Rhaenys's temper rose in a way that needed no words to announce it. The warmth in her gaze sharpened, her jaw setting as if forged of iron rather than flesh.
Aegon's smile vanished at once. He cleared his throat lightly, then coughed twice, lowering his eyes in a show of sudden propriety.
"I am merely pleased to be praised by an elder," he said smoothly. "I laughed without thinking. There was no other meaning in it."
"There had best not be," Rhaenys replied, her voice cold as wind off the Narrow Sea.
Aegon inclined his head in acknowledgment. Then he turned slightly and addressed Kraken with an easy nod. "You two speak for a moment. I will see my aunt out."
Before any objection could be raised, he rose from his seat and stepped to Rhaenys's side.
"Come," he said. "I will escort you back."
Rhaenys studied him for a second, then turned on her heel and strode from the council hall. Her steps echoed against the stone as they passed into the corridor, banners stirring faintly in the draft.
"I came to Dragonstone in good faith," she said at last, not looking at him. "I wished to speak sincerely. If you had no desire for such a conversation, you could have said so plainly."
"I do wish to speak," Aegon replied. His pace was unhurried, his hands folded behind his back. "As I told you before, so long as Driftmark aids me in encircling and suppressing those slave masters who still resist, I will naturally show my sincerity."
"You know that is impossible," Rhaenys said, stopping short and turning to face him. Her brows drew together tightly. "Must you insist on such terms? Can they not be changed?"
Aegon tilted his head, considering her as if she were a piece on a cyvasse board. "Then provide a deposit of five million gold dragons. Otherwise, the ships of Driftmark should not even think of passing freely through the Stepstones."
Silence followed.
Five million gold dragons. Even the vast wealth Corlys Velaryon had gathered across nine great voyages barely amounted to such a sum.
"The ships of Driftmark pose a severe threat to the safety of the Stepstones," Aegon continued, his tone mild. "I must act to address it. There is no other path."
He leaned slightly closer, watching her face. "Did you not once say the deposit would be five hundred thousand, with the transit tax tripled?" Rhaenys asked suddenly.
"I can speak for Driftmark," she went on, her voice tight but controlled. "We can offer fifty thousand gold dragons as a deposit. That is the utmost sincerity we can show."
Aegon stared at her for a moment, then let out an unrestrained laugh. He raised a hand to his mouth, though amusement still danced in his eyes.
"Aunt," he said, shaking his head, "this is not trade. This is suppression. This is force. Why do you believe Driftmark has the standing to bargain?"
Rhaenys's shoulders stiffened. "You know how vital maritime trade is to House Velaryon. If you sever Driftmark's sea routes, this is no mere suppression. It is not a threat. It is a provocation to war."
Her voice dropped at the last words, low and deliberate, as if she were trying to hold the future itself in check.
Aegon did not retreat. Instead, he stepped closer, until only a narrow space remained between them. His shadow fell across the stone at her feet.
"Do you know why you lost?" he asked quietly.
Rhaenys frowned, momentarily caught off guard. "What are you speaking of?"
He smiled then, soft and unmistakably cruel. "That council. The great succession council."
Color drained from her face. For an instant, her composure wavered.
That year had not merely been a loss for her. It had been a rout. Not only she, but Laenor as well. They had been swept aside without mercy.
"This has nothing to do with our present matter," Rhaenys said, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
"How could it be unrelated?" Aegon asked. He met her gaze directly, unblinking. "You were passed over after Prince Aemon's death. Laenor was passed over after Prince Baelon's death."
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"In the end, there was only one reason," he said softly. "You are a woman."
Rhaenys's hands trembled faintly at her sides. She tried to still them, curling her fingers into her palms, but the effort only betrayed how close her composure was to fracturing.
Aegon did not relent.
"You are a woman," he continued, his voice steady, almost measured. "And you stood at the Great Council. You felt the weight of it yourself."
He stepped half a pace nearer, lowering his voice, as if confiding rather than accusing.
"You know this truth better than anyone. Without my father's support, Rhaenyra is nothing before me."
His lips curved in something that was not quite a smile.
"I will call him my father, for now. Though I cannot say whether he truly rejoiced when the midwife announced I was a boy, or whether my birth merely satisfied an old obsession of his."
Aegon's gaze hardened.
"Rhaenyra is inferior to me in every regard. I am his eldest son, born of his lawful queen. And yet he clings stubbornly to the notion of naming her his heir."
Rhaenys's breath caught, but he did not give her space to speak.
"Aunt, I am not provoking war," he said quietly. "The war began long ago. It began the moment I was born."
He straightened, his posture rigid with conviction.
"The king's eldest son is not a claim. It is my nature. My existence. If Rhaenyra wishes to secure the Iron Throne, she must destroy me."
His voice dropped, iron-cold.
"In this war, either I die, or Rhaenyra dies."
He held her gaze, unflinching.
"And I am certain it will not be me."
To him, Rhaenyra and those who gathered beneath her banners were already ghosts.
"The Blacks," he said, with quiet contempt, "are nothing but rotting corpses in a grave. House Velaryon is merely the beginning."
He raised one finger.
"You have two choices."
The finger shifted slightly.
"First. You return to Driftmark and watch your House decline, day by day, ship by ship."
A second finger rose.
"Second. You sail to the Disputed Lands. You aid me in surrounding and suppressing the slave masters who still resist. You pay five hundred thousand gold dragons as a security deposit. And you accept triple the transit tax."
His hand closed.
"There is no third choice."
Aegon's final words were cold as frost.
"Now tell me," he said softly, "which will you choose, Aunt?"
At some point during his speech, his eyes had changed.
Rhaenys noticed it only when she lifted her gaze fully to meet his.
The purple of his irises had narrowed into vertical slits, sharp and inhuman, like the eyes of a dragon staring down prey.
A chill crept along her spine. A bead of cold sweat formed at her temple and slid slowly down her skin.
She had lived beside King Viserys for years. Like him, she did not wish to see the realm torn apart by civil war.
Yet standing before Aegon now, she understood the truth with sudden, brutal clarity.
This war was no longer a distant possibility.
Aegon had already accepted it.
Her eyes remained fixed on his pupils, those narrow, terrible slits that seemed to burn with something ancient and predatory.
Aegon himself appeared unaware of the change. He only stared back at her, unyielding, his expression calm and resolute.
Time stretched between them.
At last, Rhaenys drew a slow breath and forced her voice into steadiness.
"I must speak with Corlys," she said quietly. "I will give you an answer in a few days."
Aegon inclined his head, gracious as a prince receiving tribute.
"That is acceptable," he said. "But until you do, the ships of House Velaryon should not expect safe passage through the Stepstones. Not for a single day."
A faint smile touched his lips.
He had offered two choices, but Rhaenys understood now that there was only one. Either Corlys would watch his House wither, or he would stand against Aegon in open war.
And if it came to war, Aegon did not fear it.
He had already reached understandings with House Lannister and House Hightower. Once blood was spilled, their banners would rise, their armies would march on King's Landing, and Viserys would be forced from the throne.
Nor would they be alone.
Those whose fortunes were bound to the Greens would follow soon after. Men who knew that a queen's victory would mean their ruin.
House Bracken, foremost among them.
At the thought, Aegon's eyes narrowed slightly, and the dragon-slits faded, his pupils returning to their human shape.
Strike first to seize the advantage. Strike last, and suffer.
The Fifth Dornish War was beginning. A rare moment when the realm's attention would be divided.
A perfect opening, he thought.
We begin with House Beesbury… and House Blackwood.