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Chapter 5: The Dragon's Forge
The salt spray stung our faces as the ship cut through the waves, the Red Keep shrinking into a miserable speck on the horizon. The silence between Rhaenyra and me was heavy, filled with all the words we had shouted and all the fears we had left unspoken.
She stood at the railing, her silver hair whipping in the wind like a banner of defiance. "He bought our exile with gold and an oath he will be pressured to break every day," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut through the roar of the sea.
"He did not buy our exile, sister," I replied, joining her. "He paid for his peace. And we bought our freedom. Gold is a weapon. A promise is a shield. We now have both."
She turned to me, her violet eyes searching mine. "And what will we do with this freedom, Aemon? Rule a rock in the sea?"
"No," I said, the plan crystallizing in my mind with a clarity that felt like a memory from another life. "We will build an empire from that rock. And that empire will win you the Iron Throne. I swear it to you. By the old gods and the new, by our mother's memory, I will see you crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not because he named you, but because we made it so that no one else can be."
It was more than a promise; it was a vow. A pact forged in shared grief and exile. She didn't smile, but the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. She gave a single, sharp nod. The deal was struck.
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Dragonstone was a grim fortress of stone dragons and salty winds, but it was ours. The next morning, I found Yohanna in the Aegon's Garden, overseeing the unpacking of our household. Her face, lined with years of service and recent grief, was a map of loyalty.
"Yohanna," I called her aside, under the shadow of a carved stone beast. "We must talk. Of the future."
"My prince," she said, her tone cautious. She still saw the seven-year-old boy she had helped raise.
"The gold we brought… it is not just treasure. It is a seed. And we will make it grow." I began to paint a picture for her, a vision of workshops and distilleries, of ships laden not with ore, but with goods unlike any Westeros had ever seen. Soap that lathered like cream. Scents that captured the essence of flowers and spices. Liquors strong enough to burn a man's throat and smooth enough to please a king.
Her eyes widened with each detail. "My prince, such knowledge… how…?"
I tapped my temple, a lie ready on my lips, woven from a thread of truth. "The dreams. Since I was a child. Visions of fire and steam, of copper coils and bubbling vats. I see them as clearly as I saw the dragon in my dream." It was a dangerous gambit, to claim divine or prophetic insight, but it was the only way to explain the inexplicable. The Targaryens were known for their dreams. I would simply have more useful ones.
I gave her the first commands: find artisans, source oils and grains, begin experiments. She listened, her initial shock transforming into sharp, pragmatic understanding. She asked the right questions. She saw the potential.
"We cannot do this alone," she finally said. "We need ships. We need merchants who know the world's routes."
"I know," I said. "We will pay a visit to Lord Corlys Velaryon. Soon."
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The court of the Sea Snake at High Tide was a stark contrast to the grimness of Dragonstone—all gleaming marble and wealth wrested from the sea. Lord Corlys received us with polite curiosity, though his eyes held the calculating gleam of a man who measures value in every soul he meets.
The negotiations began with trade. Yohana presented the samples: a bar of rose-scented soap, a vial of lavender perfume, a small cask of the first, raw whiskey. Corlys sniffed, tasted, and his eyebrows rose. He saw it immediately: not just products, but luxury, status, and immense profit.
It was Rhaenyra, ever perceptive, who saw the deeper play. "An alliance built on trade is strong," she said, her voice carrying an authority that belied her age. "But an alliance built on blood is stronger."
The air shifted. Laenor Velaryon, a handsome and agreeable young man, stood beside his father. The unspoken offer—a marriage between him and Rhaenyra—hung in the air.
But it was I who spoke into that silence. "Blood binds indeed, my lord," I said, stepping forward. "But perhaps the strongest bond is one that creates a new branch, rather than grafting onto an old one." All eyes turned to me. "Princess Rhaenyra's path is her own. Her value is singular." I let the words settle, implying her destiny was too great to be merely a Velaryon bride. "But I would tie our houses together. I would ask for the hand of your daughter, Laena. Let our union be the foundation of this new enterprise. Our children will carry the name Velaryon and Targaryen, and inherit the greatest fleet and the newest empire in the world."
It was a masterstroke. I could see Corlys turning it over in his mind. His daughter, a lady of fierce spirit and Valyrian beauty, for the second son. It was less than a crown for Laenor, but it was something new, something he could shape himself. It was a partnership of equals, not a subjugation. After a long moment, he nodded. "A proposal worthy of consideration."
The deal was struck. Driftmark would be our partner. The first, crucial block of our power base was laid.
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Back on Dragonstone, I began my own work. I was no longer a prince to be coddled. I took up a sword. The master-at-arms tried to teach me the traditional styles of Westerosi knights—broad, powerful swings, strong stances.
I listened, I learned the basics, and then I began to adapt. I incorporated the brutal efficiency of my past life—close-quarters combat, disarming techniques, using an opponent's weight against them, strikes to vulnerable points no knight would ever target in honorable combat. I started training a select group of young guards, not in tournament knightly arts, but in the art of protection and lethal efficiency. They became my shadow, the core of a new guard loyal only to us.
Meanwhile, our whispers went out to King's Landing. Not for knights or lords, but for the forgotten. The sick, the poor, the desperate from the slums of Flea Bottom were offered passage, food, and honest work in the new workshops springing up on Dragonstone. And the orphans, the countless street urchins with no name and no future, were brought to us. They were fed, clothed, and taught—not just letters and numbers, but loyalty. They would be our future workforce, our scribes, our soldiers. Their allegiance would be to the house that gave them a life, not to a distant king.
And through it all, Yohanna was the engine. She was the face of the operation, commanding the workshops, managing the growing flow of people and goods. She was the one who made the dream a reality.
I remained in the shadows, the reclusive prince, the dreamer. It was a perfect disguise. While the realm saw a boy hiding on his rock, we were building the foundation of a power that would, one day, shake the very foundations of the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon was not just a beast to be ridden; it was an empire to be built. And we had just lit the first fire.