Aegon let out a slow breath, fingers tightening briefly on the arm of his chair before he spoke. "Send my sister in."
Baela had ever been the most hot-tempered of true dragons, perhaps the one most like the Rogue Prince himself. Reckless and fearless, she delighted in racing horses through mud and stone, drinking men twice her size under the table, wagering coin she did not always possess, and keeping company with cutthroats, sailors, and sellswords as readily as with lords. Where others weighed consequence, Baela leapt first and laughed after.
"Yes, Your Grace." No man in the chamber dared hesitate. The Prince Regent's word carried steel now.
Moments later the doors flew open, and Baenira stormed inside like a sudden squall. Her silver-gold hair was shorn short in a boy's fashion, her frame tall and lean, all sharp angles and coiled fury. Her boots struck the stone floor hard enough to echo.
She did not enter alone.
The twins came together into the council hall, bringing with them a fleeting softness to a room long ruled by mail and menace. Their faces were exquisite in the unmistakable fashion of old Valyria. Pale skin, silver-white hair, eyes the deep purple of their house.
Short-haired Baela .Long-haired Rhaena.
Curled around Rhaena's shoulders was Dawn, the pale-pink hatchling no larger than a scarf, her tiny claws clinging possessively to silk and skin alike. The little dragon lifted her head at the sound of voices, then settled again, content.
Though both were daughters of Prince Daemon and Lady Laena Velaryon, the long years of war and separation had shaped them into opposites. Rhaena was slender and composed, her movements measured and graceful. Baela was all quickness and fire, like a willful boy forever daring the world to strike first.
Baenira's eyes swept the room and fixed on Aegon. A crooked smile tugged at her mouth, sharp as a blade."I heard you were already under house arrest by the Wolf of Winterfell, little brother," she said, folding her arms. "You've grown. Taller. Broader too." Her gaze flicked briefly to the northern lord beside him. "No wonder. You stink of wolf now. Gone is the quiet boy. What stands here reeks of teeth and hunger."
Cregan Stark did not flinch. His hands rested calmly at his belt, his expression unreadable as winter stone. "I must correct you, Princess," he said evenly. "There are no ravening wolves here. Only dragon and wolf moving in step. King's Landing crawls with liars, vipers, and chameleons. They ruin men without blinking." His voice hardened. "The usurper died because of them. If hungry wolves are what it takes to scour this city clean, then perhaps the gods have sent the right beasts."
Baenira's jaw tightened. Her fingers flexed as if she longed to strike something.
Aegon rose before sparks could catch. He stepped forward, one hand lifted in a placating gesture. "Lord Stark and I are discussing necessary housekeeping," he said. "The Red Keep is thick with cobwebs. They have been left too long. Now they will be swept away."
"Our grandfather gave his life to this realm," Baela shot back, turning on him fully. Her voice trembled, not with fear but with fury. "Without him, you would never have taken this city so easily. You have no right to treat him like a criminal. Not because of northern swords. Not for any reason."
Rhaena moved then, placing herself gently between them. One hand came to rest on Baela's arm, light but firm. "Please," she said softly. "Aegon has sworn that Grandfather will not be harmed."
Her calm voice seemed to draw the heat from the air. Rhaena had always been this way, the quiet salve between clashing blades, the one who soothed where others provoked.
Cregan let out a low chuckle, more breath than sound. "If Princess Rhaena shared her sister's temper," he said, glancing at Aegon, "I would truly fear for Your Grace's future marriage."
"That will be enough," Aegon said. His tone was calm, but final. "Go back now, Sister. I give you my word. This is procedure, nothing more. Lord Stark oversees the trials."
Baela searched his face, her anger warring with doubt. Finding no answer that satisfied her, she turned sharply and seized Rhaena's hand. Together they strode from the hall, Dawn chirping softly as the doors closed behind them.
The Sea Snake had never lacked for friends. His house's influence ran deep, and appeals echoed through the city like prayer bells. The twins were his brightest champions, and their departure left the chamber colder.
The Wolf of Winterfell had come with terrible momentum. The city whispered, anxious for the fate of the Sea Snake.
When the doors shut at last, the council resumed.
"My lords," Aegon said, standing tall, "I require two letters. They are to be written at once."
The Stormlands and the Reach lay broken and leaderless. They required no further pressure.
"The first letter goes to Lady Johanna Lannister. She is to return twice the gold she was given, immediately. In return, I am prepared to offer aid against the Red Kraken, but only if I am given sufficient leverage."
In truth, Aegon intended to take far more. The original sum. A punitive fine. And the price of dragonfire.
This was no loan. It was a demand.
The treasury stood empty. Coronation, armies, rewards, all had drained it dry. Winter loomed long and merciless. Without gold, without grain, King's Landing would starve. The city's survival now rested upon the West.
Lady Johanna would understand. Rebuilding fleets would cost more than yielding coin, and far more lives would be lost.
"The second letter goes to the Red Kraken on Fair Isle," Aegon continued. "This is his final ultimatum. He is to leave the island at once and present himself in King's Landing by the seventh day of the seventh moon, for my betrothal feast."
Cregan's mouth twisted with open disdain. "He will not come willingly. Ironborn never do. They prey on the weak, fear the strong, and dress thievery in the rags of tradition. They have always been pirates."
Aegon's eyes hardened. "Then we will remind them what dragons do to pirates."
In ages past, direwolves had fought krakens upon frozen shores, their blood mingling with ice and surf alike.
Not only direwolves. Trout and lions, rose and oak, the great lords of the Reach and the Riverlands had all spilled blood against the ironborn. Again and again, the realm had been forced to beat back the same foe. A people of true pirates, despised from the Wall to the Summer Sea.
They preyed upon the weak. They fed where others bled. Watching them, Aegon had always been reminded of carrion beasts circling a dying thing. And now, at last, the kraken would taste Targaryen thunder.
A true dragon was born in fire.
"This is his last chance," Aegon said. His voice was quiet, stripped of warmth. One hand rested on the table, fingers splayed, knuckles pale with restraint. "My patience is spent. If he refuses my goodwill, he will be answered with flame."
No one spoke at once.
The kraken's kind had never known restraint. Lawless, brutal, drunk on reaving and slaughter, they mistook fear for strength and savagery for honor. Against such men, mercy was mistaken for weakness. Only decisive bloodshed ever brought peace.
"At sea, the Red Kraken holds the advantage," Kermit Tully said at last. He leaned forward, brows drawn together, worry plain upon his face. "His longships rule the waves. The Lannister fleet has suffered grievously. Fishing boats and aging war galleys cannot match ironborn speed or ferocity. If we wish to contest him upon the water, only Driftmark can provide such strength. We must reconcile with Lord Velaryon, and quickly."
Cregan Stark's expression did not change. He sat straight-backed, hands resting upon his knees, eyes cold as hoarfrost."We already possess a weapon swifter and deadlier than any fleet," he said. "Dragons. The Red Kraken has stolen enough gold from the West. It is time he returned some of it in ash."
Aegon inclined his head once."He has grown careless," he said. "Fair Isle tempts him. That is our opening."
The ironborn thrived on movement. Their longships scattered across open seas or lurking among the rocks of Pyke were difficult prey. But the Red Kraken had lingered on Fair Isle, feasting and indulging himself, surrounding his victories with plunder and stolen women taken as salt wives.
He had chosen comfort over caution.
He had made himself a fixed target.
"A swift strike," Cregan said, approval flickering briefly in his eyes. "An adult dragon can reach Fair Isle with ease. Burn the longships first. Trap him upon the island like a rat in a barrel."
"We will still require Lady Johanna's cooperation," Aegon replied after a pause. He turned slightly, gaze moving across the table. "Ser Tyland Lannister will soon arrive at the Red Keep. He understands the West. He will be useful."
The room fell silent as the shape of the plan settled over them.
"The trials in King's Landing are yours, Lord Stark," Aegon said at last. "You will judge them here. I will judge the Red Kraken on Fair Isle. Two judgments, one purpose."
He straightened, shoulders squaring.
"Kill the Red Kraken," Aegon continued evenly, "and we purchase decades of peace. Let these vermin remember fear."
The Riverlords murmured their assent, voices overlapping. The kraken had no friends among them. None would weep for his fall.
The first blade would fall upon the ironborn.
For a fleeting moment, Aegon wondered if this honor should have belonged to Oakfist. Then the thought passed. The task would be his.
...
Aegon sat upon the Iron Throne.
Cold metal bit into his back and legs, every edge a reminder that power was pain endured, not comfort granted. The chair punished weakness. A king was not meant to rest easily.
Below the steps, at Cregan Stark's order, a plain wooden bench had been placed. It was uncarved and austere, stripped of ornament. There would be no pretense of mercy here.
Cregan stood before it, his presence heavy as gathering snow, and began the interrogations of those accused in the poisoning of Aegon II.
"Bring Septon Eustace."
Chains rattled as the old man was dragged forward, pale and trembling.
"Bring Grand Maester Orwyle."
The maester followed, shoulders slumped, eyes darting like a cornered animal.
"Bring Ser Gyles."
"Bring the usurper's litter-bearer."
"Bring Ser Perkin the Flea."
One by one, they were hauled before the throne. Voices cracked. Knees buckled. Some wept, others clung stubbornly to silence until fear broke them open. Truth seeped out in fragments, shaped by terror and regret.
And in the end, every confession bent toward the same conclusion.
Two shadows loomed behind it all.
The Sea Snake.
And Larys Strong, the Clubfoot.
The hall grew very still as their names settled into the air, heavy with consequence.
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