The day after the funeral, the winds off Driftmark blew cold and biting, carrying the salt of the Narrow Sea and the lingering scent of dragonfire. The Great Houses departed one by one, their banners snapping in the gale as they fled the suffocating tension of High Tide.
To quell the "shameless rumors" and separate the warring factions, King Viserys had issued a desperate decree. Rhaenyra and her children were to remain on Dragonstone, effectively exiled from the capital. To ensure her safety—or perhaps to keep her watched—Viserys assigned Ser Erryk Cargyll as her personal shield.
Ser Harwin Strong, the "Breaker of Bones," was sent packing to Harrenhal, though his father, Lord Lyonel, remained at his post as Hand. Aegon watched the Strongs depart with a cold, narrowed gaze. He knew the fires of Harrenhal were coming for them soon, orchestrated by the "Clubfoot," Larys Strong.
Aegon's thoughts drifted to Larys. In the histories he remembered, the man was a shadow—effective, talented, and disturbingly obsessed with his mother's feet. A dark flick of possessiveness crossed Aegon's mind. If Larys—or even Criston—dares to look at the Queen with anything other than subservience, I'll see them hung from the Traitor's Walk before the moon turns.
"Aegon, come. Sit with me," Viserys called out, his voice thin and raspy.
Aegon snapped out of his dark reverie. "Of course, Father."
He turned to his siblings. "You three, fly the dragons back. When you reach King's Landing, do not land at once. Circle the city three times. Let every soul from Flea Bottom to the Red Keep see the gold, the blue, and the ancient green. Understand?"
Aemond's eyes blazed with a manic, youthful pride. He was ten, and he rode the Queen of Dragons; he wanted the world to tremble. Helaena and little Daeron were calmer, though the prospect of a shared flight brought a rare, genuine smile to Helaena's lips.
"And take care of Daeron," Aegon added, glancing at the small boy and his cobalt-winged Tessarion. "Don't go to the Pit. Follow Vhagar to the hills."
As the royal galley, the Viserys, weighed anchor, the dragons took to the sky. Sunfyre led the way, his gold scales shimmering like a second sun over the fleet. Then came the massive Vhagar and the elegant Dreamfyre, with tiny Tessarion flapping furiously to keep pace until his elder siblings slowed their beat to guide him home.
Inside the opulent cabin of the flagship, the silence between father and son was heavy. Viserys looked frailer than he had only a day ago, his skin like grey parchment.
"Was it your idea?" Viserys asked abruptly, his eyes searching Aegon's face. "For Aemond to claim Vhagar?"
"No," Aegon replied calmly, pouring a cup of wine. "I never guided him to her. That is Vhagar—no one guides her but her rider."
"But you knew," Viserys pressed, his voice trembling. "You watched him go. Why didn't you stop him? He is a boy! If she had burned him..."
Aegon set the pitcher down with a soft clink. "He is a Targaryen, Father. We do not stop our own from claiming their birthright."
Viserys leaned back, his eyes full of a desperate, flickering hope. He wanted an excuse. He wanted Aegon to blame his mother, to say he was forced into this coldness. "You used to be so yielding to Rhaenyra. Why those words last night? Why the cruelty?"
Aegon looked at the King. He saw a man clinging to a peace that had already died.
"Father," Aegon said softly, "do you remember how old I am today?"
Viserys blinked. "Thirteen. It is your thirteenth nameday. What of it?"
"Thirteen," Aegon repeated. "I am healthy. I am a master of the blade. Sunfyre is the pride of the sky. My brother rides the greatest dragon in existence. My sister rides a Queen, and my younger brother is a prodigy. My dear Father... don't you see? I no longer need to be 'cautious.'"
Viserys's lips moved, but no sound came out. He looked at Aegon as if seeing a stranger—a kingly, formidable stranger. A trace of relief, hidden even from himself, flickered in his chest. The boy is ready, a traitorous part of his mind whispered.
"You mean to usurp Rhaenyra," Viserys whispered, half-accusal, half-question.
Aegon's expression went blank. The warmth vanished from his eyes. He let the silence stretch until the King looked away, unable to bear the weight of his son's gaze. Then, Aegon smiled. It was the smile of a perfect prince.
"What a thing to say, Father. I only wish to protect my house. If my sister takes the throne and finds me a threat, I must have the means to fly to Essos, shouldn't I? If she wishes me well, I shall be her most loyal servant. Do not worry."
Viserys slumped into his seat, a profound sense of guilt washing over him. Aegon was perfect—the heir the lords wanted, the dragon the realm feared. I have wronged you, he thought, though the words died in his throat, turning into a hollow sigh.
"I have wronged you," Viserys finally muttered, getting up to leave. "Rest well, Aegon."
As the door closed, the smile dropped from Aegon's face like a discarded mask.
Viserys felt guilty? Good. But the King's "I have wronged you" was premature. Aegon watched the coast of King's Landing appear on the horizon.
When I am done with Rhaenyra and her bastards, Aegon thought coldly, I will be the one saying 'I'm sorry' over your grave.