73: The Young Dragon VII
Late 162 AC
King Daeron sat in momentary silence, watching as the last of his lords entered his grand tent. While the summer weather was often pleasant, the higher into the foothills they ventured, often the wetter and cooler it grew. He'd expected as such, but not the amount of fog he'd had to deal with thus far. No wonder the mountain clans were known to ambush unwary parties and travelers, the fog was often thick enough one could barely see one hundred paces ahead, and that was just during the warmer years. It was no wonder winters here were so harsh, especially in the highlands, where the snow could grow heavy and deep and last well into spring, burying everything to the point where travel was impossible and any upland settlement was left to fend for itself.
"My lords," Daeron ground out, grateful for the expertise of the Vale lords in erecting shelters quickly in a land like this. The winds had subsided for now, hence the fog hanging around them like wet smoke, slowly soaking into everything and anything left exposed to it. The braziers within the tent threw a welcome heat. "What news do we have of the western fronts?"
"As of today, my king, the patrols along the fringes of the mountains facing the Riverlands have the passes under their watch secured. Should anyone come through there, be they clansmen or mere travelers, they shall not escape our sight," Lord Royce said, his burnished bronze runes seeming to glow in the light of the tent. "The lords whose lands contain these passes of have been dutifully informed of the reason for men in their lands and have been providing enough supplies so that our forces need not forage or cause trouble for their… hosts, if you will."
"Excellent, and with a lack in anything resembling ships, the clans will have nowhere to go as we tighten the noose around their raiding necks. What of our supply lines?"
"Shipments of grain from the Reach, Stormlands and Crownlands are yet unhindered, my king," Lord Arryn said. "As for supplies from within the Vale, Gulltown remains our primary supplier of fish and preserves, while the harvests are being properly tithed as we speak. We shall not eat as if at a banquet, but it should be better than the rations we partook in on the march in Dorne, given our proximity."
"The forts?"
Lord Royce piped up again. "Those along the High Road were nearing construction after we passed the Eyrie, my king. By now, they should be finished and fully stocked for a lengthy siege, should the clansmen attempt such a feat to cut us off. Given their numbers, I doubt they'll try for something so bold."
"Be that as it may, the forts between the Bloody Gate and the Eyrie will be the largest, serving as our main sources of supplies," Daeron said. He'd have rather the supplies be kept in the numerous castles and walled towns, but he could not risk some greedy merchant or hungry smallfolk pilfering the supplies meant to keep his men fed and cared for while on this campaign. "From these main forts our supplies will travel, under the protection of as many guards as can be spared, to each camp we erect. In time, every camp of ours shall become fortified enough to exert control over an area, even with only a small number of men to man them."
"Why not simply sortie out from positions of strength, from the keeps in the Vale?" his cousin asked, Aegon for once sober for longer than an afternoon. One did not ride a horse through difficult terrain and hostile lands whilst inebriated and expect to emerge unscathed, after all. For all his faults, his cousin was not completely bereft of wits, only morality and fidelity.
"As feasible as that would be, our goals are to establish control over the high lands of the Vale, where most of these First Men remnants have claimed as their own, and to then subject or destroy them, piecemeal if we must. Our army, for all its smaller size compared to the forces I led in Dorne, is by no means lacking in their ability to wage war, cousin. Yet I cannot in good conscience foist myself upon these lords and their castles, few of which could suitably host our army for any reasonable length of time." It also prevented his cousin from being alone with the daughters, sisters and wives of the Vale lords, whose notions of honor would not so easily allow for… dalliances as other kingdoms might. There would be far fewer blind eyes to such behavior here.
Lord Arryn looked over the map that lay before them on the table, the roughest and most accurate they had of the Vale fit for travel. "My king, with the line of forts securing passage from the High Road and unto the Eyrie itself, there is only yet a small distance to claim between the coast, Iron Oaks and Lake Waynwater." He drew a finger between the mentioned points, the line circling along the northern shores of the great lake. "With the lake serving as a natural boundary, as the wretched tribes are not known for building boats of any kind, the Vale shall be split in our control in twain."
"Indeed, and it shall be split again, Lord Arryn," Daeron said, motioning to the map with a long staff, tracing his plans as he went. "Whilst many of the tribes of the Vale dwell in the Mountains of the Moon and their foothills, many more are scattered across the high lands, driven there by other tribes, wars against Valemen, or from migrating to seek better lands when theirs proved unable to sustain them."
"Some of these tribes, my king, have given trouble only in the harshest of winters," Lord Waynwood said. "Of these, I am most confident your offer of a peaceful integration will be well received."
"Yet for every tribe that will bend the knee to a just king, there will be another that will resist in some way, perhaps bloodily," Daeron replied, recalling that the current Waynwood line descended from one such neighboring tribe, having married a chieftain's daughter just before the death of the Conciliator. "I will not simply bisect the Vale to put an end to the tribes who raid good Vale men and women, or even one another in senseless slaughter, but quadrisect it instead. From the Eyrie, we shall devise our first line unto the coast, and from there swing southwards, reclaiming the southern entirety of the Vale." His staff traced through the roads and along the rivers, stopping at Gulltown. "With Gulltown allowing for greater supplies and a port from which to send a fleet, we shall then drive ourselves directly from the Eyrie to Heart's Home, and put an end to any troublesome clans in the Vale of Arryn, so that my ancestral Arryns may rest in peace. From there, along the shores of the river Belmore, we shall cut off the last bastion of clansmen from the northern portion of the Vale, and after reclaiming that, begin our final assault."
"That is a great deal of land to cover, my king, and much of it can become nigh impassable should winter come earlier than expected," Lord Waynwood said. "Not to mention the propensity of some tribes to simply move around if threats appear before them."
"Hence our forts and securing the coastlines for the first three campaigns, my lords," Daeron replied. "Yet before we have control of all these lands and coastlines, we shall strengthen our hold along the High Road and around the lands between the Eyrie and the Bloody Gate, to ensure that not only shall no tribesmen seek to escape to the Mountains of the Moon, but to also ensure none from those harsh lands come to their aid. It is a noose we are forming, my lords, and with every passing day, we shall slowly but surely tighten around the necks of our foes."
"What of these forts not along the High Road, my king?" a Vale lord asked, his heraldry putting him as a Belmore. "As the Vale is secured, these strategic holds with which we keep our army supplied will need to be kept safe, yet I doubt we could simply spare more and more men from the army to act as a mere garrison. Were we to do so, we would soon be without an army of sufficient size, and instead be spread too thinly to be effective."
"Indeed, Lord Belmore, we cannot simply man each fort with men from the army, lest we lose our advantage of numbers and skilled men. Yet these forts will not remain after this war is concluded, as that would infringe upon your rights of my vassals," Lord Arryn said.
"That they shall not, Lord Arryn, for these forts are to be temporary, maintained only as long as they be needed to hem in any tribes that we have yet to pacify or eliminate. Once the tribes of one of these areas have been dealt with, by treaty or by sword, they are to be disassembled and the materials within distributed to the lord whose lands they occupied."
"What if the fort happens to straddle the border of two lords, or dwells within a disputed area?" Lord Belmore asked.
Daeron shrugged. "Then they are to be equally divided amongst those lords upon their deconstruction, of whatever supplies and timbers are deemed worthwhile enough to be salvaged. While it is not my place, but should a tribe agree to our rule, then using some of those timbers to aid in building a few homes would build some goodwill."
"If they are in a lord's lands, then is he responsible for their upkeep and safety?" Lord Royce asked.
"The forts shall be manned by the personal retinues and men at arms of whichever lord or lords who lands they dwell within. However, as they are to be a part of our network of supplies, from which caravans will come and go, their own supplies shall stem from our own," Daeron said. "Excess supplies after a region has been secured shall, just as with the forts and their construction, be distributed to the lords who kept ahold of these forts."
"What of the caravans? Closer to the Mountains of the Moon, we will need as many guards as can be spared, given the propensity for those clans to attempt assaults on whatever travelers they come across."
"It will be up to the lords of the lands to ensure caravans are escorted between the forts, Lord Royce," Lord Arryn said. "As these bands will need to depart in force, we shall ensure that no band of men escorting such a caravan will be without protection from the more… despicable tribes."
"So after the first three portions are pacified entirely, and those forts disassembled, then last shall be the Mountains of the Moon," Lord Royce said with a growl of anticipation. "Those tribes won't like being cut off from any routes of escape."
"Let them be upset, for I doubt they would risk fleeing to the north whilst we are occupied with the south and then east," Lord Redfort said. "We shall be turning their greatest strength, the mountains they so lovingly call their own, into a greater weakness."
"How might that be?" Aegon asked.
"It is quite simple, cousin, and yes ingenious as Lord Redfort implies," Daeron said with a vicious grin, his own plans evolving as he spied what Lord Redfort likely saw. "With our men leaving them unable to cross into the south to attack us or aid their fellow tribes, they shall no doubt see our plans unfold after we then turn north to secure the Vale of Arryn. Unable to raid into the Riverlands from our men holding those passes under guard, and with the local lords ensuring a keen eye on their borders, they shall be faced with an impossible choice. They could flee into the north of the Vale, where their primary advantage will be greatly reduced from the comparable lack of mountains, and thus be more liable to be encircled and crushed by us, or divided and then picked apart, as if they were merely pieces of meat upon a carcass. They could attempt to assault our positions, where their ambush tactics would fail against men drawing them into an open field, or under the walls of our forts, where their lack of siege engines would see them batter themselves bloody against those sturdy walls."
"Or?"
"Or, they hold themselves up in the Mountains of the Moon, Prince Aegon," Lord Arryn said, a likewise vicious grin mirroring the king's. "Those mountains are a harsh place to live in middling years, and in poor years they are as much a death trap as they are a mighty fortification. Should they elect to stay there, in those mountains, they shall be penned in on all sides, unable to attempt to slip away, or attempt to raid for supplies. Whilst we could wait them out, letting them tear one another apart as their supplies undoubtedly dwindle, it stands that we cannot simply give them years to do so. Should winter come before this final campaign is finished, it will cause them great trouble, yes, but it would potentially drive us far enough back to give them enough room to breathe, to potentially slip by us and wreak havoc in lands we had formerly declared pacified."
"So long as winter is not upon us, once we have taken the rest of the Vale, we shall march on those mountains and turn their stronghold into a graveyard of tribes," Daeron finished. "It will not be an easy task by any measure, as one only need look to the histories to see how dangerous those lands are. Food will be scarce, our enemy will know the terrain better than anyone, and they have in the past sent proverbial mountains crumbling upon enemies in massive rockslides. To avoid similar fates, we will need to be mobile, ready, aware, and set up ambushes and deceptions of our own."
"We will see to it, my king," Lord Arryn said. "For the honor of our ancestors, and for the price of once and for all freeing the Vale of such internal raids that eat away at the roots of our great lands, it will be one well worth whatever price may arise."
The lands around Ironoaks were nestled beneath the watchful eyes of the mountains to the north and south. This long and fertile valley plain stretched from the foothills near the Eyrie to the west, down and east to across the great lake known as the Waynwater, whose snowmelt and glacial-fed waters formed a river that flowed down and into Melcolm Bay, named for the house that ruled much of its northern shoreline. The rich black soil grew fine harvests of wheat, corn, and barley, and already the first harvests were coming in as Daeron, upon a small ridge overlooking a vast swath, sat in patient silence.
Already, now no more than three weeks since their discussion, he was awaiting the arrival of the head of the tribe of the area. Most of the smaller local 'tribes', according to the Waynwoods, were just small clans of the larger one, consisting of a few families and their small livestock herds, primarily goats this high into the hills. The ones leading their 'delegation' however, were of more significant note. They were an offshoot of one of the more notorious tribes of the Mountains of the Moon, the Sons of the Tree. According to folklore of the area, upon whose honor the Waynwoods swore up and down was true, one of the second or thirds sons of that tribe's then-chieftain grew tired of the infighting and managed to leave the Mountains of the Moon during a Vale civil war over Arryn succession, the timing of which was not set in stone but at least a thousand years before the Conquest. They managed to travel without issue into the highlands near Ironoaks, where they eventually settled, and although troubles arose at first with their new neighbors, they aided the Waynwoods in a battle against a common enemy lord during the civil war. As thanks, the Waynwoods granted them the unspoken autonomy they currently enjoyed, though harsh winters often soured relations as they were forced to raid for supplies at times.
Curious, how well these disparate peoples got along when times were good despite their origins. These 'Sons of the Oak' had changed their name to honor this pact with the Waynwoods, and as he saw their small caravan of leaders approaching, a few upon the small ponies these highlanders seemed to favor, Daeron noticed that a few were carrying sacks along their saddles. Gifts of exchange to facilitate peace, perhaps? He knew he was ignorant of some customs, not from being uninterested as his cousin was, but simply because there were too many to know offhand in the lands ruled by the Iron Throne. There should be a great tome of their collection, and he wondered if the maesters had such a thing stashed away somewhere in their tower…
Whatever the case was, he had had a good set of skinning knives of good steel, along with one of those plows from the Stormlands brought to exchange as a show of good faith. The guards around the area, which had been secured for the last three nights, were alert and wary as the Sons of the Oak arrived and dismounted. It had taken no less than a week to get word to the tribe and the smaller offshoots that dwelt in the area that a 'great moot' had been assembled to determine the future of these lands, and a good week for them to gather and respond.
Daeron enjoyed the rays of sun upon his brow as the gathered dismounted and approached the great table he had the men set up. From their number, he spied primarily men, some of them older, but a few women as well, one cronish but not quite in her dotage yet. He had heard some tribes held women in greater regard than others when it came to leadership, a mindset he did not quite hold himself, but could understand when the times called for it, as it had for his grandmother. Ignoring the crier who announced him and his many titles, Daeron stood up with all the grace of a king, his Kingsguard flanking closely as he strode up to the table. With a snap of his fingers, bread and salt were hurried forth, the latter fresh from an oven, and offered to the tribal leaders. One of them, not quite the oldest but the strongest, given his broad build, stepped forth from their huddled group and accepted the offer.
"Please be seated," Dearon offered. "It is quite the beautiful day to come together, to put to rest the wounds of the past, and to look towards a brighter future for us and our children. With whom do I seek this betterment of both our peoples?"
"I am Wyl, and I speak for the Sons of the Oak and their member clans, dragon king," the man said, his voice as rough as his face, both likely weathered from high winds and bright sun, yet those eyes were as keen as the falcons the Arryns used for their heraldry. "We have heard of the army that has come to these lands, to put an end to the ways of other clans. We are grateful to have had a chance to talk, rather than to spill blood without need."
"I am told by Lord Waynwood that the Sons of the Oak are not far removed from others in these lands, yet continuing to stick to the lifestyle of their ancestors who escaped the Mountains of the Moon to seek a better life, an admirable goal I must say given the history of the Vale," Daeron replied, a small test coming to his mind. He was surprised by how well these people spoke, but given their proximity to Valmen that didn't seek their extermination, it was hardly surprised they would take on more of the speech of their betters. "Tell me, Wyl, when was the last raid committed by your tribe?"
"If the elders spoke true in my youth, then during the terrible winter many years ago, when summer was short and the Shivers swept through the lands below. Over one hundred years before this year, I believe."
"Yes, as it was a generation later that one of your chieftain's daughters married a Waynwood, ending the troubles between you. The peace has held since then?"
"Yes, dragon king, we honor our oaths when taken in marriage. We are not like those we left behind, to live in squalor and hatred no matter the season. Our people have found a good home here despite the harsher winters than the lowlands, and we would not oppose you or yours, so long as we are left to our flocks and fields."
"See, were it not for the nature of my campaign in the Vale, I would be happy to leave you to your business, but that is the issue here," Daeron said. "Your raids, no matter how sparse they may be, must come to an end entirely. If you have need of supplies, then you shall barter for them or pay with coin. Should you have need of women, then you must court them as per the customs from whence they come. Should you be lacking in coin or barter goods, then you shall need to seek work to earn them."
"Those are… simple terms," Wyl said slowly, clearly mulling over a king's words. "Is this to apply to all of the tribes?"
"Indeed, as these are the most basic terms I will offer to the tribes of the Vale, but they are among the most important. In your case, given your relatively peaceful time in these lands, there are to be additional terms, but ones I believe you would find most agreeable."
"What would those be, young king?" the older woman asked softly, her voice as whispering as drifting fog between tall pines.
Daeron nodded in her direction. "Should war be declared between the Waynwoods, the lordly house who has so graciously offered to serve as your benefactor and liege, and another house, you are permitted to raid or battle that enemy house as befitting the rules of war. In peacetime, however, raiding will be otherwise treated as nothing more than banditry. Bandits are hanged or sent to the Wall, should they claim to seek to take the black."
"Hmph," Wyl grunted, eyeing Daeron as one would a potential foe. "Our raids have grown sparse, but what of the poor years? If our crops are too wet, a blight often takes enough to be a threat to our stocks. Poor winters this high into the mountains can kill a tribe as easily as a war could."
"Even in poor years, seek aid from neighbors and the Waynwoods. Earn through your skills what cannot simply be grown, such as wheat, barley and the like. The less we raid our good neighbors, the greater we can work together." This was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Raiding from smallfolk or lords against their neighbors in the worst of times could happen, but it was usually done through skullduggery or outright false bandit attacks, never with the culprits making themselves known if they could avoid it. Such acts were, however, highly punishable should any party be found guilty of them, and thus had remained rare throughout the realm since the unification under the Conqueror, or so Daeron's books had led him to believe. If anything, they were probably more common than the maesters wrote of…
Typical, and yet another thing he would need to ensure was as stamped out as the Dornish revolt and sense of independence. If ones' smallfolk raided one another, what did that say about their lords?
"I will see to it the other clan heads keep their youth in line," the elder woman said.
"As for your tribes, Wyl, I will have need of their expertise for these regions. They know better than anyone how to read the lands the men of the Vale avoid for their harshness."
"To serve as scouts and trackers then, dragon king?"
He was at least quick on the uptake, a rarity no doubt amongst these highland barbarians. "Indeed, if you have them amongst your number, though preferably I would seek those fleet of foot yet also quick of wit, as with them we will no doubt be more successful discussing matters with the tribes that are not as peaceful as your own. It would likely do better for us all that they discuss my terms through faces they will be less… hostile towards."
"That may work for you in these lands, king, as the few tribes in these areas tend to simply leave one another alone, but further north it will not be so easy. Clans in the northern mountains claim ancestry from exiles of the North from generations past, when the Vale and the North were at war for nigh a thousand years. None claimed of any of your great houses, but they are different enough that they will no more tolerate my tribesman than they would Valemen or your own presence."
Daeron had been afraid that would be the case, assuming this man was telling the truth. He had never heard of the North exiling people, save for the Blackwoods allegedly being driven from the wolfswood thousands of years ago. "On my honor as king, I would not put your men into harm's way by attempting to make contact through them to longtime enemies. Long have the histories spoken of the blood feuds between tribes of the Vale, and once the southern region has been fully secured, I will return them to you."
The gathered leaders spoke in hushed whispers, some of them in strange tongues for which Daeron had no knowledge of how to understand, and others in the common tongue, though broken by choice words in that same strange tongue as the others. As they spoke, Daeron mildly eyed the group that had come with them. They were not starving strips of skin and bones, but rather healthy if compared to smallfolk. Hardened by highland life, of course, but were he to have them dressed as Valemen in the valleys below, upon first sight he'd have never suspected they were starving high in these lands. Just what was their secret?
Wyl, a look of determination gracing his hard features, stood from his seat and placed his weathered hands upon the table. "We have made our decision, though not lightly."
"Yes?"
"We have decided that we shall abide by the laws put in place by your offer of a lasting peace, young king. In exchange for our protection under our kin in the Waynwoods, we shall punish any who attempt to raid. For a lasting peace, one our ancestors sought when they fled the Mountains of the Moon, we pledge to uphold this oath, so long as our people do not suffer the abuse of tyrants."
Given the Waynwoods and their insistence on all things ceremonial, violating the terms put in place before their king would bring them greater shame than rising in revolt. "Then allow me to welcome you, as the first tribe of the Vale, into the fold of the greater Seven Kingdoms under the Iron Throne," King Daeron said with a genuine smile, snapping his fingers. "As a show of gratitude towards this peaceful treaty, of which my men will inscribe into parchment to ensure the words we have spoken are not dismissed by others, I have with me gifts of steel and plow."
"Castle steel?" Wyl asked, rather quickly at that to Daerons hidden glee. T'was a good thing these savages had no means of mining and smithing anything as far as he was aware, else they might have posed a much greater obstacle to his plans.
"Indeed, that of good skinning and butcher knives, for your livestock and whatever game you hunt. As I have been led to believe, the tribes often must make do with whatever they trade for or harvest from the forests and beasts they hunt, such as wooden and bone tools, or perhaps sharp rocks."
"Indeed, we bear none of the tools of lowlanders, save for what has been traded, and good castle steel is a rarity to be found this far into the Vale. What of this plow?" the not-yet-elderly woman asked. "What is so special about it, to be fit for a gift from a king?"
"Given the harness that comes with it, it need only one horse to pull to till an entire field, rather than a team of oxen, and quicker as well," Daeron said. "A creation from the Stormlands, a kingdom to the south of my seat in the Crownlands."
That got some looks between the gathered tribal representatives, some of disbelief, and others of quick calculating, already measuring how this might affect their planting. If they proved to adhere to the treaty, he might gift them one of those seed drills as well.
If.
"We bear gifts for the king, should he wish for them," Wyl said, gesturing to a few of the men they had brought, who thus far had stood by the saddled ponies. "We are not a rich tribe, but our crops keep us fed in all but the bitterest of winters, and we have heard from others of famines in some lands far from here. As a sign of peace between our people, we would offer these to you, so that others might have them to grow, should their soils be poor."
Oh? What was this? A crop in the Vale he had not heard of, or perhaps some variety better meant for these highlands? Daeron watched as the men, under sharp watch from his guards and the gathered Vale lords looking on, opened three small bags of what looked to be rocks of some kind, or maybe they were clumps of dirty turnips? The colors that peered through the dirt as Wyl brushed them off were odd to say the least, nothing like any crop he'd seen before.
"What are these?" he asked.
"We grow them in our fields when the air is not too cool to allow it to remain wet, lest a blight destroy some of the field and ruin our stores. Our ancestral tales speak of our ancestors scrounging upon these when they first arrived, and in leaner times began to grow them in spare fields just to have something to eat if times grew worse. Over time, some grew the larger ones, these great roots, and some grew them for their colors afterwards. Yet we have no use for the rest of the plant, for they can make one greatly ill."
Daeron instinctively held up a hand to stop his guards from raising a fuss about attempting to offer the king poisonous foods. He knew not every plant was edible, nor was every part of an edible plant tasty or safe to eat. "So, these roots are safe then. What can you tell me of them? How are they cooked?" Normally he would not care the slightest for this sort of thing, but his brother Baelor had earned a great deal of respect and loyalty from the lords to whom he had introduced foreign crops and the means of growing them. Should these prove useful, he would endeavor to do the same, if only so that Baelor was not the sole contributor to a growing palate of lords and smallfolk alike.
He had to admit, he liked the Crownlands rice when it was mixed into certain soups, or that one dish of rice mixed with roasted Dornish peppers, onions and garlic.
"So long as they are boiled or roasted by a fire, they are safe to eat so long as they are not of an off color before," the tribal woman said. "Those that have become spoiled or green are to be avoided, as are any that have begun to bear sprouts. Rather than eat these, plant them instead, lest you become sick or worse."
"I see they already come in several colors. Why is that?"
"Different ones that have been grown over the years, dragon king," Wyl said. "Some handle blights better than others, while some need less water or grow quicker or more plentiful. None have all of these traits, but with a mixture we need not fear losing an entire field if we grew only one type."
"What do you call them?"
"Long ago our ancestors named them as earth apples, but we have names for each variety, young king," the older woman said, picking up three small examples of each. "Goldroot, rustroot, and gemroot, named for their colors upon becoming ripe. For the poorer soils we often must toil in, they have served us well barring spoilage from pests or blights."
"Very well then, Wyl of the Sons of the Oak, I accept your gift on behalf of the Iron Throne and the lands under it," Daeron said with a smile. "I will see to it that these are handled with the care deserving of gifts stemming from this hopeful peace. I shall have some scribes detail how they are to be grown, just to be sure."
Daeron idly turned over the purplish 'gemroot' in his hand, eyeing it with a discerning king's glare. This must have been the secret to the health of these clansmen, situated so high in the mountains. Raiding was, as he understood it, not viable for sustaining any number of men over a long period. It was beneficial for the short term, yes, but one could not raid constantly without eventually losing too many of your own to maintain the morale of your men or your hold on an area.
Or simply inspire your foes to band together and exterminate you.
"I must speak with the Waynwoods on these earth apples, to see if they have been growing them all this time and simply not traded them elsewhere," Daeron muttered to himself as low voices were muffled by his great tent's doors. "Perhaps I shall ask their lord if he could grow varieties of these along the shores of Lake Waynwater, to ensure a constant supply should they prove as useful as these highlanders claim."
"My king?" a voice said, and Daeron looked up from the vegetable to see his cousin entering.
"Ah, Aegon, sit with me," he said with an easy smile, gesturing to a chair across his small table. "Fascinating, are these not? Such a simple root by all accounts, and yet their colors are like those of apples, vast in range and likely in taste."
"I've never been one for learning of my food's origins, only that it is cooked right," Aegon replied with a smile, grunting slightly as he leaned into the chair. His cousin was by no means in his dotage, but he had begun to grow a slight paunch before the march. Hopefully it would be gone from his frame by the time any combat were to begin. "I never took you for a king interested in digging through the dirt."
"I am not, I am simply… I suppose you could say interested by the lands under the Iron Throne. To think of how long many have been isolated from one another, and only having been brought together first by the Conqueror, and then later myself through Dorne. It begins to make me wonder what secrets, mundane or fantastical, are hidden away from us in lands we've not yet seen, but rule as House Targaryen."
"I think it's best you leave the crops to your brother, cousin," Aegon said. "He seems to have a knack for it, and far be it from me to attempt to dissuade him from rubbing shoulders with smallfolk. They seem to like him for it."
"He will do his duty in Dorne, of that I am sure," the king replied with a withheld groan. Not this again…
"It is not exactly becoming of a prince to be so easily accepted amongst the lesser lords and smallfolk, my king. The title of prince doesn't allow for such absentminded gallivanting, not when there is a rebellion to be crushed."
Daeron said nothing, as his cousin was one to talk about gallivanting… but at least the man did so in a manner the nobles were more accepting of. He had heard whispers of some lords thinking that for all his heir's accomplishments, he spent too much time focused on the smallfolk, on the people that should have been the least of his worries. Yes, this did annoy him at times, which was saying something as this technically made him agree with Aegon. Was this yet more of the influence from that friend of his, who had been born from former smallfolk? Or was this simply a sign of his brother's softer side coming out in ways that just so happened to benefit their house?
"Besides," Aegon continued. "No matter how close he is with the smallfolk and those like them, Dorne is a dangerous place. He would do well to remember what has happened to Targaryens that have let their guard down amongst treacherous Dornish."
"I am certain he is vigilant, even against those who have allied themselves with us like the Jordaynes and Yronwoods," the king said, knowing that vigilance had put an arrow in an attempted assassin's throat not so long ago. "Last that I have heard, before our venture to this part of the Vale, they are securing more and more lands in the direction of Sunspear. It is only a matter of time before the entire eastern portion of that sandy hellhole is under our control once more, and from there we can retake the rest and quash this revolt as we quashed them during the war. Clearly, he would not be finding such success if he were ignorant of the dangers of the Dornish." Much like a certain Tyrell had apparently been, despite his small successes retaking some lands…
"True, true," Aegon said with a nod, which to others might have seemed concessionary, but to Daeron it only came off as mildly patronizing. "I just can't help but feel our name is being besmirched by his actions, no matter how noble they appear. He rarely engages in activities most of the court would deem as worthy of a prince. Why oversee the Dragonpit when he could be enjoying a hunt? Why read his books when there are friends to be made from the sons of lords? Or why spend so much time away from the Red Keep and thus away from his future wife? I am certain he and Daena are on good terms, yet he acts as if he does not wish to be close to her."
Daeron again bit his tongue from retorting on this, knowing full well his brother would have taken Daena to the Stormlands and even Dorne had Aegon not gone with him to the Vale. The two had grown closer since Baelor's fostering, especially with the gifts he had given her from his time in Dorne. The king had rarely seen determination in his brother's eyes to rival that of their father once his mind was set, but he had seen it all the same then and there with that declaration. "One could say his interests have given our house a breath of life, cousin. As a patron of the arts and the faith, Baelor will no doubt show the rest of the kingdoms that Westeros is not merely a place of martial might, but one of learning, of culture, of progress towards a better future in the aftermath of the Dance."
"Culture? Pfft," his cousin gave a short snort.
"Well, I suppose his influence in the Red Keep could more easily be spread if he stayed there more often," Daeron 'offered' as a compromise. Needling his cousin was not quite his forte, but he knew how to defend his brother against their cousin's barbs.
"Oh?"
"Well, you have seen him in the training yard, surely? The maids love to watch him train with those weights of his."
Aegon scoffed. "They enjoy any shirtless man with muscle, Baelor is no different."
Not when those muscles cast shade upon the lower ones at high noon, unlike the paunch and growing softness of their cousin. "The other knights and lords seem to have taken well to his training style, even if more than one has needed rescue when lifting those heavy bars above their chests, unlike Baelor," Daeron replied. "Yet even if he were to stay in the Red Keep for longer than a few moons at a time, cousin, that does not change the fact he has brought nothing ill towards my rule. You are our cousin, but he is my heir, and while he is no longer the boy that you once tormented, you are still both of this house. I will not have my heir spoken ill of amongst the lords, nor would Baelor speak ill of you amongst the lords in Dorne."
"How can you be sure he would not take such an easy and petty revenge, given our histories?"
'Because he is a far better man than you,' Daeron thought, but instead replied with a simple shake of his head. "It is not in his nature to act that way. He has moved on from such times and grown up, building himself into a prince worthy of the title and a Targaryen worthy of the name. I would suggest, as your cousin and king, that you leave your troubles with him in the past, just as he has with you. It is high time we focus on our current affairs and the near future, rather than to wallow in those old memories, no?"
For a moment, he thought his cousin would retort with some other jab, but instead the man sighed and nodded. "Aye, I suppose we should. Have a good night's rest, my king, I was told the trackers would have us within reach of the next tribe within a week of riding."
Daeron forced a smile he did not feel, old words from Baelor and his Stormlord friend trickling back to him of Aegon's lusts for more than just women. "See that you are rested as well, cousin. I would hate to have to drag you from your bed with some clingy shepherd's daughter tempting you back to sleep."
"None of them around here are as comely as near the Eyrie, they're as horse faced as the Waynwoods, probably from lines of bastards through the years," Aegon replied with a chuckle before departing.
Daeron waited until his cousin was out of earshot before releasing a breath that he had not been aware he was holding, turning back to the 'gemroot' he had set aside. "You would know, cousin. You're lucky your wife was as gracious as she was to send them and that Megette woman off to that knight in Ironvein, and not to a sept like your father wanted. I can only hope your daughters will be of greater use to our house than you have been." He was not averse to legitimizing those girls if the need came of it, especially if Aegon was no longer a source of potential trouble. Still, he would have to keep a close eye on his cousin, not only for the potential bastards he'd undoubtedly leave behind in the Vale, but also so that he didn't get any… ideas about the security of Baelor's position as heir. Aegon was his cousin and kin, but Baelor was his brother and heir, and Daeron knew in his heart, were it to come to it, he would rather pick Baelor a thousand times over their cousin even with his… peculiarities.