POV: Lord Corlys Velaryon, The Sea Snake – 110 AC
The spray of the Blackwater was a welcome, if familiar, sting on my weathered face. After months of heat, salt, and skirmishes in the Stepstones, King's Landing felt strangely stifling, even from the deck of my flagship, The Sea Snake. My blood was still hot with the frustrations of that endless war. Daemon, for all his Targaryen fire and prowess in the air, was a volatile ally, and the lack of consistent support from the Crown had bled our forces white. We had cleared the islands, claimed the title of King of the Narrow Sea for Daemon, but at what cost? The war was never truly won, only paused, and the corsairs would soon return, bolder than ever.
I stood on the quay, my cloaked figure bristling with barely contained exhaustion and exasperation. My boots, accustomed to the gritty sand of pirate havens, felt heavy on the clean cobblestones of the capital. I had come to demand answers, to shake my cousin, the King, from his languid contemplation and make him understand the true cost of our struggle.
The Red Keep loomed, a red monster against the blue sky, its stones seeming to mock the sweat and blood we had spilled in its name. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and ambition, a stark contrast to the brine and smoke of battle. I found Viserys in the throne room, surrounded by his small council. He looked weary, a shadow of the great Jaehaerys, his brow perpetually furrowed with the weight of decisions he seemed reluctant to make.
"Corlys!" Viserys exclaimed, a weak smile gracing his lips as I knelt before the Iron Throne. "You return! How fares the war?"
"The war fares as expected, Your Grace," I replied, rising. My voice was clipped, my gaze sweeping over the council, noting the familiar, self-serving faces. Otto Hightower, ever watchful, ever scheming. "We took the last strongholds. But the corsairs are like weeds, Your Grace. Cut one down, and ten more sprout. Without constant reinforcement, without a strong hand, all we have gained will be lost."
A hush fell over the council. Otto cleared his throat, no doubt ready with a dozen reasons for inaction. But then, a voice cut through the air, clear and resonant.
"Lord Corlys speaks the truth, Father."
My gaze snapped to Prince Raegon. He stood beside Rhaenyra, a head taller than her, his shoulders broad beneath his tunic. He was not yet twenty, but already carried the air of a seasoned commander, his violet eyes sharp and knowing. He had just returned from the Stepstones himself, his regiment, the Dragon's Teeth, having inflicted heavy losses on the Triarchy's forces. He had seen the truth of it.
"The sea lanes must be secured, Your Grace," Raegon continued, stepping forward. "The supply lines of Westeros depend on it. Trade dwindles when pirates hold sway. The Crown's coffers will suffer, and with it, the realm's prosperity." His words were simple, direct, yet carried a weight that made even Otto Hightower shift uncomfortably. I watched him closely. There was a quiet certainty in Raegon, a sense of understanding that went beyond mere strategy or battlefield experience. He spoke not just of what was, but of what would be, as if he saw the currents of the world with an unnerving clarity. It was as if he knew everything, not just of wars, but of the very fabric of how things truly functioned.
Viserys looked at his son, a flicker of pride and perhaps a touch of bewildered respect in his eyes. "Raegon, you speak with conviction. But the costs..."
"The costs of inaction will be greater, Father," Raegon countered, his gaze firm. "The cost of lost trade, of emboldened enemies, of a populace that sees its King unwilling to protect its lifeline." He turned to me, a subtle nod acknowledging my efforts. "Lord Corlys has bled for the realm. It is time the realm bled for itself, in turn."
Before Viserys could respond, a page, pale and breathless, burst into the throne room. "Your Grace! The Queen! Her pains... they have worsened! Maester Mellos says it is… a difficult labor."
Viserys blanched, pushing himself from the throne, all thoughts of the Stepstones and the realm forgotten. "Aemma!" he cried, rushing from the hall. The council followed, a flurry of concerned whispers.
I remained, watching Raegon. He too looked concerned, but there was a deeper understanding in his eyes, a grim acceptance that I couldn't quite decipher. Rhaenyra, her face pale, looked to him for reassurance. He put a hand on her arm, a silent anchor in the sudden chaos.
Hours later, the Red Keep was filled with the sounds of hushed urgency and the Queen's distant, pained cries. The air was thick with tension. I waited in the outer halls with other lords, listening to the murmurs. Daemon, who had followed me from the Stepstones, stood agitatedly nearby, his face a mask of impatience and ill-humor. He had arrived just hours before my own landing, eager to press his claims and relish his title of King of the Narrow Sea.
Then, a new cry pierced the air, sharp and clear. A babe's wail. A collective gasp went through the assembled nobles. Soon after, a triumphant shout from Viserys himself.
"A son! A healthy son!"
The news rippled like wildfire through the Keep. A son. Another male heir. I saw Daemon stiffen, his eyes narrowing. The King's joyful cry, echoing through the halls, was a death knell to Daemon's hope of ascending the Iron Throne through Rhaenyra's eventual rule, or his own. My own thoughts immediately turned to Laenor, and Rhaenys. Another blow to our House's claim.
Aemma, by some miracle, had survived the birth once more. Raegon's touch, I suspected, had played its part again, defying the maesters' predictions. Viserys soon emerged, beaming, holding a swaddled bundle. "Presenting Prince Aegon Targaryen, our third surviving child! A strong, healthy boy!"
Aegon. The name itself was a declaration. Not a Baelon, or a Jacaerys, but Aegon. The Conqueror's name. A clear statement of succession, bypassing Rhaenyra in the eyes of many.
Daemon, however, lost his composure entirely. Later that evening, word reached me of his drunken outburst in a royal feast, his bitter jests about Viserys's "newborn Aegon" threatening Rhaenyra's place, and his infamous declaration that the Prince was a "usurper in the cradle." Viserys, already overjoyed and perhaps weary of Daemon's constant provocations, exploded.
"He has gone too far this time," Viserys declared, his voice shaking with anger that night at the small council. "His title of King of the Narrow Sea is revoked. He is banished from King's Landing. He will go to Dragonstone, or beyond, but he will not set foot in this city again until I summon him."
Daemon was cast out, stripped of his crown, his ambitions, his very presence at court. It was a swift, brutal fall, hastened by the cries of a newborn babe named Aegon.
I watched Raegon throughout this spectacle. He sat quietly, his expression unreadable, observing the unfolding drama as if he had anticipated every beat. When Daemon's banishment was decreed, a flicker – not of triumph, but of grim satisfaction – crossed Raegon's face. He had known. He had known this was coming, perhaps even that this Aegon would be the instrument of Daemon's undoing. He seemed to understand the deep, inevitable currents of fate that shaped us all, currents I could only dimly perceive. My own path, the Sea Snake's path, was to ride those currents. And I now knew, with an unsettling certainty, that Raegon Targaryen was the master of them. The Crown now truly rested on his shoulders, though he was not yet King.