Before we begin, I tweaked Aegon's (Baelon's Son) birth to 88 ac.
- 105th Year After the Conquest -
The violet eyes of Prince Aegon Targaryen surveyed the Small Council chamber, a place where whispers of power and shadows of influence held sway. His right hand idly twirled the stone ball, the symbol of his office and authority among the senior members of the council. It was a restless habit.
With a deft motion, his left hand reached up to tuck a stray lock of his silvery hair behind his ear, clearing his vision. His eyes remained fixed on the assembled lords, each one a piece in the complex game of thrones.
At the head of the table, King Viserys I, his elder brother, leaned back with a hearty chuckle, regaling the council with a tale from their youth. Laughter filled the chamber, a momentary respite from the burdens of rule, until a voice cut through the mirth like a knife.
"My Lords," intoned Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships and a cousin to both Aegon and Viserys. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him, the Sea Snake, whose voyages and exploits were the stuff of legend.
"The growing alliance among the Free Cities of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys has taken to styling itself the Triarchy," Corlys declared, rising from his seat. With a graceful sweep of his arm, he unveiled a map for all to see. "They have massed on Bloodstone and are presently ridding the Stepstones of its pirate infestation."
Viserys, ever dismissive of urgency that did not align with his desires, leaned back further in his chair, a picture of indolent ease. "That sounds strangely like good news, Lord Corlys," he remarked with a lazy smile.
Corlys, unperturbed, continued. "A man called Craghas Drahar has styled himself the Prince-Admiral of this Triarchy. His inventive methods of punishing his enemies have earned him the moniker Crabfeeder." His hand moved across the map, tracing the line of the Stepstones.
As if to punctuate the gravity of the situation, the doors of the chamber creaked open and then shut with a loud thud. Viserys, feigning disinterest, looked to Corlys with a raised brow. "And are we to weep for dead pirates?"
The subtle fragrance of roses heralded the entrance of Rhaenyra Targaryen, Aegon's niece. She moved with the grace of a princess, and her presence carried the faint, familiar scent of her dragon.
To Aegon, it was a scent that spoke of tradition, of their ancient bloodline.
"Rhaenyra, you are late," Viserys chided gently, a fatherly smile playing on his lips. "A king's cupbearer must not be late, lest we be left wanting for cups." The admonition was mild.
"I was with Mother," the Princess lied, but the flicker in her eyes and the way Aegon and Viserys exchanged glances betrayed her falsehood.
"Or Syrax, dear niece," Aegon smirked, a knowing glint in his purple eyes. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at him, the familiar dance of light rivalry playing out. "Did you enjoy your flight?" he inquired, lifting his cup with an air of casual authority. "Wine, please."
Rhaenyra looked ready to refuse, her defiance simmering just beneath the surface. But a single look from Viserys quelled her rebellion. She sighed, fetching the wine as Corlys resumed his discourse on the pirate problem.
Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, cleared his throat, drawing the council's attention. "Your Grace, at Prince Daemon's urging, the crown has invested significant capital in the re-equipping and re-training of the City Watch. I thought you might urge your brother to fill his seat on the council and provide a report on his progress."
Aegon felt Viserys's gaze upon him, the weight of expectation heavy in his brother's eyes. He cleared his throat, leaning forward to address the council. "The last report he sent me indicated that the watchmen have been drilling diligently and are performing admirably. I anticipate that in a fortnight, the Crown's expenditures will yield results, with clean streets and a noticeable drop in crime."
Viserys gestured towards Aegon, a gesture of approval, and then turned his attention to Lyman. "See, good Lyman, your gold is well invested and due to result in the tasks I beset for Daemon." Lyman nodded, taking what was said as enough to quiet his moaning.
"I would urge that you not allow this Triarchy much latitude, lest we neglect it too far until it beggars our ports," Corlys Velaryon cautioned once more, his tone carrying the weight of a seasoned sailor who had seen too many storms.
Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, interjected with practiced authority, cutting off the Master of Ships' urgings. "The crown has heard your report, Lord Corlys, and the King will take it under advisement."
Aegon couldn't help but dryly chuckle, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "The Stepstones have always been independent, Lord Hand. If we let the three cities win and keep it, we may very well have a Crossing of the Narrow Sea."
"I hardly think it is so dire at this moment," Otto dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Now, onto other matters, such as the heir's tourney."
Aegon frowned inwardly, his brother's penchant for dismissing serious issues never ceasing to irk him. Viserys, while loved and respected, was often blind to the dangers lurking in the shadows of his court.
Aegon's attention drifted as the conversation turned to his brother's latest attempt to father a living son. "You must understand that these matters are mere estimations, My King, but we have all been poring over the moon charts and we feel that our forecast is as accurate as it can be," Maester Mellos explained to Viserys.
Lyman Beesbury seized the moment to voice his concerns. "The costs of the tourney are not negligible, and perhaps we might delay until the child is at hand."
"You try to say that to every knight and lord who are coming to participate, Lord Beesbury," Aegon retorted with a sarcastic tone. "To turn them back would take too long, and humiliating as some Lords and knights are too damned proud."
"The tournament will take the better part of a week, and before long, my son will be born, and then the realm will celebrate," Viserys declared with confidence, picking at a piece of bread.
Aegon's mind wandered back to the day their grandfather, Jaehaerys I Targaryen, had breathed his last. It had been a dark, rainy day, and since then, Viserys had pressed Aemma to conceive one child after another. But fate had been cruel, and no babe had survived longer than a day. Aegon felt a pang of sorrow for his brother, for his good sister, and for Rhaenyra, who had yearned for a sibling.
"We have no way of predicting the sex of the child," Mellos admitted, shaking his head. Viserys forced a smile, a nervous tick he had since boyhood.
"Of course, no maester is capable of rendering an opinion free of conditions... There is a boy in the Queen's belly, I know it," Viserys declared with a fragile certainty, clinging to hope like a man adrift in a storm.
Gods did Aegon wish to shout.
As the session drew to a close, the members of the Small Council dispersed, their cloaks whispering softly against the marble floors. Aegon lingered, he was always the last to leave, his steps echoing in the now-empty chamber.
With a purposeful stride, he made his way down the stone corridors, passing tapestries depicting the glorious history of House Targaryen. His thoughts were a whirlwind, the conversations about the Triarchy, the tourney, and his brother's desperate hope for a son mingling in his mind.
Aegon emerged into the courtyard, the crisp air a welcome respite from the stifling confines of the council chamber. He descended the steps to the stables, where his steed awaited, its breath misting in the cool morning air. Mounting his horse, he spurred it forward, the rhythmic thud of hooves against the cobblestones a soothing cadence.
The path to the dragonpit was well-trodden, a route familiar to Aegon since his youth, riding with his father to fly on Vhagar. As he approached, the massive, ancient structure loomed before him and dismounted, he handed the reins to a stable boy, and made his way inside.
The air was filled with the faint, unmistakable scent of dragon—a mix of sulfur and smoke. "Maghagon nyke ñuha zaldrīzes (Bring me my dragon)," he ordered to the dragonkeeper whose mailed armor shifted and clanged as the servant went to retrieve his mount.
When Aegon was but twelve years old, he made the decision to take his dragon. It was a short month before his father, Baelon the Brave, passed away. Baelon had been eager to bring his son to Dragonstone, but Aegon already had a dragon in mind—the second oldest after Vhagar.
Dreamfyre's chains clinked and rustled as she emerged from the bowels of the dragonpit. A small smile grew on Aegon's face as he approached the majestic beast. "Jēda naejot jikagon, ñuha dāria (Time to go flying, my queen)," he whispered, his accent and language speaking of their mother tongue.
Dreamfyre, the mount of Queen Rhaena, daughter of King Aenys, had always seemed destined for him. When he was just six years old, he had dreamed of her, a vision of them soaring among the clouds, climbing higher and higher into the sky. From that moment on, he had known that she was meant to be his.
Since then, Dreamfyre had carried him to many places—from the fertile lands of the Reach to the icy expanses of the North. Yet for some mysterious reason, she would never cross over the Wall, as if some ancient instinct held her back.
Aegon had flown with his brother Daemon, with his niece Rhaenyra, and even with his cousin's children, Laena and Laenor Velaryon. But more often than not, he preferred to fly alone, with only Dreamfyre for company.
There was a profound sense of freedom in those solitary flights, a bond between dragon and rider that required no words.
As he soared above the realm, the troubles of the court and the burdens of his lineage fell away, leaving only the wind, the sky, and the mighty heartbeat of his dragon beneath him.
Aegon and Dreamfyre soared back beneath the veil of night, the city glittering faintly far below, a patchwork of shadows and light.
By the time he returned to the Red Keep, the castle lay quiet, save for the distant murmurs of sentries and the occasional creak of wind against the ancient stone. Exhausted from the flight, Aegon collapsed onto his bed without even bothering to remove his boots, oblivious to the faint crimson streaks beginning to stain the eastern horizon—the herald of a red dawn.
By the time Otto Hightower summoned the Small Council for its morning session, the meaning of that dawn was already etched in Aegon's thoughts. Blood had been spilled.
Groggy and visibly worn, Aegon stumbled into the council chamber and fell into his seat, the hardwood offering no reprieve from his fatigue. Lyman Beesbury, always dutiful and soft-spoken, leaned in with a concerned whisper. "Are you well, my Prince?"
"Tired, Lord Beesbury," Aegon muttered, rubbing his temple. "I stayed out later than I wished." Though weary, he couldn't regret the time spent away from the stifling intrigue of the Keep. It was a fleeting freedom, one he cherished.
The doors creaked open, and Aegon's gaze drifted toward the figure entering the chamber. Daemon Targaryen strode in, clad head to toe in his dark plate armor, the polished steel reflecting faint streaks of morning light. He radiated a palpable energy, as though he'd relished whatever chaos the night had brought him.
"You look like you had a fun time last night, brother," Aegon quipped, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Daemon smirked, settling into the seat to the right of the table. "Busy making the city safer, little dragon." The moniker "Little Dragon" grated on Aegon, and he grunted in disapproval.
It was a name born of truth and torment. As a babe, Aegon had been frail, a sickly child whose cries had filled the Keep with echoes of worry. Though he rarely spoke of it, he bore a guilt that gnawed at him—a deep-rooted belief that his weakness had hastened their mother's death. Daemon, for all his teasing and barbs, had been there when it mattered, teaching him the ancient Valyrian commands that had bonded him to Dreamfyre.
Before Aegon could retort to his brother's jab, the oaken doors swung open once more. Viserys entered, flanked by Otto Hightower and the stoic Kingsguard in their white cloaks. Otto's voice, low and clipped, carried faintly as they entered, "... cannot be allowed to act with this kind of unchecked impunity."
Daemon rose slightly from his seat and offered Viserys a bow. "Brother."
"Daemon," Viserys greeted as he approached, his tone warm yet faintly tired. Reaching his seat, he patted Aegon's shoulder in passing. "I hear your Goldcloaks made quite the impression last night."
"Truly?" Daemon replied, his words dipped in mock sincerity. Aegon chuckled softly, earning a sharp glance from Otto, who took his place at Viserys's side.
Otto's voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a dagger. "The City Watch is not a sword to be wielded at your whim, my Prince. They are meant to defend the King's peace."
Daemon leaned back in his chair, a sly grin playing at his lips. "The Watch was defending the King's peace. Wouldn't you agree, Lord Strong? Or you, baby brother?" His grin widened as Aegon chuckled again, while Lyonel Strong stammered out a half-formed reply.
Otto's tone grew icier. "Making a public spectacle of wanton brutality is hardly in line with our laws."
Aegon cleared his throat, raising his hand to draw the council's attention. "If I may interject," he began, his tone calm yet heavy with exhaustion. "Nobles from all corners of the realm are arriving in the city for the tournament," he reminded them, his voice faltering only slightly under the weight of his sleepless night. "What my brother did was extreme, yes, but the results are precisely what we asked for when we charged him to reshape the Watch."
Daemon inclined his head ever so slightly, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "Until last night, people were terrified to leave their homes after dark, lest they be robbed, mugged, raped, or worse." He turned his gaze to Viserys. "The city should be safe for all its people."
Viserys smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. "Right, you are right, of course. I just hope you don't have to maim half my city to achieve it."
Daemon shrugged, the faintest trace of a smirk still lingering on his lips. "Time will tell."
"We installed Prince Daemon as Commander to promote law and order," Corlys Velaryon stated, his voice as steadfast as the waves he had mastered. "The criminal element should fear the City Watch."
Aegon found himself nodding in quiet agreement, the stone ball in his hand spinning idly once more, an unconscious echo of his restless thoughts. Across the table, Daemon inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you for your support, Lord Corlys," he said, the trace of a genuine smile momentarily softening his otherwise sharp demeanor.
"If only the Prince could share the same devotion to his lady wife as he does to his work, Your Grace," Otto Hightower remarked, his tone carrying the weight of criticism thinly veiled as concern. Aegon stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Otto's ability to unearth a thorn in even the most promising of flowers was unmatched. "You have not been to the Vale or to Runestone for quite some time."
Daemon leaned back in his chair with a languid smirk, ever ready with a retort. "I think my Bronze Bitch is happier for my absence," he said, mockery dripping from his words like venom.
It was a shameful jest, even by Daemon's standards. Aegon glanced up, catching the flicker of disapproval in Viserys's expression. Whatever his brother's feelings toward Lady Rhea, she was his wife, and the honor of their house demanded respect. "Lady Rhea is your wife," Otto said, his tone cool but firm. "A good and honorable lady of the Vale."
Daemon's smirk only deepened, but before he could reply, Aegon added wearily, "My brother's marriage is hardly any business of yours, Lord Otto." The exhaustion in his voice matched the weariness in his bones. This endless squabbling—Daemon's irreverence against Otto's priggishness—was tiresome beyond measure.
Otto's sharp gaze turned briefly to Aegon, but before he could muster a reply, Viserys interjected, his tone tinged with exasperation. "Must you provoke him so, Otto?"
The Hand of the King dipped his head in a gesture of contrition. "Apologies, Your Grace," he said, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his annoyance.
With the matter laid to rest, Viserys rose, signaling the end of the session. Before departing, he turned to Daemon, his tone gentler now, almost brotherly. "Do not cross the line again with the Watch, or in other matters."
Daemon nodded, his expression unreadable, and strode toward the door. Aegon followed, the two younger brothers of the King falling into step as they descended the winding tower stairs. The air was cooler here, the stone walls whispering faintly with drafts that carried the scents of the city below.
Daemon slung an arm over Aegon's shoulder, drawing him closer with a familiar, easy camaraderie. "So, Little Dragon," he said with a sly grin, "want to come and meet our lieutenants and officers?" Aegon wondered if trading barbs with Otto aroused him somewhat as he knew what his brother meant.
Aegon turned his head slightly to regard his elder brother, a smirk tugging at his own lips. "I think not," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "Maybe another time. My own bed calls to me for now. But you have fun, brother."
Daemon chuckled, releasing him with a pat on the back. "Suit yourself," he said, his grin widening as he turned to stride off down the hall and heading for the stables then to his favorite pillow house.
Aegon watched him go, shaking his head faintly. Daemon was a force of nature—a tempest in human form. And while Aegon often found himself swept up in his brother's storms, tonight he sought only the solace of sleep.