"When I am weaker than you, I ask for freedom because that is according to your principles. When I am stronger than you, I take away your freedom because that is according to my principles."
— Frank Herbert, Children of Dune
…
The morning mist had yet to fully burn away, lingering in the hollows between hills and creeping in from the pines like half-formed wraiths. The grass beneath Daeron's boots was damp with the night's chill, the earth soft enough that a man could leave his print and know it would stay until the next rain. The sky overhead stretched vast and dull, as though drained of color, and the waters to the south gleamed pale and silver, where the Narrow Sea met the Blackwater Bay.
They waited in the field east of Rook's Rest, a great open space where no walls rose to give comfort and no trees loomed to give shelter. Behind them, their army stretched in ordered camps, the banners of the Vale, the Reach, and the City Watch of King's Landing rippling lazily in the cool air. The Lannisters had yet to arrive, but that mattered little. They had the numbers they needed. They had four dragons to the enemy's two. And still, they waited.
Daeron was tired of waiting.
He glanced at his brother. Aemond crouched low, fiddling with a knife, turning the blade between his fingers as if it were some puzzle whose solution lay hidden in its edge. His one good eye was fixed on the distance, on the hills and the trees that stood between them and Rook's Rest. His face was impassive, unreadable as ever. He was thinking. That was never good.
Daeron cleared his throat.
"We could take them now," he said, quiet but firm. "We have the men. The dragons. Rhaenyra's army might have the greater numbers, but they have no real answer to us in the skies." He gestured towards Rook's Rest, though his gaze never left Aemond. "Why do we wait?"
For a long moment, Aemond gave no sign that he'd heard.
Across from them, Addam Hull and Nettles—Aemond's dragonseeds—turned their attention towards their prince, clearly as curious as Daeron.
Still, Aemond said nothing.
Just as Daeron was about to speak again, his brother lifted his knife and pointed with it, straight at the pine forest and mist-shrouded hills beyond.
"Scorpions," Aemond said simply.
Daeron's brows knit together.
Aemond flipped the knife in his grip, the edge glinting briefly in the morning light. "Daemon has lined the treeline with them," he continued. "Dozens. Hidden beneath bramble, behind rocks, in the natural gaps between trees. Their bolts lie in wait like vipers in the grass. Should we attack Rook's Rest directly, Sheepstealer will fall first, three bolts in his left side. Nettles burns with him. Seasmoke and Vhagar will take their wounds as they kill Caraxes, and I take mine along with them. Seasmoke crashes, his wings tattered in the fight. Addam will break his back in the fall. You will be left to lead a demoralised army in a slow, grinding slaughter for Rook's Rest, while Rhaenyra, emboldened by the blood we spilled, will call for more gold and soldiers from Braavos. The Iron Bank will answer, and the war will drag, as costly as ever, but now we will be bleeding for it too."
His voice was even. Absolute.
Daeron stared at him.
Across from them, Addam and Nettles exchanged glances, uncomprehending.
Aemond looked back to the trees, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"He's trying to die valiantly," Aemond said after a moment. "Daemon. He's known for some time that he won't live to see the end of this war. He's made his peace with it. But he means to drag as many of us down with him as he can." He exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet. "He is dangerous as a result. We must be cautious."
Daeron considered his brother carefully.
Most men, hearing such certainty in another's voice, would have asked how he knew. The dragonseeds certainly seemed to wonder as much, their eyes darting between Aemond and the distant woods as though some unseen truth might manifest itself before them. But Daeron had long since stopped asking such questions.
Ever since the trip to the North, he had known there was more to Aemond than met the eye.
So, instead of questioning, he simply asked, "Then what is your plan?"
Aemond fell silent again, considering. Then he rose, brushing dirt from his knee. "We bait out Caraxes. Butcher him outside the scorpions' range. Once he is dead, our men can dismantle the siege engines, and then we burn what remains."
Daeron hesitated, but only for a moment. "How do we draw him out?"
Aemond did not answer. His gaze had shifted to the horizon, to the east, where two figures were drawing near. Even at a distance, one was unmistakable—tall and broad-shouldered, with a bearing that needed no name. The other smaller, slighter—a boy, or near enough to one.
Daemon and Lucerys.
So, it begins.
Daeron squared his shoulders. Whatever Aemond's plan was, they would soon see the first pieces of it unfold.
✥✥✥
Lucerys had never liked silence. Too much space for thinking. And thinking, in times like these, was a dangerous thing.
The fog still clung to the dips and hollows of the land, reluctant to part, as if even the mist itself had the good sense to hesitate before stepping onto this field. Rook's Rest lay behind him, its walls crouched low in the distance like an old dog waiting to see who came out of this mess alive. Before him, open ground, damp earth, a few wind-blasted trees standing lonely on the ridge. And four men waiting in the dull morning light.
Aemond stood at their head, because of course he did. The bastard always wore his importance like a second cloak. One eye, sharp as a dagger, watching as Lucerys and Daemon approached.
To the prince's left, his younger brother Daeron, softer of feature but standing straight-backed and knightly, as if that meant something. Then the two others, dragonriders both, though neither bore the name Targaryen.
The man—Addam, Daemon had called him once—had the look of a Velaryon, more or less. Silver hair, dark skin, all the hallmarks Lucerys had sought greedily ever since he truly understood what they meant. But the woman? No one knew her name, not even Daemon. She had none of the usual refinements. Rough-hewn, like she'd been carved from lesser stone. She stood apart, her gaze wary but sharp.
The two sides came to a halt, close enough that Lucerys could see the details of their armor, the little movements of their hands. Far enough that a sword wouldn't reach, but not so far that a quick man couldn't close the distance if treachery reared its ugly head.
Silence stretched between them.
Lucerys shifted his weight, tried not to feel the way his stomach was tightening like a badly-knotted rope. Aemond's gaze flicked over him, slow, deliberate, lingering just long enough to let Lucerys know he was being measured. Weighed. Found lacking, most like.
Daemon, never one to let a moment go unspoiled, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Well?" he said, voice rough as the waves against the rocky shore. "You called for a parley. Here we are. I don't care much for standing in empty fields this early in the morning, so speak your piece."
Aemond did not so much as blink. "I have come to give you your terms of surrender."
A pause. Then Daemon laughed, short and sharp. "Surrender," he repeated, as if the word had a bad taste. "Gods, you've been spending too much time with Otto."
Aemond didn't react. Might as well have been a statue, save for the faintest tilt of his head.
Sighing, Daemon gave a theatrical wave of his hand. "Oh, by all means, let's hear what we're refusing."
Aemond laid out his demands like he was reading off a ledger.
The dragons, save for Caraxes, would be taken to the Dragonpit in King's Landing and chained. Hatched, unhatched, eggs still in their nests, it mattered not. All of them would be surrendered.
Rhaenyra would renounce her claim. Not just quietly, but publicly, for all of Westeros to see, at a tourney of all things. She would kneel before Aegon and call him king.
Aegon the Younger would be taken to King's Landing as a "guest," though Lucerys had a guess at what sort of guest he'd be. As for himself and his brothers? They'd be required to "acknowledge their true parentage," and bear the name Strong, rather than Velaryon.
Dragonstone? Gone. Taken by the Greens, no longer Rhaenyra's by right or might. And as a final flourish, exile. The lot of them—Daemon, Rhaenyra, Lucerys and his remaining brothers—gone from Westeros for good. And should they dare return without explicit royal permission, well, that would be a short conversation.
Then, as if the rest wasn't galling enough, the indemnity. The cost of war. The price of their rebellion, to be paid in gold and treasures and whatever else Aemond felt was owed. Valyrian steel, if they had it. The last of the gold from the Iron Bank, if it still remained.
Aemond finished speaking.
The wind stirred the grass, made the trees in the distance rustle and snap. No one moved. No one spoke.
Then, at last, Daemon let out a long breath through his nose. He tipped his head, lips quirking. "Is that all?" he asked in a voice low and edged with mockery.
Aemond tilted his head, watching, weighing, measuring. "You should know," he said, his voice as smooth as still water, "that I offered better terms before. And I assure you the next ones will be worse. For your family's sake, you would do well to consider that."
Daemon spat at the ground. His boot crushed the spit into the dirt as he turned. "Come," he said to Lucerys, already walking away.
Aemond's voice was slow, careful, amused. "Is that your answer, uncle?"
Daemon did not look back. "Go fuck yourself."
Lucerys could feel the tension shift, could feel something shift in Aemond's bearing. He did not need to turn to know One-eye was smiling.
"I had thought you'd be wiser with age," Aemond said. "But it seems I gave you too much credit."
Lucerys dared a glance back. Aemond was watching them go, his stance easy, his hands loose at his sides.
"Put on your riding leathers," the bastard called after them. "We will be coming to take your heads in half an hour. Do make sure the duel isn't too dull, uncle. I'd hate to be disappointed."
Lucerys swallowed.
Daemon did not slow. Did not acknowledge the words. Just kept walking, long strides cutting through the damp grass.
Lucerys had to hurry to keep pace. His hands felt cold. His stomach felt hollow.
He had always known this day would come. Had always told himself he was ready.
He had lied.