"Your subjects will surely praise your benevolence, Your Highness," Kraken said carefully, his fingers tightening around the leather ledger in his hands, "but our coffers are empty."
He stood with his shoulders squared, as if bracing for a blow. Kraken had followed Aegon across smoke-choked seas and blood-soaked docks, had watched him mete out justice with a measured hand and reward loyalty with gold and land. Of all men, Kraken believed most firmly that Aegon would one day be a generous and incorruptible king.
Yet belief did not conjure silver from bare stone.
"Empty?" Aegon halted mid-step and turned. The late afternoon light caught in his pale hair, casting it like spun gold. His brows drew together, disbelief flickering across his face. "So quickly?"
He had not been sparing with Tyrosh. For months, the city's treasuries, counting houses, and merchant vaults had been bled methodically. Ships laden with coin and goods had sailed day and night for Drakoncrest. And yet.
Kraken gave a stiff nod. "It is as I said. Dreamfyre eats as if the world itself were her pasture. Meat every day, and not a little of it. Our men have already crossed into the Myrish marches to seize more slave masters and their stock. Even that scarcely suffices."
He hesitated, then added, "When you account for provisioning the garrisons, repairing the ports, and feeding the smallfolk, the warehouses are bare. There is nothing left to draw upon."
Aegon lifted a hand to his chin, thumb rubbing slowly along his jaw. He said nothing at first. The sound of boots and distant hammers filled the silence as they walked the outer terraces overlooking the harbor.
No coin, then.
That, at least, was a problem he knew how to solve.
Coin was not parchment with pretty stamps, but weight and substance. Gold dragons, silver stags, copper pennies. Beyond that lay spices, silks, dyed cloth, gemstones, all things that could be turned into hard currency with little effort. If there was none to be had, it could be taken.
He had not poured gold into soldiers and ships merely to admire them.
Still, robbery required finesse. Too crude a hand, and the Free Cities would grow wary, perhaps even close ranks. Too gentle, and the cost of marching would swallow the gains whole.
After several steps, Aegon's eyes sharpened.
"Tyrosh has been wrung dry," he said at last. "It is time we stop pretending otherwise." He glanced toward the sea, where the red sails of captured ships stirred in the breeze. "We will formally take possession of the city and proclaim the unification of the Stepstones."
Kraken blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. His mouth opened, then closed again. "Your Highness… forgive me, but we were speaking of money."
"We still are." Aegon's lips curved into a faint smile. "This is how we solve it."
Kraken fell silent, listening.
"Once Tyrosh is secured, we turn our gaze to Myr," Aegon continued, his voice calm and assured. "A measured strike. Enough to remind them of our reach, and enough to refill our coffers. Afterward, you will send envoys to both Myr and Lys. Invite them to send governors or archons to Drakoncrest. We will speak of alliance."
Kraken stopped walking entirely. "Alliance?" he echoed, the word sounding strange on his tongue.
Aegon looked back at him, amused. "Yes."
"But why would they agree?" Kraken demanded, confusion plain on his weathered face. He gestured sharply with one hand. "We have seized Tyrosh, one of the Triarchy's pillars. Myr and Lys already fear us. Why would they bind themselves closer?"
Aegon's confidence did not waver. He resumed walking, forcing Kraken to fall in beside him.
"Because fear cuts both ways," Aegon replied. "Tyrosh is gone. In its place stands the Province of Tyrosh, under our banner. We now hold the Stepstones entire. Look at a map and tell me what Myr and Lys see."
Kraken frowned, thinking.
"They see Volantis," Aegon said for him. "Ever hungry. Ever watching the Disputed Lands. Now imagine that hunger sharpened by opportunity. From east and west, Volantis and we stand like closing jaws."
He slowed, turning his head slightly. "We need not lift a sword against Myr or Lys to bleed them. We only need to convince them that Volantis will."
Kraken's breath caught. "You mean to provoke a war."
"I mean to encourage their fears," Aegon corrected lightly. "If Volantis looms large enough, allying with us becomes their only refuge. We offer protection. Stability. Perhaps even the presence of a dragon to guard their skies."
"And in return," Kraken said slowly, "they pay."
Aegon laughed, a soft sound edged with steel. "They contribute to military expenses, yes. A small price for the protection of a Dragon King."
Kraken stared at him for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Is such a thing truly possible?"
Aegon spread his hands. "Why should it not be? Let them taste the comfort of dragonfire at their backs. It will make what comes later far easier."
They spoke long after that, voices low as the sun dipped toward the sea. By the time the sky burned red and purple, the details were laid bare.
Only then did Aegon return to the Manor.
The day's inspections weighed pleasantly on his mind. The fields beyond the city walls were thriving, worked under his new intensive methods. Homemade fertilizers enriched the soil, and granaries stood full for the first time in living memory. The people had food. They had hope.
With taxes remitted for another year, wasteland reclaimed, and families encouraged to grow, his hold on the Stepstones was no longer fragile.
It was taking root.
Night settled gently over the manor after dinner, the lamps along the galleries burning low as servants withdrew. Beyond the walls, the sea was black glass, broken only by the pale shimmer of moonlight.
A faint rustle of wings disturbed the stillness.
Under the cold glow of the moon, a white raven circled once and descended into the courtyard, its feathers bright as bone against the dark stone. It perched atop a balustrade, head cocked, a sealed letter bound to its leg.
A withered old maester hurried forward at once. His frame was thin as a winter branch, his chain hanging loosely about his neck as if it weighed more than his body could bear. He removed the message with trembling fingers and did not linger. White ravens carried tidings of consequence. No time could be wasted.
Moments later, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside Aegon's study.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Enter," Aegon said without looking up.
The door creaked open. "Your Highness," the maester said, bowing stiffly.
Aegon glanced up briefly, recognizing him, then returned his gaze to the ledgers spread across the desk. "What is it?"
"A message from King's Landing," the old maester replied, stepping closer. He extended the parchment with both hands. "Sent under Lord Otto's seal."
That caught Aegon's attention. He straightened, took the letter, and broke the seal with his thumb. His eyes moved swiftly across the lines, his expression unreadable.
For a while, the room was silent save for the crackle of the brazier.
Then Aegon rose abruptly, crossed the room, and tossed the letter straight into the fire. The parchment curled and blackened, the wax seal melting into red tears.
"So," he said softly, more to himself than to the maester. "My father is truly sparing no expense."
The maester hesitated. "Your Highness?"
"To polish Rhaenyra's name and dress her in glory," Aegon went on, pacing slowly. His hands clasped behind his back, fingers tightening. "King Viserys has gathered an army of one hundred and fifty thousand. Just assembling them has taken more than two months."
The Maester inhaled sharply.
"One hundred and fifty thousand," Aegon repeated, savoring the number. "Men, camp followers, horses. Feeding them alone will drain treasuries dry. Grain, fodder, coin. Even the Iron Throne cannot conjure such sums without pain."
His eyes flickered as his thoughts turned inward, calculating.
More than a century ago, when Aegon the Conqueror marched against Dorne, the Dornish had refused open battle. They melted into the sands, struck from shadow and stone, and in the end even brought down Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys through a stroke of dreadful fortune. A dragon slain, not by strength, but by patience and luck.
Viserys would remember that lesson.
There was no chance he would allow Rhaenyra to risk herself in the skies, not with the realm watching and succession already fraught. Nor could her sons be relied upon. Jacaerys and Lucerys were still boys, their dragons young and untested. They would be kept far from true battle.
That left only two.
Daemon Targaryen and his blood-red Caraxes. And Princess Rhaenys, astride the Red Queen Meleys.
Aegon paused by the window, gazing out at the moonlit courtyard.
Daemon's sword arm was ruined by him. His skill on the ground had suffered, but a dragon did not care whether its rider wielded a blade. In the sky, Daemon remained dangerous.
As for Rhaenys, she and Meleys had flown together for decades. Old they were, both woman and dragon, but experience carried its own edge. Against Vhagar, the outcome was far from certain.
Slowly, Aegon's lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile.
Aegon turned back, the firelight catching in his pale eyes. "Send word to the harbor," he said calmly. "Have the towers prepared. And ensure the guest quarters are readied."
"For whom?" the maester asked.
Aegon's smile deepened, sharp as a drawn knife.
"My dear aunt," he said. "Princess Rhaenys."
He looked toward the dark horizon beyond Drakoncrest, as if he could already see a scarlet shape cutting through the clouds.
"Welcome," Aegon murmured, "to Drakoncrest."