The air in Aegon's private study in Maegor's Holdfast was thick with the scent of old parchment and the expensive musk of Arbor red. Tyland Lannister sat with a rigid, expectant posture. He knew that in the game of thrones, being summoned for a private audience was the true measure of one's standing.
"I have not forgotten that Lord Tymond, your father, stood behind the King at the Great Council of 101 AC," Aegon said smoothly, gesturing for a maid to fill their glasses. He raised his cup in a silent toast.
Tyland clinked his glass against the Prince's with a practiced smile. "The Lannisters follow tradition, Your Highness. My brother Jason and I are our father's sons."
The subtext was as clear as the wine: We backed the male claimant then, and we back the male claimant now.
"I value that loyalty, Ser Tyland. The West is the bedrock of the realm's treasury," Aegon replied. He let a moment of silence hang before leaning in. "What do you truly think of my father's... 'promotion' for me?"
Tyland took a slow sip, measuring his words. "I think His Majesty is acting with a singular focus. It takes no Maester to see he is clearing the board in King's Landing to make Rhaenyra's seat more comfortable. But... I am curious. You do not seem surprised. In fact, you seem almost expectant."
Aegon let out a short, melodic laugh. "I know how many breaths the King takes in a minute, Tyland. I know the weight of the bread he ate this morning. Why should his predictable favoritism surprise me?"
Tyland swallowed hard, the wine suddenly feeling dry in his throat. Aegon's network in the capital was clearly more pervasive than even the Queen had realized. If the boy knew the King's breakfast habits, he surely knew the secrets of every lord in the Red Keep.
"I see this as a rare opportunity," Aegon continued, his eyes darkening with focus. "But to seize it, I need to purge the Stepstones of every foreign shadow—the Triarchy, the Dornish, the pirates. I need steel and gold, Tyland."
"You shall have it," Tyland promised fervently. "I have already written to Casterly Rock. My brother Jason does not gamble small. When the Lannisters go in, we go in with everything."
Aegon clapped him on the shoulder. "Clear the islands for me, and the Lannisters shall sail the Narrow Sea tax-free for three years. A gift for your foresight."
The High Tower Rises
In the ancient city of Oldtown, the harbor was a forest of masts. Lord Ormund Hightower stood with his uncle, Otto, watching the preparations.
"I have read Alicent's frantic ravens," Ormund said, pointing toward a line of twenty heavy cargo ships. "This is but the first wave. Five thousand suits of plate, two hundred thousand gold dragons, a thousand seasoned sailors, and every mason and engineer I could drag from the guilds."
Otto looked over the manifest, genuinely impressed. "You are being generous, nephew."
"Generosity has nothing to do with it," Ormund countered. "Aegon is our blood. If he controls the Stepstones, Oldtown's trade routes are secured forever. But more importantly... he is the future. If we fail him now, we are just a family with a very tall lighthouse and no seat at the table."
Ormund gestured to a young boy standing nearby—his son, Lyonel Hightower. "Take the boy with you. He's seven, old enough to be a cupbearer. Let him learn the way of the world at Aegon's side."
The Golden Lion's Gamble
Across the continent in Lannisport, Lord Jason Lannister was having a similar conversation with his Maester.
"Twenty ships, fifteen hundred men, and a hundred and fifty thousand dragons," the Maester reported. "Is it enough, my lord?"
Jason paced the solar of Casterly Rock, his golden hair catching the sunset. "Tyland says the boy is a prodigy. He says he is the Conqueror reborn in a child's body. If that's true, this is a pittance."
"You wish to send more?"
"Double it!" Jason barked. "Triple it! I am not going to be the man who let a Kingmaker drown for want of a few chests of gold. If Aegon wins the Stepstones, the West wins the Iron Throne."
He turned to his captains. "Commanders Loren and Tybolt—take fifteen warships. Not cargo hulks, but ships of the line. Professional marines only. We are not sending sailors; we are sending lions to the sea."
The gamble was set. From the High Tower of the South to the Golden Rock of the West, the great engines of the Green cause were grinding into gear. They weren't just supporting a Prince; they were funding a conquest. Aegon hadn't even left King's Landing yet, and he already possessed a private treasury and an armada that rivaled the Royal Fleet.
The Stepstones were about to discover that the "Targaryen Prince" wasn't coming to defend the islands—he was coming to own them.