The hall at the highest point of the Stone Drum Tower featured huge arched windows on three sides, overlooking the craggy coast of Dragonstone and the ink-black sea beyond.
The sea breeze poured in through the windows, carrying a heavy scent of char, soot, and death, fluttering Aegon's untied silver hair.
Outside the window, that stretch of sea remained a shocking sight.
The wreckage of warships, broken rigging, and corpses that no longer needed salvaging formed a vast, silent, and ugly picture of destruction against the leaden sky and dark waters.
Several longships flying the Targaryen banners were still cruising slowly among the wreckage like patient scavengers.
Clearing this stretch of sea would take time, but more important was the sight itself:
The final resting place of Stannis's massive Fleet would quickly spread to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms via merchant ships and ravens.
This was more powerful than any proclamation.
A knock at the door sounded, interrupting his contemplation.
"Come in." Aegon did not look back.
The door was pushed open, and a figure that was young yet already showing signs of age walked in.
He wore a simple gray wool robe, and the heavy chain around his neck proclaimed his status as a Maester.
He looked no more than thirty, but his face was solemn, his brow habitually furrowed, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and his slightly hunched posture made him look like a seventy-year-old man who had experienced too much worry.
He was Pycelle, the Maester of Dragonstone.
As the castle changed hands, the object of the Maester's loyalty had shifted from Baratheon to Targaryen.
The Maesters of the The Citadel are loyal to the castle rather than the lord.
In his hands, he held a rolled piece of parchment sealed with hard black wax; the seal bore a simple pattern, the sigil of the Nights Watch.
"Your Highness."
Maester Pycelle's voice was like his appearance—dry, precise, and devoid of unnecessary emotion.
He bowed slightly and presented the parchment with both hands.
"A raven from The Wall. It was for... the former King, Stannis Baratheon. But since the castle is now under your control, the letter was delivered here."
Aegon turned around and took the letter.
The black wax seal was cold and hard. He broke it open and unfurled the somewhat coarse paper.
The content of the letter was brief, stating that the Nights Watch had discovered large-scale Wildling gatherings and movements beyond The Wall, suspecting that the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, was gathering strength with the intention of a major southward invasion.
The Wall was thin on troops and short on supplies, and they implored King Stannis to lend a hand for the sake of defending the northern borders of the kingdom, whether with Soldiers, supplies, or any form of support.
He scanned it quickly, his gaze lingering briefly on words like King-Beyond-the-Wall, Wildling army, and The Wall in distress.
"The Wall..." Aegon murmured to himself, casually placing the letter on the nearby stone windowsill, letting the sea breeze curl it slightly.
"They chose the wrong person to ask for help." Stannis was now a cooling corpse on the shores of Dragonstone, and his Fleet had become floating wreckage on the sea.
Maester Pycelle stood to the side with his hands down, silent.
He knew his duty was to convey information, not to offer advice, especially when facing this new lord who had reclaimed Dragonstone with iron-blooded methods and whose every gesture carried an indescribable aura of power.
Aegon's gaze returned to the broken sea outside the window, but his thoughts seemed to drift to the icy lands further north.
The Nights Watch appealing for help... this was within his plan, yet slightly earlier than expected.
The threat beyond The Wall was real, and far more severe than what the Nights Watch described in the letter.
But at this moment, his focus was on the south, on King's Landing, on the iron throne, and on those lords who still harbored ill intentions.
The Wall must hold for a while longer.
Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door again, this time somewhat hurried. An Oathkeeper soldier in a dark red cloak performed a chest-touching salute at the door.
"Your Highness, the prisoners and some surrendering Baratheon Soldiers sent from Storms End have arrived at the Port. This includes their leader, Davos Seaworth. Please instruct us on how to dispose of them."
Davos Seaworth.
A flash of realization crossed Aegon's eyes.
The battle reports from Storms End had already arrived via raven.
Jon Clinton, who had landed at Shipbreaker Bay, led the Golden Company to easily defeat Stannis's secondary force led by Davos, which had originally planned to reinforce Storms End, and took the opportunity to seize the weakly defended castle.
Davos himself was captured after fighting hard.
This was an unexpected harvest, a man worth meeting.
"Send him to the dungeon; I will be there shortly," Aegon ordered.
The Soldier took his leave.
Aegon took another look at the sea outside the window, then turned and said to Maester Pycelle, who was still standing quietly aside: "Reply to the Nights Watch in my name."
"Tell them that Dragonstone is aware of The Wall's plight. House Targaryen has not forgotten its oath to protect the kingdom. Help will come, but it will take time to prepare. Tell them they must hold firm."
Maester Pycelle bowed: "Yes, Your Highness. I will go draft the letter immediately." He paused and added cautiously, "The wording in the letter and the scale of the promised aid..."
"Keep it vague. State our position and buy time," Aegon said flatly. "Tell them, winter is coming, but dawn will eventually arrive."
"Targaryen remembers the former promise." This last sentence carried a certain deep meaning.
Although Maester Pycelle was somewhat confused about what "the former promise" specifically referred to, he wisely did not ask more, bowed again, and quietly exited the room.
Aegon then stepped outside. His dark red cloak trailed over the cold stone steps, and his footsteps echoed in the empty tower.
He was going to see the "Onion Knight."
The dungeons of Dragonstone were not as deep or terrifying as the black cells of the Red Keep, but they were equally damp and cold. The Walls were made of black volcanic stone, seeping with water droplets, and the air was thick with the smell of mold and sea salt.
Torches were thrust into iron rings on The Walls, providing flickering, dim yellow light.
Davos Seaworth was confined in a separate cell.
He looked more weathered than the rumors suggested, with new scars and exhaustion deeply etched into his wrinkles.
He had lost four finger joints on his left hand, excluding the thumb—the price of his early smuggling career and the source of his nickname, the "Onion Knight."
At this moment, his mail and leather armor had been stripped away, and he wore only dirty coarse cloth garments, sitting on the cold stone bed with his back against the black stone wall.
When Aegon appeared outside the cell door escorted by two Oathkeeper soldiers, he looked up. In those eyes, there was no fear, only a deep, resigned exhaustion and a trace of anxiety that he tried hard to hide but which remained present.
The cell door was opened, and Aegon walked in, waving for the Soldiers to wait outside.
He stood in the middle of the cell, looking at Davos.
The latter did not rise, but simply watched him quietly.
"Davos Seaworth," Aegon spoke first, his voice sounding clear and calm in the narrow cell, "the garrison at Storms End surrendered quite readily."
"They said it was you who, after fighting hard and realizing the defeat was inevitable, ordered the cessation of pointless resistance to avoid more casualties."
Davos's mouth twitched slightly as if he wanted to give a mocking smile, but he ultimately failed.
"A loss is a loss. My men were spent, and the castle couldn't be held. There was no point in letting the boys die for a castle destined to fall."
His voice was raspy: "I only did what any clear-headed commander would do. Though, King Stannis probably wouldn't think so."
When he mentioned Stannis's name, a flash of complex and indefinable pain crossed his eyes.
"Stannis Baratheon is dead," Aegon said directly, his tone as flat as if he were stating the weather.
"On the beach of Dragonstone. Along with his wife. I performed the execution personally."
Davos's body stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment, and then his upright back seemed to hunch slightly.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath of the damp, decaying air in the dungeon, and slowly exhaled.
When he opened his eyes again, the exhaustion within them was heavier, but that look of resignation was also more complete.
He didn't ask for details, didn't cry out in anger or mourn in grief; he simply nodded in silence, as if he had long expected this answer, yet still felt a heavy, dull ache when it finally came.
"So, Your Highness has come to dispose of me," Davos's voice grew even drier. "Is it the gallows, or the axe? Or... like other pirates, will I be thrown into the sea to feed the fish?"
He had once been a Smuggler and later became a knight, but deep down, he never believed he had truly escaped that origin.
Aegon did not answer directly, but looked at him and said slowly: "Shireen is still alive."
These words were like a stone thrown into stagnant water, instantly stirring violent ripples in Davos's eyes.
He snapped his head up, looking at Aegon in disbelief. The muscles in his face twitched several times, and his dry lips parted, but he couldn't make a sound immediately.
Shireen... that kind, shy little girl with the terrible Greyscale on her face but clear eyes... Stannis's only child...
"You... what did you say?" Davos's voice trembled slightly. He tried hard to find any trace of lying or mockery on Aegon's face, but saw only a deep calm.
"I pardoned her," Aegon continued. "She suffers from Greyscale and is young; the crimes of her parents should not fall upon the child. She has been stripped of the Baratheon name and will be raised under the supervision of Dragonstone."
Davos was stunned. Various emotions flashed across his face: shock, suspicion, a faint glimmer of hope, followed by deeper confusion and alertness.
"Why?" he asked hoarsely. "Why keep her? What benefit is there for you?"
"Why?" Aegon repeated, his gaze profound. "Perhaps because a living former Baratheon, pardoned and guarded by Targaryen, might be of some use in stabilizing the hearts of the people in the Stormlands in the future."
"Or perhaps, simply because I believe children should not pay for their parents' ambitions and crimes with their lives."
"You can choose to believe either reason, or neither. The important thing is, she is alive and will continue to live."
Davos stared intently at Aegon, as if trying to pierce through the true thoughts hidden beneath that young face.
After a long time, his tense shoulders slowly relaxed, not because he believed, but because he realized the other party had no need to deceive a dying prisoner about such matters.
Shireen was alive... this fact was like a faint light shining into the bottom of his heart, which was filled with failure, disillusioned loyalty, and the impending darkness of death.
He could have died for his loyalty to Stannis, but now, a more primal and softer bond made it impossible for him to face the end with equanimity.
He remembered the trusting eyes Shireen had when she looked at him and called him the "Onion Knight."
"What do you want?" Davos's voice lowered, carrying resignation and the difficulty of compromising for that faint light. "What can I... give in exchange for her safety?"
"It is not a trade, Ser Davos," Aegon shook his head. "Her safety depends on my whim, not you. But I can give you, and the remnant Soldiers you brought, another choice."
Davos raised his eyes, waiting for what was next.
"The Nights Watch has sent a plea for help," Aegon said, his gaze seemingly piercing through the thick stone walls of the dungeon toward the far north. "Wildlings are gathering; the true threat lies beyond The Wall."
"The Nights Watch is short on men and desperately needs reinforcements. You and your Soldiers can go north. Take the Black, become brothers of the Nights Watch, and use the rest of your lives and your swords to atone at The Wall, fighting to protect the kingdom."
Taking the black... Davos was stunned.
This meant exile, lifelong service, and being severed from everything in the Seven Kingdoms, ending his days in a bitter, cold land.
But it also meant living, and it meant the boys who followed and trusted him would have a way to survive.
More importantly... did this mean the possibility of Shireen living on would increase by that much because of his "cooperation"?
He wasn't sure, but he couldn't refuse the possibility.
Dying for his loyalty to Stannis had been his intended end.
But now, Stannis was dead, and Shireen was alive.
Should he die for a meaningless loyalty, or seize this slim chance to do something for those who were still living?
A long silence spread through the dungeon, broken only by the crackling of the torches and the faint sound of waves in the distance.
Finally, Davos Seaworth nodded slowly and heavily.
He did not look at Aegon; his gaze fell on his mutilated left hand, as if saying goodbye to a past version of himself.
"I... agree." His voice was raspy, yet carried a sense of relief and determination. "My men and I will go to The Wall. I will Take the Black."
"Very well." Aegon had no more words and turned to leave. "Someone will take you to wash, eat, and receive necessary supplies. Move quickly. The Wall cannot wait long."
At the cell door, he stopped. Without looking back, his voice came clearly: "Remember, Ser Davos, your life, and the lives of those men under you, belong to The Wall and the Nights Watch from now on. Use them well."
With that, he walked away, his footsteps gradually fading. The Oathkeeper soldiers relocked the cell door.
Davos sat alone on the cold stone bed for a long time without moving.
The chill of the dungeon seeped into his bones, but something heavier seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders.
He had fought for Stannis until the very last moment, doing everything a knight could do.
Now, it was time to do something for the living, and for his own remaining conscience.
Even if it meant spending the rest of his life at the end of the world, facing ice, Snow, and unknown terrors.
Aegon walked out of the cold dungeon and returned to the corridor where the sea could be seen.
The sea breeze blew in with a salty scent, slightly dispersing the moldy smell of the dungeon.
He looked north, his gaze seemingly crossing the vast forests and plains of Westeros to reach that ice-covered Wall.
Davos was a man of talent.
He had principles, brains, and prestige among the common Soldiers and sailors; he knew how to adapt without losing his loyalty.
If he could be recruited, he would be a capable assistant for governing a Port or managing logistics.
Unfortunately, from the moment he ordered Stannis's execution, that became absolutely impossible.
Some loyalties, once given, are hard to transfer, especially for someone like Davos, who tied loyalty closely to personal gratitude.
Letting him take Stannis's remnant forces to The Wall was the best disposal for now.
It would eliminate a potential source of instability while adding strength to the northern defenses, even if that strength might carry some resentment and reluctance.
And... Aegon's thoughts drifted deeper.
On The Wall, there should be a youth right now, experiencing the growing pains of maturity and facing double challenges from both inside and outside The Wall.
Jon Snow... his bastard brother in this life.
A veteran like Davos, who was experienced and knew how to survive in gray areas, might be able to give that youth—who valued honor too much and was sometimes a bit stubborn—some different kind of help or warning at a critical moment.
This could be considered a casual move in the game; it might be useless, but it was worth a try.
The true threat lay beyond The Wall.
The Night King, the White Walkers, the Army of the Dead... those were the enemies that required his full attention.
But not now.
Now, he must first secure the south, secure the iron throne, and integrate the power of the Seven Kingdoms.
Only a unified Westeros that obeyed his commands and belonged to Targaryen was worth his fighting for.
"After everything is over..." Aegon murmured to himself, the sea breeze scattering his words.
"I will go to The Wall and solve that trouble."
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