The dinner ended on a sour note.
King Viserys's intentions had been kind, but in his yearning for peace, he had chosen to ignore the bitter truth at the heart of his family's divide, the festering wound between Black and Green.
Worse yet, no one in the hall could deny what their eyes plainly saw. The strong-boned, dark-haired princes of Princess Rhaenyra bore little trace of their supposed Velaryon blood.
How could Queen Alicent ever accept that her daughter, Helaena, should be wedded to a bastard?
The thought alone was an insult, almost comical in its cruelty. Even Lord Corlys, who had everything to gain by denial, had ceased pretending. Yet Viserys, blinded by love for his daughter, clung to his illusions still.
When the feast dispersed and the courtiers drifted away beneath the flickering torchlight, Alicent did not return to her chambers. Instead, she sought out her eldest son.
"We cannot wait any longer," she said in a low, firm voice.
She had urged this course before, for Helaena to wed Aegon. Viserys had smiled then, pleased at the thought of his children united. But now, the King had turned, seeking instead to bind Helaena to one of them, to that pale-haired mongrel of Rhaenyra's line.
Aegon gave a lazy shrug, the corners of his mouth curving in amusement. "I don't mind, Mother. It depends more on what Helaena wants."
He turned to his sister. Her soft, fair cheeks had flushed a delicate red.
"Looks like there's no need to ask," Alicent said, a satisfied smile touching her lips.
"Then it's settled," Aegon replied. He leaned back, eyes bright with mischief. "And Daeron, he's not a boy anymore either."
"Do you already have someone in mind?" Alicent asked, surprised.
Daeron blinked. "Me?"
Aemond frowned. "Brother, by rights, I should be next."
Aegon's smile deepened. "There is someone. But not a noble of the Seven Kingdoms."
That made Alicent pause. "Not of Westeros?"
"From Essos," Aegon said.
Aemond scoffed. "Essos? Are there any good people in that place?"
Aegon rapped him lightly on the head. "Mind your tongue."
Alicent raised an eyebrow. "And where, exactly, is this mysterious girl from?"
Aegon drew it out a moment longer, enjoying their curiosity. "From Lys."
"Lys?" Alicent's expression soured. "The den of harlots? You call that suitable?"
Aegon only laughed.
Lys- "Lovely Lys," as it was called, shone like a jewel in the Summer Sea, its shores gilded by sun and sand, its waters green as emerald glass. Palms swayed over marble villas, and perfumes drifted through gardens overflowing with fruit and flowers.
But for all its beauty, the island was infamous for its vices, for the perfumed pleasure houses and the famed bedslaves of the Perfumed Garden.
"I've heard tales," Aemond said eagerly. "Didn't the niece of the Lord of Stoney Sept get sold to a Lysene brothel?"
Daeron's eyes went wide. "Truly?"
"It's true," Aegon said lightly. "The girl was taken, and her miserly uncle refused to ransom her."
"What was her name?" Daeron asked.
"Johanna Swann," Aegon replied with a smirk. "A pity, a noble lady turned whore."
Daeron looked uncertain. "Then... is she my bride-to-be?"
Aegon threw back his head and laughed. "Would you marry her if she were?"
Daeron hesitated. "She's a prostitute... I'd rather not. But if it helps you, brother, I'd do it."
Aegon caught his brother's cheek between his fingers and pinched. "She's far too old for you, and I'd never waste you on that."
"Then who is it?" Daeron asked, rubbing at his face.
"If all goes well," Aegon said, "her name will be Lara Rogare. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes, Valyrian blood, through and through."
Alicent frowned. "If all goes well? You don't even know her circumstances?"
"I know enough," Aegon replied. "You've heard of the Rogares, surely?"
Alicent nodded slowly. "Wealthy merchants. Their bank rivals the Iron Bank of Braavos, or so they boast."
"Not quite so powerful," Aegon said, "but growing. The Rogares trace their bloodline to Valyria before the Doom. That counts for much."
Alicent folded her hands. "Very well. I'll trust your judgment. A merchant's daughter with Valyrian blood is still better than a bastard mongrel."
"Precisely," Aegon said. "And if we can tie our house to theirs, their gold will only be the beginning."
He rose, the faintest fire in his eyes. "In time, I'll take Daeron to Lys myself."
What Aegon sought was not merely wealth, but dominion.
The Rogares held vast influence in Lys, one of the three powers of the Triarchy. To bring them under his banner was to gain a foothold in the Disputed Lands, that rich, contested strip of soil forever fought over by Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh.
The thought set Aegon's blood alight.
For decades, the whore cities had squabbled and bled over that fertile region. Now, he dreamed of something greater, of uniting the islands under his hand, breaking the Triarchy from within, and seizing the Disputed Lands as his own.
If Westeros offered him no realm to rule, then Essos would.
He would carve out his dominion there, and all the Free Cities would learn to bow to the dragon once more.
Even if the Rogares refused him, others would not. There were always more houses.
If Aegon Targaryen willed it, he could raise any name to power.
For now, the Rogares were simply... convenient.
He caught Daeron in one arm, laughing. "How about this, little brother, I'll make you Prince of Lys, master of the isle and all its pleasures."
Daeron squirmed, laughing helplessly. "I'll do whatever you say, big brother!"
Aemond leaned forward eagerly. "And me? What of me?"
"You?" Aegon said thoughtfully. "Hmm... I've not decided yet."
"I want to go to Essos too!" Aemond said. "Let me go with Daeron!"
Aegon chuckled. "Very well then, I'll name you Prince of Myr. You can keep your brother company."
"No way!" Daeron protested. "He's too annoying!"
Aemond's eyes narrowed. "Say that again, and I'll give you a reason to whine."
"Aegon," Alicent interjected softly, "the support of the Seven Kingdoms is still vital. You mustn't neglect it."
"I know, Mother," Aegon said, sobering. "Aemond won't be marrying a Myrish woman. One Essosi bride is enough."
He leaned back, thoughtful. "I only need a mask, a pretext to keep the Free Cities from uniting against us."
For the Free Cities had always feared the blood of old Valyria. Should a dragonlord wage open war upon them, they would band together at once.
But if Aegon came as an ally of Lys, not a conqueror, as the consort of a Rogare, then the other cities might hesitate.
He smiled faintly. "Let them see what they wish to see. By the time they understand, it will be far too late."
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