The news of Aegon being titled Duke of the Stepstones rather than "Prince" rippled through the Seven Kingdoms like a seismic shock. To the learned lords, the distinction was sharp: a Duke was a landed vassal, a title meant to bind him to a specific, troublesome territory, whereas a Prince was an heir to the sun itself.
Viserys's intent was no longer a whisper; it was a shout. He was pinning his eldest son to a salt-blasted rock in the Narrow Sea to ensure Rhaenyra's path to the Iron Throne remained unobstructed.
The Art of the Delay
In the Red Keep, Aegon proved to be a master of the "slow walk." For half a month, he played the part of the reluctant exile, finding every possible excuse to remain in the capital. He was a rogue, a dawdler, and a professional thorn in his father's side.
"You were ready to go weeks ago," Alicent sighed, popping a small, honey-drenched cake into Aegon's mouth as they sat in his chambers. "You were willing to go when you thought you'd only be a Count. Why the sudden hesitation?"
Aegon chewed slowly, fighting the cloying sweetness. "I never said I wasn't going, Mother. But if my father wants me to play the hero on the front lines, he's going to pay for the privilege."
Viserys had originally offered twenty longships and two thousand men—a pittance for a war against the Triarchy. Aegon knew that if he left with so little, he would be begging for scraps within a month. He had stayed to squeeze the King until the royal coffers groaned.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Your Highness, Your Majesty... the King is here," the guard announced.
Viserys entered, looking flushed and winded from the short walk. "Aegon. Alicent. Good." He leaned against a table, catching his breath. "I have spoken with the Small Council. Twenty ships are... insufficient. I have re-mobilized thirty warships and five hundred thousand gold dragons."
Aegon's eyes sharpened. He hadn't heard of a Council meeting. It seemed the "Green" members of the council had done their work well in the dark.
"Furthermore," Viserys continued, desperate to see his son's sails on the horizon, "there will be three thousand marines, eight hundred sailors, and fifty master artisans following on cargo hulks. There will be more gold. Just... go. Go with peace of mind."
Aegon hid a smirk. He had won. He had doubled his starting capital and secured a fleet that, when combined with the Hightower and Lannister reinforcements, would be the most formidable force in the Narrow Sea.
"Very well, Father," Aegon said with a modest bow. "I depart tomorrow."
Viserys's face broke into a smile of pure relief. He imagined Aegon tied down by Dornish skirmishes and Myrish pirates for years, leaving the Red Keep open for Rhaenyra to rebuild her shattered influence. He didn't realize he had just handed his son the keys to a private kingdom.
The Final List
Once the King had departed, Aegon turned to his mother. The playful air vanished, replaced by the cold precision of a commander. He reached under his desk and handed Alicent a heavy roll of parchment.
"This is not a list of those who support me," Aegon whispered. "I know my friends. This is a list of those who claimed to be our friends but sent not a single copper or blade when the call went out."
Alicent gripped the scroll tightly.
"When Grandfather arrives to take his place as Hand, give this to him. He will know how to prune the garden while I am away."
The Golden Shadow
The next morning, King's Landing was swallowed by a thick, silver sea mist. The harbor was a forest of masts as thirty warships and twenty cargo ships prepared to weigh anchor.
"HISS-ROAR!"
The fog shattered. Sunfyre breached the mist, his scales catching the first light of dawn like polished bullion. Behind him came the terrifying trio: Dreamfyre, the ancient Vhagar, and the cobalt-winged Tessarion.
The sight was a calculated display of power. The citizens of King's Landing, fed on weeks of Green propaganda, crowded the docks. They didn't see an exiled prince; they saw a protector going to secure the grain and silk routes that fed their bellies.
"Prince Aegon will be victorious!" a voice cried out—one of the many "plants" Aegon had settled in the crowds.
"VICTORIOUS!" the harbor roared back, thousands of voices joining the chant.
Aegon circled the harbor three times on Sunfyre, the golden dragon's roar drowning out the crashing waves. With a final, triumphant sweep of his wings, Aegon turned toward the east. The golden figure grew smaller and smaller against the grey sky, leaving a city that was now, in spirit, entirely his.
The Duke of the Stepstones was heading to war, but he wasn't looking at the islands. He was looking at the world.