Chapter 16: The Blood Oath and the Brothers' Dance
The silence in Maegor's Holdfast was thick enough to choke on. Prince Aemond Targaryen, his one sapphire eye blazing with a furious, caged light, stood before his half-brother, the King. The offer – or rather, the demand – hung in the air between them, as heavy and sharp as a Valyrian steel axe. Ride Vhagar, serve Baelon, unleash his fury upon their uncle Daemon, and in return, a semblance of freedom, a taste of the power he craved. The price? Absolute, unbreakable fealty.
"You offer me a leash, not freedom," Aemond finally bit out, his voice raw.
King Baelon, seated with an unnatural stillness that was more intimidating than any overt display of rage, merely smiled – that thin, chilling curve of the lips that promised nothing good. "All dragons serve, Aemond. Even Vhagar. Even you. The question is, will you serve in a gilded cage, growing fat and listless? Or will you serve in the fire and blood of your ancestors, your deeds sung, your enemies broken beneath your heel… and mine?" He leaned forward. "Daemon forgets his place. He carves out a kingdom, defies my ravens, insults my crown. He is a festering wound on the honor of our House. You will be the cauterizing flame."
The conflict in Aemond was a maelstrom. Hatred for Baelon warred with hatred for Daemon, who had always been the epitome of the Targaryen warrior spirit Aemond desperately wished to embody. The chance to ride Vhagar into glorious, brutal combat, to prove himself against the legendary Blood Wyrm, Caraxes… it was a siren song to his frustrated, ambitious soul.
"And if I refuse?" Aemond challenged, though the defiance in his voice was already fraying.
"Then you will remain here," Baelon said, his tone flat, "until your spirit breaks or your body gives out. Vhagar will mourn your absence, I am sure. Perhaps, in time, I will find her a more… compliant rider."
That was the final, unbearable twist of the knife. The thought of another claiming Vhagar, his Vhagar, the beast for whom he had sacrificed an eye…
"I accept," Aemond ground out, the words tasting like ash. "Your terms."
Baelon's smile widened fractionally. "Excellent. Then let us seal our… understanding."
What followed was not a simple oath sworn on bended knee. King Baelon led Aemond not to the sept, but deep within the Red Keep, to a chamber rarely used since Maegor's day, a room whose stones seemed to weep old sorrows and ancient power. Larys Strong was present, a silent, club-footed witness, his eyes gleaming with avid curiosity. Upon a black basalt altar lay a Valyrian steel dagger with a hilt of dragonglass, and a chalice of obsidian.
"The vows of lesser men are writ on parchment, easily burned," Baelon intoned, his voice taking on a strange, resonant quality, the air in the chamber growing unnaturally cold. "The vows of dragonlords, of true Valyrian blood, are writ in fire and sealed in blood." He picked up the dagger. "You will swear fealty to me, Aemond Targaryen, not just as your King, but as your chosen master. Your will shall be my will. Your enemies, my enemies. You will obey my commands without question, without hesitation, even unto death, or beyond it if my magic can reach you there."
He then pricked his own thumb with the dagger, allowing a single, crimson drop to fall into the obsidian chalice. He offered the dagger to Aemond. "Your turn, brother."
Aemond, his face pale but his remaining eye blazing with a mixture of fear and a dawning, terrible fascination, took the dagger. He made the cut, deeper than necessary, his blood mingling with Baelon's in the dark cup. Voldemort then began to chant in High Valyrian, words of binding that echoed with the weight of forgotten empires and forbidden sorceries. The air crackled, shadows danced in the corners of the room, and Aemond felt an icy tendril of Baelon's will snake into his mind, not to control his thoughts, but to embed a single, unbreakable command: Obey. The chalice pulsed with a faint, dark light. Baelon bade him drink. Aemond drained the metallic-tasting liquid, feeling the magic sear through him, a brand upon his very soul.
When it was done, Aemond felt… changed. Hollowed out, yet strangely empowered. The leash was there, a cold, unbreakable chain around his will, but Vhagar would fly again. And he would taste battle.
"Go now, Prince Aemond," Baelon said, his voice returning to its normal, chilling cadence. "Vhagar awaits. Your instructions for the Stepstones will follow. See that you do not disappoint me. The consequences would be… most unpleasant."
As Aemond, newly unchained but more deeply bound than ever, departed to reclaim his dragon, Baelon turned his attention to the next, equally vital, stage of his plans: the expedition to Valyria. He could not simply vanish from King's Landing for an extended period without raising suspicion or inviting chaos. A cover story was essential. He would announce a grand royal progress, a tour of the western and northern domains – Casterly Rock, Pyke, Winterfell, the Eyrie – to solidify the oaths of fealty from the Great Houses and to demonstrate the King's presence throughout the realm. It was a plausible, even expected, undertaking for a new monarch.
The governance of the realm in his absence was a matter of critical importance. Lord Lyonel Strong, his Hand, was a capable administrator, but lacked the ruthlessness Baelon required for absolute control. He would head a Regency Council, yes, but its strings would be pulled by another.
"Lord Larys," Baelon said, summoning his Master of Whisperers, "during my… extended progress, you will be my eyes, my ears, and, if necessary, my unseen hand in King's Landing. You will report to me directly." He paused, then revealed a small, intricately carved obsidian amulet, pulsating with a faint inner light – a twin to one he would carry. "Through this, our thoughts may touch across the leagues. A little Valyrian artifice I have… perfected." This was a lie; the amulets were linked to Umbraxys, who could relay thoughts, but Larys did not need to know the precise mechanics. "The Regency Council will govern, but your counsel, derived from your… unique sources… will weigh heavily. And should any threat arise that Lord Lyonel cannot, or will not, address with sufficient… vigor, you have my authority to act. Decisively."
Larys Strong's smile was a thing of grotesque delight. Power, even by proxy, was a potent intoxicant for the Clubfoot. "Your Grace entrusts me with much. I shall not fail."
Preparations for the 'royal progress' began with suitable fanfare, masking the far more secretive preparations for the true journey to Valyria. Baelon, using the knowledge from the Heart chamber, began to assemble a small, magically shielded vessel, one capable of navigating the treacherous, ash-choked waters of the Smoking Sea. He would take only a handful of utterly loyal, magically conditioned servants, men whose wills he had subtly bent over years, and of course, Umbraxys would be his true companion and protector, its pocket dimension a hidden sanctuary within the mundane ship.
Larys brought reports from the realm. The construction of the Obsidian Citadel proceeded apace, its black walls rising like a grim sentinel, its design already inspiring awe and unease. Its foundations, Larys noted with a significant look, seemed to hum with a faint, almost inaudible energy, especially during storms. Rhaenyra, on Dragonstone, had sent congratulations on the King's planned progress, expressing her hope that he would visit his ancestral seat again soon. Lord Corlys Velaryon, however, had sent a pointed inquiry regarding Prince Daemon's status in the Stepstones, particularly concerning the safety of his granddaughter, Baela, Daemon's current wife. Baelon replied with assurances that Daemon was merely acting as the King's Sword in the region, and that Baela was under the King's distant protection – a veiled warning to both Corlys and Daemon.
Then came the day Aemond, astride the colossal Vhagar, departed for the Stepstones. He carried Baelon's royal decree: Daemon Targaryen was to relinquish his self-styled title of 'Viceroy of the Narrow Sea,' disband his personal army, surrender the excessive plunder he had accumulated, and return to King's Landing to renew his vows of fealty. Failure to comply would be met as high treason. It was, in essence, a declaration of war, brother against uncle, dragon against dragon.
The court watched Vhagar's departure with bated breath. Queen Dowager Alicent wept, torn between fear for her son and a desperate, twisted hope that he might achieve a glory that would somehow redeem her family. Aegon was said to have celebrated with a drunken feast, perhaps glad to see his more formidable younger brother sent into peril. Helaena had merely sighed, "The one eye flies to meet the blood wyrm. Two fires dance, but the shadow king holds the strings."
Weeks turned into a month. Baelon, outwardly engaged in the final preparations for his 'progress,' waited with cold patience for news from the Stepstones. He did not need to scry in the traditional sense. His bond with Umbraxys, and the amulet he had given Larys (which resonated faintly with any strong emotional or magical disturbance in its twin, which Aemond now unknowingly carried, a gift from the 'King' for his 'protection'), allowed him glimpses, fragmented images and surges of emotion, from the distant conflict. He felt Aemond's burning hatred, his terror, his exhilaration. He felt the savage fury of Vhagar, and the answering rage of Caraxes.
The first coherent reports came via terrified merchant captains who had fled the Stepstones, their ships barely escaping the cataclysmic battles that had erupted. They spoke of skies filled with dragonfire, of islands shattered by draconic fury, of two colossal beasts, one bronze, one blood-red, locked in a death struggle that made the very sea boil.
Then, a battered Volantene galley limped into Blackwater Bay, carrying a message scroll sealed with a hastily made, blood-smeared signet of a winged beast with one eye. Larys Strong brought it to Baelon immediately.
The King unrolled the scroll. The script was crude, written in Aemond's own hand:
"Your Grace. Daemon is… dealt with. Caraxes is fallen. Vhagar is wounded but triumphant. The Stepstones are yours, utterly. Awaiting further commands. Your servant, Aemond."
Attached to the scroll, by a leather thong, was a grotesque token: a freshly severed hand, its fingers still clutching a fragment of what looked like a simple driftwood crown. Daemon's hand. Daemon's self-made crown.
Voldemort felt a surge of cold triumph. Aemond had succeeded, and with a brutality that exceeded even Baelon's expectations. Daemon, the legendary Rogue Prince, the Blood Wyrm's rider, was dead or grievously incapacitated. Caraxes, one of the most formidable dragons in the world, was no more. The Stepstones were undeniably his. And Aemond, his hate-fueled weapon, was now proven, and still bound by blood and magic.
"Inform the Small Council," King Baelon said to Larys, his voice betraying no emotion, "that Prince Aemond has successfully pacified the Stepstones and eliminated the traitor, Prince Daemon Targaryen. A great victory for the Crown." He paused. "Send word to Prince Aemond. He is to consolidate our hold, rebuild what is necessary, and govern the Stepstones as my Warden of the Narrow Sea. He has earned his… reprieve from confinement. For now."
He knew granting Aemond such authority was a risk. But a distant Aemond, sated with battle and bound by the vow, was less dangerous than a caged Aemond in King's Landing. And Vhagar's might was now unequivocally his to command, through his one-eyed pawn.
Later that night, Baelon stood before the plans for his Valyrian expedition. The heart of the firewyrm and the Tear of the Shadow-Cat were secured. With Daemon's demise, a major internal threat and a potential distraction were removed. The path to Valyria, to the volcanic crystals that were the final key to his immortality, was clearer than ever.
He felt Umbraxys stir within its lair, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting tides of power. "The blood wyrm's fire is quenched, Speaker. The path of ash awaits."
"Indeed, Umbraxys," Voldemort thought, a rare, almost predatory anticipation coiling within him. "The games of mortal men are drawing to a close. The true work, the work of eternity, is about to begin."
He gave the order for his royal 'progress' to commence its first leg, a grand departure from King's Landing towards the Riverlands. But he knew, and only Larys Strong and his most conditioned servants suspected, that his true destination lay far to the south, across a poisoned sea, into the haunted, smoking heart of a fallen empire. The quest for godhood was calling, and King Baelon I Targaryen, Lord Voldemort reborn, was finally ready to answer.