The boy would remember this day until his dying breath.
Daeron Targaryen could feel the burn of it even now, the sting of humiliation, the ache of betrayal. He would not forget Aemond's cold indifference as his elder brother strode away without a backward glance. Nor would he forget the crushing force of Aegon's hand, the strength that had pinned him, shamed him, and marked this morning forever in his heart.
But beyond Daeron's wounded pride, the camp on Bloodstone Isle throbbed with a very different energy.
Inside the command tent, Prince Aegon had summoned the commander of the royal fleet, along with the captains and first mates of the thirty warships that ringed the temporary harbor. The lanternlight flickered against the canvas walls, gilding the faces of weathered sailors as they arranged themselves around a rough-hewn map table.
Aegon lifted a cup of Arbor red, his tone warm and commanding.
"My thanks to you all," he began. "You know well enough the state of the Stepstones. You know why we have come."
Murmurs rippled in the tent, grim, knowing sounds. The Stepstones meant danger, privation, and months of hard fighting. Even so, men leaned nearer.
"But you need not fear," Aegon continued, a faint smile curving his lips. "Aid is coming. And not only aid, dragons. Four of them."
Several captains straightened at once. Even hardened sailors could not hide the awe that stirred in them at that word.
"If you have a mind to see them, you should. Vhagar herself is among them, one of the three great beasts that conquered Westeros. A living legend." Pride flickered across his face then, unmistakable.
He tapped the map before him. "His Grace has named me the Lord of the Stepstones. Then Lord of the Stepstones I shall be. With title comes duty... duty to defend what belongs to the realm. And look here." His finger swept over the painted shoals, the isles like scattered shards of bone. "Are we not, in truth, expanding the borders of the Kingdom? Claiming what pirates and sellsails have held too long?"
The captains exchanged glances. Aegon pressed on, voice rising.
"This is glory, my friends. The songs of the Seven Kingdoms will remember you. Children yet unborn will know your deeds. History will bear your names."
He raised his cup high. "So let us drink, to ourselves. To glory."
The sailors roared with exhilaration, lifting their own cups.
"To ourselves! To glory!"
Laughter, boasts, and the sharp clink of cups filled the tent. For a moment, they could almost hear the future bards tuning their harps.
Outside, the temporary port had grown just as restless, yet the mood there was of another kind altogether.
Princess Helaena Targaryen, Aegon's betrothed, stood before the assembled soldiers: nearly twenty-seven hundred men in leather and mail, their faces taut with expectation. A breeze rolled off the sea, stirring her silver-gold hair, but her voice when she spoke was gentle, warm as soft candlelight.
"I am Helaena Targaryen," she said. "You all know who I am."
Silence settled over the men. Even the waves seemed to hush.
"The prince gathered you here not simply for war, but for gratitude," she continued. "Every man among you knows what it means to march for the Stepstones. Wounds… loss… death." Her words were quiet, but they carried. "And still you came. Not fearing death. Bold, steadfast warriors who fight to widen the realm's borders."
Her gaze softened. "But you are more than soldiers. You are sons. Husbands. Fathers. You are the pillars of your homes."
A murmur rippled through the ranks, startled, uneasy, and grateful.
"Prince Aegon has not forgotten this," Helaena said. "So at the very least, he wishes to ease your hearts."
She lifted her hand.
At once, attendants stepped forward, carrying twenty heavy chests. Wood scraped against the stones as they were set down before the men. Helaena moved to the nearest, unlatched it, and lifted the lid.
Gold gleamed inside.
A collective gasp broke from the soldiers. Breath quickened. Eyes sharpened.
Her earlier words had stirred something noble in them, but this... this was something wholly unexpected. Princes spoke of duty and sacrifice often enough. They rarely backed their words with gold.
But Aegon had.
A voice cracked through the stunned silence. "Princess!"
Helaena turned toward it, smiling with that small, earnest brightness that had always been her charm. "I am here. What is your name?"
"Nart, my princess," the soldier said, drawing in a steadying breath. "I- if we fight bravely… will these gold dragons truly be given to us?"
All eyes fixed on her, including his.
Nart's hands trembled slightly. His wife had delivered triplets, three sons, only weeks before. Then the summons came, ripping him from hearth and crying babes alike. Fear had dogged him ever since fear that he would die, that his family would be left defenseless, that his wife would join the countless widows preyed upon by the crueler corners of the world.
He had served twice before. He had seen what happened to those left behind.
He was not the only one thinking of home. Every man in the square held his breath.
Helaena wasted no time with speeches.
She gestured, and attendants began to distribute the gold.
"This is not reward for valor," she said clearly. "It is a resettlement grant! five gold dragons for each man. When the fighting begins, further service will be rewarded again."
Coin after coin dropped into calloused hands. The sound was soft but thunderous.
"You may spend it as you wish," Helaena continued. "Or send it home. And should any man wish to bring his family to Bloodstone Isle or Grey Gallows, they will receive further support. Five gold dragons for every person, young or old, and three acres of land. In addition, a fund of ten gold dragons to build a house."
Stunned silence washed over the port.
Not promises but coin. Not hope but certainty. And that too, before a single sword was drawn.
Five gold dragons struck Nart's palm. He stared at the weight of them, dumbstruck, scarcely daring to breathe.
A gust of sea wind cut across the harbor, shaking him awake. He looked up at Helaena again, slim, soft-spoken, her hair caught in the wind like pale fire, and something in him surged.
He raised his fistful of gold high.
"Prince Aegon is the true king!" he shouted.
A wave of voices answered at once.
"Prince Aegon is the true king!"
"Prince Aegon is the true king!"
The chant rolled across the port like rising storm tide, echoing off mast and stone until it bled into the very air.
The cry carried all the way to the command tent.
Inside, men froze mid-toast, wine sloshing in their cups. For a heartbeat, the captains could only stare at one another as the roar from the harbor thundered outside.
Then the mustached captain, sharp-eyed, quick-witted, burst into a grin. He raised his cup high.
"Prince Aegon is the true king!" he cried.
Aegon nearly choked. "Do not speak such folly. Westeros has but one king."
The captain barked a laugh. "Do we? Our eyes are not blind, Your Grace."
"Your- what?" Aegon began, but the man had already turned back to the crowd.
"Raise your cups! Prince Aegon is the true king!"
And the tent erupted.
"Prince Aegon is the true king!"
"Prince Aegon is the true king!"
Wine splashed, men bellowed, and the canvas walls trembled with their fervor. Aegon dragged a hand down his face.
"Oh gods," he muttered under his breath. "You'll land me in no end of trouble."
Yet even as he spoke, he lifted his cup, slowly, reluctantly, but honestly. He clinked cups with the roaring captains and drank deep.
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A/N: Aegon's ambition has begun to stir.As his power grows, so do his foes, traitors, and enemies rising with blades already drawn.
Will he truly succeed… or be crushed before he can claim it all?
If you want to find out, read ahead on Patreon.19 advance chapters available, the first 2 are free.
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