Prince Aegon carefully tucked the moon sugar into his robe, hesitating. "Grandfather, this dosage…"
"I've already told you, Aegon." Lysandro patiently repeated what he had just said. The "great" Lysandro was now very old. After the Dance of the Dragons came to an end, House Rogare, through shrewd political maneuvering, turned Lys into their own personal domain. If not for the covert warnings from Dragon's Nest and Braavos back then, Lysandro might very well have become Lord of Lys—or even its lifelong dictator in both name and fact. It was precisely because Lysandro hadn't pushed things too far that he was still alive today. In fact, he had just passed his eighty-fourth name day, making him one of the longest-living mortals in the world.
"This dosage is used on those patrons in the Red Light District. They linger in the brothels of Lys, where my lovely girls use the Seven Songs of Spring to let them revel and feast in debauchery for seven days and nights, spilling their seed over and over. This amount is enough to kill the seed's vitality for seven days and nights. Just two pieces of moon sugar are enough to do the job."
Lysandro looked his grandson up and down, slowly, from head to toe, making Prince Aegon feel a chill run down his spine. Those long used to power always had a certain weight to their gaze. "But your blood is that of the Dragonlords. This drug was invented after the Doom—we've never tested it on Dragonlord blood. So… I can't guarantee it'll work. There are four pieces of moon sugar here. Use them as you see fit. We don't know exactly how many would cause permanent damage, either. We only know that two pieces last at least seven days, sometimes longer. But three might leave lasting harm."
"I understand, Grandfather."
Prince Aegon knew exactly what Lysandro meant. Since the Doom, the only openly surviving Dragonlord family was House Targaryen. His ancestors had clearly favored the peasant girls of the village beneath Dragonstone Castle—not that anyone could fathom what those ancestors had been thinking. Maybe the world was simply too chaotic back then. Maybe the Targaryens feared sharing the same fate as the other Dragonlords who'd met untimely ends. Either way, for those who fled to Dragonstone, it had all amounted to the same thing.
"So long as you understand. Are you staying the night?" Lysandro suddenly smiled and waved to a servant nearby, signaling them to prepare some of Lys' infamous hospitality.
Then he saw the panic flash across Prince Aegon's face. The prince didn't even manage a proper farewell or change his clothes. He practically flew out of the palace.
Only Lysandro's coarse laughter remained in his wake.
Syrax still feels safer.
That was Prince Aegon's only thought as he fled Rogare Palace.
Syrax's broad back gave him a profound sense of security. Especially once the dragon took to the skies—the rush of wind and the rising heat from her scales quickly dried Aegon's damp clothes, leaving him with a warm, comforting feeling.
But should he take it? How much?
Prince Aegon hesitated. He believed his seed was strong—several noble lovers he'd lain with had borne children. Miss Barba Bracken had already given birth to a healthy son at Harrenhal, and Miss Melissa Blackwood was several moons along. Still, he couldn't acknowledge those children yet. It had been young Lord Lucas Lothston who named Barba's boy:
Aegor. Aegor Rivers.
Barba was currently staying at Harrenhal. Between Aegon and young Lord Lucas, they supported the daily needs of her and eleven other mistresses. The Lord of House Bracken had even sent some gold.
But alas, the one he truly loved—that name could not be spoken… And it certainly wasn't his young wife.
Wait, what was I thinking about again?
Aegon quickly pulled his thoughts back to the present. Nervously, he fished out the bottle of moon sugar. Strictly speaking, he had already tasted all of life's pleasures—he just hadn't fathered a legitimate heir. The bastards born to his commoner and noble lovers weren't few.
"Let me think, let me think…" Prince Aegon anxiously bit his finger. Sensing his unease and hesitation, Syrax instinctively slowed her flight, gliding smoothly northward.
He had to have a son with Rhaenya—the wife he didn't love. Queen Rhaenyra's victory back then hadn't resolved the issue of succession; if anything, it made things more complicated. After all, if a king's chosen heir could override traditional inheritance, what was stopping future kings from using Rhaenyra's precedent to meddle in noble succession?
Everyone could see it—both Jacaerys I and Aegon II had been rare examples of wise rulers who focused on internal governance and peaceful recovery rather than causing trouble. But no one could guarantee future kings wouldn't disrupt everything again.
So Rhaenyra's victory hadn't advanced the cause of female inheritance—it only made nobles more fiercely guard the line of their eldest legitimate sons.
And Prince Aegon was no different. Among the brothers, Aemon was a silent one. Though he was utterly devoted to Naelys, he kept a baffling distance from her after their marriage.
How could his foolish sister not notice something was off?
As for Illyon, it was all sword training, all the time. He even lowered his head and avoided looking at passing kitchen maids, like some ascetic monk.
Prince Aegon simply felt that his brothers were all rather incomprehensible, which meant he had no choice but to leave behind a legitimate heir for their branch of the family.
So…
Prince Aegon eventually poured out two moon-sweets. Gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes, he tossed them into his mouth and chewed.
Not bad. Although there was an indescribable bitterness, it seemed they had been sweetened—maybe with sugar? Or honey? There was even a pleasant sweetness and fragrance to them.
The effect was immediate.
Aegon instantly felt at ease.
Sensing his partner's mood stabilizing, Syrax let out a muffled roar, its wings flapping as it picked up speed.
That mysterious "Hidden City" emerged before Prince Aegon's eyes, piercing through the thick layers of clouds.
The towering Titan of Braavos still loomed over the bay, and as if it had noticed Syrax's approach, the Titan's eyes began to burn with fire. From somewhere in the distance, a bell faintly tolled.
Meanwhile, in the Sea Lord's Palace—
The Sea Lord was receiving an envoy from the Summer Isles. This envoy was said to have once traveled to the Basilisk Isles and the colonial towns of northern Sothoryos, and now had accepted a contract from Braavos to help chart new maritime routes.
They too heard the bells.
"It seems the Dragonlord has arrived," the Sea Lord said, realizing what the sound signified. With a sigh, he added, "I'm afraid I can no longer play host to you."
"Dragonlord?" the envoy—an ebony-skinned man dressed in strange robes and wearing a feathered headdress—asked curiously.
"Yes, a dragonrider of House Targaryen," the Sea Lord explained.
"Oh, oh, I know of them! I've seen a dragon with my own eyes once," the envoy suddenly said.
"…Ah?"