Stormlands, Casterly Rock, Young Aegon's encampment.
The victory in capturing Bronzegate and routing Stannis's main force had the morale of Aegon the Younger's camp soaring. The tents of the Golden Company and the khalasar of the Dothraki spread across the fields.
Inside the great tent, Young Aegon radiated confidence, his silver-gold hair gleaming brilliantly in the lamplight. These sellswords, battle-hardened veterans of the eastern continent, were well-versed in handling the lords of Westeros.
Ten days prior, Ser Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company, had proposed a strategy of feinting east while striking west. While creating the illusion of besieging Storm's End, the company's intelligence officers had infiltrated Bronzegate City to coordinate with the main force for a nighttime assault.
Most of the Golden Company mercenaries hailed from Westeros, many even born in the Stormlands. From the moment they landed, under the Spymaster's command, they had been secretly dispatched to infiltrate various castles. Coincidentally, when the new Lord of Bronzegate was conscripting soldiers from the surrounding countryside, he inadvertently allowed the Golden Company's infiltrators to slip into Bronzegate. Thus, the successful ambush was made possible.
All eyes shifted to the ground in the center of the tent. Several captured Stormlands nobles knelt dejectedly, their heads bowed. Bound nearby was a dwarf—Tyrion Lannister.
Tyrion looked utterly defeated. When Young Aegon's army stormed Bronzegate, he had been dreaming sweet dreams in the dungeons. When he awoke, he had already been handed over to others.
Though Jon Connington rejoiced in the victory, his eyes darkened upon seeing Tyrion.
Pointing at the dwarf, he advised, "Your Grace, this deformed monster is the son of Tywin Lannister. Keeping him alive is a threat. He should be executed immediately, his head displayed to strike fear into House Lannister."
Tyrion jolted upright, his voice racing as he cried, "Your Grace! I killed my father, Tywin! Cersei hates me to the bone—the entire realm knows it! Killing me would only help your enemies eliminate someone they too wish dead! Keep me alive—I can be useful! I know Lannister secrets! I'm the last person you need to fear!"
Young Aegon studied the eloquent dwarf with interest, offering no immediate response.
Just then, the tent flap was thrown open. Lysono Maar, the Golden Company's intelligence officer, strode in with an excited expression, holding aloft the reddish-brown dragon egg fossil.
"Your Grace, look what we found! This dragon egg was seized from Stannis!" Lysono Maar presented the egg.
Young Aegon took the heavy, cold stone egg with surprise, carefully tracing its fine, scale-like patterns. He questioned the Stormlands noble kneeling nearby and quickly learned the egg's origin and Stannis's method for hatching silver dragons.
Only then did everyone understand: Stannis had burned Viserys alive to hatch the dragon egg fossil. This news left Young Aegon silent for a long while. It also flashed anger in Jon Connington's eyes beside him.
Aegon stared at the dragon egg in his hands, his gaze flickering with complex emotions. To hatch it, the blood of a king was required. But where could he find it?
At that moment, Jon Connington read the young Aegon's thoughts and leaned in, whispering,
"Your Grace, Storm's End still has a bastard king. That deposed king might serve as the sacrifice needed to hatch the dragon."
Viserys's tragic fate filled Jon Connington with fury. Honour and mercy were forgotten; he sought an eye for an eye.
Aegon's face broke into a smile. He felt no pity for Edric Storm of Storm's End, that bastard son of the Baratheons. If he could take Storm's End, he would kill that bastard.
Young Aegon lifted his head and addressed the assembly with confidence: "Gentlemen, the facts are clear. Stannis stole the Targaryen dragon eggs. These eggs belong to the true dragon's inheritance."
He turned his gaze to the Spymaster and pressed further: "And the silver dragon?"
Lysono Maar's face lost its joy upon hearing this: "According to our sources, the silver dragon has flown away."
Young Aegon commanded decisively: "Search! That dragon belongs to me. It will return—drawn by the true Dragonblood."
Ever since the successful night raid on Bronzegate, driving Stannis away like a stray dog, Young Aegon had grown increasingly arrogant. These nobles, whose names once reverberated like thunder, now lay defeated at his feet.
The long-nurtured thirst for vengeance, combined with the increasingly clear victory, filled him with unparalleled satisfaction. Young Aegon could scarcely wait to purge all these rebels and claim his rightful crown!
The crowd shouted Aegon's name in unison. But a flicker of concern crossed the eyes of Ser Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company, who stood nearby. Seeing the fervor of the crowd, young Aegon spoke with great emotion:
"We've received word that Storm's End is running low on supplies. Send orders for the army to march! We are returning to Storm's End, and we will take that castle that never fell!"
He then looked at Tyrion. "Take him away. A Lannister belongs in a cell."
Tyrion Lannister's life was spared for now as he was dragged away. His head hung low as he quickly considered how he might survive under this young Aegon's rule...
...
In the North, at White Harbor, the great hall of House Manderly was alive with the crackling of a fierce hearth. Jon Snow arrived with 20,000 reinforcements from Lo Quen, hoping to gain White Harbor's support.
The portly Lord Wyman Manderly sat at the head of the table, his small eyes darting between Jon and the officers behind him—clearly foreign in appearance. He forced a sorrowful expression onto his face.
"Lord Eddard, King Robb's death... By the gods, this is the darkest hour the North has ever known. House Manderly has always been loyal to the Starks. That Lady Sansa is safe, and soon to marry that Eastern king—this is indeed a blessing..."
However, his words were cut off by a cold, hard voice.
"My lord, I see this as inviting wolves into the fold!"
The speaker was Ser Bartimus, the steward of Wolf's Den, a one-legged, one-eyed man. He pointed sharply at Jon.
"Jon Snow, look at the company you've brought! Barbarians from the grasslands, savage horse riders, and those slave soldiers of dubious origin. Why would this Eastern conqueror be so generous? Because his ambition is clear for all to see. He wants to use the Stark name to march his foreign army into the North and swallow it whole. The Boltons are vile, but is it truly wise to drive out jackals only to invite tigers?"
Jon's face darkened, his anger barely contained.
"Ser Bartimus! House Bolton betrayed and murdered my brother and mother. They took Winterfell. That beast Ramsay even claims to have captured my sister Arya and intends to marry her by force. The North is bleeding. We need strength to avenge them. King Lo Quen is Sansa's betrothed, he..."
"Betrothed?"
Ser Bartimus interrupted with a cold laugh.
"Who knows what schemes this Eastern king harbors? And you, Jon Snow—search your conscience. Are you truly a Stark? The rumors about your origins... If you are truly a Targaryen, what right do you have to lead a foreign army on the soil of the North?"
Those words struck Jon deeply, exposing his inner pain and insecurity. His face turned pale in an instant.
Lord Wyman tried to defuse the situation.
"Now, Ser Bartimus, Jon is only acting for Sansa, for the Starks..."
He glanced at Jon and sighed.
"I will support your cause. But Jon Snow, you must keep your soldiers in check. The North is fragile—it cannot withstand the damage your army could do."
Jon nodded in gratitude.
"My lord, thank you for your support. Please, gather your forces immediately. We depart for Winterfell at once."
Ser Bartimus only grunted in response and said no more. He turned and, leaning on his cane, left the hall.
...
That night, back in his chambers, Ser Bartimus wrestled with his inner turmoil. His loyalty to the Starks was unquestionable, but he had deep mistrust for outsiders—especially the ill-reputed Dothraki and that distant Eastern king.
Nor could he fully trust Jon Snow, the man with dragon blood.
After much hesitation, he finally lit a candle, spread out parchment, and picked up a quill to begin writing.
...
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