Heavy vellum folded over itself, parchment crumbling with a dry crunch as the words sat in his thoughts with an edge as sharp as the wax of the Myrish seal.
Even as it left a jagged half-moon in the meat of his palm, all Aegon could do was let it bite. Myr bows to His Grace, Viserys Targaryen. The ink was black and simple, the letters sharp and indifferent to the absolute madness they spelled out in full form. Myr bows to His Grace, Viserys Targaryen, the true Dragon King of Valyria, Blessed of Rh’llor, Chosen of The Flame, Undying Archmagister of Myr.
Viserys Targaryen.
His uncle.
The Beggar King.
A rabid frothing dog unleashed across Essos, all stories had claimed him long-dead a year past.
But stories, it seemed, were not as true as they always should have been.
And these new stories cast his mad uncle as the winner.
Viserys claimed a city. Viserys claimed fire. Viserys claimed the blood of Old Valyria in true form and function, taking an entire city with screams and burning stone.
Aegon Targaryen stood within the walled manse, the center of the courtyard heavy from air thick and cloying with the smell of overripe lemon. He knew himself, who and what he was as well as who and what he had been raised to be. His grooming was careful, his body lean, and his learning layered; from the histories of the Free Cities and Westeros both, the proper conjugations of High Valyrian, the laws of the Reach, and the correct angle to raise his chin so the light of the sun framed his cheekbones in the manner of his ancestors.
What was he otherwise?
Blue dye and waiting. The crushed ball of parchment cast down against sun-baked stone, young Aegon turned his head aside with venom on his lips. “A lie.”It must be. For it to be anything else, anything greater than that would mean… “No.” His head shook from side to side, fingers clenched tight to fists. “A mummer’s farce. Myr has high walls and thousands of men in their employ… and…” But they no longer had the Golden Company, did they? Not when that army was already on the move toward Volantis as they had been for moons now. “You cannot simply…”He was talking to no one, the courtyard still empty as his voice returned to him from the walls.
Anger — ugly, hot and entirely unbefitting of a king — seized him by the throat with the taste of old ash. Bitter, harsh and choking, it gripped harder despite his own desire to cast it off; simple emotion getting the better of him as it shook his body from the shoulders down.
Myr bows.
Purple eyes cast themselves forward, landing on the bench of heavy marble resting beneath the shade of the oldest tree in the courtyard.
Thick and veined with gold, it was anchored deep in the dirt — in place for far more years than he had drawn breath.
He wanted it broken.
A hand lifted without thought as the air warped in front of him. A crack tore the afternoon wide open, the sound as deafening as thunder on a clear day as a ripple passed through the empty space of the manse like a massive stone dropped into still water.
The force struck the bench; an invisible trebuchet landing hard as marble exploded apart.
Fine white fragments shrieked through the courtyard, jagged stone shearing apart thick bark right off the trunk of the lemon tree. Leaves poured down in a shredded green rain as chunks of rock gouged deep scars in the plaster of the courtyard walls; impact resounding off enclosed stones until the air itself felt bruised.
Powder dusted his boots, a thick cloud of white choking out the scent of lemon.
Aegon stood still and unmoving as he stared down at his own hand, a high thin whine in his ears enough to drown out the noise of the city outside the walls.
Fingers trembled under his gaze, no fear in his heart.
No, this was thrill that spiked in his veins — cold and terrifyingly clean. How easy. The power he had known for moons now, around the same time the Company had sworn to his cause, sang in his blood and demnaded to be used — at combat, at war, at all.
If Viserys even had half as much power, he could easily have made many bow under his hand for simple fear of what he could bring down on their heads. How easy. The simple realization settled behind his ribs. To just unmake a thing.
Reducing history and stone and fifty years of Volantene carving to mere powder in all of a heartbeat was a heady thing. The urge to do it again, to something greater — a wall, a man, a grand beast — crawled up the back of his neck and settled deeper in his chest.
“Magnificent.”The ringing in his ears hitched, Aegon turning as his spine stiffened to a practiced rod of posture. “Magnificent, my King.”Jon Connington stood in the archway of the manse, the archway shadowing his usual worn leather for a bare moment before he stepped out into the light of the afternoon sun. The red roots of his hair showed stark against weakening dye, blue coloring framing a face usually carved from stone as old as it was humorless.
Usually.
But not today.
Pale eyes, wild and glassy with a wet sheen, fell upon him; gouged walls, powdered bench and shredded bark entirely ignored simply to stare his way. “Griff.” The name left his lips, more forced than freed. “I… the parchment. The news from the Disputed Lands…”“Hold, Your Grace.”
The word was no reprimand as Connington took a step forward, boots crushing white marble dust into the paving stones as he stared unblinkingly. “Rhaeger’s son…” The old Stormlord whispered the words, breath tight behind his teeth as a fierce smile pulled tight at a weathered face until skin stretched tight over his bearded jaw. “The true dragon wakes.”Aegon did not smile back.