Half a month had passed since the salt-spray and dragon-shadows of Driftmark. The capital had transformed. With Rhaenyra effectively confined to the sea-girt fortress of Dragonstone, the Red Keep had become a garden where the green vines of the Hightowers grew unchecked.
The sight of the four dragons circling the city—gold, blue, silver, and the prehistoric emerald of Vhagar—had done more for the Green cause than a thousand letters. Power was no longer an abstract concept of succession; it was a physical weight in the sky. Lords who had spent years wavering suddenly found their "true" loyalties, and the halls of the Red Keep whispered with the rustle of green silk.
The Great Sept of Baelor
Aegon knelt before the silent, towering idols of the Seven. The air was thick with incense and the hushed murmurs of the faithful.
"Do kinslayers truly meet a bad end?" Aegon asked the Mother and the Warrior in the silence of his mind. He didn't expect an answer from stone. In this world, the only gods who showed their hand were the ones who demanded blood and fire—the Lord of Light, R'hllor. The Seven were for the smallfolk; dragons were for themselves.
"You seem to have a heavy burden on your mind, Prince," a voice rasped, breaking his meditation.
Aegon had known the man was there for minutes. He didn't start. He simply opened his eyes and looked at the shadow beside him.
"Larys Strong. I didn't think the Great Sept was your haunt," Aegon said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I imagined you'd be tucked away in a dark corner, calculating how many rungs are left on the ladder of power."
Larys, "the Clubfoot," blinked. The remark was more direct than he had anticipated. He leaned on his cane, a thin, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Power is a necessary comfort, Highness. If I were the heir to Harrenhal, perhaps the whispers about my limp would be a little quieter."
"Heh." Aegon stood up, his boots clicking on the marble. He began to walk toward the exit, forcing Larys to limp alongside him to keep pace. "And what if you were? If I chose to call you a useless cripple to your face, what would you do? Would you set your little rats to gnaw at my heels in the night?"
Larys's heart hammered against his ribs. He had dealt with Alicent—a woman driven by duty and fear—but Aegon was a different beast entirely. The Prince was thirteen, yet he spoke with the casual lethality of a man who had already seen the end of the world.
"Prince, please," Larys whispered. "I have no such designs. I have watched you since the banquet of 111 AC. Do you remember the black gem you gave the King?"
Aegon stopped in the long, arched corridor. He turned, scrutinizing Larys from his greasy hair down to his twisted foot. "I remember. My father still keeps it. It was a fine gift."
Larys leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial hum. "It was. But at that banquet, I saw something even more dazzling than the gem. I saw a mind far beyond its years. I saw... intelligence."
"Intelligence?" Aegon's smile vanished. "So you're saying my gift wasn't good enough? Hugh, snap his neck. Chop him up for the kennel dogs."
Larys turned a sickly shade of white. "Wait! Highness—misunderstanding! I spoke of your brilliance! The way you handled the Princess—"
Aegon raised a hand. Hugh, who had already stepped forward with the grace of a mountain cat, froze.
"You mean my brilliance?" Aegon asked, his interest piqued. He realized Larys had likely witnessed the subtle ways he had undermined Rhaenyra over the years. Larys was a landless second son; he was looking for a master who understood the value of a shadow.
"Yes," Larys panted, regaining his breath. "The Seven Kingdoms whisper that the King considers changing his heir. You are perfection, but Rhaenyra still has voices in the dark. Voices that support her."
"And?"
"I can be your eyes, Highness. I can monitor those voices. I can tell you who speaks treason before the spit is dry on their lips." Larys looked confident now, certain he had found his place.
Aegon looked at the cane in Larys's hand. "You're a cripple. How will you watch them? Will you limp behind Lord Beesbury and hope his hearing is worse than your legs?"
"A cripple cannot run, so he must watch," Larys replied, his posture low. "I have many eyes. And knowledge is power."
Aegon reached out and snatched the book Larys was carrying: The Edge of the World by Maester Barth. "Knowledge is power?" Aegon flipped through the pages, then looked up with a chilling half-smile. "Hugh, slit his throat."
Hugh didn't hesitate. He grabbed the back of Larys's head like a sack of grain and pressed a dagger to his windpipe. Larys couldn't even scream; the suddenness of the shift left him paralyzed.
"Stop," Aegon said, just as the blade began to bite. "Let him go."
Hugh released him. Larys slumped against a pillar, trembling violently.
"Power," Aegon said, leaning in until he was inches from Larys's ear, "is power. It's the hand that holds the knife. It's the dragon in the sky. Knowledge is just the map that tells you where to strike."
Larys swallowed hard, his eyes wide with genuine terror. Then, Aegon burst into a bright, youthful laugh.
"Just a joke, Larys! You aren't cross, are you?"
Larys forced his lungs to work, a shaky smile appearing on his face. "Of course not... It is an honor to be the subject of your wit."
Aegon patted Larys on the shoulder, his touch firm. "If you've chosen your side, stop trying to flatter me. Go find something useful. I want the secrets people think they'll take to their graves."
He began to walk away, but paused one last time. "And Larys? Perhaps one day, you'll tap that cane of yours and make the Seven Kingdoms tremble. But remember who gave you the floor to stand on."
Aegon walked out into the sunlight of the city. He had his spider. Now, he just needed to wait for the web to grow.