Aegon and Larys made their way toward Maegor's Holdfast, the iron heart of the Red Keep.
The Holdfast loomed ahead, a massive square fortress encircled by twelve-foot-thick walls and a dry moat bristling with iron spikes, a castle within a castle. Its presence alone spoke of suspicion and fear, as though Maegor the Cruel's ghost still lingered in every stone.
Along the way, men of House Hightower stood at nearly every corner, clad in green and silver, their vigilance unbroken. Their numbers had multiplied in recent moons, a silent proclamation of where true power within the Red Keep now lay.
Larys Strong, walking half a step behind Aegon, said little. His informants had little reach in this place. He could feel it, the Hightower influence had grown deeper and broader than it appeared on the surface.
Recently, even the humblest servants of the Red Keep had changed. Valets, cooks, rat-catchers, all newly replaced. Their ruddy faces and calloused hands betrayed them. These were not the hands of men who scrubbed floors or stirred pots. They were soldiers dressed as servants.
"No one is to approach," Aegon ordered before entering his chambers.
When they reached his rooms, Larys hesitated awkwardly near the desk. Aegon glanced up, amused.
"Sit down. Don't tell me I must fetch a chair for you?"
He poured a glass of red wine and offered it to Larys, then filled his own cup, not with wine, but with cold water.
Larys raised a brow. "You're not drinking?"
The wine was Red Gold of the Arbor, a vintage so costly most minor lords would never taste it. It was a symbol as much as a pleasure- power, refinement, wealth. For Aegon to pour it and not drink was… curious.
"The wine's good," Aegon replied with a faint smile, "but I prefer not to drink like a fish."
He had enjoyed wine in both his past life and this one, but never as his father or grandsire did, drowning themselves in it daily. Wine was meant to accompany thought, not cloud it.
He drew up a wooden chair and faced Larys directly. "Now, tell me. What whispers have your little mice brought today?"
Larys turned the stem of his glass between his fingers. "My brother, Harwin… he's going to die."
Aegon's brow creased. "What do you mean, going to die?" His tone sharpened. "Is that intelligence... or a confession?"
Then, as if remembering something, he gestured for Larys to continue.
"A mouse told me His Majesty has summoned Prince Daemon," Larys said softly. "The King ordered him to eliminate Harwin and retake the Stepstones within half a year. And… His Majesty intends to wed Princess Rhaenyra to Prince Daemon a year hence, granting them his blessing."
Aegon narrowed his eyes. Silence hung for a moment before he gave a cold laugh.
"His Majesty's favoritism knows no bounds," he murmured. "To twist the realm itself for Rhaenyra's sake…"
Larys frowned. "Your Highness, Harwin is not the true issue."
"Not the issue?" Aegon scoffed. "He was Rhaenyra's lover. He fathered three bastards with her, one of them named heir! What could be more shameful?"
"Even so," Larys said, voice steady, "his death changes little. The problem lies with the Stepstones."
"The Stepstones?"
"Yes. You know your father's temperament. He's never cared for them. Yet now he orders Daemon to reclaim them within six moons. Why?"
Aegon smirked. "How should I know? It's not as though he means to give them to me."
The humor faded quickly from his face. He looked up, thoughtful, and grim.
"He wants to send me away from King's Landing," Aegon realized aloud.
Viserys wanted him gone. Banished in all but name. A gilded exile with a title.
"To put it kindly, yes... a transfer," Larys said. "But in truth, it's an exile disguised as reward. If His Majesty grants you the Stepstones as your fief, you'll be drawn into endless border wars. Even if you lose a pebble of that land, the Black faction will seize upon it. They'll call you weak, unfit to defend your own domain, unworthy of the Iron Throne or the title of Protector of the Realm."
He paused, gauging Aegon's silence before continuing.
"And you'll have no room to refuse this time. Unlike the banquet, this will appear as an honor. The tolls collected from a peaceful Stepstones bring vast wealth. If you reject it, the Blacks will brand you a coward, too timid to protect the realm.
Or worse, they'll claim you're preparing for rebellion."
Aegon tapped his finger against the table, eyes distant. "And if I do rebel, His Majesty will have no choice but to name me heir and abdicate early."
Larys shook his head. "I wouldn't advise war, my prince. You have four dragons, yes... but not enough men. The nobles who praise you now are fence-sitters. They'll never risk open defiance of the King."
The Hand's son spoke plainly, and Aegon knew he was right. Dragons alone did not win wars; men did. And men followed gold, bread, and safety, not fire and prophecy.
He had plans yet unfinished. To move too soon would be to waste them all.
"What do you suggest, then?" Aegon asked, his voice low, his expression unreadable.
Larys adjusted his collar and leaned forward slightly. "I think, Your Highness… you should go with the flow."
"Explain," Aegon said.
"Forgive my frankness."
Aegon inclined his head- permission granted.
"His Majesty wishes to weaken you by sending you away," Larys said. "But he's forgotten how he came to sit the throne himself.
In the year 101 AC, the Great Council of Harrenhal gathered to decide the succession. It took half a year for a thousand lords to arrive, and thirteen days more for their debates. Princess Rhaenys and her daughter were excluded, their sex disqualified them before they even began.
In the end, only two remained: Laenor Velaryon and His Majesty. And His Majesty won, not because he was the worthier man, nor because Laenor lacked claim, but because the realm chose a man over a woman.
That was the will of King Jaehaerys, and of Westeros itself."
Aegon said nothing. Larys continued, calm and certain.
"So even if you leave King's Landing, you will not lose your footing. The Queen and her allies remain. Your influence will not wither. Instead, you could gain something far more powerful.
Go to the Stepstones. Let the Blacks believe you've been neutralized. Achieve victory there, even a small one, and show the realm your strength. Win glory, wealth, and loyalty.
Split the Triarchy if you can, Tyrosh, Myr, Lys. Destroy Tyrosh, claim the Stepstones outright, and seize its holdings in the Disputed Lands.
Once you have your own territory, you can build your own army, an army that answers to you alone, not to the crown or to wavering lords."
Larys's voice fell silent. Only the faint echo of the torches filled the room.
Aegon leaned back, the flicker of candlelight glinting in his eyes. He did not answer immediately, but his fingers had stilled.
For the first time that night, a slow, dangerous smile touched his lips.
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