Chapter Forty-Six: The Butcher’s Terms (PT. 1)

Chapter Forty-Six: The Butcher’s Terms (PT. 1)

“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—all 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.