Chapter Text
Aegon - I
The scent of salt and fish, mingled with the less pleasant tang of the city's refuse, assaulted Aegon the moment he stepped onto the gangplank. After weeks on Dragonstone, the air of King's Landing felt thick, almost oppressive, yet it was the air of his home. His royal galley, The Dragon's Maw, settled smoothly against the dock, a testament to the efficiency his father demanded even from the Master of Ships. Aegon adjusted the silver scales of his tunic, the weight of his office a familiar, comforting burden. He was the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and every breath he took in this city was a step towards his destiny.
His eyes swept over the jostling crowd, past the dockworkers and merchants, until they settled on the familiar, unsmiling figure waiting at the foot of the gangplank. Lord Jon Connington, Hand of the King. The Hand's face, etched with the grim lines of a loyal soldier, offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod. Aegon respected Connington's unwavering devotion to his father, a loyalty forged in the crucible of rebellion, but he also sensed a certain rigidity in the man, a starkness that sometimes grated against Aegon's own more diplomatic nature.
As he reached the quay, a more graceful presence glided forward. Queen Elia Martell, his mother, offered a warm, if somewhat reserved, embrace. "Aegon, my son," she murmured, her voice soft, "you are well? Your journey was swift?" Her eyes, dark and intelligent, searched his, a quiet strength always present within them, honed by years of courtly grace and hidden sorrows.
Before he could fully answer, Rhaenys stepped forward, her smile bright and genuine, a flash of Dornish warmth in the cool morning air. "Brother!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a quick, sisterly hug. "It is good to have you back. King's Landing has been dreadfully dull without you."
Aegon returned her embrace, a genuine warmth spreading through him. "And you, sister? How fares Highgarden? Did Willas's recovery progress as hoped?" He knew her betrothal to the Tyrell heir was a cornerstone of his father's alliances, though the wedding had been postponed while Willas recovered from a lingering fever. Rhaenys's smile dimmed just a fraction. "He mends, Aegon. Slowly. The maesters are confident, in time." Her tone was polite, dispassionate, a dutiful mask he knew well.
Connington was next to greet him. "Prince Aegon. I hope your travels were safe. How fares Dragonstone?"
Aegon turned, his expression shifting to one of measured authority. "The island is stable, Lord Hand. The petty squabbles between Lord Celtigar's fishers have been mediated. A fair compromise was reached, and the King's peace holds." He spoke with a practiced ease, recalling the long hours spent listening to grievances, weighing arguments, and ultimately, delivering his father's will. "The quarterly tithes were collected in full, and the new levies for the royal fleet were met without complaint."
Elia nodded, a faint curve to her lips. "Stability is the bedrock of any realm, Lord Hand. And doubly so for ours." Her words, though seemingly innocuous, carried a pointed weight, a reminder of the fragility of the peace Rhaegar had won.
Connington's stern face softened slightly. "Excellent, Prince Aegon. Your presence on Dragonstone ensures the King's peace is not merely decreed, but enforced. Small matters, perhaps, but vital for the consolidation of power. The Small Council convenes this very evening, Prince Aegon. Your father expects your presence. There are matters of import that require our attention."
Aegon's chest swelled with a quiet pride. His father valued his input, his pragmatic approach to governance. This was his place, at the heart of the realm, shaping its future. He nodded, accepting the summons. "I shall be there, Lord Hand."
He parted ways with his mother and sister, making his way directly to his chambers. In the quiet luxury of his private rooms within the Red Keep, Aegon shed his travel-stained clothes. A silent valet moved about, preparing a bath, laying out fresh tunics of silk and velvet. The journey from Dragonstone had been short, but the weight of his responsibilities always felt heavier in the capital, especially with an immediate summons.
He sank into the warm, scented water, allowing the day's grime and the lingering tension to wash away. His thoughts turned to the impending small council meeting. Varys would be there, no doubt with some new whisper from his network. Oberyn Martell, his uncle, would bring his sharp wit and sharper tongue, always ready to champion Dorne's interests. And Kevan Lannister, the steady hand on the realm's purse strings. Aegon mentally ran through the likely agenda, the reports he'd need to review, the arguments he might need to make.
He thought of Rhaenys, her bright smile at the docks. Her marriage to Willas Tyrell was still a future event, delayed by the Reach lord's lingering fever. A necessary alliance, a strong one, but he knew his sister's dutiful heart.
Then his thoughts drifted to Daeron. His half-brother. There was a friendly rivalry between them, a constant, unspoken competition for their father's attention, for the respect of the court. Daeron, with his dark, Northern hair and those unsettling grey eyes that seemed to see too much. He was talented, undeniably, with a quiet intensity that often surprised people. Aegon respected his abilities, even as he knew the political tightrope Daeron walked, the whispers that followed him like a shadow. Their father, the King, pushed them both, each in his own way, for his own grand design of power and legacy.
Aegon rose from the bath, toweling himself dry. He was the Crown Prince, the future king. He would be ready. He slipped on a fresh tunic, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest, and headed for the Small Council chambers.
The Small Council chamber was a familiar arena, its dark oak table gleaming under the glow of numerous candles. Aegon took his customary seat, next to the Hand, Jon Connington. Across from him, the ever-present Grand Maester Pycelle dozed, while Varys, plump and unsettlingly serene, observed the room with his knowing smile. Beside Varys sat Admiral Lord Paxter Redwyne, his weathered face grim. A hush fell as the doors opened and King Rhaegar Targaryen entered, his silver hair catching the candlelight. He moved with a quiet authority, offering a nod to each councilor before settling into his high-backed chair. "Aegon," he greeted, his voice calm, a rare, soft smile gracing his lips for his son. "It is good to have you back from Dragonstone." Aegon gave a nod and replied, "It is good to be back home, Father."
"Shall we begin my lords? Lord Redwyne," Rhaegar's voice, calm yet authoritative, cut through the low hum of the room. "An update on the Stepstones, if you please. I understand Lord Estermont continues to petition for support."
Redwyne leaned forward, placing a hand on the map spread before them, its surface marked with the symbols of ships and islands. "Your Grace, the fighting is fierce. The pirate king, a brute calling himself the 'Serpent' has rallied the various crews. They're not merely raiding; they're consolidating. We've seen an increase in coordinated attacks, and reports suggest they are preparing for a larger, more concentrated assault on our shipping lanes."
Connington interjected, his voice sharp. "Does Lord Estermont lack the spine for a proper fight, or does he simply wish to swell his coffers with royal gold?"
"It is not a question of courage, Lord Hand," Redwyne replied, his tone weary. "But of sheer numbers. These pirates… they are legion. And ruthless. If they succeed in seizing a more permanent foothold, it will cripple trade and be a direct challenge to the Crown's authority in the Narrow Sea."
Rhaegar’s gaze flickered across the map, then to his Hand. "These pirates are growing bolder by the day. We shall give Lord Estermont the strength he requires. Lord Redwyne, send word to Lord Velaryon. Instruct him to prepare his fleet to bolster Lord Estermont's forces. And send a raven to Lord Stannis Baratheon at Storm's End. His fleet is formidable; he will provide the necessary hammer to crush this Serpent."
Aegon's thoughts drifted to Lord Velaryon, a name that had grown in prominence since the rebellion. It was Lucerys Velaryon who had stood at the late Queen Rhaella's defense, ensuring young Viserys and Daenerys were brought safely back to the capital. Such loyalty had its rewards, and now everyone whispered of the impending match between his lovely daughter, Valaena Velaryon, and Daeron, the second in line.
"As you command, Your Grace," Connington nodded, already signaling for a scribe.
A brief silence fell over the table, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city. Then Varys, ever the weaver of shadows, spoke, his voice a soft, insidious purr. "Moving to matters closer to home, Your Grace, the whispers from the Crownlands grow louder. The 'Children of the First Light' are proving… resilient."
Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. "What fresh folly is this, Master Varys? I thought your reports indicated a mere handful of misguided smallfolk."
"Alas, Your Grace, their numbers swell," Varys replied, his smile unchanging. "Their leader, Septon Silas and, speaks with a passion that resonates with those weary of war, weary of old gods and kings. He's supported by a Ser Gyles of the broken sword who is meant to be very skilled and has amassed quite the following. The good Septon preaches of a 'Great Cleansing,' a turning away from established authority, urging them to embrace a purer faith, one free from lordly tyranny. They gather near Summerhall."
Aegon felt a familiar stirring of unease. Summerhall. A place of Targaryen memory, of tragedy and fire. His father had been renovating it, transforming the ruins into a symbol of a new era. For unrest to fester there was an insult.
"A sensitive matter. We would do well not to be too heavy handed. Such matters require a delicate touch, Your Grace," Elia interjected, her voice smooth but firm. "A swift hand might turn discontent into outright rebellion. But a compassionate, understanding hand could guide them back to the true faith, and to their fealty." Her eyes, subtle and knowing, flickered towards Daeron's empty seat. "Perhaps someone who knows the hearts of men, and carries both the King's authority and his wisdom, would be best suited."
Aegon observed his mother, his internal gaze shrewd. Elia was clever. He knew well that if a delicate touch was needed, one that required both authority and wisdom, the conversation would inevitably turn to Ser Richard Lonmouth. And Ser Richard, Aegon knew, was fond of Daeron. Daeron, who had recently departed for Blackhaven, eager to visit the Dayne sisters, Ashara and Allyria. Allyria who was now married to Lord Beric Dondarrion. If Ser Richard went to Summerhall, Daeron would surely be recalled to accompany him, or sent there directly from Blackhaven, which is very close by Summerhall. Elia knew this, Aegon was certain. She was intentionally trying to put Daeron in the face of danger, to test him, or perhaps even to remove him from the comfortable confines of the Red Keep, away from the capital. The thought, cold and calculating, settled in Aegon's gut. His mother played her own long game, and Daeron, the silver prince with the dark hair, was a constant pawn on her board.
"Ser Richard Lonmouth has been overseeing much of the reconstruction work at Summerhall. He knows the local folk, and his reputation as a knight of honor is beyond question. He is the ideal choice for such a task." Prince Oberyn added, almost as if he'd read what mother's mind.
Rhaegar, after a moment of consideration, nodded slowly. "Very well. Ser Richard Lonmouth it shall be. Send word to him at Summerhall and Lord Dondarrion. Ser Richard is to investigate this 'Children of the First Light', gather men from Blackhaven if need be and restore order, with the King's voice and wisdom."
Another brief silence fell over the council, heavier this time, as Pycelle stirred, his eyes blinking slowly. "Your Grace," the Grand Maester croaked, his voice reedy, "a raven arrived this morning from the Wall. Another plea from the Night's Watch. They speak of… continued requests for aid amidst queer sightings."
Rhaegar's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. Aegon noticed it, a subtle shift in his father's usual composure. The Night's Watch. A distant, forgotten order, usually a nuisance to the Crown, begging for coin and men. "Queer sightings?" Rhaegar's voice was devoid of emotion, yet Aegon sensed a flicker of something beneath.
"Aye, Your Grace," Pycelle continued, fumbling with a scroll. "Strange phenomena beyond the Wall. Reports of unnatural cold, of shadows moving where no shadows ought to be, of rangers returning… changed, or not at all. Lord Commander Mormont begs for more men, for more resources, for an understanding of what stirs in the deep north."
Aegon felt a faint chill, despite the warmth of the chamber. He dismissed it as superstition, the ramblings of old men and wildling tales. The Wall was far away, a forgotten realm of ice and ancient threats that surely held no sway in the south. He glanced at the other councilors. Redwyne looked bored. Connington's face was impassive. Oberyn merely raised a skeptical eyebrow.
But Rhaegar's gaze was fixed on Pycelle, intense and unblinking. He listened, truly listened, to every word. "Grand Maester," Rhaegar finally commanded, his voice sharp, "pen a letter to Lord Eddard Stark at Winterfell. Request a full and detailed account of these 'queer sightings.' I want facts, not fears. Specifics. What exactly are these rangers seeing? What is the nature of this unnatural cold? We will not commit the Crown's resources to phantoms, but neither will we ignore a potential threat, however distant."
Aegon felt a jolt of surprise. Ned Stark. Aegon knew Lord Eddard Stark's reputation for honor and truth, just as everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, If anyone could provide an unvarnished account, it would be the Lord of Winterfell. The council moved on to other, more mundane matters, but the questions lingered, cold and unsettling, in Aegon's mind.