"The Lords of the Vale could field twenty thousand swords at need."
— Alayne II, A Feast for Crows
…
The map was an elegant thing. A masterwork of parchment and paint, its vast surface spread across the council table in a careful arrangement of colour—white for those yet to declare, green for the faithful, black for the rest. There was very little black. A smattering in the Reach, a handful of errant Riverlords, and a single great blot staining the Stormlands beneath Lord Borros Baratheon's name.
Aemond had spoken little as the attendants laid it out before them, his gaze lingering over the precise, inked borders as the council lords, by silent accord, lifted their heavy marbles of office so that the parchment might be laid smoothly against the polished wood of the table; then, one by one, they set their weighted spheres upon the curling edges, ensuring that the document lay undisturbed before their collective scrutiny. Only when the last corner had been weighed did the prince finally break his silence.
"Lord Larys is absent," he observed.
The comment might have been idle, were it not for the source. It was not quite a question, nor yet an expression of concern, but a statement laid before the room, to be acknowledged and swiftly passed over. The council met it in kind.
"As ever, he knows what we do not," Otto murmured, dry as old parchment.
Aemond inclined his head, dismissing the matter. "Then let us proceed."
The room quieted.
"Rhaenyra has had herself crowned."
There was no gasp of outrage, no frantic exchanges. They had all known it was coming.
Aemond continued, his tone unperturbed. "She held her own coronation upon Dragonstone, styling herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with her rogue prince-husband declared Protector of the Realm, and her eldest bastard installed as Prince of Dragonstone. This, of course, is an act of open defiance. In light of the King's boundless generosity, we had offered her the dignity of a peaceful irrelevance, had she only the sense to bend the knee. She has refused this grace. That refusal, my lords, makes her not merely an inconvenience, but a danger to the stability of the realm. It is my proposal, therefore, that a declaration be issued forthwith: the false queen and her prince are to be deemed traitors against the realm. Their execution is to be demanded in the King's name. Furthermore, let it be known to all lords of Westeros that any who persist in their misguided support of this rebellion shall suffer the same fate. A reckoning is at hand, and it will not be gentle to those who defy their rightful king."
As his words settled over the table, he cast a glance at the painted territories upon the parchment. "I name to you the lords who have declared for the pretender," Aemond said, with the crisp efficiency of a man dictating an inventory. "In the Reach: the Costaynes of Three Towers, the Mullendores of Uplands, the Tarlys of Horn Hill, and the Oakhearts of Old Oak. In the Riverlands: Samwell Blackwood of Raventree, Tristan Vance of Wayfarer's Rest, Walys Mooton of Maidenpool, and Petyr Piper of Pinkmaiden. The Ironborn, as expected, rally behind Dalton Greyjoy in their traitorous ways. And the Stormlands…"
His gaze lingered upon the largest cluster of black, smudging the lands south of the Crownlands. "Lord Borros Baratheon and his vassals have declared for Rhaenyra in full rebellion."
A tense silence followed. It was Alicent who broke it, though her words were measured and spoken with careful restraint. "Such proclamations will carry weight, but the enforcement of them will fall upon the Crown's strength. The lords named here will not surrender their banners merely for the reading of a letter."
It was Otto who answered, his voice rich with satisfaction. "Then they shall be made to surrender." He turned to Aemond. "We should send ravens at once. Ormund Hightower can be commanded to put down the uprisings in the Reach. Oscar Tully shall be tasked with breaking the rebellious houses of the Riverlands. As for the Stormlands, the King's forces will not stand idle—if we must send a force to Borros's gates, let it be with the men of the Westerlands and the Vale. The Lannisters and Arryns can each muster a force to meet ours in the Crownlands and move southward to deal with this upstart."
At this, Aemond allowed himself a moment's consideration before replying, his tone measured. "A sound proposal, Grandfather. But I suspect the matter of Lord Borros may be resolved before such hosts are even needed."
A flicker of surprise passed through the council. Otto Hightower, ever composed, narrowed his eyes in appraisal. "And how is that, my prince?"
Aemond did not answer at once. Instead, he turned his gaze to Criston Cole, giving the knight a silent nod of permission.
It was Cole who answered. "Because, my lord," he said evenly, "Prince Aemond has already given the order."
A flicker of something passed across Otto's face. Surprise. A rare thing, and a dangerous one. "What order?"
"The mustering of the City Watch," Cole said. "A force of twenty thousand men is being prepared for an expeditionary battle into the Stormlands. They shall march within the week to unseat and apprehend Lord Borros and his vassals before they can properly organize a defence."
The chamber stilled.
Even Alicent, composed as she was, tightened her fingers over the arm of her chair.
It was Otto who finally spoke, his voice sharp. "Twenty thousand men? The City Watch can field such a force?"
Cole gave a slight nod. "The Watch has grown alongside the city itself, my lord. With the population of King's Landing surpassing seven hundred thousand as of the last census, the Watch stands at just over fifty thousand strong. And with two thousand more men in reserve, we can comfortably spare twenty thousand to pacify the Stormlands."
A silence stretched long between them. Otto's face was unreadable. But his voice, when he spoke, was measured steel. "And when, exactly, were we to be informed of this?"
Aemond exhaled softly through his nose, as though the question itself was of little consequence. "Now."
Otto's lips thinned. "And what else, pray, have you seen fit to keep from us?"
Aemond considered the question for a moment, then finally relented. "If you must know, I have secured riders for Sheepstealer and Seasmoke. They have already been dispatched to the Eyrie and Riverrun, ensuring our allies there are defended should the Blacks move against them."
A sharp intake of breath from Alicent.
"You what?" Otto's voice had dropped into something low and dangerous.
But before he could demand an explanation, Aemond cut across him, his voice cool as steel.
"It has already proven wise," he said, "for only days ago, those two dragonriders drove Daemon Targaryen from the field when he attempted to descend upon Riverrun with ill intent."
Silence.
Even Cole had not been made privy to this.
Aemond let the moment stretch before opening his mouth to speak. But before he could, a voice rang from the chamber's entrance, one thick with something sharp and seething.
"Did you just say you gave dragons to men of your choosing… without informing me, your king?"
Aegon stood in the doorway, eyes dark, voice cold.
And for the first time in the entire meeting, Aemond paused.