Bonus at 300 stones
---------
Summerhall, The Training Grounds.
Dust flew across the training grounds of Summerhall.
Daeron Targaryen followed his elder brother Aemond across the edge of the training grounds, watching the young soldiers sparring.
Wearing uniform leather armor that gleamed faintly in the afternoon sun, their movements were slightly stiff yet uniform.
Aemond said, "Most of them are orphans."
Daeron was silent for a moment.
"Trading food and warmth for loyalty, it's a fair deal."
"Fair?" Aemond chuckled.
"Daeron, there is no such thing as true fairness in this world. Only chips and choices."
"I gave them a choice: rot in the alleys of King's Landing, or live here with a sword in hand. They chose me and gave their loyalty. That is all."
He walked to the wooden weapon rack on the training ground, took down two blunt training swords, and tossed one to Daeron.
"Father has pardoned me and allowed me to return to King's Landing to visit Mother," Aemond said with a sudden smile, a hint of complexity flashing in his eyes.
"Mother is about to give birth. This is the first time in two years I've been allowed to set foot in King's Landing."
Daeron caught the sword, its hilt wrapped in non-slip leather.
"Then congratulations, brother."
Aemond adjusted his grip on the sword.
"Mother said she wants to see you."
Daeron lowered his head.
At the age of five, he had been sent to be fostered by the Hightowers in Oldtown.
In this family, he truly felt like an extra child.
Aegon was the eldest son; his value went without saying. Aemond was the second son, but at least he held value in their parents' eyes.
Helaena was the eldest daughter, the pearl in her parents' palms.
Only he, the youngest son, had been fostered away since childhood.
Aemond saw Daeron's suppressed expression, which pulled him back to reality.
"Come. Let me see what the Hightowers have taught you."
Daeron raised his head and assumed a standard opening stance, the one taught by the knights of Oldtown: elegant and disciplined.
In contrast, Aemond just stood casually, the tip of his sword pointing at the ground.
"Attack."
Daeron stepped forward and lunged, his blade thrusting straight at his brother's chest.
The strike was fast and precise, carrying the weight of years of diligent practice.
Aemond didn't even move his feet. With a flick of his wrist, his training sword flicked upward, precisely striking Daeron's blade three inches from the tip.
Clang.
With a crisp vibration, Daeron's palm went numb.
"You're too disciplined," Aemond remarked.
"Your eyes are fixed only on my sword, and 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 my sword, but me. Watch my every move. Where is my center of gravity? Where am I looking?"
"A real battle doesn't follow the rules of a tournament."
As he spoke, Aemond suddenly moved.
Without warning, the training sword became a grey blur, thrusting straight at Daeron's face.
Daeron hurriedly raised his sword to parry, but Aemond's blade shifted strangely mid-way, changing from a thrust to a sweep, the flat of the blade slamming hard against his ribs.
Thud.
"Ugh!" Daeron cried out in pain, stumbling back three steps.
"Combat is a game played against a person, and people change."
Aemond withdrew his sword.
"Again."
This time, Daeron learned his lesson.
He moved slowly around Aemond, his gaze locked onto his brother's shoulders and hips.
"Now!"
Daeron suddenly exerted force, his blade slashing upward diagonally.
This strike abandoned all the forms he had learned; it was purely fast and ruthless.
Aemond sidestepped, glided, and flicked his sword tip upward, the movements completed in a single breath.
Daeron's sword was swept aside, leaving his chest wide open, and Aemond's sword tip was already resting lightly against his chest.
"Progress," Aemond said, sheathing his sword and turning toward the stairs of the curtain wall.
"Daeron, you're still too young."
Daeron breathed a sigh of relief and followed his brother.
The Walls of Summerhall.
The two brothers climbed the city wall, and the view suddenly opened up.
The walls of Summerhall were only ten feet high, but the design was unique, with serrated battlements and arrow slits at every protrusion.
"This territory of yours," Daeron said, looking around, "is more like a military camp."
Aemond walked to the battlements and pointed north.
"Look at that road. The Roseroad starts from Highgarden and passes nearby, with one path leading to King's Landing and the other to Storm's End."
He turned to the other side, his finger tracing the shimmering waters of the Blackwater Rush tributary.
"Now look at my port. Sailing east from here, you'll soon reach the Blackwater Bay and the port of King's Landing."
"Summerhall is wedged at the intersection of land and water, sitting right at the southern throat of King's Landing."
Daeron looked where he pointed, the geographical situation becoming clear at a glance.
Years of Hightower education allowed him to grasp the strategic value of this place instantly.
"Rhaenyra has Dragonstone, and those dragons," Aemond continued.
"And the Velaryons have the most powerful fleet in the Seven Kingdoms."
"If war breaks out, the first thing they'll do is blockade the entire Blackwater Bay."
"Forty percent of King's Landing's food depends on shipping. Once the sea route is cut..."
"The entire King's Landing will fall into starvation," Daeron finished, his brow furrowed.
"Unless grain from the Reach can be sent in by land."
"But land transport is immensely expensive; it can't support a city of half a million people," Aemond nodded.
"And southern land transport must pass through here."
"Whoever controls Summerhall chokes the southern grain route to King's Landing. That is why I want to turn this place into a military camp."
At that moment, the wind blew from the south, carrying the scent of rain.
After a long silence, Daeron spoke softly.
"Brother, are you doing all this truly to protect the family?"
Aemond didn't answer immediately.
He looked north, his violet eyes gazing at the blurred horizon where King's Landing lay.
After a long while, he slowly spoke.
"Does it make a difference? We can only win."
"Do you know what the consequences of losing would be? It would be the end of our bloodline; our names would become dust."
Daeron hesitated. "Rhaenyra... wouldn't go that far, would she? We are all Targaryens, all kin."
"War means people die," Aemond said.
"And death breeds hatred."
"Regardless of whether we share the same blood, in the end, only the hatred will be remembered. Fear, grief, hatred, and despair will spread through the entire kingdom like a plague."
He paused and said even more coldly, "The losers will bear these curses."
Daeron was silent for a while, then said:
"I think everything can still be discussed; we can resolve this through peaceful means."
Aemond's hand slipped from Daeron's shoulder as he looked down at the territory where lights were gradually flickering on in the twilight.
"It was Father and Rhaenyra who betrayed the Targaryens."
"Now, bastards stain the bloodline, and ambitious men split the family, trying to place themselves above us."
Daeron looked at his brother beside him and saw a certain resolve in his eyes.
"Now, there is only one last chance for a Targaryen restoration."
"If you don't try to seize it, if you choose to keep shrinking back..."
Aemond turned back, his violet eyes fixed on his younger brother.
"Then let the war begin."
"From the deserts of Dorne to the snowfields of the Wall, let the skies boil with dragonfire, and let dragons fall in a rain of blood."
"Even if I shed my last drop of blood, if I cannot save the Targaryens from failure..."
He paused.
"Then let the whole Seven Kingdoms burn..."
-----
A/N:
If you are enjoying the start of the story.
Drop some stones to help this book reach higher.
You can read upto 20+ Chapters. + Images
You can also read "+2 Free Chapters".
www.patreon.com/
LastDreamer