The banquet began with the crackle of torches and the clatter of cups, the humid Stepstones night thick with the mingled scents of roasted pork, smoking driftwood, and sea-brine. Soldiers filled the rough-hewn hall- mercenaries, crown loyalists, Velaryon men-at-arms, hungry from months on campaign.
Laughter rose louder than the waves, tankards slammed against the long tables, and the feast quickly took on the wild, uneven energy of men who had lived too long on salted fish and hard black bread.
Prince Aegon sat at the head, golden-haired and sharp-eyed, a cup of dark red wine at his elbow. He had not removed the leather from his sword-belt, nor loosened the heavy black cloak pinned at his shoulders.
Even at a feast, he wore command like armor.
Across from him sat Ser Vaemond Velaryon, already red-faced from drink.
Aegon lifted his cup lightly.
"To the Stepstones," he said, voice steady. "My domain, granted by King Viserys- by law, decree, and conquest."
Vaemond blinked as though the words took several moments to reach his wine-fogged mind. Then he slapped a palm to the table.
"Yes, yes, of course! Your rule here is absolute!" he said loudly, a bit too eagerly.
Aegon's smile did not reach his eyes.
He repeated- slowly, deliberately, as though speaking to a child:
"The Stepstones are mine. By right. By decree."
But Vaemond only nodded again, as if repeating a phrase he didn't fully grasp.
Aegon felt the realization settle with mild horror, the man truly had no idea what was happening around him. There was no subtlety, no calculation, only blunt emotion and blind arrogance wrapped in a nobleman's colored silks.
Still, a dull tool could cut flesh if wielded correctly.
After several cups of strong, burning liquor, Vaemond's restraint, what little of it existed, evaporated.
His cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy, he leaned forward with the confidence of a man too drunk to feel shame.
"My uncle... he must be fucking senile!" he declared loudly, entirely unprompted, "to name that little bastard Lucerys as his heir! Even Baela's blood is purer than his!"
(Note- In the books, Vaemond is the nephew of Corlys instead of his younger brother)
Several soldiers glanced around nervously, but Vaemond barreled on.
He was, if nothing else, a fanatic for blood purity. His voice grew sharper, angrier, rising over the music and chatter.
"History remembers more than names, it remembers bloodlines. And the Velaryons have never had a brown-haired, brown-eyed heir. Never!"
Aegon did not interrupt. He leaned back, swirling his wine, letting Vaemond's drunken rage spill freely.
"Mind your words, Ser Vaemond," Aegon said at last, his expression carefully schooled into stern concern. "Even if we all know the truth… our voices carry weight. And carelessly spoken truth can invite disaster."
His tone was soft. But his meaning was inflammable.
And Vaemond, predictably, rose to the bait like a fish to a hook.
"That whore-" Vaemond snarled, slamming his cup down so hard wine splashed onto the table. "-that whore calls herself the future Queen, yet she's never had the bearing of one! If she had given birth to even a single silver-haired child, a single true Velaryon, the rumors would have died!"
He laughed bitterly, a humorless, broken sound.
"But no! Two silver-haired dragonriders, and they manage to produce three brown-haired, brown-eyed boys. Three! It disgraces the names of two ancient houses!"
Murmurs rippled through the hall. A few men winced. Others pretended not to hear. The roaring fire seemed to crackle louder, feeding on Vaemond's fury.
Aegon watched him calmly.
He did not disagree. He did not condemn.
He simply poured another cup.
"The key thing, Ser Vaemond," he said gently, "is that even if you have complaints, what power do you hold? You have no lands, no army, no inheritance. That leaves you with no voice at all."
Vaemond stiffened as though struck.
Aegon continued, his voice smooth and deceptively sympathetic:
"To be sent to garrison Bloodstone Isle… exposed to the winds, the rain, and the Dornish raiders… it must feel rather unfair, mustn't it?"
Vaemond lifted his cup and drank deeply, bitterness clouding his gaze.
Lord Corwyn Velaryon- had fathered three sons. Corlys, the eldest, Vaemond's father, the second, and another who perished young.
But succession followed the strict customs of the Seven Kingdoms. Even if Laena and Laenor died without issue, the inheritance would not pass to Vaemond.
And worse, Corlys had firmly, openly declared Lucerys as his heir.
Vaemond's jaw trembled with rage.
"Baela is Daemon's daughter," he muttered, "but at least she carries the blood of Laena. Her bloodline is pure. But those Strong bastards... they taint everything."
He drank again- long, angry swallows.
"Though I am the eldest son, my father was only the second-born. Driftmark will never be mine," Vaemond said hoarsely, eyes burning with impotent fury.
Aegon leaned closer, lowering his voice until only Vaemond could hear.
"Actually… it is not entirely without hope."
Vaemond snorted. "What hope?"
"We all know bastards cannot inherit," Aegon said quietly. "And Baela… is a Targaryen. A royal."
"Yes... but my uncle will still choose her over me."
"What if," Aegon murmured, lips curling upward, "a King's decree named you the heir?"
Vaemond froze mid-breath.
His eyes widened as the implication settled, slowly, like a torch lowering into oil.
Even a king could not openly interfere in a vassal house's succession.
But Baela and Rhaena bore the royal name. They were Targaryens by blood and law. The matter could be reframed.
A decree could be justified.
If Aegon became King, and held power, Vaemond would become the first legitimate male heir of Driftmark.
He was drunk, but even a drunkard could grasp a lifeline when it dangled before his face.
Vaemond lifted his cup in salute, his eyes bright with greedy hope.
"Prince Aegon," he said grandly, "I drink to your wisdom. But who can say what the future brings? Three days ago, my uncle sent me orders to withdraw from Bloodstone Isle at once."
Aegon's fingers tightened around his cup, though his smile remained.
Vaemond continued-
"Yet I would never do such a thing. To leave before your arrival would be handing this isle over on a silver platter. So I disobeyed."
Aegon raised his cup and drank.
He did not thank Vaemond for loyalty; he thanked him for stupidity.
"What are your plans after returning to Driftmark?"
"I don't know," Vaemond said with a sigh. "Rest, perhaps. Recover."
Aegon chuckled, his tone turning light. "Are you interested in helping me wage this war? I would welcome your support."
If he could win over Vaemond... even as a pawn, it would be a blade in the Blacks' ribs.
Vaemond slapped the table in agreement.
"If nothing else holds me, I will come," he declared. "I'll help Your Highness deal with the Kingdom of the Three Whores and those savage Dornishmen!"
"Good." Aegon smiled, all warmth on the surface and ice beneath. "With your assistance, neither the Kingdom of the Three Whores nor the Dornish will trouble us."
He lifted his cup again.
Vaemond drank with the wholehearted enthusiasm of a man too simple to realize he was being used.
Aegon, meanwhile, was cursing silently.
Corlys Velaryon is a senile old fool.
Five days ago, Aegon had written, suggesting they join forces to secure the Stepstones.
And now the Sea Snake had issued orders for Vaemond to withdraw?
It was the act of a whore- slippery, dishonest, maddening.
Let Corlys pay for his insolence, Aegon thought darkly.
When the Stepstones were secured, every lord and merchant would pay a ten percent tax to pass.
And House Velaryon would pay thirty.
Triple.
A fitting penalty for defiance.
He smiled into his cup, letting the wine hide the calculation behind his eyes.
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A/N: The world is moving in shadows, schemes brewing, alliances breaking, and every soul chasing wealth or survival. No one knows what comes next…
Who wins? Who falls? Only time will tell.
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