The Prince of Whispers Chapter 25: A dragon in the storm

The sea winds howled fiercely and wildly as Aegon Targaryen leaned low over Fiendfyre’s neck. The dragon’s wings cleaved the salt-laden air like a pair of great black sails, each beat casting rippling shadows across the waves below. The cliffs of the Stormlands stretched ahead, jagged and unyielding, and even from afar, Aegon could see the heavy clouds that forever gathered above Storm’s End, as if the gods themselves took pleasure in reminding the Baratheons of the storm in their blood.

Fiendfyre’s roar scattered seagulls from the cliffs and sent fishermen’s boats scrambling for safer waters. Aegon tightened his grip upon the saddle, his silver hair whipped about by the gusts. The air smelled of brine and rain, tinged faintly with the smell of Fiendfyre’s heated breath.

His dragon loved the challenge of the winds; its powerful tail lashed with eagerness as though the very storm dared it to falter. But Aegon had ridden often enough to trust his dragon’s strength.

Together, they pierced through the gale.

As Storm’s End came into view, Aegon drew a slow breath.

The great fortress was unlike any other in the Seven Kingdoms—its walls impossibly sheer, rising straight from the cliff as though they had been carved by the hand of gods rather than men. The sea battered endlessly at the base, but the walls stood defiant, a monument to endurance.

To many, Storm’s End seemed unwelcoming, even grim, but Aegon could not help but admire its raw majesty. This was no place of soft courtiers or perfumed halls; this was a castle built for war, for unyielding storms, for a house that thrived upon defiance. It was said that Brandon the Builder built the castle before he built the Wall up North.  

Whether the story was true or not was a topic of discussion among scholars. But it was generally accepted that Storm’s End remained one of the oldest castles in Westeros, with a history spanning thousands of years.

He guided Fiendfyre into a descending spiral, the dragon’s massive wings churning the air into furious gusts as they neared the ground. Soldiers in the courtyard scattered, some raising shields against the wind, others simply staring wide-eyed at the monstrous shadow blotting out the sky. The Baratheons were no strangers to dragons, yet even so, the sight of Fiendfyre landing was enough to make hardened guards grip their spear shafts a little tighter.

The dragon’s claws struck the earth with a shuddering thud, tail curling possessively as smoke curled from its nostrils. Fiendfyre hissed low, its golden eyes gleaming, daring any man to approach too close. Aegon slid smoothly from the saddle, his boots meeting the stone with practised ease after the chains binding him to the saddle came undone. His long cloak whipped about him, clasped at the shoulder with the three-headed dragon wrought in silver.

From the keep strode a man in dark leather, a black stag embroidered on a patch of yellow on his chest, his stride full of energy and pride.

Borros Baratheon had not changed greatly since Aegon had last seen him before his departure to Essos—broad of shoulder, quick to laugh, quicker still to speak his mind. His hair was a darker shade than his father’s, his face still youthfully unlined, yet already there was a thunderstorm brewing behind his bright blue eyes. He halted just beyond the dragon’s reach, throwing out his arms.

“Seven hells, Aegon! You descend upon us like thunder itself. Did you wish to tear the gates from their hinges with your beast?” Borros’s grin was wide, though there was a touch of awe lingering in his glance toward Fiendfyre.

Aegon allowed himself a small smile upon hearing the boisterous sound of his oldest friend.

“If your walls can withstand the fury of the sea for many thousand years, I daresay they can weather my arrival.” He stepped forward, clasping Borros’s forearm. “It has been too long.”

“Far too long,” Borros agreed, though his voice carried an undertone of tension. He gestured toward the keep. “Come, my father awaits. He will want words with you… Though I warn you, friend, he speaks of little these days but the council to come.”

“That’s a most concerning topic I’m interested in as well. Lord Baratheon will find in me a good conversation on the subject.” Aegon said with a simple smile.

“And here I thought you came to hunt with me.” Borros said with a huff.

“Oh, trust me, I’ll drag you to ride with me and hunt some game in the woods. I have an appetite to eat a wild boar.”

“Ha!” Borros laughed like a thunderclap. “Now that’s more like it.”

As they walked together beneath the looming arch of the gatehouse, Aegon studied Borros’s expression. His old companion wore his emotions plainly, never one for careful masks. And now, though Borros smiled, there was unease written clearly across his face.

“You are troubled,” Aegon said lightly, though his words carried weight. “Storm’s End is not often given to worry you this much.”

Borros’s laugh was short, almost sharp.

“It is not the castle that troubles me, Aegon.” Borros said before his voice went low enough that only they could hear. “It is the thought of bending the knee to a woman. My father is determined to champion Rhaenys, his precious niece. But I cannot see why a lady should sit on the Iron Throne when strong men stand ready.”

Aegon inclined his head, thoughtful. He had expected as much.

“And yet your father’s loyalty is not without reason. She is blood of his blood. Kinship can bind tighter than reason or tradition at times.”

Borros made a dismissive sound.

“Blood, aye. But what of strength? What of the realm’s needs? It is folly to place a crown upon a woman’s head when war may come. I will never understand it.”

Aegon did not press further. He could see the storm brewing in Borros’s eyes, and though he respected his friend’s candour, he knew such words spoken too freely could sow discord. He also knew Borros, for some reason, disliked Rhaenys. He never asked the reason, and Borros never made his thoughts on the matter clear.

“There will be no war, my friend. The King has called this Great Council precisely to remove the notion of war from all claimants.” Aegon said carefully.

“I suspect your brothers will not let Rhaenys claim the throne without a battle in the unlikely chance she gets named the heir.” Borros said dismissively. “I’d do so if I were in their place.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow at Borros’ claim.

For now, he let the matter rest.

They entered the great hall of Storm’s End, where torches battled the gloom cast by the thick stone walls.

At the high seat sat Lord Boremund Baratheon, older now but still formidable, his thick frame wrapped in a heavy mantle of black and gold. His beard was streaked with grey, yet his presence filled the chamber as surely as the roar of the sea beyond. When his eyes fell upon Aegon, they lit with warmth.

“Prince Aegon,” Lord Boremund rumbled, rising to his feet. “Storm’s End is honoured by your presence.”

He descended the dais with surprising swiftness for a man of his years, clasping Aegon’s hands in both of his.

“Your grandsire sends you in his stead?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. I represent my brother Viserys Targaryen.”

“Ah, I see.” Boremund’s eyes dimmed ever so slightly, and he changed tack immediately.

“How fares King Jaehaerys?

“His grace is unwell.” Aegon said truthfully. “It falls to me to carry his voice where I may. And to listen, as well—for he holds your counsel in high regard.”

Boremund’s mouth curved into a smile.

“Your grandsire has ever been a king of wisdom. The realm shall not see his like again.” He gestured for Aegon to sit, while servants brought wine and bread.

“I hope that is not the case for the sake of the seven kingdoms.” Aegon said.

“Aye.” Boremound nodded with a smile.

The talk turned swiftly, as Borros had warned, to the coming council at Harrenhal. Boremund did not dance about the matter. His words rang firm, his stance unyielding.

“I shall stand for Rhaenys,” he declared, his voice carrying across the hall. “She is of my blood, my sister’s daughter. None can deny her courage, nor her wisdom. The realm would not wither under her rule.”

Aegon sipped his wine, letting the fire of it warm him before he replied.

“I do not doubt Princess Rhaenys’s virtues. She has the makings of a fine queen, were the choice hers alone. Yet you know as well as I, my lord, that the lords of Westeros may look less kindly upon a woman’s claim.”

Boremund’s eyes sharpened.

“And what of it? Shall the realm forever chain itself to old fears? If the Baratheons turn from blood for the sake of ease, then we are no better than reeds bending to the tide.”

Aegon inclined his head, acknowledging the strength of the man’s conviction.

“Your loyalty honours her. It honours your house as well. Know that I do not come to turn you from kin. But remember, my lord, that the King’s desire has been plain for all to see. He already passed her over and declared my late father as heir.”

“So what?" Boremund asked.

“So, I ask whether you believe my grandsire’s wishes have no meaning? The king has made his preference clear the last time. And the moment my father passed away, Lord Corlys started gathering his fleet and allies to High Tide. Is this not a clear defiance of the King’s authority?” Aegon asked heatedly.

“Corlys loves his wife dearly…” Boremund started to say.

“He loves the Iron Throne, you mean, and the fact that his ambition has no limits.” Aegon said with a snot. “This is the reason why the grandfather is forced to call a Great Council instead of naming his preferred heir.”

“Tell me again, Prince Aegon, why should Lord Corlys sit idly by while his wife’s inheritance is taken away like last time?” Boremund asked.

“Inheritance from whom, my lord? This inheritance comes from the king. Does the king have no say in who inherits the throne after his time?” Aegon challenged the Lord of Storm’s End.

“Not if he is breaking the line of succession.” Boremund argued.

“Women have not inherited the Iron Throne through succession in House Targaryen. If they had, my grandfather would have never been king. Instead, the throne would’ve been passed to Rhaena Targaryen’s daughter Aerera. Why is it that the succession laws were never in favour of a woman then but favour a woman now?”

Lord Boremund had nothing to say to Aegon’s accusation.

Boremund’s stiff expression suddenly slackened. He reached across with his hand and placed it on Aegon’s shoulder.

“I can see why King Jaehaerys would entrust you to wield the sword of kings in his name in his stead,” Boremund said with a gentle smile. “You speak much like your grandfather when he was in his prime.”

Boremund turned away and took two cups of wine that the servant was holding on a plate. He offered one cup to Aegon, who took it graciously.

“Having strong convictions and a sense of what is right and wrong is imperative for those with real power. I can see that in you, Prince Aegon. I have seen that long ago, when you first came to my halls as my squire.”

“Those are kind words.” Aegon said with a sip of the wine.

“Yes, then heed the rest carefully.” Boremund said, his eyes taking on a serious look. “We will never agree on the matters of succession, and I intend to side with Rhaenys.”

“I respect your decision to stand by your niece, Lord Boremund. I also assure you there will be no ill will from Viserys.”

That seemed to ease the storm in Boremund’s expression. He reached across the table, laying a heavy hand upon Aegon’s shoulder.

“You are your grandsire’s blood indeed. Wise beyond your years. I thank you for your honesty.”

The remainder of the meal passed more lightly, with talk of hunts, of ships, of the endless struggle of Storm’s End against the sea. Borros grew more animated, jesting and boasting in equal measure, though Aegon could see the tension linger still beneath the surface. Yet when at last he took his leave on the day after, rising to depart with Fiendfyre waiting beyond the walls, both Boremund and Borros came outside the walls of the castle to see him off.

“In the Great Council, we will be on different sides, but remember you’re always welcome in these halls. After all, I still need to boast my squire brought the Dothraki to heel and shielded Andalos with his fire.” Boremund said with a boisterous laugh.

Aegon nodded at the Lord of Storm’s End and smiled at Borros.

Fiendfyre stirred restlessly beneath him as he climbed into the saddle, the winds lashing harder now as the skies darkened. Aegon mounted swiftly, the dragon launching skyward with a blast of air that rattled the banners of the stag upon the walls of Storm’s End. As the fortress dwindled below, Aegon gazed back one last time.

He admired Boremund’s loyalty, even as he feared what such loyalty might cost. He hoped that loyalty wouldn’t extend to military support should Rhaenys fail to secure the necessary votes. His grandsire devised this entire exercise to avert a civil war and settle the succession once and for all. If Viserys wins, the question of a woman inheriting the Iron Throne would be settled, and a clear precedent would emerge. It’d certainly benefit the future generations of House Targaryen.  

******

The great walls of King’s Landing glimmered beneath the light of the sinking sun as Aegon descended upon the city. Fiendfyre’s wings stirred the ravens and flocks of birds in the highest towers to scramble to safety. Aegon guided his dragon down with care, though his thoughts were not upon the city or the startled faces turned upward in awe. His heart beat with impatience, not from the flight, but from the thought of Gael awaiting him within the keep.

Upon landing, the dragon handlers came to Fiendfyre’s side to guide the dragon to Vhagar’s vacant lair. Like Vhagar, his dragon also disliked being stuffed inside the Dragonpit. He dismounted swiftly, giving Fiendfyre a final pat along the ridge of its neck before riding into the Red Keep on a horse.

The guards bowed as he passed upon arrival, but Aegon scarcely noticed. His journey to the Stormlands had been necessary, but each hour away from Gael weighed upon him, especially now that she was carrying his child. His grandfather’s illness cast a shadow over the realm, and the Great Council loomed nearer with every day. His return was brief as he intended to glean support from other kingdoms as soon as possible. But this brief time, he intended to spend it with his wife.

The corridors smelled faintly of lavender oil and smoke. When at last he reached Gael’s chamber, he did not announce himself. He opened the door quietly, stepping into the dim room where a single brazier glowed against the autumn chill.

Gael sat upon the edge of the bed, her long hair falling loose about her shoulders. She looked up at once, her face lighting with joy.

“You’ve returned!”

Aegon crossed the chamber in three strides, taking her into his arms. Her body was warm against him, her breath sweet as wine. He pressed his lips to hers, a kiss both tender and desperate, as though to make up for all the nights apart. When at last they drew back, Gael laid her palm upon his cheek, studying him with sparkling amethyst eyes.

“You smell of sea and sweat,” she teased softly.

“And you,” Aegon murmured, lowering himself to his knees before her, “smell of home.”

His gaze fell then upon the gentle curve of her belly, subtle still yet undeniable. A flush of wonder spread across his face. He laid his hand on her belly and marvelled at the fact that there was new life thrumming beneath his palm. Looking at it made Gael more beautiful than ever. He felt a sense of joy knowing that the baby inside her was a part of him as well.

A warmth spread all over his body that made every cell in his body alight with joy. Sighing in content, Aegon leaned forward and kissed Gael’s round stomach.

They moved then to the bed, the curtains drawn close against the world outside. Wrapped in furs, they lay together as the night grew deeper, speaking in the hushed tones as they often had in their childhood.

“What shall we name him?” Gael asked at length, her head pillowed against his chest.

Aegon stroked her hair absently, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling beams.

“I do not know. If a son, perhaps Aenys after the Conqueror’s son.” Aegon mused aloud.

“Aenys? That is a good name.” Gael admitted while drawing circles on his chest with a finger. “What about naming him after my sire?”

“Jaehaerys, a strong name. Yet, it feels too soon for another Jaehaerys in the family.”

Gael frowned before nodding.

“Mayhaps, we shouldn’t burden our children with names already in use.” Gael said before her eyes lit up. “What about Aenar?”

“An old name not commonly used in our family.” Aegon nodded slowly. “It’s a good name.”

“So, we have two names if the baby is a boy: Aenys and Aenar. Now, what if it’s a girl?”  

“Visenya.” Aegon immediately said.

“My father will be wroth with us for using that name. He hates that woman.” Gael said with a curious look directed at him.

“God. He deserves to have a granddaughter by that name for running me ragged across the seven kingdoms while I should be by your side.” Aegon said with a scowl before muttering. “His stupid Great Council.”

Gael shook with laughter and pressed herself against Aegon’s body.

For a time, they lay in silence, listening to the muffled sounds of the fire crackling in the hearth.

“Gael… I would have you go to Dragonstone.” Aegon suddenly said, breaking the silence.

She stirred against him.

“Dragonstone?”

Aegon nodded.

“The air is clean there, the sea brisk and free of the foul miasmas of this city. The maesters say such airs are better for women with a child. It would ease my mind to know you safe there, far from the sickness that creeps through these halls.”

But Gael shook her head, her hand tightening upon his arm.

“No. I will not leave.”

“Gael—” Aegon started to argue.

“My father weakens daily,” she said firmly, “I cannot go from him, not now, not while he still draws breath. What daughter would I be if I sought my own comfort while he lies so near to the Stranger’s embrace?”

He cupped her face gently. “I only wish to shield you. To shield both of you.”

“And I only wish to remain by my father’s side,” she replied, tears welling at last. “When he goes, I would not have my memory be one of absence.”

Aegon pressed his lips to her brow, closing his eyes against the swell of emotion.

“Then here you shall stay, by his side. But I will be assigning you more servants. You will drink only boiled water, and you’ll adopt a healthy course set by the maester Yaldin.” Aegon’s tone was firm, brokering no argument from Gael.

He held his wife tighter against his body while he thought of his mother, who had passed away after giving birth to him. He had seen what his mother’s passing had done to his father, who became a bitter man hating everything as passionately as he loved his wife.

‘Nothing of that sort will happen to Gael.’ Aegon thought with determination.