The reception hall of Maegor's Holdfast.
There were no windows; the three-foot-thick stone walls sealed away all sound. Outside the door stood heavily armed guards, and the secret passages had long been sealed. It was said that Maegor the Cruel had once tortured and executed traitors here. Blood had seeped into the cracks of the stones, and in some corners, the dark red stains remained, impossible to erase.
When Aemond pushed open the door, Borros Baratheon was already seated at the far end of the long table. Though it was day, the room was dark as night. Candlelight flickered across the table, casting elongated shadows upon the stone walls.
The heir to the Stormlands was near forty, in the prime of a man's life. His shoulders were so broad they nearly burst the seams of his doublet—the physique of a man who spent his years wielding a sword and riding horses. His black hair was neatly combed, his blue eyes sharp, his jaw adorned with a carefully trimmed beard. He possessed both the roughness of a warrior and the dignity of a lord.
He wore a blue doublet embroidered with golden thread; upon his breast was the crowned stag of his house, its antlers glittering like a crown.
Aemond seated himself in the high seat.
"Lord Borros," he spoke, his voice unusually clear in the confined space, "I thank you for traveling from Storm's End to attend my wedding. Though the ceremony has passed, I accept your heartfelt intentions."
Borros rose and gave a salute, his movements precise and powerful. "Your Grace's wedding—how could a Baratheon be absent?" His voice boomed like a bell. "We are a branch of House Targaryen, bound by blood!"
With that, he produced something from his sleeve.
In the candlelight, a sapphire gleamed. Heart-shaped cut, of extraordinary clarity.
"This gem is called the Storm's Tears, an heirloom of my house." Borros placed the stone upon the table. "Present it to Princess Helaena, as a token of my regard."
Aemond smiled and nodded.
Then he rose and poured each of them a goblet of red wine. Summerwine from the banks of the Mander—the oldest vintage from the royal cellars. Its color was thick as congealed blood, its fragrance filling the chamber.
Borros raised his goblet, drank it down, and praised, "Good wine! Far smoother than the stormy ale of the Stormlands."
Aemond took a small sip, set down his goblet, and folded his hands.
"Lord Boremund's illness..." He looked directly at his companion with his violet eye. "Is it truly so grave?"
Borros smiled faintly. "Not good," he sighed. "The maesters say the consumption has reached his bones, and with his old wounds... I fear he will not see the end of this winter."
He poured another goblet, shook his head, and smiled bitterly. "My father is stubborn. He insists on remaining at Storm's End, saying a Baratheon will die in the land of storms, even if death comes for him. He will not listen to persuasion, and drinks all day. He even says... why not drink and live well?"
"A pity," Aemond said, tapping his fingers on the table. "Lord Boremund is one of the most respected lords in the Seven Kingdoms. His friendship with Rhaenys is the stuff of song."
Borros's smile froze. He chose his words carefully. "Friendship is friendship. Loyalty is loyalty. House Baratheon's loyalty has always been to the Iron Throne—to the rightful king. It has never wavered."
"Oh?" Aemond raised an eyebrow slightly. "Then in your view, who is the rightful king now? Or... who shall it be in the future?"
The question was direct, without any pretense or circumlocution. Borros clearly had not expected such bluntness.
"His Grace Viserys the First still lives," he said, lowering his voice. "The Iron Throne is naturally his. As for the future..." He lifted his gaze to Aemond. "His Grace has publicly named Prince Aegon his heir. All Seven Kingdoms know this is the lawful succession."
"Very well," Aemond nodded, his face betraying no emotion. "Then as a vassal loyal to the Iron Throne and the rightful heir..." He paused; something flickered deep within his violet eye. "Will the Stormlands, and the future Lord of Storm's End... publicly support Prince Aegon? Will you send troops to aid the Crown in putting down rebellion when Rhaenyra rises?"
Silence.
Borros was quiet for a long moment.
"Your Grace," he finally said, his voice dry, "but my father has a pact with Rhaenyra... a verbal agreement."
Aemond smiled. "Only a verbal agreement," he said softly. "All things can be changed, can they not?"
He rose and walked toward the great map of Westeros mounted on the wall. The parchment had yellowed with age; every castle, river, and forest was clearly marked—a map drawn in the time of Maegor. His finger traced from King's Landing across the Narrow Sea, coming to rest on the western coast of Tyrosh.
"Lord Borros," Aemond said, his back to him, his voice echoing in the stone chamber, "let us be honest with one another. Your father's support for Rhaenyra rests on no more than two reasons. First: old friendships are hard to set aside. Second: marriage—your daughter wed to her son, binding Baratheon blood to Targaryen."
He turned and walked back, but instead of sitting, he looked down at Borros. "A fine bargain, truly. If I were Boremund... I might find it tempting as well."
He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. The candlelight danced in his violet eye, reflecting strange glints.
"But circumstances have changed. High Tide is in my hands—the Velaryon fleet has either surrendered or been destroyed. Dragonstone is in my hands—the Targaryen seat has returned to the Crown. King's Landing is in my hands—the king, the queen, the Small Council, the Iron Throne itself, all are here. And Rhaenyra, in Tyrosh..." He straightened slowly. "On the far side of the Narrow Sea."
Their eyes met.
"The advantage," Aemond said, "lies with me."
Borros did not answer immediately. He poured himself another goblet of wine, drank it down, and said slowly, "But Rhaenyra's strength is not inconsiderable."
Aemond smiled. "Then shall we wait and see?" He leaned forward slightly. "What say you, Lord Borros?"
Borros was silent a moment, then nodded.
Aemond continued. "And your father... he will not see out this winter. When he closes his eyes, it will be you who inherits Storm's End. At that moment, a choice lies before you."
He raised two fingers.
"First: continue your father's policy. Support the exiled princess, who sits across the Narrow Sea and has lost even Dragonstone. Bet on her and Daemon to counterattack across Westeros. Bet on her victory. But then you will face our wrath."
He tapped the table heavily with his fingertips.
"Second: choose us. I can offer you better terms. Your daughter need not marry little Viserys, who may never return to Westeros. She could wed my brother Jaehaerys. Or else your heir could marry my sister Jaehaera. They are pure-blood Targaryens. In the future, they would be at least princes and princesses."
Borros's throat worked; he was clearly moved.
Aemond's expression remained calm. Using his younger siblings as bargaining chips? He felt no burden, so long as Borros committed sincerely, he would naturally honor his promise. As for Rhaenyra... she hated him to the bone. If she could make such bargains, he could do the same.
But Borros was Borros, after all. As desire flickered, reason suppressed it.
"Your Grace is generous," he said, choosing his words carefully. "A marriage contract... it is truly possible. But the Stormlands' position is not determined by marriage contracts alone. House Baratheon is loyal only to the Iron Throne. That is the whole of it."
He paused and spread his hands.
"This war is, in the end, a matter for your house. As close vassals of the Crown, we acknowledge only the Targaryen who sits the Iron Throne at the end. Until then..." He lifted his gaze to meet Aemond's squarely. "I will keep the Stormlands neutral."
Aemond laughed inwardly. House Baratheon loyal only to the Iron Throne? A convenient pretext to wait until a victor emerges before placing their wager. Both ends safe, risk minimal. Clever calculation.
But reason told Aemond this was not the time to push.
The Stormlands were among the most powerful domains of the Seven Kingdoms. Storm's End perched upon a cliff, surrounded by the sea on three sides—easily defended, nearly impossible to storm. The Stormlands' armies were renowned for their stubborn resilience. If Borros openly sided with Rhaenyra, Storm's End would become the perfect staging ground for her counterattack. Their fleet could cover the sea crossing, their army could threaten his territory and King's Landing at any moment. Conversely, if he remained neutral, it effectively cut off one of Rhaenyra's arms.
Cregan Stark in the North was ambiguous; there was a high chance he would side with Rhaenyra. Lady Jeyne of the Vale was Rhaenyra's cousin and a fierce supporter. The Riverlands were divided, but most lords favored Rhaenyra. The Lannisters in the West had openly sided with the Greens, who had given them the Handship and trading privileges. House Hightower of Oldtown was the heart of the Greens. The young heir of House Tyrell was of no concern—indeed, the little lord of Highgarden was soon to swear fealty in King's Landing. Aemond could simply grant them lands along the eastern coast, the mouth of the Mander, and the lower reaches to incorporate into the Crownlands.
Dorne was always autonomous and would not intervene.
So... the key was the Stormlands.
As long as the Stormlands did not openly support the Blacks, the Greens possessed superior population, food, and wealth in the South. Even if all three northern kingdoms followed Rhaenyra, he would not fear it.
Having reached this conclusion, Aemond smiled.
"I understand. The Stormlands are cautious. On one side stands the king and the law; on the other, old friendships and marriage contracts. You may remain neutral and not add to the chaos now... that is already the greatest support you can give the Iron Throne."
Borros's shoulders relaxed slightly. He too raised his goblet, smiling more genuinely.
"The prince is perceptive. This is a matter for House Targaryen; we Baratheons find it very difficult to involve ourselves. Rest assured, we will always be the Crown's most loyal vassals."
He paused, then reconsidered. "However... the marriage contract Your Grace mentioned just now—if it is to be Princess Jaehaera wed to my heir, that would be most agreeable."
Aemond nodded noncommittally. "Then let us discuss the details after you have ascended to your lordship?"
Borros smiled and raised his goblet.
They clinked glasses and drank.
"But," Aemond set down his goblet and reconsidered, "there are different ways to be neutral. Fully neutral—aid neither side. But that amounts to condoning rebellion. Then there is limited neutrality... meaning when the need arises, you may act at the critical moment."
He fixed his gaze on Borros. "You understand my meaning."
Borros nodded slowly. "I understand."
Aemond rose. It was time to conclude the conversation.
"Thank you for coming today, Lord Borros."
He walked to the door, hand on the handle, and turned back.
"Give your father, Lord Boremund, my greetings."
The candlelight cast shadows across his face.
"Let him... enjoy his remaining years in peace."
Borros held his goblet of wine and drank it down in one draught. He replied in a deep voice, "May the Seven Gods bless Your Grace."
The door opened, then closed again.
In the reception hall, only Borros remained.