"My judgment is this," he said solemnly. "You shall be punished by remaining at Drakoncrest for one night. Furthermore, you shall drink three full cups of wine as penance."
Vaemond stared at him.
For a long heartbeat, he could only blink. "Your Highness… this…" The words failed him entirely.
That was it? A night's rest and three cups of wine?
Aegon rose from his seat and reached out, gripping Vaemond's arm with surprising strength. His expression softened, the severity melting away into something earnest and almost gentle.
"I understand you," Aegon said quietly. "More than you think."
His voice dropped, carrying only to Vaemond.
"The thief stole what should have been yours and now lounges in luxury, living the life meant for you. Meanwhile, you are forced to wander, scraping together what ought to have fallen into your hands by right."
Vaemond's breath caught.
"I know this pain," Aegon continued. "Because it is mine as well. But tonight, let us not drown ourselves in bitterness. Drink the wine. Taste the food. Rest your bones."
A faint, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"Only when we have gathered enough strength can we reclaim what was stolen from us."
The words pierced Vaemond straight through.
Everyone knew the truth of Driftmark. Rhaenyra's three sons bore no true Velaryon blood. After Laenor's death, the lawful line should have passed to him, Vaemond, before ever touching the daughters of Laena and Daemon.
Yet Corlys Velaryon had never spared him a glance. He intended to place Driftmark in the hands of Lucerys, a boy with no Velaryon blood at all, then bind him to Baela through marriage to preserve the name in form if not in fact.
Rhaenys, for her part, wished Baela to inherit directly, never once considering Vaemond's claim.
As Aegon raised his cup in a silent toast, Vaemond felt something long buried stir within him. Not hope, perhaps, but a sharper thing.
Resolve.
Lanterns swayed from iron hooks along the hall, their light gleaming off cups of silver and plates piled high with roast fish and spiced meats. Kraken was there, of course, along with several others who might politely be called Lord Vaemond Velaryon's old acquaintances. Men who had drunk with him in better days, argued with him in worse, and now smiled easily enough as if old quarrels were little more than salt spray on the wind.
Wine flowed freely. Laughter rose and fell. They spoke of recent happenings, of strange ships sighted in distant waters, of prices in the eastern markets, of rumors carried on merchant tongues. Prince Aegon sat among them, courteous and composed, listening more than he spoke, his expression mild, almost boyish.
By morning, the feast was done.
Aegon himself accompanied Vaemond down to the docks. The air smelled of tar and salt, and gulls cried overhead as sailors made ready to cast off. The tide was favorable.
Aegon stopped at the edge of the pier. He rested one hand lightly against the carved dragonhead of a piling and looked directly at Vaemond .
"Remember this," he said quietly. "You are my friend. Your fleet will have unobstructed passage through the Stepstones, but only your fleet."
Vaemond inclined his head, attentive.
"When you return," Aegon continued, producing a folded letter sealed with red wax, "give this to Lord Corlys. Tell him that if he wishes to pass through the Stepstones as well, he must agree to the conditions written here."
He placed the letter into Vaemond's hands.
Vaemond accepted it with care, his fingers closing around the seal. "I will inform Lord Corlys truthfully of what I have seen here," he said. "And I will deliver this letter to him without delay. You have my word."
Aegon nodded once.
The sails were raised soon after. As Vaemond's fleet slipped away from the harbor and vanished into the morning haze, Aegon remained standing at the dock. Only when the last mast had disappeared did the faint smile on his face finally fade.
He exhaled slowly, then turned his head slightly. "How much were the seized goods worth?"
Kraken, who had been standing a step behind him, straightened. "At market price, no less than three hundred thousand gold dragons," he replied. "After costs, bribes, and losses, the profit should be around fifty thousand."
Aegon lifted a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. His gaze drifted toward the open sea. Fifty thousand gold dragons for a single voyage, one that took barely three months round trip. The calculation pleased him.
"The spice trade truly is lucrative," he said, almost to himself.
Kraken nodded. "Spices are worth more than gold, in some cases. I even saw saffron among the cargo. Not much, but enough. That alone is dearer than coin."
Spices were simple things, dried leaves and seeds and powders, yet the Known World bled for them. Red and black pepper, cinnamon and cloves, nutmeg and ginger, mustard seed and cardamom. And saffron, the rarest of all, gathered strand by strand, fit only for the tables of the very rich.
Such goods came by ship from far beyond Westeros, from the Summer Isles, from Qarth, from Yi Ti, from Sothoryos and stranger places still.
"There was saffron?" Aegon's brows rose slightly. "Good. Then the saffron must be kept quiet."
Kraken blinked. "Kept… quiet, Your Highness?"
Aegon lowered his hand and turned to face him. His voice remained calm. "You will handle those spices. Consider it a remedy for our recent shortage of funds."
Kraken hesitated, disbelief flickering across his face. "Your Highness, are we truly going to take House Velaryon's goods so openly?"
Aegon's expression hardened. He frowned, eyes sharpening. "Take them?" he said. "What nonsense is this? Those spices were infected with an unknown plague from the east. We destroyed them for the good of the realm. Is that understood?"
There was a brief silence.
"Understood," Kraken said at last. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Perfectly understood."
He could not help but marvel at it. House Velaryon had paid for the cargo. House Velaryon had paid for the ships. And when the goods reached the Stepstones, Aegon seized them, spoke a single convenient lie, and walked away with hundreds of thousands of gold dragons.
It was easier coin than any honest trade.
Then Aegon spoke again, as if recalling a minor detail.
"Oh, and the twenty cargo ships," he added. "Say that to contain the plague, we destroyed the ships along with the goods."
Kraken stiffened slightly.
"Send those ships to Tyrosh," Aegon continued. "Have them dyed. Purple hulls, made from sea snail dye."
Tyrosh had been built upon craft and color.
Its fortunes rose with the discovery of the purple sea snail, the small, stubborn creature whose crushed glands produced dye fit for kings. Cloth steeped in that pigment fetched obscene prices across the Narrow Sea, and the city's wealth followed. Braavos, too, possessed its own purple snails, though the Tyroshi guarded their methods more jealously, insisting that their hue alone carried true prestige.
There were reasons, then, for dyeing the ships.
In truth, there were two.
First, once those twenty cargo ships were painted purple, they would cease to be recognizably Velaryon. They would become, in the eyes of the world, legitimate spoils of war taken at Tyrosh, trophies claimed by Prince Aegon through strength and circumstance rather than theft.
Second, they would look different.
Aegon was not without a sense of dignity. If these ships were said to have been seized from a foreign city, then they could not sail the seas in the unmistakable lines and colors of House Velaryon. That would invite mockery, and worse, scrutiny.
Not that he intended to go to great lengths. The hulls would be dyed. The rest could remain as it was.
That, in his mind, was sufficient.
Kraken did not share his calm.
"Your Highness," he said cautiously, slowing his steps as they walked, "twenty cargo ships is no small matter. Lord Corlys may endure the loss of goods, but ships…" He hesitated, then pressed on. "He may fight us to the death. And what of the crews aboard them?"
Aegon stopped.
He turned slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. For a fleeting moment, something sharp flickered through his eyes, something unsteady and unsettling, like heat shimmering above stone. It vanished almost at once.
"The ships and their cargo," he said evenly, "were contaminated by an unknown plague from the east. We had no choice but to destroy everything."
He stepped closer to Kraken, his voice lowering, calm but edged with iron.
"If Lord Corlys insists on declaring war upon Drakoncrest, even with the Fifth Dornish War looming, then let him come."
A faint smile curved his lips, one that did not reach his eyes.
"I have five dragons. I will be waiting for him."
Kraken swallowed.
"And the crews?" he asked, though the answer was already clear.
Aegon did not hesitate. "They succumbed to the plague. Every one of them. Is there a problem with that account?"
"No, Your Highness," Kraken said at once, bowing his head. "No problem at all."
"That's right," Aegon replied lightly.
He turned and resumed walking toward the main manor house, his long stride unbroken, as though the matter had already passed from his thoughts.
Kraken followed a step behind, his expression tight.
As they walked, doubt crept into his mind, quiet and unwelcome. He studied Aegon's back, the straight line of his shoulders, the unhurried confidence in his movements.
At some point, the prince had changed.
Kraken could not say exactly when, but the thought gnawed at him. He searched his memory, turning it over carefully. The shift seemed to coincide with the day Dreamfyre had grown restless, when the dragon's temper had sharpened and her cries had echoed too long across the island.
Dreamfyre had become strange.
And afterward, so had Aegon.
The notion unsettled him. He shook his head slightly, forcing the thought down.
"I am imagining things," Kraken told himself. "Nothing more."