"Please command, Your Highness!"
Aegon regarded the man before him with a faint smile. "In time, I may be granted the title Lord of the Stepstones. When that day comes, there will likely be war."
He rose from his chair, voice calm but resolute. "I will give you five hundred suits of armor and fifty thousand gold dragons. You will raise a company of your own, train them, lead them, shape them as you see fit. My only command is this: half a year from now, when I call upon you, you must have no fewer than two thousand five hundred men ready to fight."
He paused, eyes steady. "Hugh, you are the only man I truly trust at my side. Do not fail me. Tell me, can you do it?"
"Rest assured, Your Highness. I swear it upon my life," said Hugh, his voice trembling with gratitude. He bowed deeply, moved beyond words by Aegon's faith in him.
Aegon's smile widened, and he laughed, the sound rich and confident. "Good! The armor and coin are already prepared, they await you at the harbor. You may depart whenever you wish. As for Martha, Shocker, and Machery, fear not. Should I indeed be named Lord of the Stepstones, they will come with me. I will not leave them here in King's Landing to face whatever storms may come."
"Your Highness… your kindness humbles me." Hugh sank to one knee once more.
"You fight for me, and stand beside me," Aegon said gently. "How could I turn my back on your kin? This is nothing more than what loyalty deserves."
He stepped forward and clasped Hugh's shoulder, helping him to his feet.
For six years now, Aegon had trained him, shaping him not merely into a soldier, but a commander who could stand on his own. The Hightowers might send troops if asked, but they would remain their father's men, not his. Aegon knew the truth of it: What is yours alone is worth more than what your father lends.
If war came, his allies would answer. The Hightowers would march. The Lannisters might send coin or men. Great and lesser houses alike, those who favored him, would offer what they could. And Lord Corlys Velaryon? Aegon smiled to himself. Driftmark stood to gain most from the Stepstones being pacified; the Sea Snake would not stay idle.
With these lords providing strength and gold, Hugh's company would be forged into a weapon, one loyal to Aegon alone.
And Three days passed swiftly.
"Enough, son. Let's go," said Lord Lyonel Strong, resting a heavy hand on Harwin's shoulder.
A shadow crossed Harwin's face. "I am unwilling, Father. Had I married Rhaenyra, none of this would have happened."
Lyonel's expression hardened. He knew that resentment well, the old wound festering in his son's heart. But the game for the Iron Throne was a cruel one, and he had sought only to keep his house alive through it.
"You are unwilling?" he hissed, voice low but fierce. "You bedded the princess, gave her three bastard sons, and now you speak of regret? Do you have a death wish, boy? Must I bury you before you learn what it means to be a Strong? If you die, I'll have another son to carry the name! would that please you?"
His anger flared, born of fear and love alike.
If Harwin died, what then? Would he pass Harrenhal to Larys? The thought sickened him. Larys, twisted of leg, could never carry the Strong name with pride.
The Strongs were already whispered about across the realm, but whispers were not yet proof. So long as the truth stayed unspoken, they could still pretend dignity.
"Enough of this foolishness," Lyonel said at last, exhaling. "Daemon has grown close to the Princess again. No matter how strong you are, Harwin, no matter how rich our lands, you cannot match a man who rides a dragon. Think of the Greens, think of Prince Aegon's power. Do you still believe you have a chance?"
He turned toward the stables. "You'll go back to Harrenhal. Keep your head low, your house standing. That's all I ask. This is not up for debate."
He gestured sharply, and the stableboys moved to ready the horses.
Lyonel and Harwin left King's Landing soon after, followed days later by Larys and his small retinue. In his haste to deliver his heir to safety, Lyonel barely stopped for rest, cutting their journey short by nearly a third.
But fate had other plans.
Upon their return to Harrenhal, on the very night of their arrival, fire consumed the tower where father and son slept. The flames raged until dawn, leaving only charred stone and ash. Both men perished.
Five days later, Larys Strong arrived at Harrenhal. Ser Simon Strong, his granduncle, oversaw the funeral rites amid the smoke-stained ruins.
"Why have you returned?" Simon asked, surprise and suspicion in his eyes.
"I bear a royal decree," Larys replied softly. "Where is Alys Rivers?"
At the mention of the name, Simon's brow darkened. "Your father and brother have barely been laid to rest, and you ask after some baseborn witch? Show some grief, boy."
Larys turned to the twin coffers that held the ashes of Lyonel and Harwin. His fingers trembled upon the head of his cane.
"I am grieving, Granduncle," he said at last. "But there are forces behind their deaths, powers I mean to unmask. I will have justice for them both."
His tone wavered, almost imperceptibly. He could have stopped his father from escorting Harwin back, could have spoken, could have warned them. But he hadn't. Ambition had taken root too deeply. And now that it had borne fruit, he felt no regret, only the cold resolve that replaced it.
"Explain yourself," Simon demanded. He had heard whispers, of course, rumors of bastards... but still he could not believe King Viserys would order such a thing.
"Best I say little," Larys murmured. "The matter touches the crown. But my father and brother are gone. By law, I inherit Harrenhal. Gather the household and have them swear to me."
Simon frowned. "Must you move so swiftly? No one contests your claim."
"It is not haste, but necessity," Larys said. "You've not been in King's Landing, you cannot know how fierce the struggle has become."
Simon's eyes narrowed. "And which side do you stand on?"
"I have chosen," Larys said simply. "Prince Aegon is the rightful heir, the true king."
"Rhaenyra is the heir named by Viserys himself," Simon retorted. "Will you commit treason so easily?" He spoke not as a loyalist to her cause, but as a man wary of ruin. To him, withdrawal, distance, was the only safety.
Larys saw through him at once and smiled faintly. "You would rather be neutral?"
His voice dripped with quiet scorn. "Neutrality requires strength, Uncle. Tell me, when dragons fly above your keep, what banner will you raise? Harrenhal lies at the heart of the realm, every army marches through it. Do you think the Greens will yield it? Or that the Blacks will allow you to stand aside?"
His words hung in the air like smoke from the tower's ruins, heavy, inescapable, and true.
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A/N: Want to know what happens next? You might not want to wait.
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