The seventh day of the third month, 120 AC.
At forty-three, King Viserys I was a man being consumed by his own throne. He was not merely overweight; he was a walking collection of maladies. Gout inflamed his joints, and a chronic, stabbing pain radiated from his back to his chest. This tightness was the worst of it—it struck without warning, leaving the King flushed and gasping for air as if the very atmosphere of the Red Keep had turned to water.
The burden of the Seven Kingdoms was a crushing weight, and Viserys knew he needed a Hand whose iron could support his failing gold. He had briefly considered Rhaenyra, but her presence in King's Landing would be a spark in a hayloft; she and Alicent would tear the court apart before the moon turned. He had even looked toward Daemon or Aegon.
Daemon was dismissed as quickly as he was considered; the man was a firebrand who would leave the King to sweep up the ashes. But it was the thought of Aegon that truly unsettled Viserys. It wasn't that he doubted the boy's ability. At thirteen, Aegon possessed a terrifying, cold competence. If Aegon were named Hand, the Green rot would spread until every stone in the Red Keep was carved with a Hightower sigil.
Viserys needed Otto. Otto was a known quantity—calculated, efficient, and loyal to the status quo. But Otto could only return if Aegon were removed. The grandfather and grandson could not be allowed to form a vertical axis of power that would leave the King a ghost in his own halls.
Thus, the plan was forged: Ser Otto would return to the capital, and Aegon would be bestowed a title that sounded like a glory but smelled of salt and blood: Duke of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones.
The Throne Room: A Bitter Promotion
The following morning, Viserys ascended the iron steps with a heavy, rhythmic wheeze. He clutched the Valyrian steel hilt of Blackfyre and looked down upon the gathered lords.
"I have two decrees this day," the King announced, his voice echoing through the vast, vaulted hall. "My eldest son, Aegon Targaryen, approaches his fourteenth year. To honor his blood and his courage, I bestow upon him the title of Duke of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones. He shall guard our trade and ensure the stability of the waves. Secondly, I recall Ser Otto Hightower to reappoint him as my Hand."
A silence so profound it felt physical swallowed the Throne Hall. The lords looked at one another in a daze. To send a thirteen-year-old prince to the Stepstones—a graveyard of ships and a meat-grinder of pirates—was not a promotion; it was a deployment to the front lines.
"This is madness! I will not have it!"
Alicent, standing at the King's right hand, stepped forward, her face pale with shock. "You are sending our son to the Stepstones? You know what that place is—it is a nest of vipers and salt-fever!"
Viserys did not move. "He carries the blood of the dragon, Alicent. Fire and blood surge within him. He is a King's son, and he must learn to protect the realm he will one day help lead. I will provide the ships, the gold, and the men."
He leaned in close to his Queen, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Return to your place, Alicent. If you fight this, Otto remains in Oldtown, and Aegon goes to the islands regardless. Choose."
Alicent froze, her gaze darting to Aegon standing below. To her astonishment, her son looked perfectly composed. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a faint, inscrutable smile on his lips as if he were merely listening to a weather report.
Aegon cleared his throat, sensing the eyes of the court. "His Majesty is correct," he said, his voice ringing with a calm authority that made the older lords blink. "I am a son of the dragon. I should not hide behind stone walls while the realm's trade bleeds. It is a responsibility I accept with pride."
Tyland Lannister was the first to clap. Soon, the hall erupted in a thunderous, rhythmic applause led by the Green loyalists.
Viserys scanned the room. His relief at Aegon's compliance was quickly replaced by a cold shiver of realization. Two-thirds of the hall were cheering. He saw faces he barely recognized—men who had replaced Rhaenyra's supporters in the shadows. The Hightowers hadn't just infiltrated his court; they had occupied it.
The Price of Fish
The session ended, the pieces were moved: Aegon was exiled, and Otto was summoned. Viserys retreated to his solar, feeling a profound sense of peace. He had separated the combatants. With Rhaenyra on Dragonstone and Aegon in the Stepstones, he could finally finish his model of Valyria in silence.
But the silence did not last. Alicent cornered Aegon in the gallery, her fingers latching onto his ear in a familiar, sharp pinch.
"Viserys is a fool, but are you a half-wit as well?" she hissed. "Do you have any idea how deep the waters are in the Stepstones? The Triarchy, the Dornish, the Free Cities—they will eat you alive!"
Aegon gently unpicked her fingers, rubbing his reddened ear. "I know the waters are deep, Mother. And I know the waves are rough. but even the fishermen in the harbor know: the rougher the waves, the more expensive the fish."
"I don't care about the price of your fish! If something happens to you, do you expect Aemond to lead us? That boy has the heart of a dragon but the mind of a wildfire!"
"Do not panic," Aegon said, taking her hands in his. "When have I ever gambled without knowing the cards? Instead of scolding me, write to my grandfather. Tell him I need every spare blade, every crate of grain, and every galley Oldtown can spare. If I am to be a Duke of the Sea, I intend to have a fleet that makes the Sea Snake look like a pond-duck."
Alicent tore her hands away and marched off, her emerald skirts rustling with fury. Aegon watched her go, a small, dark chuckle escaping him. He knew she was heading straight for the ravenry. He didn't need to worry about the Hightower support; they would pour their lifeblood into the Stepstones to ensure their Prince didn't drown.
He looked out toward the Blackwater. The "Big Storm" was coming, but he wasn't afraid of the rain. He was the lightning.