The great hall of Duskendale's keep was steeped in a cold, oppressive gloom.
Young Aegon sat stiffly in his high-backed chair, a parchment clenched tightly in his hand. Fury burned across his youthful, handsome face, stripping away all trace of his usual composure.
He glared down at the pale-faced "Maester" Haldon.
"Who dares concoct such vile, despicable lies and spread them throughout my kingdom?!"
Haldon raised his head, bitterness and helplessness etched into his expression.
"Your Grace, at dawn these pamphlets appeared as if they had sprouted from the very walls. They were suddenly everywhere in the town—taverns, markets, even at the gates of the castle. Our men are still confiscating them, but far too many people have already seen them."
He hesitated, then continued.
"And this is likely not limited to Duskendale alone. A raven just arrived from the Stormlands. Those left behind report that identical letters appeared almost simultaneously at Storm's End, Bronzegate, and even in some remote villages. It is said that certain nobles and knights who have already sworn loyalty are beginning to make private contact with one another. People's hearts are wavering."
Young Aegon suddenly crushed the parchment in his fist and hurled it to the floor.
Every word on it cut straight to the bone.
The leaflet claimed that the man now calling himself Aegon Targaryen was not the son of Rhaegar and Elia, but the child of Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos, and a woman from Lys.
That Lysene woman was said to be Varys's sister, and moreover a descendant of one of Daemon Blackfyre's daughters who had fled into exile.
Thus, it painted the picture of a vast deception, meticulously planned over decades.
The "Spider" Varys had infiltrated Westeros not for a true Targaryen, but to place his Blackfyre-blooded "nephew" upon the Iron Throne.
His bald head, the leaflet claimed, was meant to conceal the telltale silver-gold hair that might otherwise arouse suspicion.
It even accused Varys of secretly fanning the flames during the War of the Usurper, hastening the fall of House Targaryen.
Young Aegon's so-called "return of the true dragon" was, in reality, nothing more than a blatant "Blackfyre Rebellion."
The Golden Company's unwavering support was cited as the strongest proof, a force founded by "Bittersteel" Aegor Rivers and forever dedicated to the Blackfyre cause.
The true poison of the rumor lay in the fact that it was not spun from nothing.
Instead, it cleverly stitched together fragments of known truths, weaving them into a narrative that appeared internally consistent and disturbingly convincing.
Yet even this was not what troubled Young Aegon the most.
Unrest in the Stormlands could still be suppressed with troops and displays of force.
The greatest danger came from within, from his Dornish allies, whose relationship with him was already strained by Oberyn's death.
Almost as soon as the rumors spread, Quentyn Martell, who had been commanding the front lines against the remaining Lannister forces, abruptly returned to Duskendale with a portion of Dorne's elite troops.
He stormed straight into the hall and, before all the assembled commanders, slammed that cursed leaflet onto the table in front of Young Aegon.
"Your Grace!"
Quentyn's voice was cold as ice as he demanded,
"Explain this to us, to Dorne, to everyone who has fought for you. My father, my sister, and all of Dorne placed their hopes in you as Rhaegar's son, not some unknown—"
"Insolence!"
Young Aegon shot to his feet.
"Quentyn Martell! You dare confront your king with such shameless lies spread by our enemies?! This is a scheme to sow discord, a poison plot by the Lannisters, by Stannis, or by some ambitious rat hiding in the shadows. Can't you see that?!"
"What I see is that what's written here is detailed and convincing!"
Quentyn snapped back without yielding an inch. Oberyn's death had already left him resentful toward Young Aegon, and now he had found a channel for it.
"How do you explain Varys's shaved head? Why did the Golden Company support you without hesitation? Why is Illyrio so devoted to you? Are all of these really coincidences?!"
"You—"
Young Aegon trembled with rage. His right hand slammed onto the hilt of the Blackfyre sword, naked killing intent blazing in his eyes.
"You're courting death!"
The tension in the hall snapped tight.
Golden Company officers instinctively reached for their weapons. Dornish commanders stepped forward with dark expressions.
Just as Young Aegon was on the verge of drawing his sword, a figure rushed in.
"Stop! All of you, stop!"
Princess Arianne Martell burst into the hall, her face pale with alarm. She seized Quentyn by the arm and pleaded with Young Aegon,
"Your Grace, please calm yourself! Quentyn is only… shaken by these sudden rumors. We must not turn on each other and let our true enemies laugh at us!"
She dragged the still-fuming Quentyn out of the hall, with Daemon Sand and other Dornish nobles following close behind.
A bloody clash was narrowly avoided, but the fracture could no longer be mended.
Young Aegon stared at their retreating backs, his chest heaving. He suddenly kicked over a low table beside him, sending goblets and fruit scattering across the floor.
"Investigate! Find out everything!"
He roared into the air.
"Where is Lysono Maar?! Bring him to me at once! I want to know which sewer rat is spreading this filth. I'll drag him out and flay him alive!"
Lysono Maar, the Golden Company's spymaster, arrived swiftly, his face scarcely better than Haldon's.
After Varys's death, the network of "little birds" that once spanned the Seven Kingdoms had collapsed. Lysono had taken over too recently, with shallow foundations. He had barely managed to extend his intelligence reach from the Stormlands into the Crownlands when this crisis struck.
His voice was heavy with exhaustion.
"Your Grace, the speed and scope of this rumor's spread are highly abnormal. There must be an efficient and well-funded organization behind it. The most likely suspects are the remaining Lannister forces. They have both motive and means. Stannis Baratheon is also a possibility. Beyond that… Littlefinger of the Vale. His methods and motives are highly suspicious, but we lack concrete evidence."
At that moment, Captain Harry Strickland, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.
His tone was dark.
"Your Grace, regardless of where the rumor came from, or whether it is true or false, tracing its source is not our most urgent concern. That takes time, and time is precisely what we lack. What matters is dealing with the consequences. The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms will not wait for us to uncover the truth. Their doubts and wavering are already spreading."
He continued,
"Words are wind. Armies and blades give the final answer. We must silence all doubt with an undeniable, glorious victory. Let triumph be the proof. Proof of who the true king is. Proof that a dragon is a dragon, whether black or red."
Harry's words cooled some of Young Aegon's fury, forcing him to steady himself.
Yes. Arguing over bloodlines was meaningless. Victory alone would decide everything.
...
On the other side of the castle, in the courtyard chambers temporarily occupied by the Dornish, the atmosphere was no less tense.
"We've been played, sister!"
Quentyn Martell all but growled.
He paced back and forth in agitation.
"Dorne has been completely manipulated by that impostor and the schemers behind him. We fought the Lannisters for him, bled for him. And what did we get? Uncle Oberyn died for nothing!"
Arianne's face was pale, but she forced herself to remain calm.
"Quentyn, those are only rumors. There's no proof. How can you just accept the enemy's provocation?"
"Rumors?"
Quentyn stopped short and turned on her, letting out a cold laugh.
"Then tell me, which part of it can you completely refute? Is Varys not bald? Wasn't he working with Illyrio all along? Wasn't the Golden Company founded by Blackfyre loyalists, never serving the Targaryens for a hundred years until now? Why does Illyrio care more about an exiled prince than his own son? That's too many coincidences!"
With each question, Arianne's face grew paler.
She loved Young Aegon and did not want to believe it, but reason told her that her brother's doubts were not without foundation.
"I… I don't know… but Aegon, he…"
Her voice faltered.
Quentyn watched her struggle, anger and helplessness mixing in his chest. His tone softened.
"My princess sister, wake up. If this is all true, what does that make us? We drained Dorne's warriors of their blood, offended nobles across all Westeros, even sacrificed Uncle Oberyn's life, all for a Blackfyre heir. House Martell, Father's years of planning and endurance, all of it becomes a colossal joke."
Those final words struck Arianne like a hammer.
She staggered, bracing herself against the table, her eyes filled with confusion and pain.
Daemon Sand and the other Dornish commanders stood grim and silent.
Quentyn let out a long sigh, then turned to Daemon Sand.
"Write to Sunspear. Tell my father everything that has happened here. Let him decide our next move. We Dornish will not be anyone else's pawns."
...
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