TBOV: DAERON I

DAERON I

The wind was a constant companion at Storm’s End, a ceaseless moaning that seeped through the thick stone walls and rattled the iron-strapped shutters of his solar. It's air thick with the smell of damp salt and old beeswax, a wild, untamed scent that was wholly different from the perfumed air of the Red Keep or the dry, scholarly dust of Oldtown. Even with a fire roaring in the great hearth, a persistent chill seeped from the walls, a cold that had lived in the fortress for a thousand years. Daeron felt it in his bones. 

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands dipped his quill into the inkpot and tried to ignore the chill, focusing instead on the ledger before him. The ink was a deep black, the parchment a creamy white, but the numbers swam before his eyes—tithes from Weeping Town, disputes over lumber rights near the Rainwood, petitions from smallfolk whose homes and fields had been looted when they fled the fires of his brother’s conquest.

He was a prince of the blood, a dragonrider, and now a lord of one of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet he felt more like a clerk, buried under a mountain of grievances he was ill-equipped to solve. Aemond had conquered the Stormlands with fire and fury, but he had left the ruling of it to Daeron. It was a sign of immense trust, a weight that settled on his shoulders heavier than any suit of plate. I will not fail him, he thought, the words a silent vow he repeated a dozen times a day. He had to prove he was more than just the youngest brother, the quiet one sent to squire for the Hightowers.

Across the heavy oak table, Maester Roderic cleared his throat, the sound like stones grinding together. “My lord, we have the matter of the White Wood. Lord Wylde claims the Mist men have been felling trees on his lands. Lord Mertyns insists the woods in question have belonged to the Mistwood for a thousand years.”

Daeron sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The White Wood again. A miserable stretch of forest between their lands, unremarkable save for the stubborn pride of the two lords who claimed it.  "Lord Mertyns claims it has been his family's right since before the Conquest," Daeron recited wearily. "And Lord Wylde claims his grandfather won the rights from Lord Mertyn's in a wager."

"Precisely, my lord."

“I believe I asked you to review this matter and get back to me?”

“I still am, my Lord,” the master replied. “The evidence both sides submitted was… ambiguous. As are the charters. Both houses can present documents that seem to support their claim.”

Of course they can. It was always so. Aemond would have flown Vhagar to the disputed forest, burned a line in the earth, and declared the matter settled. Any lord who objected would have found his castle much the worse for it. But Daeron was not Aemond. He did not have Vhagar, nor did he possess his brother’s chilling certainty. Tessarion was a magnificent creature, the Blue Queen, but she was no instrument of terror like the old she-dragon. And Daeron himself… he preferred reason to ruin.

Daeron sighed again. He had pictured ruling as something grander. Riding Tessarion across his domain, receiving the grateful thanks of his people, building things that would last. He had not pictured mediating endless squabbles over trees and pigs and stolen sheep. Aemond had conquered this land with fire and fury in a matter of weeks. Daeron was struggling to keep two petty lords from murdering each other over a patch of mud and timber.

"What did Lord Borros do in such cases?" Daeron asked.

The maester’s lips thinned. "Lord Borros would have summoned them both, listened to half their arguments, grown bored, and granted the right to whichever of them had pleased him most recently. Or he would have them joust for it. His methods were… direct."

Daeron sighed a third time. "Summon them," he said, his voice firmer than he felt. "Both of them. They will come to Storm's End and present their cases to me. Until I have rendered a judgment, neither Tarth nor Swann men are to set foot in the White Wood. Marshal Cutter will see to it. Anyone who disobeys will answer to me."

The Maester bowed his head. “A wise course, my lord.”

Daeron was not so sure it was wise, only that it was his own. He looked over the petition from the tenants of Bronzegate, asking for temporary relief from their taxes. Their fields were fallow, their keep a ruin. Aemond had made an example of Lord Buckler. Daeron felt a pang of something sour in his gut. It was necessary, he knew. The Baratheons had betrayed their oaths. Lord Buckler had stood with them. Treason required a stern answer. Still, it was the smallfolk who ultimately paid the price.

“Grant it,” he said quietly. “For one year. And see that a portion of the grain from our own stores is sent to them.”

“My lord is merciful,” the Maester murmured, making a note.

Or soft, Daeron thought. He pushed the petitions away. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, my lord. There’s still the matter regarding—"

The solar door opened without a knock, interrupting the Maester. Baela stood on the threshold, her silver-gold hair braided in a severe style that seemed at home with the storm-tossed world outside. She did not look at him, her gaze fixed instead on the pile of parchment before him. Her presence filled the room, a quiet, challenging stillness.

“My lady,” Maester Roderic said, rising to his feet.

Baela acknowledged him with a slight inclination of her head. “Maester.” Only then did her eyes, the colour of amethysts, flick to Daeron. “My lord. Hard at work making the realm whole again, I see.”

There was an edge to her voice, a fine, sharp thing. He had come to know it well.

“Someone must count the coppers,” he said, offering a small, tired smile.

She glided further into the room, inspecting the work on the table. “I have instructed the steward to change the tapestries in the Great Hall. The Faith’s iconography felt… oppressive. I thought a rendering of the Sea Snake’s triumph in the Stepstones might be more fitting for a castle held by dragons and seafarers.”

Yet another sigh escaped Daeron. “As you wish, my lady,” he said, forcing his tone to remain light. “It is your castle to command.”

A flicker of something—disappointment that he had not taken the bait?—crossed her face. “I have also reviewed the menus. The cook seems to believe we are under siege and must subsist on salt beef and boar. I’ve told him we require more fish. One would think men appointed by the Good Prince would have a better grasp of local logistics,” she said, the honorific Aemond’s Red Cloaks favoured sounding like a curse on her lips. “But I suppose they had weightier matters on their minds. Sacking keeps and whatnot.”

That barb struck home. He felt a flush of anger, not for himself, but for Aemond. “My brother’s men worked hard to secure this castle and restore the King’s Peace,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended. “Please do not speak of them in that manner.”

“Ah, yes, the King’s Peace,” she replied, her expression one of bland innocence. “It is so very peaceful now. One can scarcely hear the weeping for all the wind.” Before Daeron could reply, she continued. "We have guests. Lord and Lady Penrose. Surely you haven't forgotten? I sent word three days ago."

He hadn't forgotten because she'd never told him. This was one of her games—arranging things without consulting him, then acting as if he'd simply been inattentive. "Of course,” he said simply, feigning comprehension. “When will they be arriving?"

“Tonight.”

"Baela—"

"I've also arranged the menu myself. Spiced wine and lamprey pie, in honour of your dear brother One-Eye's favourite dish. I'm told he's quite fond of it."

"Baela," Daeron sighed again. "Must you?"

"Must I what? See to the running of my own home?" she asked, her eyes flashing. "Or is your brother’s taste not to your liking?"

"Aemond’s tastes are fine," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "But Lord Penrose is an old man with a delicate stomach. He is also one of the few lords who has not openly questioned my appointment. I would prefer he not spend the night clutching his belly and cursing my name."

"Then he may eat bread," she said coolly, as she turned to leave.

The conversation was over. Daeron sat there for a moment longer, sighing a final time and turning back to the Maester to finish his work

Later that night, the storm broke in earnest. Dinner had been an exercise in strained civility, each bite punctuated by the rising shriek of the wind. Now, lying in their great canopied bed, Daeron listened to the tempest rage outside. Rain lashed against the shutters and the wind howled like a hungry beast, but the storm within the room was a quieter, colder thing.

Beside him, Baela slept with her back to him, a small, unyielding fortress in the vast expanse of the mattress. Even in slumber, she maintained her distance. He could just make out the soft curve of her hip in the gloom. Their couplings were infrequent, desperate affairs—brief flashes of all-consuming fire followed by a swift and awkward retreat into silence. It was the only passion he ever felt from her, a fleeting heat that left the ensuing chill that much colder. He could have reached out, traced the line of her spine, but he knew better. After their sharp exchange just minutes earlier, the ice he’d receive would be far colder than the rain-swept stone of the castle walls.

Still, Daeron stared longingly at her. Her curls were pinned up loosely, a few stray strands clinging to the nape of her neck. She wore a simple turquoise gown, the colour of the sea in sunlight. He watched her for a moment, the way her slender fingers gently toyed with a lock of her hair. For all her fire and fury, there was a gentleness in her he longed to see more often.

"How is Moondancer?" he asked softly, breaking the silence.

"She prefers the warmer waters of Driftmark," Baela replied, without turning. "She does not care for the chill and cutting winds here."

Daeron chuckled. "Neither does Tessarion, it seems. Few do." He turned, staring up at the ceiling above. After a long pause, he asked. "...Will you ever be happy here with me, Baela?"

The question was clumsy, he knew as soon as it left his lips. She finally turned to look at him, her amethyst gaze unreadable. They were Velaryon eyes, but they held the fire of her father, of Daemon Targaryen. He saw that fire now, banked low but burning still.

"I am the Lady of Storm's End," she said, her voice flat. "My happiness is not a matter of great import."

"...It is to me," Daeron replied after a moment of thought.

Baela stared at him for some time before sniffing with an unreadable emotion and turning her back to him once more. Daeron sighed, and for a moment returned to staring at the ceiling above. Eventually, he rose and walked to the window. Below, the waters of Shipbreaker Bay churned, white-capped and furious. This castle had stood for centuries against such storms. It was built on defiance. Perhaps his Lady-Wife had more in common with these stones than he knew.

He thought of Aemond again, whose will was a storm of its own making, a force that bent the world to its shape. He had given Daeron this corner of the realm to manage, and Daeron feared he was making a mess of it, his mercy a flaw, his patience a weakness.

A knock came at the chamber door, soft but insistent. He opened it to find Artos waiting.

“My lord, a raven from King’s Landing.” The boy held out a small, sealed scroll.

Daeron’s heart beat faster. He took the scroll, broke the seal of the three-headed dragon, and unrolled the parchment. The script was undeniably Aemond’s—sharp, precise, and devoid of flourish.

Brother,

Reports from the Stormlands are satisfactory. The flow of taxes to the Crown has been restored. See that it continues. I trust you have the local lords well in hand. Do not mistake their silence for loyalty. Fear is a finer edge, but it must be kept sharp.

How fares your new life? And your lady wife? Let me know if you require anything.

Aemond

Daeron read the short message three times. It was so like his brother. A lecture on governance wrapped around a kernel of genuine concern. How fares your new life? The question echoed in the stormy chamber. He looked over at Baela, a silver-haired shadow in the bed. He looked at the rain-streaked window, at the kingdom of resentful lords and broken smallfolk he was supposed to rule.

It fares… poorly, he wanted to say. I am drowning.

But he could not write that. He could not admit weakness. Aemond had given him this chance, this honour. Yet, the final line was an offer. Let me know if you require anything.

He walked to the small writing desk in the corner of the room. He lit a candle, its flame dancing in the drafts. He took up a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill. He could not ask about Baela directly, could not expose the raw, aching wound of his marriage. But perhaps he could ask for advice couched in the language Aemond understood. The language of politics and power.

He began to write, the scratch of his quill a small, determined sound against the roar of the storm. He would report on the dispute between Mertyn and Wylde. He would detail his decision to grant tax relief to Bronzegate. And then, he would ask for his brother’s counsel on how best to placate a disgruntled ally.

He would not name Baela. He would not have to. Aemond, who saw everything, would understand.