"You must learn to be ruthless with time, Paul Muad'Dib. Waste is the enemy. Here, the desert grants nothing without a cost. Time wasted is water lost; life squandered."

―Stilgar (Naib of Sietch Tabr)

…

The sky was as clear as polished glass, the sun high and sharp, the chill of the wind frigid against Daeron's face. His brother rode ahead on Vhagar, his usually towering form dwarfed by the coppery wings of his monstrous mount, gliding effortlessly over the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. Tessarion flew in her own grace behind them, her blue scales catching glints of sunlight as she swayed through the cold air like a ribbon.

Aemond had been the one to suggest they take a flight above the Vale before descending upon the Eyrie. He always did have a strange fascination with the lay of the land, the bones of Westeros that even kings and castles could not change. Daeron could appreciate the beauty of it, but his thoughts were more occupied by the cold gnawing at his fingers, the trembling in his legs, and the anticipation of what their visit to Lady Jeyne Arryn might bring.

Suddenly, Aemond turned, his voice barely discernible over the winds as he shouted back at Daeron, pointing with his gloved hand. Daeron blinked, following the direction, peering through the steely wind. There, hidden beneath a jagged formation of rock, was a cluster of huts, smoke curling up from the craggy settlement. Daeron recognised them. Hill tribes. The Vale's barbarians.

Before he could think further, Aemond's intentions became clear. Vhagar banked to the left and slowly began her descent, her movements ponderous and deliberate, like a shadow falling over the mountainside. Daeron shouted to his brother, confused, Tessarion shifting uneasily beneath him as if echoing her rider's uncertainty. Aemond... what is he doing?

The old queen landed heavily, her bulk settling with a deep, earth-shaking thud. She roared then, a great rumble that seemed to grow from the very mountain itself. Daeron pulled on Tessarion's reins, keeping her at a distance, watching as his brother's dragon exhaled a stream of fire, a molten blaze consuming the huts half-hidden in the caves. The stone and earth were swallowed by the creeping, relentless flames, and the cries of men echoed through the air, fading beneath Vhagar's low, guttural growls.

Minutes later, Vhagar's massive wings unfurled with slow, laborious beats as the dragon and rider pair ascended once more, the molten ruins of the camp dwindling beneath them. Daeron stayed silent, the cold unease in his stomach refusing to dissipate as they approached the shadowed silhouette of the Eyrie—perched like a white eagle upon the shoulder of the Giant's Lance. He glanced at his brother, whose expression remained inscrutable, his silvery hair fluttering in the wind.

When they finally landed upon the precarious cliffside at the foot of the Eyrie, Tessarion and Vhagar took up most of the available cliffside, their presence as imposing as the jagged peaks themselves. Daeron dismounted, his feet crunching against the rocky ground, the cold biting through his boots. He turned to his brother, unable to keep the question from his lips any longer.

"Why did you do that?" Daeron asked, his voice low, almost drowned by the wind.

Aemond paused for a moment, his eye fixed on the fortress above. Then he looked at Daeron, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. "A message, dear brother. One that will soften the will of our host and make her more open to negotiations."

Before Daeron could respond, the castle guards finally emerged, approaching cautiously. Their eyes darted uneasily between the dragons and the two princes who stood beneath their shadows.

"State your purpose here," the old captain of the guard called, his voice thick with uneasiness.

Donning a disarming smile, Aemond turned and stepped forward, his posture composed, the wind tugging at his dark cloak. "At ease, good men," he said, raising his gloved hands. "We are simply here to seek an audience with the Maiden of the Vale."

The guards hesitated, exchanging wary glances. The captain's eyes lingered on Vhagar, then on Aemond, before he gave a reluctant nod. "Follow me, my princes," he said, his voice slightly more subdued.

They were led inside, where the chill of the mountain winds turned to the biting cold of stone halls. Their boots echoed, announcing their presence long before they reached the great hall, where Lady Jeyne Arryn awaited, her gaze cool and discerning.

Lady Jeyne was a beautiful woman, her features sharp and regal, with a proud bearing that spoke of her noble blood. Her eyes were stern, a shade of deep blue that seemed to mirror the cold skies of the Vale, and there was a certain firmness in her gaze that suggested she was not easily swayed. She sat on a high seat beneath a banner of the falcon and the moon, her auburn hair braided intricately, and a gown of rich blue and silver on her shoulders, her house's emblem embroidered on her bodice.

"Prince Aemond," the lady said, her voice carrying an edge of curiosity. "Prince Daeron. This is quite the unexpected visit." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I received no word by raven of your coming."

Aemond inclined his head, an almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "I thought it unnecessary, my lady. We do not intend to linger long." He paused, then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "But there are matters I wish to discuss, privately, if you would indulge me."

Jeyne's expression flickered—hesitation, suspicion, curiosity—before she nodded, dismissing all but one of her guards, the old commander who lingered by her side. Daeron stood silently, trying not to show his surprise as Aemond's intentions finally revealed themselves.

"You wish for my hand," Jeyne said, her voice neutral, her eyes appraising. "Why?"

Aemond met her gaze, his head tilting slightly. "There's hardly a better match for me in the seven kingdoms, my Lady. You must know that."

The silence that followed was thick, weighted. Jeyne studied him, her eyes narrowing as she considered the subtle flattery. She took a long moment, her gaze flickering to Daeron, who stood quietly, observing.

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"Perhaps," she finally said, her voice deliberately neutral. "But I would need assurances before I can consider such a union. A dragon would need to be stabled in the Vale, preferably here at the Eyrie. Such a presence would serve to both reassure me and deter any threats."

"You want Vhagar to stay here?" Aemond asked, seemingly unsurprised. "Then you hope to keep me in the Vale, I presume?"

"Indeed, I do," the lady confirmed, her voice calm and resolute. "You would be my husband, would you not? And as it stands, as far as I am aware, King Viserys has yet to bequeath any lands or fiefs to you. It's only natural you and your dragon both stay here with me."

Aemond frowned slightly, tilting his head. "The Vale could hardly support the presence of a beast Vhagar's size, my lady. The logistics alone—feeding the old queen, maintaining her—are matters that cannot be dismissed lightly. Her hunger is vast, and it would take careful planning to sustain her comfortably without impoverishing your lands."

Jeyne fell silent for a moment, her expression unreadable as she considered his words. Her fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of her seat before she gave a curt nod. "It can be done, Prince Aemond. This is not an insurmountable problem. The Vale can surely afford it."

Their negotiations shifted then, Aemond raising other matters—trade, defence, and alliances. Arrangements for a Merchant Guild in Gulltown, the construction of a garrison near the Bloody Gate, and protections for trade routes that crossed the Vale.

"A Guild in Gulltown could bring in more trade from Braavos, perhaps even direct routes from Lorath. If we establish it now, the Vale would see a boost in both revenue and influence, my lady. It would also mean a stronger economic base for our prospective union."

Jeyne nodded, though her expression was a bit guarded. "The guild would certainly benefit Gulltown, and I can see how it would strengthen the Vale. But the construction of a garrison near the Bloody Gate is not a small matter, Prince Aemond. It will be costly, and some of my bannermen may be reluctant to contribute men and coin for such a venture."

Aemond's lips curved slightly. "I will provide half the coin and men required for this then. The remaining cost to you and your vassals, monetarily, will be offset by the safety it will ensure for trade and travel throughout the Vale. A secure trade route benefits every noble house in the region. As for the men, it is not my intention to take from your bannermen's levies—at least, not without giving something in return."

Jeyne's eyes narrowed, considering his words. "What would you offer in exchange?"

"Tax reductions for those houses that contribute to the garrison," Aemond suggested smoothly. "As the Master of Coin I can decide that much independently of the small council. Your vassals' support would ensure security for the entire Vale, and the incentive should lighten their burdens. It is a fair arrangement, wouldn't you agree?"

Jeyne tapped her fingers on the armrest of her seat, her gaze piercing. "And who would oversee this garrison? Men loyal to the Arryns, or men of your choosing, Prince Aemond?"

Aemond inclined his head slightly, his smile not fading. "I would propose a shared command. A captain from House Arryn and one of my choosing. This way, trust is built, and no single party holds sway over the garrison's forces."

A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken considerations. Jeyne's gaze flicked to Daeron, who stood quietly by, his eyes watching the exchange with a mixture of interest and wariness.

"It is a bold proposal," Jeyne finally said, her tone thoughtful. "I can see the benefits, though it will take time for some to come around. But as you say, Prince Aemond, a secure Vale benefits us all. The Merchant Guild, the garrison—they could serve to make the realm stronger. I am willing to pursue these endeavours, provided we work together in overseeing their execution."

Aemond nodded. "That is all I ask, my lady. Cooperation and shared purpose."

The Lady's eyes narrowed slightly. "I will hold you to that, Prince Aemond."

Daeron watched, a silent spectator to this. Talk eventually turned to the specifics of their wedding, the traditions to be followed, the expectations of both sides. Aemond laid down his conditions: the heirs and spares, the names their children would bear, the insinuation about loyalty and discretion that lingered just beneath the surface. The Lady Jessamyn Redfort was mentioned once, though Daeron couldn't discern why due to lacking context, the younger prince noticed how Lady Jeyne's lips tightened at these demands, her eyes narrowing, her posture stiffening. Yet, even in her displeasure, she did not outright refuse. She was a woman accustomed to weighing costs and benefits, and though these terms were clearly not ideal for her, the alliance seemed worth the price.

In the end, an agreement was made. The lady's eyes were serene, her acceptance more akin to a queen considering an investment than a bride accepting a proposal.

As they left the great hall, Aemond led Daeron out of the Eyrie, the cold biting at their faces once more. Tessarion was already restless, shifting uneasily on the precipice, her wings rustling in anticipation. Vhagar stood as still as a mountain, her age-old gaze fixed somewhere beyond, her presence as immutable as the Giant's Lance itself.

"Oldtown?" Daeron asked, glancing sideways at Aemond, who seemed lost in thought.

Aemond looked northward, his single eye alight with a cold fire. "Not yet, Daeron. We must pay a visit to the Starks. There is some business we them we have yet to attend."

Daeron nodded, though he felt the wind's cold settle in his bones. There was something in his brother's gaze, a will that brooked no argument. Whatever Aemond sought in the North must be of great importance.

With a snap of leathery wings, they ascended once more atop their dragons, leaving the Eyrie and its cold halls behind, the mountains dwindling below them.