Although Aegon had promised to leave the conquest of Essos to his two sons—letting their achievements on the battlefield determine who would become Crown Prince—that didn't mean he had ignored the Nine Free Cities of the Disputed Lands for decades.
Aegon's ambition had never waned.
While the Targaryen dynasty focused on quietly developing its economy, stabilizing domestic affairs, and reforming administrative structures, the Conqueror continued his campaign against the Free Cities—though by political and economic means, rather than military force.
After all, the Dragonlord Treasury was originally created for exactly this purpose: to play a dominant role in the global economic battlefield.
It was under the Dragonlord Treasury's leadership that the "Targaryen Grain Reserve Guild" was formed—a powerful merchant alliance backed by several of the kingdom's high-ranking dukes.
Headquartered in Volantis, this grain-focused guild bought up large farms across the Nine Free Cities, offering prices one to two tiers above market rate. Its goal was simple: to monopolize key agricultural lands and seize control of their food supply chains.
Since many of these farmlands were controlled by local noble houses, the Targaryen Grain Reserve Guild used a two-pronged approach—offering political incentives or financially backing rival factions to crush those who held the grain-producing lands. Once these local lords were removed, the Guild moved in and claimed the land.
It was a subtle and insidious economic assault. The enemy barely noticed it happening—like a quiet erosion, weakening them from within.
And grain wasn't the only target. Aegon employed similar strategies to control military supplies, impose port tariffs, and disrupt the logistics and mobilization capabilities of the Nine Free Cities in every conceivable way.
The standard currency minted by the Dragonlord Treasury was not only abundant and meticulously crafted, but aesthetically striking as well. Over time, coins issued by the Targaryen dynasty—golden dragons, silver moons, and copper stars—began to spread across the Nine Free Cities.
Targaryen merchants only accepted these standard coins, rejecting both local currencies and barter trade. This policy rapidly increased the global circulation of Targaryen currency, pushing it into position as the dominant international standard.
The Nine Free Cities tried to strike back by forging fake Dragonlord coins, using tactics like debasement and short-weight minting to flood the market with inferior currency—hoping to drive out the good with the bad and sabotage the Targaryen economy.
But they failed.
The golden dragons minted by the Dragonlord Treasury were protected by a unique anti-counterfeiting process. No matter how the Free Cities tried to replicate them, their fakes never quite matched. Something was always off—visibly or tangibly wrong.
Their counterfeit coins became worthless.
Targaryen merchants could spot them instantly—no weighing required.
The Treasury also trained merchants in verification methods, including the water float test to detect inferior gold.
Any merchant or guild caught trading in fake coins received a formal warning:
"If you continue using counterfeit dragons to defraud others, the Targaryen Trade Association will blacklist you. You'll never do business with us again—not a single Targaryen product will reach your hands."
...
Over those years, the Targaryen dynasty triumphed in the economic war.
The Dragonlord Treasury's standard currency took root across the world. The realm's trade surplus expanded steadily, multiplying year after year.
The Crownlands flourished at a pace visible to the naked eye.
As the region developed, more Valyrians responded to Aegon's call for their scattered kin to return. With the population of the Crownlands rising, the proportion of Valyrians grew rapidly, offsetting the destabilizing effects of Dornish immigration.
Economic warfare was a quiet conquest—draining strength from others while empowering oneself.
Under this pressure, weaker nations faltered. Meanwhile, a rising hegemon like the Targaryen dynasty grew ever stronger.
And when the gap between power and poverty grew wide enough—when the people of a failing state had suffered enough—they no longer resisted annexation.
They welcomed it.
As the Targaryen dynasty grew stronger, the rivalry between the two princes only intensified.
Though Prince Aenys had few supporters in court, he had secured the full backing of the Faith of the Seven. With Aegon's unwavering support, his annotated [New Testament of the Seven] began spreading rapidly throughout Westeros.
Now that the royal family controlled paper production and distribution, promoting a new doctrine was as simple as printing books. New Testaments were produced in bulk, and nearly every Septon had a copy in hand.
...
In the fourteenth year of the Conquest.
One year after the New Testament began circulating, Prince Aenys was revered by the Faith's new followers as the [Holy Son], and House Targaryen was honored as the [Sacred Lineage].
The legends surrounding Holy Son Aenys became increasingly exaggerated.
Some claimed that at the moment of his birth, seven holy stars gathered in the sky, their light shining down upon Mother Rhaenys's palace just as the Holy Son and Savior Aenys entered the world.
They said the [Holy Father Aegon] personally baptized him and gave him the name Aenys, meaning "Savior of the World."
Anyone with a shred of common sense could see through the tale—but religion was never short of the ignorant and gullible.
A crowd of fanatics soon formed around Aenys. Inspired by the parables Aegon had once told him, Aenys selected twelve followers to serve as his disciples and help spread his gospel.
Queen Visenya watched Aenys's rise through the church with stunned disbelief.
She never expected that under Aegon's bizarre upbringing, the once timid and frail boy would undergo such a drastic transformation—turning into a full-blown zealot.
Worse still, Aenys had gained real grassroots support among the people, becoming an increasing threat to Maegor's claim to the throne.
Visenya decided she had to act—and that meant getting Maegor on a dragon.
When Maegor was born, a dragon egg had been placed in his cradle, but it had failed to hatch.
Now, when Visenya approached him, urging him to go to Dragonstone's Dragonmont to bond with a dragon, Maegor refused.
"I only want to ride the strongest dragon in the world," he declared with pride.
Visenya smacked the stubborn boy on the head and snapped, "Your father isn't even thirty yet. If you plan to wait for him to die, your throne will be long gone."
Maegor could not argue with his mother and reluctantly returned with her to Dragonstone, heading to Dragonmont to choose his dragon.
But after touring the dragon pens, Maegor was unimpressed.
He dismissed the dragons as too small or too scrawny.
Visenya was furious at his arrogance.
Most of the dragons on Dragonmont were born after the Century of Blood—barely a few decades old and not yet fully grown. Only a handful had reached sub-adulthood, measuring close to twenty meters.
But Maegor refused to settle. He aimed to tame a full-grown wild dragon to prove his strength and valor.
"You're only four years old, child," Visenya pleaded. "You don't need an adult dragon yet. When you grow, your dragon will grow with you."
Maegor lifted his chin stubbornly.
"My brother's dragon will grow too. Maegor's dragon must not be smaller than theirs—it has to be the biggest and the strongest."
Visenya's love for her son overpowered her better judgment. She handed him her Valyrian steel sword, hoping the ancestral Targaryen blade would bring him luck.
At just four years old, Maegor displayed courage beyond his years. He ventured into Dragonmont alone, carrying the sword and some dry rations, in search of a dragon worthy of him.
During the days he spent deep in the mountain, some of the Dragonkeepers caught signs of the young prince's path—tiny footprints near the carcass of a jungle cat.
These creatures, nearly two meters long with vicious temperaments, roamed the wilds. Yet one had fallen to Prince Maegor.
When the news reached Aegon, he broke out in a cold sweat.
Furious at Visenya's indulgence, he mounted Balerion and flew from King's Landing to Dragonstone, intending to stop Maegor before he got himself killed attempting to tame a wild adult dragon.
But when Aegon arrived, he was met with a stunning sight.
A monstrous black dragon was thrashing wildly atop the Windwyrm Tower.
Its body was pitch black like ink, its skull-shaped head lined with jagged ridges, and its spine bristled with razor-sharp protrusions. From its maw spewed wisps of eerie green flame.
The dragon's roar echoed sharply—"Shrreee—!"
That sound—it was strangely familiar.
But the boy clinging to its back, Aegon couldn't mistake.
It was Maegor.
The child had wedged the Dark Sister between the dragon's ridges, using it to hold on. His small body was flung upward by the dragon's violent bucking, only to crash back down onto the jagged spine.
Aegon gasped.
That's my son? This little monster?
...
Down below, on the balcony of the Windwyrm Tower, Visenya called up to him.
"Aegon! Don't interfere! If another dragon disrupts the bonding process, the spirit pact will break—and Maegor will die!"
Aegon snapped out of his shock and ordered Balerion to retreat from the rampaging black dragon. He gripped the reins tightly, hands slick with sweat, silently praying for Maegor's survival.
Maegor clung tightly to the back of the skeleton-black dragon, struggling to stay mounted. He could feel it—he was close. This perfect beast, fierce and mighty, was about to yield.
He had spent nearly half a month combing the far side of Dragonmont before finding this one. Of all the wild dragons, it was the closest in presence to Balerion the Black Dread. In both form and size, it rivaled even his mother's dragon, Vhagar.
This was the one. The dragon Maegor had dreamed of.
But it was vicious beyond compare.
He had crept onto its back while it slept, trying to forge a spirit bond. Yet even as he reached for that mental link, the wild dragon refused to submit.
Their spiritual struggle continued, and Maegor's stamina wore thin. Just as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, he suddenly felt it—a rush of perfect harmony rising from deep within.
The bond was made.
Maegor had tamed it.
He gave a command in High Valyrian, and the dragon obeyed.
"Wuhu! Hahaha!!" Maegor shouted with joy, laughing as he directed the skeleton dragon to fly toward the balcony of the Windwyrm Tower, eager to show off to his mother.
After all, he was still only four years old—proud, eager for praise.
When he spotted the immense figure of Balerion soaring above Dragonstone, he tried to urge his dragon higher to share the moment with his father, but the beast refused to climb. Maegor could only sigh. Clearly, he still had much to learn in the art of dragonriding.
He finally brought the dragon down to rest in its new nest on Dragonmont. There, the Dragonkeepers informed him of the beast's name:
Cannibal.
One of the few wholly feral dragons left on Dragonstone. Cannibal was infamous for devouring smaller dragons, feasting on the corpses of the dead, and even eating hatchlings and eggs. It was the most feared dragon on the island.
Maegor ordered the Dragonkeepers to care for it diligently.
But he had barely taken a few steps away when blood-curdling screams echoed from the nest—cut short after only a few seconds.
He rushed back—only to find the Dragonkeepers gone without a trace.
Maegor searched around but found no sign of them. Eventually, he accepted the obvious: his dragon had eaten them.
He pointed a tiny finger at Cannibal and scolded it in High Valyrian.
"You greedy beast! Spit them out! Or I'll have Balerion beat you!"
He had noticed earlier that Cannibal avoided Balerion in the sky—clearly, it feared the Black Dread.
Cannibal roared in defiance and sprayed Maegor with sticky dragon spit.
Maegor, stubborn as ever, wiped the slime from his face and barked again, "Do it! Spit them out, now!"
Realizing the threat wasn't working, Cannibal gave a reluctant sneeze, stuck out its tongue, and began to retch. Moments later, it vomited the Dragonkeepers' half-digested remains onto the ground—little more than corroded bones.
Then, completely unfazed, Cannibal curled up in the nest and fell asleep.
Maegor stared at the pile of bones, hand twitching toward his Valyrian blade, Dark Sister. He wanted nothing more than to stab that disobedient brute.
But it was his dragon.
He kicked one of the bones in frustration and sighed before leaving the nest.
Outside, he gathered a fresh group of Dragonkeepers.
"Be careful," he warned them. "My dragon might eat you."
...
When Maegor descended from Dragonmont, he found Aegon waiting at the base of the mountain—holding a freshly stripped tree branch, his face like thunder.
"Father! Heh… What brings you here?" Maegor asked with a sheepish grin. He scratched the back of his head, eyes darting around, desperately wondering where his mother was and praying she'd arrive to rescue him.
Aegon said nothing, just smiled and walked toward him.
That smile made Maegor's blood run cold. It wasn't kind—it was dangerous.
He took a step back, forcing a grin.
"Look at the dragon I tamed, Father! Big, right? Majestic, isn't it? Heh…"
"Don't run. Don't act dumb. That won't save you," Aegon growled.
He was furious—this reckless little brat had dared to tame one of the most savage dragons on the island alone. One misstep, and he'd have died.
Without another word, Aegon marched over, grabbed Maegor, pinned him by the roadside, yanked down his pants, and gave him a sharp thrashing with the tree branch—each strike ringing out with a crisp smack.
"Go easy! I won't do it again—ouch!" Maegor cried, face scrunched in pain. "Dad, you're serious? You're bullying me! I'm telling Mother!"
"Oh, you still dare to complain?" Aegon's anger flared. This brat had the nerve to act wronged, even threatening him with Visenya—so he swung the branch even harder.
Unlike Aenys, Maegor wasn't one to behave obediently. He was sly, playful, and far more affectionate with Aegon. He never used titles like "Father" or "Your Grace"—just "Dad," "Pa," or "Old Man."
Visenya rushed from the Windwyrm Tower, and when she saw her husband lashing their son, she panicked. Her heart ached, and she blamed Aegon for being far too harsh.
She ran over, snatched the branch from Aegon's hand, broke it in two, and threw the pieces to the ground.
"What kind of father does this?" she snapped. "He just tamed one of the fiercest dragons alive and boosted the Targaryen name across the realm. If you won't reward him, fine—but to beat him with a switch? How could you?!"
Aegon's face turned bright red, the veins on his forehead bulging.
"He went after that wild dragon like it was a game! He was throwing his life away!" Aegon roared. "How many times have I told him? A king must never risk his own life. If he treats it so lightly, how can he ever rule House Targaryen?"
"Mom! It really hurts! He hit me hard—I'm bleeding!" Maegor sniffled, playing it up for sympathy.
Visenya's heart clenched. She immediately began patting his back gently, murmuring soothing words as she glared daggers at Aegon.
"And you still call him a future king?" she shot back. "With all that nonsense Aenys is stirring up in the realm, one day it could blow up in all our faces. He's already won over the people. How's Maegor supposed to compete for the heir's seat then?
Poor boy… his own father and aunt teaming up to bully us."
Tears welled in Visenya's eyes, on the verge of spilling over.
"You...! You—why are you being so unreasonable?!" Aegon pointed at her, too furious to speak clearly. His temples throbbed with pain.
Since Maegor's birth, Visenya had completely changed. The once cold and regal queen—graceful, distant, unshakable—was gone. All that remained was a mother blinded by love.
Aegon sighed inwardly. It was becoming clear—Targaryen blood really did have a tendency for extremes.
Take Aenys, for example. Aegon had poured so much effort into helping him overcome his indecisiveness, thinking he might grow into a proper heir. But now, Aenys had become paranoid beyond belief.
He doubted everyone around him—even Aegon himself. And within the Faith of the Seven, he was quietly building a private armed force.
Aegon couldn't help but think of an old saying: children are always sweet when they're small, but once they grow, their hearts stray.
And yet... it made Maegor's current closeness feel even more precious.
Deep down, Aegon longed for that warmth—for family. He didn't want to become a lonely king on a cold throne.
...
[Upto 20 chapters ahead for now]
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