TBOV: Chapter Fifteen: Lord Paramount

Chapter Fifteen: Lord Paramount

“This Storm's End is an old place. There are spells woven into the stones. Dark walls that no shadow can pass—ancient, forgotten, yet still in place.”

―Melisandre to Davos Seaworth

…

They swept in on dragonback at dawn. Vhagar's colossal wings drew thunder from the very clouds, while Tessarion soared beside her on azure pinions, small by comparison but just as fierce in spirit. Daeron felt the wind bite at his cheeks, the sun's rays glancing off his helm. Aemond rode ahead, guiding Vhagar toward a clearing outside the city.

From up here, King's Landing looked like a tapestry of crooked streets and rising smoke. Daeron glanced behind him—the hundreds of ships at anchor in the Blackwater Bay, their sails emblazoned with the dragon of House Targaryen. He had left the Stepstones mere hours ago at Aemond's unexpected summons whilst Addam remained behind with Seasmoke to hold the blockade. Daeron had wanted to question his brother, but Aemond had been curt: "Mount Tessarion and follow me."

No explanation given. Brother keeps his own counsel these days, Daeron thought as he guided Tessarion downward.

Vhagar's bulk stirred a gale that made the shrubs scatter, and Aemond swung off her saddle before striding ahead without pause, his cloak snapping in the morning wind. Daeron set Tessarion down more gently, stroking her neck as he dismounted and followed.

Soon, they reached the Red Keep. Servants bowed low. Kingsguard knights stood at attention at each archway, surcoat dragons picking up the torchlight's glow. Daeron was half-breathless, trying to keep pace with his brother's long strides.

"Brother," he ventured, "what summons me so urgently? Have I done aught to displease you?"

Aemond did not slow. "No, Daeron. I have need of you."

That was all he would say. They came at last to the Small Council chamber. Low voices and the scratch of quills behind closed doors hinted at a meeting in progress. A pair of white-cloaked guards parted for them, and Daeron squared his shoulders.

Inside, the council members looked up with expressions of open surprise; clearly, none had been warned of the princes' imminent arrival. Otto Hightower sat in the King's seat—an insult in name, though in truth, King Aegon II seldom appeared for council business these days. Otto half-rose, meaning to yield the chair to Aemond.

"No need, grandsire," Aemond said, sweeping into the chamber. He moved to take Otto's vacant seat at the table instead, ignoring the wide eyes of the lords in attendance. Daeron stood to the side, uncertain, until a Kingsguard stepped forward.

"Your chair, Prince Daeron," the white-cloaked knight said apologetically. He scurried off to fetch one from, returning moments later to place on opposite Otto.

Their mother, Alicent, frowned. "My sons," she said. "What business brings you here with such haste? A raven might have preceded you, at least."

Aemond lifted a slender scroll from beneath his cloak, tapping it against the table. "I have just received word of Pentos's surrender. The blockade we set seems to have starved them into compliance. Their prince begs for the Crown's benevolence."

A stunned silence hung over the chamber. Alicent's eyes widened. Jasper Wylde nearly dropped his quill. Otto's mouth twitched in a fleeting smile before he masked it behind a cough. They'd not expected it so soon, Daeron noted.

"That is… momentous news," Jasper said, regaining his composure. "Such a swift capitulation. Your measures have proven effective, my prince."

Aemond inclined his head, acknowledging the praise. "And timely. We must capitalize on it." He rested the scroll on the table, fingers drumming lightly. "The Braavosi still muster. They may attempt to rally against us again. But now, with Pentos bending the knee, we finally have a proper foothold on the Essosi mainland."

No one spoke for a beat. Then, Otto leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed in caution. "Go on, Aemond. I sense you have some plan in mind."

Aemond nodded, leaning back in the borrowed seat. "I intend to sail our grand army across the narrow sea—those hundred thousand men we mustered these past months—to begin establishing an armed presence along the Braavosian Coastlands. Even inland, into Andalos proper, if opportunity arises. I mean to press our advantage there, threaten the possibility of further alliances, forestall any chance of the city-states uniting anew."

Shock passed over the council like a chill wind. Queen Alicent's eyes flicked to Daeron in concern. The other lords in attendance looked for words but found none.

"Aemond," Otto said carefully, "I understand the allure, but with so many men gone, who remains to secure the Stormlands? That region is… precarious. Especially now that House Baratheon is no more. If we draw away the garrisons for your plans in Essos, the Stormlords may fall into disarray at once."

Aemond steepled his fingers. "True enough," he allowed, turning to address them all. "Emptying the Stormlands of men risks emboldening the discontented. To that end, I have decided to choose a new Lord Paramount for the Stormlands, a Targaryen to replace the lost stag—my brother, Daeron."

Daeron's breath caught. The words rang through him. For a moment, he forgot to draw air. He saw their mother's eyes grow wide, her mouth parting in stunned silence. The others fared only marginally better.

"Brother," Daeron whispered, his voice tight. "What is this?"

Aemond turned his gaze on him. There was some softness in the set of his lips. "I claimed the Stormlands by right of conquest when House Baratheon rose against us. I broke their might. By my dragon, my men. Now, it is only fitting one of my own blood should rule there. Who better to keep it safe than you, Daeron, dear brother?"

The table was silent as a crypt. Then, Otto cleared his throat. "It is a bold move, Aemond. But the Stormlands are far from tame. Daeron is young."

Aemond waved a dismissive hand. "He is more ready for rule than many who style themselves lords. I will grant him a garrison of my own men—two thousand strong—to keep the peace. Furthermore, he may have those who bent the knee—the Conningtons and Fells—as his cadets should he want them. We will fortify Storm's End, and Daeron shall have rightful dominion."

Daeron stared at the table, heart thudding. Me, Lord of the Stormlands? Why does he give me this?

Queen Alicent reached for Daeron's hand across the table, her eyes brimming with motherly worry. He clasped it, grateful for the contact.

"Brother," Daeron said softly, "you do me great honor. But… are you certain? I cannot imagine the Stormlanders will welcome another Targaryen overlord with open arms, let alone—"

"They shall," Aemond said firmly, "or they shall learn to. You and your wife, Baela, will show them justice and a gentle hand once the worst rebels are brought to heel. This is no easy seat, but it is an essential one. You know war, Daeron, and you know loyalty. This land needs both from its lord."

Daeron swallowed, feeling uncertain yet strangely heartened by that meager praise. "I— then I accept," he said, voice shaking just enough for him to notice. "I will do what I must for the realm, brother."

Otto sighed before shaking his head in surrender. "We must make arrangements then. Announcements, the solemn investiture, letters to the Stormlords. I shall see to it at once."

"Yes," Aemond said, already turning to the next business of the realm. "It would be best for Daeron to assume his seat before the moon turns, so we can move swiftly on to the matter of Essos. Let none linger in doubt."

The meeting moved on to details: The provisioning of the two thousand men, the matter of which knights or loyal lords might stand as Daeron's council in Storm's End, the formal reading of Pentos's surrender. Daeron felt the conversation swirl around him as if he were outside himself. I was not prepared for this.

At last, the business concluded. Aemond rose first, leaving his borrowed seat. He clasped Daeron's shoulder on the way out. "Come, brother. We have much to plan. You'll want this matter settled before winter sets in. The pass from the Marches can be perilous if the weather turns."

Daeron rose on unsteady legs, giving a shallow bow to the council before turning to leave. He followed Aemond, feeling the old stir of awe and unease he'd known as a child in this brother's shadow. Aemond's strides were purposeful, and Daeron matched them absentmindedly. Down the corridor, King's Landing's bustle greeted them again, courtiers passing with curious stares.

As they descended a short flight of stone steps, Daeron ventured, "Why me, Aemond?"

Aemond paused, that single violet eye flickering over to him. "Why not you, Daeron?" he asked before continuing on ahead.

And that was the end of it.