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51. Aegon IV / Maegor XXX
🕑 Added 2025-04-13 15:58:43 +0000 UTCHello everyone! On time again, hopefully, this remains a trend lol. I want to give my thanks again to Tertius711, who helped me with this chapter. I made some pretty serious edits to Chapter 48. Visenya IX. Nothing content-wise changed too much, but I elaborated more on her feelings and some of the family dynamics. So, if you are interested, please give it a read. Now, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Please leave your thoughts in the comments!
Aegon IV
7th Moon, 39AC
“Aegon? It is your turn,” Baelon said, propping his chin on the edge of the table, his legs swinging idly beneath his chair.
Aegon didn’t answer right away. He sat slouched, elbow on the armrest, head tipped toward the tower window. Rain streaked down the glass in thin, crooked lines, likely the last rain for a little while, given that winter was here.
The sky outside was gray, and it had been for days. Or weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time Dragonstone had seen real sunlight, and the storm outside matched the one twisting in his gut.
Aegon made no move to look at his cousin. “So move for me.”
“You’ll lose if I do,” Baelon said cheerfully, no doubt bearing a smile that most on the island envied.
Aegon huffed. Not quite a laugh, just a brief exhale from his nose. He ran a finger along the edge of the table, not even looking at the board. “Maybe I want to lose.”
Baelon sat up straight. “That’s silly.”
“Silly,“ Aegon repeated, half to himself. A faint smirk on his face. “Maybe.”
He finally looked at the pieces. It was a mess. A dozen half-hearted decisions scattered across the cyvasse board, just like everything else in his life lately. His dragon was exposed. His trebuchet had been captured long ago. He could already see how Baelon’s dragon would cut through his pieces with a few more moves and seal his fate.
“What if the dragon just flew away?” Aegon said suddenly, voice low, almost bitter. “Off the board. Off the island. Left the game behind.”
Baelon blinked. “That’s cheating.”
“Maybe the dragon’s tired of playing,” Aegon said as he leaned back in his chair once more, his eyes drifting toward the window, where problems remained unsolved.
Baelon snickered. “Then it’s a lazy dragon. Mine wants to win,” Baelon said, his smirk so obvious in his voice that Aegon did not even have to remove his eyes from the window to know it was there.
Aegon didn’t respond. His mind was elsewhere, it kept drifting toward Rhaena and the heat of her skin, and how even that comfort had started to feel like a weight pressing down on him. Familiar. Predictable. A trap he’d walked into and couldn’t claw his way out of. She made his blood stir, yes, but his thoughts curdled after. Everything curdled lately. Even the wine tasted dull.
He made a move, a poor one. He didn’t care.
Baelon immediately pounced, sliding his trebuchet forward. “I take your dragon.”
“Of course you do,” Aegon muttered.
“You didn’t protect it,” Baelon said, like it was a lesson he hoped Aegon would remember next time.
“No,” Aegon agreed. “I didn’t,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Without another word, Aegon stood from the table. He didn’t mind playing Cyvasse with Baelon, really, it was one of the few enjoyable things he could do on this island after his friends left. But he could sit still no longer.
“Where are you going? Is it to the Dragonpit!?” Baelon excitedly exclaimed, shooting up from the table like an arrow loosed from a bow. No doubt he was about to ask Aegon to go flying on Balerion, and while he would normally be happy to indulge his cousin, he had other matters to attend to.
“No, I am going to see my Grandfather,” Aegon explained, causing Baelon to look a little upset. Even since his blood-red dragon Caraxes had hatched last year, Baelon always wanted to spend time in the pit or on dragonback. His family was normally happy to oblige him, Aegon included, but he had more pressing concerns.
“...Alright, I’m gonna go see Caraxes with Visenya and Grandmother then,” Baelon said, his cheerful attitude quickly displacing the disappointment that had previously possessed him. Aegon was jealous of his optimism and joy, he had not had much of that in the last few moons.
He let Baelon run ahead of him, down the dark halls of Dragonstone. Aegon followed at a slower pace, his boots clicking against the stone, his thoughts heavier with each step. The warm air in the corridors did little to combat the chill that clung to his skin. Dragonstone had always been a rather gloomy castle, but lately, it felt less like a seat of power and more like a cage
‘I should be out there,’ he thought, jaw tight, as he passed another arched window and caught a glimpse of the sea. The turbulent waves crashed against the island with a ferocious might.
But he wasn’t at war. He wasn’t leading armies, he wasn’t riding to destroy his enemies or defend the realm. He was pacing castle halls like a restless ghost while the world outside bled and burned. And all the while, the letters came.
The rebellion was no longer just a threat, it was a wildfire, spreading across the realm with terrifying speed. His uncle had warned them of this threat, but the preparations his uncle and father had made were wholly insufficient. The Faith had risen in full, not just mobs of smallfolk but armies led by knights and lords.
The Reach was all but lost, a dozen lords declared for the faith, and their own loyalists had been routed not far from Highgarden. The Riverlands were bleeding, dozens of castles across the region had opened their gates to the Faith or had them battered down. King’s Landing, the very heart of the realm, had all but fallen. The Red Keep, still a skeleton of stone and scaffold, was under siege. The Dragonpit was surrounded, cut off from the world inside their colossal fortress.
And what was Aegon doing? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He rode Balerion, the Black Dread, his grandfather’s dragon, the most formidable weapon in the world. A living shadow with wings that could blot out the sun for entire villages below. And still, he remained grounded. Tethered to Dragonstone, to inaction, to silence.
His father no longer read the letters. The crown’s correspondence sat unopened, left to pile like fallen leaves on his desk or in the Maester’s quarters. It didn’t matter whether they arrived by raven or boat, requested a personal audience, or begged for aid in hastily written scrolls, The King did not care. But Aegon did. He read every one. Every desperate plea from a lord besieged. Every report of slaughter in the fields. Every warning from those who still dared call themselves loyal.
He read them, and he fumed. It was as if the world had gone mad, and he alone had been ordered to watch from a distance, forbidden from lifting a finger.
“I ride the greatest weapon the Targaryens have ever known,” he muttered under his breath, “and yet I do nothing.”
He was the heir to the realm. He should be fighting for what was his by right. And yet he had been reduced to a bystander, pacing halls and brooding in towers while the Kingdom splintered.
He understood his uncle’s logic, the desire to wait for reinforcements. Pentos had armies and gold, loyal armies and lots of gold. But still, how long was he expected to wait? How much more could the realm lose while he stood idle?
Aegon turned sharply down the corridor, his stride quickening. The air was colder here, farther from the warming heat of the Dragonmont. His destination lay ahead, the solar of his grandfather, Lord Aethan Velaryon, Hand of the King.
He would remain caged no longer, the time for action had come. If the King would not act, then he must do so.
The door creaked open without a knock. His grandfather, and the new Hand of the King after the death of Ser Osmund Strong, Aethan Velaryon, looked up from the map table. He was no doubt half-expecting another courier or squire, but his expression softened when he saw the familiar face.
“Aegon,” he began, his tone warm and filled with pride.
“Grandfather,” Aegon acknowledged. The word felt odd on his tongue. Ever since the funeral of his other grandsire, the title felt heavy. As if naming one grandfather now meant discarding the other.
His grandfather studied him for a beat longer, then made to stand. “What brings you here, Aegon? Is all well?” Concern lined his voice as he moved to stand, slowly, stiffly, his joints aching with age. But Aegon lifted a hand to stop him.
“I’m fine,” Aegon said quietly. “Sit. Please.”
The older man acquiesced with a soft grunt, sinking back into his seat with a deep sigh. His silver hair, streaked with ash-grey, caught the morning light, and the lines etched around his lilac-colored eyes had deepened. The past moons had aged him.
He stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides. “I need you to call the banners and have them march on King’s Landing.”
He blinked. “Has your father ordered this?” His hand was already halfway to the quill.
“No,” Aegon bit out. “I have.”
His grandfather’s brows knit in concern, but he did not yet object. “Aegon…” he began, setting the quill down again. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“What choice do I have?” Aegon snapped, his frustration spilling out like wine from an overturned goblet. One of the fine chairs in front of the desk went flying as he struck it aside. “My father remains paralyzed by grief and indecision. The Kingdom burns while we hide here like cowards.”
His grandfather didn’t flinch at the outburst. He merely leaned back and looked at Aegon, not as a lord looks at a petulant prince, but as a grandfather.
“I know it hurts, Aegon,” he said softly. “To see him like this. Your father will pull himself out of this. Grief may have overtaken him for now, but that doesn’t make him weak.”
“It does,” Aegon snapped. “Or worse, it makes him unfit.” Aegon said, his words dripping with anger and rage. His father’s pathetic performance in the last three moons had driven Aegon half mad. Where was his stubborn insistence now? He knew his father had a fire in him, he had seen it himself numerous times, and yet he looked like nothing more than a pathetic fool.
“I have always admired your spirit,” his grandfather said finally, breaking the prolonged silence. “You have fire in you, ambition.”
Aegon’s hands relaxed at his sides, just slightly. The praise doing a little to silence his anger from being cooped up on Dragonstone for far too long.
“Then let me act,” he said, quieter now.
His grandfather studied him, his gaze narrowing, not in disapproval, but deep consideration. “Tell me about your plan.”
“I’ll fly to King’s Landing tonight. Balerion can be seen from leagues away. The Red Keep’s walls are still standing. If I can occupy the castle, I can hold the city until our banners arrive. The people need to see our strength again. Let us remind them why we are kings,” Aegon explained readily. He had been thinking about it for days now. He could answer any question his grandfather had for him.
Aethan raised a brow. “And the Faith forces that are already in the city? The growing mob? You’d sit inside the Red Keep like bait in a trap?”
“I have Balerion,” Aegon said proudly, the bond with his dragon flaring in strength. “Let them try.”
For a long moment, his grandfather didn’t speak. Then, to Aegon’s surprise, he nodded.
“Very well,” the old man said. “You’ll have your banners.”
Aegon blinked. “That’s it?”
“What more do you want?” he asked, picking up the quill and beginning to write. “You’re right. We cannot afford more delay. If your father cannot act, someone must.”
He paused briefly, then looked up. “You were named for the Conqueror, as you know. It was hoped that you would be just like him.”
“I don’t think I am,” Aegon said, suddenly feeling the weight of it. The name, the burden. He had been trying to live up to his grandsire’s name for the last few years, yet he felt like he kept misstepping.
“You do not need to be,” his grandfather began. “You are your own man, Aegon. You are my grandson. You carry Targaryen blood in your veins, and Velaryon pride in your bones. And that is no small thing.”
Aegon smiled at that, his old, prideful grandfather returning to the forefront. His grandfather had always been proud of his lineage, and some of that pride had trickled down to Aegon and his siblings.
Of course, their Targaryen heritage was greater in every way. They were dragonlords after all, the last of the forty. But Aegon allowed himself to take some pride in the Velaryons. Men of action and effort who had carved for themselves a powerful and wealthy domain. They had of course been helped along by House Targaryen, but it was not as if they had given nothing in return.
Aegon could not help but question his grandfather’s actions after that. House Velaryon were their most loyal allies. He went so far as to marry his father to his mother because of their strong ties. Yet he continually snubbed his grandfather of the position of Hand of the King. It made no sense.
Sure, he could understand his great-uncle Orys getting the position over him. He and his grandfather were reportedly great friends in their youth, after all. But after that, he had chosen Tulleys and Strongs over their own kin.
Aegon decided that he would right their wrongs. House Velaryon was loyal and true. The truest friends that House Targaryen could rely on. They deserved to be rewarded after this mess was handled.
“I will prepare to depart,” Aegon said, turning on his heel to leave the solar.
“Very well, I will send out the ravens as soon as the letters are ready,” his grandfather replied, ever dutiful.
…
“What?” his wife said quietly, barely more than a whisper. Her big, purple eyes stared at him in shock.
“I am leaving for King’s Landing,” Aegon repeated simply. It still felt weird talking with her again. So much had changed in the last two years that it beggared belief.
“O-of course. Something has to be done, let me get ready and I will come with you,“ she said as she prepared to stand from her position sitting on the bed.
Aegon stopped her with a hand on her bare shoulder. He always did like her more revealing dresses, yet her outfit was more distracting than alluring right now.
Looking into her beautiful lilac eyes, part of him wanted to climb into the bed with her, to pretend things hadn’t fallen apart, like he had been doing for the last five moons. He wanted to steal a moment of comfort before he left for battle. But the more rational part of him, the part that had been whispering louder each passing day, thought better of it.
“No. You will remain here on Dragonstone,” he said.
She blinked. Then again, and again. Her lips parted, but nothing came out for a second too long. “...Why?” she finally asked, her voice already rising.
He stopped her before she could get into a tirade. He had long since stopped feeling cathartic seeing his sister cry. Now he just felt pity.
“I need you here more than I need you at my side,” Aegon said, folding his arms. The words felt like a lie in his mouth. Part of him greatly disliked the notion of leaving her here. The rational side of him could not help but whisper into his ear, horrible thoughts of her betraying him once more. But he could not afford to bring her on campaign, lest he be distracted and his family shatter further.
“Why?” Rhaena asked, her voice meek and quiet as a mouse.
He took a step forward, unbothered. “Because someone needs to stay behind who isn't crying into their cups or pretending the world ended with Vaella. Our siblings need us, Rhaena.” Aegon said, memories of his three youngest siblings rising in his mind. Vaella’s death had hit them all hard, he and Rhaena had mostly disappeared into the embrace of the other but his little sister’s death hit his mother and father hard. He could almost forgive their behavior because of it, almost.
Then there was Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Their mother had hardly left her room, so consumed by grief, and then his father was also preoccupied. So his aunt and grand-aunt had largely stepped in to care for them along with the maidservants in their absence. But they should not need to rely on them for that.
“And so what, I become a wet nurse?” she snarked bitterly. “Let me come with you, I won’t be a burden, I swea-” she began before Aegon cut her off.
“No, Rhaena.” Aegon’s tone left no room for argument.
She blinked, her mouth still parted as if the words might keep spilling out. Her eyes searched his face like she was trying to read him, the way she used to. But she couldn’t, not anymore. That only made her more desperate.
“Why not?“ she asked again, more softly this time. “You’ve never been to war either. If you’re going to throw yourself into something neither of us understand, why must I stay here? Let me help you, please.”
He turned from her, jaw tight. “Because I have to,” he said. “Someone does. Father’s all but vanished into his grief. Mother, she barely leaves her bed. Jaehaerys and Alysanne are too young to know what’s happening, and someone has to take care of them.”
“I don’t get it. The servants and Aunt Shiera can take care of Jae and Alys until Mother…” Rhaena began before he cut her off again.
“No.” Aegon shook his head. “I trust our family, Rhaena, but we can’t lean on them for everything. It’s pathetic. We ought to be better than that. And if Visenya and Vhagar leave Dragonstone to support our uncle out east, someone will have to defend the island.”
His thoughts drifted to his uncle’s family, which had been complicated lately.
He loved his cousins, of course. Daeron and Baelon were full of energy and fun to be around. Visenya was sharp and curious, and little Daenys brought laughter to even the gloomiest corners of the keep. But their mother, his aunt Shiera, he trusted her only so far. She was always kind to him, but her relationship with his mother had been testy for decades now. And that was not even mentioning his grand aunt, Visenya.
She was perhaps the one member of his family that he did not know if he trusted. Something about the way she looked at him and his siblings. The complete disinterest, like they weren't even there. It troubled him.
It wasn’t about love or trust. It was about certainty.
She flinched but held her ground. “You know she won’t leave. She is here defending her grandchildren. So what, is this a punishment, then? Do you plan on leaving me behind like some fragile thing?” she cried, tears brimming in her eyes.
“It’s not punishment,” he growled. “It's a necessity. Do you think I want to go off and play the gallant prince? March into King’s Landing like I know what I’m doing? I don’t. But someone has to do something, and no one else will.”
“I will! Dreamfyre may not be the largest, but she is more than ready for battle! You say no one else will, but I will help you. Please let me!” she pleaded, desperation clawing onto her face.
Aegon closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. He hated this. Hated the way her voice cracked at the edges. Hated the way her eyes shimmered. Hated that her fire, once the thing that had drawn him to her most, now made everything harder.
“I know you would,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I know you would follow me into fire and ruin if I asked. But that’s exactly the problem,” Aegon said, exasperation pulling him down like an anchor. He did not want to say this, but he supposed being truthful was the best thing he could do now.
Rhaena looked confused, the corners of her mouth twitching with the words she couldn’t yet form. Aegon stepped closer.
“You would come even if it killed you,” he said. “Even if it meant abandoning what’s left of our family. And maybe you think that’s noble, or brave, or loyal. But I don’t need that right now. I need you alive. I need you here.“
The words felt bitter on his tongue. He had been trying his hardest to pretend that nothing was wrong between the two of them for the last few moons. He would even go so far as to say that he had been happy in the first moon of his marriage. When they pretended as if everything was normal. Spending damn near every moment of every day hiding away in their rooms, indulging their every want and desire.
He still loved Rhaena. That much had been clear to him long before she’d come to him in tears, begging for a chance. Part of him fought to believe there was still a future for them, that their first time together had meant something, that they could build from that moment. The part of him that remained from before he had been shattered like glass. But deep down, that part of him was losing.
It didn’t matter how tightly he held onto the pieces, his fake life and forced happiness slipped through his fingers like sand through an hourglass.
And yet, there was a twisted sort of comfort in the illusion. She was his now, truly his. Her first real time had been his, and his, in turn, had been hers. The thought made some sappy, romantic part of him happy, the remnants of the lovestruck and innocent boy he had once been. And Aegon wouldn't deny that he found relief and some small measure of security in it, in the proof that Rhaena hadn't betrayed him fully. That sliver of unbroken trust was enough to keep the lie alive for a time. Enough to hold her in the dark and tell himself this was what he’d always wanted.
But it was a hollow happiness. Each smile began to feel like a crack in the battlements, each kiss accompanied by an acrid taste and bitter memories. Their moments of tenderness were soaked in the shadow of what should have been and what she did. He was living a life carved from fractured trust and fading dreams, and he couldn’t simply let it win.
Despite his love for her, despite the one chance he’d offered, he hated her still. He hated the way she’d betrayed him not once, but twice. Hated how she also tried to pretend as if nothing was wrong. Hated how easy it had been to fall into this false life together, where the past was buried under silken sheets and distracted kisses. Where they both lied to each other and themselves, pretending that pain was just a fading bruise instead of a wound that never closed.
It had been growing since Vaella’s death. Since his brother left for the East. Since his family crumpled under the weight of rebellion and loss. A darker, more rational side of him, whispering cold truths. It had stayed quiet, soothed for a while by the comfort of Rhaena's touch, the illusion of closeness. But now, it was stirring again and he could not hold it at bay.
He needed space. He needed air. But he needed her safe, too. And that was the worst part of it all, because even in the storm of his anger, he still loved her.
He rubbed a hand down his face, trying to ease the tension from his jaw. “I’m going because someone has to lead, and right now, I’m the only option, Rhaena.”
She opened her mouth again, but he held up a hand.
“You’re not staying because you’re weak, or because I don’t need your help. You’re staying because I need one corner of this gods-damned world to still seem normal. I need to believe that our family is safe. That you’re safe,” he finally said the words that were dancing on his tongue for a while. The poisonous words that he was so very reluctant to utter, even if they were the truth.
Rhaena’s eyes burned, and her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Fine,” she mumbled, barely loud enough to hear.
“Thank you, Rhaena,” Aegon said wholeheartedly. His two halves continued to war within him. But both could agree that they wanted Rhaena here, safe and away from him.
…
Balerion released a low rumble from deep within his chest as they neared King’s Landing. The still-rising spires of the Red Keep jutted into the hazy sky, skeletal and unfinished. Even so, the size of it was enormous. When it was complete, it would be a fortress fit for his house.
“At least the curtain walls went up in time,” Aegon muttered, though no one could hear him above the beat of leathery wings and the winter wind whipping in his ears.
His father’s preparations for a conflict with the Faith had been shallow at best. Some half-hearted diplomacy with wavering lords. A few hundred extra city watch in the streets. The only real defensive priority had been the Red Keep, its curtain walls hastily reinforced. It was something, but not nearly enough to stem the bleeding.
The Riverlands were in open revolt. The Reach was already all but lost. And yet, King’s Landing still stood. Aegon didn’t know if it was defiance or merely delay.
A nervous twist coiled in his gut. He had begged to ride with his father into Dorne, to prove himself in battle. But his outbursts had soured the mood, and his father had denied him. Now, he was here, alone, and untested.
He glanced down at Balerion. ‘At least I have you,’ he thought. The Black Dread was more than a mount. He was certainty in an uncertain world. The old dragon rumbled again, sensing his rider’s unease.
As they passed over the city’s outskirts, the haphazard slums and hastily constructed wooden houses that were outside of the walls that Ser Osmund had finished. The situation came into sharper focus.
Aegon could see how the Red Keep was under siege even from where he was in the sky. The mob of thousands of poor fellows and Warrior’s Sons merged together into a giant wave as they stared down the enormous walls of the keep. Aegon did not see any siege towers or weapons like ballista or trebuchets. But he knew they had been attacking the gates with battering rams since the City Watch lost the streets.
Aegon’s eyes drifted toward the Dragonpit next. Perched atop the hill of Visenya, the colossal structure that was built to house their dragons remained standing. He knew from his lessons with the Dragonkeepers that every Dragonpit going back to the days of Old Valyria had been designed primarily to protect the dragons inside from interlopers. Sure, it also housed their dragons and gave them a safe place to rest and sleep. But its primary function was keeping interlopers out, which was why it was of no surprise to Aegon that the domed structure remained standing.
He knew their garrison to be quite weak, but their defensible structure gave them an even greater advantage than the soldiers at the Red Keep. Few entrances, fewer places that could even be made into entrances. Then, of course, there was no way for the battering rams to knock down the bronze doors, which were designed for the express purpose of keeping armies and unwanted guests out.
Finally, Aegon’s eyes moved toward the last notable structure in the city, for now at least. The Sept of Remembrance, the home base of the faith in the city. Aegon could see how it had been turned into a citadel that could stand against them. Loose stone and wood had been piled up into makeshift walls, battlements were created, and the area around the castle was made nigh impassable except for the road leading up to the entrance of the Sept.
Part of Aegon wanted to descend onto the gorgeous structure. Melt its seven towers and beautiful white walls into paste for defying him and his family. Yet he could not bring himself to do it.
His grandfather ordered the construction of the sept to honor his late grandmother. An act of love created the building, and he had been married to Rhaena in the main chamber less than a year before. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, so he made to land at the Red Keep.
His lazy loops around the city had broken the crowds gathering outside of the Red Keep and the Dragonpit. The hordes of men moved back toward the Hill of Rhaenys like the tide moving back toward the ocean. Which was fine by Aegon, as he still had to wait for his army to arrive.
He brought Balerion down within the walls of the Red Keep itself, and soldiers scattered from the few places where he could actually land Balerion. Given the fact that the castle was little more than a construction site, it was little surprise that there was little space for him to land. Regardless, once he did find a large enough clearing, the sheer weight of Balerion and the force of his landing sent tremors through the earth.
The walls rumbled as the entire hill shook from Balerion’s landing. Aegon, meanwhile, simply looked out toward the Sept of Remembrance. The faith forces should be more wary of trying to attack the Red Keep or the Dragonpit with him here. Regardless, he would have to keep Balerion ready.
Aegon noticed many soldiers moving to greet him as he descended the ropes, clinging to Balerion’s side. He had only gotten a few feet away from his dragon before a soldier approached him.
A grizzled officer of the garrison rushed to meet him, helm in hand and sweat on his brow. “My prince,” the man panted , “we…we did not know if you’d come. You’ve saved us.”
“Not saved, not yet,” Aegon began, causing the officer to pale.
“You’ll keep the men on alert. More troops are coming from the rest of the Crownlands. Until then, hold fast. The enemy may return, and if they do, it will not be mere light attacks and tests,” Aegon ordered, the action coming naturally to him.
“Yes, my prince,” the commander replied, bowing deeply before hurrying back to his post.
Aegon moved through the courtyard slowly, the sounds of the gathered crowd already fading behind him. He made his way up the hill and toward the proper castle, where the Aegonfort had originally sat.
He made his way past piles of brick and stone. Past pulleys and pickaxes, past chisels and carts, up the winding path that had been used for the last 40 years of Targaryen rule. He knew that one day this path would be more properly constructed, with steps and smoothed cobble paths, yet Aegon could not deny that some part of him liked the rugged nature right now. He felt like a real general, not a pampered prince.
Once he got through the archway, he made his way into the proper castle. The Red Keep was still a work in progress, unfinished towers, empty halls, but Aegon could already see what it would one day be. The magnificence that his grandfather’s legacy would emit.
It did not take long for Aegon to find his destination. It sat in a vast, dim hall still thick with dust and shadows, lit by flickering torchlight and fading sunlight. The room had been built largely around it, and it was almost done. The Iron Throne loomed as tall and jagged as he remembered. Forged from the blades of the fallen. Won by fire and blood.
Aegon stepped closer, up to the steps forged into the mass of metal to allow the King to climb to his seat. He looked up at the empty throne, and something panged in his chest.
His grandfather had sat there, along with his wives and brother Orys. Yet his father had left the throne empty. He cowered on Dragonstone while the Kingdom fell apart around him.
What would his grandfather think now? That his empire had become a fractured mess, torn by zealots and prideful lords. That his descendants could not hold what he had taken with fire and blood.
Aegon did not sit. He simply stared.
The blades gleamed dully in the fading sunlight. Sharp. Silent. Waiting.
____________________________________________________________________________
Maegor XXX
8th Moon, 37AC
The clang of steel rang out across the training yard like a song I had heard a thousand times and still never tired of. From the shade of the covered gallery, I watched the two boys circle one another, dulled swords in hand and sweat already gleaming on their brows.
I watched from the gallery above, arms folded, eyes fixed on the boys. Daeron and Viserys. Fire and stone. One my son, the other my nephew, and both, whether they knew it or not, mine to shape.
I could practically see Daeron’s grin from where I was standing. He had always loved the training yard, and yet it seemed he had only grown more fond of it in the last few moons. Bigger than Viserys despite being a year younger, broader in the shoulders, faster in the legs. Prideful, energetic, fearless, and foolish when he thought himself certain of victory. He lunged in with a wide sweep, blade arcing down.
Viserys blocked it, barely. I saw his heel slip in the dust, the strain in his shoulders. He was methodical, careful, and calculating. But he was also distracted. His gaze wandered. Just for a heartbeat, but long enough that I knew he was thinking of something other than the fight.
‘Dragonstone,’ I thought with sadness. I had gotten the message from Shiera. My youngest niece had not beaten fate, despite the dragon egg being placed in her cradle.
I agonized over whether or not to tell Viserys. Telling him that his baby sister was dead and that his home was in rebellion? It was the last thing I wanted to do. Yet I had done so anyway, hiding that from him would only make him grow resentful. Besides, I could help him try to manage his grief.
We had shared numerous conversations since then and I had deliberately kept the boys at work to keep them from getting lost, and yet it had only been so successful. I could tell that Viserys wanted to go back to Dragonstone and be with his family, and yet he also wanted to be here, having fun and learning in Essos. I could only hope that the Volantenes would finally come to the table in good faith so we could get back and help our family.
My eyes refocused just in time to see that my son had Viserys on the ropes. Daeron pressed his advantage from Viserys’s poor footwork. He charged him, sword outstretched and preparing to bring it down onto Viserys again. My nephew tried to pivot, slipped, and Daeron caught him with a blow to the ribs with his wooden shield. Wood cracked against armor. Viserys stumbled, his breath catching. A few soldiers hissed through their teeth before some cheers overshadowed them.
Hundreds of men had gathered to watch the boys spar. They always did. Rough-spoken veterans, complete rookies, auxiliaries, cooks, and camp followers. All drawn in by the same thing, the boys. Their bouts had become the joy of the camp. There was little joy to be found here. The monotony of the camp could be mind-numbing. But the boys brought laughter, spirit, something like hope. Even the old war dogs grinned when the dulled training swords came out.
“Too slow, cousin,“ Daeron said, chest rising with pride as he stood over Viserys. “You’ll never win if you fight like that.”
Viserys pushed himself up to his knees, breathing hard, but said nothing. He had grown much quieter ever since I told him the news. I could see the flicker in his eyes, though. Frustration, embarrassment, and something quieter still, grief, perhaps, poorly masked by stubborn pride.
“That’s enough,” I called. Some more daring soldiers in the crowd sighed in defeat before they had to get back to work. Meanwhile, I descended from the raised platform.
Daeron turned to me, triumphant, already half-grinning in expectation. Viserys pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his tunic, eyes lowered.
I descended from the gallery, my boots crunching gravel beneath each step. The men stepped aside without being asked, a sign of their long service. The boys stood straight, one glowing, the other bruised.
I looked at my son first. “You fought well.“
He beamed a smile at me. “Thank you, Father.“
My son had really begun to grow into his own in camp. He had taken to the new atmosphere like a fish to water. He happily questioned soldiers daily, and the soldiers in camp were all too happy to indulge my son. He had also grown significantly more confident during his time there. His worries about my approval and his lack of dragon being quashed by the praise he had been receiving and the fun he had been having.
“You were fast, aggressive, and you saw your chance and took it. Excellent work,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. He was already exceeding all of my expectations. Granted, he was fighting against someone of comparable size, but his development was coming along nicely.
“But remember, “strength and speed alone can not bring you to victory. You can always be better, more refined strikes and more fluidity in your footwork,” I said, not breaking off our stare.
Daeron nodded, a bit more solemn now, though the pride stayed in his eyes. That was fine. He should be proud. He was becoming a warrior, gradually, as it was meant to happen.
Then I turned to Viserys.
My nephew did not meet my gaze, his eyes instead looking at his feet. I studied him all the same. His cheek was red, ribs likely sore, but his pride had taken the worst blow.
“You lost,” I said simply.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said, his voice level. That tight jaw again. Always holding himself together, even when he didn’t want to. Not a terrible trait to have.
“Do you know why you lost?” I asked, it was a ritual by this point. After every bout, I would test their knowledge and get them to understand why the fight ended the way it did.
“I misstepped,” he said quickly. “I didn’t turn fast enough when he charged me, and I lost my footing.”
“And your mind wandered,” I added gently. “Just for a moment.”
He nodded, quiet, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment and shame.
“There is no shame in losing, Viserys,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “Only in refusing to learn from it. You’re thoughtful, Viserys. That’s a strength many men lack. Use it. Watch your opponents, not just their sword but the way they breathe, the way their shoulders shift, the way their eyes move. You’ll find an opening before they do.”
He looked up at me, something like determination flickering behind his tired eyes. It was exactly what I wanted to see. A determination to be better, exactly what his father lacked.
“You have talent,” I said to both of them as I got back to my feet. “But talent will only carry you so far. It’s work, hard work that sharpens it into something worth fearing,” I said in my most kingly, regal tone. It was a lesson that I would try to instill in all of my children and, one day, my grandchildren, too. They could not be allowed to fall into decadence and laziness. Lest they destroy themselves.
The boys stood straighter. Behind them, a few soldiers murmured approval at my words. They loved the boys, all of them did. Their little spars had become a kind of ritual now, a spark of joy and action in a camp that had seen too much waiting and far too little good news.
I ruffled Daeron’s short cut hair a bit. “I’m proud of you, son.”
He beamed up at me once more after that. Not just smiling, but glowing. Being able to spend so much time with him had made this tedious drag of an expedition much more tolerable. The last few times I had been called away, it was not possible to bring any of my children with me. I could hardly wait until Baelon could join us too. Perhaps even my daughters would one day join me on campaign, I would not let them shy away from battle entirely, they were grandchildren of my mother, after all.
“And I’m proud of you, too. You kept your guard until the end. You fought smart, even distracted. Continue like that and you might just have Daeron on the ropes next time,” I said, turning to Viserys. It was a balancing act keeping the two of them proud and grounded, but I had essentially nothing but time on my hands, so it was of little concern to me.
He blinked at that, then nodded, just once, but it meant more than words. The process of shaping Viserys was a gradual one, but it was coming along smoothly. He was more confident and much more inquisitive than he had been on Dragonstone.
“Ser Bean,“ I called, waving my former squire over. “Take them to the southern yard. Have them run shield drills, then rotate through feints and counters. Get Ser Gawen to assist you.“
“Aye, my prince,“ he said through his helm. Dick had grown considerably over his time in Essos. He was not a warrior I was confident in entrusting mine and my family’s safety to.
Dick was the captain of my imperial guard. A hand-picked group of very highly paid and loyal soldiers who had served with me previously. It was Dick’s task with defending my family while in Essos, and so far he had done an excellent job.
“If they slack, send them back to me, and I’ll run their drills for twice as long,” I added with a half smile.
That earned a few chuckles from the onlookers, and two groans from the boys as they followed Ser Bean toward the far yard. But I saw the bounce in Daeron’s step, and the steadiness in Viserys’s. They’d remember this day. Just like I wanted them to.
As I watched them depart, I readied myself for what was to come. I had organized another meeting with the damnable foreign representatives from Volantis for later today, and I had to prepare for another bout of prideful drivel and endless chattering.
“Where might my Magister Militum be?” I asked one of my attendants off to my right.
“Ser Aeron is with the fourth Legion, my prince,” the civil servant bowed deeply.
I let out a sigh and turned my steps toward that sector of the vast, fortified sprawl we had carved into the earth, a temporary city of tents, timber, and discipline to house the greatest army Pentos had ever seen.
As I began my march through the fortified expanse of the camp, I found myself slipping into familiar thoughts, thoughts of legions, reforms, and the long work of reshaping Pentos from a city of fops and merchants into a realm of soldiers and strength.
Pentos had once been defended by little more than mercenaries and frightened militias, flabby men with rusted spears and soft bellies. I had burned that rotted order to ash. In its place, I had forged something greater.
The Watchmen had been the first step. They were the remnants of the old Pentoshi way of war. Lightly armed militia that could quickly respond to incursions, yet I had finally properly organized them.
Each town had a unit of them, every border fortress, ford in the rivers, and even the small villages in the countryside had watchmen in them. Whether it be a legion’s worth in the larger towns or just a few squads of ten men each. Every settlement in my territory had a guard, both to keep the peace and defend against foreign threats.
They patrolled the borders now, from the Golden Fields to the Rhoyne, manning the forts I'd raised with stone and sweat part-time. They were no heroes, but they served their purpose all the same. They held the line, raised the alarm, and defended the border as best they could during times of peace. Or in times of war, they could be mobilized into light infantry, useful for skirmishes and envelopments. Even if I was reluctant to do so, taking them from the borders could leave them unguarded.
But that was where the real army, the Azantyrs, came in. They were my magnum opus. A professional force crafted through years of hard work and sleepless nights spent brainstorming with Aeron and my other commanders and scholars.
An army bound by coin, oath, and fire. Volunteers, not conscripts. Soldiers, not farmers or bakers in borrowed mail. Every man tested, trained, and paid. Twelve years of service, a purse of silver and gold, and a farm if they lived long enough to plant roots. I gave them a future, a future worth dying for.
I had found a steady stream of volunteers among the masses of freedmen I had created through my anti-slavery policies. Many were eager to serve me, or simply eager for full bellies and steady pay. It was a double win, I could pull many out from the slums and eventually settle them in the depopulated regions of western Essos that had come under my control.
But more importantly, I now had a force that could punch far above its weight, and one professional enough to follow behind me while I shattered enemies on dragonback.
I had three legions with me in camp. 15,000 professionally trained and disciplined men, along with nearly 10,000 auxiliaries and watchmen to back them up. There were six total around my holdings, but I was unwilling to pull too many men from Braavos yet. The countryside was loyal to me, but the city was still occasionally stirring up trouble. A riot here, a protest there, all problems that would be best kept controlled.
That coupled with the distance and inconvenience that would be removing the sixth Legion from Lorath meant that I was moving in with only half of my total strength. I was not particularly worried, given I had Terrax with me, but I definitely needed more men.
I had already ordered three new legions be raised in Pentos for any future conflicts in Essos or Westeros. But I would also need to look into expanding my recruitment in places beyond Pentos. I would run out of freedmen to hire eventually, after all.
My hold over the farther reaches of my domain was not ironclad yet. Hells my new government in Pentos was still only a few years old. But in time perhaps the hills of Norvos would produce as many soldiers for me as the fields of Pentos currently did.
The organized and professionally crafted camp was easy to traverse through. Another fruit of my endless nights spent with experts and my commanders devising a model camp for our army to construct.
There would be no haphazard allotments of tents and walls here. No, there would be structure and discipline. Straight paths through the sea of tents and clearly marked places for medics, waste, and commanders.
The Fourth Legion had made their camp along a low ridge near the eastern palisade, their banners of green fire snapping lazily in the stiff winter breeze that rolled down from the mountains.
I would have to ensure that the soldiers were given winter equipment soon. I had already been devising how their gear would change during the winter months. Proper pants, thicker tunics, more appropriate footwear. Thankfully, my artisans back in Pentos were finally making some headway and would begin production shortly.
As I approached, I passed a cohort of soldiers drilling beneath the morning sun, 500 shields locked, spears steady, eyes forward. Their discipline pleased me, these men would not break under the threat of a cavalry charge or the roars of my dragon. They were soldiers that I could count on to win on the ground while I won in the air.
At the heart of their encampment stood a tall pavilion draped in crimson and black, the colors of House Targaryen, colors that now flew above Pentos, above every fort and tower I had claimed.
It had not been a hard sell. Some of my men questioned not using the green and grey dragon banner that I had taken for my personal usage during my command of my sellsword company. But to put it simply, I was a Targaryen, and my realm was one ruled by Targaryens.
I would not be the first to give up the black and red banner. Let others change theirs if they wish. Black and red were the colors of my house and I had no intention of changing that.
The guards stationed outside of the tent bowed as I approached, my royal guard behind me steadied their spears. I was hardly at risk surrounded by so many of my soldiers, but they were paid handsomely to be prepared at all times, and it was worth every copper coin spent.
“My prince,“ the two men bowed as they opened the flaps for me to enter the pavilion. Inside I found the man I had been looking for. Ser Aeron Velaryon, my Magister Militum, commander of my armies while I was otherwise preoccupied, and one of the three men I entrusted the governance of Pentos to in my extended absences. He was armored in blackened plate, much like mine, his helm sat on the table, and his silver hair was bound in a warrior’s knot.
He was speaking with one of the newly founded engineering corps. A group of highly paid, well trained, engineers that were tasked with the creation of all constructions needed for the army. The fortified encampments, the bridges needed to cross rivers, and even siege weapons. Granted, we did not really need siege weapons given the existence of our dragons but it paid to be able to make them regardless. There was no telling if I would be called away or the army would be deployed without dragon support.
He stopped speaking with the young man once I approached, however. The young engineer quickly stood and saluted me. I acknowledged him with a raised hand before shooing him away. I had important matters to discuss with Aeron.
“Discussing anything interesting or just flattering a new recruit?” I asked as the engineer left the pavilion, earning a sharp exhale from my friend.
“In what world would I flatter a rookie belonging to the engineering corps?” Aeron asked, his voice dripping with snark.
“The same world where you miss the morning spar between my son and our nephew,” I said as I took a seat across from Aeron. This was not actually his pavilion, but we would occupy it while we were here.
“Ah hell! Is it already over?” Aeron said, looking toward the clock placed near the center of the room. Ever since I had one of my artisans invent the thing years ago, they had grown ubiquitous, among the wealthier aspects of society at least.
“Always preaching punctuality and yet you miss the highlight of our days? How unprofessional.” I teased, shaking my head in mock disappointment.
Aeron let out a groan and rubbed his face. “Gods, I wanted to go. I really did. But some fool misplaced the location of the latrine and now the fifth Legion’s headquarters smells of shit.”
“So that is why you are here instead of there,” I mused with a smile while Aeron buried his head in his hands.
“I presume it was the rookie’s fault then?” I guessed as my friend dragged his hands down his face.
“That is what I was trying to figure out before you arrived,” he said with a sigh as he slumped in his chair. Such lack of decorum would be deeply frowned upon had Aeron not been my best friend.
“Apologies for ruining your fun then, I suppose I ought to let you get back to your interrogations,” I said, barely repressing my smile before Aeron stopped me.
“Very funny,” Aeron replied dryly.
“Some of us have to be,” I responded in kind as I called over a servant to pour us some wine. We had a few hours before our meeting with the Volantene delegates, so I wanted to kill it.
The servant moved with quiet grace, filling two silver cups before stepping back. I took mine and swirled it once, watching the red cling to the rim. Aeron sniffed his, sipped, and made a face.
“Did you raid a vinegar merchant for this?” he asked.
“I didn’t order this, take it up with commander Vareo, you could at least give him a nice conversation after you stole his pavilion,” I said as I tasted the overly bitter wine.
“I didn’t steal it. I requisitioned it,” Aeron said as he set down the wine cup.
“Still better than anything the Tyroshi make,” Aeron said as he chanced another sip after the servant girl was kind enough to water it down. “They drown their wine in fruit and spices like they’re afraid of what it actually tastes like.“
“Maybe they are,“ I said, settling back into my chair. “Cowards in all things, even their drink.”
That caused Aeron to smirk. “You think they will uphold the treaty you forced out of them?” he asked as he took another sip of wine.
“No, but it should buy us some time to deal with other, more pressing concerns,” I said as I also leaned back in my seat, remembering the flood of letters in thanks that I had gotten from the merchant guilds after I negotiated down their tolls.
“No? You think they’ll be dumb enough to challenge you?” he asked with a dumbfounded expression.
“Has anyone been smart enough to not challenge me yet?” I bemoaned, causing Aeron to snicker.
“I suppose not.”
“Speaking of,” he continued. “You came here to talk about the meeting later today, yes?” he asked, getting right down to the root of our main problems.
I exhaled through my nose. “I feel like I am about to speak to men who believe I am too weak to do what must be done.”
Aeron nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. “Are they wrong?”
“Yes,“ I said, voice like tempered steel. “They see my desire for peace and assume it stems from fear. But I am not afraid of war, only of wasting time. And I will not let them confuse the two.”
A pause hung between us. Aeron studied me, his purple eyes narrowing as he swirled his cup, his earlier humor now gone.
“You’ll give them the ultimatum then?” he asked.
I nodded once. “They will have a choice. They can either discuss terms for peace, true peace, or I will burn their armies to ash fly down the Rhoyne, and destroy everything from Chroyane to the Summer Sea.”
It was a horrible thing to promise, and an even worse thing to do. A huge step up from my previous greatest atrocity which was burning a fifth of Braavos to the ground. I hoped that the Volantenes would be smart and take my threat seriously. But I could afford to waste my time here no longer. My family was in danger back in Westeros and I was tied down here.
Aeron tilted his head. “You’d really do it? Gods, Maegor… that’s, what? Half a dozen cities? Hundreds of thousands of people? Maybe more?”
“Closer to a million, I would wager,” I said, coolly. Actually burning all of those cities likely wouldn’t kill 100% of their populations, but the casualties would still be staggering.
He looked at me long and hard, then finally asked the question I knew had been on his tongue since I walked in.
“And are you actually willing to do it? All of it?”
“If I must, I do not have the luxury of mercy. Not now,” I said, my voice cold as ice.
“Because of Westeros,” he guessed quietly.
I gave a grim nod. “The Faith has risen in rebellion and my brother has faltered. Our nephew, the crown prince, is now leading armies in his stead. Every day I spend here is another day my enemies grow stronger.“
“Well,“ he said, “at least you don’t have to do it alone.“
I looked at him with a smile. “I never have.”
He gave me a crooked grin. “Then let’s go terrify some fat prideful fools.”
I raised my cup in a quiet toast. “To terror.”
Aeron raised his own. “And to friends who wield it well.”
I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! In the next chapter, there will be more Volantenes again, and Aegon will try to retake the Sept of Remembrance. Stay tuned!
Comments
Amit Efraim
i hope you can update more often
Morel
Oh they are being very foolish and it will take a lot of time to get back into the good graces of their family lol. They basically left them out to dry to focus on mourning Vaella.
Zenokya
Aenys and Alyssa truly are in an ivory tower of their own, the faith declared war on you and more than half the continent (+ zealots) are against you. What do they do, they mourn there infant daughter for a very long time in wartime, not wanting to be cruel against them but you are in war and time is a luxury. Every castle that ask for help but get nothing might turn against them, the whole kingdom is on the edge. Maybe if Rhaena announces that she is pregnant that might wake up the parents… maybe. Aegon take a risky gamble but the situation require it, at least if he can buy time until Maegor come back with dragon (and maybe army). Anyway great chapter can’t wait and take care.
