The banquet had long since concluded, leaving the scent of roasted meat and salt air to mingle in the night. Aegon emerged from the celebration as something more than a prince. To the men of the fleet—led by the shrewd, mustachioed Captain Nicks—he was already being hailed as the "True King." It was a title that carried the weight of history, echoing the legends of the Conqueror himself.
Back in the command pavilion, Ser Alec Cargyll followed at Aegon's heel, his brow knit with worry.
"Your Highness," Alec began, his voice hesitant.
"Out with it, Ser Alec. We've shared enough salt and wine today for honesty." Aegon poured two cups of cool water, handing one to the knight before draining his own in a single draught. The chill of it helped cut through the lingering haze of the Arbor Gold.
"Your Highness... I think you've given too much," Alec said softly.
Aegon set his cup down, a flicker of amusement in his purple eyes. "Too much? You speak of the gold on the beach?"
Alec blinked his small, earnest eyes. He clearly thought the Prince was suffering from the royal malady of not knowing the value of a coin. "Yes, My Lord. Too much. A single Golden Dragon is a small fortune to a commoner. Fifteen of them can fully arm and mount a hedge knight. To give every man five, plus subsidies for their kin and funds for housing... it is a king's ransom."
"And what would you have done?" Aegon leaned back, testing the knight's metal.
"Replace the gold with Silver Stags," Alec answered readily. "A few silvers are enough to win a peasant's heart without emptying your coffers. Even if they move their families, silver would see them fed until their first harvest."
Aegon nodded slowly. Alec was a capable man, possessing the kind of practical political sense that made for a fine administrator in the Seven Kingdoms. But he lacked the vision of a dragon.
"You're right, Alec. Silver would fill their bellies today," Aegon said, popping a tart green grape into his mouth. "But tell me this: You are a brother of the Kingsguard. If the Sea Lord of Braavos offered you the same silver to leave the Red Keep and guard his palace, would you go?"
"Of course not," Alec scoffed. "Why would I abandon my honor and my home for the same pittance? I know Westeros. I know my place here. Why go to a strange land for no gain?"
Aegon pointed a finger at him. "Precisely. Our soldiers are commoners from the Crownlands. They live in the shadow of the Red Keep, in the most stable and prosperous heart of the Realm. Why would they uproot their wives, their children, and their aged fathers to come to these god-forsaken rocks?"
He stood, his voice rising with a sudden, sharp intensity. "You think I don't know the value of gold, and I think you don't know the cost of fear. Migration is not a walk in the woods; it is a trauma. To clear this barren land, they need tools. To plant, they need seeds. To build, they need timber and stone. And they need to survive the months before the first sprout breaks the soil."
Aegon paced the rug. "I want their families here. I want these men tethered to the Stepstones not by an oath, but by the safety of their kin. If I do not show them the sincerity of a lord who takes responsibility for their lives, then I am no Lord of the Stepstones, and I have no business reaching for the Iron Throne."
Alec lowered his head, a flush of shame creeping up his neck. "I... I did not see it that way, Your Highness. I spoke from a place of coin, not of people."
"No matter," Aegon waved him off. "The Stepstones are a harsh mistress. If I don't buy their loyalty now, they will always look back toward King's Landing. And I cannot have an army that looks over its shoulder."
In truth, Aegon's move was a necessity of war. If the soldiers' families remained in the Crownlands, King Viserys could always use them as invisible leashes. By bringing them to the islands, Aegon was severing the King's remote control.
"Now," Aegon said, his tone shifting back to business. "Go and find Captain Nicks. The one with the mustache and the loud voice. I have a use for a man with that much 'awareness.'"
Alec left and returned shortly with the captain in tow. Nicks looked a bit worse for wear, his eyes bleary and his voice raspy from shouting. Aegon signaled a maid to pour the man some water.
"You have a rare talent, Nicks," Aegon said, leaning against the table.
"I... thank you, Your Highness," Nicks stammered, unsure if he was about to be rewarded or reprimanded for calling a prince a king in public. "I am but a humble servant."
"Humble, perhaps. But aware. You understand that when the wind changes, you must trim the sails." Aegon smiled. "Individual strength is limited. If we are to hold these islands against the Triarchy, we must all row in the same direction."
"I am at your command, My Prince!"
"Good. I am naming you Vice-Commander of the Fleet. You will take ten warships and garrison Grey Gallows Isle, south of here. You will be my shield against any Dornish vultures or Triarchy remnants. Do you have the heart for it?"
Nicks' eyes nearly popped out of his head. He had gone from a captain of a single ship to a commander of a squadron in the span of a single sunset. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing the Prince wasn't punishing his drunken outburst—he was doubling down on it.
"I won't fail you, Your Highness! Grey Gallows will be a wall of fire!"
"See that it is," Aegon said, dismissively. "Now go. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we begin the real work."
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