Dust rose in clouds across the training yard of Dragon's Roost.
Daeron followed his elder brother Aemond along the edge of the grounds, watching the young soldiers sparring in pairs.
They wore matching leather armor that caught a faint sheen beneath the afternoon sun. Their movements were still somewhat raw, yet disciplined and in unison.
Aemond said: "Most of them are orphans."
Daeron fell silent for a moment. "Food and shelter in exchange for loyalty—that is a fair bargain."
"Fair?" Aemond gave a soft laugh. "Daeron, there has never been true fairness in this world."
"There are only stakes and choices."
"I give them a choice: to rot in the alleys of King's Landing, or to live here with a sword in hand."
"They chose me. They paid in loyalty. Nothing more."
He walked toward the wooden rack where weapons were set out upon the yard, took down two blunted training swords, and tossed one to Daeron with a casual flick of his wrist.
"Father has pardoned me and permitted my return to King's Landing to visit Mother," Aemond said suddenly with a faint smile, something complex flickering in his eyes.
"Queen Alicent is soon to give birth. It has been two years since I was last allowed to set foot in the city."
Daeron caught the sword; its hilt was wrapped in rough leather for grip. "Then I offer you my congratulations, brother."
Aemond adjusted his grip. "Mother said she wishes to see you as well."
Daeron lowered his head.
At five years of age, he had been sent to foster with House Hightower. In that household, he had ever felt the superfluous child.
Aegon was the eldest son—his worth required no speech.
Aemond was the second son, yet at least in their parents' eyes, he held value.
Helaena was the eldest daughter, the jewel cradled in their palms.
Only he, the youngest son, had been sent away to the Hightowers since childhood.
Aemond saw the suppressed look upon Daeron's face and was drawn back to the present.
"Come."
"Let me see what the Hightowers have taught you."
Daeron raised his head and assumed a proper opening stance—the very form taught by the knights of Oldtown: elegant and exact.
By contrast, Aemond merely stood at ease, the tip of his blade resting toward the ground.
"Attack."
Daeron stepped forward in a swift lunge, the point of his sword driving straight toward his brother's chest. The thrust was fast and true, forged by years of hard training.
Aemond did not so much as shift his footing. With a turn of his wrist, his training blade swept upward, striking precisely three inches along Daeron's blade.
A sharp clang rang out, the vibration numbing Daeron's palm.
"Too rigid," Aemond judged.
"Your eyes are fixed only on my blade. Your shoulders are too stiff. Is that right?"
Daeron steadied himself, his cheeks burning. "Then how should I fight?"
"Look at me," Aemond said. "Not at my sword—at me."
"Watch every movement. Where is my weight? Where are my eyes turned?"
"True battle does not follow the rules of a tourney."
As he spoke, Aemond moved without warning.
With no sign at all, the training sword blurred into a gray streak, thrusting straight toward Daeron's face.
Daeron hurriedly raised his blade to block, but midway Aemond's sword shifted in a strange change of direction, turning from a thrust into a sweep, the flat striking hard against his ribs.
"Ugh!" Daeron cried out in pain, stumbling back three steps.
"Battle is a contest against another man—and men change."
Aemond lowered his blade. "Again."
This time Daeron had learned.
He circled Aemond slowly, his gaze locked tight upon his brother's shoulders and hips.
Now!
Daeron burst forward, his blade slashing upward from below at a sharp angle.
This stroke abandoned every form he had been taught. It was nothing but speed and ruthlessness.
Aemond turned his body, slid his step, and lifted the tip of his sword; the motions were completed within a single breath.
Daeron's blade was knocked aside, his chest laid open, and Aemond's point already rested lightly against him.
"You have improved," Aemond said, lowering his sword and turning toward the stair that led to the battlements. "Daeron, you are still too young."
Daeron let out a breath and followed his brother.
The two of them climbed the wall, and the view opened wide.
The walls of Dragon's Roost stood only ten feet high, yet the design was particular: the crenellations were set in a saw-toothed pattern, and each projection was fitted with arrow slits.
"Your domain," Daeron said, looking about, "is more like a military camp."
Aemond walked to the battlement and pointed north. "Look at that road. The Rose Road begins at Highgarden. When it reaches here, it divides—one branch toward King's Landing, the other toward Storm's End."
He turned to the other side, his finger tracing the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay. "And look at my harbor."
"From here, a short sail eastward brings you to the harbor of King's Landing."
"Dragon's Roost stands at the meeting of land and sea routes, at the southern throat of King's Landing."
Daeron followed the direction of his hand; the terrain's advantage was plain at a glance.
Years of education under the Hightowers allowed him to grasp its strategic value at once.
"Rhaenyra has Dragonstone—and those dragons."
Aemond continued.
"And the Velaryons command the strongest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms."
"If war breaks out, the first thing they will do is seal off all of Blackwater Bay."
"Forty percent of King's Landing's grain depends upon shipment by sea. Once the sea lanes are cut…"
"The whole of King's Landing will fall into hunger," Daeron finished, his brow drawn tight.
"Unless the grain of the Reach can be sent in by land."
"But land transport is vastly costly. It cannot sustain a city of five hundred thousand souls."
Aemond nodded.
"And the southern land route must pass through here."
"Whoever holds Dragon's Roost grips the southern grain road of King's Landing."
"That is why I have made this place into a military camp."
At that moment, the wind came in from Blackwater Bay, carrying the salt tang of the sea.
After a long silence, Daeron spoke softly. "Brother, do you truly do all this to protect the family?"
Aemond did not answer at once.
He looked northward, his purple eyes fixed upon the faint outline of King's Landing.
After a long while, he spoke slowly. "Is there a difference?"
"We can only win."
"Do you know what comes of losing?"
"It would be the severing of our bloodline. It would be our name turned to dust."
Daeron hesitated. "Rhaenyra… she would not go so far, would she?"
"We are all Targaryens. We are kin."
"When war begins, men die," Aemond said. "And the dead beget hatred."
"Whether we share the same blood or not, in the end men remember only hatred."
"Fear, grief, loathing, despair—they will spread through the realm like a plague."
He paused, then said more coldly, "The loser will bear those curses."
Daeron was silent for a time, then said, "I believe all may yet be spoken of. We might resolve it by peaceful means."
Aemond's hand slid from Daeron's shoulder. He looked down upon the lands below, where lights were kindling one by one in the deepening dusk.
"It was Father and Rhaenyra who betrayed Targaryen."
"Now bastards stain the blood, and the ambitious divide the house, seeking to set themselves above us."
Daeron looked at his brother beside him and saw in his eyes a certain resolve.
"There remains but one last chance for the restoration of Targaryen."
"If you do not seek to seize it—if you choose to continue retreating—"
Aemond turned back, his purple eyes fixed upon his brother.
"Then let the war begin."
"From the deserts of Dorne to the snows beyond the Wall, let the sky boil with dragonfire, let dragons fall amid rain of blood."
"Even if I must spill my last drop of blood—if I cannot save Targaryen from defeat…"
He paused.
"Then let the whole of the Seven Kingdoms burn…"
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