At that moment, Grand Maester Norren said to Aegon the Second with sincerity.
"Prince Aemond is still your younger brother, even if he can fight. You are his elder brother, the late king's firstborn son, the crowned king. You have that identity. You have the qualification. You have..."
"I have that ability?" Aegon interrupted him. "You want me to use my status as elder brother to suppress him? How? He holds two dragons, military power, and the entire Small Council. What do I have? Sunfyre? The Kingsguard? Queen Mother Alicent's support? He knows where I live—those secret passages. How can you let me fight him?"
Norren was not intimidated, but nodded.
"Your Grace is right. A direct fight—truly, you cannot win."
"Then what do you want?"
"To borrow power."
Aegon frowned.
Maester Norren stepped forward and lowered his voice. "Your Grace, House Hightower is your mother's house. You know that Lord Monstead Hightower is leading an army of twenty thousand to King's Landing. Moreover, Prince Daeron is your own brother... And there is the support of our Citadel and the Faith. Why should you be afraid?"
Queen Aelinor, listening at the side, her large blue eyes shining. Yes—the Hightowers had twenty thousand men and Prince Daeron. If these men were loyal to Aegon, Aegon the Second's power would no longer be suppressed.
Aegon the Second considered this. Mother—Hightower would certainly side with him. As for his brother Daeron's position... In the end, Aegon the Second decided to reclaim power after the war and place his younger brother, Prince Aemond, under house arrest. He did not want to be a superfluous puppet, nor should he have to worry about what his ambitious brother thought.
Aegon the Second nodded.
"I want to try..."
All breathed sighs of relief.
Immediately after, Maester Norren said.
"Your Grace, do you know how much grain the Iron Throne must send north every long winter?"
Aegon the Second was somewhat puzzled.
"I know." Aegon thought for a moment. "I've heard it's... not a little."
"Not a little?" Norren smiled. "Your Grace, 'not a little' is an understatement. So much that all the people of the North can survive the long winter. So much that Lord Cregan Stark can sit comfortably in Winterfell without marching south."
Aegon vaguely sensed something amiss.
"Maester, what do you mean?"
"That grain," Norren said, word by word, "is now in Prince Aemond's hands, stored in Moonspire's granaries. In about half a year, it will be sent north."
Aegon nodded, puzzled.
"I know. It is a rule established by our ancestor Aegon the Conqueror. Every time the long winter approaches and the North lacks food, the Iron Throne provides."
"Then, Your Grace, whom do you think the North will support now?"
Aegon was stunned. "The North... they have not declared a position yet. They are holding back."
"Why are they holding back?"
Aegon thought for a moment. "Because... because the long winter is coming. They dare not act rashly?"
Grand Maester Norren smiled, his voice full of approval.
"Your Grace is wise. Why does the North not move? Because they are waiting for this grain. When they receive the food, they will have the confidence to march south and support the Blacks. Without food, they must huddle in Winterfell and starve."
Aegon's face changed.
"Think," Norren continued, "who is Cregan Stark? The northmen say they are loyal to the Iron Throne. Why, now that war has begun, has the North not declared a position? They are waiting. When this grain arrives, he will have the confidence to march south without worry."
"This..."
"Your Grace," High Septon Owen immediately responded. "This is not mere speculation. We have eyes in the North. In the halls of House Stark, his bannermen have long been debating. The war faction says they will fight once the food comes. The peace faction says they will not move until the food is delivered. Tell me—if this grain is truly sent, who will benefit?"
Aegon fell silent.
He remembered hearing his father Viserys the First say in childhood that northmen value oaths above all, and that House Stark was hot-tempered and outspoken. But now, thinking back, Stark was hesitant, superficially acknowledging the Iron Throne's authority but ambiguous in attitude. The same was true of House Baratheon in the Stormlands. Yet Aegon the Second did not worry about House Baratheon—they were a branch of House Targaryen, kin, natural royalists. The Targaryens had been good to House Baratheon. If any great house betrayed the realm, it certainly would not be House Baratheon betraying the Targaryens.
Seeing all waiting eagerly for his answer.
"This... then not send it?" Aegon the Second asked cautiously.
"Your Grace is wise," Norren said. "This grain cannot be sent. Not only can we not send it, but we must also inform the North that they cannot count on this grain. If the North will not march south to attack the rebels, then let all the southern kingdoms of the Seven Kingdoms—not a single grain—be shipped north."
Aegon hesitated. "But this is a rule established by our ancestors..."
"Rules established by the late King Aegon the First were meant for the northern people to survive," Owen said quietly. "But now the North's attitude is ambiguous. They remain neutral. So it is only right not to send this grain."
Aegon opened his mouth but was speechless.
Aelinor said quietly beside him. "Your Grace, I think His Holiness is right. This grain cannot be given. If it is given, it will become a weapon against us."
Norren and Owen exchanged glances—Queen Aelinor understood the greater good.
Aegon the Second looked at Queen Aelinor. In her eyes he saw a familiar gleam—was it excitement? Ambition? Suddenly, he missed his eldest daughter, Jaehaera. That two-month-old creature who understood nothing, only cried, and when he looked at his daughter, he felt at peace.
"Then," Aegon the Second drew a deep breath, "what if the North starves?"
Norren was silent a moment.
"Your Grace," his voice lowered, "the long winter is coming. The North will starve. This grain is meant to make them starve less. But if they use this grain to strike you, not only northmen will die. The Riverlands, the Crownlands, King's Landing—there will be dead everywhere."
He continued heavily. "What you bear on your shoulders, Your Grace, is the Seven Kingdoms. You must choose, Your Grace."
Aegon was silent.
"Your Grace?" Queen Aelinor called softly.
Aegon the Second came to himself. Norren and Owen looked at him, waiting for him to speak.
"Besides cutting off the food," he said slowly, "what else must I do?"
Maester Norren's eyes lit up.
"Your Grace is wise. Besides cutting off the food... Your Grace, you must do one more thing."
"What?"
"The king must lead the expedition in person."
Aegon's brow furrowed.
Norren did not wait for him to speak, but spoke quickly.
"Your Grace, the battle at Rook's Rest is imminent. House Staunton has rebelled. Prince Aemond has massed his forces at Antlers and will soon attack the Crabclaw Peninsula. This battle is a contest for power. Whose authority will be established?"
Aegon understood.
"It is the prince's authority," Norren told him what he was thinking. "If he captures Rook's Rest and suppresses the Crown's rebels, his prestige will rise even higher. Then the Small Council and the Crown's vassals will feel it is only natural to follow the prince."
He paused, looking into Aegon's eyes.
"And you, Your Grace? You will still be recovering from your injuries in Maegor's Holdfast. When he returns triumphant, will you be able to hold your head up before this younger brother?"
Aegon's expression froze for a moment.
Norren slowed his tone. "What if Your Grace goes as well?"
"I?"
"Yes, you." Norren nodded. "Sunfyre's wounds have nearly healed. Flying is no problem. You ride Sunfyre and personally join the battle at Rook's Rest. Your vassals will think that His Grace the king is truly brave to go into battle personally."
The Grand Maester added, "Moreover, no matter how powerful Prince Aemond is, he is only a prince. You are the king, acknowledged by the realm. On the battlefield, as long as the king is present, the prince must obey the king."
Aegon's heart beat faster. He had never considered this proposition. But he immediately remembered something else.
He shook his head. "But Aemond told me this battle would be dangerous, and asked me to remain in King's Landing. Let him take charge and resolve this rebellion."
Grand Maester Norren smiled.
"Your Grace, that is the point." There was something subtle in his smile. "He asked you to stay, so you stay? Are you his brother or his son?"
Aegon was stunned, then his chest rose and fell sharply—he was furious.
"Who is whose son?!"
Grand Maester Norren immediately bowed his head humbly.
"Your Grace, please calm your anger."
Queen Aelinor said quietly beside him. "Your Grace, I think Maester Norren is right. You cannot listen to Aemond about everything. You are the king."
Aegon looked at her and hesitated.
"But... Sunfyre has only just recovered. What if..."
"Your Grace," said Norren. "Are you afraid of death?"
Aegon did not speak.
Norren looked at him; there was no mockery in his eyes, only a strange seriousness.
"Fear of death is human nature. But you are the king. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms base themselves on military might. They do not respect a king who fears death. They may tolerate a mediocre king, a lazy king, even a foolish king. But they will never love a coward."
Aegon's face flushed.
"Who do you think is a coward?!"
Aelinor squeezed his hand. "Your Grace, you are not a coward. You fought desperately to save Aemond on Dragonstone. What you fear is not death—what you fear..."
The queen hesitated and did not finish.
Aegon understood what she was trying to say. What he feared was what Aemond would think of him after he went. Would he think he was stealing glory? Would he think he was causing trouble? Would he...
Suddenly he remembered Aemond's look on Dragonstone. At that time, there seemed to be no conflict between them—only two brothers. But that was on the battlefield. Leaving the battlefield and returning to the Red Keep, Aemond was still the indifferent prince.
"Your Grace," Aelinor's voice brought him back. "I am pregnant again."
Aegon was stunned.
"Truly?"
Aelinor nodded, her eyes slightly red. "I only learned last night. I had not yet told you."
Aegon held her hand, not knowing what to say. Happy, of course happy. But at this moment, the news made him even more panicked. If something happened to him at Rook's Rest, what would become of the child in Aelinor's belly? And Jaehaera?
"Your Grace," Norren's voice sounded again. "Do not worry. This time it is a minor rebellion. Moreover, you are fighting for your own children. For your future son, your daughter, your future descendants."
Aegon looked up and looked at him silently.
Maester Norren continued to persuade.
"Think—if Prince Aemond fights this battle alone, all the prestige will go to him. When the war ends, the dogs around Aemond will spread rumors that the king is a coward who does not even dare set foot on the battlefield..."
Aegon did not speak.
"Your Grace," High Septon Owen also spoke. "If you personally lead the expedition and win this battle, our Faith will proclaim it for you. You will have prestige again—not a puppet, as you are now."
Aegon was silent a long time. In the crypt, only the crackle of candles could be heard. Aelinor held his hand; sweat slicked her palms.
Finally, he drew a deep breath.
"The North's grain," he looked gravely at them and said, "truly cannot be sent?"
Norren answered. "It cannot."
"Rook's Rest," he asked again, "I truly must go?"
Norren answered. "You must go."
Aegon looked at him, then at High Septon Owen. Both looked sincere, like two old ministers breaking their hearts for him.
"Good." He gritted his teeth and nodded firmly. "I agree."
Aelinor's hand tightened; there was joy in her eyes.
Norren and Owen exchanged glances simultaneously and bowed.
"Your Grace is wise."
Aegon did not speak. He took his wife, Queen Aelinor, by the hand and walked to the door.
High Septon Owen immediately rose and opened the crypt door himself.
"Your Grace, Your Grace the Queen, may the Seven Gods bless you."
Aegon looked at him silently for a few seconds.
Aelinor took his hand, and one by one they left the crypt.
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