The setting sun bled across the horizon, turning the Narrow Sea into a pool of molten copper.
Sunfyre and Sheepstealer banked over the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone, their shadows stretching long across the new docks. Sheepstealer's flank, once pierced by Tyroshian bolts, was now smooth; the dragon's searing blood had already pushed out the iron and sealed the scales.
Aegon jumped from the saddle, followed by a weary but invigorated Hugh Hammer.
"You're getting better," Aegon said, wiping soot from his brow. "But you need more time in the air. From now on, the Stepstones patrols are yours. It's time I let Aemond and Daeron focus on their own growth."
Aemond was ten—the age to begin serving as an attendant, learning the maintenance of plate and the care of warhorses. Daeron, at six, was due to become a page, a life of aristocratic etiquette and dull lessons under the maesters of the Red Keep.
"Your Highness," Ser Kraken approached, bowing low. "The temporary residence is complete. Princess Helaena has already moved your belongings inside."
"Finished?" Aegon let out a long, genuine sigh. "Gods be praised. I'm done with tents."
"One more thing, Sire," Kraken added. "Reclamation is slow. We are short on oxen, and our iron plows are snapping in the dry soil. Without proper tools, turning this wasteland into farmland will take years."
Aegon didn't hesitate. "Prioritize the ironworks. We'll forge our own tools. Send riders to the Reach and the Westerlands to buy every head of cattle they can spare. In the meantime, move two thousand men to the North and East for manual clearing. The rest go to the West district—we build that port in three shifts. Feed the night crews extra meat; I want a harbor, not a graveyard of overworked men."
As Aegon walked toward the new manor, a voice drifted from the second-floor balcony.
"Aegon! Over here!"
He looked up to see Helaena waving, her silvery hair shimmering like a halo in the twilight. Beside her, Aemond was playfully wrestling with Daeron, pinching the six-year-old's cheeks while Daeron flailed his arms in greeting.
For the four of them, this wasn't just a stone building. It was a fortress of sanity, away from the suffocating rot of the Red Keep and the whispers of the "Greens" and "Blacks."
Inside, the manor was humble compared to the palace. There were no golden tapestries, only a thick Myrish rug on the wall embroidered with the likenesses of their four dragons: Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Vhagar, and Tessarion.
Daeron flew down the stairs, skipping the last five steps to leap into Aegon's arms. Aegon caught him with a start, laughing.
"Brother! Your room is across from Helaena's! And mine is next to yours!" Daeron beamed.
Aemond followed, smirking. "He only got that room because he cheated at Gomoku. I won the best-of-three, and then he started moving the stones when I wasn't looking."
"I did not!" Daeron protested, though his guilty grin said otherwise.
Helaena followed them down, a peaceful smile on her face. "Aemond, you're the elder. You should let him have his small victories."
Aegon watched them, his heart tightening. He thought of the letter from Alicent—the demand that the boys return to King's Landing to serve their "proper" roles as attendants and pages.
"Mother wrote to me," Aegon said, his tone shifting. "She wants Aemond and Daeron back in the capital to begin their training."
"No!" Daeron's face fell instantly. "I don't want to go back! King's Landing is boring, and the Red Keep is even worse! I don't want to spend my days with those dusty old maesters asking me how many years the Citadel has stood!"
The boy grabbed Aegon's hand, his eyes wide and pleading. "Brother, if I'd never seen the Stepstones, I could have endured it. But you can't send me back to that cage now."
Aegon tapped Daeron's head gently. "Stop the dramatics. I never said I was sending you back. I've changed my mind."
"We stay?" Aemond asked, his eye lighting up.
"You stay. But you still study. If you don't learn, you'll become an idiot, and I have no use for idiots." Aegon looked at Aemond. "Aemond, you will serve as Ser Arryk's attendant. You'll learn the blade from one of the best."
He turned to Daeron. "And you'll be a squire for Ser Kraken. No page-work. You'll learn to lead men on the ground."
Aegon's gaze turned sharp, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. "I need you both. I need you strong, and I need you smart. When the time comes to reclaim the Iron Throne, I won't be doing it alone."
The jovial atmosphere vanished. Aemond and Daeron stood straighter, the weight of their brother's ambition settling on their young shoulders.
"Don't worry, brother," Daeron said, his voice unusually steady for a six-year-old. "Tessarion is growing every day. Give me five more years..."
The boy's eyes flashed with a cold fire. "Give me five years, and I'm confident I can tear Rhaenyra and her Syrax apart in a one-on-one fight!"
Aegon smiled—a sharp, predatory thing. The dragons of the Stepstones were no longer just pets; they were a pack.
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