Three days slipped by as lightly as mist over the Narrow Sea.
When Prince Aegon returned to Drakoncrest, the black cliffs rising like a crown of knives from the waves, he came not as a wandering youth but as a man with purpose set hard in his mind. Before his ship had fully settled against the pier, he had already spoken at length with Hugh, weighing names and loyalties. In the end, they agreed to choose six men directly from the senior officers of the First Fleet stationed at Drakoncrest, veterans whose obedience had been proven by years of salt and blood, to serve as High Councilors for Tyrosh.
As for the remaining twelve councilors, Hugh would see to that himself. He had the patience for politics that Aegon lacked.
The fleet eased into the harbor with the groan of rope and timber. Sailors shouted, gulls cried, and the smell of tar and brine filled the air. Aegon disembarked without ceremony and made straight for the Manor, his black cloak snapping in the sea wind. Aemond followed half a step behind, silent as ever, his eyes taking in everything.
Aegon pushed the manor doors open with both hands.
"My gentle, sweet little Helaena," he called out, his voice warm and unguarded, "I have returned."
Instead of Helaena's soft presence, the first thing to greet him was a broad, familiar face.
Vaemond Velaryon.
Aegon halted mid-step, one brow lifting as his smile faltered. "Seven save me," he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Why are you here?"
Vaemond straightened at once, his jaw tightening. Before he could answer, Aegon's gaze slid past him, taking in the other men standing in the hall. They wore sea-stained cloaks and carried themselves with the rigid confidence of captains unused to being questioned.
Aegon clasped his hands behind his back, his expression smoothing into polite curiosity. "And who might these gentlemen be?"
One of the men, thick-necked and red-faced, stepped forward before Vaemond could speak. His hand rested on the pommel of his dagger, knuckles white.
"Prince Aegon," the man said sharply, "we are captains sworn to Count Corlys Velaryon. By what right have our ships been seized and held in harbor?"
Vaemond's head snapped toward him. "Buwa," he hissed, anger flashing across his features, "hold your tongue. You stand before the king's son."
He remembered all too well the spectacle that summer, the cold amusement in Aegon's eyes when threats had been spoken aloud and not withdrawn. Three months had passed since then. None of them had expected the prince to choose this moment to act.
Aegon did not look at Buwa. Not even for a heartbeat. His eyes remained on Vaemond, and the faint smile that returned to his lips was softer than before, almost indulgent.
"I have heard," Aegon said mildly, "that you maintain a fleet of your own, Lord Vaemond. Are these men among your captains?"
Vaemond felt the question settle on him like a blade laid gently against the throat. The prince's tone was light, but his eyes were sharp and watchful. Vaemond glanced at Buwa, hesitation flickering across his face, then disappearing beneath resolve.
"No," he answered at last, his voice steady but low. "I command ten ships only. My captains are elsewhere."
For a moment, silence ruled the hall.
Then Aegon's smile deepened, approval unmistakable. "Thank you for the clarification," he said. "In that case, this is a simple matter."
He turned slightly and gestured to a maid hovering near the doorway. Catching his eye, she paled, dipped her head, and hurried away at once.
"I have been at sea too long," Aegon continued, already moving toward the banquet hall. He reached back and caught Aemond by the sleeve, tugging him along with a grin. "Lord Vaemond, you will drink with me tonight. We have much to discuss."
Vaemond had no chance to refuse. Aegon's hand closed around his arm, firm and possessive, and drew him forward. As they walked, Vaemond felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing into his back.
Behind them, a soft click sounded.
One of Aegon's personal guards, a man clad in dark leather with no sigil upon his chest, raised a compact hand crossbow. There was no flourish, no hesitation. He squeezed the trigger.
The bolt struck Buwa high in the throat.
The sound was dull, almost unimpressive. Buwa staggered, both hands flying up as blood poured between his fingers. His mouth opened, working soundlessly, eyes wide with shock. He took two unsteady steps, then collapsed onto the polished stone floor.
The captains shouted, some reaching for steel, others freezing in horror. Before any of them could act, half a dozen guards stepped forward, blades bare.
The crossbowman lowered his weapon and spoke calmly, his voice carrying through the hall. "This man attempted to threaten His Highness. Such a crime cannot be forgiven."
Servants were already rushing in, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the floor as they began to scrub the spreading blood.
"Send the body to the Dragonpit," the guard added, as if giving instructions for spoiled meat. "Let the dragons judge him."
Ahead, Aegon did not look back. He only laughed softly, the sound light and pleasant, as he ushered Vaemond onward toward wine and firelight, as though nothing at all had happened.
The banquet hall of Manor was warm with torchlight and the smell of roasted meat. Shadows danced across the carved stone walls, and the long table between them was already crowded with wine cups and half-cut loaves of bread. Outside, the sea wind howled faintly, but within these walls all was fire, music, and murmured voices.
Vaemond Velaryon sat stiffly at Aegon's right hand, his goblet clasped in both hands as if it were something to anchor himself with. As the wine flowed, his guard slowly lowered. By the time the second course was served, he had laid the entire matter bare.
Through Vaemond's halting narration, Aegon finally grasped the whole of it.
Only a few days after the prince's orders had gone out to detain certain fleets, the Velaryon ships had returned from the east. Driftmark, it seemed, had not yet received word of the new restrictions. The captains had sailed straight into the harbor at Drakoncrest, unsuspecting, and found themselves seized the moment their anchors dropped.
Vaemond leaned forward, his voice tight. "Your Highness, I swear it before the Seven. There are no weapons, no contraband, no sellsword levies hidden in our holds. Only spices, silks, and local goods from the Free Cities." He hesitated, then added more softly, "If you would make an exception this once, I would never forget it."
The plea showed plainly on his face. Vaemond was not a man given to begging, yet now his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it.
Most of the cargo he had brought back was spice. Pepper, saffron, cinnamon, things that lost their value with every passing day. The fresher they were, the higher the price they fetched. If they rotted in storage or were delayed too long, the loss would ruin him.
And he could not afford ruin.
He held no inheritance rights to speak of. If he were reduced to penury, there would be no lands to fall back on, no castle income to save him. He would be forced to rely on the charity of others, a fate he loathed more than hunger itself.
With a quick breath, Vaemond laid out these difficulties in blunt terms, his voice rough with urgency. He watched Aegon closely as he spoke, searching the prince's face for any sign of mercy.
Aegon listened in silence, swirling the wine in his cup. For a moment, his violet eyes flickered, thoughtful, unreadable. Then his expression hardened, his mouth drawing into a displeased line.
"Vaemond," he said sharply, setting the cup down with a decisive tap, "I thought we were friends. Friends who could speak of anything without reserve. Yet now you come to me as if I were some stranger to be bargained with."
Vaemond froze.
The rebuke struck him harder than any shouted threat. His eyes widened, and then, slowly, something warm stirred in his chest. Aegon had called him a friend. Not an ally, not a useful connection, but a friend.
Shame crept up his neck. After that night of heavy drinking, he had woken with a pounding head and an even heavier heart, wondering if Aegon would report his drunken words to the king. He had spoken recklessly, far too recklessly. Enough, surely, for Viserys to have his tongue torn out ten times over.
"Your Highness," Vaemond said at once, bowing his head, "you are right. This fault is mine alone. I should not have doubted you."
Aegon gave a short, dismissive snort.
"Do not think an apology ends the matter," he said, his tone stern. "Even so, I must still punish you."
Vaemond straightened unconsciously, bracing himself. In his mind, he had already prepared for fines, confiscation, perhaps even a formal censure. His fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet.
Aegon leaned back in his chair, pretending to consider. He drummed his fingers once against the armrest, then nodded as if arriving at a grave decision.