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Chapter Text

Red Keep, 110 AC

Aegon Targaryen, third son of Prince Baelon, resisted the urge to bang his head against the finely carved desk in his solar. If his elder brothers thought it amusing to pile the governance of King’s Landing and the realm’s finances onto his shoulders, they had sorely misjudged his patience. Not only was he the Master of Coin, but he was also expected to oversee the management of the capital—a city whose strategic location was its only redeeming quality.

The stench alone could drive a man to madness. No proper drainage system, no structured waste disposal, just filth upon filth choking the streets. Fixing this mess was an immense undertaking. To lay new pipelines, entire buildings had to be demolished, pathways closed for construction, and merchants forced to relocate. The smallfolk, ever resistant to change, cursed him for tearing down their homes. Convincing them was a battle of wits, and for the most stubborn, Daemon had to play the villain.

His hot-tempered brother was less than pleased when the restructuring reached Flea Bottom, his favorite haunt. Aegon endured weeks of cold stares before finally bargaining peace—assuring Daemon that a new district would be built to accommodate all his "favorite activities." That was enough to silence his protests, though he grumbled for weeks.

With the sewer system underway, Aegon turned to waste management. This, at least, was simpler. He hired jobless smallfolk, putting them to work sweeping the streets at the Hour of the Bat, collecting refuse onto carts, and hauling it beyond the city walls to fertilize the distant farmlands. They were given shelter, food, and coin every fortnight—far from riches but enough to survive.

It worked. The city smelled less foul, and for once, the air in King’s Landing didn’t threaten to suffocate him.

But the real challenge lay ahead—overcrowding.

King’s Landing swelled with people daily, yet there was little work to sustain them. Aegon and Daemon saw an opportunity in a royal fleet. The problem? Viserys. Their eldest brother, ever cautious, refused the proposal outright. “The realm already has the Velaryon fleet,” he reasoned. “Rhaenys and Corlys would see this as an insult.”

Daemon, for once, spoke sense. “It is the Velaryon fleet, not the Targaryen fleet,” he pointed out. “Must we rely on our cousin’s goodwill in times of war? A royal fleet ensures the Crown’s independence and tempers that damned Sea Snake’s ambitions.”

It took weeks of relentless arguing, but Viserys eventually relented.

Thus began the great shipyard project across Blackwater Bay. The Velaryons scoffed, confident that House Targaryen lacked the expertise to build ships. Braavos refused aid, wary of a new naval power rising. The other Free Cities were no better. But Aegon was not deterred.

He found support elsewhere—the Mallisters, Manderlys, Celtigars, Darklyns, Arryns of Gulltown, and even a few Ironborn lesser houses willing to profit from shipbuilding. Builders from Essos brought innovative designs, and a master shipwright from Slaver’s Bay introduced blueprints for three distinct ships:

A warship, inspired by the Ironborn longships—swift and deadly.

A massive cargo carrier, modeled after Ibbenese whaling vessels.

A hybrid war-transport ship, influenced by the Summer Islanders’ swan ships.

The shipyard not only gave King’s Landing its first fleet but also created jobs, expanding the city beyond the river. A bridge was under construction to link the growing district—one that would house Daemon’s new estate and, of course, his beloved pleasure houses.

Meanwhile, the Fair Town flourished near the permanent tourney grounds, a clever decision that saved the Crown an ungodly amount of coin. No longer would Viserys drain the treasury on temporary lists and feasting halls. The king, oblivious to the financial benefits, merely enjoyed having a dedicated site for his beloved spectacles.

Aegon sighed, his mind already shifting to the next issue at hand, when his solar door creaked open.

In stepped Gael Targaryen, his beautiful wife, his other half, and, most importantly, his savior from the madness of ruling.

She tilted her head with a knowing smirk. “Tell me, husband—have you finally completed all the work your brothers dumped on you?”

Aegon chuckled. “For today, at least.”

Gael Targaryen, the last daughter of Good Queen Alysanne, had been a forbidden fruit—one he had risked everything to claim. Had his grandmother’s will prevailed, he would have been wed to Genna Lannister and exiled to the Westerlands, much like Daemon had been married off to the Vale.

Queen Alysanne had been wise in many ways but abysmal at arranging marriages.

Daella Targaryen, timid and plain, was given endless choices of suitors, while her stunning sister Viserra was forced into a marriage she despised.

Daemon’s match to Rhea Royce was a disaster in the making—a bride with no Valyrian blood, no love for Targaryens, and a father who schemed his way into the marriage.

Viserys and Aemma’s union, while seemingly sound, had been rushed. Aemma was married at eleven, bedded at thirteen, and suffered a miscarriage by fifteen.

Gael had no intentions of suffering the same fate.

When Aegon’s marriage to Genna was announced, she confronted their grandmother in a legendary shouting match that became the court’s favorite gossip. That was when Aegon made his decision.

He would steal her away.

Slipping past the King’s Guard, escaping the Red Keep, reaching Morghal, his untamed dragon—it had all been terrifying. Gael had hesitated, but she loved him. That was enough.

By the time their family found them—three days later—it was Daemon who caught them first. Ever the prick, he tried to arrest Aegon, only to be cowed by Gael’s fury and Morghal’s snarling presence.

Baelon was furious, but more than that, he was hurt. “Why did you not come to me?” he demanded. Aegon could only point to Daemon’s disastrous marriage as proof that even Baelon’s arguments failed against the Queen’s will.

Their punishment?

Aegon endured brutal training under three King’s Guard knights for months.

Gael was placed under house arrest and subjected to endless lectures from the Queen, Septas, and noble ladies.

In the end, Viserys pardoned them. Perhaps he saw echoes of their grandparents in their reckless love.

Now, as she sat beside him, Aegon laced his fingers through hers. “How was your day?”

“Tea with Aemma and the girls,” she said. “Alyssa and Daenerys are causing havoc with Rhaenyra again.”

Aegon smirked. “They take after their mother.”

She ignored that. “Any news from the Small Council?”

“Daemon has been named Lord Commander of the City Watch. The treasury will bleed for this.”

Gael laughed. “Daemon does what Daemon wants.”

She hesitated, then said, “We should take the children to Dragonstone—let them claim their dragons.”

Aegon considered, then nodded. “I’ll speak to Viserys. We’ll leave soon.”

Together, they rose, passing through the children’s chambers to ensure they slept soundly. And as they curled into each other’s warmth, Aegon prayed for a dreamless night.

A rare gift, in these uncertain times.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Dragonstone Journey

The dawn broke over King’s Landing, bathing the Red Keep in hues of gold and crimson. From his balcony, Aegon Targaryen watched the city come to life—merchants opening their stalls, gold cloaks patrolling the streets, and distant laborers hammering away at the shipyard across the bay.

Today would be a rare respite from duty.

“Are you ready?” Gael’s voice was soft yet teasing as she entered their chamber, already dressed in riding leathers, her silver-gold hair braided back.

Aegon turned with a smirk. “For a day away from council meetings and ledgers? More than ready.”

Their children were waiting in the courtyard, eager and impatient.

Aemond, their eldest son, stood tall despite being only ten, his violet eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Baelon, younger by a year, was more boisterous, bouncing on his heels with excitement.

Alyssa and Daenerys, their twin daughters of eight, clung to their mother’s arms, whispering to each other in a shared language only they seemed to understand.

“Father, do you think my dragon will be large?” Baelon asked, puffing his chest.

Aegon chuckled. “That depends on the egg that hatches for you. Patience, my son.”

Daemon arrived last, clad in black and gold leathers, Dark Sister strapped to his hip. He exuded the same effortless confidence he always did. “A fine day for a ride,” he said, grinning.

Aegon arched a brow. “Surprised you’re up so early, brother.”

Daemon snorted. “You think I’d let you all have fun without me?”

The flight to Dragonstone was exhilarating. Morghal, Aegon’s black-scaled beast, roared as he took to the skies, while Daemon’s Caraxes shrieked beside them, his serpentine body weaving through the clouds. Gael followed on Vaelarys, her sapphire-colored dragon.

The children rode with them, eager but nervous. The trip was their first true introduction to dragons.

By midday, they arrived at Dragonstone, its volcanic peaks shrouded in mist. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen was as imposing as ever, its black stone towers looming against the sky.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar welcomed them, bowing deeply. “Prince Aegon, Prince Daemon, Princess Gael. Dragonstone is honored by your presence.”

Dragonstone, -110 AC

The sea winds howled around Dragonmont, carrying the scent of salt and sulfur as the Targaryen family stood upon the hardened volcanic rock of Dragonstone’s cliffs. The sky above them was streaked with fire and smoke as the great beasts of Valyria circled, their roars echoing across the island.

This was no ordinary visit.

Aegon and Gael Targaryen had brought their children—Aemon, Baelon, Alyssa, and Daenerys—to bond with dragons. Not just hatchlings, but living legends, some untamed, others tied to past rulers of their House.

It was a dangerous tradition, but necessary. A Targaryen without a dragon was vulnerable. And in the turbulent years to come, they would need every advantage.

---

The Choosing

Prince Aemon, the eldest of Aegon’s children, had no fear in his heart. The boy had trained with sword and lance since he could walk, and now he stood before the golden dragon, Sunfyre, with unwavering confidence.

The beast, once bonded to King Viserys, was magnificent—a shimmering golden leviathan with wings like liquid sunlight. Though Sunfyre had accepted no rider since his former master, the dragon lowered his head as Aemon approached.

“Touch him,” Aegon urged.

Aemon stepped forward, heart pounding, and pressed his hand against the warm golden scales. A shudder passed through the dragon’s body. Then, Sunfyre let out a soft rumble and bent his great neck, allowing the boy to climb onto his back.

The bond was forged in fire.

As Sunfyre took flight, Aemon let out a triumphant cry, the wind tearing through his silver hair. His dragon had accepted him.

---

Prince Baelon, younger and wilder than his brother, was drawn not to a regal dragon but to a shadow of the wilds—Grey Ghost.

This dragon, elusive and rarely seen, had lived on Dragonstone for decades, avoiding human contact. Many had tried and failed to tame him.

Baelon did not try to command the beast. Instead, he did what others had not—he waited.

Hours passed as the boy sat on a rocky outcrop, watching the pale grey dragon move along the cliffs. He spoke softly, made no sudden moves, and offered no threats.

And then, at dusk, Grey Ghost came to him.

A deep rumbling, like thunder before a storm, filled the air. Baelon stood slowly, reaching out a hand. The dragon hesitated—then lowered his head.

When Baelon climbed onto his back, Grey Ghost did not protest.

Instead, he soared.

The quiet dragon, who had never accepted a rider, had chosen the young prince.

---

Princess Alyssa, bold and unafraid, sought out Dreamfyre—the ancient she-dragon, once ridden by Rhaena Targaryen.

The dragon’s scales were pale blue, her wings silver, and her eyes held memories of a lost age. Many whispered that Dreamfyre had laid the eggs stolen by Braavos long ago.

Alyssa was not deterred. She approached with purpose, speaking in High Valyrian, as she had been taught.

The dragon watched her for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Dreamfyre bent her neck.

Alyssa grinned, climbing into the saddle as though she had always belonged there.

As Dreamfyre took to the skies, Aegon felt a deep pride in his daughter. She was her mother’s child—fearless and determined.

---

Princess Daenerys, the youngest, was drawn to the most unpredictable of the dragons—Sheepstealer.

The wild beast, known for hunting livestock across the Crownlands, was not kept in the Dragonpit or the stables of Dragonstone. He was a creature of the wild, untamed and dangerous.

Yet, Daenerys did not fear him.

Unlike the others, she did not approach with words or outstretched hands. Instead, she did something unexpected.

She brought food.

Sheepstealer was a beast of hunger, and the girl had come prepared. A fresh slaughtered lamb, offered without hesitation.

The dragon stared at her, wary at first—then stepped forward and devoured the offering.

For days, she returned, bringing more. The great beast watched her closely, eyes filled with suspicion. Then, one morning, when she arrived without food, he did not drive her away.

Instead, he allowed her to climb upon his back.

The moment she did, Sheepstealer roared—and launched into the sky.

Daemon watched with a smirk. "That girl will be trouble."

Aegon only smiled.

---

The Flight of Dragons

As night fell over Dragonstone, the sky was alive with fire.

Sunfyre, golden and radiant, flew with Aemon upon his back.

Grey Ghost, silent as the wind, carried Baelon across the waves.

Dreamfyre, elegant and regal, soared with Alyssa into the clouds.

Sheepstealer, a beast of fire and fury, roared as Daenerys guided him into the stormy night.

Aegon stood with Gael, watching their children become true Targaryens.

"They will shape the future," Gael whispered.

Aegon nodded. "And with their dragons, they will rule it."

For fire and blood were eternal.

Aegon placed a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. “Care for it well, my son. A dragon is more than a beast—it is your greatest ally, your deadliest weapon, and, above all, a part of your soul.”

Aemond nodded solemnly.

The day passed in a blur of feasts, exploration, and flights over the island. But as the sun dipped, casting Dragonstone in deep shadows, Aegon and Daemon sat by the cliffs, sharing a rare moment of peace.

Daemon swirled his goblet of wine. “Viserys has named me Lord Commander of the City Watch. I plan to shake things up.”

Aegon chuckled. “No doubt. King's Landing is not ready for your brand of justice.”

Daemon’s smirk was sharp. “They’ll learn.”

Gael joined them, her face thoughtful. “Do you ever wonder how different things would have been, had we been born first?”

Aegon exchanged a glance with Daemon. It was a dangerous question.

Daemon scoffed. “Viserys is too soft for a king. He doesn’t see the enemies gathering in the shadows.”

Aegon exhaled. “Perhaps. But our place is not to rule—we carve our own paths.”

Gael took his hand. “Then let’s carve it well.”

As night fell over Dragonstone, the Targaryens sat in silence, their dragons curled around the castle’s heights. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear—they were not mere pieces in Viserys’ game.

They would shape their own legacy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Whispers of Fire and Blood

The journey back to King’s Landing was smooth, but as soon as they arrived at the Red Keep, Aegon Targaryen knew peace was a fleeting dream.

The castle was abuzz with tension. Servants scurried faster than usual, and the guards stood at attention as if expecting trouble. The air was thick with unspoken words.

As Aegon and Gael dismounted, Ser Harwin Strong, captain of the Gold Cloaks, approached swiftly.

“My prince,” Harwin greeted with a bow. “The Hand has summoned you to the council chamber. Urgently.”

Aegon sighed. He had barely set foot in the keep. “What now?”

Harwin hesitated. “A delegation from Braavos has arrived. They demand an audience.”

Aegon exchanged a glance with Gael, who frowned. “Braavos? The Sealord rarely concerns himself with Westerosi affairs.”

Daemon smirked, stepping beside them. “Unless it involves gold… or dragons.”

Aegon exhaled. So much for a quiet evening.

---

The Small Council Chamber

The council chamber was tense when Aegon entered. King Viserys sat at the head of the table, his expression weary. Otto Hightower, the Hand, stood beside him, ever the picture of calm calculation.

Across the table sat three Braavosi envoys in fine silk robes, their expressions veiled beneath practiced politeness.

“Prince Aegon,” Viserys greeted, relief flickering in his eyes. “We were just discussing the… concerns of our Braavosi guests.”

Aegon took his seat, studying the envoys. “What concerns?”

The eldest of them, a silver-haired man with sharp blue eyes, folded his hands. “We have heard whispers of a royal fleet being constructed in Blackwater Bay.”

Aegon hid his smirk. So, they finally noticed.

“Your information is accurate,” he admitted. “House Targaryen is securing its waters.”

The Braavosi smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “A noble endeavor. Yet, it threatens certain… agreements.”

Daemon snorted. “You mean it threatens Braavos’ control over trade.”

The second envoy, a younger man, leaned forward. “Braavos is the lifeblood of commerce in the Narrow Sea. The rise of another fleet disrupts that balance.”

Aegon rested his chin on his hand. “Then adapt. The world changes. We will not remain dependent on others to secure our shores.”

Otto Hightower cleared his throat. “Perhaps there is room for compromise.”

Aegon’s patience thinned. He knew Otto favored diplomacy, but he would not bow to foreign pressure.

Daemon, however, had no such restraint. “Tell your masters that Westeros bows to no city across the sea. Least of all one built by escaped Valyrian slaves.”

The room grew cold. The eldest Braavosi’s lips twitched, but he did not take the bait.

“Then we will watch with interest,” he said, rising. “And see if your dragons are enough to hold what you build.”

As the envoys left, Otto sighed. “That was unnecessary.”

Daemon grinned. “It was entirely necessary.”

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aegon, ensure that this fleet of yours does not provoke open conflict.”

Aegon nodded, though he knew Braavos would never sit idly by.

---

A Shadow in the Keep

That night, Aegon stood on the balcony of his chambers, gazing at the city below. The shipyard fires burned bright on the other side of the bay, ships slowly taking form.

Gael joined him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re troubled.”

Aegon exhaled. “The Braavosi won’t let this go.”

She tilted her head. “Then we must be ready.”

Before Aegon could answer, a knock sounded at the door.

Ser Harwin entered, his usual easy demeanor replaced with something graver. “Aegon, there’s… been an incident.”

Aegon tensed. “What happened?”

Harwin hesitated, then spoke in a low voice.

“One of your shipwrights was found dead. His throat was slit—Braavosi coin in his pocket.”

Aegon felt the cold grip of realization.

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Tides of Blood and Fire

The air in King’s Landing was thick with the scent of the sea, woodsmoke, and unease. News of the shipwright’s murder had spread through the keep, and though no one dared whisper it aloud, the meaning was clear.

Braavos had sent a message.

Aegon stood over the slain man’s body in the castle’s lower halls, Ser Harwin Strong and Daemon Targaryen beside him. The corpse had been cleaned and laid out on a table, but the deep slit across his throat remained a grisly reminder of the night’s events.

Harwin frowned. “No sign of a struggle. He trusted whoever killed him.”

Aegon exhaled. This was a warning.

Daemon’s gaze darkened. “Braavosi steel cuts deep. But I’ll wager it wasn’t just them.”

Aegon met his brother’s eyes. “The Triarchy?”

Daemon gave a sharp nod. “The Free Cities don’t trust each other, but they hate the idea of a Valyrian fleet even more. They won’t let us build unchecked.”

Aegon clenched his jaw. The Triarchy—Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh— had been a thorn in Westeros’ side for years, especially under the rule of Craghas ‘Crabfeeder’ Drahar. They lurked in the Stepstones, festering like an open wound.

And now, it seemed, they had turned their gaze to King’s Landing itself.

---

Council of War

Aegon stormed into the Small Council chamber, Daemon at his side. Viserys, already seated at the head of the table, looked up in surprise.

“What is the meaning of this?” Otto Hightower demanded.

Aegon threw the bloodstained Braavosi coin onto the table. “A shipwright of ours was murdered. Slain in the night like a common rat.”

The council exchanged uneasy glances. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, leaned forward, his face unreadable. “Braavos, then?”

“Not just them.” Daemon’s voice was a growl. “I’d wager the Triarchy is involved. They don’t want Westeros to have another fleet.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “We cannot afford war.”

Aegon slammed his fist on the table. “We cannot afford to be weak.”

Lord Lyonel Strong, the only man on the council Aegon respected aside from Corlys, spoke calmly. “Then what do you propose?”

Daemon smirked. “We take the fight to them.”

Otto scoffed. “You would have us wage war across the Narrow Sea?”

Daemon leaned forward. “Not war. A warning.”

Aegon nodded. “Braavos and the Free Cities thrive on power. If they believe we are weak, they will press harder. But if we strike first—hit their pirate strongholds, sink their ships in the Stepstones—they will think twice before interfering with our affairs.”

Viserys frowned. “That sounds very much like war, Aegon.”

Corlys finally spoke. “The Triarchy is still recovering from there campaign in the balkisk isles . If we act swiftly, we can cripple them before they rise again.”

Otto hesitated. “And what of Braavos?”

Daemon smirked. “If Braavos wants to fight, let them come. They’re not the only ones with coin.”

Aegon turned to Viserys. “Give me command of the fleet, brother. Let me send our own message.”

Viserys studied him for a long moment, then exhaled. “You may take a small force. No reckless campaigns, Aegon. You will not drag Westeros into another war.”

Aegon’s lips curled into a small smirk.

“Of course, brother.”

---

The Black Fleet Sets Sail

Within a fortnight, King’s Landing’s new fleet was ready.

Fifty warships, crafted from the shipyards Aegon had fought so hard to build, now lined the harbor.

Velaryon sailors and Westerosi captains stood ready, eager for battle.

Ironborn reavers, eager for plunder, had pledged their oars.

And above it all, dragons loomed, their wings casting dark shadows over the bay.

Aegon stood on the deck of his flagship, The Black Morghul, his black-scaled dragon Morghal perched on the mast. Daemon, ever restless, was already on Caraxes, grinning like a man who lived for war.

Gael stood on the docks, their children beside her. She grasped Aegon’s hand tightly. “Come back to me.”

Aegon kissed her forehead. “I always do.”

With a final glance at King’s Landing, Aegon turned to his men.

“Raise the sails.”

The Black Fleet surged forward, its sails billowing in the wind, bound for the Stepstones.

Fire and blood would follow.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Iron Beak of War

The Black Fleet cut through the Narrow Sea like a blade. Fifty warships, crafted in the new King’s Landing shipyards, sailed in formation, their hulls reinforced and their crews disciplined. But Aegon Targaryen knew that skill alone would not win them victory.

The Triarchy—Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—had dominated the Stepstones for years, their fleets skilled in naval ambushes and swift, harassing strikes. If Aegon fought them at sea like any other fleet, he would be at a disadvantage.

But he had studied history.

The Valyrians never fought on the sea—they ruled from the sky. The Triarchy, on the other hand, fought like the navies of old Valyria’s enemies: numerous, agile, and unpredictable.

Which is why Aegon would fight them like the Old Freehold during the first gisghari war.

---

The Enemy at Bloodstone

By the time the fleet neared the Stepstones, Aegon’s scouts reported that the Triarchy had gathered near Bloodstone, the largest island in the chain. Their fleet outnumbered his three to one, and their ships—sleek, fast, and well-manned—were spread in a wide formation, prepared for a running battle.

That would not happen.

On the deck of The Black Morghul, Aegon gathered his captains, pointing to the newly fitted siege engines on the Westerosi ships.

“These,” he said, “are called corvus.”

The captains, Ironborn and Westerosi alike, murmured among themselves. None had seen such devices before.

“A plank with an iron beak at the end,” Aegon explained, tapping the heavy wooden structure beside him. “When we close in, the corvus drops and latches onto the enemy deck, turning their ship into an extension of our own.”

Daemon grinned. “So we turn a sea battle into a land battle.”

“Exactly.”

House Velaryon had dominated open-sea battles, but the Targaryens were not Velaryons. They were dragonlords, conquerors of men. If they could not match the Triarchy’s fleet at sea, they would force them to fight on their terms.

---

The Battle of the Stepstones

As the Triarchy’s fleet closed in, the Black Fleet held position, seemingly waiting for the enemy to attack. The pirates and mercenary captains laughed, thinking the Westerosi were timid.

Then, at Aegon’s signal, the dragonlords struck first.

Daemon dove first on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, shrieking as his fire bathed the lead enemy warship, setting its sails ablaze. The enemy fleet scattered in confusion, their tight formation breaking.

Then, as the Triarchy’s ships surged forward in chaos, Aegon gave the order.

“Raise the corvus!”

As the Triarchy’s galleys tried to swarm them, the Black Fleet’s warships slammed into them—but instead of boarding with ropes, massive wooden planks dropped from the Westerosi ships. The iron spikes at their tips crashed down onto the enemy decks, locking the ships together.

Now, instead of a sea battle, the enemy ships were trapped—forced into brutal, close-quarters combat.

Velaryon sailors, Ironborn reavers, and Westerosi knights stormed across the corvus, cutting down the enemy crews before they could react. The Triarchy’s ships, built for speed and maneuvering, were not meant for this kind of combat.

Ship after ship fell.

And above them all, dragons rained fire.

---

The End of the Triarchy’s Hold

By nightfall, the Triarchy’s fleet lay in ruins.

Half their ships burned or sunk. Another quarter captured by Aegon’s forces. The survivors fled east, their power in the Stepstones shattered.

On the deck of the Black Morghul, Daemon cleaned his blade, smirking. “That was almost too easy.”

Aegon stared at the burning wreckage and the blackened corpses floating in the water. The Triarchy had underestimated them.

They would not make that mistake again.

---

The Aftermath

By the time Aegon and Daemon returned to King’s Landing, the realm was buzzing with news. The Stepstones had fallen. The Black Fleet had shattered the Triarchy.

At court, Viserys greeted them with a mix of relief and frustration.

“You disobeyed my orders,” he muttered, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. “And yet… you have won.”

Otto Hightower, on the other hand, looked less pleased. “You have made powerful enemies across the Narrow Sea, my prince. They will not forget this.”

Aegon smirked. “Then let them come.”

Across the hall, Gael Targaryen approached, their children in tow. She smiled softly, relieved he had returned.

Aegon wrapped an arm around her waist. For now, at least, peace had been bought with fire and blood.

But he knew it would not last.

Bravos still watched. The Free Cities still plotted. And the true game… was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Pact of the Titan

King’s Landing, -109 AC

The victory in the Stepstones had reshaped the balance of power in the Narrow Sea. The Triarchy lay broken, and House Targaryen had established itself as a naval power. Yet, for all their triumph, there was one enemy left unchallenged—Braavos.

Unlike the Triarchy, the Braavosi were not raiders or pirates. They were bankers, merchants, and spies. And while they had not openly opposed the Targaryens, they had long resisted their growing power.

It was no secret that Braavos had aided the Triarchy from the shadows—providing ships, coin, and information. But their ambitions extended further. Decades ago, they had stolen something precious from the Targaryens… something that should have never left Valyrian hands.

Three dragon eggs.

Aegon knew that war with Braavos was impossible. The city had no dragons, but it had wealth beyond measure. A conflict would bleed both sides dry, and neither could afford that.

So, he chose diplomacy.

---

The Envoy from Braavos

The Braavosi envoy arrived in the Red Keep under heavy escort, led through the halls where dragon banners hung high. The man who represented the Sealord of Braavos was no ordinary merchant. He was a keyholder of the Iron Bank, dressed in fine silks, with sharp eyes that had seen more secrets than most men could imagine.

Aegon met him in the Tower of the Hand, flanked by Daemon and Gael.

The envoy bowed deeply. “Prince Aegon. Prince Daemon. Lady Gael.”

Aegon did not return the bow. “Let us not waste time, Braavosi. We know you aided the Triarchy. You saw our fleet’s victory. You know we could blockade your trade and burn your holdings in the Stepstones.”

The envoy did not flinch. “And yet, you have not done so.”

Daemon smirked. “Because unlike the Lyseni and Tyroshi, you have something to offer.”

The envoy met Aegon’s gaze. “You wish for peace.”

“I wish for an understanding.” Aegon leaned forward. “Braavos values its trade routes. We will not interfere. Your ships may pass through unhindered. In return, you will stay out of Westerosi affairs.”

The Braavosi steepled his fingers. “And?”

Aegon’s violet eyes darkened. “And you will return what was stolen from my House.”

The room fell silent.

Then, slowly, the envoy nodded. “Three dragon eggs… taken long ago. You want them back.”

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. “I’d rather take them back.”

The envoy ignored him. “A bold request. But it is possible… if Braavos receives something in return.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “What does the Sealord desire?”

The envoy’s lips curled into a thin smile. “A Targaryen promise. That your House will never seek to conquer or control Braavos, as you did the Stepstones.”

Gael frowned. “Braavos was founded by those who fled Valyrian rule. You still fear the Freehold, though it is long gone.”

The envoy’s voice was firm. “We fear any power that forgets its limits.”

Aegon considered. The Targaryens had no need for Braavos—so long as the city did not work against them. And if a few words could return three priceless dragon eggs to their rightful place, then the choice was clear.

“Done,” he said. “King Viserys will swear it before the court.”

The envoy nodded. “Then it is agreed. You will have your eggs, and Braavos will have peace.”

Daemon scoffed. “For now.”

Aegon ignored him. He had won something greater than a battle.

He had secured the future.

---

The Return of the Eggs

A fortnight later, three blackwood chests arrived in King’s Landing under heavy Braavosi guard. When Aegon opened them, his breath caught.

Inside, nestled in velvet, were three dragon eggs—each a thing of immense beauty.

One was crimson, streaked with veins of black.
One was silver-blue, shimmering like the sky before a storm.
And one was deep emerald, flecked with gold.

Gael touched one gently, eyes filled with wonder. “They are… alive.”

Daemon grinned. “Which means we now have a choice.”

With these eggs, the next generation of Targaryens could be bonded to dragons. And that meant House Targaryen’s rule would only grow stronger.

As Aegon closed the chests, he thought of the future.

Braavos was pacified. The Stepstones secured. His navy unmatched.

And now, with dragons yet to hatch… the world would remember the name Targaryen.

For fire and blood were eternal.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Flames of Grief

The Red Keep, 109 AC

The bells of King's Landing tolled in mourning. The great black dragon banners that hung from the Red Keep were draped in black, and the city was silent, save for the distant crashing of the waves against Aegon's High Hill.

Gael Targaryen, the last daughter of Good Queen Alysanne, was dead.

Summer Fever had struck the city, as it often did in the warmer months, but no one had expected it to claim a dragon. Aegon had fought wars in council chambers, battled enemies unseen, and held the city together with blood and gold—but against this, he had been powerless.

She had fallen ill suddenly. Fever had burned through her veins like wildfire, and no maester’s poultice, no milk of the poppy, no whispered prayers to the gods had been enough to save her.

Now, Gael was gone, and Aegon felt as though a part of his soul had been ripped away.

---

The Funeral of a Dragon

The funeral pyre was built on the cliffs of Dragonstone, as was tradition.

Aegon stood in black armor, his silver hair unbound, his face carved from stone as the flames consumed the love of his life.

His children stood beside him. Aemon, Baelon, Alyssa, and Daenerys—all clad in mourning black, their young faces etched with grief.

Daemon Targaryen stood silently beside his brother, for once saying nothing. Even he, reckless and wild as he was, understood the weight of this loss.

As the fire burned, Aegon whispered in High Valyrian, his voice raw.

"Gael, you were my fire in the dark, my light in the storm. May the gods keep you, until we meet again."

The dragons roared in mourning—Sunfyre, Grey Ghost, Dreamfyre, Sheepstealer, and even Daemon’s Caraxes. Their cries echoed across the blackened sky, a symphony of sorrow.

And then, she was gone.

---

Aegon’s Departure

The next morning, Aegon summoned the small council.

He could not remain in the Red Keep. The walls of his solar, the empty chair beside him at council, even the sight of the gardens where she once walked—it was too much.

He needed time. He needed distance.

And so, he would take his children to the Summer Isles, far from the shadows of grief.

Before he left, he ensured the realm would not crumble in his absence.

Daemon Targaryen was confirmed as Lord Commander of the City Watch, with full authority to oversee King's Landing. "Keep the streets clean," Aegon told him, his tone heavy with meaning. "Do not make me return to find the city in flames."

Daemon only smirked. "I make no promises, brother."

Lord Lyman Beesbury would manage the treasury, ensuring the coin kept flowing.

Ser Harrold celtigar, sworn to House Targaryen, would oversee the new Royal Fleet, ensuring it was ready for war if needed.

The negotiations with Braavos—which Aegon had personally orchestrated—would be finalized in his absence. In exchange for free passage and trade rights, the Sealord of Braavos would return three dragon eggs once stolen from House Targaryen.

The shipyard at Blackwater Bay would continue construction under Lord Torrhen Manderly, ensuring that House Targaryen's naval strength would soon rival the Velaryons’.

Everything was set in place.

Before he departed, King Viserys—his elder brother—summoned him privately.

"You are leaving at a time of unrest," Viserys warned. "The Free Cities grow bold. The Triarchy watches our every move."

Aegon met his gaze. "Then let them watch."

His brother sighed. "I do not wish to lose you as well, Aegon."

Aegon placed a hand over his heart, a rare moment of vulnerability passing between them.

"I will return," he promised. "For my children. For the realm."

---

The Journey Begins

And so, under the light of a blood-red sun, Aegon Targaryen and his children took flight.

Sunfyre bore Aemon, his golden wings gleaming in the dying light.

Grey Ghost, ever elusive, carried Baelon in silence.

Dreamfyre, elegant and regal, soared with Alyssa.

Sheepstealer, fierce and untamed, roared as Daenerys guided him.

And upon Morghal, Aegon rode—his black-and-silver dragon, his last tie to the life he had once known.

Beneath them, the Royal Fleet set sail, its black sails adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

The Summer Isles awaited.

And with them, Aegon’s grief and reckoning.

For he was not only a man mourning his wife.

He was a Targaryen. A dragon. And one day, fire and blood would call him home.