"The Fremen were supreme in that quality the ancients called 'spannungsbogen'—which is the self-imposed delay between desire for a thing and the act of reaching out to grasp that thing."
―Frank Herbert
…
Lord Buckler had always thought himself a practical man. He was not the sort to rush into folly, nor to be ruled by passions unbecoming of a lord. He kept a firm hand on his household, a tighter grip on his coffers, and an unshaking belief in the gods and the order of things.
Yet as he stood within the chill of his own hall, roused from uneasy sleep by the braying of a horn, he felt something creeping through him that he dared not name.
It was not fear. No, certainly not fear.
He shrugged on his cloak as the sound came again, sharp and insistent, reverberating through the stones of Bronzegate. Below the castle walls, the streets of the town were silent, save for the distant neighing of horses. He could hear his men assembling in the yard, armor clinking, voices low.
"What is it now?" he muttered, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. "Another damned messenger?"
Ser Osmund, his captain of guards, nodded grimly. "Another one, my lord."
Buckler scowled. "One would think they might allow a man to take his rest before demanding his ruin. What more do they want of me?"
The answer did not matter. The mere fact that the enemy had sent another envoy meant that they believed the matter was still open for discussion. That, at least, was something.
Buckler took the stairs two at a time, emerging into the stone courtyard, where the faces of the gathered townsfolk turned toward him. Women held their children close. Old men leaned against their canes, whispering to one another. A nervous hush lay over them all, as though the weight of the very air pressed down upon them.
The castle had been their refuge for two nights now. When word of the approaching army had come, the people of Bronzegate had abandoned their homes and shops, dragging their belongings, their families, their lives inside these walls. They had whispered prayers that the host would pass them by, but prayers had never stopped a war before.
Lord Buckler pushed through the throng, stepping into the misty predawn air. Above, the sky was beginning to pale at the edges, the night retreating before the coming sun.
Beyond the walls, past the fog-covered moat, a lone rider sat atop a dark horse, clad in black and red, his cloak stirring lightly in the breeze. The golden dragon of the City Watch streaming from a standard flapped beside him, bright even in the dim light. He bore no shield, carried no sword. His only weapon was his voice.
"Lord Buckler of Bronzegate!"
The words rang out, echoing against the stone walls, loud enough for the men on the battlements to hear, loud enough for the huddled smallfolk to hear, loud enough for every trembling heart in the keep to clutch at the sound.
"By the will of King Aegon, second of his name, and by the command of his highness, Prince Aemond Targaryen, Warden of the Realm, I bid you open your gates. Yield your swords, and no harm shall come to the people of Bronzegate. Defy us, and you will bring ruin upon them!"
The silence that followed was almost as loud as the horn.
Lord Buckler took the steps to the battlements, his guards flanking him, his hands curling into fists. He did not look down at the townsfolk in the yard below, nor at the banners flapping in the distance where Aemond's host lay in wait. He fixed his gaze instead upon the rider, upon the banner of the City Watch of King's Landing. The Usurper's Men.
He forced his voice steady.
"Warden of the Realm? First I've heard of such a title. Regardless, tell your master that I am no man's subject but to my rightful liege, Lord Borros Baratheon, and my rightful Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! If Aemond One-Eye wishes to break his oaths and burn the Stormlands, let him try! I shall not yield my house to traitors and oathbreakers!"
The messenger did not recoil. Indeed, he did not so much as shift in his saddle. With the audible tinge of a sneer, he lifted his voice again, but this time, his words were not for Buckler.
"Men and women of Bronzegate!"
Buckler stiffened.
"You have heard your lord's words. He would have you fight a dragon. He would have you perish for his pride. He would let your homes be put to the torch, your fields turned to ash, your children left with nothing but death and ruin. Prince Aemond does not seek the destruction of Bronzegate. He will not harm those who lay down their arms. He asks only for your lord's surrender. A just punishment for a rebel and a traitor—"
"You dare!" Buckler bellowed.
The messenger's voice did not so much as falter. "Think well upon this. There is no shame in bowing to the rightful king. Open your gates, and Prince Aemond will show mercy. Will you place your faith in a rebel, knowing that the greatest dragon of our age sits beyond these walls? Will you stake your lives upon a cause that is already lost? Continue in defiance, and there will be no mercy at all!"
The moment stretched long. A shifting murmur rose from the gathered throng then, and Buckler, startled, turned to regard the smallfolk who stood below him in the courtyard. The shift in their countenance was unmistakable. Where once there had been only fear of the host outside, now there was a different unease, one turned inward upon their own lord. A child clung to her mother's skirts, her voice thin and plaintive: "Will they burn us, Ma?"
Buckler felt a hot flush of fury rise to his throat. "Hold your tongues! I shall not be made to answer to cravens and turncloaks!" he bellowed. "This castle shall not yield! This is the house of my fathers, and we shall not—"
"My lord."
A hand, firm upon his arm. Ser Osmund.
"My lord, we should return to the hall," the knight said, voice low and measured, though his grip did not loosen. "Now."
Only then did Buckler realise what had begun to take root amongst the gathered folk—the soft tremors of whispering voices, the glances that no longer turned to him in hope but in doubt. A shift, subtle but insidious, like the first crack in a wall before the flood came roaring through.
He swallowed.
"My lord," Ser Osmund repeated. More urgently than before.
"We must leave."
✥✥✥
Shadows danced along the oiled leather of the walls, swelling and contracting with each shift of the flames, mimicking the rise and fall of breathing things. The air was thick with damp and smoke, the scent of men and war. The tent, though well-appointed for a campaign, could not boast the refinement of courtly lodgings, nor indeed the comforts afforded to a man of station when at leisure. Aemond, however, was not given to idle complaints, nor did he suffer such trifles to weigh upon his mind. He had spent too many nights beneath open skies, on the scaly backs of gods that had outlived empires, to be troubled by the coarseness of war. He had chosen this path, and he would see it through with all the resolve expected of him.
He sat before a table scattered with missives and maps, the flickering light of a low light casting shifting shadows upon his face. A cup of wine had been poured and left untouched. He had no need of it, for his thoughts were far too preoccupied with matters more pressing than his own comfort. Lord Buckler, ever the practical man, had refused his most practical offer.
The answer was, of course, a foregone conclusion. The men of the Stormlands were renowned for their steadfastness—one might even call it a proclivity for obstinacy, though not, Aemond thought, the sort that led to prosperity. And yet, for the sake of appearance, he waited, for one must allow a moment to pass between the asking and the answering, lest any man claim he had not been given his due consideration.
It was in the midst of such contemplations that a rustling at the entrance of the tent announced the arrival of a most singularly practical man—his Marshal of the Camp. The marshal, whose name Aemond rarely found the need to recall, but did—Ser Roderic Varnen—was a figure of impressive gruffness. He was a man of angles, his face carved by discipline, his movements clean, precise, a being composed entirely of purpose. There was no wasted motion in him.
"My prince," he said, voice like gravel under boot, "the scouts have returned."
Aemond nodded, indicating for him to proceed.
"The roads to Storm's End will require work. The rains have made the passage treacherous—our wagons will sink if we do not fortify the path. Thankfully, it is nothing beyond our means. If we set the engineers to it at first light, no more than a few hours. The men know their work. It will be done. As for Storm's End, it remains well-secured—Lord Borros has drawn his people within its walls and is assembling a host, though it is a gathering of levies. Raw men, uncertain hands. They will not march to meet us in the field."
Aemond considered that. No doubt, the Baratheon lord fumed behind his stone walls, pacing his hall, railing against the news of their advance. But Roderic was correct, Borros would not ride out to meet him. He knew better.
There was no further need for discussion. The work would be done, the path made clear, and when the time came, the walls of Storm's End would offer no more protection than a child's wooden sword.
Before the Marshal could take his leave, another figure entered—a scout as obvious from his uniform, his boots still caked with the mud of his ride. He carried himself with the air of a man who had expected no different outcome than the one he bore.
"My prince," the messenger began, bowing low. "Lord Buckler refuses surrender. He names you an oathbreaker and will not yield his keep."
Aemond neither scoffed nor sighed. He did not rage as Aegon might have, nor sneer as their grandsire would. He simply nodded with all the interest one might afford to a particularly dull sermon.
"Very well," he said, rising to his feet. He fastened his rich, blood-red cloak, letting the weight of the fabric settle across his shoulders before turning his eye toward the Marshal. "Order the men to stand ready," he instructed the Marshal. "Bronzegate falls before the sun reaches its height. Remind the men—no harm is to come to those who yield, nor to women or children."
The Marshal inclined his head in understanding. There was nothing more to be said.
Aemond departed without preamble, stepping beyond the confines of his tent into the cool stillness of dawn. The camp lay before him in quiet repose, the men either asleep or awaiting the break of day in solemn readiness. There was no need for pomp or spectacle; the hour was too late for speeches, and Aemond had never been a man for empty words.
He walked alone, as was his habit, making his way through the silent encampment towards the clearing where Vhagar lay. The great beast was a looming shadow in the darkness, her bulk rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, her presence vast and immovable as the mountains themselves.
Aemond approached without hesitation, pressing a hand to the warm, time-worn scales of her snout. He spoke to her as he always did, his voice a murmur of High Valyrian, soft words meant only for her ears. She rumbled in reply, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath them.
Switching to the common tongue, he said simply, "It is time."
Vhagar did not require further instruction. She had known war longer than any man living.
Aemond climbed with practiced ease, settling into the saddle that was as much a part of him as the sword at his side. With a firm grip upon the reins, he gave the command, and with a mighty beat of her wings, they rose into the night.
Below, Bronzegate stood dark and silent, stubborn in its defiance, its walls high, its gates closed. Immutable.
An illusion.
Without ceremony, without proclamation, without hesitation, the old queen folded her wings by half and fell towards the stronghold. The wind howled, the earth rushed forth.
And then—
"DRACARYS!"
The world burned.