The Road to the Aegonfort
The roads crisscrossing the lands of Blackwater Bay could hardly be called such; they were little more than winding dirt paths, carved by heavy merchant carts seeking the path of least resistance through the scrub and mire.
On this morning, however, those paths were choked with riders.
The procession was a jagged line of contrasts. Some arrived with great heraldry—banners of ancient family sigils snapping rhythmically in the salt wind—while others rode in somber silence, flanked only by a handful of weary sworn swords. Despite their differing ranks, every horse was turned toward the same singular point of gravity: the rough wooden fortress that had risen, almost like a dark omen, upon the high hill overlooking the river's mouth.
The Lords called it a beachhead. The soldiers called it a camp. But among the frightened smallfolk watching from the treeline, it already had a name that would echo through the centuries.
They called it the Aegonfort.
Lord Jon Rosby of House Rosby rode at the head of his party, his cloak—patterned with the three red chevronels of his house—pulled tight against the salt-heavy wind. To his left rode a lean, grim-faced knight of House Stokeworth, and further back followed the triple-spiral banner of House Massey.
The road had grown congested over the past hour. Small columns of riders and weary smallfolk passed one another with wary nods. No one had come expecting a battle, but neither had they come unarmed.
"Strange days," Lord Rosby muttered, his eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of the Aegonfort ahead.
"Strange?" the Stokeworth knight replied, his voice thin with nerves. "A foreigner arrives from a dead kingdom, claims his sisters as his wives, and declares himself Lord of all Westeros while riding a fire-breathing monster? I should think strange is a polite word for it."
Rosby glanced back at the Massey banner. "Is it true, then? About the sisters?" he asked in a low voice.
Lord Massey gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Foreign? Dragonstone has stood in the bay for a century. They've traded with my house longer than I've been alive. If they are foreigners, Rosby, they are the closest neighbors we have."
The Stokeworth knight snorted, spitting into the mud. "Dragonstone is a volcanic rock full of smoke and heat. It's a tomb, not a kingdom."
"Perhaps," Massey replied, his gaze shifting to the sky as if expecting a shadow to fall. "But it also has dragons."
"You believe the stories, then?" the Stokeworth knight asked.
"I believe what if enough men say the same thing its probably true," Massey said. "Three beasts big as castles flying above the bay. One black as midnight, the other white, and the last a dirty green or bronze, they say."
"Fishermen see krakens in every storm," the Stokeworth knight replied dismissively.
"Perhaps," Massey said as he glanced up into the sky once again. "But sometimes they're right."
At that word, any conversation died in all the lords' throats.
Ahead of them, the land sloped upward toward a hill on the coast. The wind carried the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, along with the creak of ships and the dull hammering of men at work as a wooden fort with dragon banners flapped in the sea breeze.
Rows of tents spread across the grassy slopes like fields of red and black flowers. Thousands of soldiers moved among them, some in foreign armor, but others stood in the familiar colors of minor Westerosi houses who had already bent the knee and joined Aegon's Conquest.
But that wasn't what had all the lord staring up into the sky.
Three large shapes moved freely in the sky as if in a dance.
The smallest of the three flew with almost boundless energy. It was watching a dirty emerald suddenly be brought up to the sunlight and shine brightly from within each flap of its wings, which pushed it around and through the larger masses around it.
The second largest shape was like watching a moving living cloud, its white scales made even the most perceptive lord and knight lose sight of it if it passed by or into a cloud.
But it was the last and largest of the shapes that truly made these lords shudder, and even the few religus men trembled in fear and muttered prayers to the seven.
A true behemoth flew high in the sky, with black scales that seemed to absorb light and dispel it to give its edges a red flare that reminded all who witnessed it of demons and made their hearts and souls weaken by pure dread at the thought of facing such a beast.
Lord Rosby broke the silence first.
"Seven save us," he murmured. The Stokeworth knight leaned forward in his saddle, staring at the flying leviathans.
"So the rumors were true," he said. Suddenly, one of the shadows passed over the gathered lords the horses began to panic immediately, snorting and stamping.
---
The gates of the Aegonfort stood open.
Fresh-cut timber still bled sap from the beams, and the scent of pine hung heavy in the air. Guards in black-and-red cloaks lined the entrance, their spears grounded in unison as the gathered lords of Blackwater Bay approached.
But then they began to slow as they saw what hung above the gate of the fort.
Two banners, torn and blackened by flame, stirred weakly in the wind.
The sigil of House Darklyn—once proud—now reduced to scorched threads.
Beside it, the crimson salmon of House Mooton burned through in places as if eaten by fire itself.
The riders slowed, and a murmur passed through them like a chill wind.
Lord Rosby frowned, his gaze fixed upward. "What happened here?"
One of the Targaryen soldiers answered plainly, without ceremony.
"They rose together," he said. "Darklyn and Mooton. Thought to break the landing before it could take root."
"And?" another lord pressed, and the soldier looked at him as if he were an idiot.
"They are ash now," he said. "Their sons rule in their place, and all have bent the knee to our lord Aegon."
A pause, no one spoke after that, the message was clear as the lord's road inside the walls, the Aegonfort was alive with movement.
Soldiers, servants, and workers moved through the yard in controlled chaos, but at its center, before a raised wooden platform, everything stood still.
The gathered lords were led forward, and there he stood.
Aegon Targaryen, clad in dark Valyrian steel armor that drank in the sunlight and seemed to glow from inside the rippling patterns, Aegon stood tall and unmoving, one hand resting lightly upon the pommel of his sword.
To his right stood Orys Baratheon, broad-shouldered and watchful.
To his left stood Visenya Targaryen, her presence cold and unyielding, her hand near the hilt of Dark Sister.
And next to her stood Rhaenys Targaryen, her expression softer, but no less certain, and behind them stood Lords Velaryon and Celtigar.
The blood of old Valyria stood together, and the gathered lords whispered and muttered to themselves, but as all the lords arrived, Aegon stepped forward, and their whispers died.
"My lords, you have come swiftly." Aegon's voice, when he spoke, was calm—but carried across the entire courtyard. His violet eyes passed over them; each lord who met his eyes felt like they were being measured.
"You all have chosen to see what is before you," above a dragons shreek made some lords flinch. "There is wisdom in choosing life over ancient vows that you have no hope of keeping without your destruction. For that, you have my respect… and now once you kneel to me, you will have my protection."
Rhaenys stepped forward slightly, her voice rising clear and bright, "bear witness," she called, "to the dawn of a new age."
Aegon turned with deliberate motion, his black cape flowed behind him, the red three-headed dragon glared back at the lords as he drew his sword, Blackfyre slid free with a whisper like silk off a maiden's body.
He turned the blade point-down and sank to one knee.
The already quiet courtyard now fell silent like an empty field, not even the wind blowing and the crashing sea seemed to fall silent, wishing not to disrupt this moment.
Visenya stepped forward. In her hands, she carried a circlet of dark Valyrian steel, set with large, square-cut rubies that burned like captured flame.
She placed the crown upon his head.
"I crown you," Rhaenys said, her voice like polished steel, "Aegon of House Targaryen First of His Name..."
Rhaenys stepped forward, her voice rising, carrying beyond the walls.
"King of all Westeros!"
For a single heartbeat, silence, then the rusling if fabric and armor filled the air as one by one, the Lords of Blackwater Bay and other knights of proud lineage now all knelt.
"All hail King Aegon, First of His Name!"
The cry began with a single voice, then another, then a hundred more until it became a roar.
Then, from above, the dragons answered it as thunderous roars split the heavens. All three dragons cried out as one.
Aegon rose, finally crowned And as he looked upon the kneeling lords of the Blackwater Bay, the soon-to-be Crownlands, he knew that this was only the beginning.
---
Aegonfort, The First Council
The air inside the hall tasted of salt and raw pine. The timber beams were still weeping sap, the scent sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. It was a crude structure, a soldier's sanctuary built in haste upon a muddy hill, yet as I sat at the head of the long table, I felt the shift in the world's axis.
The weight on my brow was no longer a thought; it was a physical reality. The Valyrian steel of my crown was cold, but the three rubies set within it seemed to pulse with the heat of the dragons outside.
To my right sat Orys. My brother was broad and silent, and ill-at-ease in his seat. He looked at me with a new kind of tension, as if searching for a reason to stand behind me once more than sit at the table with me.
To my left, my sister, my wives, and now my queens.
Visenya sat like a blade sheathed but ready, her gaze fixed on the lords before us with a predatory stillness. Rhaenys was different; she was watching the flickers of emotion on their faces, her mind likely already three moves ahead in the game of whispers that follows every war.
Further down the table sat the men who had staked their lives on my ambition: Daemon Velaryon, Crispian Celtigar, and Quenton Qoherys. They were the steel in my hand, the wind in my sails.
I let the silence stretch. I wanted them to feel the weight of it. I wanted them to understand that the time for shouting and debate had ended. The time for the Word had begun.
"Today," I said, and my voice sounded strange to my own ears—calm, resonant, carrying a weight that hadn't been there a moon ago. "We have taken the first step in the making of a kingdom. A conquest may be won with fire and blood. A kingdom, however, requires more."
I looked at each of them. I saw their pride, their hunger, and their fear.
"Westeros will not be ruled by dragonfire alone. It will be ruled by law, by order, and by those with the spine to uphold both. To that end, I am establishing a Council. A small body—for now. Men who will help me rule what we have now and what we have yet to claim."
I turned my head toward Orys.
"Orys. For as long as I have drawn breath, you have stood at my side. In battle, in council, and in all things that matter. You will continue to do so." I leaned forward slightly, making sure he heard the finality in my tone. "I name you my Regent. When I am absent, you shall speak with my voice. When I am beyond reach, your word is my will."
Orys looked truly caught off guard. I saw the protest forming in his eyes—words about "greater names" and "ancient houses." I didn't give him the chance to speak them.
"I did not choose you for your name, Orys. I chose you because you have never failed me. In this new realm, loyalty is the greatest currency. You are my strong right hand."
He inclined his head slowly. "As you command… Your Grace."
I nodded back and turned to Daemon Velaryon
"Lord Daemon Velaryon. The seas will decide our reach. Trade, supply, and the projection of our strength all rely on the water. I name you Master of Ships. You will build a navy that makes the Narrow Sea a Targaryen lake."
"It will be done, Your Grace," Daemon replied, his hand over his chest.
I moved to Celtigar. "Lord Crispian. A kingdom must be fed and paid for. I name you Master of Coin. You will build a treasury worthy of a united realm. I expect you to find the gold in the dirt of this land."
Celtigar offered a thin, calculated smile as if looking forward to the challenge.
Finally, I looked at Quenton Qoherys. "You will serve as my Master of Arms. But not yet. The war comes first, and I have need of you in the field. When the last knee is bent, you shall take your seat and build me a grand army."
I leaned back, my hand resting on the rough map of the continent spread before me. "This Council will grow. In time, I will fill seats with the men of this land—lords who have the sense to see that the era of petty kings is dead. This kingdom will not remain foreign forever. We did not come to be occupiers. We came to be the center."
The air in the room seemed to chill as I shifted the map markers.
"Now, we speak of war. Orys, you will take a host south. March for Storm's End. Argilac Durrandon is a arragant man break him. Rhaenys shall go with you. Meraxes ensures he and his lords understand dragons have nothing to fear from storms."
Rhaenys gave me a faint, dangerous smile.
"I will march on Harrenhal," I continued. The thought of Harren Hoare filled me with a cold disdain. He believed his black stone made him a god. I would show him that stone is merely a slow way to burn.
I turned to Visenya. "Take Vhagar and the fleet to Crackclaw Point. Bring those lords to heel. By fear if necessary."
"They will kneel, brother," she said. Her voice was like ice cracking.
"Lord Celtigar," I finished. "You shall remain here to improve this camp. I want stone where there is wood. I want docks where there is mud. Recruit the local lords who have skills. Ignore those who only have pride."
I stood up. The scrape of the chairs was like a thunderclap in the small room.
"Three days. In three days, we march. Let the realm see that the dragon does not come as one flame… but as three."
Three days later, I watched from the back of Balerion as the hosts divided. One line of steel marched south into the clouds, meraxes flew; the fleet raised sails, moving to follow the northern shore with Vhager above. Beneath me, my army marched, cutting through the forest like a dagger in flesh.
I felt the Black Dread shift beneath me, his massive wings beating a rhythm that felt like the heart of the world.