The raven's black wings sliced through the dim twilight, landing at the rookery of Harrenhal before nightfall completely swallowed The Riverlands.
The fluttering of wings startled a few feathers loose. The waiting maester skillfully removed the small bamboo tube tied to its leg and hurried through the deepening shadows of the corridor toward the study deep within the main keep.
Inside the study, torches and candelabras had been lit early.
Aegon sat behind a wide desk, several reports spread out before him.
There were detailed inventories of spoils and casualties from the Battle of Stone Hedge, resource statistics from various newly occupied castles, and even more urgent reports sent from every corner of The Riverlands...
Grain convoys attacked, patrols missing, small units of Northern troops appearing and disappearing like ghosts on the edges of the occupied territories, burning supplies and raiding outposts.
These raids were small in scale and caused limited direct damage, but they were as annoying as mosquitoes, constantly biting at the newly established territories, delaying the pace of consolidating The Riverlands, and slowly wearing away what little patience Aegon had left.
He tossed aside a report about a granary being burned on the eastern shore of the Gods Eye, his fingers unconsciously tapping the smooth tabletop, his violet eyes appearing deep and dark under the flickering firelight.
Just then, the maester tapped lightly on the door and presented the newly arrived bamboo tube. Aegon took it, used a dagger to pick open the wax seal, pulled out the thin rolled paper inside, and quickly unfurled it.
It was a battle report from The Trident.
From Commander Luke. By the time the raven had been sent, the battle had just entered a stalemate.
The letter briefly described encountering the Northern army crossing the river; the vanguard had been ambushed, but they had counter-ambushed in return. Fortunately, the Bloodsworn had arrived in time to steady the lines. Currently, they were facing off against the main Northern force across the battlefield, their numbers evenly matched, making a bloody battle inevitable.
Aegon's gaze lingered for a moment on the words "evenly matched" and "bloody battle inevitable," his expression remaining unchanged.
He casually placed the letter atop the growing pile of reports and leaned back into his high-backed chair.
Silence fell over the study, broken only by the occasional crackle of the candles. Outside the window, the last sliver of daylight was being consumed by the night.
It is time.
He thought quietly.
It wasn't because the battle had reached a stalemate and required his overwhelming power to break the balance.
In fact, from Lys to Myr, from the naval battle at The Gullet to the Battle of King's Landing, he had proven countless times that as long as Ghidorah spread its wings and spat lightning, any so-called stalemate or formidable enemy would instantly turn to scorched earth and ash.
His army, more often than not, played the role of consolidating the occupation and clearing the battlefield after the dragon had swept away all obstacles.
But that wasn't what he wanted.
He needed an army.
A real army that could follow orders, fight wars, and carry out his will to every corner of the kingdom, not a group of scavengers who could only clean up the battlefield behind a dragon.
One man's martial might can conquer, but it cannot rule.
What he wanted to build was not a kingdom maintained solely by fear under his solo dictator, but a new, stable system of order.
This required a foundation.
It required support from the bottom up.
And military merit was the best material for building this foundation, as well as the most direct yardstick.
He had remained stationary, throwing his grand army into the boiling pot of The Riverlands, partly to temper the various divisions and break in the generals, but the deeper intention was...
He needed a war of sufficient scale and intensity to separate the gold from the dross.
Who was brave, who was decisive, who was good at defending, who was skilled at attacking, who could steady the lines in adversity, and who knew restraint when holding the advantage.
Blood and fire were the most impartial examiners, and military merit was the hardest currency.
He would use these merits to build the skeleton of the new dynasty.
Rewarding based on merit, granting titles by rank, and distinguishing between the superior and inferior.
Giving Soldiers a ladder for promotion and generals the hope of being ennobled.
Letting everyone understand that under the new order, glory, land, and titles no longer stemmed solely from bloodlines and surnames, but from tangible contributions and service to the crown.
Only then would rewards have a basis, the system have authority, and the rule be stable.
Otherwise, was he supposed to point at some recruit who hadn't achieved a thing and casually name him a Duke to guard a region?
That would be a farce, a seed of chaos, no different in essence from the old noble hereditary system he intended to smash—perhaps even worse.
The war in The Riverlands was the first crucible.
Commander Luke meeting setbacks, Henry rushing to support, Robb setting ambushes... every battle report added weight to the scales in his heart.
Now, enough weight had accumulated.
The stalemate at The Trident was a critical juncture.
His army had already experienced raids, ambushes, and counter-attacks, clashing head-on with the finest forces of the North.
They had demonstrated loyalty, discipline, and a certain level of combat effectiveness, but they had also exposed problems and experienced failures.
Next would be a more brutal head-on war of attrition, a meat grinder of will and flesh.
Aegon slowly stood up and walked to the window.
Outside, the massive shadow of Harrenhal merged into the fully descended night, with only scattered torches moving between the walls and towers like eyes in the dark.
He hadn't acted in order to temper the army, and more importantly, to build the future.
But tempering did not mean pointless attrition.
Building also needed to be carried out on the foundation of victory.
Now, the timing was just right.
Robb Stark's main force had been drawn to The Trident and was locked in a death grip with his two elite legions.
If this war of attrition continued, his army might win, but the cost would inevitably be heavy, which did not align with his strategic goal of quickly pacifying The Riverlands and intimidating all sides.
Furthermore, that little wolf's other packs were still scurrying about his hinterlands, dragging his feet and wasting his time.
It was time to end this game.
He needed a clean, awe-inspiring victory to bring the war in The Riverlands to a close and provide a glorious footnote to the bloody battles his Soldiers had fought during this time.
Then, carrying the prestige of a great victory, he could turn back and crush those harassing "fleas" one by one, completely clearing The Riverlands.
More importantly, he wanted all the forces in Westeros that were still watching, hesitating, or even secretly hostile to see clearly: what the consequences were for resisting the Targaryens and the new order of the crown.
The power of a dragon was never just for show; it was a sword hanging over the heads of all enemies, ready to fall at any moment.
And he, the one holding the sword, possessed enough patience and wisdom to decide when and how to swing it.
Aegon turned around, his violet eyes reflecting a cold resolve in the candlelight.
"Someone, come."
The guards standing outside the study immediately pushed the door open and entered, bowing to await orders.
"Send ravens to inform Commander Luke and Henry," Aegon's voice was calm and steady, yet carried an unquestionable power. "Hold your current positions and pin down the Northern army. I will personally arrive at The Trident before dawn tomorrow."
He paused, then added:
"Tell the Soldiers that the Royal Banner and the dragon shall be with them."
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