The seventh day of the third month, 120 AC.
King Viserys Targaryen, now in his forty-third year, had grown soft with age. His girth strained the silk of his robes; his steps were slow, his joints inflamed with gout. Pain stalked him from his back to his chest, and there were nights when he woke breathless, the weight of his crown pressing upon his heart as surely as upon his brow.
The burden of rule had become too heavy to bear alone. He needed a Hand strong enough to share it.
Viserys had thought, at first, of Rhaenyra. Yet his daughter's temper was still untamed, her pride unbridled. Were she to return to King's Landing, the court would once again become a battlefield between her and Alicent.
He had considered Daemon next, and quickly dismissed the thought. His brother's fire burned too hot; to make him Hand would be to invite chaos and scandal.
And Aegon… Viserys had thought of him too, if only for a moment. Not because the boy lacked ability, indeed, his eldest son was too able. At thirteen, Aegon's mind was sharp, his charm sharper still. Make him Hand of the King, and soon the Red Keep would swim in green banners. The court would turn wholly to the Hightowers' favor, and Viserys himself would be little more than a figurehead upon the Iron Throne.
No, that could not be allowed.
After long deliberation, Viserys saw that only one man fit the task: Otto Hightower. Yet the return of his former Hand came with risk. To prevent grandfather and grandson from forming too powerful an alliance, Aegon must be sent away from court.
Still, there was a way to serve both end, to satisfy the Greens' wish for Otto's return while removing the boy from the capital. Aegon could be honored with a title, one worthy of his station yet distant from the intrigues of the court.
Thus, the King decided. He would name Aegon Lord of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones.
The next morning, the court was summoned to the Iron Throne.
Viserys sat beneath the great blades of the throne, the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre resting across his knees. His face was pale but resolute as his voice carried through the vaulted hall.
"Today," he declared, "there are two matters I would set before you.
First- my eldest son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, is in his fourteenth year. I hereby bestow upon him the title Lord of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones, charging him to safeguard those isles and secure the peace of our trade routes.
Second- I shall recall Ser Otto Hightower to King's Landing, to serve once more as my Hand of the King."
When his words fell, the hall fell with them, into stunned silence. Courtiers and lords alike exchanged bewildered glances.
The Stepstones? The boy was scarcely grown! To send Prince Aegon there was to send him into war.
"This is madness! I will not allow it!" Queen Alicent's composure broke as she stepped forward, her voice sharp with fear. "You would send our son to that cursed place? You know what the Stepstones are, a pit of pirates and mercenaries!"
Viserys's eyes narrowed, his tone heavy with finality. "Of course I know. But he carries the blood of the dragon. Blood and fire run hot within him, and he is a prince of the realm. It is his duty to defend it."
He paused, then added with quiet steel, "And I will not send him alone. He shall have ships, men, and gold, all that he needs."
Leaning closer, his voice softened but grew colder still. "Sit down, Alicent. Otherwise, neither your father will return, nor your son stay in the capital."
The Queen froze. Her protest died upon her tongue as her gaze sought her son's face among the gathered nobles.
Aegon sat below, calm and untroubled, as though this decision had long been known to him. His serenity startled even the King.
When the eyes of the court turned toward him, the prince rose."I believe His Majesty speaks true," he said, his tone even, his gaze steady. "I am a son of the dragon. I will not hide behind stone walls while others bleed. This is not a reproach toward anyone, only what duty demands of me."
For a moment, the hall was still.
Then Ser Tyland Lannister began to clap, and soon others followed, ministers of the Green faction, their applause swelling until the chamber thundered with it.
Viserys looked upon them, relief and anger warring in his chest. Relief, for Aegon's composure. Anger, for what that applause revealed, that two-thirds of his court now bore the Hightower flame. Faces once loyal to him had vanished, replaced by smiling strangers bound to Oldtown.
By day's end, the decree was sealed: Aegon would depart for the Stepstones, and Otto Hightower would return to King's Landing.
When the council dispersed, Viserys felt lighter than he had in months. Rhaenyra was safe upon Dragonstone, Aegon bound for war, Alicent and Otto soon to occupy themselves with governance. Perhaps now he might enjoy a little peace, a quiet evening with his model of old Valyria, and the dream of a united realm.
Alicent Hightower, however, knew no peace.
That same afternoon she found her son in his chambers and seized him by the ear before he could speak.
"Your father has lost his wits," she hissed. "And you-! have you lost yours? Do you know what kind of place the Stepstones are? Do you know the blood that's been spilled there?"
The prince winced and gently pried her hand free, rubbing his reddened ear with a smile. "Of course I know, Mother. The waters are deep, and the waves are cruel. But even the fishermen of King's Landing know, the rougher the sea, the richer the catch."
"Don't mock me with riddles!" she snapped. "If you die there, who will take your place? Aemond? The boy doesn't have a tenth of your sense!"
"Peace, Mother." Aegon took her hand and met her eyes. "When have I ever taken a step without certainty beneath it? If you must worry, then write to Grandfather. Have him bring men and ships and whatever else he can muster."
Alicent tore her hand away, fury and worry warring upon her face. "You infuriate me," she said, and swept from the room.
Aegon only laughed softly, watching her go. He had no doubt she would do exactly as he'd asked, write to Oldtown and ensure the Hightowers sent their full strength to his banner.
For all his mother's temper, Aegon knew one thing beyond question: the Hightower flame burned brightest for him.
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