The next day, the lords of the Reach gathered in Oldtown, buzzing with debate over the previous day's pronouncements.
With House Tyrell weakened, House Rowan ascendant, and House Hightower so drastically diminished, could Oldtown still serve as the guiding beacon of the south?
The physical beacon itself was, of course, gone—gifted to Prince Aegon.
Lord Thaddeus Rowan stood at the back of the crowd, scoffing at their nervous chatter.
He had received word that House Strong was relocating from Harrenhal, leaving that great fortress, the key to the Riverlands, in the hands of the Prince Regent.
Many did not understand the true power dynamics of the Riverlands, but he did.
The Tullys of Riverrun had been in decline for a generation, ever since the time of old Lord Grover Tully.
The old lord was a man of mediocre talent, unable to command the respect of his vassals even in his youth, and now age had withered his strength.
Under his watch, the great lords of the Trident—the Blackwoods and the Brackens—had grown accustomed to acting on their own.
Yet, for all their feuding, they were remarkably united in their loyalty to the crown, as were the rising Freys.
The Riverlands was perhaps the only realm that could be brought to heel without a single sword being drawn, and control of Harrenhal only solidified that fact.
Lord Thaddeus had discussed the kingdom's situation in private with his brother-in-law, Lord Donnel.
They concluded that powerful undercurrents were shaping the future of the Seven Kingdoms.
House Targaryen directly ruled the Crownlands; Prince Aemon now controlled the Vale, the Stepstones, and Myr; Prince Daemon governed Lys; and their kinsman, the Sea Serpent, ruled Tyrosh and commanded half the royal fleet.
The alliance of Valyrian blood now controlled nearly half the continent's power.
With the Riverlands pacified and the Reach now divided and seeded with Targaryen influence, the two most populous and fertile realms were firmly loyal.
What remained?
The Stormlands, ruled by the kin of the "Uncrowned Queen," Rhaenys.
The Westerlands, under the cautious Tyland Lannister.
The North, with its young, unproven lord.
And the Iron Islands, a mere afterthought, already crushed by the Sea Serpent.
What did this immense concentration of power signify?
Conquest of Dorne.
The thought horrified and thrilled Lord Thaddeus in equal measure.
The lords of the Reach and Dorne were ancient enemies. With the might of the royal army behind them, a war of conquest was not just possible, but politically necessary.
The Reach and the Stormlands would be the main force in such an expedition, and he was now the leading figure in the Reach.
If he played his part, he could leave a lasting mark on history.
Thaddeus Rowan, Vanguard of the Dornish War. Thaddeus Rowan, the Warrior of Goldengrove.
From there, supplanting the mediocre Lyonel Strong as Hand of the King was just a stone's throw away.
His face flushed at the thought.
"Brother-in-law," Lord Donnel said, interrupting his reverie, "the lords are deeply dissatisfied with the Prince Regent's orders."
"Do they think me unqualified to serve as Warden of the South?" Thaddeus whispered furiously.
"Not at all. It is about Prince Aegon."
"Then silence them," Thaddeus declared firmly. "Prince Aegon must remain in the Reach."
The power of Sunfyre the Golden had been witnessed by all. Against the Dornish, they would need Aegon and his dragon.
No one would stand in his way.
"Imprisoning the prince in the Hightower, seeding the Targaryen bloodline in our lands... what does it mean?" one lord grumbled.
"What happened in the Vale must not happen again here," another added.
"And do not forget, the princes came here to be wed," a third muttered.
Lord Thaddeus's face grew red with anger. He rolled up his sleeves, ready to argue, when a powerful gust of wind swept over the plaza.
A massive shadow fell over them, followed by a surge of sweltering heat.
"Hiiisss!"
A majestic bronze dragon roared, its broad, rock-colored wings beating the air as it soared a thousand feet above them.
The chatter ceased instantly.
The lords were suddenly reminded of how the Vale had fallen under the Prince Regent's control, and how ruthless he was in battle.
Suddenly, the might of the Reach didn't seem so impressive.
"Long live the Prince Regent!" Lord Thaddeus shouted, raising his arms high.
The other nobles turned to stare at him, speechless. With Lord Garlen crippled, the new Warden of the South was the only one who could command them.
And judging by his current display, he would only ever command them to submit.
"Long live the Prince!"
"Long live the Regent!"
After a long moment of silence, a few sparse shouts echoed his.
"Hiss!"
Another howl of wind, and the pale blue form of Dreamfyre joined the bronze dragon in the sky.
The two giants circled above, and the whole of Oldtown was shrouded in their shadows.
The lords of the Reach bowed their heads and knelt.
One did not fight dragons. As His Highness once wisely said, "He who understands the times is a true hero."
The Banks of the Mander.
Vermithor crashed through the clouds, half-closing his vertical pupils against the wind.
Aemon, riding in the saddle, wondered if he should do more to strengthen the lords of the Reach.
Left to their own devices, he thought, they'll be raised like fat, contented pigs.
"Hiss!" Dreamfyre soared past, stretching her long neck.
Aemon snapped out of his thoughts and glanced down, spotting a flash of gold among the wildflowers below.
"Sunfyre?"
The young golden dragon was huddled pitifully in a field of flowers. Aemon piloted Vermithor down.
The gust from his wings whipped up a storm of petals, half-burying the smaller dragon.
"Aemon!" Aegon emerged from beneath Sunfyre's golden wing, covered in dust and grime.
"How did you end up like this?" Aemon asked, dismounting, stunned.
"It's all that damned Aemond's fault, of course!" Aegon raged.
He explained that after his defeat, Sunfyre had been wounded and unable to fly long distances, forcing them to live rough for days.
Aemon raised an eyebrow. He noted the charred earth littered with fish bones in front of Sunfyre and the jam stains around Aegon's mouth.
His brother had been catching fish to feed his dragon and gathering berries for himself.
"Ah, what a hardship," Aemon sighed, deciding to forgo the lecture he had planned. He'd have to send a maester to check on the boy's wits later.
"Aegon, you have a castle," Helaena announced, landing Dreamfyre nearby.
"Me?" Aegon gaped, pointing at himself.
"Yes, you," Helaena said seriously, and the two siblings explained the situation.
Aegon was stunned, scratching at his scalp, which was itchy from days without washing.
He hadn't been crowned a prince or won Highgarden, but through a strange twist of fate, he had ended up as the master of the Hightower with two vassals of his own.
It seemed... not bad at all.
"Hehe, that's amazing," Aegon smiled shyly.
Aemon, completely unmoved, pulled some dried rations from his interspatial ring and tossed them over.
Fate was absurd. Some men strove their entire lives for a prize that others simply stumbled upon.
Aegon, for all his foolishness, had a luck all his own.
"Thank you," Aegon said, inhaling the hard bread.
Sunfyre nudged his rider, curious about the food.
"Return to Oldtown on your own. Ser Gwayne will receive you," Aemon said, turning to leave with Helaena.
"Wait, where are you going?" Aegon cried out in shock. "Don't leave me here!"
Aemon ignored him, mounting Vermithor and taking to the skies.
Sunfyre's injuries were not serious; he was simply hiding out, afraid of the punishment that awaited him.
At noon.
Aemon summoned Lord Caswell and a hundred cavalrymen to ride for Dunstonbury.
The castle, once a fairytale vision of white towers, was now scorched black, its beautiful gardens devastated.
"Halt!"
A monstrous dragon, its scales a mottled bronze and muddy-green, emerged from the ruins, its jaws clutching half a bloody sheep.
Its ferocious temper was a clear warning.
"Prince!" Lord Caswell exclaimed, pulling tight on his reins.
Aemon landed Vermithor before the castle gates, blocking the road. He surveyed the damage, a rough idea forming in his mind.
"Aemon! And sister!" Aemond stood up from the grass, his lone figure just as disheveled as Aegon's.
Aemon was mystified. How could his uncle have two such sons?
"You seem alright," Helaena said, relieved that her brother was unhurt.
Aemond was about to boast, but he caught Aemon's scrutinizing gaze and suddenly felt guilty, unable to meet his eyes.
He was in a much better state than Aegon, but his predicament was his own fault.
After burning Dunstonbury, the garrison had surrendered immediately. But Aemond, suspicious by nature, was afraid of being assassinated or poisoned.
So, for days, he had been living in the wild, flying to distant inns to pack food and drink.
Without enough money to pay for a room or a bath, he had become thoroughly rank.
He didn't mind, though. He had been spending his time devising an excuse to convince "his father the king" to grant him the lands of Dunstonbury as a reward.
He had not expected Aemon to get there first.
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