Illusiveone
patreon
62: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Crippled Dragon
🕑 Added 2024-09-06 16:37:59 +0000 UTCAegon walked toward the Iron Throne. The vast throne room echoed with his steps, empty and cold, amplifying the sound of his boots striking the stone floor. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, its jagged swords and twisted iron glinting menacingly in the dim light. It was an object that had haunted him since childhood—once something he had feared, now something he was determined to claim.
His body felt strong, his limbs steady. No limp, no pain. His hands flexed with a strength he hadn’t felt in years. A rare sensation of power surged through him as he approached the throne, its cruel iron spires reaching out like the claws of a dragon.
But as he neared, something caught his eye.
Someone was already sitting there.
His heart pounded with fury as he realized who it was. Not his father.
Maekar.
His younger brother sat on the Iron Throne, legs draped over one of the arms, his warhammer casually resting against his shoulder, a smug look plastered across his face. The sight enraged Aegon beyond reason.
Maekar rose from the throne, the clang of his warhammer echoing as he descended the iron steps. His smile never wavered, mocking Aegon with its cold confidence.
“What are you doing here, cripple?” Maekar asked, his voice dripping with disdain.
Aegon wanted to scream, wanted to tell him to get off his throne—his throne. But as he took a step forward, a cold realization washed over him. His legs, once strong and whole, suddenly buckled beneath him. His hands trembled, his body faltering. He was back in his damaged state—broken, weak.
Maekar sneered. “Look at you. So weak. You don’t deserve to succeed our father.”
Rage welled up inside Aegon. He lunged at Maekar with every ounce of strength he could muster, but before he could reach him, Maekar's form vanished, dissipating into the air. The throne room dissolved around him, and in its place emerged a cold, damp darkness he recognized all too well.
He was back on Euron’s ship.
The twisted iron of the throne had transformed into chains, the familiar stench of saltwater filling his nostrils. His hands shook, memories flooding in.
'No... not here. Not again.'
“I told you,” came the deep, menacing voice of Euron Greyjoy, his figure shrouded in darkness. “You are weak. Too weak to rule. Too weak to save anyone. Too weak to even save your own mother.”
Aegon’s heart raced, his hands trembling as Euron's monstrous silhouette loomed before him. “I am not weak,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, struggling to force the words out.
Euron’s laugh rang out, cruel and mocking, reverberating in his mind. It was a laugh that pierced through him, shaking him to his core.
Aegon screamed, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. His body jolted awake as he sat up in his bed, drenched in sweat, panting heavily.
He grabbed his cane from the side of the bed, his fingers gripping the familiar wood as he pulled himself upright. The ache in his legs was a dull, constant reminder of his weakness, but he ignored it, his mind too preoccupied with the storm of thoughts that had been unleashed by his nightmare.
With slow, deliberate steps, he made his way to the window, each tap of the cane against the stone floor echoing through the silent chamber. The moonlight bathed the room in a cold, pale glow, and as he reached the window, he allowed the chill of the night air to wash over him. The fresh breeze offered some solace, a small reprieve from the darkness clinging to his mind.
He lowered himself into the chair by the window, his body easing into the cushions as he leaned back, letting the cold air soothe him. His breath steadied, and he felt a moment of calm. But it was short-lived.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, dry and humorless. The dream of Maekar sitting on the Iron Throne—a vision that haunted him more often than he'd like to admit. It was absurd, or at least it should have been. The thought of Maekar as king... yet, it was no longer something he could dismiss.
'Fool,' he thought, shaking his head at his own naivety. When Maekar had first returned to King’s Landing, Aegon had genuinely believed his brother had no ambitions beyond his duties as the second son.
But slowly, as the months passed, the reality became clear. Maekar had gained power and influence, forming alliances with a frightening ease. What his friends, his advisors, and even his own instincts had warned him about became undeniable truth—Maekar harbored ambitions of his own.
His hand tightened on the armrest of the chair, his knuckles white. His father was too incompetent to see the danger brewing beneath his own roof. Rhaegar would do nothing, and Aegon had been forced to take matters into his own hands, preparing for what seemed inevitable—Maekar’s treason.
'I am the crown prince,' Aegon thought, his jaw clenched. 'Cripple or not, the lords will fall in line.' But even as the words formed in his mind, he knew the truth was far more complicated.
The realm was already splitting at the seams. Maekar’s hold on power was no longer just a whisper in the corridors—it was a reality. He had the North. He had the Vale. And even worse, lords from the Crownlands had been swayed by Maekar.
The City Watch was now firmly in Maekar’s pocket. Aegon knew that when their father died, the city and keep itself might not be safe for him. King’s Landing was lost to him.
'But I have the West,' he reminded himself. 'I have the Reach.' He knew that Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell were with him, especially with the marriage to Margaery Tyrell looming. If he could secure that union, the power of the Reach would be his, and with it, the support of its wealthy and numerous lords. Joffrey would marry his aunt, solidifying Lannister loyalty. His friendship with Edmure Tully ensured the Riverlands would stand with him, and Jon Connington’s devotion guaranteed the Stormlands’ loyalty.
And then there was Dorne. His sister's ambitions and her own plotting made it impossible to trust Dorne’s loyalty completely.
If his brother rebelled, Aegon believed he could crush him—he would crush him. He would succeed where their father had failed. He would punish the lords who had rebelled, strengthen their family’s rule, and restore the Targaryen dynasty to the power it had once wielded under Aegon the Conqueror.
Yet Aegon knew better than to underestimate Maekar. Alliances could shift with the wind, and those who swore loyalty today might betray him tomorrow. He needed to be vigilant, careful, and always one step ahead.
He did not return to sleep after that. As dawn broke and light filled his chambers, he remained still, his mind swirling with plans, worries, and questions. For the entire day, he stayed inside, letting the servants move in and out, bringing him food and cleaning the room. His attention, however, was far from the mundane tasks happening around him.
He focused on what the upcoming tourney would bring, anticipating it not as a celebration but as a stage where alliances and loyalties would be tested. Then his thoughts drifted to Maekar’s sudden decision to travel to Driftmark with Daenerys, a move that had unsettled and confused him.
He still remembered Joffrey’s wrath because of Maekar and Daenerys’s closeness.
"I do not want the bastard’s seconds," Joffrey had said to him.
What were Maekar’s intentions in Driftmark? Was he gathering support from the lords of Blackwater Bay, securing the Velaryons as his allies? The thought gnawed at him, lending him no peace.
Lord Quenton Qoherys, one of his strongest allies, had promised to use his vast spy network to monitor Maekar’s movements closely. Quenton had even uncovered Maekar's own network of informants operating within the Red Keep. But somehow, despite all these efforts, Maekar remained elusive.
'Perhaps it was time to approach Lord Varys,' Aegon thought.
=======
As the evening drew in, the first of his guests began to arrive. He heard the door to his chamber creak open, and in walked Joffrey, his face already twisted into an expression of annoyance.
He was followed by Gerold, who promptly walked to his side.
"Where have you been? Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here all day," Joffrey asked.
Aegon glanced at him, his patience wearing thin. "I should ask you the same. I expected you to come looking for me."
Joffrey sneered, his expression growing more irritated. "I was with my mother, making sure she wasn’t anywhere near your bastard brother," he spat, his voice laced with anger.
Aegon frowned, knowing where this was going. "Maekar is playing with you, Joff. Don’t let his words—"
Joffrey cut him off sharply, his frustration boiling over. "My mother is slowly falling under his charm! Am I the only one who sees it? You saw how they danced, how they laughed together!" His hands clenched into fists as he spoke, his anger palpable.
Gerold laughed at his side, making Joffrey even angrier.
"Must be fucking her right now while you're here," Gerold said.
"Gerold," Aegon warned, eyeing the knight who was soon to be in the Kingsguard, if Aegon had his way.
"It was a feast, Joff," Aegon replied, attempting to reason with him.
Joffrey shook his head, unwilling to accept Aegon’s dismissal. "You should be worried too! Maekar thinks he can influence the Westerlands through my mother!"
Aegon sighed, trying to maintain his composure. "I think you and I both know Lord Tywin is the ultimate power in the Westerlands. You’ve said it yourself, Joff. He will support me, not Maekar. You are his heir. I plan to discuss the matter of Daenerys with my father soon."
Joffrey’s expression darkened, his voice dripping with venom. "I don’t want your whore of an aunt. She’s probably already laid down for your bastard brother a dozen times."
Aegon’s eyes flashed dangerously at that. "Careful, Joffrey," he warned, his tone low and full of menace.
Before the tension could escalate further, their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Jon Connington. The Lord Hand entered the room and bowed to Aegon, his presence a calming influence in the growing storm.
"Aegon, I see that Lord Joffrey is here as well," Jon Connington greeted, his eyes briefly flicking toward Joffrey and Gerold before turning back to Aegon.
Aegon nodded. "Is Barristan still standing at the door? I dismissed him earlier."
Jon Connington shook his head. "No, he’s not."
Before Aegon could respond, more figures entered the room—Lady Olenna Tyrell, her son Mace Tyrell, followed by Quenton Qoherys.
Aegon rose from his chair, adopting the posture of a leader as he welcomed the group that had assembled. His eyes flickered over each figure in turn—Joffrey still simmering with frustration, Lady Olenna sharp and watchful, Mace Tyrell eager but dull, and Quenton Qoherys lurking in the background, unreadable.
"Thank you all for coming," Aegon began, his voice steady though the weight of the moment pressed heavily on his shoulders. "Please, be seated."
As they took their places around the large table, the mood in the room grew more somber. Aegon’s cane rested against the arm of his chair as he watched them all closely.
It was the Hand of the King who spoke first. “Prince Maekar has ambitious plans for a grand trade fleet to the east," Connington began, his tone sharp with concern. "He’s been building ships in a new shipyard—on lands he took from a minor lord southwest of the city. And he has approached several lords to join this endeavor."
"He rebuffed my advances to join this venture, Your Grace. The fleet is poised to expand trade with the East. Lords from the Crownlands, Blackwater Bay, and even several from the Stormlands—Tarth and Caron among them—have thrown their support behind him," Quenton added.
"Damn them," Connington muttered under his breath, frustration clear. Even though Connington was the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, many still defied his word and looked to the Baratheons.
The Queen of Thorns raised an eyebrow, her sharp mind quick to probe deeper. "And what of the Baratheons? What is their stance on this fleet?"
Connington shook his head. "Stannis remains silent, as always. He hasn’t made his position clear."
Quenton leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he addressed Aegon directly. "Your Grace, what concerns me most is your brother’s new sworn shield—the knight, Ser Lyonel Storm. The man bears an unsettling resemblance to the old rebel, Robert Baratheon. There are whispers that Lyonel could have ties to the Baratheons, perhaps even to Stannis."
Olenna, always the pragmatist, cut in. "Tell me more about this fleet. What makes them so confident of its success? Surely Maekar is not the first prince to dream of filling coffers with gold."
Before Connington could answer, Mace Tyrell, eager to boast, interrupted. "If his plan is simply to buy the loyalty of lords with gold, Highgarden will shower those same lords with more than the paltry sum your brother offers. Their allegiance will belong to us, Your Grace." His chest puffed out, clearly satisfied with himself.
"Shut up, Mace," Olenna said sharply, dismissing her son. She turned to Quenton and Connington, pressing them for more details. "What do you know about these ships? What makes them so special?"
Quenton nodded, leaning in further. "Your Grace, Maekar’s fleet is said to be unlike anything we've seen. His ships are faster and more capable of traversing deep oceans. There are even rumors that the prince possesses a secret device—one that can reliably determine the direction of north, even when the stars are hidden."
The room went still as the gravity of Quenton's words sank in.
Aegon, deep in thought, tapped his cane lightly on the floor. A navigational device like that could revolutionize trade and make the lords involved in this venture wealthier than any before them.
"If these rumors are true," Quenton continued, "the lords involved and Maekar stand to gain more than gold—they could become the wealthiest in all of Westeros. Regular voyages to Essos, the Summer Isles, and beyond could change everything."
‘So that’s your plan, then, Maekar,’ Aegon thought bitterly. ‘Wealth beyond measure.’
Aegon’s fists clenched tightly around his cane. Even with the advantage of numbers on his side, he felt weak. Why did he feel this way?
Olenna Tyrell fixed Aegon with her sharp gaze. "And what of the Lannisters, Your Grace?" she asked pointedly. "Is Tywin attempting to buy your loyalty through marriage and gold, as he’s so fond of doing?"
Aegon met her eyes and shook his head firmly. "No, Lady Olenna. My plan has always been for Joffrey and my aunt Daenerys to be married. That remains unchanged."
Olenna leaned back, considering his response. "Hmm, good. I hope you won’t be like your namesake and break agreements." She then smiled. "Maekar’s plan with the fleet will never succeed. My Redwyne cousins have told me that the Stepstones are riddled with pirates. It’s a death trap for ships right now."
Quenton nodded in agreement. "She’s right, Your Grace. The Stepstones are crawling with rogues. Maekar’s fleet will be harassed constantly, and the losses could be devastating.”
“That being said," he continued, "should we let this come to war? There are other ways to stop him without such drastic measures."
Aegon leaned forward, his face grim. "War will always be the last option, Quenton. But I agree. We must consider subtler means. Open conflict would fracture the realm further."
Olenna, never one to mince words, offered her own warning. "Be careful with these 'other ways,' Your Grace. Once you start down that road, you might find it difficult to stop."
Before Aegon could respond, Gerold spoke up. "Accidents happen in the melee, Lady Tyrell. A tournament can be an unpredictable affair."
Olenna’s eyes narrowed. "And who will carry out such a plan? What makes you think it won't be discovered?"
Quenton, ever the schemer, replied smoothly. "It can be done, Lady Olenna. We simply need loyal men—ones who understand the stakes and know how to be discreet."
He turned his attention to Aegon. "Maekar may have fewer kingdoms and men on his side, but he holds the capital. King’s Landing is under his control. The longer we wait, the stronger his position becomes."
Aegon nodded slowly, weighing the options before him. "Very well. We will strike during the tournament. Quenton, I want you to find out exactly what Maekar is doing in Driftmark. I want to know what he’s plotting."
Olenna’s sharp voice cut through the air once more. "And what of Dorne, Your Grace? You are the son of Elia Martell. The Dornish should be here with us, supporting you. Why haven’t they joined your cause?"
Aegon’s silence stretched uncomfortably. Before he could respond, Joffrey interjected. "Princess Rhaenys has turned Dorne against him. She’s playing her own game, one that doesn’t favor Aegon."
"This can be solved with a marriage, Your Grace," Mace said. "Princess Rhaenys could be wed to my son Willas. That would bring Dorne back into the fold."
Aegon turned to Lord Connington. "What do you know of my father’s plans for Rhaenys? Has he said anything about a marriage alliance?"
Connington shook his head. "Rhaegar remains silent on the matter, Your Grace. He has not expressed any plans for her."
Aegon nodded thoughtfully, the wheels of his mind turning. "I’ll consider your suggestion, Lord Tyrell." His voice remained neutral.
Finally, he stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Thank you all for your counsel."
One by one, the lords and the lady rose, bowing to him before making their way out of the chamber.
As he found himself alone again, he lay in his bed, but as he closed his eyes, all he could hear was Euron’s voice whispering in his ear, telling him how weak he was.
