The Emperor's summons sparked a bitter quarrel between Lord Alaric Stark and his wife, Lyanna Mormont.
Lady Mormont had shown fierce courage and strength since childhood. At twelve, she took up an axe and fought a pack of savage direwolves, slaying two with sheer boldness and skill. She sewed their pelts into a fearsome cloak and wore it with pride. Within House Mormont, she was always the most combative, the quickest to anger. Yet this time, she was calm.
"If you go, there's little chance you'll return alive," she warned, her voice tight with worry. "That boy may well have your head struck off and displayed. Better you go to the Wall instead. The Night's Watch will take you in."
Two of Lord Alaric's bannermen—Lord Glover and Lord Reed—echoed her plea, urging him to defy the royal command.
They argued fiercely that Winterfell's defenses were impregnable. "If Aegon means to take a lord's head," they said, "let him march here himself and see what fortune he finds beneath Winterfell's walls."
But Lord Alaric only laughed.
"Impregnable?" he scoffed, a flash of scorn in his eyes. "Wasn't Harrenhal once called unbreakable? And what became of it? No—I will go to meet Aegon II. I will speak plainly to his face, and then I will take the black. I trust he will not deny me."
The next morning, Lord Alaric set out for King's Landing with six aged knights who had served him since his youth.
...
When he arrived at the capital, the Emperor received him upon the Iron Throne, crowned with Valyria's crown of supreme power.
The great officers of court were present. Ser Joffrey Doggett and Ser Lorance Roxton of the Kingsguard stood at the foot of the throne, resplendent in white cloaks and enameled scale armor. Beyond them, the vast hall was empty, its solemn silence heavy as stone.
Grand Maester Bennifer noted how long Lord Alaric took to cross the chamber. Each step rang out against the emptiness, weighted with hesitation and unease. Yet Bennifer understood: the Emperor's choice not to shame him before the full court was already a great mercy, sparing House Stark's dignity.
To the realm, Lord Alaric was known as proud and stubborn. Yet here, that stubbornness finally broke.
He sank to one knee, bowed his head, and laid his sword reverently at the base of the throne.
"Your Grace," he said, voice trembling, "I come as summoned, ready to accept whatever judgment you give. I only beg you spare my sons, and House Stark. Everything I did, I did for—"
"For the house in your heart," Aegon cut him off, lifting a hand, his gaze stern. "I know what you said, what you did, what you plotted.
Some call us enemies. I see only sovereign and vassal at odds. When Lord Torrhen bent the knee to my grandsire, House Stark and the royal house were the closest of allies.
But during Maegor's reign of terror, the North turned its eyes away from the crown's peril. Your house's reverence and loyalty withered long ago.
Words are but wind, my lord. You spoke of treason, yet never acted. Treason earns the harshest punishment, but foolish words do not.
My judgment is this: you shall abdicate at once and pass your title to your eldest son. From this day forward, the succession of House Stark shall be mine to decide. In this realm, my will shall be the only truth."
Lord Alaric lifted his head, bitterness in his eyes, staring at the young Emperor before him.
Aegon's figure was towering, his form sculpted like marble, every line sharp and divine. He looked like a god enthroned.
"It was by your hand that Walton lies in darkness," Alaric said bitterly. "What have we of the North to do with the Warrior's Sons and the Knights of the Holy Sword—dogs of the Seven Gods?
You sent thousands of wretches to the Wall. The Watch could not feed them. Those oathbreakers rebelled, and my brother gave his life to put them down."
Aegon's face betrayed nothing. He did not rise to the complaint. If he bore the blame for every indirect death, he would have died a thousand times.
"Of course," he said calmly, "if you truly wish to take the black, I will not hinder you. The Watch will value your strength as I do. But my judgment stands."
"As you command, Your Grace," Lord Alaric said at last, knowing the Emperor's word could not be changed.
Now the great lords of Westeros all understood: Aegon II was stripping them of power, seizing it for the crown.
This was centralization more radical than any king before him had dared. Even Aegon the Conqueror had never so openly and unashamedly drawn power from the great lords into his own hands.
Aegon II, unlike his predecessors, revealed a will of iron and a boldness that set him apart.
The reason was simple: Aegon II was no longer a mere mortal.
Even before sailing across the sea, his strength had already surpassed that of ordinary dragonborn—he was a warrior who could take flight, a foe who could stand against a thousand. No king before him could compare.
The Conqueror, for all his might, had still been a man. Even with the Black Dread at his side, he could have been brought down by a single assassin's blade. But Aegon II returned from the sea wielding the divine power of the Father, with hardly a weakness left to exploit.
From the perspective of kingship, he was the supreme ruler of Westeros.
From the standpoint of divine authority, he was the reincarnation of the Father himself, a living god in the eyes of the Faithful.
And in sheer martial power, he was the continent's unmatched champion, able to cut down a man in the midst of ten thousand and take wing to escape any net of steel.
The dragonborn's speed made him untouchable to bows and crossbows. And beyond his own strength, House Targaryen still commanded the unmatched might of the dragons—monsters whose size and fire made every castle wall crumble like tinder.
This Emperor was a flawless being, a terrifying creature without a single vulnerability.
...
In the Hall of Conquest, Aegon stripped Alaric Stark of his title and bestowed it upon his eldest son. It was the first time he had used royal authority to seize a great lord's inheritance, striking a bargain with his fiercest critic. Every lord present knew Alaric would not be the last.
One by one, the seven Wardens would follow. Aegon II was poised to forge a central power Westeros had never known. He was still young; perhaps under his hand, House Targaryen itself would become the Targaryen Empire.
Yet Aegon did not hurry to seize the succession rights of other great houses. His body now carried the spark of divinity, granting him long life. His reign was only beginning—there was no need to rush.
In the months that followed, some lords bent willingly.
Gawen Gardener, Warden of the South, sent word that the Gardener succession would be left to Aegon's will. His house, founded by a bastard son of Aegon I and raised to a dukedom through valor, was among the crown's closest allies. With Aegon II's rise, Lord Gawen was the first to shift allegiance.
Others hesitated, but Aegon pressed no one. He had already proven his supremacy in the Dragon Rebellion, and now with Ghidorah fully grown, no power in Westeros could rival him.
The legacy of Aegon I—binding the Faith of the Seven and compiling the new Sevenstar Bible—was bearing fruit. In the holy texts, Aegon II was proclaimed the master of all mortals, the Father's incarnation. Rebellion against him was rebellion against godhood itself.
...
With his throne secured, Aegon turned to rebuilding the realm's strength.
Years of demonic wars had nearly toppled the dynasty's dominance. The western Protectorate in Essos struggled to subdue the Free Cities. Now it was time for a resurgence—under an Emperor's hand.
The key to it all was gold.
Armies, dragonborn, fortresses—everything required wealth.
The new Master of Coin, Rego Draz, answered the call. A man of wit and guile, he secured three enormous loans—from the Iron Bank of Braavos and its rivals in Tyrosh and Myr. Exploiting their rivalries, the "Air Lord" struck deals on the most favorable terms.
The loans alone yielded immediate results. The Dragonpit repairs resumed, and masons and builders swarmed back to Rhaenys's Hill to labor furiously.
But both Aegon and Draz knew this was only a temporary salve. Loans slowed the bleeding, but they did not heal. Real recovery required sound taxation.
Lord Celtigar's methods had failed. Aegon would not raise port fees, bleed innkeepers dry, nor stoop to Maegor's blunt demand for coin from the lords. He knew pressing too hard would only spark rebellion.
"Nothing costs more than putting down a rebellion," the Emperor declared.
The lords would still pay—but willingly, not under duress.
Thus, Aegon devised a new levy: a commercial tax on foreign luxuries.
Silk, brocade, gold-threaded cloth, silver-laced fabric, jewels, Myrish lace and tapestries, Arbor wine, Dornish sand steeds, gilded helmets, and fine Lyseni or Pentoshi armor—all would bear the tax.
The heaviest burden fell on spices. Pepper, cloves, saffron, nutmeg, cinnamon—rare treasures from beyond the Jade Gates—were worth more than gold already, and would only climb higher.
"I'm squeezing the very wares that once made me rich," Lord Rego joked with a dry smile.