Late 160 AC, Sunspear
The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms
It was a hot day in Sunspear that Aegon and his party arrived. Hot and dusty, with all the sand and dirt of the Shadow City of Sunspear being blown gently by the sea breeze. The subjugation of Dorne had taken close to a year, but it had taken Daeron only a moon's turn to realize that he had severely underestimated the heat of the Red Desert.
Daeron had been given rooms in the Tower of the Sun, on a floor just above the Lord Martell's own chambers. It was there he stood presently, looking out of a balcony watching Aegon's men, the bulk of the Crownlander force sent, walk at the head of the long and winding column of soldiers. If Daeron squinted, and squint he had to, seeing as he was observing the approaching party from all the way up in the Tower, he could just make out the standard-bearers of Lannister and Tyrell to either side of Aegon, while one carried the standard of the Targaryens just behind Aegon.
He turned away from the balcony and walked back into the well-appointed rooms that had been given up for his use. Thick stone walls kept most of the heat out and the chambers were still airy, for that was how large they were constructed. The Sandship was a large and looming edifice, imposing itself on the minds of the people who arrived, just as it imposed itself upon the Shadow City.
Draperies of silk covered the walls, a casual display of all the wealth which flowed into Dorne from the Free Cites. Dareon had observed that in all the meals he had taken and all the drinks he had toasted with Qoren Martell to the longevity of their relations, the plates, goblets, and even the knives and spoons were of solid, beaten gold. Here at the heart of the Principality, wealth flowed like their sour Reds did, and the House of Nymeros Martell had put that all up in a lavish display for their Conqueror.
Daeron turned away from the procession. A page caught Daeron's eye and he sent the boy out with a message, asking for Aegon to meet with him as soon as possible. They had much to discuss and he had important news to convey. Daeron's uncle Viserys had been reticent to follow through with this idea of Daeron's, but Daeron was confident he was doing the right thing. Besides, he trusted Aegon with his life. There was no better man suited for the job he had in mind.
That part done, Daeron turned to the question of his wardrobe. Presently, he was dressed in the sort of loose, silky robes the Dornish were wont to favour. Cut deep at his neck and flowing around his body, Daeron at times felt he was wearing nothing at all, and frequently glanced down to check himself. It helped with the heat certainly, but he could not afford to let any of his vassals see him in such a fashion. Rumours, false or otherwise, of him favouring the Dornish would destroy all his hard work.
The page rushed away to deliver his message and another servant came forth, Daeron's habits used to him by now. The servant took out a red doublet, embroidered in black and a set of black breeches from a chest somewhere and helped Daeron into them. The heat of the Dornish sun wrapped itself around Daeron's shoulders like a cloak. Just as Daeron finished dressing and moved towards the entrance of his rooms, the same page he had sent on his errand entered back in.
"Announcing the Prince Aegon, of House Targaryen!" The boy announced sharply and bowed deeply.
Daeron stifled a smile at this display of the boy's enthusiasm. The door opened and Aegon entered, flanked by his ever-present sentinel. Ser Jon Harte, Daeron recalled after a second and idly wondered if this hedge knight's relation with his mother was close enough for him to be a kinsman. Aegon stopped right in front of Daeron and bowed deep, the knight behind him flowing suit. They seemed to have come in a hurry for Aegon's breath seemed a bit laboured, even if face betrayed nothing of the fact.
"I am yours to command, your grace," Aegon said, all formal and distanced. Daeron frowned. He dismissed all the servants and following his lead, Aegon did the same with his knight. Ser Jon Harte gave one final bow and took his leave.
"Come, have a seat," Daeron invited Aegon, directing him to where two cushioned chairs were set on either side of a table which had a flagon of Dornish Red on it. Daeron poured both of them a gobletful each. He took this opportunity to observe the changes that the year on the campaign had wrought upon Aegon.
It seemed that Aegon was truly in a hurry to meet with Daeron, for he had not even changed out the armour he arrived in. The rubies on his breastplate gleamed dully in the diffused light and the black plate was dusty from the road. The Dornish sun had turned him swarthy, just as it had done with Daeron. And where Aegon only had a shadow of a beard before he set out on the war, he now had a full, silver beard, which coupled with his grown hair, made it seem as if he had a mane. Daeron had a sudden image of Aegon roaring like a lion and had to stifle a grin. A scar cut through the beard Aegon wore, like the Kingsroad through the plains of the Riverlands, all the way from just below Aegon's cheek to just above his chin, now all the more apparent.
"You will be pleased to know," Daeron began, "that your men have distinguished themselves in the fighting."
A smirk appeared on Aegon's face and Daeron wondered if it was because his men performed well or if it was because it was his men who performed well.
"Yes, your grace. I have heard of what happened. Oakenfist broke Planky Town and my men descended upon the Greenblood like lightning in a storm," Aegon said, pride evident in his voice. "It is to be expected after all. They are blooded from years of fighting in the Disputed Lands and beyond."
"Not so disputed those lands are, cousin," Daeron said in reply.
"Indeed, your grace," Aegon said, an easy smile on his face. "Tyrosh has suffered defeat at Lysene hands and the Braavosi," Aegon spat, his face twisting into hatred in an instant, "have only had minor losses."
Daeron frowned. His cousin was being very formal and not at all like the man who had left for exile some eight years prior. He was charming and courteous, where he was only charming before. He was still mercurial as ever, it seemed. But most infuriatingly, he was always addressing King Daeron, First of his Name and not Daeron Targaryen, his cousin.
Aemon would have been more open if he were here, came the treacherous thought. Daeron banished it with prejudice. It would be prudent to be more direct than obtuse.
"Do not stand on tradition when we are alone, Aegon. You and I, we are cousins, family. It irks me to hear you call me with such respect, even when we are alone. I have always known you to call me by my name, and this new fashion makes me feel ever distant from you. We need to be closer now, especially amongst these Dornish snakes."
Especially since Aemon is dead and it's only you and I, went unsaid, but Daeron knew Aegon understood it all the same.
Aegon bowed his head just a little in acquiescence.
"As you will, Daeron," Aegon said, but the respect, feigned or otherwise in Aegon's tone still irked Daeron. He forced his attention away from that subject.
"You are, of course, aware of our plans as regarding the Dornish," Daeron began. "The question which still remains unanswered is that of the Governor of Dorne."
Daeron already had a person in mind, but he wanted to hear Aegon's thoughts on the matter. Aegon, for his part, seemed to be lost in thought.
"How soon must you have this decided by?" Aegon asked. The goblet of wine lay untouched in front of him.
"By tonight. It has been close to two moon's turns since the Martells bent the knee. The only reason we tarried in signing any treaty was so that you and the rest of the men would join us."
Aegon winced. "We were delayed by the Tyrell lord. Apparently, one of his bannermen had gone missing near High Hermitage. I left him in charge there with a sixth of the army. The fool that he is," Aegon growled, "he has been running an inquisition there, putting the smallfolk and servants to the rack and taking his pleasures as he desired."
Daeron swirled his goblet around, looking at the wine turning in it, but he did not sip it either.
"I had hoped to make Lord Lyonel the Governor of Dorne in my name."
Aegon snorted. "I see you wish to provoke a rebellion in a short period."
Daeron found himself chuckling. This was the Aegon he knew, the Aegon with a sharp wit and a ready smile.
"He is the closest lord to Dorne," Daeron replied.
"So is the Baratheon. He would certainly be a better governor than Tyrell," Aegon countered.
"His heart has been poisoned against the Dornish. The Wyls and the Blackmonts caused considerable damage to his lady mother's lands and he is not like to forget that."
Aegon smirk turned dark. "I would not blame him for his anger, Daeron. And I feel you wouldn't either."
"Regardless of whether his anger is justified or not," Daeron spoke, preempting any argument, "Dorne is to be part of our realm. We must not needlessly antagonise them."
"So you are letting them face no repercussions for their repeated incursions into the Stormlands!" Aegon's vexation was clearly writ on his face.
"I said we should not needlessly antagonise them, not that we are letting them face no consequences of their actions." Daeron was calm despite Aegon's agitation. "The Wyl of Wyl shall pay reparations personally to the Marcher Lords. All Dornish lords will no longer pay their tithes to the Martell but to the Governor who will, in turn, send them to me."
"Dorne is a rich land. This would mean nothing to them," Aegon groused.
"The Martells are a rich house and they've grown fat off trade. Look around you. They display it in the open," Daeron explained. "But Dorne is a hard land, Aegon. We will tax Martell but him staying richer while the rest grow poorer will breed discontent amongst themselves. ANd we will be taking hostages of course. For whatever it is worth."
"Well, I suppose you must have dreamt up quite the plan to pacify the Dornish," Aegon conceded. "I only wish to know one thing. When will my men be given their due? I promised them glory, riches and land. Glory and loot they've found, but I do not mean to deprive them of lands either."
"And so we come to the final matter. I have already decided on whom to name the Governor in my stead," Daeron said, drawing out the words. A secretive smile playing on his lips.
"So who is the poor sod, then?" Aegon asked an easy smile playing on his lips. "Do I know him?"
"Yes cousin, I am sure you know him intimately," Daeron's smile became sharper. "He is you."
Daeron laughed at the look on Aegon's face then. But as soon as it had appeared the surprise twisted into something more ugly. Aegon clenched his fists ad spoke through gritted teeth.
"Did my father put you up to this?" Aegon asked.
"Why should your father put me up to this?" Daeron replied.
Aegon seemed to grow more agitated. "You know how he is," he began. "Oh, don't give that look. He never looked upon me as anything but worthless. Do you know what the first words he said to me when I returned from my exile?"
Daeron knew that this was something between Aegon and his uncle. That he would only make it worse with his interference. He cursed his curiosity for that and asked.
"What?"
Aegon had worked himself into a proper rage. "He said that even in exile I managed to make problems for him! He… he blamed me for Aemon's-" he cut off, choked.
Daeron averted his eyes while Aegon took a deep draw for the goblet which still stood untouched. Just then, the door burst open and Ser Olyvar Oakheart burst in.
"Your grace! I heard shouting from within!"
"Get out of here!" Aegon thundered. The target of his ire now closer at hand and within grasp. "Who do you think yourself to be? You forget your place, Ser Knight!"
Ser Olyvar looked outraged. Daeron stood up and turned to speak with him. From the corner of his eye, Daeron could see Aegon forgoing the goblet in favour of drinking directly from the flagon, ignoring Ser Olyvar, his anger spent.
"We were having a heated discussion, that is all. I hope no Dornishmen were sulking outside the door?" Daeron asked with a gentle smile.
Pacified, the knight spoke calmly. "No, your grace. I have not been lax in my duties. A squire waits for Prince Aegon without, to show him his rooms."
"Very well. You may leave," Daeron dismissed the man. Ser Olyvar bowed and walked out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him.
"What happened to Ser Agramore? Wasn't he with you?" Aegon asked once Daeron sat down in front of him again.
"He died in the fighting on the Boneway," Daeron said simply and they sat in silence for a while.
"I will do it," Aegon said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, I will become the Governor of Dorne." Aegon's eyes were hard as flints. His grip on the goblet tightened and he sat straight in his chair.
"And I am thankful for that," Daeron said with a smile.
"I would have done it either way. I would have done it for you because Aemon would have done it for you," Aegon continued, seemingly not having heard Daeron. "I suppose my father is right in one way at least. Perhaps I am not blameless in Aemon's death." Aegon let out a chuckle, laughing at himself.
"I will not force you to do this, cousin. You must realise that you are the only one I trust in this endeavour and it is for this reason alone that I ask you to take upon yourself this responsibility."
"Responsibility," Aegon parroted and laughed. "Are you sure, your grace?"
If only you could see yourself as I do, Daeron muttered underneath his breath, then you would not hate yourself as much. But he did not say this. Out loud, he said, "I am sure of this. I hope that you will not disappoint me in this regard."
Daeron stood up as he said this, fixing Aegon with a stare, trying to be the king he had to become.
"I will not disappoint you, your grace," Aegon replied with conviction shining through his eyes.
"They call you the Dragonkinght," Daeron observed, choosing to change the topic. "I overheard some of your outriders talking when they arrived here yesterday to bring news of your progress."
"They believe me to be an example of chivalry," Aegon said, his expression twisting into disgust. "Because of me defeating the Sword of the Morning in single combat."
"No mean feat that," Daeron pointed out carefully. Aegon had emptied half the bottle of Dornish Red and Daeron did not forget how mercurial his cousin was wont to be.
"Aemon would have been a far better knight than I could ever be," Aegon spat out, jealousy evident in his tone. "Don't deny it. You know it to be true. He would have been a better Governor than I could ever be."
Aegon was about to take another swig from the bottle. Daeron reached over and plucked it from his hands.
"We must meet the Dornishmen tonight and let them know the terms of their surrender. I cannot have their Governor stinking drunk there," Daeron said sternly.
Daeron fixed Aegon with a sharp stare. Aegon, for his part, recognised the gravity of the situation and sat up straighter.
"By your leave, your grace, I shall change into more appropriate clothing and make myself ready for the long night ahead," Aegon said. His smile was back on his lips. A very mercurial man, Aegon was, but he was still Daeron's cousin.
"You may leave," Daeron said with a smile of his own.
Aegon stood up, bowed to Daeron and walked out of the rooms. A young boy with red hair was waiting for him outside and fell into step behind him. That must be his squire, the Reachman.
As the clanking of Aegon's greaves echoed down the empty corridor beyond, Daeron wondered if he had made a terrible mistake. He shook his head to disabuse himself of the notion. There was no one else he trusted with this job more than Aegon.
AN: It's been a while, huh. It is my fault for this semi-hiatus, I guess. I was too focused on churning out stories and chapters everyday and it just led me to burning out. I also realised it was a mistake to write two stories parallely. For the time being I will be focusing on this one. Now, I cannot keep up the daily updates that I had for this one earlier, but I will try to make it a weekly thing.
Anyways, thank you for reading. Do let me know what you thought of this. Did you like it? Hate it? Want to complain? Please leave some feedback. I thrive off of it.