TBOV: AEMOND III

Peace folks. I am almost done with the remaining chapters of Arc 6 for Refrain. Decided to post this first since I had it half done.

AEMOND III

The ink on the last charter was still wet, a dark stain on the vellum that smelled of gall and wine. Aemond blotted it with a fine dusting of sand, his movements precise, mechanical. The papers were a mountain before him, the architecture of an empire laid out in figures and decrees: grain shipments from the Reach, iron tithes from the Westerlands, the appointment of a new governor for Pentos. Each required his seal, his eye, his will. The business of rule was a familiar, tedious, grinding thing.

A sharp rap on the heavy oak of his door broke the quiet of the chamber. He did not look up. "Enter."

The hinges groaned. He heard the familiar, heavy tread of Ser Criston Cole’s steel-shod boots on the stone floor, followed by a lighter, more hesitant step. Aemond finished signing a disbursement order for the garrison at Ghoyan Drohe before he finally lifted his gaze.

Ser Criston stood stiffly, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. Beside him, flanked by two Red Cloaks, was Rhaenyra.

She looked… diminished. The fire that had once burned so brightly in her violet eyes was banked to a dull, hateful ember. Grief and defeat had carved new lines into her face, pulling her mouth into a permanent sneer. Yet even in chains, clad in a simple grey wool dress, she held her head high, the ghost of a queen clinging to her like a shroud. She despised him. He could feel it radiating from her, a heat more palpable than any hearth fire. It was a useless thing, that hate. A luxury for those with power to spare.

Aemond gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Leave us," he told the guards. Cole remained.

Rhaenyra did not move.

"The council has deliberated your fate, and that of your sons," Aemond began, his voice devoid of inflexion. He did not ask her to sit again. It mattered little if she stood. "His Grace, in his wisdom, has chosen the path of mercy."

A bitter, strangled laugh escaped her lips. "Your mercy."

"The King's mercy," Aemond corrected, his tone as cold and flat as a winter lake. "You will listen. You will understand the terms. Your children's lives depend on it."

The mention of her sons silenced her. Her jaw tightened, the only sign of the fury she held in check.

"Your sons, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys, are to be made wards of the Crown. They will be separated from you, for their own good and the good of the realm." He watched her face for a flicker of weakness, but found only stone. "Aegon the Younger will be sent to Oldtown, to squire for my great-uncle, Lord Ormund. Viserys will be fostered in Sunspear, under the care of the new Princess of Dorne. They will receive fine educations, be instructed in sums and trade, and learn the duties of lords, not princes."

He let the distinction land. "Joffrey, as your eldest, presents a unique problem. His claim, however baseless, might one day be a rallying cry for fools and traitors. He will be sent to the Citadel. He will study, and he will forge a maester's chain. A life of service and knowledge awaits him. He will trouble the world with letters, not swords."

Rhaenyra’s hands, bound at the wrist, clenched into white-knuckled fists. "And their dragons?" she rasped.

"Tyraxes and Stormcloud will be removed to the Dragonmont. Their riders will be permitted to visit them, under guard, twice each year. A generous concession. Viserys, however, will be forbidden from ever claiming a dragon. We will not have another generation of Targaryens tearing the realm apart over birthright and fire."

He paused, letting the weight of it all settle upon her. 

"As for you," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "you will make a public renunciation of your claim, and that of your heirs, before the assembled lords and commons in the Great Sept. You will swear a holy oath of fealty to King Aegon, second of his name. You will be stripped of the title of princess, and your sons the titles of princes. Henceforth, you shall be known simply as the Lady Rhaenyra, the king's sister, and nothing more."

"Afterwards," he concluded, "you and your dragon will be escorted to the Eyrie. My lady wife will see to your needs. You will be granted a comfortable seclusion, with chambers overlooking the Giant's Lance. You will be permitted to see your sons for seven days, every second year, and your dragon once every seven fortnights. Your sons' letters will be brought to you, and yours to them, after they have been read. All visits will be supervised. I, myself, will oversee the preparations for your departure."

Aemond leaned back, the sentence delivered. “These are the terms,” he finished. “They are not negotiable. They are an act of mercy from a king you sought to usurp. You would do well to remember that.”

For a long moment, she just stared at him, her violet eyes a maelstrom of emotions too deep for him to care to decipher. Hate, despair, a sliver of defiance that had not yet been extinguished. Finally, she gave a single, sharp nod. She understood. Compromise was the last weapon she had left.

"Take her away," Aemond said to Cole. "See that she is made comfortable. And begin the preparations. I want her gone from this city within the fortnight."

Cole bowed. "My prince." He took Rhaenyra by the arm. She did not resist, moving like a woman in a dream as he led her from the room. The door clicked shut, and Aemond was alone once more with his mountain of paper.

He had nearly finished a review of the naval budget when another knock came. Softer, this time. "Enter."

Cole returned, entering with a tiny roll of paper on a silver platter. "A letter, my prince. Arrived by raven."

Arching a brow, Aemond took it. His fingers traced the familiar falcon of House Arryn impressed in the wax. "Thank you."

He broke the seal. The script was Jeyne’s, elegant and sharp, each letter a needle.

My Prince, and Husband,

Word has reached the Eyrie of the happy news from Dorne. A cause for great celebration, I am sure. Pray, send my congratulations to the Princess Aliandra on her good fortune. A child is a blessing from the Seven.

I must also inform you that the recent unrest in the mountain clans has proven more troublesome than anticipated. Our patrols have been ambushed, and several granaries in the low-lands have been lost to fires. For the security of the Vale, I have no choice but to curtail our grain shipments to the capital. They will be reduced by half until such a time as stability can be restored.

Your dutiful wife,

Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie

Aemond felt a slow smile spread across his lips, a dry, mirthless thing. He let out a short, sharp chuckle.

Standing nearby, Ser Criston shifted his weight, his brow furrowed in question. "Good news, my prince?"

Aemond tossed the letter across the desk. "Read it."

Cole picked it up, his eyes scanning the page. His expression shifted from curiosity to confusion. "The clans are always restless. Why would she—" He stopped, his gaze fixed on the first lines. "The news from Dorne? Princess Aliandra?"

"It seems my lady wife has learned that she is not to be the first to give me a child," Aemond explained, steepling his fingers. "And she is displeased."

Cole set the letter down, a look of dawning comprehension on his face. "I had heard whispers… that you and the Dornish princess were… familiar. I confess, I gave them no credit. I have never known you to be a man swayed by a woman’s charms." He shook his head, a faint smirk on his lips. "Feminine jealousy. She cuts the city’s bread in half out of spite."

"You mistake the motive, Ser Criston," Aemond corrected him coolly. "This is not jealousy. It is anxiety. Had Aliandra been some Lysene bedwarmer or a tavern wench from the Street of Silk, Jeyne would not have cared a whit. At best, she might have sent a polite, meaningless note and thought no more of it. But Aliandra Martell is a Princess of Dorne. In station, she is Jeyne's peer."

He saw the understanding dawn in Cole’s eyes. "Jeyne fears being supplanted."

"She fears the Vale being sidelined," Aemond clarified. "She sees a rival power bloc forming in the south, cemented by blood. My blood. She is reminding me, in the only way she can, that the Vale’s support is not unconditional. That I have obligations to her, and to her people. It is a sharp move. Predictable, but sharp."

"And the child?" Cole asked, his voice lowered. "Do you mean to…?"

"Legitimise it? Of course," Aemond said without hesitation. "A babe born of the Princess of Dorne cannot be ignored. I have already chosen a hatchling for the child from the clutch hatched at Rook’s Rest."

Cole looked troubled. "My prince, a word of caution. To legitimise a Dornish bastard while your lady wife remains childless… the optics are poor. It will be seen as an insult to House Arryn and the Vale. It could breed resentment."

Aemond waved a dismissive hand. "The resentment is Jeyne’s to manage. As is the solution." He picked up his quill again, dipping it in the inkpot. "This matter is simple enough. She needs only give me a child of her own. A trueborn Targaryen-Arryn heir. Let this be a spur."

Ser Criston said no more, only bowed and took his leave to see to his duties. The silence that returned was a comfort. Aemond turned back to his work, the matter of his wife and her anxieties filed away. It was a problem, yes, but a manageable one. All problems were, with sufficient will.

An hour, or perhaps more, had bled away when a third knock came. This time it was Grand Maester Orwyle, his chain clinking with every step, accompanied by his own great-uncle, Archmaester Vaegon. Behind them trailed a dozen acolytes from the newly formed Imperial Institute on Dragonstone, their arms laden with heavy, cloth-wrapped parcels.

"My prince," Orwyle began, bowing low. “Archmaester Vaegon brings a gift from Dragonstone. A first fruit from the Institute.”

At Vaegon’s nod, the acolytes set their burdens on a long side table and unwrapped them. They were books. Stacks of them, all identical. The covers were simple leather, stamped with a seven-pointed star. Aemond picked one up. It felt solid, heavier than a hand-scribed copy. The paper was rougher, the ink stark and uniform.

He opened it to a random page. The Book of the Father. "Harden not your heart, for a kingdom is a garden, and the king is the gardener. He must prune the dead wood, that the tree may thrive." He flipped a few more pages. There, in the margins, were the annotations he had penned himself. All designed to subtly reinforce the sanctity of the royal line and the divine right of the Targaryens to rule.

"The press is a marvel, my prince," Vaegon said, his voice a dry rustle of old parchment. "We can produce a thousand of these in the time it would take a scribe to complete one. The Citadel and the Alchemists’ Guild, united in purpose under your guidance, have created a tool of immense value."

"Excellent," Aemond said. He looked to Orwyle. “Grand Maester, you will coordinate with Ser Criston. Find a suitable building in the city. I want a printing facility established by the end of the month. I am authorising the funds from the Dragon’s Bank.” He took a fresh sheet of vellum, wrote out the order, signed it, and stamped his seal into the cooling wax. “I want a hundred thousand copies printed as a first run. They are to be distributed to every sept and septry in the Seven Kingdoms, and then to our new territories in Essos. A gift from the king, to bolster the spirits of the faithful.”

Orwyle took the authorisation, his eyes wide with the scale of it. “My prince… it will be done.”

Aemond nodded, dismissing them. He was already thinking ahead. A standardised text was the first step. Next would come the matter of the High Septon and his supposed exclusion from the reaches of the Crown’s authority. 

The gods had their place, but on Planetos, even they would have to earn to kneel.