“The Gods look down upon the webs spun by your venom, and for once, they find themselves amused. A true king must possess the heart of a protector, but he must also wield the tongue of a Devil and the cold malice of a slaughterer. You looked upon two monstrous bastards, drunk on power and bloated with dangerous ambition, and you did not strike them down with steel and fire. Instead, you bound them with invisible chains of gold and sweet lies. You fed their hollow vanity with visions of smoke queens and divine blood, crafting a cage of beautiful illusions so perfect that they begged to walk into the slaughterhouse on your behalf. You carve out their loyalty with a poisonous forked tongue, dancing on their graves even as you call them cousins. The cold iron around your heart has grown sharper, deadlier, and entirely unyielding. In their divine amusement, a God has bestowed upon you a reward. Close your eyes, and open them to find your right arm.”
Aegon closed his eyes as he sat alone, holding his wine cup.
When he opened his eyes, the burn wounds were gone.
The skin had closed, but the labor had not been erased.
The heavy, thick ribbons of dragon-burn scars still coated his arm from the shoulder to the fingertips, twisted and jagged like the roots of an ancient weirwood tree.
But the flesh was no longer angry, red, weeping, or in agony.
The entire scarred arm had turned as pale as ice.
Aegon lifted his right arm to his face to look at it closely.
“Gods? More like enticing demons,” Aegon murmured.
“I care not if you were demons. I made peace with my demons a long time ago, and I find them surprisingly reasonable.”
A gentle knock echoed through the quiet of the chamber.
“Enter,” Aegon called out.
The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the silver-gold hair of his youngest brother.
“Brother,” Daeron said, stepping into the dim light.
“Daeron. Come, sit.” Aegon waved his wine cup toward the heavy wooden chair to his right.
“Have some wine. Or shall I have the servants fetch you some warm apple cider?”
“I have no desire to get drunk today, brother. Perhaps another time.” He settled into the chair.
“Syrax has finally exhausted herself. The Dragonkeepers managed to collar her and drag her up Rhaenys’s Hill to the Pit. Sunfyre is safely inside as well. They have already begun winching his wing into place and bringing him slaughtered oxen. The head keeper told me it will take three months of care before he is fit for the sky.”
“A pity. I was rather looking forward to burning a few castles and boiling a few lords alive this moon. I suppose they can enjoy another season of breathing.”
Daeron leaned forward, a smile breaking across his face.
“I have better news to pass the time.”
“Well?” Aegon arched an eyebrow.
“Do not keep your king waiting, Daeron.”
“The Riverlords’ host has broken and retreated from Maidenpool,” Daeron reported.
“Our scouts report that Caraxes was seen tearing through the clouds above the God’s Eye, shrieking in absolute rage. If the Blood Wyrm is grieving like that… it means our uncle might died.”
Aegon lifted his eyebrows in surprise “They killed him? The Rivermen actually struck down a prince of House Targaryen? Rebel or not, he was of our blood. Did those turncoat cunts truly murder my uncle in the hopes that I would offer them a pardon?”
“They broke guest right. I didn’t anticipate that,” Daeron thought loudly.
“Daemon was the last dragonrider on their side, and an experienced commander. Killing him before securing terms from you seems very foolish.”
“Daeron, baby brother,” Aegon said.
“They are turncoats and butchers. You think they care about guest right? Most likely, some lord killed him, they started pointing fingers, and then each ran back to his own castle to distance himself from the crime.”
Aegon took another sip of his wine.
“Now we can take them one castle at a time with dragons and burn the traitors. They made our lives much easier. Besides, now I’m tempted to let the Northmen cross into the Riverlands to see the rebels fight each other. But no. I want to burn them all with my own hands. Every last one of them, and their wives, and their children.”
Daeron sighed, knowing his brother was out for blood for his dead son.
“As you say, brother.”
“Now,” Aegon said, “fuck the dead cuck. I want to talk about you.” Aegon reached out and cupped Daeron’s face in his hand.
“Yes,” Aegon said.
“You fought bravely, and it is time for you to get married. More importantly, it is time for you to sit your shiny arse on a seat of your own and rule.”
“Brother…” Daeron didn’t know what to say.
Growing up in Oldtown squiring for the Hightowers, he had been taught that a prince’s worth came from honor, duty, and holding a noble seat.
To him, a castle and lands meant respect and a real legacy.
It proved he wasn’t just a younger brother living in the shadow.
“You honor me greatly,” Daeron said.
“I only did my duty to my king and my family.”
“I want to give you the Eyrie,” Aegon said.
Daeron’s breath hitched, and the composure he was trying so hard to hold onto completely shattered.
The Eyrie was the most beautiful, legendary castle in Westeros, a fortress of white marble sitting high above the clouds.
For a prince raised on tales of knights and glory, being named Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East was a dream come true.
“And,” Aegon continued, “after the war is over and the rebels are crushed, I am taking you to Volantis. I will find you a bride of the purest Valyrian blood. A woman of such beauty that the two of you will be worshiped like gods, and above all, far away from these scheming lords who hunger for your blood and your dragon.”
“Volantis?” Daeron frowned
“I know during your time in Oldtown they must have tried to trap your heart with some Hightower girl,” Aegon said.
“But they wield too much power as it is. Our uncle has bled for us, and for that I will reward and honor him greatly. But not too greatly. We cannot let their power surpass ours, or even our dragons. Unless…” Aegon trailed off, his voice slowing.
“Unless what?” Daeron asked.
“Unless Daeron the Daring can’t handle a ferocious Volantene bride.”