Maegor's Holdfast, reception chamber.
There were no windows. Walls three feet thick sealed off every sound. Outside the door stood fully armed guards, and the secret passages had long since been blocked.
It was said that Maegor Targaryen had once interrogated traitors and executed rebels here.
Blood had seeped into the cracks of the stone. Even now, in certain corners, there remained dark stains that could not be scrubbed away.
When Aemond pushed the door open, Borros Baratheon was already seated on one side of the long table.
Though it was daytime, the room felt as dim as night. Candlelight flickered across the table, stretching shadows long against the stone walls.
The heir of the Stormlands looked about forty—at the peak of a man's prime.
His broad shoulders nearly burst the seams of his formal attire, the build of one forged through years of swordplay and riding. His black hair was neatly kept, his blue eyes sharp, and the short beard on his chin trimmed with precision.
He carried both the roughness of a warrior and the bearing of a noble.
He wore a blue tunic embroidered with gold thread. Upon his chest, the crowned stag stood proud, its antlers flaring like a king's crown.
Aemond took his seat at the head of the table.
"Lord Borros," he said, his voice unusually clear in the sealed chamber, "thank you for traveling all the way from Storm's End to attend my wedding."
"Though the ceremony has passed, your gesture is received."
Borros rose and bowed, his movement firm and proper.
"Your Highness's marriage—how could House Baratheon be absent?" he said in a booming voice. "We are, after all, a branch of House Targaryen. Our blood is one!"
As he spoke, he drew something from his robes.
Under the candlelight, a sapphire gleamed brilliantly.
Heart-shaped. Flawless.
"This gem is called the Tear of the Storm. A treasured heirloom of my house."
Borros placed it on the table. "A gift for Princess Helaena Targaryen, as a token of respect."
Aemond smiled and nodded.
Then he stood and poured two glasses of red wine.
A summer red from the Reach—the oldest vintage in the royal cellars.
Its color was thick as coagulated blood, its aroma spreading through the chamber.
Borros raised his cup and drained it in one go, exhaling in satisfaction. "Fine wine! Much richer than the thunderbrew of the Stormlands."
Aemond only took a small sip.
He set the cup down, fingers interlaced.
"Lord Boremund Baratheon's illness…" His violet eyes locked onto Borros. "Is it truly so severe?"
Borros's smile dimmed.
"Not good," he sighed. "The maesters say the consumption has reached his bones. Combined with old wounds… he likely won't last the winter."
He poured himself another cup, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "My father is stubborn. Refuses to leave Storm's End—says a Baratheon must die in the Stormlands."
"He won't listen. Drinks all day."
"Says… what's the point of living without drink?"
"A pity." Aemond tapped the table lightly. "Lord Boremund is one of the most respected lords in the Seven Kingdoms."
"His friendship with the Blacks is widely praised."
Borros's smile stiffened slightly. He chose his words carefully.
"Friendship is friendship."
"Loyalty is loyalty."
"House Baratheon is loyal only to the Iron Throne—to the rightful king."
"That has never changed."
"Oh?" Aemond's brow lifted slightly. "Then in your view, who is the rightful king now? Or rather… who will be?"
The question was blunt. No room for evasion.
Borros clearly hadn't expected such directness.
"King Viserys I Targaryen still lives," he said, lowering his voice. "The Iron Throne belongs to His Grace."
"As for the future…" he looked up at Aemond, "His Grace has publicly named Prince Aegon II Targaryen as heir."
"The Seven Kingdoms all know this. It is the lawful succession."
"Good." Aemond nodded, expression unreadable.
"Then as a vassal loyal to the Iron Throne and its rightful heir…"
He paused, something flickering deep in his violet eyes.
"The Stormlands—or rather, the future Lord of Storm's End… will you openly support Prince Aegon?"
"When the Blacks rebel, will you raise your banners and aid the Crown?"
Silence.
Borros remained quiet for a long while.
"Your Highness…" he finally said, voice dry, "my father has already… made a verbal betrothal with the Blacks."
Aemond smiled.
"A mere verbal agreement," he said softly.
"Everything can be changed, can it not?"
He rose and walked to the great map of Westeros on the wall—parchment yellowed with age, every castle, river, and forest meticulously marked, drawn in Maegor's time.
His finger moved from King's Landing, across the Narrow Sea, to Tyrosh.
"Lord Borros," Aemond said without turning, his voice echoing in the stone chamber, "let us be frank."
"Your father supports the Blacks for two reasons."
"First, old ties."
"Second, marriage—your daughter wed to her second son. Baratheon blood joined with Targaryen."
He turned and walked back, not sitting, but looming over Borros.
"It is indeed a fine bargain. Were I Boremund… I might be tempted as well."
"But..."
He leaned forward, hands braced on the table.
Candlelight flickered in his violet eyes, reflecting something unsettling.
"The situation has changed."
"Driftmark is in my hands. The Velaryon fleet will either submit or be destroyed."
"Dragonstone is in my hands. The Targaryen stronghold has returned to the Crown."
"King's Landing is in my hands. The king, the queen, the Small Council, the Iron Throne—everything is here."
"And the Blacks are in Tyrosh…"
He straightened slowly.
"Separated by the entire Narrow Sea."
Their eyes met.
"The advantage," Aemond said, each word deliberate, "is mine."
Borros did not answer immediately.
He poured himself another cup, drank it, then spoke slowly: "The Blacks are not weaker than you."
Aemond smiled.
"Then let us wait and see?" he leaned forward slightly. "What do you say, Lord Borros?"
Borros paused, then nodded.
Aemond continued: "And your father… will not survive this winter."
"When he closes his eyes, you will inherit Storm's End."
"And then, you will face a choice."
He raised two fingers.
"First—continue your father's policy."
"Support an exiled princess across the sea, who has even lost Dragonstone."
"Bet that she and Daemon can retake Westeros. Bet that she will win."
"But then, you will face our wrath."
"Second."
His finger struck the table sharply.
"Choose us."
"I can offer better terms."
"Your daughter need not marry that young Viserys Targaryen who may never return to Westeros."
"She can marry my brother Jaehaerys Targaryen. Or… your heir may wed my sister Ysera Targaryen."
"They are of pure Targaryen blood. In time, at least a prince and a princess."
Borros swallowed. Clearly tempted.
Aemond remained calm—using his younger siblings as bait cost him nothing.
If Borros truly sided with him, he would honor the promise.
As for the Blacks…
Rhaenyra Targaryen already hated him.
What they could do, he could do as well.
Though not with bastards claiming dragons.
But Borros was still Borros.
Desire flared—then reason suppressed it.
"Your Highness is generous," he said carefully. "The marriage… is feasible."
"But the Stormlands' stance is not decided by marriage alone."
"House Baratheon serves only the Iron Throne. Nothing more."
He paused, then spread his hands.
"This war is, in the end, a matter within House Targaryen."
"As close vassals, we recognize only the Targaryen who ultimately sits the Iron Throne."
"Until then…"
He met Aemond's gaze.
"I will keep the Stormlands neutral."
Aemond sneered inwardly.
Loyal only to the Iron Throne?
Just an excuse to wait and bet on the winner.
Playing both sides. Minimizing risk.
A neat calculation.
But Aemond knew better than to break here.
The Stormlands was one of the strongest regions in the Seven Kingdoms.
Storm's End stood upon cliffs, surrounded by sea on three sides—nearly impregnable.
Its armies were famed for their resilience.
If Borros openly sided with the Blacks, Storm's End would become the perfect staging ground for their return.
If he remained neutral, it would cripple the Blacks.
The North under Cregan Stark leaned toward the Blacks.
The Vale under Jeyne Arryn was firmly with them.
The Riverlands were divided, but most favored the Blacks.
The West under House Lannister had chosen the Greens.
The Reach was controlled by House Hightower.
As for House Tyrell—a child lord, weak control.
And soon, that child would come to King's Landing to swear fealty.
Dorne would not intervene.
So…
Everything hinged on the Stormlands.
Aemond smiled.
"I understand."
"The Stormlands' position is delicate."
"On one side, law and crown. On the other, old ties and marriage."
"If you can remain neutral and not add chaos… that is already the greatest support to the Iron Throne."
Borros's shoulders relaxed slightly.
He raised his cup, smiling more sincerely.
"Your Highness is wise."
"This is a matter within House Targaryen. House Baratheon cannot easily interfere."
"But…" he added, "regarding the marriage—you mentioned Princess Ysera. I would prefer she wed my heir."
Aemond gave a noncommittal nod.
"Then when you inherit, we will discuss it further."
Borros smiled and raised his cup.
They drank.
"However," Aemond said, setting his cup down, his tone turning sharp, "neutrality comes in many forms."
"True neutrality helps neither side."
"But that is the same as allowing rebellion."
"Limited neutrality… means that when the moment comes, you act."
He stared at Borros.
"You understand."
Borros nodded slowly.
"I do."
Aemond rose.
The meeting was over.
"Thank you for coming today, Lord Borros."
He walked to the door, hand on the handle, then turned back.
"Give my regards to Lord Boremund."
Candlelight cast shadows across his face.
"May he… enjoy his remaining years."
Borros gripped his cup, drained it in one gulp.
Then answered in a low voice: "May the Seven bless His Grace."
The door opened.
Then closed.
Only Borros remained in the chamber.
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