Daeron Targaryen vowed upon the Seven and the 14 Flames that he would never forget the stinging lessons of this day. He would never forget Aemond's cold-blooded betrayal in leaving him behind to face the music—nor would he ever forget the terrifying strength in Aegon's arm when he swung a leather boot.
While the younger princes settled their scores, Aegon had moved to the command pavilion. He sat at the head of a long table, flanked by Ser Alec and the captains of thirty warships—the men who would form the backbone of his naval power.
"I thank you all for your steel," Aegon said, his voice carrying the calm weight of a seasoned commander. "You know the Stepstones. You know the salt, the grit, and the danger. But do not let the tales of the Triarchy's numbers unsettle you. We have more than just ships."
He gestured toward the horizon where the dragons roosted. "We have four dragons. If you doubt our resolve, go look upon Vhagar. She is a living legend, one of the three who conquered the continent. My father, the King, has named me Lord of the Stepstones. By his word, this is my seat, and by my word, it is your duty to protect it."
Aegon stood, his purple eyes burning with ambition. "We are not just defending rocks. We are expanding the Realm. This is the highest honor a man can earn. From this day forth, the singers will carry your names from the Wall to the Arbor. Your deeds will be etched into the annals of history!"
He raised a silver goblet high, a roar of laughter in his chest. "To us! To glory!"
"To glory!" the captains thundered in unison, the fervor in the room rising like a spring tide. They could already hear the harps playing their songs.
While the officers drank to history, Helaena stood before a different audience.
At the temporary port, she had gathered the soldiers—twenty-seven hundred men, a mix of seasoned sailors and drafted levies. Recalling Aegon's instructions, Helaena took a steadying breath. She looked out over the sea of sun-baked faces.
"I am Helaena Targaryen," she said, her voice soft but clear enough to cut through the wind. "I have come to say thank you."
The men went silent.
"We know what the Stepstones take," she continued. "Blood. Limbs. Lives. You came here knowing the risk. You are brave warriors of the sea. But you are also sons. You are husbands. You are fathers. You are the pillars upon which your families lean."
She waved a hand. Twenty heavy iron-bound chests were carried forward and set upon the sand. With a click of the latches, Helaena opened them one by one.
The afternoon sun hit the contents, and the beach was suddenly filled with the blinding glint of gold. Thousands of Golden Dragons lay piled high, their luster reflecting in the wide eyes of the soldiers.
Helaena saw the change in them. The first half of her speech had moved their hearts, but the gold—the gold reached into their souls. Most lords promised glory; Aegon Targaryen was offering them security.
"Your Highness!" a soldier shouted from the front.
Helaena looked at him, a gentle smile on her lips. "I hear you. What is your name?"
"Newgartel, my lady," the man said, his voice trembling. "I have to ask... if we fight, truly fight... will this gold stay in our palms?"
Newgartel gripped the hilt of his sword. His wife had recently birthed triplets—three boys—and his drafting had felt like a death sentence for his family. He had seen what happened to widows and orphans in the back alleys of King's Landing and Oldtown.
Helaena didn't answer with words. She signaled the stewards to begin the distribution.
"This is not a reward for your future deeds," Helaena announced. "Consider it a resettlement allowance. Five gold dragons for every man here, now. Those who distinguish themselves in battle will receive ten times that. Use it as you wish. Send it home to your wives."
She paused, letting the murmurs of disbelief wash over the crowd. "Furthermore, for any man willing to bring his kin to settle here on Bloodstone or Grey Gallows, the Prince offers three acres of land, a housing fund of ten dragons, and a subsidy for every head in the household—man, woman, or child."
The men were stunned. Five gold dragons was more than many had seen in five years of labor. Newgartel stared at the coins in his hand, feeling the weight of them. The resentment and fear that had lived in his gut since he was drafted vanished, replaced by a fierce, burning devotion.
He looked up at Helaena, her silver-gold hair whipping in the sea breeze like a royal banner. He raised his fist, the gold glinting in the light.
"Prince Aegon is the True King!" he roared.
The cry was infectious. Like a lightning strike, it traveled through the ranks.
"AEGON IS THE TRUE KING!"
"AEGON IS THE TRUE KING!"
The chant became a rhythmic thunder, shaking the very air. It reached the command tent, causing the captains to pause mid-toast.
A shrewd, mustachioed captain was the first to realize the tide had turned. He slammed his goblet onto the table and stood. "The men have eyes, and they have hearts! Your Highness Aegon is the True King!"
Aegon looked around the room, his expression one of mock-dismay. "Careful, Captain. Westeros has but one King, and he sits in the Red Keep."
"Let the King have his Iron Chair!" the captain shouted. "Our loyalty belongs to the dragon who feeds us! To the True King!"
"To the True King!" the officers bellowed, their voices joining the roar from the beach.
Aegon sighed, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Oh dear... you lot have really put me in a terrible situation."
Even as he spoke, his hand "betrayed" him—he raised his own goblet, clinked it against the nearest captain's, and drained the wine in a single, defiant gulp.
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