Leaving the Dragonpit, the contrast between the two was striking: Skaði still had tear stains on her massive cheeks, while Aegon looked utterly depleted, as if he had aged ten years in ten minutes.
He had expected his "sincere prince" performance to win him undying loyalty, perhaps a solemn vow of fealty. He had not expected to be nearly crushed into a royal paste. He realized now that while Skaði possessed the skills of a master and the strength of a titan, her mind was still that of a vulnerable child.
"Skaði," Aegon said, rubbing his aching ribs, "would you want to become a knight? To fight for me?"
Her skill at the forge was invaluable, but that could be taught to others. Her raw power, however, was a gift from the gods. Properly trained, she could be a force of nature—a warrior who could turn the tide of a battle with a single blow.
"I don't want to be a knight," Skaði replied softly. "I just want to forge. But if you need me, I will be a gladiator for you. I will fight on the battlefield."
"A gladiator?" Aegon asked, surprised. "Why a gladiator?"
"Because they are strong. But even the strongest champion in Tyrosh was no match for me. I once crushed a champion's head with one hand," she said, her voice trembling with lingering fear. "I was terrified. I couldn't stop crying. But my master told me if I didn't fight, I wouldn't eat for three days."
Aegon took a sharp breath. He imagined the scene: a giant girl, sobbing uncontrollably while casually caving in the skull of a seasoned killer because she was hungry. It was a terrifying image of wasted potential and cruelty. I will not waste her, he promised himself.
The Weight of a Hundred Thousand Souls
By the seventh month of 120 AC, the pressure on Dragonstone had reached a breaking point. Only six days remained before the engagement feast, but Aegon was buried under a mountain of ledgers.
Loren had returned from the Stepstones with eighty-six thousand refugees from the Tyroshian outskirts. Including the existing garrison and settlers, Dragonstone was now home to nearly one hundred thousand people.
The supplies Aegon had carefully stockpiled—meats, grains, and tools—were vanishing at double the predicted rate. The twenty Lannister cogs were a drop in the ocean. A hundred thousand hungry mouths didn't just eat; they consumed the future.
"The plan has to move up," Aegon muttered, his face buried in his hands.
Half an hour later, Ser Alec arrived at the Roundtable Meeting Room, breathless and covered in dust.
"Sorry I'm late, Your Highness," Alec panted.
"Careful, Alec," Aegon joked weakly. "You don't want to be the first knight in history to die from a paper cut and exhaustion." He turned serious. "We're on the right track, but we're running out of time. I'm releasing word: I'm purchasing fifty thousand gold dragons' worth of grain, tools, and livestock immediately."
Ser Kraken frowned. "Your Highness, our port isn't finished. Opening it now is dangerous. Tyrosh is blockaded, but Myr and Lys are watching. If we open the gates, the Triarchy and the Dornish will send more than just merchants. They'll send assassins, spies, and saboteurs. Even the Black Party in King's Landing would love to see you fail where Daemon and Corlys did."
"Kraken is right," Alec added. "We have ten thousand people clearing land on Grey Gallows Isle. Stability is more important than speed. If we need supplies, we can rent ships and go to them. We have gold, even if we lack grain."
Aegon shook his head. "Renting is too slow and too expensive. Dragonstone must become a hub, not just a fortress. We open True Dragon Port."
He stood, his voice ringing with finality. "We only allow ships from Braavos and the Seven Kingdoms for now. Hugh will watch the skies, and Sunfyre will be stationed at the docks. Let the rats in the gutter come; they'll find only fire."
"But Sire," Kraken persisted, "fifty cargo ships and thirty warships from Braavos? That will drain our treasury. We'll be broke within the year."
Aegon's mouth curved into a predatory smile. "Who said we're going to be out of money? We have a bank right across the water."
The knights looked confused.
"Tyrosh," Aegon said simply. "I don't have the men to occupy the city yet, but I have the dragons to bleed it. If I need gold and I need people, I'll take them from the Triarchy. It's time for some primitive capital accumulation."
He had learned enough history to know that great powers weren't built on fair trade alone. They were built on the plunder of those too weak to stop them. Tyrosh was no longer a rival; it was his personal vault.
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