The morning mist had only just begun to thin when Ser Vaemond Velaryon stepped out into the pale dawn, the cool air biting gently at his face.
His temples throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, last night's wine had been strong, and far too abundant, but even through the haze of forgetfulness, one memory remained clear: Prince Aegon's quiet understanding, the sympathy in the young prince's eyes as he spoke of duty and loss. That warmth lingered now, easing Vaemond's hangover more than any herbal draught might.
He made for Aegon's quarters, hoping to offer his thanks before departure.
But the guards at the entrance crossed their spears at once.
"I'm sorry, Ser," one of them said. "You may not enter. Prince Aegon still rests."
Vaemond blinked. "Still? Has His Highness not risen?"
Aegon, as Vaemond had come to know him, possessed a restless, burning vitality, a forge-fire that seldom dimmed. The notion of him sleeping past dawn felt strange.
The guard leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "His Highness dealt the Tyroshi a fierce lesson last night. He did not return until the sky began to lighten. Best not disturb him now."
Vaemond exhaled softly, understanding dawning. "In that case… when he wakes, give him my regards."
The guard nodded. "Of course."
Vaemond bowed in thanks and withdrew, though a faint reluctance tugged at him.
He found Ser Arryk near the shoreline, directing a small army of laborers carrying timber beams, crates, and rolled tarred cloth.
Men shouted, hammers rang, and the scent of sawdust mingled with brine from the restless sea. A warehouse was taking shape plank by plank, vital for storing the growing flood of supplies, food, weapons, tents, barrels of pitch, already arriving from allied houses.
House Hightower promised further shipments. The Lannisters had pledged wagons of grain and silver besides. Without a proper storehouse, everything would rot under canvas or vanish into the hands of thieves.
"Ser Vaemond ?" Arryk called, spotting him.
Vaemond lifted a hand in greeting. "Good morning, Ser Arryk. I've come to inform you that I shall withdraw today. As for those weapons and armor damaged in battle… I will not be bringing them back... They will be a burden for you to clean and sort it seems."
Arryk's eyes narrowed just slightly. Understanding glimmered between them.
"That may be… unwise," Aric murmured. "If Lord Corlys were to take issue-"
"It is nothing," Vaemond assured him, waving the concern aside. "Losses are common in war. Why else do they say warfare devours coin like flame devours wood?"
A small silence followed. Then Arryk inclined his head, the decision made. "If you say so. I will see to it."
"Good. I leave with an easier heart." Vaemond clasped his forearm briefly. "Farewell for now."
"I should at least walk you to the shore-"
"No need," Vaemond said. "Your duties keep you well occupied."
But Arryk insisted, and so he accompanied him to the cliffs overlooking the harbor, where the Velaryon fleet, once thirty ships, now reduced to seventeen, set their sails. The sunlight broke across the waves as the sleek warships glided outward, their pale hulls and sea-dragon banners gleaming gold in the morning light.
Arryk remained until they vanished beyond the horizon.
Only then did he turn away, the weight of the coming conflict heavy upon him.
For soon the Stepstones, long soaked with blood and ambition, would become the final crucible, a battlefield where the Seven Kingdoms would clash against the Triarchy and, much to everyone's misery, the Dornish besides.
The sun rose, burned overhead, and drifted downward again. Evening painted the rugged hills in shades of red and gold, the sky like a brazier inverted above the world.
*
Inside Aegon's tent, silence reigned.
At least until-
"Brother? Brother! Brother!"
Aegon jerked awake, breath catching in his throat. A face loomed inches away, round-cheeked, bright-eyed, and entirely too close.
"Daeron," Aegon groaned, pushing his younger brother back by the forehead, "what in the seven flames do you want?"
"You slept all day!" Daeron announced as though it were a miracle. He flopped onto the bed beside him. "I thought you'd died!"
Aegon stared at him, lips parting in disbelief.
Then he reached, without breaking eye contact, for the nearest shoe.
If he did not discipline this boy soon, Daeron would grow into a menace unmatched by any dragon in the realm.
In the books, Daeron the Daring had grown up beneath the long shadow of Aegon the Elder, a bright but overshadowed child.
But since Aegon's soul had awakened in this world with all the memories of another life, he had treated his brothers not with disdain but with a protective fondness. He offered guidance, warmth, encouragement.
And because of that, Aemond and Daeron loved Aegon with a fierce loyalty that eclipsed even their duty to their father.
At the recent feast, Aemond had proven it. Before the entire court, he had threatened Daemon Targaryen without flinching, even as Viserys paled and wavered.
Aegon had not bothered to hide his amusement.
He was lifting the shoe with grim intention when another voice interrupted.
"That is enough."
Helaena slipped into the tent, her soft footfalls barely disturbing the canvas floor. She held her hands demurely before her, pale blond hair falling like silk around her shoulders.
"Daeron was only worried," she said gently. "He meant no harm."
Since the betrothal had been formally agreed upon, she had begun addressing him simply as Aegon. There was something warm and sweet in her tone when she said his name, something that settled like sunlight in his chest.
He found that he liked it more than he expected.
In a few years, he thought, gaze lingering on the curve of her cheek, when she is grown… perhaps I will teach her a few improper things. A private smirk touched his lips. She may even enjoy listening to me then.
"Daeron," Helaena added softly, "step outside a moment."
"Oh." Daeron hesitated, pouting, clearly wanting to pester Aegon further, especially about Aemond's bragging regarding Vhagar. But he obeyed at last, shuffling out.
When the tent flap closed behind him, Helaena sat beside Aegon on the edge of the bed.
"Aegon," she whispered, cheeks pink, "I… I've had my first moonblood."
Aegon blinked. His mouth twitched.
"When that comes," he said at last, "you must rest. Drink warm water. And, no dragonriding for several days. Is that clear?"
She nodded. "Then… may I rest with you tonight?" Her lashes dropped shyly. "Mother says I should give you a son soon. She says it would strengthen your claim."
Aegon reached for her face, cupping her warm cheeks gently. A sigh escaped him, half exasperation, half affection.
"They say the birthing bed is a woman's battlefield," he murmured. "And I will not send you into battle while you are still but a girl. I cannot lose you, Helaena. You are my blood and fire, my sun and my moon, my guiding light in the dark."
Her breath caught.
"I want to see your gentle eyes every morning for all my days," he continued softly. "So nothing must happen to my sun and moon."
Helaena looked dazed, enchanted, overwhelmed all at once.
And then,
Two heads appeared at the tent entrance.
Aemond's eyes gleamed with mischief. Daeron grinned beside him.
"Brother," Aemond said smugly, "what am I to you, then? Your left arm? Or the right?"
"Then I'm the left," Daeron declared quickly, elbowing him. "You're the right. Isn't that so, Brother?"
Helaena froze solid.
Aegon's poetic confession, spoken in low earnest tones, heard by the worst possible witnesses. Her face turned crimson, then nearly purple, steam rising off her skin like mist off a forge.
Aegon, entirely unfazed, answered,
"The two of you are my blood and fire as well, my left and right arms."
Daeron puffed his chest and marched inside, planting his hands on his hips. "Of course! And when I'm older, I'll ride Tessarion and help you rid the realm of that foul woman Rhaenyra!"
He stood tall, radiant with confidence, utterly oblivious to danger.
He did not notice the shoe in Aegon's hand. He did not notice Aemond silently vanish to safety.
He did not notice Helaena bury her burning face in both palms.
Aegon clicked his tongue softly. "A noble intention, dear brother. But before you set out to slay any foes, we must address one serious flaw of yours."
Daeron blinked. "What flaw?"
Aegon smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
Daeron glanced to Helaena, whose shoulders trembled with embarrassment.
A single tuft of his silver-gold hair stood straight up.
"Ah," he whispered. "You're angry again."
The shoe came down.
-----
A/N: The world is moving in shadows, schemes brewing, alliances breaking, and every soul chasing wealth or survival. No one knows what comes next…
Who wins? Who falls? Only time will tell.
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