Maegor's Holdfast, The Meeting Room.
The meeting room in Maegor's Holdfast.
There were no windows; three-foot-thick stone walls muffled all sound from the outside.
Armed guards stood outside the door, and the secret passages had long since been sealed.
It was said that Maegor the Cruel once interrogated traitors here, and the dark stains in the corners of the masonry suggested that the blood of those wretches had never truly been scrubbed away.
When Aemond pushed the door open, Borros Baratheon was already seated at one side of the long table.
Despite the daylight outside, the room was as dim as night. Candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows against the stone.
The Heir to the Stormlands was roughly forty, in the prime of his manhood.
His shoulders were wide enough to strain the seams of his doublet, a physique forged by years of swinging a greatsword and riding through tempests.
His black hair was neat, his blue eyes sharp, and his beard trimmed with precision. He possessed the ruggedness of a warrior tempered by the dignity of high nobility.
He wore the blue of his House, with the crowned stag of the Baratheons rearing proudly on his chest.
Aemond took the head of the table.
"Lord Borros," he began, his voice clear in the confined space.
"I thank you for traveling all the way from Storm's End for my wedding. Though the ceremony has passed, I have received your well-wishes."
Borros rose and offered a stiff, powerful bow.
"The Baratheons could not absent themselves from a Targaryen wedding, Prince," his voice boomed.
"We are branches of the same tree, bound by blood!"
He reached into his tunic and placed an object on the table. Under the candlelight, a heart-shaped sapphire shimmered with a pure, hypnotic light.
"This is 'The Tear of the Storm,' a treasure of my House. A gift for Princess Helaena."
Aemond nodded with a faint smile. He rose to pour two glasses of wine, Arbor Summer Red, the oldest vintage in the royal cellars.
The liquid was as thick as congealed blood.
Borros drained his cup in one go and exhaled a long breath.
"Fine wine! Richer than the thunder-brews of the Stormlands."
Aemond took only a small sip. He set the cup down and laced his fingers.
"Lord Boremund's illness..." his violet eye fixed on the Baratheon.
"Is it truly so grave?"
Borros's smile flickered. "Not well," he sighed.
"The Maesters say the corruption has reached the marrow. Combined with old wounds... I fear he will not see the end of winter. My father is a stubborn man; he refuses to leave Storm's End, saying a Baratheon must die in the storm. He ignores all advice and drinks all day, saying: 'What use is living without wine?'"
"A pity," Aemond tapped the table.
"Lord Boremund is one of the most respected Lords in the Realm. His friendship with the Blacks is legendary."
Borros stiffened. He chose his words with care.
"Friendship is one thing. Loyalty is another. House Baratheon serves the Iron Throne and the legitimate King. That has never changed."
"Oh?" Aemond tilted his head.
"And in your eyes, who is the legitimate King? Or rather... who will be?"
The question was blunt, stripping away all diplomatic veneer. Borros clearly hadn't expected such directness.
"King Viserys I is still alive," he said, his voice dropping.
"The Throne belongs to him. As for the future... the King has publicly named Prince Aegon as his heir. The Realm knows this is the legal succession."
"Excellent," Aemond nodded, his face unreadable.
"Then, as a vassal loyal to the Throne and the heir... will the Stormlands, or rather, the future Lord of Storm's End, publicly declare for Aegon? Will you summon your banners to crush the Blacks' rebellion?"
Silence fell. Borros remained quiet for a long time.
"Prince," he finally said, his voice raspy, "my father has already made a verbal betrothal with the Blacks."
Aemond smiled. "Only verbal," his voice was soft.
"Everything can be changed, can it not?"
He stood and walked to the massive map of Westeros on the wall, a relic from Maegor's era.
He traced his finger from King's Landing, across the Narrow Sea, to Tyrosh.
"Lord Borros, let us be honest. Your father supports the Blacks for two reasons: old sentiment and a marriage pact for your daughter. A fine deal. If I were Boremund, I might be tempted too."
He turned, looking down at Borros.
"But the tides have shifted. I hold Driftmark. I hold Dragonstone. I hold the King, the Queen, the Small Council, and the Iron Throne itself. The Blacks are in Tyrosh, across the Narrow Sea. The advantage," Aemond said with iron certainty, "is mine."
Borros poured himself another cup. After drinking it, he spoke slowly.
"But the Blacks' strength is not inferior to yours."
"We shall see," Aemond leaned in.
"So, Lord Borros? Your father won't last the winter. When he closes his eyes, Storm's End is yours. You will have a choice."
He held up two fingers.
"First: continue your father's policy. Support an exiled Princess who has lost her home. Bet that she and Daemon can retake Westeros. But if you do, you will face my fire directly."
"Second: Choose us. I can offer better terms. Your daughter needn't marry a boy who may never return to these shores. She can marry my brother, Daeron. Or your heir can marry my sister, Daena. They are Targaryens. They will be Princes and Princesses."
Borros's throat moved. He was clearly tempted.
Aemond watched him coolly, unbothered by using his younger siblings as bait; if Borros stood with them, the promise would be kept.
But Borros was pragmatic. He suppressed his desire with logic.
"The Prince is generous. A marriage is feasible. But the Stormlands' stance is not decided by weddings alone. We serve the Iron Throne. Period."
He spread his hands. "This war is a family matter for House Targaryen. As relatives, we only recognize the Targaryen who sits on the Throne in the end. Until then... the Stormlands will remain neutral."
Aemond smiled inwardly. Neutrality.
A coward's excuse to wait for a winner. But he knew now was not the time to push.
If the Stormlands remained neutral, the Blacks lost their landing bridge.
The North, the Vale, and the Riverlands were largely pro-Black, but the Greens held the South's wealth and population. Without the Stormlands, the Blacks were toothless.
"I understand," Aemond said.
"The Stormlands are in a sensitive position. Neutrality, refusing to add to the chaos, is, in its own way, the greatest support you can give the Throne."
Borros visibly relaxed. He raised his cup.
"The Prince is wise. This is a family affair; we Baratheons shouldn't meddle. We will always be loyal vassals... however," he paused, "regarding the marriage, I would prefer Princess Daena for my heir."
Aemond nodded noncommittally. "We shall discuss the details when you inherit."
"But," he added as he walked to the door, "neutrality comes in many forms. Total neutrality helps the rebels. 'Limited' neutrality... means knowing when to strike at the critical moment. I think you understand me."
Borros nodded slowly. "I understand perfectly."
Aemond opened the door and looked back.
"Give my regards to your father, Lord Boremund. May he... enjoy his final days."
Aemond stepped out, leaving Borros alone in the shadows of the silent room.
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