looking souls with hollow eyes. As for the whores… they were present, certainly, but so artfully adorned, draped in silks and glittering stones, that they resembled the courtesans of Braavos more than common streetwalkers.
"It is beautiful," Daeron murmured, his lips curving into an unbidden smile. "Like a place from the old tales."
"Indeed," Gwayne replied, a touch of skepticism creeping into his tone. "Though I daresay tales are seldom so tidy. Your brother's work. He's turned this cesspit into something almost… pleasant."
Daeron chuckled, his good humor undiminished. "Brother Aemond has ever been a lover of order."
...
The Red Keep loomed ahead, crimson walls stark against the golden sky. At the base of the steps stood their welcoming party, banners of House Targaryen and Hightower fluttering side by side. His mother was the first to reach him, her embrace fierce and warm, her hair still as golden as he remembered. Queen Alicent spoke softly as she kissed his cheeks, her fingers tracing his face as if to memorize it.
"My son… my brave boy," she whispered, her voice choked. "You have returned to me."
He smiled, hugging her back before turning to his sister. Helaena stood apart, her three children gathered around her skirts, their eyes wide with curiosity. She embraced him awkwardly, her hands cold but gentle. "It is good to see you, Daeron," she murmured, her gaze drifting somewhere distant. "The threads are tighter now… they weave so tightly… it's good."
Daeron did not understand her words, but he smiled, glad to see her well.
His grandfather, Otto Hightower, stood just behind, his face a mask of measured approval. The Lord Hand's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he looked upon his grandson. "You have done well, my prince," he said, his voice soft and firm. "Your return is most timely. The realm is safer for it."
Finally, Aemond stepped forward, regal in his black and green robes. His eye shone with mirth as he clasped Daeron's hand, pulling him into a firm embrace. "You've grown taller again, little brother," he teased, his voice smooth and measured. "And more formidable, I hear. The Blue Dragon of the Reach."
Daeron laughed, his chest swelling with pride. "And you, brother," he shot back. "Aemond the Stormbreaker, they call you now. Is that not your third or fourth epithet already?"
Aemond's mouth curved in amusement. "Fifth, I think."
Before Daeron could reply, Alicent took his arm, leading him towards the Red Keep. "Come, you must be exhausted. You will rest tonight, and tomorrow you shall stand before the King."
Daeron hesitated. "Aegon… how fares he?"
Aemond made a dismissive gesture. "You will see him tomorrow," he said. "Rest tonight. You will be busy come morning."
...
Daeron's boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he made his way down the long hall, his mind lingering on the image of his elder brother. Aegon's skin had looked too pale, his eyes sunken, and there was a dullness to his gaze that Daeron could not reconcile with the drunken reveler he remembered. He had tried to ask his mother, but she had merely smiled and lied—she was bad at that—told him it was only a cough. The kind men got every day, and they got over it too, she said.
Still, Daeron did not press her. It was not his way to disturb the surface of things when the waters beneath were so obviously troubled. And besides, there were other matters requiring his attention, not least of which was the summons he had just received.
Aemond was waiting for him at the City Watch's East Barracks, a detail imparted to him by a small servant boy who had all the appearance of a startled hare. The boy had stammered his message, bowed thrice, and nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to depart. Daeron, who had always found the urgency of others somewhat amusing, had merely chuckled and made his way to the stables.
The Red Keep's stables were as he remembered—warm with the breath of horses, the air thick with the scent of hay and leather. His stallion, a fine creature with a glossy coat and bright eyes, greeted him with a snort. "Yes, yes," Daeron murmured, stroking the animal's neck. "We are off again, my friend."
The ride through the city was brisk, the cobbled streets echoing with the clatter of hooves. Soon, the East Barracks rose before him, austere and formidable. High walls of dark stone framed a massive gate, the iron-banded wood marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its scales rendered in gleaming gold. Guards stood at attention, their halberds crossed, and Daeron felt a ripple of surprise when they did not immediately part to allow him passage.
"Name and purpose," one of the guards intoned, his voice a flat echo against the stone.
For a moment, Daeron could only blink. "Prince Daeron Targaryen," he said slowly. "I am here to see my brother, Prince Aemond."
The guards exchanged a glance, then signaled to those above. Daeron heard the soft shuffle of feet, the creak of leather as archers above relaxed once more. It seemed even he was not exempt from the careful order that had settled over the city.
"Welcome, Your Grace," the guard said, stepping aside. "Forgive the caution. Prince Aemond is most… particular about the barrack's security."
"So I see," Daeron murmured, dismounting. A smaller gate opened, and Daeron offered the reins of his steed to a young groom who took them with a bow. The courtyard he stepped into was neat, sober in its appearance. Gravel crunched underfoot as he moved, his gaze sweeping over the orderly rows of stabled horses, the squat, practical buildings, and the main structure that loomed ahead, its windows narrow and shuttered.
A guard guided him inside, the air shifting from the brisk chill of autumn to the cool dimness of stone walls. They ascended a set of steps, the iron railing cool beneath his hand. The building was devoid of the usual trappings of wealth—no tapestries to soften the echo of their footsteps, no lanterns save for the occasional candle burning in its niche. It was a place of work, not leisure, and Daeron found himself comforted by its simplicity.
At last, they reached a door bound in iron. The guard knocked once, a crisp, curt sound, then opened it to reveal a modest chamber filled with the scent of parchment and ink.
Aemond stood at the center of the room, his head bent over a table strewn with maps and documents. His hair, a pale silver that caught the candlelight, fell loose around his face, and he wore his customary green and black, the colors sharp against the muted backdrop of the room.
Daeron cleared his throat. "Brother."
Aemond's head lifted, and a smile spread across his lips. "Daeron. You made good time. Close the door."
Daeron did as asked, the door clicking shut behind him. He turned back to find Aemond's attention returned to the documents arrayed before him.
"I hear Aegon is unwell," Daeron ventured, crossing the room to stand by the table.
"Aegon is many things," Aemond replied, his tone dismissive. "Unwell is only one of them."
Daeron looked down at the map, recognizing the Crownlands and the coastlines of the Narrow Sea. Red lines and black arrows crisscrossed the parchment, marking troop movements and defensive positions. "You've been busy," he noted, his finger tracing a line on the map.
Aemond's mouth curled into a thin smile. "I've no time for idleness. Daemon's rabble is entrenched at Rook's Rest, fifty thousand strong, and I have begun to grow impatient with the Black's rebellion. The City Watch will march in a few hours from now. Three days after, the Hightower host you brought with you will follow."
"Without the Lannisters?" Daeron asked, frowning. "Their host is still weeks away."
"The Westerlanders will join us en route. Fifteen thousand Valemen are already on the march, moving to meet us just east of Antlers. I will not risk them being caught alone. I trust you are ready?"
Daeron hesitated. "Of course… though I did not expect we would move so soon."
"Wars wait for no man," Aemond said, his attention flickering from the table. "Lord Ormund has pledged ten thousand swords to our cause, greatly bolstering the host we've already assembled. With the Vale at our side, the scales tip in our favor. The time to strike is now. Every day we linger, we squander coin and supplies, feeding idle men who grow restless."
He leaned back, fingers drumming against the wood. "Twice now, Rhaenyra's allied fleets have sought to break our hold on the Stepstones. They are desperate to reopen the trade routes to the rest of Essos, to keep the coffers of their Braavosi and Pentoshi patrons fat and their allies appeased. I've commanded the Hightower fleet to strengthen the blockade, but I would see this matter settled at Rook's Rest." His voice hardened, a shadow crossing his face. "I will not suffer two fronts to fester. One swift blow, and this ends before they can muster another breath of defiance."
Aemond turned to a trunk in the corner of the room, lifting it unto the desk and unlocking it with a key from his belt. The lid creaked as he opened it, revealing a pile of stone eggs nestled within. The eggs were ancient, their colors faded, their surfaces cold and rough.
Daeron's breath caught. "Are those…?"
"Dragon eggs," Aemond confirmed. "Turned to stone long ago. The dragonkeepers had written them off claiming they will never hatch." He closed the trunk with a firm hand. "You will take them with you. Speak with my men at the Dragonpit about how best to secure them on Tessarion's saddle. They will be expecting you."
Daeron stared at the trunk, his thoughts whirling. "Why? What use are stone eggs?"
Aemond merely shook his head. "Keep them safe, brother. They are worth more than you know."