As late autumn arrived in 107 AC, various rumors began to circulate through the streets and alleys of King’s Landing.
In the brothels of Silk Street, patrons whispered about the war in the Stepstones.
Daemon Targaryen had captured another island; he now controlled Grey Gallows, Widow’s Watch, and Bloodstone, and his self-proclaimed titles were growing ever longer.
“The Future King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones, the Scourge of Pirates, the Punisher of the Triarchy”
—these titles spread across the Seven Kingdoms through the mouths of sailors and merchants.
In the taverns of Flea Bottom, people were more concerned with grain prices and the coming winter.
Of course, there was also talk of the royal family:
“Have you heard?
The little prince’s dragon can already fly above the castle, though only for a short distance.”
“Nonsense, a dragon needs at least half a year to fly that high, right?
Didn’t the princess’s dragon back then…”
“But this isn’t an ordinary dragon; it hatched in just three days…”
Inside the Red Keep, the discussions were more subtle but far more deadly.
At the Small Council, Otto Hightower placed a report on the long table.
“Prince Daemon demands that the Iron Throne formally recognize his rule over the Stepstones.”
The Hand’s voice was steady, but every word was carefully weighed.
“He promises to clear the region of pirates and ensure the safety of trade routes.
In return, he wishes to be granted the title of ‘Prince of the Stepstones’ and to hold the territory as a permanent domain for himself and his future heirs.”
Silence fell around the long table.
The young and hot-headed Master of Ships, Ser Tyland Lannister, spoke first: “This is tantamount to recognizing a traitor who has declared himself king.
If we agree to Prince Daemon, by tomorrow there could be a second or a third lord following suit.”
“But he is doing what the Iron Throne should be doing,” Lord Lyonel Strong said slowly.
“The pirates of the Stepstones have plagued trade in the Narrow Sea for decades; successive kings have tried to solve it and failed.
Prince Daemon has accomplished it using his own private forces.”
“Using the Iron Throne’s call, and Corlys Velaryon’s money and fleet,” Tyland retorted.
“That is an achievement nonetheless,” Lyonel said.
“The question is, are we prepared for an open conflict with Prince Daemon?”
“He and his allies now have four dragons: his own Caraxes, and Meleys, belonging to Princess Rhaenys, wife of Lord Corlys; and there are Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys’s two children, Seasmoke, which hatched for Ser Laenor while he was still in the cradle, just like for Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon…
Even excluding the still-young Seasmoke and Princess Rhaenys’s Meleys, Lady Laena tamed the largest living dragon, Vhagar, three years ago.”
“But Lady Laena and her brother Ser Laenor are still young,” Grand Maester Runciter said, trying to be optimistic.
“But Lady Rhaenys can,” Otto took over.
“Even if ‘The Queen Who Never Was’ does not participate, are we to pit Princess Rhaenyra, who is even younger than Lady Laena and Ser Laenor, against Daemon’s Caraxes?”
Rhaenyra, serving as cupbearer, was stunned at these words, and the flagon in her hand nearly slipped.
The question hung in the air of the council chamber.
Viserys had remained silent, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the tabletop.
“Daemon would not turn his blade against me,” the King finally said, but the uncertainty in his tone was audible to everyone.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Laenor led the way in bowing slightly, though he did not want to be the one to break it to him, he still chose to use his direct way to remind his dear friend, “But Prince Daemon is very good at…
influencing others.
We must consider this possibility.”
The meeting ended in a stalemate.
There was no resolution, only more anxiety.
Fragments of these discussions eventually reached Aegon’s ears through the mouths of servants and handmaidens.
His information network was still quite primitive—mostly content inadvertently leaked by the handmaidens caring for him while they gossiped.
But for an infant with an adult mind who knew the course of history, these fragments were enough to piece together the state of affairs.
Daemon was gathering strength.
Otto was pushing for confrontation.
Viserys was avoiding decisions.
Rhaenyra was wavering between the two.
And time was still passing.
One afternoon in the last month of 107 AC, Aegon was carried to the Hall of Sunlight.
This was one of the few rooms in Maegors Holdfast that could enjoy the winter sun.
Alicent was sitting by the window embroidering, and Rhaenyra was there too—her father, Viserys, had asked her to “spend more time with your little brother.”
Sunfyre was lying beside Aegon’s cradle, napping in the sun.
The dragon had grown to the size of a pony, and when its wings were spread, they almost filled a corner of the room.
It rarely left Aegon’s side, an attachment that was highly unusual in the relationship between dragon and rider.
Typically, dragons would be relatively independent during their youth until the rider was old enough to establish a formal bond.
Rhaenyra was reading a letter, her brow furrowed.
“Bad news?
Rhaenyra?” Alicent asked, her needlework not stopping.
“A letter from Daemon,” Rhaenyra said, then realizing she might have said too much, she paused, “He sends his regards to Father, and…
to me.”
Alicent’s needle stopped for a moment: “What else did he say?”
“He said the scenery of the Stepstones is beautiful, and that the sea breeze reminds him of Dragonstone.”
Rhaenyra folded the letter, “He hopes I have a chance to see it.”
“That is not suitable for a princess,” Alicent’s voice turned cold, “That is a battlefield, not a place for a noble lady.”
“Laena is there.”
Rhaenyra retorted, “And Daemon’s letter says she is doing very well, happier than ever before.”
Alicent put down her embroidery: “Rhaenyra, you must understand, what Daemon is doing is very dangerous.
He is challenging the authority of the Iron Throne, which could lead to war.”
“He is clearing the pirates for the kingdom—”
“He is building a kingdom for himself,” Alicent interrupted her, “Listen, I have no intention of slandering your uncle, but you must see the reality.
Daemon has always acted only for himself.
He is nice to you now because you are useful.
You are the heir, and he can gain power through you.”
Rhaenyra stood up, the letter crumpled tightly in her hand: “You don’t understand him.”
“I understand ambition,” Alicent also stood up, the two staring at each other from a few feet away, “I understand what men will do for power.
Believe me, Rhaenyra, having experienced it, I understand better than anyone.”
The atmosphere was tense.
Sunfyre raised its head, a low rumble emitting from its throat, its golden eyes fixed on the two women.
Just then, Aegon made a decision.
He let out a cry—not the unconscious wailing of an infant, but a deliberate, attention-grabbing cry.
Both women turned their heads at the same time.
Alicent immediately walked over and picked him up: “What is it, my dear?
Are you hungry?”
Rhaenyra also approached, the anger on her face replaced by worry: “His face is a bit red, is he running a fever?”
The argument was interrupted, and the attention shifted to the baby.
Aegon continued to cry until Alicent called for a maester to examine him.
The result was a false alarm, but the tense conversation could not continue.
Afterward, when Aegon was placed back in the cradle, Sunfyre leaned in and gently nudged his face with its snout.
Through the dragon bond, Aegon felt a vague emotion: approval.
The clever Sunfyre knew he had done it on purpose.
That night, the system interface flickered again.
[Critical relationship intervention detected…]
[Analysis: Successfully interrupted the escalation of conflict between Alicent Hightower and Rhaenyra Targaryen]
[Reward: Bloodline Purity +1%]
The progress became 28% / 35%.
Aegon understood—the system rewards were not just for interaction with dragons, but also for his intervention and guidance in the relationships of key characters.
This was a game, a game with lives as the wager and the kingdom as the chessboard.
And he, the player trapped in an infant’s body, had just scored his first point.
Outside the window, the first snow began to fall over King’s Landing.
107 AC was coming to an end, and the story belonging to Aegon Targaryen II had only just written its first paragraph.
In the shadows of the city, in the corridors of the Red Keep, and in every corner of Westeros, the loom of fate was turning.
The thread was in place, the shuttle had been picked up, and a bloody and magnificent tapestry was being woven.
And at the center of the tapestry was an infant with violet eyes, and the increasingly dazzling golden dragon beside him.