Dragonstone.
This island, steeped in the long history of House Targaryen, had become the permanent residence of Queen Dowager Rhaena since Aegon II's ascension.
Dragonstone possessed something almost unseen in King's Landing—dragons.
Within the great castle beneath the looming shadow of Dragonmont, it seemed new hatchlings were born each month, filling the air with vitality and mystery.
Aegon II bore the immense burden of rebuilding the realm. It was no easy task—he had to restore the Targaryen treasury, revive the kingdom's economy, and at the same time devote extraordinary effort to the breeding and raising of dragons, a matter he regarded as essential.
With funds flowing more freely of late, the Dragonpit on Dragonmont began its second great expansion, steadily growing in size.
Aegon II held a grand vision: in time, he meant to relocate every human settlement from Dragonstone, making the entire island a sanctuary for dragons alone—a holy ground for their breeding and growth.
Not long after returning to Dragonstone, Queen Dowager Rhaena's dragon, Dreamfyre, laid three precious eggs.
At this time, her son Aegon II was consumed by the endless duties of governance; her two daughters were still far away upon the Valyrian Peninsula, recovering from their wounds.
Thus, in her solitude, Rhaena poured all her energy and affection into the raising of dragons.
Thanks to her devoted care, the number of hatchings on Dragonstone soared after Aegon II's coronation. The count of wild, untamed dragons on the island also steadily grew, strengthening the power of House Targaryen.
...
By the fifty-fourth year of the Conquest, Emperor Aegon II had completed his royal progress through the Vale of Arryn.
Following a carefully planned route, he visited Gulltown, Runestone, Redfort, Longbow Hall, Heart's Home, and the Gates of the Moon—everywhere he went, the majesty of the Emperor was on full display.
At last, astride the awe-inspiring Ghidorah, he soared up to the lofty Eyrie upon the Giant's Lance, just as Queen Visenya had done in the days of the Conquest, and gazed down upon the wide lands below.
Queen Alysanne accompanied him for part of this journey.
But her body had yet to fully recover from the trials of childbirth, and her infant son Jaehaerys still needed her constant care. For these reasons, she could not travel the full circuit.
Even so, during the time she was present, Queen Alysanne played an important role.
Through her efforts, Lady Prudence Celtigar and Lord Grafton of Gulltown became betrothed—a happy match born of her mediation.
She also used the opportunity to convene "Women's Courts" in Gulltown and at the Gates of the Moon.
These courts, open only to women regardless of rank or age, allowed her to hear their voices directly and to learn of their struggles and hopes. What she saw and heard there would go on to influence the shaping of laws across the Seven Kingdoms.
People often spoke later of "the Laws of Queen Alysanne," though the phrase was somewhat misleading.
Strictly speaking, the Queen held no power to draft laws, issue decrees, or pass judgment. She could not be compared in authority to the Conqueror's two queens, Rhaenys and Visenya.
And yet her influence upon Aegon II was undeniable.
He placed great value on her counsel and respected her perspective deeply.
So it was again when they returned from the Vale.
Through the voices she heard at her Women's Courts, Queen Alysanne came to see how widows across the realm suffered in much the same ways.
In times of relative peace, men often outlived their first wives.
The reasons were many—young men perished in wars, while young women all too often lost their lives in childbirth.
From the days of Aegon the Conqueror to the present, new medicine had brought advances in birthing practices, yet such benefits remained confined to the great lords. The smallfolk knew little of them.
Across every rank of society, one truth was clear: widowers tended to remarry.
However, when a second wife entered a household, she often became the target of resentment from the children of the first.
Lacking any natural bond or affection, heirs would, upon their father's death, frequently cast the widow out without hesitation, reducing her to poverty and misery.
Among noble families, this cruelty could be even harsher. A widow might be stripped of her rightful income, her servants dismissed, and her privileges erased—leaving her, once accustomed to luxury, a mere dependent, living without dignity or support.
Queen Alysanne knew well the injustice and cruelty of such treatment. Through her persistent advocacy and influence, she pushed for reform.
Thus, in the fifty-fourth year of the Conquest, Aegon II solemnly issued the Widow's Law.
The law first reaffirmed the primogeniture of sons. For families without a male heir, it explicitly established the inheritance rights of the eldest daughter, ensuring the continuity of bloodlines. At the same time, it mandated in strict terms that heirs must treat their father's widow with respect, forbidding any reduction in her standard of living.
In particular, for widows of great lords—whether second wives, third wives, or later—never could they be driven from the castle, nor deprived of their servants, clothing, or rightful income. The law guaranteed them the most basic dignity of life.
Yet the statute also preserved fairness. It barred any attempt to deprive the children of the first wife of their lawful inheritance in order to enrich a later wife and her offspring.
In this way, the Widow's Law safeguarded harmony within noble houses and prevented quarrels and chaos over inheritance.
...
In the same year, Aegon II turned his gaze from the kingdom at large to the capital itself.
During Aegon I's reign, King's Landing's inner city had been adorned with its iconic landmarks: the majestic Red Keep, the solemn trio of outer halls and inner halls, the great Dragonpit of Rhaenys, and the Tower of the Hand and White Sword Tower. Together, these structures formed the core of the capital's grandeur.
But with the realm's continued growth, the time had come to expand the outer city.
At a meeting of the Small Council, Aegon II declared with unshakable resolve: "I am determined to make our capital the foremost city in all the world."
Such a monumental undertaking required astronomical sums of gold and resources, a feat even the strongest realm could not achieve overnight.
After careful deliberation, Aegon ordered construction to begin in the outer districts closest to the Red Keep.
Streets were widened and repaved with neat cobblestones, making travel smoother and more comfortable.
A vast central square was laid out, planted with lush trees, beneath which markets bustled and arcades were built for strolling. From this square, four broad, straight avenues stretched outward: King's Road, symbol of royal authority; Gods' Road, embodiment of the sacred; Sisters' Street, a bustling hub of daily life; and Blackwater Street, marked by its unique character.
In his plans for the outer city, Aegon II showed remarkable foresight. He divided the districts into residential, commercial, and industrial zones, laying a foundation for orderly urban growth.
He also ordered a range of public facilities: great hospitals, waste disposal sites, fire stations, watch houses, and schools—all intended to improve the quality of life and safety for King's Landing's people.
Naturally, such a vast project could not be completed swiftly. It would take years, perhaps decades. But its beginnings lay in Aegon II's bold decree of the fifty-fourth year.
...
The enormous cost of this grand building effort quickly drained the already strained royal treasury.
Amid this, discontent toward "Air Lord" Rego Draz grew steadily.
Like his predecessors, the Pentoshi Master of Coin soon found himself the target of public hatred—but this time for different reasons.
People accused him of corruption, of lining his own pockets and diverting the kingdom's wealth.
Lord Rego scoffed at such charges, dismissing them with scorn. "Why would I steal from the Emperor? His entire fortune isn't even half of mine."
Beyond corruption, many condemned his lack of piety. He showed little reverence for the Seven, for Pentos had its own strange gods.
Rego Draz openly worshipped a small idol: a grotesque figure of a pregnant woman with swollen breasts and the head of a bat.
When questioned about it, he merely said, "She is the only god I need."
And when insults came, calling him a bastard, this was the one charge Lord Rego could not deny.
The bloodlines of the Pentoshi were tangled and ancient, a mingling of Andal and Valyrian stock, mixed with the blood of slave races and peoples so old they had all but faded from memory.
The people hurled countless accusations at Rego Draz, but at their root, the greatest cause of resentment was simple: he flaunted his staggering wealth without restraint.
He paraded in lavish silk robes, his fingers weighed down with gem-encrusted rings, and rode in gilded palanquins of extravagant splendor. Such displays of excess bred envy and discontent among the commons.
Even so, his enemies could not deny that he was a capable Master of Coin.
But overseeing the urgent works at the Dragonpit and Dragonmont, while also shouldering the vast project of expanding King's Landing's outer city, would have strained even the most gifted of men.
Taxes on silk, spices, and castle works alone could not fill the coffers.
Reluctantly, Lord Rego imposed a new levy: the city tax.
Every traveler entering or leaving the outer city of King's Landing was charged a fee by guards along the King's Road. Those bringing horses, mules, donkeys, or cattle paid more; wagons and carts were taxed at even higher rates.
With the sheer tide of traffic passing through King's Landing each day, the city tax swelled the treasury handsomely—more than enough to meet the needs of urban construction, with silver left to spare.
But the cost to Rego himself was steep.
Rumors against him spread like wildfire, tenfold more than before, dragging him deeper into the whirlpool of public scorn.
The warmth of the Long Summer, the abundance of harvests, and the air of peace and prosperity that lingered across the realm eased some of the people's anger.
And as the year drew toward its close, Queen Alysanne brought Emperor Aegon joyous tidings:
—she was pregnant again.
This time, the Queen vowed to remain vigilant, swearing no enemy would come within a step of her.
Upon hearing the news, Aegon set aside all thought of his second royal progress. The tour had been meticulously prepared, publicly announced, and widely anticipated, yet he resolved to remain at his wife's side until the child was safely born.
But Queen Alysanne was steadfast. She knew how vital the royal progress was for cementing the realm's unity, and she insisted Aegon continue with the plan.
Reluctantly, he agreed, and for the first time set out alone.
...
At the turn of the year, with bells tolling in King's Landing, Aegon mounted mighty Ghidorah once more and soared skyward, setting course for the Riverlands.
The first stop on his royal progress was Harrenhal, seat of the New Citadel.
There, he visited young Maegor Tarth, but nine years old, headmaster of the school.
At Harrenhal, Emperor Aegon delivered a stirring address to the students of the New Citadel.
When his speech ended, Maegor Tarth voluntarily offered his resignation, and Aegon once more assumed the role of headmaster.
Before all the gathered pupils, young Maegor solemnly explained: his house had merely held the post in stewardship for the Emperor. Now that Aegon had returned, the position rightly belonged to him.
Aegon praised the Tarths for their diligence in his absence and appointed Maegor as Vice-Headmaster, to oversee the school whenever he himself was away.
During his stay, Aegon noticed something remarkable within the Wolf Tower, the Citadel's hall for knights.
Over the past decade, dragonborn children had come to study there. These youths possessed a strange, innate power—a fusion of magic-essence and blood.
Yet unlike the twisted forces that birthed demons, this power harmonized with their ancestral blood and life-seed, strengthening their bodies instead of corrupting them.
The maesters of the New Citadel named this power [Battle Qi].
Children born with it were called [Warriors].
Aegon recalled sensing faint ripples of such power in his own son, young Jaehaerys, though at the time he had thought little of it. Now he found the Citadel had devoted itself to studying this very gift.
Within the Dragon Tower, mystic maesters labored day and night to develop ways of cultivating Battle Qi.
If such energy could be nurtured and grown through training, then those born with even the faintest spark might one day blaze as mighty warriors, destined to shape the future of Westeros.
Recognizing the immense potential, Aegon immediately pledged his support, offering funds to further the research.
But to his surprise, the maesters told him no money was needed.
Stunned, Aegon pressed for answers and soon learned the truth:
Across Westeros, nearly every noble house had grafted the flesh of the Awakened, becoming dragonborn themselves. Which meant that nearly all their children were born as natural Warriors.
Thus, the warrior projects of the New Citadel enjoyed overwhelming support. Thousands of lords, great and small, poured coin into the research, united by the hope that these children would herald a new age of greatness.
Yet Aegon saw another truth in it. The lords, powerless before his godlike might, were placing their hopes in the Warriors. In secret, they wondered: if Battle Qi could be cultivated and strengthened… might these children one day grow strong enough to stand against the Emperor himself?
For that reason, they poured resources into the cause, seeing the Warriors as their last hope.
Aegon too saw the promise of this path.
But he did not forbid it.
For he knew the blood of House Targaryen carried the ancient Valyrian [Ascension Stairway]. Even if the age of the Warrior dawned, Targaryen Warriors would stand as the strongest of all.
Unchallenged, unafraid.
...
Aegon lingered long at the Citadel, immersing himself fully, even lending his own hand to the research.
Together with the maesters, they fashioned the first rudimentary method for cultivating Battle Qi: the [Breathing Method].
Children had already begun to practice this early form. Progress was slow, but steady. Step by step, their inner energy grew.