Larys Strong had never imagined such a scene.
A single tap of his cane, and the Seven Kingdoms would tremble?
That would be the Hand of the King's power indeed.
Moments ago, he had been regretting his rashness. Now, he found himself rather pleased by it.
Aegon had not yet granted him real power, true, but he had made promises. Promises that might, in time, raise Larys Strong higher than any man could dream.
If Prince Aegon truly ascended the Iron Throne, perhaps he would not stop until he held the Hand's golden brooch himself.
Larys followed Aegon out of the Great Sept, where a throng had gathered about Sunfyre.
The young dragon stood tall and radiant, his gilded scales blazing in the sunlight. Even among dragons, he was newly grown, a proud, spirited male, eager to display his beauty and strength before the crowd.
"Look! It's Prince Aegon! Prince Aegon has come out!" someone shouted.
The cry rippled through the square, and hundreds turned toward him.
"Your Highness," called an old man, trembling as he stepped forward with several orphans and grey-haired paupers at his side, "I heard you used the King's gift of gold to build seven orphanages?"
They were smallfolk from Flea Bottom, thin, hollow-eyed, yet strangely hopeful.
King's Landing had orphanages, true, and homes for the aged as well, but the ones in Flea Bottom were little more than hovels, places of misery that smelled of ash and sickness.
Aegon met the old man's gaze for the briefest of moments before turning away. His voice rang clear:
"To be precise, seven orphanages, and one home for the aged."
He paused for effect, then continued, every word measured and passionate.
"His Majesty, my father, has never forgotten the poor, the orphans and elders who have none to rely upon. Yet His Majesty's burdens are great. He toils each day beneath the weight of the realm.
Princess Rhaenyra remains in seclusion upon Dragonstone, troubled by rumors."
He lifted his chin. "Thus, as his eldest son, as his blood and heir in duty if not in name, I believe I must shoulder that responsibility. I will care for His Majesty's people.
Believe me when I say this, I will change Flea Bottom. You need not forever call yourselves fleas and beggars. You, too, are children of the Seven!
Even if your feet are mired in the mud, I believe your souls remain pure. Give me time, and I swear, all who are true of heart shall have food to eat, warm clothes to wear, and stone roofs above their heads."
He stood barely five feet tall, still boyish in frame, but his words carried the force of conviction, his expression fierce and unyielding.
Applause broke through the crowd, first among the orphans and elders, then spreading to merchants and even the nobles who watched from afar.
Any who had eyes could see it, Prince Aegon seemed born for the crown. Far more so than his elder sister, the Princess who cloistered herself with her own ambitions and scandals.
The poor longed for bread and warmth; the merchants desired peace and profit; the nobles, stability and strength. Aegon's speech, though but a glimpse of an imagined future, painted a dream vivid enough to stir them all.
"Prince Aegon!" someone shouted again.
"Prince Aegon!" the crowd took up the cry.
"Prince Aegon! Prince Aegon!"
Even those who had come late and knew not why they cheered joined in, swept by the fervor.
Sunfyre reared up on his hind legs and loosed a piercing roar that split the sky.
The cries of "Prince Aegon!" and the dragon's thunderous bellow seemed to shake the very heavens above the Great Sept.
Aegon's eyes gleamed. He let the moment stretch before raising a hand for silence.
"My father bears the burdens of the realm," he declared. "And I must learn from him, not to idle, but to act. So now, I must take my leave. Trust me, and I shall prove worthy of this charge!"
He bowed his head once, then mounted Sunfyre.
With a beat of golden wings, the dragon rose from the square in a blaze of light and heat.
Meanwhile, within the Red Keep, King Viserys sneezed.
He had just poured himself a cup of wine and felt an itch in his nose. The sneeze startled him enough to spill a few drops upon his model of Old Valyria. Muttering, he wiped them away, took a swallow of the golden wine, and smiled as he fit another tiny spire into place.
"Your Grace?"
The door stood ajar, and Grand Maester Mellos lingered there, hesitant.
"Come in," Viserys said, still peering at his work. "What is it?"
"A letter... from Dragonstone."
The King froze. His smile faded. He took the parchment, broke the seal, and read.
With each line, his face darkened.
When he finished, he slammed his goblet down and kicked the table so hard the Valyrian towers trembled.
"By the gods!" Viserys slammed his fist on the table again. "After all I've done for that girl!"
He had done everything for her, for Rhaenyra.
He had defied his council, defied the lords of Westeros, even defied the Great Council of 101, which had established male-preference succession, all for her. He had dismissed Lyonel Strong to silence whispers, endured the slander, the murmurs, the doubt...
And this was how she repaid him?
Laenor still lived, yet Rhaenyra had gone to Daemon again.
If Corlys Velaryon and his lady wife ever learned of this, Seven save them all. She would lose their support in an instant.
"Your Grace," said Mellos carefully, "you must not distress yourself. Perhaps… send Prince Daemon again to the Stepstones?"
The maester's tone was gentle, cautious.
Since Daemon's withdrawal in 115 AC, the Stepstones had fallen into chaos.
Two men had already declared themselves kings of the Narrow Sea, only to be cut down by pirates, Dornishmen, and the Triarchy's sellsails. Even the Free Cities, Braavos, Pentos, Volantis, had meddled.
And through it all, House Velaryon had suffered the most. Their fleets bloodied, their trade routes shattered. They had clung to a handful of isles by sheer will.
Viserys exhaled slowly. "Send word to Daemon. He is to sail for Driftmark and aid House Velaryon against the pirates of the Stepstones. He is not to retreat without my leave."
"As you command," Mellos murmured, bowing before departing.
When he was gone, Viserys slumped into his chair, the anger draining from him, leaving only weariness and disappointment.
He had feared that Rhaenyra would face resistance from others when her time came... but he had not expected her to create that resistance herself.
He knew his own frailty.
He would not live as long as King Jaehaerys had. And when he was gone… could Rhaenyra truly triumph over Aegon?
He doubted it.
Aegon had once sworn he would never vie for the crown, but Viserys knew the hearts of men. Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent would never let the boy rest while Rhaenyra sat the Iron Throne.
Viserys lifted his cup again, the golden wine catching the candlelight.
Perhaps there is still a way to end this strife before it begins, he thought. A way to keep my family whole.
The idea came sudden and sharp.
He must speak with Alicent, and with Corlys Velaryon as well.
Alicent had once urged him to wed Rhaenyra to Aegon.
He had refused her then, furious, accusing her of grasping for the throne through her son.
Now, he felt only regret.
If only he had agreed.
If only... he had not been such a fool.
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A/N: Things are getting really freaky… and trust me, the next chapters go off the rails. Want to know what happens? You might not want to wait.
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