"As you command, Your Highness," Lord Rogar replied. His voice was hoarse from shouting, frayed with exhaustion, every word heavy with the toll of battle—yet his deference never wavered.
He straightened, spine rigid, and bowed deeply.
In the harrowing clash just past, Rogar had been a man of rare fortune.
He had led the charge at the front, locked in desperate struggle with the dragon-beast. Death had brushed him countless times, yet somehow he had survived.
Aegon had seen his valor with his own eyes, and in his heart, he resolved to grant Rogar greater responsibility in the days ahead.
With a slight nod in acknowledgment, Aegon turned and walked toward Alysanne.
She was already drowning in grief. The death of her brother Jaehaerys had pierced her heart like a cruel blade. She sat collapsed in the dust, tears spilling endlessly from her swollen eyes, soaking the parched ground beneath her.
"The dead are gone," Aegon said softly, his voice filled with compassion. "We must carry on Jaehaerys's will—and live even stronger."
He knew well how close Alysanne and Jaehaerys had been. Her pain must be unbearable, and he feared she might do something reckless in despair.
But Alysanne only bit her lip and stifled her sobs, tears still falling uncontrollably as her body trembled from grief.
Aegon could only sigh, helpless. His legs felt as heavy as lead as he turned toward the royal pavilion. The battle had wrung him dry. Exhaustion weighed on his body, grief weighed on his heart—he needed rest to recover both strength and spirit.
...
By dawn, sunlight poured gently across the scarred battlefield.
The soldiers stood with solemn faces, tallying the fallen and wounded one by one, sorrow etched into their eyes.
After a night's pause, the rebel host began its careful reckoning of losses.
With heavy heart, Aegon presided over a solemn funeral for the dead. His face was shadowed by grief, his eyes full of remembrance for the fallen.
He mourned them himself, whispering prayers that their souls might rest in peace, far from the torment of war.
By the banks of the Blackwater Rush, Alysanne set her brother Jaehaerys to the flames.
When the rites were done, Aegon moved swiftly. He chose a band of elite soldiers and tasked them to guard the twin awakened forms of Aerea and Rhaella.
Those chosen at once ringed the twins with a perimeter, keeping vigilant watch to ensure their safety.
The rest of the host, under Aegon's command, marched for King's Landing.
This army, risen to cast down the rule of demons, was at last arriving at the Targaryen capital.
Each man marched with different feelings—excitement, hope, or silent heaviness.
...
As the host neared the outer gates of King's Landing, the sight before them stirred every heart.
The great Gate of the Gods stood wide open, as if flung wide to welcome the victors home.
The people lined the streets in celebration, and the city roared with life. Tens of thousands had poured from their homes to meet the army, waving the banners of House Targaryen.
Faces beamed with joy, voices rang with cheers, eyes shone with reverence and hope.
They had seen the dragon-monster storm forth from the city and feared the worst. Now, seeing the host return, they knew victory had been won.
The outer city emptied as all of King's Landing seemed to flood into the streets, cheering Aegon's name.
For they knew this was an army of justice, raised to protect humankind. Their deeds had already spread far and wide, and the people of King's Landing embraced them as their own.
Aegon rode at the head, tall in the saddle, eyes sharp as steel.
Ahead, he saw familiar faces kneeling in the dust, long swords of honor laid at their feet. In unison they cried, "Long live King Aegon the Second!"
Aegon looked upon them with no trace of joy. His reply was cold: "You come too late."
He lifted a hand and pointed at the swords. His voice was sharp as ice.
"Your blades once aided the Awakened in butchering countless innocent Targaryens at the Gods Eye. How will you answer for this blood debt?"
He gave three cold words: "Shackle them."
At once, the waiting soldiers moved, binding the defected lords in irons.
Panic seized them. They thrashed, pleading for mercy.
One desperate lord cried out to Rhaena: "My queen, save me! I am Darklyn Lest—I once served you—"
Aegon's brow furrowed, disgust flashing in his eyes. His voice was sharp with impatience: "Take him away."
Rhaena stood silent beside him, her face as calm as still water.
Watching these treacherous men, her heart felt no pity. To her, they had no loyalty, no honor. They were not worth even a word in their defense.
Beside the towering city gates, a broad-shouldered nobleman with a thick beard cried out with fervor,
"Your Grace! These traitors have committed crimes beyond forgiveness. In my judgment, they should be executed on the spot—to celebrate the return of a true king to the royal city, and to let all bear witness to Your Grace's majesty!"
His face flushed red, veins bulging at his neck as he flung his arms wide, straining to make his voice reach as far as possible.
Aegon's expression remained calm.
"First, cast them into the Black Cells," he replied evenly. "As for their punishment, I will consult with the Small Council before reaching a decision."
At those words, many Targaryen lords turned their heads, their gazes full of surprise.
They marveled inwardly that Aegon, though still so young—yet uncrowned and not yet of age—could already show such clear judgment. The sharp edge of a king was beginning to reveal itself.
All present understood: this kingdom would never become a puppet for Lord Rogar or the realm's ministers. Aegon would seize his own destiny and lead House Targaryen down a new path.
Amid the thunderous cheers of the people, Aegon, flanked by his lords, strode with confidence into the Red Keep.
...
They gathered within the Hall of Conquest, the very symbol of power.
Though Aegon had not yet been formally crowned, he presided over the Targaryen Small Council with the bearing of a king.
Every member of the royal line was present, along with all nobles of ducal rank and above.
As the meeting began, a stout man clad in the robes of the White Party was the first to break the silence. He bowed slightly, his voice outwardly deferential as he spoke:
"Your Grace, you are still not yet of age. To govern a realm requires deep experience and a mature mind.
In my humble view, should not Queen Rhaena and Lord Rogar act as regents, aiding Your Grace in the affairs of state? When Your Grace comes of age, you may then take the reins fully into your own hands."
As he spoke, he cast sidelong glances at the lords, gauging their reactions.
Lord Rogar's expression did not shift in the slightest, his face unreadable.
Aegon, however, knew the truth. Rogar was the chief supporter of the uprising. His reputation among the army was immense; most of the rebel host had been drawn from the Targaryen levies stationed in the Dornish Marches. His power could not be dismissed.
Rhaena, by contrast, had been battered by grief. Her lover, her former husband, her two daughters—all taken from her one after another. The blows had left her weary of worldly entanglements.
Now, she only shook her head lightly, her tone flat.
"I am no hand at statecraft. Years of courtly strife have long wearied me. I want no further part in politics."
When she finished, she turned toward Aegon. Her eyes held both relief and expectation as she gave a slight nod to her son upon the Iron Throne.
Aegon inclined his head in answer. Seeing this, Rhaena withdrew slowly from the hall.
Leaning on the black-bladed sword Blackfyre—retrieved from Maegor's Holdfast—Aegon stood tall. The blade bore great weight within House Targaryen, a symbol of their true bloodline and supreme authority.
Gripping it firmly, Aegon swept his gaze across the assembly and said, his voice level but edged with steel:
"I recall my grandsire, the Conqueror, once decreed that septons must never meddle in matters of state. Tell me—has the Office of Divine Affairs already been dissolved?
Why, then, do priests dare raise their voices over governance in my council?"
His words were measured, but the weight behind them struck all present like a warning bell.
Aegon's piercing eyes fixed directly on Grand Maester Bennifer.
For generations, ever since Grand Maester Gawen, the office of religious oversight had been bound to the Grand Maester's station. Bennifer, by right, bore that duty as well.
Bennifer hesitated a moment, then rose and stepped to the center of the hall with steady tread.
He let out a soft sigh, heavy with resignation, before speaking with due reverence.
"Your Grace, the Emperor indeed once gave such an order."
Then he turned his gaze upon the portly devout, his tone growing sharp.
"Septon Mattheus, you must withdraw. Matters of state and court are forbidden to septons—such was the rule set at the very founding of the Targaryen dynasty.
Do not force the Inquisition into a difficult position."
Within the Faith of the Seven, the Office of Divine Affairs was known as the Inquisition. Bennifer had deliberately invoked the title, to remind Mattheus of the gravity of his transgression.
The septon's mouth fell slightly open, as if he meant to protest.
He cast a desperate glance toward the dukes present, his eyes filled with a plea for help. Yet each one deliberately averted his gaze, unwilling to meet his eyes.
Septon Mattheus, seeing this, darkened at once. With a sharp flick of his sleeve, he turned and left the Hall of Conquest alone, his heart heavy with resentment and helplessness.
Aegon, his face expressionless, watched the representative of the Faith of the Seven depart. Then, shifting his gaze to Lord Rogar, he asked in an almost casual tone, "What does Lord Rogar think of Septon Mattheus's suggestion just now?"
A faint, sharp gleam flickered in his eyes, as if he meant to pierce into Lord Rogar's thoughts.
At these words, Lord Rogar's fingers trembled slightly within his sleeves.
He had never imagined Aegon would pursue the matter so directly. The question clearly carried an edge of accusation.
He knew well that he had once hinted to the Faith of the Seven about his ambitions for power, but he had never expected Aegon's response to be so forceful.
"Your Grace, I strongly oppose clerics meddling in governance!" Lord Rogar hurried into the center of the hall, lowering his head as he spoke with a trace of unease in his voice. "As for Septon Mattheus's proposal, I… I wasn't paying attention. I barely heard a word.
I was momentarily distracted, Your Grace. I beg your forgiveness."
He bowed slightly, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
Aegon's lips curved in a faint smile as he tapped the armrest of the Iron Throne with his fingers. "Lord Rogar must take these councils seriously. Do not grow careless in the future."
The words seemed simple, yet the warning beneath them struck Rogar's heart like a blade. He understood well that Aegon was not a man to trifle with.
Without hesitation, Rogar dropped to his knees with a thud. Leaning forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor, he spoke with trembling reverence: "Your Grace, your will is all that I hold in my heart. Every word you speak is to me a supreme command, engraved forever in my memory. I would never dare to defy you."
His voice shook slightly, carrying both nervousness and deep awe.
Aegon's face remained calm, betraying no joy or anger. He gave only a soft hum before saying slowly, "On the battlefield, the courage you showed, and your unwavering loyalty to the Targaryen dynasty, have earned you this chance at pardon…"
His gaze swept over Rogar, deep and unreadable.
Rogar pressed his head lower still, as if wishing to sink into the ground. He knew how close his earlier probing had come to provoking Aegon's fury. This pardon left him both grateful and ashamed.
Aegon's tone stayed cool as he went on, "Unlike Maegor, who punished his subjects at will, I prize the loyalty and service of my lords. This small fault does not erase the great deeds you have done for the dynasty. Rise."
He lifted his hand slightly, signaling Rogar to stand.
Rogar quickly voiced his thanks, repeating again and again, "Thank you, Your Grace, for your mercy."
Then, with cautious steps, he rose and stood aside, still holding himself with the utmost respect.
...
[Up to 20 chapters ahead for now]
p@treon(.)com/BlurryDream