"How could such a joyous day end like this?"
Within his chambers, King Viserys paced slowly beside the hearth, his unease deepening with every turn of thought. He had once indulged the hope that Rhaenyra and Aegon might stand together as true kin, that blood alone would mend what politics strained. Tonight had shattered that illusion beyond repair.
"Your Grace," Archmaester Mellos said softly, stepping forward, "there is something I believe must be said."
He offered the cup he carried with both hands. Viserys accepted it with a grimace, swallowed the thick, bitter draught, then drained two cups of water in quick succession. Only then did he exhale, long and weary.
"Speak," Viserys said, waving a hand. "You have my leave."
Mellos hesitated, then inclined his head. "Prince Aegon is exceptional. He is also your eldest son. I urge Your Grace to reconsider the matter of succession to the Iron Throne."
Viserys stiffened at once. His brows drew together, displeasure plain upon his face.
"What is this?" he snapped. "Did Otto Hightower send you to whisper treason in my ear?"
Mellos shook his head firmly. "No, Your Grace. I serve only the reigning king of the Seven Kingdoms. No one else."
He stepped closer, his voice measured. "You witnessed today's events yourself. Prince Aegon is not lacking in ambition, as you once believed. If anything, the opposite is true. He possesses ambition in abundance."
Viserys said nothing, his jaw tightening.
"From his conduct in the Stepstones," Mellos continued, "it appears the Iron Throne may be no more than a stepping stone in his designs."
With that, Mellos reached into his robes and produced two neatly folded reports, placing them upon the table beside Viserys's model of old Valyria.
Viserys frowned and took them up. He read slowly, once, then again. By the time he finished, the furrow in his brow was deep enough to cast shadows.
"As you can see, Your Grace," Mellos said, gesturing faintly, "Prince Aegon seems intent on pushing eastward. An invasion of Essos, perhaps. It is possible he seeks to rebuild…"
His gaze lingered, unmistakably, on the miniature towers and roads of the Valyrian Freehold.
"You mean," Viserys said slowly, his eyes widening, "that Aegon intends to restore Valyria?"
"I cannot say," Mellos replied. "No man truly knows Prince Aegon's mind. What I do know is that he is adept at winning loyalty. Members of the royal fleet who should answer only to you have already shifted their allegiance. Our access to reliable intelligence is… limited."
Viserys lifted the reports slightly. "Then where did these come from?"
He read the headings aloud, incredulous. The Triarchy fractured. Tyrosh on the brink of collapse. Dorne turning its gaze toward the Sunset Sea.
The Stepstones, pacified. Secured.
For a moment, Viserys nearly laughed. When words fail, disbelief often follows.
Mellos felt it keenly. The king would sooner doubt the truth of the reports than accept that Aegon had accomplished what generations of Westerosi lords had failed to do.
Mellos understood why.
If the Stepstones were truly stabilized, Aegon had gained untold wealth and an unmatched strategic foothold without cost. That outcome ran counter to everything Viserys had hoped for.
The king had wanted a war without end, a barren, draining struggle. A quagmire to mire Aegon and his supporters. War consumed coin, men, and ships, and the Stepstones offered little in return. Once Aegon was bled dry, he would have been forced to beg the Crown for aid. And in that moment, the Greens, especially the Hightowers and the Lannisters, could be weakened at leisure.
It had been a sound design.
Yet though Aegon had gone to the Stepstones as expected, what followed defied every calculation.
"The fleet did not remain whole," Mellos said quietly. "It divided. The ships established a base on Bloodstone, which now serves as a second Dragonstone. The dragons, four of them, flew elsewhere."
Viserys looked up sharply.
"They struck Tyrosh," Mellos went on. "Without warning. The city endured a day it will remember for generations."
He paused, then added, "It has forced me to reconsider what dragons truly mean upon the field of war."
Viserys sank into his chair.
"The situation in the Stepstones is no secret, Your Grace," Mellos said. "Merchants speak freely. Westerosi traders among them."
Silence stretched between them.
"At this point," Mellos said at last, choosing his words with care, "whether Prince Aegon dreams of Valyria matters less than this. Decades of peace have filled your coffers. The realm can survive foreign wars. What it cannot endure is a struggle between true dragons."
He avoided the word civil war, though both men understood it.
In Mellos's judgment, the Greens already held a decisive advantage. If Viserys persisted in naming Rhaenyra his heir, the Seven Kingdoms would drown in blood.
Viserys's face darkened, grief and fear warring behind his eyes. Tonight had stripped away his last illusions. There would be no reconciliation. Not now. Perhaps never.
Daemon had even moved against Aegon. Officially, it had been an attempt at arrest. But if Ser Criston Cole had not intervened, if Daemon had closed the distance…
Viserys shook his head sharply, forcing the thought away.
"Where is Daemon?" he asked at once. "Has he been confined?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Mellos replied. "By your command, Prince Daemon has been placed under house arrest. In Maegor's Holdfast."
"What?" Viserys surged to his feet. "What did you say?"
His blood ran cold. "Maegor's Holdfast?"
He had intended nothing more than restraint, a pause to let tempers cool. Instead, Ser Steffon and the others had locked Daemon in the very heart of Green power.
Maegor's Holdfast was their den. Every guard, every servant answered to them.
"Move him," Viserys barked. "At once. Get him out of Maegor's Holdfast. Now!"
Mellos bowed deeply and turned to obey.
Viserys sagged back against the table, breath ragged. "Gods," he whispered, "let this night end without further disaster."
Maegor's Holdfast burned with torchlight.
Prince Aegon returned to the bedchamber he had not occupied in years. The brazier crackled warmly, driving back the chill stone shadows.
A knock sounded.
"Enter."
The door opened, and Larys Strong stepped inside, leaning on his cane, his sharp eyes already searching Aegon's face.
"You sent for me, Your Highness?" he asked. "Is something amiss?"
"Prince Daemon has been confined here," Aegon said, seating himself and folding his hands loosely. "They call it house arrest."
Larys inclined his head. "I am aware."
"To others, it may appear he sought to arrest me," Aegon continued calmly. "I know better. He meant to kill me."
Larys frowned, his fingers tightening briefly around the handle of his cane. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I find that difficult to believe. To murder the king's eldest son, his own brother's heir, before the eyes of the court? That would be madness. And folly."
"A cornered hound snaps," Aegon replied. "A cornered rabbit bites. What, then, of a cornered Targaryen?"
He rose, his gaze steady. "Whatever he is, if he bares his fangs at me, he pays the price."
Aegon turned toward the fire. "My uncle was knighted at sixteen. King Jaehaerys himself placed Dark Sister in his hand. After dragonriding, swordplay is his greatest pride."
He looked back at Larys. "See to it that his right hand is broken. I wish to know how confident he feels wielding a blade with his left."
Larys hesitated, unease flickering across his face. "I can arrange it," he said carefully. "But I urge caution. Should harm come to Prince Daemon, His Grace and Princess Rhaenyra will not forgive it."
Aegon waved the concern aside. "If the sky falls, I will hold it up. Do as I say. Leave the rest to me."
Larys bowed. "As you command."
As he reached the door, Aegon spoke again, his voice low but firm.
"Larys. The struggle for the throne has always been this way. Clean. Decisive. You understand."
Larys did not turn back.
"I understand, Your Highness."
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A/N:
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