“Good morrow, uncle,” Aegon said, finally tracking down Ormund in the corridors of the Red Keep.
The Lord of Oldtown was practically buried beneath a mountain of scrolls and papers, surrounded by harried stewards and scribes, the direct result of Aegon dumping the bulk of the kingdom’s administrative burden onto him and Tyland.
Aegon was a diligent man, far more diligent than the previous owner of the body, but Aegon was the King, and a king’s highest duty was to delegate.
“Your Grace!” Ormund turned, startled by the sudden intrusion.
“Good morrow. It gladdens my heart to see you in such high spirits.”
“Of course,” Aegon replied, stepping forward to take his uncle firmly by the arm, dragging him unceremoniously away from his clerks and record-keepers.
“I went into the Sept yesterday and made a few confessions. It felt like lifting boulders off my chest.”
Ormund blinked, forced to match his nephew’s uneven stride as they walked out into the hall.
“You went to the Sept, Your Grace? You might have brought me along, I feel wronged now! You know I would have gladly accompanied you to say my prayers.”
“Next time, uncle. But right now, there is something far more important we need to discuss.”
“I am at your service, Your Grace,” Ormund said, as he studied his nephew.
Aegon seemed like an entirely different man than the nephew he knew.
“Uncle, you stood with us to the end,” Aegon started.
“Nephew, I was” Ormund tried to speak, but Aegon cut him off.
“I know, I know. We are family and you were protecting it, but you still must be rewarded. After all, you’re my uncle, but I’m still your king.”
Ormund took a deep breath full of satisfaction and pride before inclining his head.
“As my king commands, I will do.”
“I wish to make you Lord Paramount of the Reach,” Aegon said simply, looking right at Ormund.
“The stewards of Highgarden grew arrogant. Since those stewards see themselves as lords, it’s time to make them stewards of Highgarden once again.”
“Your Grace…” Ormund dropped heavily to one knee on the cold stone floor.
Ormund spoke the dutiful words, but in his heart of hearts, this was the exact moment House Hightower had waited for since Aegon’s Conquest.
House Hightower had always looked down on House Tyrell.
To Ormund, the Tyrells were nothing more than upjumped stewards who had gotten lucky during the Conquest.
Receiving the Lord Paramountcy felt like the crown finally recognizing who actually ruled the Reach, the oldest, richest, and most cultured house in all of Westeros.
Aegon looked down at his uncle kneeling on the stone.
In his own heart, he really couldn’t wait for the Gold Cloaks to be reformed, to get a truly loyal house guard around him, and for this man to fuck off south to put down the rebellions that were bound to implode in the Reach.
He loved his uncle, but Ormund’s ambition could easily match Unwin Peake’s, and Aegon wanted neither of them anywhere near King’s Landing.
Ormund rose from the stone, a smile of pure satisfaction lingering on his lips.
“Now tell me,” Aegon continued.
“How go the preparations?”
“They are nearly complete, Your Grace. Ravens have been dispatched to every lord who is not in open rebellion, and the vast majority are already en route,” Ormund replied.
“Well… most of them, at least.”
“Good. Very good,” Aegon nodded slowly.
“And uncle… one more thing.”
“Anything, Your Grace,” Ormund said, listening attentively.
“Name it.”
“When, and if, Borros Baratheon finally decides to drag his army to the gates of King’s Landing, instruct the guards to slam them shut right in his face.”
Ormund blinked, caught entirely off guard.
“Your Grace?”
“Tell them to tell him to fuck off back to the Marches and go hunt another Vulture King,” Aegon said flatly.
“Any betrothal previously brokered between our houses is dead, null, and void. And hear me well, uncle: I do not want you, a herald, or a single noble representative standing on those battlements to deliver the news. Find the ugliest, dirtiest, most foul-smelling guard in the city, put him on the wall, and have him spit those exact words down at Lord Borros.”
“I beg of you, think this through. Reconsider!”
He put up two placating hands, practically pleading with his eyes.
“Lord Borros is a proud man. A terribly violent, thin-skinned man,” Ormund urged, trying to keep his tone calm.
“He commands four thousand unbloodied Stormlanders at his back. They haven’t lost a single soldier to this war! If we insult him so deeply, if we shatter the betrothal and send a common peasant to spit on his honor, he will not march back to the Marches. He will lay siege to this very city! We cannot afford to turn Storm’s End into an enemy when the realm is still at war!”
“You are right… let me reconsider,” Aegon murmured softly.
Ormund let out a long, silent breath.
Relief flooded his chest.
Thank the Mother
“When, and if, Borros Baratheon finally decides to drag his army to the gates of King’s Landing”
Ormund closed his eyes.
A silent, agonizing groan caught in his throat as those exact same words began spilling from Aegon’s lips once more.
The fragile flicker of hope he had just harbored withered and died on the spot.
“…instruct the guards to slam them shut right in his face,” Aegon continued, his tone calm.
“Any betrothal previously brokered between our houses is dead, null, and void. And as I said, uncle: I do not want you, a herald, or a single noble representative standing on those battlements to deliver the news.”
Find the ugliest, dirtiest, most foul-smelling guard in the city, put him on the wall, and have him spit those exact words down at Lord Borros.
I want the most scabbed, grease-stained cell-keeper in the Black Cells hoisted up to the ramparts.
Have him lean over the stone and shout for him to take his four thousand useless storm-cowards back to the red mountains where they belong.
And if I learn that you went to meet him yourself, or sent a knight, a guard, or a soft-spoken septon to smooth things over in secret, uncle…or if a single word was missing or changed from what I just ordered, I will be very disappointed.
Uncle”