TBOV: AEMOND II

AEMOND II

The wind was a familiar roar in his ears, a chaotic symphony that Vhagar’s great leathery wings beat into a semblance of order. Below, King’s Landing was a sprawling collection of terracotta tiles and slate roofs, a beast of brick and timber huddled beneath the shadow of the Red Keep. The celebratory banners, bright slashes of green and gold, were visible even from this height, fluttering like foolish moths. For a week, Aemond had heard, they had been preparing for his return. A conqueror’s welcome.

“Down, old girl,” he whispered gently to Vhagar. She rumbled obediently as she circled above the Red Keep once, vast and ponderous, then dipped her scarred wings, banking low over the swelling crowds. The dragon’s shadow passed over cobbled streets thick with banners, and in seven great beats of her wings, she came to rest heavily on the shoulder of Rhaenys’ Hill, claws gouging stone and black earth, just above the ancient terraces of the Dragonpit.

Aemond slid from the saddle, heavy leather satchel clutched beneath one arm, and pressed his face to Vhagar’s snout in silent farewell. Her eyes, vast and flecked with gold, narrowed in contentment. “Go,” he whispered in the tongue of Valyria. “Your work is done for today.” She took to the sky, slow and deliberate, a mountain in flight, before vanishing westward toward the wild hills.

Alone now, Aemond descended the broken escarpment, boots sliding on shale, cloak catching on a thornbush. He relished the quiet—a rare coin these days—before the world found him again. By the time he reached the old cobbled path winding toward the Dragonpit, a clutch of Red Cloaks in freshly dyed surcoats had gathered to meet him, their faces split in anxious grins.

“My prince!” The serjeant, a lean Stormlander with a beard that looked gnawed by rats, saluted. “We saw… the old queen… we did not expect you so soon.”

“It’s alright,” Aemond said, his voice flat. He did not slow his stride. “My horse?”

They brought him a horse, a fine chestnut mare with a glossy coat, and Aemond swung into the saddle without ceremony. The ride from the Dragonpit was a slow, surging thing. The news of his arrival had spread like wildfire, and the smallfolk poured from their hovels and workshops to line the Street of Sisters. Flower petals rained from windows above; children and women alike waved scraps of green and black cloth, shrieking “Prince Aemond!” as if it were a prayer. 

They cheered the victor, always. Had Rhaenyra won at Braavos and returned with his head on a spike, they would have cheered her just as loudly. Their love was a weather vane, and he was the wind. He let them cheer, his head kept high and his mouth set, not smiling but not scowling either. He had learned, young, that the mask was more important than the man.

The procession swelled as they wound through the city—smiths, washerwomen, orphans, thieves, hedge knights in patched cloaks, even a troupe of Braavosi mummers (hired, no doubt, by some ambitious guildmaster) capered through the mud, shouting half-remembered Westerosi japes about the Iron Bank. He rode through the city square, the noise deafening.

As they turned onto the King’s Road, the Red Keep loomed ahead, the fortress clad in banners, towers ablaze with late spring sunlight. He noted the scaffolds erected above the city square: carpenters affixing garlands, nobles’ banners flapping beside the dragon’s sigil, gold and crimson entwined, all in preparation for the feast six days hence.

Aemond entered the castle through the eastern entrance, dismounting as the guards hurried to open the massive bronze doors. Within, the marble halls were alive with movement—pages bearing armloads of ribbons, servants polishing the cobblestone floor before the Iron Throne, septas scrubbing old stains from flagstones that would not yield. 

In the Queen’s Gallery, his family waited. Alicent stood first, her face pinched and weary but brightening as she saw him. Helaena followed, smiling vaguely, her children clinging to her skirts. Otto, hawkish as ever, lingered by the window, murmuring to Ser Criston Cole. The elderly man’s expression eased when he saw Aemond, his features taking the cadence of a man whose gambles had paid off spectacularly.

And then there was Aegon.

His brother stood slightly apart, sober for once, a minor miracle in itself. His eyes were clear, though they darted about with a hunted, uncomfortable energy as Aemond dismounted. He looked less like a king greeting his younger brother and more like a debtor cornered by his creditor.

With a smile, Aemond crossed the flagstones to his waiting kin. He embraced his mother, endured her whispered prayers of thanks to the Seven. A kiss he planted on Helaena’s cheek, before dropping to one knee and beckoning forth her children. From his satchel, he produced an ornate puzzle for the boy and a jade music box for the girl. “Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, these are for you,” he said, his voice softening for them alone. “From a land of canals and stone.”

Jaehaerys took the gift with wide eyes. Jaehaera giggled and hid behind her mother.

At last, he turned to his king. Aegon flinched as he approached, a barely perceptible tremor. Aemond ignored it. He placed a firm, brotherly hand on Aegon’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Brother,” Aemond said, his voice loud enough for all to hear. “It is good to see you well.”

And you, Aemond,” Aegon managed, his voice thin. “You have… brought us a great victory.”

“We have brought the realm a great victory,”  Aemond corrected smoothly. He turned to his grandsire. “Lord Hand. There are matters that require the council’s attention. Have the chamber prepared. Please make sure to have an extra seat available. His Grace would be in attendance today.”

###

An hour later, they were seated. Aemond took his customary place at the head of the table with Ser Cole standing behind him. Aegon, as was his right, should have presided. Instead, he was given the seat to Aemond’s left. Otto sat to the right, Alicent beside him, with Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong and Grand Maester Orwyle filling the other seats. Mysaria was absent, off on an errand in Essos. So was Vaemond, who had been tasked with restructuring the war fleet for mercantile and expeditionary use.

“We have much to discuss,” Aemond began, forgoing any pleasantries. He reached for the leather satchel he had carried from the hill and set it on the table. “As you all know, the war in Essos is concluded. Braavos, Pentos, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh… they have all bent the knee. But their subjugation presents a new challenge: governance. To simply install new lords from their own tarnished stock is to invite the same betrayals that led to this conflict. To grant vast tracts of land to Westerosi lords is to create new, distant powers that will, in time, grow ambitious.”

He looked at each man in turn. “The old ways will not suffice. It is sufficiently clear now that the power of whoever gains stewardship of these lands must flow directly from the throne.” He pulled a sheaf of parchments from his bag. “Henceforth, our conquered holdings would be divided into prefectures. Each shall be governed not by hereditary lord, but by a governor—appointed, not crowned, and removable at the Crown’s pleasure.”

A pause. Otto’s eyes, chips of obsidian, gleamed with understanding. “A bold stroke,” He spoke. “It severs the root of noble power—inheritance.”

“Precisely,” Aemond affirmed. “Upon advisement. I have drawn up an initial list of candidates.” He slid a scroll across the table. “Younger sons of loyal but minor Westerosi houses. Men with ambition but no lands of their own. Men whose loyalty will be to the office that feeds them, not the name they bear.  Also, a few of the more… pliable… Essosi magisters will be retained to govern regions where their cultural knowledge is a necessity. They will be our men, wholly and completely.”

A murmur rippled through the council. “And the lands confiscated?” asked Jasper Wylde, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

“That would be dissolved from the old aristocracy,’ Aemond said, “held in trust by the Crown, to be dispensed and reclaimed as we see fit. I have decreed that parcels of this land be granted to competent men from the officer corps of the Red Cloaks. A man fights harder for a home he has a stake in. This creates a new class of gentry, a military class, whose fortunes are tied directly to the continued stability of the Iron Throne. Their allegiance is to us, not to some petty lord a thousand leagues away.”

There was a long pause as the rest of the council considered Aemond’s word. “This will concentrate an unprecedented amount of authority in the hands of the Crown,” Otto said eventually, a look of profound realisation coming across his features.

“That is the intention,” Aemond replied. He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “To that end, I will be establishing a Council of Realms to convene in King’s Landing biannually. Here, the Governors and representatives from the great houses of Westeros may advise the Small Council on matters of trade, law, and regional stability. A permanent Hall of Realms will be constructed here in King’s Landing to host them during such conventions.”

Aemond paused, letting them absorb the scale of it.  He leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling upon his brother, then his mother, then sweeping across the entire council. When he was certain he had them, he moved to the final, most delicate point.

“Which brings us to the matter of my half-sister, Rhaenyra.”

The name hung in the air like poison. Aegon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Alicent sighed where she sat. Even Otto’s impassive gaze seemed to narrow. They were all expecting him to announce her execution. They were thinking of axes and pyres. They were thinking like children.

“Rhaenyra and her surviving sons are in our custody,” Aemond continued, his voice a cold scalpel. “She is defeated, her armies scattered, her allies broken. Yet her claim, like a stubborn weed, remains. So long as she breathes, men will whisper her name in dark corners. So long as her sons live, that name carries the seed of future rebellion.”

“A quiet end,” Lord Jasper Wylde suggested, his voice a dry rasp. “An illness. A tragic accident. It is the clean way.”

Aemond fixed him with his one good eye. “There is nothing clean about creating a martyr, Lord Justiciar. Her followers would turn her into a saint. Her tomb would become a shrine. Her name would become a banner for every malcontent and second son with a grievance for the next hundred years. To kill her is to give her a victory she could not win in life.”

He let them grapple with that. “No. She will not die. She will be brought before the court, before the lords and the commons. She will renounce her false claim, and she will swear fealty to her king. She will be stripped of the title of princess, but she will be granted a comfortable lifein seclusion, removed to the Eyrie. My lady wife will make a fine gaoler. Mercy. A public act of Targaryen magnanimity.”

“And her sons?” Otto asked.

“Aegon and Viserys,” Aemond said. “They are younger, more malleable. They will be raised at court. As royal wards. Aegon the Younger will squire in Oldtown, Viserys in Sunspear. A fine education in numbers and trade for both boys. Joffrey, however, is Rhaenyra’s heir. He will be sent to the Citadel to forge a maester’s chain. There, my maesters will fill his head with histories that prove his mother’s ambition was the realm’s ruin, and King Aegon’s mercy its salvation. He will learn to value knowledge above power, piety above pride. We will turn the Blacks’ heir into a quiet, scholarly man with no taste for thrones. 

“Rhaenyra lives. Her sons live. The realm will be told that King Aegon, in his wisdom and mercy, has chosen to heal the wounds of the family rather than shed more Targaryen blood.”

Silence. Absolute and profound.

Aegon stared at the table, his face pale. His mother looked down at her hands, lost in thought. It was Otto who finally broke the silence, a dry rasp of a voice.

“The King’s mercy,” he said, nodding sagely, “will be sung of for a thousand years.”