"Your Highness!" Hugh Hammer's voice boomed, deep and resonant as a funeral bell.
He didn't just kneel; he threw his entire weight into the dirt. "I swore before the Seven that my body, my soul, and my hammer belong to you. I was a fool—I feared you would take the dragon from me because of my blood. I am sorry to you, and I am sorry to my vow!"
He looked up, his face etched with a raw, desperate sincerity. "Even if you chain Sheepstealer and strip my saddle, my blade will still slay your enemies until death claims me."
Aegon watched him for a long moment, the murderous calculation in his violet eyes softening into a dry, knowing smirk. The tension in the air, which had been thick enough to choke a dragon, dissipated instantly. Aegon chuckled and reached out.
"I believe you, Hugh. You are my most loyal vassal," Aegon said, pulling the big man up. "If I cannot trust the man I raised from the forge, who can I trust?"
They shared a look—one of shared secrets and newfound power.
"What are my orders, Sire?" Hugh asked. "Shall I return to the mercenary work?"
"And waste a dragon rider on dirty tavern brawls?" Aegon rolled his eyes. "You've given me a massive surprise, Hugh. A loyal dragon knight is worth ten thousand sellswords. You stay on Dragonstone. I'll teach you how to actually ride that mud-colored beast. Sheepstealer has talent; don't let it go to waste."
Hugh bowed his head in gratitude, though he hesitated. "Your Highness... I have 'brothers.' Men who followed me when I had nothing. May they fight for you as well?"
Aegon waved a hand dismissively. "You are a Dragon Knight now, Hugh. Such small things are yours to decide. If they are loyal to you, they are loyal to me."
Half a month bled into the past. The sun rose over a changing Stepstones.
The Lannister fleet finally crested the horizon, but they weren't the swift predators that had left. They were wallowing deep in the water, every deck—from the warships to the captured Tyroshian prizes—teeming with humanity.
"Your Highness, forgive the delay," Ser Loren said as he stepped onto the bustling pier, looking exhausted but triumphant. "The weight of the cargo slowed us to a crawl."
"Forgive you?" Aegon laughed, clapping the knight on the shoulder. "You've brought me the foundation of a kingdom. There is no need for apologies when you bring victory."
Thanks to the alternating patrols of Aemond on Vhagar and Hugh on Sheepstealer, the Tyroshian remnants hadn't dared a second strike. The Lannister fleet had returned with ten thousand people and twelve captured ships.
"Ten thousand slaves," Loren remarked, looking at the ragged lines.
"Refugees," Aegon corrected sharply.
Loren grinned, catching the play. "Yes. Refugees. May the gods praise your mercy, Prince Aegon."
As the gangplanks lowered, a sea of people poured onto the stone. They were a cacophony of fear and wonder—slaves who had never known a day without a whip, now standing on the soil of a Dragon Lord. The noise was deafening until a shadow swept over the docks.
"HISS!"
Sunfyre landed on a nearby crag, his golden scales blinding in the midday sun. He let out a territorial roar that vibrated in the chests of every man and woman present. The silence was instantaneous. Ten thousand people fell still, frozen by the majesty and terror of the Golden Sunbeam.
"Begin the registration," Aegon signaled to Ser Arryk.
The process was grueling. Knights from across the Seven Kingdoms who had flocked to Aegon's banner were pressed into service as scribes. They worked until the moon replaced the sun, documenting the ten thousand—the first wave of the seventy thousand still waiting on the Highlands.
Late that evening, as Aegon sat in his solar surrounded by ledgers and supply requisitions, Arryk entered with a heavy parchment sealed in red wax.
"A letter from the King, Your Highness. Written in his own hand."
Aegon's eyes tracked the lines of Viserys's sprawling script. A slow, cold smile spread across his face.
"Good news, Sire?" Arryk asked hopefully.
"In a sense," Aegon murmured, tapping the parchment against his chin. "My dear sister, Rhaenyra, is to be married again. Right here on Dragonstone, next month. The groom is our uncle, Prince Daemon."
Arryk went rigid. This was a nightmare. Daemon and Caraxes joining the Black Party meant Rhaenyra now possessed the most dangerous dragon and commander in the realm.
"Ser Arryk," Aegon said, his voice turning to ice. "Settle these ten thousand. Then fetch the other seventy thousand. I want every soul integrated and every plow in the dirt before that wedding begins."
He stood up, looking out the window toward the silhouette of the Red Keep across the water.
"My sister is starting a new life with the Rogue Prince," Aegon whispered, his smile turning sharp and predatory. "As her loving brother, how could I not offer my most... sincere blessings?"
His eyes were no longer those of a young prince, but a king of winter—violet, brilliant, and utterly frozen.
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