The fallout from the banquet was a cold, sharp blade that finally severed the last illusions of family unity. Viserys's "good idea" had been a desperate attempt to patch a sinking ship with parchment; he had ignored the burning reality that Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey were as much Velaryons as Sunfyre was a horse.
As they retreated from the hall, Alicent's pace was brisk, her green skirts snapping like a battle flag. She caught up to Aegon in the moonlit courtyard of High Tide.
"We can't wait any longer," she said, her voice a low, urgent rasp. "He would wed Helaena to a mongrel to soothe his own guilt. I will not have it."
Aegon offered a calm, knowing smile. He looked at Helaena, whose fair cheeks were still flushed a deep scarlet. She didn't pull her hand away from his. "I think the answer is written on her face, Mother. There is no need to ask."
Alicent's expression softened into a satisfied glow. "Then it is settled. You and Helaena. But we must look to the others. Daeron is growing fast."
"Me?" Daeron piped up, his silver hair messy from the night wind.
"What about me?" Aemond interjected, his voice sharp with a teenager's sudden competitive streak. "Shouldn't I be next in the order?"
"I have a candidate for Daeron," Aegon said, ignoring Aemond for a moment. "But she is not a noble of the Seven Kingdoms."
Alicent froze. "Not from the Seven Kingdoms? A girl from Essos? Aegon, what are you playing at?"
"From Lys," Aegon stated simply.
"Lovely Lys?" Aemond barked a laugh, remembering his Maester's lessons. "The island of bed-slaves and the 'Perfumed Garden'? Is our little Daeron marrying a prostitute?"
Aegon cuffed Aemond lightly on the back of the head. "Watch your tongue. I am speaking of the Rogare Family. Their lineage goes back to Old Valyria, and their bank is beginning to rival the Iron Bank of Braavos. They are wealthier than half the Great Houses of Westeros combined."
Alicent frowned, her political mind churning. "A merchant's daughter... but the blood is Valyrian. It is better than a bastard, certainly. But why the Rogares?"
"Wealth is the least of it," Aegon said, his eyes darkening with ambition. "I intend to dismantle the Triarchy. I want to swallow the Disputed Lands."
[Table: The Cities of the Triarchy]
| City | Known For |
| :--- | :--- |
Lys | Luxury, banking, and beauty |
Myr | Lace, glass, and crossbows |
Tyrosh | Dyes, mercenaries, and armor |
The Disputed Lands were the fertile, blood-soaked plains of southwestern Essos, a region the Free Cities had fought over for centuries. Aegon knew that all the land in Westeros was already claimed. If he wanted to build a direct power base—his own personal army and treasury—he had to look East.
"I'll take Daeron to Lys myself," Aegon continued. "We'll use the Rogares as a front. If a Targaryen Prince invades Essos, the Free Cities will unite in terror. But if we 'assist' the Rogare family in a civil struggle... the other cities will hesitate to intervene."
He hooked an arm around Daeron's neck, dragging him into a playful headlock. "How about it, little brother? I'll make you the Prince of Lys. You can run the whole island."
"I'll do whatever you say, Big Brother! Just let go!" Daeron laughed, struggling to break free.
"And me?" Aemond stepped into Aegon's path, his gaze intense. "I want to be in Essos. I want to be with Daeron."
Aegon studied his younger brother—the rider of Vhagar. "Fine. You shall be the Prince of Myr. You can keep an eye on him from the next city over."
"No way! He's too annoying!" Daeron shouted.
Alicent watched her sons, a mix of pride and apprehension in her heart. "We still need the support of the Westerosi lords, Aegon. Don't lose sight of the Iron Throne for the sake of Essos."
"I know, Mother. Aemond will marry a daughter of the Seven Kingdoms—a Baratheon or a Stark, perhaps—to keep our alliances here. Only Daeron will be the bridge to the East."
Aegon looked out over the Narrow Sea. He wasn't just planning for a wedding; he was planning for an empire that would make the Triarchy look like a collection of fishing villages.