The Narrow Sea stretched endless beneath the dragons' wings as Aegon soared on Sunfyre, the golden dragon cutting through cold, crisp air toward King's Landing. Below, the royal fleet trailed behind, sails taut and flags snapping in the wind. The city's spires rose like jagged teeth, sharp and daunting against the gray horizon. Driftmark—distant now—retreated into mist and memory.
Aegon's jaw was set, lips tight. The council's formal verdict lingered bitter and hollow.
Aemond flew beside him on his newly claimed dragon, Vhagar, fierce and formidable despite his wound. Helaena followed on her own mount, quiet as always, her violet eyes tracing the city below with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
Their arrival drew many eyes—courtiers, guards, common folk—who whispered behind cupped hands. Dragons over King's Landing were no rare sight, but the tense silence beneath them spoke of pending storm.
The royal household disembarked at the docks, the cobblestones wet with salt and scattered leaves. Servants busy with luggage and retinues moved hastily, while lords and ladies gathered in anxious clusters, murmuring news and rumors.
Aegon drew deep breath after breath, steeling himself against the weight of expectations — and hostility.
The Red Keep felt different—larger, more labyrinthine, and suffused with the stifling scent of intrigue. Every corridor seemed alive with eyes eager to measure, judge, and report.
Aegon wasted no time. Upon settling briefly in the family's chambers, he sought out training—his sole solace and preparation.
The yard, ringed by stone walls and echoing with the clash of sword against shield, became Aegon's refuge.
From dawn to dusk, noble swordsmen and hardened knights drilled him relentlessly. Sweat and dirt stained his tunic; muscles burned with effort, but his resolve hardened even more.
Ser Gyles, an unyielding master-at-arms, shouted pointed lessons:
"Strength without focus is wasted fury! Guard your mind as you do your body!"
Aegon's replies were quick, his motions sharper.
His instructors noted the change. He was no longer the hesitant boy of Driftmark; he was becoming a warrior shaped by fire, loss, and a growing, ruthless drive.
Between training, Aegon met quietly with trusted lords and advisors. The court was a web of divided loyalties—some clung to tradition and the crown's favor, others to whispered promises of change.
Aegon's approach was careful but clear.
He offered support to neglected northern houses, promising trade protection and aid. He reached out to knights from less powerful regions, wooing them with respect and opportunities.
Political conversations shifted, some lords speaking less of the King's favor and more of the prince's rising star.
Through it all, Helaena remained Aegon's silent companion—a calm force amid growing chaos.
One evening, as dusk settled over the city and the last clang of the training yard faded, she found him on a quiet balcony overlooking the Blackwater.
"You push yourself too hard," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Aegon looked down at the sluggish river below, then up at the restless sky.
"Harder now, or never," he replied. "This city does not forgive weakness."
She reached for his hand, her touch gentle.
"And don't forget—sometimes strength is knowing when to stand still."
Aegon nodded, grateful, but his gaze already drifted to the distant towers where his rivals waited.
Whispers filled the corridors.
Rumors of the council's ruling and its bitterness spread in shadowed corners.
The Greens built their network in whispered deals and guarded smiles, cautious yet confident, emboldened by the king's favor.
The Blacks, narrow in numbers but fierce in resolve, retreated to their chambers, sharp words between Rhaenyra and Daemon promising war.