Prince Aegon Targaryen
As Daemon had promised, by the close of the year, all was done. In Dorne, the rule of the Martells had fallen, and now Olivar Yronwood strove to defend his right to the royal title against the other Dornish lords. The Triarchy, shattered upon land and sea, had finally dissolved. The Volantene Freehold had crushed the remnants of the Rogare fleet and, with little effort, seized Lys with all its domains upon the islands and the mainland. Myr, too, met an unenviable fate: weakened by the devastating conflagration wrought by Daemon and Caraxes, it could not withstand the Volantenes and was forced to buy them off with gold and lands, renouncing the Golden Fields and both banks of the river Lhorulu fully and for all time, and paying, in addition, an indecently large indemnity to the Seven Kingdoms. And, of course, there was Tyrosh, which had surrendered to Daemon's mercy.
Throughout these moon-and-a-half, Aegon, together with his eldest brother, had attempted to bring the city—formerly proudly styled "Free"—to obedience. The Magisters who bowed before his brother held curved daggers within their sleeves—and by no means metaphorically: no sooner had one of the Magisters risen from his knees than he attempted to hurl himself upon his conqueror with a concealed blade, only to be met by Dark Sister.
In the following weeks, attempts were made to kill both Princes and their retainers in myriad ways: by stabbing, throttling, poisoning, pushing them from stairs, and even inciting a common riot, yet each time it ended with calamitous consequences only for the Magisters—the true source of all malice. Within a turn and a half of the moon, of the forty families that had ruled Tyrosh for over two hundred years since the Doom of Valyria, only five remained; and even they survived only because they had immediately staked their lives upon the Targaryens and diligently justified their existence. Not only Daemon, but his brother, the whole Velaryon clan, and many retainers were drawn into the squabbles of the viper's nest hidden behind the Black Boundary.
In dealing with those who dared rebel against his right of conquest, Daemon spared no one: the heads of the families and all males above fourteen were sent to the block; their wives and sons under fourteen were given poison or starved, and if they refused to eat, they were not fed at all. After much dispute, only the unwed maidens and children under three years of age, regardless of sex, were shown mercy. His brother's uncompromising nature unpleasantly surprised Aegon: if he clung so fiercely to a city, a handful of islands, and a small scrap of the mainland, what then was he prepared to do for all the Seven Kingdoms? The answer, which the Prince feared even to voice to himself, was frightening in its perilous prospects; the unity of the family—the pledge of safety for the dragons and all Westeros—was straining at the seams.
However, when in the middle of the twelfth month Daemon proposed that he take part in his coronation, Aegon did not dare refuse him. A refusal would only have deepened the chasm between them, which had opened after that unpleasant conversation on the eve of Tyrosh's fall. To permit this was impossible: now the youngest of the Princes needed to preserve the fraternal bonds more than ever. Naturally, Daemon drew him into this spectacle, as he did all the other prominent participants of the war, to mask what was, in truth, treason. Thus, he made accomplices of Aegon, Jaegaer, Corlys, Rhaenys, Elmo Tully, Tarth, Estermont, and the other lords and knights who had already received gold, jewels, and even conquered lands from him.
"Only to thee can I entrust this," Daemon had said then.
"To serve as thy lackey?" the other had chuckled mirthlessly.
"To crown me. And to explain all to Viserys."
Participating in Viserys's coronation seven years ago had given Aegon pleasure and greatly flattered his pride; Daemon's coronation in Tyrosh brought naught but tension and new anxieties. The ceremony was simple. The conqueror of the Triarchy, in his habitual Valyrian armor, stepped onto the square before the gates of the Black Boundary, where, through several hands, a black velvet cushion bearing a crown was brought to him. Daemon bent the knee, as he had when dubbed a knight, leaning upon Dark Sister, and Aegon placed the circlet upon his head—interlocking hoops of Valyrian steel, silver, and red gold, set with a large amethyst at the center, exactly the same color as the eyes of its master. Thereafter, a herald proclaimed him King, the townspeople swore fealty, and the newly-made liege thrice circled Tyrosh upon Caraxes.
The following day, the first ships set forth for King's Landing with those who had become the retinue of the new King. Soon, Aegon also flew away, destined once more to be the mediator, and Laenor followed after him. Having returned to the Red Keep, the Prince told Viserys honestly and without concealment that Daemon had achieved the greatest victory since the days of the Conquerors, but had acquired corresponding demands.
"He expects a reward worthy of a king. He deems himself King of Tyrosh," Aegon warned the eldest of the brothers.
"Thou knowest he was ever boastful and ambitious," Viserys waved it off. "'Tis not fearsome. But such a victory!.."
"He was crowned, Viserys."
The benign smile froze upon the face of the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
"He would not dare lay claim to the Iron Throne while I yet live,"—praise the Gods, all three sons of Baelon the Brave understood this.
"He did not dare. There were no kings in Tyrosh, yet now there is one."
"We shall consider it a gift from the townspeople of Tyrosh," Viserys decided after a silence. "Let him flaunt himself; we shall see how he bears himself. If he ceases to play the mummer-pretender, I shall forgive him."
The Small Council was driven into a frenzy. Predictably, Otto Hightower was the most terrified, reminding his august good-son with a certain perverted, spiteful pleasure time and again that he had warned him of Prince Daemon's vicious nature: now a Maegor the Second was flying to the capital, and they all awaited inevitable betrayal, fratricide, usurpation, and tyranny. At last, even the King grew weary of listening to him and commanded his counselors to remain silent concerning these tidings, but rumors, naturally, began to crawl, especially when ships from the Stepstones began to arrive on the eve of the Holy Seven.
On the Day of the Father, the Great Hall of the Red Keep hummed like a disturbed hive. The courtiers, despising the instructions and precepts of the Faith on the first day of the Holy Seven, waited in excited and anxious impatience together with Viserys himself and Queen Alicent for the appearance of a single man: Daemon Targaryen, who had finally returned the previous night.
Viserys sat atop the Iron Throne, attempting quite awkwardly to portray a benign smile, while his court languished in wait, standing. Queen Alicent, having chosen a heavy gown of red velvet with wide sleeves, now hid her hands within those folds, surely picking at them out of nerves. Aegon decided that childbed had not, perhaps, spoiled her; furthermore, as the Maesters noted, all had been resolved for the best, and the Queen might yet bear the King several more princes and princesses. To Daemon's greater ire.
His namesake nephew was also presented to Aegon. The babe proved sturdy, not at all like Viserys's previous sons; he actively suckled at his nurse's breast and seemed quite content with life. No egg had been placed in his cradle yet, as the Captain of the Dragonkeepers refused to take such responsibility without the leave of the Master of Dragons, and the latter, upon his return, had no time for small children. Fortunately, the boy was not yet accustomed to such a large throng of people and thus remained in his chambers.
Rhaenyra, who had not crawled out of black gowns since her father's wedding, stood holding the arm of Laena Velaryon, as if fearing to fall, and clearly languishing with impatience. Although Aegon had asked his betrothed merely to "watch over" his niece so she would work no folly, Lady Laena had very quickly become Rhaenyra's closest friend: a holy place is never empty. It was not so much that the Princess felt lonely—the maids would have grown close in other circumstances regardless, for they had all too much in common: daughters of the two most noble houses, dragonriders, blood of the blood of Old Valyria. Aegon could not escape the impression that they had already conspired amongst themselves and were now plotting something... It was, of course, a matter of banal feminine whisperings, snickering, and giggling, and not of treason to the throne, yet it scarce put the Prince at ease.
Across from the royal family, to the right of the Iron Throne, the King's incomplete Small Council had gathered. Lord Hightower worriedly knit his bushy ginger brows and chewed his ginger mustache, surely calculating the possible consequences of his old adversary's return. Lord Beesbury was discoursing with the Grand Maester, who nodded shallowly in response. Lord Strong looked the worst of all: his full face was now gaunt, his cheeks and belly sagged, and he himself had somehow slumped downward, rarely raising his gaze from the floor. The loss of numerous kin would shake anyone, but the death of Harwin had literally crushed the Master of Harrenhal; it was actively discussed at court that Lord Lyonel would resign any day now, and wagers were made as to who would take the seat of Master of Laws. So far, the King's good-father was the leading candidate.
But then a wave ran through the crowd, everyone pulled themselves together at once, and the clamor died away. Trumpeters sounded, and a herald who stepped forward—Daemon's own herald, with his sigil (a Targaryen dragon with golden armaments framed by a golden chain) upon his livery—proclaimed:
"His Grace Daemon of House Targaryen, first of his name, King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea, Prince of Dragonstone, rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, rider of Caraxes the Blood Wyrm!"
No sooner had the last echo rolled through the hall over the heads of the courtiers than the cheers ready to break from the lips of those present stuck in their throats.
Through the hospitably flung-open doors, the named King entered with a confident, broad stride, in armor, with Dark Sister at his belt and a crown. Following him, two bannermen bore his standards and froze at the entrance. Thereafter, trailing a respectful few paces behind, entered his by no means small retinue: Cousin Jaegaer, both former squires who had received knighthood, Corlys Velaryon with his wife and three younger brothers—Vaemond, Malentine, and Rhogar—followed by many other knights who had shown valor and earned the favor of their new patron.
His brother was forced to march to the foot of the Iron Throne in graveyard silence, but it seemed not to trouble him in the least. Valyrian steel clattered with the joints of his plate; Dark Sister hung at his belt like a threat to all living things; but more eloquently than all words, hints, or secret and overt threats, the crown upon his head did not speak—it screamed.
Aegon had not thought until the very last that Daemon would dare such a thing—to stand before his brother with a circlet upon his head. But there, upon his cropped silver locks, sat a crown, somewhat distantly reminiscent of the Conqueror's own, which could not but seem a hint.
Daemon walked along the aisle amidst the silent lords of the Seven Kingdoms, but he looked only at Viserys, eye to eye. Aegon marked how the face of the eldest of the brothers was drawn with surprise, felt how Alicent Hightower—who had clearly imagined the very worst—literally froze in shock and horror, and how Laena—bless her, Meraxes!—held back Rhaenyra, who had jerked as if to meet her uncle. At the very foot of the Iron Throne, Daemon stopped and, with a short nod to Viserys, said:
"Greetings, my brother."
Never before had there been such a deafening silence in the Great Hall.
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