"Add the point."
After a moment's thought, Aegon assigned the new enhancement to Strength (the Warrior).
Now that they had reached Gulltown, the immediate danger had eased, but only slightly. From here on, survival would depend on battle and force.
The sigil of the Warrior flickered, growing brighter.
Aegon felt it at once, his body subtly changing, bones stretching, muscles tightening, as if he had grown taller overnight.
The greatest weapon, of course, was still the demon dragon. But the best dragons, the Cannibal and Silverwing, were not beasts one could easily tame.
Better to strengthen myself first.
Though he had escaped the dragon's jaws, another great war loomed ahead. If he could not summon the demon dragon, or ride the wave of victory, he would become what he had been in the original story: a hollow figurehead, a king in name alone, his authority no more solid than a reflection in water.
Westeros was a land ruled by violence.
Only a sword held in one's own hand could truly command a kingdom.
Gulltown really is pleasant, Aegon thought as he took in his surroundings.
Nothing like King's Landing, with its stench and endless mobs eager to tear the world apart.
Gulltown was clean, calm, and graceful, smaller in scale, but all the more livable for it. Lying not far south of the Fingers, it stood almost level with Braavos across the Narrow Sea.
Three of Gulltown's leading powers arrived at the docks to greet them: House Grafton, House Shett, and the Arryns of Gulltown.
Though these lords had their disputes with Lady Jeyne Arryn over succession, supporting Rhaenyra Targaryen remained the greater cause. Her mother had been a trueborn Arryn, and after backing her for so long, the Vale could no longer abandon ship.
"Gulltown welcomes you, Queen Rhaenyra, Prince Aegon," the lords declared, bending the knee. Behind them stood merchants and notables of the port.
The Vale was easy to defend and had suffered little during the Dance. Compared to the Riverlands and the Crownlands, trampled again and again, it remained almost untouched.
"You have labored for the realm," Rhaenyra said hastily, returning their courtesies. "You have my thanks."
At such a moment, even she knew better than to cling to royal airs.
Aegon, however, caught the faint disdain in their eyes.
Disappointment.
The Realm's Delight was gone, replaced by a bloated, exhausted woman with no dragon and a pitiful retinue: a few ladies, three Queensguard.
A widowed queen and her only son.
Weak.
They turned their attention to him next.
"Prince Aegon."
Aegon smiled and inclined his head, thanking them in return.
The lords studied him closely.
His claim had been forged in blood and fire, after the deaths of three Velaryon brothers, the inheritance had returned to this pureblood Targaryen. His silver hair was pale as frost, his purple eyes so dark they bordered on black. Tall for his age, lean and sharp, he carried himself like a drawn sword, uncannily like his father.
After weeks of flight through storm and terror, the boy still smiled.
That alone marked him as exceptional.
The lords exchanged glances.
This isn't the boy we were told of.
They had expected a fragile, weeping child, war had stripped Rhaenyra of sons one by one, and the prince had grown under women's hands, battered by grief.
Yet now, they saw resilience. A quiet optimism. A strength far beyond his years.
Perhaps war had tempered him.
After all, he was the son of Daemon Targaryen.
Men might curse Daemon's character, but none ever doubted his prowess. A brilliant, dangerous warrior, one of the greatest captains and fighters of the age.
"Your Grace, Prince," said Lord Grafton earnestly, "you may rest at my estate. We have already sent ravens to Lady Jeyne. She will soon arrive with Rhaena Targaryen from the Gates of the Moon."
The party moved together toward the Grafton manse.
Aegon's gaze lingered on one man in particular.
The Gilded Falcon,
Isembard Arryn, sand-gold hair, blue eyes, a sharp aquiline nose. Head of the Gulltown Arryns.
This branch of House Arryn had split off during the reign of Jaehaerys I Targaryen, turning to trade and merchant marriages. They were not numerous, but they were wealthy, and careful.
Despised by their mountain kin as vulgar money-men, they had grown rich all the same.
And now, Isembard Arryn hungered for more.
Like King's Landing, the Vale was mired in succession strife. Lady Jeyne favored her distant cousin Ser Joffrey Arryn, who had served her loyally for years.
Another contender had been Ser Arnold Arryn, now imprisoned and driven mad. But his son Eldric Arryn carried his banner still.
Isembard Arryn was the third falcon, and Gulltown's lords and merchants backed him eagerly.
"Truly… exotic," Aegon murmured as he entered the Grafton hall.
The count spared no expense. Myrish tapestries hung from the walls; blue marble tables gleamed beneath torchlight; Qohorik metalwork adorned the chamber. The hall spoke of wealth and connections beyond Westeros.
Gulltown was the Vale's gate, a harbor where ships from King's Landing bound for Braavos or the North found refuge. Even in winter, when the Mountains of the Moon closed the passes, Gulltown kept the Vale supplied.
"Your Grace, my prince," Lord Grafton said humbly, "I have commissioned the finest tailors to prepare garments for you."
A timely kindness, and one eagerly accepted.
After changing, they dined.
Rhaenyra wore her silver-gold hair braided long, in the fashion of Visenya Targaryen, though she herself had never been martial. Velvet and intricate Myrish lace clothed her, pearls and gemstones sewn into her bodice until she glittered with borrowed splendor.
Aegon donned the red and black of House Targaryen, one side iridescent, the other black velvet.
The ladies and Queensguard, newly clothed, looked transformed.
For a moment, they were no longer ragged fugitives.
They were royalty on progress.
All that remained was to wait, for Lady Jeyne Arryn and Rhaena Targaryen to descend from the Gates of the Moon and join them.
The game had paused.
But the board was finally set.
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A/N:
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