Larys Strong stood frozen in the shadow of the Great Sept, his mind reeling. He taps his cane, and the Seven Kingdoms tremble?
The imagery was intoxicating. To a man who had spent his life navigating the world through the rhythmic thump-drag of a clubfoot, the idea of that very sound becoming a heartbeat for the realm was a dream more potent than any milk of the poppy. He had feared Aegon's volatility, but now he saw the method in the madness. Aegon wasn't just a prince; he was an architect, and he was currently drafting Larys into his blueprints.
Larys emerged from the Sept to find a spectacle. A massive crowd had coalesced around Sunfyre. The golden dragon sat perched on the marble plaza, his scales shimmering like molten coins. He arched his neck, letting out a low, vibrating hum of satisfaction as the smallfolk gazed in terrified adoration.
"Look! Prince Aegon is out!" a voice cried.
Aegon stepped into the sunlight, and the sea of people parted. An old man, his skin like weathered leather, led a group of hollow-eyed orphans and shivering elders forward. They were the "fleas" of Flea Bottom, the forgotten sediment of the city.
"Your Highness," the old man croaked, "is it true? The seven orphanages... the home for the old... are these your doing?"
Aegon exchanged a look with the old man—a look of practiced, mutual understanding—before turning to the crowd.
"Seven orphanages and one sanctuary for the elderly," Aegon corrected, his voice carrying with a clarity that silenced the square. "His Majesty, my father, carries the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on his back. He is busy with a myriad of affairs! And my sister, the Princess, remains in seclusion on Dragonstone. But the blood of the dragon does not ignore its own. I am the King's son, and I will be responsible for his subjects!"
He stepped closer to the ragged group. "Flea Bottom will change! You are not 'fleas.' You are the soul of this city. Bathing in the glory of the Seven, I promise you: as long as I draw breath, I will strive for a day where every one of you has a stone house, warm wool, and meat on your table!"
Aegon was barely thirteen, standing at 1.6 meters, but in that moment, shadowed by a golden dragon, he looked like a giant. The commoners didn't care about the Great Council of 101 AC or the Princess's birthright. They cared about bread and warmth.
"Prince Aegon!" the old man shouted.
"Prince Aegon!" the crowd roared back.
Sunfyre rose on his hind legs, spreading his glittering wings and unleashing a roar that rattled the windows of the Great Sept. The sound of the people and the dragon merged into a thunderous symphony of support. Aegon raised a hand for silence, offering one last humble bow before mounting Sunfyre and taking to the sky.
The Red Keep: A King's Regret
While the streets of King's Landing echoed with his son's name, King Viserys was in his solar, nursing a sudden sneeze and a glass of golden Arbor wine. He was happily lost in the miniature stone towers of his Old Valyria model when Grand Maester Mellos appeared with a letter.
Viserys's face soured as he read. The parchment was from Dragonstone. By the time he reached the end, he kicked his workbench in a rare fit of pique.
"Beast!" he hissed.
He had sacrificed everything for Rhaenyra. He had spit in the face of tradition, ignored the Lords of the Realm, and sent his own Hand away to protect her reputation. And how did she repay him? By dallying with Daemon while her husband, Laenor, was still drawing breath!
"Your Majesty," Mellos whispered, "perhaps Prince Daemon is best utilized... elsewhere. The Stepstones are once again a nest of vipers."
Viserys slumped. Since Daemon had abandoned his "kingdom" in 115 AC, the Stepstones had become a meat-grinder of pirates, Dornishmen, and the Triarchy. House Velaryon was bleeding gold and ships trying to hold the trade lanes.
"Issue the decree," Viserys growled. "Order Daemon to Driftmark to aid House Velaryon. He is not to retreat until the Stepstones are cleared. If he wants to be a warrior, let him rot in the salt air."
As Mellos left, Viserys looked at his model of Valyria—a civilization destroyed by its own pride. He thought of Aegon. The boy was becoming "perfect." The lords loved him, the people adored him, and he had the largest dragons at his back.
Viserys realized with a sinking heart that if he died today, Rhaenyra's chances of holding the throne were zero.
He thought back to years ago, when Alicent had suggested betrothing Aegon to Rhaenyra. He had laughed it off as a power grab. Now, he realized it was the only bridge that could have held the realm together.
"I should have listened," he whispered to the stone models. "I should have wed the Gold to the Black."