The Golden Wyrm

"Good governance never depends upon laws but upon the personal qualities of those who govern. The machinery of government is always subordinate to the will of those who administer that machinery. The most important element of government, therefore, is the method of choosing leaders."

―Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam

…

​

The next day.

The Dornishmen bowed low as they made their farewells, their robes shifting like the sands of their homeland. Aemond inclined his head with a slow, measured grace, his lone eye watching their movements with a cool intensity, as though he could sift hidden meaning from the flick of their sleeves and the glances they cast one another. They were sleek men, sun-worn and dry as the bones of some desert beast, with voices that flowed like wine and eyes that gave away nothing. Their prince had sent them here to barter for little more than gold and iron. Trifles. Alas, despite their great renown, the Dornish seemed to have appetites that ran shallower than most thought.

"Prince Qoren will find the terms...satisfactory," the eldest, a sinewy man named Toland, said, lifting his head. "Assurances of steady shipments, from your ports to ours, under Crown protection—Dorne would not soon forget such generosity."

"Our 'generosity,'" Aemond replied smoothly, "hinges on mutual benefit, Lord Toland. The goods we discussed will flow freely, but the sands of Dorne are less forgiving to our own merchants without the same accord. I trust Prince Qoren is willing to extend his protections to ships bearing the crown's banner?"

"Aye, Prince Aemond. You have his word on it." Toland's thin lips curved in a smile, the expression as dry as Dornish winds. "As well as his assurance that should this arrangement blossom...perhaps we might consider deepening relations."

When their pleasantries concluded and the emissaries having offered their parting words—courtesies thick as honey—they departed, leaving a trail of musk and spiced leather in their wake, Aemond allowed himself a slow exhale. Dorne was no simple conquest and the prince knew there was little hope in subduing them via trade as of yet, but that was never the goal. So long as they content themselves with the baubles he spared them and did not intervene in the crown's matters of succession, he would be content. For now.

The sound of approaching footsteps softened his musings, and there she was, arms crossed, regarding him with that firm gaze only Alicent and Heleana dared show him.

"Ellyn," he greeted her, the slightest hint of warmth in his voice. "Come to remind me I've duties beyond coddling merchants, have you?"

"Someone must, or you'll sit in this room until the Dornish come calling again," she replied with a small smile, one that tugged at the corners of her mouth as if restraining laughter.

Aemond chuckled, a rare sound for those who knew him. "The small council waits, then?"

"They do, my prince. You'll have Tyland wringing his hands if you're much longer."

"Let Tyland fret," Aemond replied, though he strode from his study, Ellyn wearing an amused smile as she shut the door behind him. "He'd wring himself dry even with no reason at all."

***

The chamber was already alive with murmurs as Aemond strode through its high doors. As the sharp echo of his boots reached the table, Queen Alicent's face softened into a small smile. She inclined her head, and Aemond returned the gesture, noting with quiet amusement the quick, approving glance Otto cast him.

"A touch late, are we?" Tyland remarked. "I can't say I'm shocked."

Aemond took his seat, eyeing the Lannister's grudging frown. "Apologies, Ser Tyland," he said, in faux remorse, "I'm afraid I got lost on the path of life again. Surely, you must understand."

The room filled with mild chuckles, Ser Harrold Westerling, the Kingsguard's aged commander, the quietest but the most watchful. Otto Hightower leaned forward, shaking his head in mock resignation. "The realm is run by men who jest at coin and minutes," he muttered, though a ghost of a smile softened his words. The council eased, and even Larys raised a small, amused brow.

As the laughter settled, the old shrew wasted no time, launching into the first order of business: the tariff on goods from the Free Cities. It was a matter the council had weighed heavily in past meetings, but Otto's resolve had only strengthened with time.

"We stand to gain more through partnership than through levies," he asserted. "If our coffers lose in the short term, the gains will return tenfold in time. We need only recall the profitable relations forged through Prince Aemond's recent work with the the lords of the Westerlands."

Aemond inclined his head in agreement, his hands resting easily on the table. "A reduction in tariffs will foster good faith," he added smoothly. "Let them pay less, and they will buy more. With the Iron Bank's mood souring, and their refusal to reconcile, it is prudent to court new allies wherever we might."

A rustle of discomfort swept through the room at the mention of the Iron Bank. The Dragon's Bank was Aemond's brainchild, yet its existence was proving to be a challenge not only to Braavos but to any house beholden to foreign lenders. Aemond, however, was unperturbed. The Iron Bank was a great wall—sturdy, yes, but even the greatest of walls could be tunnelled under, climbed over, or worn down to dust.

"What Prince Aemond says is true," Ser Tyland added. "Court new patrons, forge new bonds, and we may yet secure more than coin. Trade with more of our allies is a strong first step. With time, even Braavos may realize their money speaks better than their ire."

The council, all at once, murmured assent—there would be no objection, at least not today. The agreement over the tariffs flowed naturally into a review of the latest reports from the Stepstones. "And now," Queen Alicent announced, "we come to the matter of Lord Corlys's campaign against the Triarchy. Reports say his progress has been...remarkable."

"Aye," Otto agreed, his gaze flicking across the assembled faces. "Our support has been well-placed. An iron grasp on the Stepstones is within our reach. A foothold there could secure trade routes long troubled by the Three Whores. I propose we fortify the isles permanently—a stronghold to ensure the Sea Snake's work endures."

The queen nodded approvingly, and Tyland's expression brightened. "It would be a worthy addition to the realm. If there are no objections?" he queried, looking round the table.

None came, only quiet nods and murmurs of assent.

Seeing no opposition, Aemond took the opportunity to introduce his next point. "If we're of one mind on this," he said, "then I propose we consider the broader impact on the realm's infrastructure. The responsibilities of my office have grown too broad. I propose a new seat on this council—a Master of Works. A position dedicated to managing and directing infrastructure—new holdfasts, new roads, sewers, the fortifications in the Stepstones, and the other growing needs of King's Landing."

At first, silence. Then a flicker of surprise passed over Alicent's face, and Wylde cleared his throat in visible confusion.

"Master of Works?" he echoed. "Has this been discussed before?"

"It has," Aemond replied with a measured nod, "between myself and Tyland."

Tyland gave a deferential incline of his head, but Aemond noticed the tension ripple through the council as their understanding deepened. They were accustomed to collaboration, yes, but such coordination, made out of earshot, felt like something else entirely.

Orwyle shifted in his seat, folding his hands. "Wouldn't that be an... unusual position? A title so close to the Master of Coin's could... unsettle the balance of this council."

Wylde's brow furrowed. "And if we grant Tyland this new seat, what of the Master of Ships? Will we split these seats like logs in a hearth?"

Tyland met Wylde's gaze with the grace of a man already holding the position. "With the council's blessing, I would happily assume the duties of Master of Works, and I believe Vaemond Velaryon is more suited to take on the role of Master of Ships. His loyalty and skill are proven."

It was then, Aemond sensed, that they understood the scope of the proposal. The suspicion in Larys's eyes, the slight crease of Alicent's brow, and the glint of dawning realization in Otto's gaze all told him they had seen the plan laid bare. Yet, despite the tension, Aemond was unbothered.

After a long pause, Otto broke the silence. "I see wisdom in this proposal," he said slowly. "Our city is growing, and our realm demands attention to its every stone and shingle. And Vaemond Velaryon has indeed proven himself worthy enough."

The rest of the council exchanged glances, uncertain. Wylde's lips pressed into a thin line, while Orwyle tapped his knuckles on the table, his eyes clouded in thought.

Finally, Alicent gave a slow, measured nod. "Perhaps it is time we looked beyond tradition. The realm has grown, as has the weight of each seat's responsibility."

Tyland seized the momentum. "Then let us settle the matter. Vaemond shall assume Master of Ships, and I, with the council's approval, shall take on the responsibilities of Master of Works."

One by one, they relented, a quiet capitulation, one tinged with murmurs of reluctant agreement.

Finally, Aemond rose, clearing his throat as he addressed the assembled council. "There is one last matter. In the coming weeks, I shall be away. I will leave my duties in the capable hands of my aides. Should you need anything, please feel free to seek them."

Alicent's brows knitted in mild concern. "Where will you be going, Aemond?"

"To the Vale," he replied, his tone carefully neutral. "I would pay a visit to Lady Jeyne Arryn."

A silence settled over the room. He sensed their surprise but offered no explanation, only a slight incline of his head before he turned to leave. Let them wonder, he thought. A prince's business was seldom anyone's but his own.