Shortly after Aegon and Alysanne returned from Maidenpool, the interrogation of the assassins yielded a major breakthrough.
All of the women had been deceived and used by a single figure. The mastermind, calling herself the "Old Crow," was in truth the mistress of Lord Frey.
Recently, the Emperor's new commercial tax reform had set clear and binding rules on how each lord was to levy taxes within his own lands.
The Twins, the Freys' ancestral seat, stood proudly astride both banks of the Green Fork. As the vital crossing that bound the North to the Riverlands, its strategic importance was unmatched, earning House Frey the lofty title of "Lords of the Crossing."
For generations, the Freys had grown immensely wealthy by charging tolls on all who passed their bridges. But the new decree forbade them from exacting inflated fees. Though Lord Frey dared not openly defy the Emperor's order, in his heart he nursed a festering desire for vengeance.
Now the hand behind the assassination was laid bare.
Aegon wasted no time. He ordered Lord Rogar to lead the royal host against the Twins, while he himself took to the skies astride Ghidorah, shadowing the army's march from above.
Summoned by their liege, the surrounding lords rallied their forces as well, closing the noose around the Twins to cut off every path of escape.
The royal highways that spanned Westeros—begun under Aegon the Conqueror—made the advance swift. In little more than ten days, the vanguard had already ringed the Freys' castle in steel.
When the Emperor descended upon Ghidorah from the clouds, every man present felt his breath catch in his throat. None dared to exhale.
Ghidorah's roar split the skies like thunder, and in its echo all could feel the Emperor's fury burning like wildfire.
Unfolding the steel wings upon his back, Aegon hovered above the Twins, gazing down at the Freys' stronghold with pitiless eyes. Even at full release of his might, he was not overcome by bestial rage. This was the strength of a body remade and fused with divine essence.
Now, even in this mortal vessel, his power rivaled the great champions of the Age of Heroes. He might stand a step beneath demigods such as "Bluehand" Garth, but against the likes of "Clever" Lann he would give no ground.
House Frey had once been sworn directly to the Crownlands. In the Conqueror's day, neither the fertile farmlands nor the river crossings of the Trident had been granted to House Tully. That the Freys dared defy the crown now—the punishment was certain to be dire.
The Lord of Riverrun, head of House Tully, stood among the gathered. A dragonborn himself, strong among his kin, yet as he beheld the Emperor's terrible presence, a crushing helplessness filled him. Aegon's power loomed vast and unfathomable, an abyss without end.
On the drawbridge of the Twins, Walder Frey knelt. Bowing low, he begged for his house's survival, insisting all guilt was his alone. He even carried a dagger at his side, ready to cut his own throat if only Aegon would spare his kin.
But the Emperor's face was hard as stone. His falcon-sharp eyes swept over Walder, and in a voice of unyielding judgment he declared:
"House Frey has risen against its betters. Their crime is unforgivable. Today, I will put the nine generations of House Frey to the sword, that the law of the realm may stand inviolate!"
With a flick of his sleeve, he loosed the signal of doom.
Ghidorah's three heads reared back and roared, the sound shaking the very earth. Then their jaws opened wide, and a flood of fire poured forth, cascading down upon the Twins until the castle was drowned in flame.
This ancient stronghold, which had stood for a thousand years, was swiftly plunged into chaos and despair beneath Ghidorah's fury.
Stone and mortar crumbled, smoke rose in choking clouds—it was as though the end of days had descended.
In that desperate moment, Lord Walder Frey saw his final hope shatter. Yet he did not surrender.
As a dragonborn, driven by terror and rage, he forced the dormant dark power within him to awaken. His eyes turned blood-red, a chilling aura radiated from his body, and he looked for all the world like a man possessed by demons.
He screamed and raged, commanding his kin to resist, clawing for the faintest chance of survival.
But in this age, awakening power without aid was nearly impossible. The spark of strength Walder conjured was no more than the glow of a firefly beside the full brilliance of a moonlit dragon.
Still, the Freys clung to their delusions, hurling themselves into mad resistance as though it might change a fate already sealed.
A band of their number gathered as death-sworn warriors, seeking to cut through the encirclement.
Blades in hand, they charged with cries torn between despair and madness.
But the levies of the surrounding lords and the royal host were waiting. Their line was iron and stone, unyielding, and the Frey death-squad broke upon it again and again.
Every assault ended the same—repulsed, blood soaking the earth, screams echoing across the riverbank.
Before the Emperor's majesty, their defiance was pitiful.
Lord Walder looked upon the ruin of his house and felt despair rise like a tide. Destruction was now inevitable, yet he refused to lay down arms. He bellowed and raved, driving his people to one last futile struggle…
The battle was over within half an hour.
So ended House Frey, a thousand-year dynasty of lords, wiped away in fire and blood.
Such a calamity was rare even in Westeros's long history, like a great stone hurled into a still lake, sending ripples of shock across every corner of the realm.
The great lords felt the Emperor's might and bowed their hearts in awe and dread. They understood now beyond doubt: before such absolute power, defiance meant annihilation.
One by one, dukes and princes sent petitions, humbly offering their families' succession rights into the Emperor's hands, hoping only to preserve their houses under his reign.
The authority of Aegon II now stood at a height unseen in all the ages of Westeros.
The storm at Maidenpool was quelled, and the realm seemed to settle once more. Upon the smoldering ruins of the Twins, laborers raised a mighty bridge to restore the passage between North and Riverlands.
...
When Aegon returned to King's Landing, word reached him of a staggering miracle:
—Lady Alyssa was with child.
She was forty-four, far past the years of safe childbearing. Her pregnancy was nothing less than divine.
In Oldtown, the former High Septon declared it a blessing from the gods:
"This mother, long beset by trials, has ever shown unshaken courage. For that, the Mother above has granted her mercy and grace."
Yet joy was tempered with worry. Time and hardship had weakened Alyssa's body.
Still, the new life stirring within her shone like warm light upon Lord Rogar's heart. He swore to master his temper at last, to remain by her side, tending her with care and patience.
But Alyssa herself was filled with dread.
She often thought of the child she once bore Aenys—
—little Vaella, the infant who died in her cradle.
She confided to her husband, "If I were to suffer that pain again, it would destroy me. It would cut my heart to pieces."
This time, fate was kind.
In the fifty-third year since the Conquest, she bore a healthy son, large and strong, with black hair and ruddy cheeks.
Some even jested, "His cry is so loud it could be heard from Dorne to the Wall!"
Rogar, who had long given up all hope of children with Alyssa, was overcome with joy at the gift. He named the boy Boremund.
But joy from the gods often walks hand in hand with sorrow.
Soon after Lady Alyssa's delivery, Queen Alysanne too gave birth to a son. She named him Jaehaerys, to honor and glorify her fallen brother—the King of Bronze and Fire.
All Westeros rejoiced in gratitude, and none more than Aegon, who awaited this new life with pride and expectation.
But fate was cruel. The young prince was born premature, tiny and frail.
The maesters of the new school, after their examination, declared he would not survive three days.
Alysanne was stricken with grief so deep the maesters feared it might break her body as well as her heart.
The Queen laid blame on the assassins of Maidenpool.
"Had I bathed in the healing waters of Jonquil's Spring," she said bitterly, "my son would not have been so weak."
...
In this moment of sorrow, Aegon II revealed his godlike might once more.
He tore out his own right eye and set it in the socket of his newborn son.
Nourished by the Emperor's Eye, the infant's body found strength. Little Jaehaerys revived, growing sturdier with each passing day.
The miracle spread through the realm like fire, and all stood in awe of the Emperor's divine power.
With each wonder he revealed, more and more of the people turned to the faith he preached, embracing the New Covenant of the Seven with unshaken devotion.