As the morning mist clung to the jagged rocks of Bloodstone, Ser Vaemond Velaryon made his way toward the Prince's pavilion. The wine from the previous night still hammered behind his eyes, but the memory of Aegon's silver-tongued promises remained sharp.
He was stopped at the entrance by two guards in steel half-helms, their spears crossed.
"You cannot enter, Ser," one said flatly. "His Highness is at rest."
Vaemond blinked, his brow furrowing. "At rest? The sun is halfway to its zenith. Surely the Prince is not one for the soft life of a silk-bed."
"His Highness disciplined Tyrosh last night," the guard whispered, his voice hushed with a mix of awe and dread. "He did not return until the false dawn. Do not disturb his slumber."
Vaemond's eyes widened. Tyrosh? He had heard the distant thunder in the night, but to strike a Great City and return before breakfast... He nodded curtly. "Give the Prince my regards when he rises."
Unable to see Aegon, Vaemond sought out Ser Alec Cargyll. The knight was busy overseeing the foundation of new stone warehouses. Shipments were expected from Oldtown and Casterly Rock—tithes of grain, salt beef, and steel from the Hightowers and Lannisters. Without proper storage, the sea air would rot the aid before it could feed a single soldier.
"Ser Vaemond," Alec greeted, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Ser Alec. I am preparing the fleet for departure. I've left a few crates of 'battle-damaged' steel and dented plate on the docks. See that your men... dispose of them."
Alec's gaze sharpened. He understood the unspoken code of the barracks. "Is that wise? If Lord Corlys were to count the manifests and find his armory light..."
"Let the Sea Snake count his fish," Vaemond waved a dismissive hand. "War is a hungry beast. It swallows steel as easily as blood. I'll answer for the losses if it comes to it."
"Very well. I shall have my men 'clean up' the refuse."
"I am relieved to hear it. Fare you well, Ser."
Alec insisted on walking him to the pier. Under the watchful eyes of the Prince's men, the seventeen remaining Velaryon warships weighed anchor. Their silver hulls caught the morning sun as they cut through the surf, disappearing into the horizon.
Now, the Stepstones stood as a bared blade, waiting for the final clash between the Seven Kingdoms, the Triarchy, and the Vultures of Dorne.
The sun was a dying ember in the west, painting the sky in the bruised purples and oranges of a sunset feast, when a voice pierced the silence of the Prince's tent.
"Brother! Brother? Wake up!"
Aegon's eyes snapped open. He was met with the round, handsome face of Daeron, peering down at him with far too much energy.
"Little Daeron," Aegon groaned, shoving his brother's face away. "What are you doing in my shadow?"
"You've slept the whole day away," Daeron chirped, bouncing onto the edge of the bed. "I thought the Stranger had come for you. I'm quite glad you're not dead!"
Aegon stared at him, speechless. Then, his hand moved toward his discarded boot. If he didn't teach this whelp some respect for a sleeping dragon, the boy would be challenging the gods by supper.
In the world that was, the history books said Daeron grew up in the shadow of his elder brothers. But here, Aegon had raised them with a firm hand and a warm hearth. To Aemond and Daeron, Aegon was more than a brother; he was the sun they orbited, a figure of strength that King Viserys could never be.
Before Aegon could launch the boot, Helaena slipped into the tent.
"Peace, Aegon," she said softly, her voice like the chime of a silver bell. "He was truly worried. He means no harm."
Since their betrothal had been sealed, Helaena had dropped the formalities, addressing him by name. Aegon found he enjoyed the sound of it. There was a gentleness to her that anchored him. He looked at her, thinking that when she came of age, he would have to teach her the more... 'unhealthy' ways of the world. He wondered if she would still look at him with those star-filled eyes then.
"Out, Daeron," Helaena commanded gently.
"Oh." Daeron pouted. He had wanted to ask if Vhagar really looked like a mountain of bronze in the moonlight. He scurried out.
Helaena sat beside Aegon on the furs. "Aegon... my flowering has come."
Aegon's expression softened, though he felt a pang of protectiveness. "Then you must rest. Drink hot water, stay clear of the drafts. And no dragon-riding for a few days, do you understand?"
"Can I stay with you tonight?" she asked, her eyes searching his. "Mother told me I must give you a son quickly. She says only then will your seat be truly secure."
Aegon reached out, cupping her warm face in his palms. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw. "The birthing bed is a woman's battlefield, Helaena. I will not have you march to war before your body is ready."
He leaned his forehead against hers. "I cannot lose you. You are my blood and my fire. You are my sun, my moon, and the lighthouse that guides me home. I want to see your eyes every morning. I will not risk them for a crown."
Helaena's gaze unfocused, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was lost in the heat of his words—until two heads poked through the tent flap.
"And what am I, brother?" Aemond asked with a smug grin. "Surely I'm your right hand?"
"Then I'm the left!" Daeron chimed in, scrambling to get a look. "That's how it works, isn't it?"
Helaena's face turned a shade of red that rivaled a Lannister banner. She realized they had heard everything—the blood, the fire, the lighthouse. She wanted to vanish into the earth.
Aegon, never one to be shamed by his own passion, laughed heartily. "You two are also my blood and fire! My left and right arms!"
Daeron puffed out his chest, marching into the center of the tent. "That's right! Don't you worry, brother. When I'm grown, I'll ride Tessarion and burn that stinking woman Rhaenyra right out of her castle for you!"
The boy looked utterly convinced. Among the younger dragons, the Blue Queen, Tessarion, was indeed the swiftest and most lethal.
Daeron was so busy boasting that he didn't notice Aemond had wisely vanished. Nor did he notice that Aegon had finally secured his boot.
"I am glad to hear of your spirit, brother," Aegon purred. "But before you burn any princesses, I think I must correct your habit of eavesdropping."
"Eh?" Daeron blinked. "What do you mean?"
Aegon's sneer was predatory.
Daeron looked at his sister, who was hiding her face in her hands, and saw the boot in Aegon's grip. A tuft of his silver hair stood up in alarm. "Now, look here... you're in a hurry again!"
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