The bounty of Oldtown had arrived. The Hightower fleet didn't just bring grain; it brought the steel and gold required to build a kingdom. Five thousand suits of plate and mail, two hundred thousand Golden Dragons, a thousand seasoned sailors, and enough war materiel to arm a continent. With the arrival of the landless tenants, the population of Bloodstone Isle surged overnight to thirteen thousand souls.
The next morning, the mist had barely lifted when Aegon spread a fresh map across his table. With a quill dipped in red ink, he drew a bold circle on a flat expanse of land a hundred miles east of the harbor.
Bloodstone lacked the natural, jagged heights of the Lango Highlands. To build here, Aegon had to rely on stone and strategy. He envisioned a dual-hub system: a fortified inland city for production and agriculture, and a sprawling port city for the lifeblood of trade.
He pulled a bound parchment from his vest. On the cover, in a sharp, elegant hand, were the words: "Three-Year Plan, Five-Year Expansion."
Aegon knew that power was not a lightning strike; it was a slow-burning fire. He had eight years until the winds of succession would truly howl. Eight years to amass a fortune and a private army. Given his father's wavering heart, Aegon had to be prepared for the day when "diplomacy" was replaced by "armed struggle."
"Guard!" Aegon called out. "Summon Ser Alec, Ser Kraken, and Ser Ent."
The three men arrived quickly, the air in the tent thick with the Prince's focus.
"Ser Alec," Aegon began, pointing to the red circle. "Take the tenants here. The terrain is flat, and there is a reliable spring. This will be our capital. I shall name it True Dragon City—the seat where the dragon resides."
He handed a stack of architectural sketches to the knight. Aegon wasn't delusional; he knew six hundred farmers couldn't raise a metropolis of forty-nine square kilometers in a month. "I don't expect a finished palace yet. Lay the foundations. Mark the streets. Dig the wells."
"Tell the farmers this," Aegon continued, his voice firm. "The land is theirs. Three acres per household, divided by the number of souls. It is theirs to keep forever—but they may not sell it, lease it, or gamble it away. We provide tools, seed, and bread for three months. If they have no green shoots in the dirt by the ninety-first day, they can pray to the Stranger, for I will not feed them further."
Alec looked at the sketches, his brow furrowing. "Your Highness... are you certain of the name? True Dragon City?"
Aegon's gaze was ice. "Is there a problem?"
"It's a bit... provocative," Alec whispered.
"Provocative?" Aegon sneered. "Then you'll love this: I am officially renaming Bloodstone Isle. From this day forth, it is Dragonstone."
A silence fell over the tent. Dragonstone was the ancestral seat of the heir to the Iron Throne—currently held by Rhaenyra. By renaming his island, Aegon wasn't just building a city; he was spit in the eye of the Princess.
Kraken Hightower burst into a belly laugh, clapping his hands. "A superb stroke of the pen, My Prince! Dragonstone. True Dragon City. It has a certain... poetic justice to it."
Aegon joined the laughter. He had no illusions about his literary talent, but he knew how to twist a knife. "I want the city built of white marble," he added. "And I want violets planted along every thoroughfare. Let the world see the colors of House Targaryen in the very soil."
"I shall spread the word," Kraken said, a wolfish grin on his face. "By the time the news reaches King's Landing, every merchant in the Narrow Sea will be talking about the beauty of the 'True' Dragonstone."
"Good. Announce my arrival to the world."
Alec lingered, looking troubled. "Your Highness, I worry how His Majesty will receive this. To seize the name of the heir's seat..."
"The King gave me this duchy," Aegon said, dismissively waving a hand. "But I am the one winning it with blood and fire. If I conquer a rock, I get to name the rock. Viserys can forbid it all he likes from his soft chair in the Red Keep, but here, the dragons are mine."
As Alec turned to leave, Aegon remembered the most crucial part of his plan. He tossed two more booklets onto the table.
"Wait. Take these. 'The Transformation of Civilian to Soldier' and 'Farming and Infrastructure: A Manual for Simultaneous Management.'"
Alec picked them up, confused by the strange titles.
"I spent three days compiling those," Aegon said, his face becoming deadly serious. "They contain the methods for turning farmers into a militia without losing the harvest. Follow them to the letter. If a single crop fails or a single drill is missed, I will hold you responsible."
Aegon had spent thirteen years in the Red Keep playing the part of the dissolute prince, but in the shadows, he had been researching the chemistry of salt, the refining of sea cucumber powder, and the boiling of soap. In King's Landing, such advancements were dangerous. But here? Far from his father's eyes and backed by Vhagar's shadow?
The Greens now held the greatest dragon in existence. The Blacks had lost their primary deterrent. The scales had tipped, and Aegon Targaryen was about to use that weight to crush the old world and build a new one in his own image.
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