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72: The Son of Ice and Fire, Setting the Stage
🕑 Added 2024-09-27 19:50:18 +0000 UTCPrince Doran Martell sat in his ornate chair, the pain from his gout a constant companion as he slowly sipped from a goblet of wine. His eyes were contemplative, fixed on the far side of the room. Opposite him, lounging casually in a chair, sat Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne.
"You've spent time with him, haven't you? Aegon," Doran asked, his voice calm but probing.
Oberyn took a deep breath before replying. "I have. But something… something has gone wrong with him, brother, since his return after Euron’s capture. The boy isn’t the same."
Doran raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"
Oberyn leaned forward, his expression darkening as he recalled his encounters. "When we spoke, Aegon showed signs of instability. It’s as if something inside him is…" He paused, shaking his head. "Once, I found him muttering about how his blood was impure. He even lunged at me, blaming me, as if I had caused it."
Doran’s calm demeanor faltered for a brief moment, his hand tightening around the goblet as his eyes widened in shock. "Impure? What madness is this?"
Oberyn's face twisted with unease. "I don't know. But there's something broken in him. The reports I’ve been getting from my daughters… they’re troubling, Doran. They say Aegon is the Mad King come again."
Doran was silent, letting the weight of his brother’s words settle. The thought of Aegon, the son of their beloved Elia, carrying the madness of his grandfather chilled him. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice cold but measured. "It doesn’t matter. He can be controlled. Aegon is the heir to the throne, the son of Elia. We can manage him, guide him."
Oberyn inclined his head slightly, though a flicker of doubt passed through his sharp eyes. "Perhaps," he agreed, but concern lingered. He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "But there’s something else. It’s Rhaenys... she’s plotting against him."
Doran’s reaction was swift. He set his goblet down sharply, the sound reverberating through the room. "What?" His disbelief was evident, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"They're at odds," Oberyn said, nodding grimly. "She’s been plotting, quietly. Our daughters... well, they’ve been part of it too. Rhaenys is no longer loyal to Aegon."
Doran rubbed his temples, the calm facade he’d maintained finally breaking as frustration seeped through. "Has the girl gone mad? Does she not know what happened the last time a woman tried to take power from her brother?"
Oberyn shrugged, his tone resigned. "By our laws, Rhaenys is—"
"Yes, Oberyn, ours. Not theirs!" Doran snapped, cutting him off, his voice tinged with anger. His fists clenched as he leaned forward, eyes flashing with irritation.
Oberyn sighed deeply, glancing toward the open window where the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the floor.
"Why?" Doran asked, his voice heavy with confusion. "If she knows she stands no chance, why act so recklessly? What could possibly drive her to challenge her own blood?"
Oberyn paused, his face clouded with thought before he spoke again, his voice low. "It’s the northern boy. He’s up to something. Even my daughters won’t tell me the full story, but they’ve hinted that he’s scheming, planning. Rhaenys is entangled in whatever he's up to."
Doran's face twisted with disgust. "So that’s it, then. Elia’s shame is plotting to usurp her son. Has the boy not shamed us enough already?"
Oberyn’s eyes flickered with uncertainty as he leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps we can remove him if he is the one causing this division. We could speak with Rhaenys, make peace between her and Aegon. Maybe there's still time to bring her back into the fold."
Doran held up a hand, cutting his brother off sharply. "I will be coming to the tourney," he said with finality.
Oberyn leaned forward, his eyes dark with concern. "But, brother, your—"
"No," Doran interrupted, his voice steely, leaving no room for argument. "I will be coming too. Too much is at stake for me to sit idly by in Sunspear."
Oberyn nodded slowly, though the lines of worry did not leave his face. "Know this—Rhaenys is no longer a child. She won’t be easily swayed, even by us."
Doran stared out at the setting sun, his expression unreadable. "Then we’ll make sure she remembers her duty," he said quietly.
=====
Edmure Tully sat beside the bed of his ailing father, Lord Hoster Tully. The room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains blocking out most of the sunlight that might have brightened the dreary atmosphere. Hoster looked frail and weary, his once-strong frame now reduced by illness. His breath came in shallow, rasping wheezes, each one sounding more labored than the last.
"I don’t know why you're so worried, Father," Edmure began, his voice light with confidence, trying to cut through the somber air. "Prince Aegon and I are quite close. There's nothing to fear."
Hoster coughed, a wet, rattling sound that echoed painfully in the chamber. His gaunt face tightened with the effort, but he managed to speak, his voice weak but stern. "No... boy," Hoster rasped, his chest rising and falling heavily. "The balance of power... we must keep our hold over our kingdom strong. You need... to marry the Mooton girl... secure the line."
Edmure frowned, his expression clouded with frustration. "No, Father. You don’t need to worry about that. Prince Aegon has written to me himself—he’s promised me a royal marriage!" Edmure said, his eyes wide with excitement. "I’m to be the next king’s goodbrother," he added, his voice brimming with pride as though the future had already been written.
Hoster’s tired eyes studied his son from the pillow, the light in them dim but piercing. "Why?" he asked quietly, his voice hoarse and strained.
Edmure looked taken aback, his excitement faltering. "Why?" he echoed, confusion knitting his brow. "Why not?" He shook his head, not understanding. "It’s only natural. We are a powerful house, and the prince is my friend."
Hoster coughed again, his breath labored, rattling in his chest. He shifted weakly in his bed, mustering what little strength he had left. "What... does he want... in return?" he demanded, his tone suddenly firmer, eyes narrowing at his son.
Edmure frowned, clearly irritated by the implication. "Father, he is my friend," he repeated, his voice carrying a touch of defensiveness. "We are one of the great houses of Westeros—why wouldn’t the prince want to secure an alliance with us?"
But Hoster Tully was not so easily swayed. "No," he rasped, his voice rising in a sudden burst of frustration. "What... does he want?"
Edmure’s annoyance deepened, and he hesitated before replying. "Prince Aegon’s bastard brother is plotting a rebellion," he finally said. "He’ll need all the help he can get. We can’t make the same mistake we did last time, Father. We must back the right side."
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Hoster Tully’s face, pale and drawn from illness, showed no immediate expression. His eyes, however, widened slightly, as if in shock. He struggled to speak, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
For a long moment, he said nothing. He could barely comprehend what his son had just said—the idea of another rebellion, another war. The memories of Robert’s Rebellion still haunted him, the loss, the pain, the endless suffering of another conflict.
The specter of the past loomed over them, and now it seemed history was set to repeat itself.
Edmure stood, brushing off his father's silence as stubbornness. He turned away, straightening his tunic as if preparing to leave. "Rest, Father," he said dismissively, his tone softer but still confident. "I will take your burdens from now on. You needn’t worry any longer."
Hoster tried to call after him, his hand weakly reaching out, but his strength had left him. "Edmure... no," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Hoster Tully lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with dread. Another rebellion. Another war. He had hoped to die in peace, knowing his house was secure, but now he feared that peace would never come.
====
Aegon paced in the gardens, his face twisted in frustration.
"Dragons," he muttered under his breath, the word venomous. He said it again, louder this time. "Dragons."
Quenton Qoherys stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. Joffrey Lannister sat casually to the side, his lips tugging upward in a slight, mocking smirk as if the conversation amused him. Gerold Dayne, ever the shadow, stood at Aegon’s right.
"That is what the rumors say, my prince," Quenton answered cautiously, his eyes flickering up toward Aegon but revealing nothing.
Aegon’s lips curled into a sneer. "I told you to find out what Maekar was doing in Driftmark," he snapped, his voice gaining an edge.
Quenton straightened, his tone still measured but with a hint of defense. "But he didn’t go to Driftmark, my prince," he replied.
Aegon’s eyes flared with anger at the interruption, stepping closer to Quenton, his face now inches from the other man’s. "So, where then?" he demanded, his voice low but simmering with barely contained rage.
"To Dragonstone," Quenton answered carefully, weighing each word as though they could either save or doom him. "He went to Dragonstone."
Aegon let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound hollow. "So you're saying my brother just went to Dragonstone?" His words were biting, mocking, the fury behind his eyes growing fiercer with every passing moment.
"With your aunt," Gerold Dayne added smoothly, a gleam of amusement flickering in his dark eyes. His gaze flicked toward Joffrey, whose smirk faltered and soured at the mention of Daenerys.
Aegon’s gaze snapped back to Quenton, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "So, Quenton," he hissed through clenched teeth, "all your ‘vast network of spies’ could discover is that my brother may have a dragon?"
Quenton’s calm demeanor began to waver under the weight of Aegon’s wrath, his composure showing the first signs of cracking. "I don’t know if your brother has one, my prince," he replied quickly, his voice tense. "But there are many rumors. Dragonstone... it’s said there is one there."
Aegon’s hands clenched into fists, his jaw tight with barely contained rage. "Rumors," he spat, the word filled with contempt.
"Gerold," he said softly, barely more than a whisper.
Without hesitation, Gerold Dayne unsheathed his sword, the sharp sound of steel ringing through the garden. He moved swiftly, stepping toward Quenton, whose eyes widened in disbelief as he froze in place.
"My prince," Quenton stammered, fear creeping into his voice, "wait, I—"
But Gerold was already upon him, his hand closing around Quenton’s throat with a vicious grip, squeezing just enough to silence him. His sword raised, poised to strike.
"Stop," Aegon commanded.
Gerold halted mid-motion, the blade hovering inches from Quenton’s neck, his hand still gripping his throat tightly. Quenton’s eyes were wide with terror, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he felt the cold steel so close to his skin.
Aegon stepped forward, his face calm, yet his voice dripped with venom. "Next time you come to me with stupidity like this," he said coldly, "I will have Gerold finish the deed."
Quenton swallowed hard, his face pale as he nodded quickly, the terror clear in his eyes.
Aegon waved his hand dismissively, and Gerold released his grip on Quenton’s throat. Quenton staggered backward, his hand instinctively moving to where Gerold’s hand had just been, as if to reassure himself that his neck was still intact.
"Don’t fail me in the matter of the melee and the joust," Aegon said, his tone returning to its cold, commanding cadence. "I want knights on my side. That is where you will redeem yourself, Quenton."
Quenton bowed deeply, his heart still racing. "Yes, my prince. I will not fail you."
With that, Quenton hurried from the gardens, away from them.
Joffrey shot to his feet, his face red with rage, eyes burning as he glared at Aegon. "I will not marry her!" he shouted, his voice petulant and angry. "I don't want your aunt!"
Aegon’s expression darkened, his fury rising to meet Joffrey’s defiance. "You will do as you’re told," Aegon said coldly. "Your grandfather, Lord Tywin, demands it."
Joffrey clenched his fists, shaking with anger. "No! I don’t want your brother’s whore!" he spat, his voice filled with venom.
Aegon’s face twisted in fury. He stood up, towering over Joffrey. "You will do what you’re told!" he roared, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
Joffrey stepped closer, nearly nose to nose with Aegon, his anger matching the crown prince’s. "I am the lord of Casterly Rock!" Joffrey shouted, his voice shrill, almost a scream.
Gerold moved forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Aegon’s voice was cold as ice. "You are not Tywin Lannister," he said, his words cutting deep. "And you will do as you’re told."
Joffrey's hand shot up, ready to strike Aegon across the face. But before he could land the blow, Gerold caught his wrist in mid-air and pushed Joffrey down, his sword already half-drawn, flashing in the light of the Red Keep gardens.
"You dare lay a hand on me?" Joffrey screamed, his voice a mixture of shock and rage as he stumbled back.
Aegon sighed in frustration, rubbing his temples. "Get him up, Gerold," he said, looking around as if searching for a way to diffuse the situation.
Before Gerold could move, a sharp voice cut through the tension. "Joffrey!" Aegon turned sharply, as did everyone else, to see Cersei Lannister almost running toward them, her long golden hair flying behind her. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, followed closely at her heels.
"Mother," Joffrey said, his voice quivering as he scrambled to his feet.
Cersei quickly moved to Joffrey’s side, her hands already brushing over him, checking for injuries. "Are you alright, my sweet boy?" she asked, her voice full of concern.
"I’m fine," Joffrey muttered, though his eyes were still locked on Gerold with fury.
Cersei straightened, her face hardening as she looked at Gerold, venom in her eyes. "How dare you, you Dornish scum," she hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. "You dare lay a hand on your betters?"
Aegon tried to step in. "Lady Cersei, it was an accident—"
But Gerold interrupted, his voice defiant. "I am the crown prince’s sworn shield," he declared. "It is my duty to—"
Before he could finish, Cersei turned to Aegon, her voice sharp. "Prince Aegon, what is the meaning of this?" she demanded.
Aegon rubbed his head, trying to find the words. "It was nothing, Lady Cersei. Joffrey and I were arguing, and things got—"
"Arguing?" Cersei cut him off. "That man struck my son." She pointed at Gerold, her eyes blazing. "I demand his head for this offense!"
Joffrey, seeing where this was going, quickly interjected, trying to calm his mother down. "It was a misunderstanding, Mother. Just a misunderstanding."
Gerold’s eyes darted to the Mountain, who was standing behind Cersei, his massive form looming over them all. Gregor Clegane stared at Gerold with an almost feral intensity. For the first time in years, Gerold felt a knot of fear tighten in his chest. The Mountain was a force even he did not wish to test.
Cersei finally relented, turning her attention back to Joffrey. "Come, Joffrey. We’re leaving. You need to see a maester."
Without another word, she took Joffrey by the arm, leading him away, the Mountain following closely behind them.
Aegon sank back into his seat, his head in his hands, trying to steady his breathing. The tension had not eased; if anything, it had only made things worse. In the back of his mind, he heard that voice again—the voice… his voice.
"Weak... weak... weak... weak... weak..." Euron’s voice echoed, gnawing at his mind.
Aegon clenched his fists, trying to make the voice go away, but it did not.
====
“Well, your grace,” the High Septon began, “my opinion is much like that of my predecessor. I stand in support of Targaryen exceptionalism, as long as Prince Aegon does not take two wives. The Faith will not take issue with his marrying Princess Rhaenys under these conditions.”
Rhaegar allowed a smile to spread across his face. Though the High Septon’s words didn’t fully grant him all he sought, it was an acceptable compromise. For now.
“I am glad to hear that,” Rhaegar said, his tone smooth.
The High Septon nodded, rising from his seat. “And I shall look forward to the royal wedding,” he added, straightening his robes. “As well as the upcoming tourney. It will be quite the event.”
Rhaegar stood as well, offering a respectful nod in return. “Your blessing means a great deal to me, Your Holiness. I thank you once again for your counsel.”
With that, the High Septon bowed and took his leave, his white robes rustling as he exited the chamber.
Once the door shut behind him, Rhaegar let out a satisfied breath. His smile widened as he sat back down, sinking into the high-backed chair.
‘I will announce it at the tourney,’ he thought. ‘Yes... that would be best.’
Comments
Robert
"Elia's shame" bitch if there is any shame it's you and your useless plotting ass. Doran schemes and schemes and schemes until everything that he was scheming over is useless information and the people who actually do things fuck up his plans before he even implements them.
Arcturus
Let's war begin 😈🔥
