Stone Hedge
The solar at Stone Hedge was warmed by a low hearth fire, its glow dancing across carved beams darkened by age. Prince Aegon sat at the table with a cup of red in hand, his fingers loose around the stem. Across from him, Lord Humphrey Bracken leaned forward, broad shoulders tense beneath his doublet, his hands clasped as if to keep them from trembling.
"Your Highness," Humphrey began, clearing his throat, "House Bracken is indebted to you for your aid. Yet there is one further matter in which I beg your counsel."
Aegon lifted his eyes, faintly curious. "Speak it, my lord."
"It concerns the former sworn men of House Blackwood. Two petty lords refuse to bend the knee, and barely a third of their landed knights will submit." Humphrey's jaw tightened. "They sit in my lands like thorns beneath the skin."
Aegon studied him in silence. The fire popped. Somewhere beyond the walls, a hound barked.
Humphrey exhaled sharply. "I would see them dealt with, once and for all. My fear is not only hatred, but memory. House Blackwood has risen before from worse ruin than this."
"And yet you hesitate," Aegon said mildly.
Humphrey's lips pressed thin. "If I strike openly, they will fight like cornered beasts. Even if I prevail, House Bracken will bleed for it."
He finished and looked up, eyes bright with a hope he did not bother to hide.
Aegon took a slow sip of wine. "Do not look at me so. You are not truly asking my advice. You are asking me to bless the choice you already favor."
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Humphrey's face, but he did not deny it.
"My counsel," Aegon went on, setting the cup down, "is to pull out the roots. But not by charging headlong with sword and spear."
Humphrey straightened at once. "I am listening, Your Highness."
Aegon smiled, small and sharp. "The notion itself is simple. Only the will to carry it out is rare."
"I have the will," Humphrey said, a little too quickly.
"Very well." Aegon leaned back in his chair. "Invite them to feast. The obstinate barons. The knights who waver. Let them drink your wine and break bread beneath your roof. Post eight hundred axemen beyond the hall. When a cup falls to the floor, give the word. Leave none standing."
For a heartbeat, Humphrey did not breathe. Then color drained from his face.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "that would be a violation of guest right."
The word hung heavy between them.
Aegon snorted softly. "Guest right is a custom, not a chain. War is not won by courtesy alone. If men walk into a hall unguarded, knowing the hatred that stands between you, their deaths are of their own making. Vigilance is the price of survival."
Humphrey shook his head, torn. "The Riverlands would whisper. My house would be cursed."
Aegon's gaze hardened. "Let them whisper. Once Blackwood Vale is fully brought to heel, House Bracken will stand foremost in the Trident, second only to Riverrun. When power is unquestioned, reputation follows. Not the other way around."
He leaned forward, voice low. "When that day comes, you may invite every lord of the Riverlands to dine beneath the Raventree. Those who refuse will reveal themselves. One by one, they will learn obedience."
Humphrey stared at the table, knuckles whitening as his hands clenched. The firelight reflected in his eyes like wavering steel.
Aegon, for his part, looked entirely at ease.
From his past life, he remembered watching the slaughter at the Twins and wondering how such treachery could succeed. Only after coming to Westeros did he grasp the iron weight men placed upon guest right. It was faith, as much as law. Faith could be shattered.
"May I have time to consider," Humphrey asked at last.
"Of course," Aegon said lightly. "I offer counsel, not commands."
Humphrey rose and bowed. "Three hundred thousand gold dragons were uncovered at Raventree. I have ordered them sent by ship to Drakoncrest. There are also five cogs laden with grain and stores, as a token of my gratitude."
Aegon laughed quietly. "You do not lack for sense, my lord. Very well. I will accept."
He knew the true value lay elsewhere. A strong House Bracken would anchor the Greens in the Riverlands when war came. The Trident would decide much, hemming in the North and the Vale alike. As for House Tully, he placed no faith in lukewarm loyalties. Allies would be claimed, or removed.
*
The Dornish Marches
South of the Stormlands stretched the lands men called the Dornish Marches. A harsh sweep of plains, scrub, and marsh, broken by wilderness and old watchtowers half-swallowed by time. To the east rose the Red Mountains, their passes cut by the Boneway, running from Summerhall down to Yronwood beyond the Dornish border.
For more than a thousand years, these lands had known little peace. Stormlords, Reachmen, and Dornish princes had all spilled blood upon its soil, each claiming the marches by right of conquest or crown.
The western reaches of the marches, from Horn Hill to Nightsong, had long fallen under the sway of Highgarden. Passed down to House Tyrell, they remained part of the Reach to this day.
To this day, the head of House Tyrell still bore the ancient title of Warden of the Marches, a reminder of the Reach's long claim upon those contested lands.
The remaining eastern reaches were what most men meant when they spoke of the Dornish Marches in the common tongue. This hard country stretched eastward to the Red Watch near Stonehelm on Cape Wrath, guarded by House Caron of Nightsong, whose lords styled themselves Lords of the Marches. These lands now belonged to the Stormlands, sworn to House Baratheon of Storm's End.
Other marcher houses held fast along this perilous frontier. House Dondarrion ruled from Blackhaven beneath their lightning banner. House Selmy held Harvest Hall, famed for knightly virtue. House Swann kept Stonehelm, their towers standing watch over sea and storm alike. Each had bled for these lands, and each remembered old grudges better than old oaths.
The marches were ever unruly, but the presence of royal forces had made them worse. Soldiers camped on fields already stripped bare by years of skirmishing. Lords weighed their words with care, watching banners more closely than laws.
On the surface, Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra were said to be stationed here, enjoying the full support of Storm's End and the Black cause. In truth, House Baratheon stood upon uncertain ground. Many lesser lords obeyed the crown's decree only because defiance would bring ruin faster than submission. Their loyalty was quiet, brittle, and easily cracked.
*
Storm's End
Rain lashed the ancient walls, driven sideways by a howling wind off Shipbreaker Bay. The tall windows shuddered under the assault, their leaded glass rattling as if ready to burst from its frames. Inside, the hearth blazed fiercely, its heat pushing back the damp and cold that crept through the stone.
Lord Borros Baratheon sat before the fire, a heavy cup resting in his hand. He did not drink often, but tonight the wine was already half gone. His broad shoulders were hunched, his square jaw set as he stared into the flames, eyes reflecting their restless dance.
He was Lord of Storm's End, Warden of the Stormlands, and kin to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen through blood and marriage. Many believed his allegiance assured, for his father, Boremund Baratheon, had once stood firmly for Rhaenys. Yet Borros was not his father.
Where Boremund had been stone, unyielding and sure, Borros was wind. The maesters wrote of him as a gale, fierce and changeable, quick to rise and quicker still to turn. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, then stopped, as if annoyed by the sound.
Since Prince Aegon's ascent, he had waited. He had expected envoys, promises, some sign that his strength was valued. None had come. The silence gnawed at him.
Two days past, Princess Rhaenys had arrived astride her dragon. Since then, Lord Corlys Velaryon's manner toward him had sharpened, his words edged with a confidence that bordered on contempt. Borros felt it keenly. His grip tightened on the cup until wine sloshed against the rim.
That was when his resolve had hardened.
He would bind himself to the royal house by marriage. Not to the Blacks, whose victory was far from certain, but to the Greens, who possessed momentum and dragons enough to end the matter decisively.
He had four daughters. Any one of them would serve.
Prince Aemond Targaryen was the match he favored. Young, fierce, and rider of the greatest dragon alive, Aemond promised power made flesh. With such a son-in-law, House Baratheon would not merely follow the Greens. It would shape them.
Borros rose and strode to the window. Rain streaked down the glass in twisting lines, the storm beyond a blur of shadow and motion. Reflected in the pane, his eyes burned with a hard, hungry light.
He wanted more.
When the dragons danced, the realm would bleed. Kings would fall. And if Prince Aegon were to perish without an heir, the world would be remade by those bold enough to reach for it.
Yet desire alone was not enough. Until now, Aegon had made no effort to court him, perhaps believing Storm's End already lost to Rhaenyra. That assumption rankled.
Borros exhaled slowly, fogging the glass. "Then I must make the first move," he murmured.