I stood beside Kellan as the heavy doors to the council chamber creaked open. Ser Olyvar entered first, his boots echoing on the stone, but he wasn't alone. Four men followed him, their faces etched with the weariness of the sea and the desperation of their circumstances. They were not the polished knights of King's Landing; these were men who smelled of salt, old leather, and survival.
"My lords," Olyvar announced, his voice carrying a new note of formality as he stepped aside. "I present Prince Vaegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Lord Kellan, Castellan of Dragonstone."
He turned toward the four men, gesturing to each with practiced courtesy. "Lord Velaryon, Lord Celtigar, Lord Bar Emmon, and Lord Sunglass."
The room felt smaller with them in it. The air grew thick with the tension of four powerful if diminished houses meeting in a room that had seen better centuries.
Lord Larys Velaryon was the first to speak. He was a gaunt man with silver streaked hair that looked like spun cobwebs. His eyes, pale as seawater, scanned me with a cold, analytical intensity. "A prince who appears from nowhere," he said, his voice quiet but carrying. "The ravens spoke of land, but they said nothing of a ghost returning to claim it."
"The ravens spoke the truth, My Lord," I countered, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Dragonstone has been a corpse. I am simply offering it a heartbeat."
Lord Celtigar, a man whose face was as lined as a dried fish, stepped forward, his hands rough and calloused. "We came because we have no choice, Prince. My people starve on the Claw. The sea gives us nothing but rocks and storms." His voice was gruff, lacking any pretense of courtly grace. "If there is truly land to be won, we will provide the hands. But we want guarantees."
"Guarantees require stability," Lord Bar Emmon interjected, a thinner man with a nervous energy about him. "We have survived by keeping to ourselves, by guarding our own shores. Why should we risk our men on your 'project'?"
The final man, a merchant lord from House Sunglass whose clothes were expensive but faded, gave a cynical snort. "And what of the coin? Land means tools, seed, and protection. We didn't sail through the Blackwater to work for free."
I looked at each of them in turn. The Velaryon wanted legitimacy, the Celitgar wanted food, the Bar Emmon wanted security, and the Sunglass wanted profit. They weren't asking for me; they were negotiating with a concept.
"I cannot give you gold I do not have," I said, my voice steady and clear. "And I will not give you empty promises of protection. But I can give you something none of you possess: a future where you aren't just waiting for the next storm to drown you. You bring the men and the tools, and I will give you the right to own what you build. We split the harvest, we share the profits, and we build a wall of steel around that territory together."
I paused, letting the offer hang between us. "Choose. You can sail back to your empty halls and wait to die, or you can help me build something worth living for."
I didn't stand. Instead, I hopped up onto the scarred surface of the council table, sitting cross legged among the maps. It was a move that would have made any courtier in King's Landing faint with horror it was disrespectful, casual, and utterly unlike a prince. But that was exactly why it worked. These men didn't want a prince; they wanted someone who understood the dirt beneath their fingernails.
"Look," I said coolly, leaning back on my hands. "I don't expect anything from you. You all have your plans, alright. But whether you're in a good position " I glanced at Lord Velaryon and Lord Sunglass, " or in a bad " I shifted my gaze to Lord Celtigar and Bar Emmon. "You all know you can't keep living like this. Isolated on your little islands, clinging to your rocks and trying to keep all your fishes for yourselves."
A low murmur ran through the group. Lord Velaryon’s eyes narrowed, his pale gaze fixed on me with something between irritation and begrudging interest.
"Here is how it works," I continued, my voice sharp and clear. "Follow me. Leave your castles and your islands behind for a time. We will go north to that unclaimed land and we will farm. We will build. We will work until we have enough food to distribute it back across all our holdings. When the granaries are full and the people are fed, then and only then will you go back to your castles." Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Lord Celtigar let out a rough bark of laughter. "Abandon our seats? Prince, you're asking us to leave our ancestral homes for a dream in the woods."
"I'm asking you to trade a slow death for a hard life," I countered immediately. "Your ancestral homes are empty shells, Lord Celtigar. Your people are already leaving you because there's nothing to eat. What's the point of owning a castle if you're too weak to lift the sword that defends it?"
I looked at the four of them, letting the silence stretch. "I'm not asking you to serve me. I'm asking you to survive with me. If you stay where you are, you're already dead. If you follow me, you might just live long enough to see your children fed."
Lord Larys Velaryon of House Velaryon finally spoke, his voice like silk over gravel. "You speak with a boldness that your age should not allow, boy. But... desperation is a powerful motivator."
Larys took a seat at my right, his movements fluid and precise despite his gaunt frame. Lord Celtigar followed immediately, his heavy chair scraping against the stone with a sound like grinding bone. Kellan took his place at my left, his expression grim but attentive. Finally, Lord Bar Emmon settled in, looking like a man who had just agreed to walk into a fire.
I looked at Lord Sunglass. He stared at me for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh and sitting directly in front of me. "You are right, my Prince," he said, his usual cynicism replaced by a weary honesty. "I may have coins right now, but I know I can't last like this. I had hoped to isolate myself long enough to build reserves, but isolation doesn't create wealth in a dying realm. It just delays the inevitable."
I nodded, the alliance forming before my eyes. But before we could discuss logistics, there was something I needed to establish. If I was going to lead these men, they needed to understand exactly what kind of dragon I was.
"Alright," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "First of all, who am I? Because apparently, all the Seven Kingdoms think I died three years ago."
I didn't sugarcoat it. I didn't play the martyr. I simply told them. I spoke of the training yards where I was a ghost, of the servant's quarters I called home, and the way the servants looked through me as if I were air. I told them about the punishment after I wounded Aegon the beating, the locked door, the two days of starvation, and the king who signed my sentence without even looking at my face. I described the Red Keep not as a palace, but as a gilded tomb where I had been buried alive while my sister was celebrated as a prophecy.
As I spoke, the room grew colder. The Lord of Tides stopped fidgeting with his rings. Lord Celtigar face hardened into a mask of fury. Even the calculating Lord Sunglass looked away, his jaw tight.
"Three years," Kellan whispered beside me, his voice thick with shame. "They left a child to rot in a cupboard."
"It's... unthinkable," Lord Bar Emmon stammered, his eyes wide with horror. "Even for the Mad King's son, this is... monstrous. To treat one's own blood as a common wretch..."
I looked at them, their faces twisted with disgust and pity. I didn't want their pity. I wanted their understanding.
"Now you know," I said, leaning forward until I was nearly nose to nose with the most powerful men in the peninsula. "I have no love for the throne, and I have no loyalty to the blood that abandoned me. That's why I'm not asking you to fight for House Targaryen. I'm asking you to fight for yourselves. Because I know exactly what it's like to be forgotten." This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
I didn't give them time to wallow in sympathy. Pity was a luxury we couldn't afford, and sentimentality wouldn't clear a single acre of forest. I pointed directly at the northern stretch of the map, my finger stabbing at the green expanse that lay beyond the island's immediate grasp.
"According to what I know about that land, it's fertile, full of forests, and filled with criminals," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "We're not just going to farm; we're going to pacify. We'll need many, many people not just farmers, but hands that can hold a pitchfork and a blade."
I leaned back, crossing my arms, my eyes scanning each of them in turn. I needed numbers. I needed to know if I was leading an army of salvation or a parade of corpses.
"How many did you bring?" I asked directly. "I want numbers. Men, women, children, and supplies. Don't give me estimates or hopes. Give me counts."
Lord Larys Velaryon was the first to answer. He straightened his robes, his pale eyes fixed on mine. "My ships carry three hundred souls, Prince Vaegon. Most are sailors and dockworkers, but there are fishermen as well. We have grain enough for six months, but nothing more if we settle permanently."
"I brought fifty," Lord Celtigar grunted, his voice rough. "Mostly my own kin and hardened men from the coast. We have livestock sheep and goats but we'll need more grazing land than you're promising."
Lord Bar Emmon cleared his throat nervously. "Three hundred and twenty, My Prince. Mostly merchants' families and their servants. We have tools plows, axes, saws but our coin is... limited."
Finally, Lord Sunglass sighed, tapping his fingers on the table. "Two hundred souls, with a fair amount of coin to put toward supplies. My people know how to trade, but they aren't warriors. If this land is as lawless as you say, we'll need protection."
I did the math in my head. "Eight hundred and twenty people," I muttered. "A start, but pathetic for the scale of what we're doing. We're bringing a village to fight a wilderness."
I looked at Kellan. "And what of the castle's own men? The garrison?"
Kellan's face darkened. "Ten guards, as Olyvar said. And maybe twenty more servants who haven't fled yet. But they're broken men, Vaegon. They'll follow you because they have nowhere else to go, not because they believe in your vision."
"Then we'll make them believe," I said grimly. "Starting with the first acre we clear."