Chapter Text
Red Keep, 110 AC
Aegon Targaryen, third son of Prince Baelon, resisted the urge to bang his head against the finely carved desk in his solar. If his elder brothers thought it amusing to pile the governance of King’s Landing and the realm’s finances onto his shoulders, they had sorely misjudged his patience. Not only was he the Master of Coin, but he was also expected to oversee the management of the capital—a city whose strategic location was its only redeeming quality.
The stench alone could drive a man to madness. No proper drainage system, no structured waste disposal, just filth upon filth choking the streets. Fixing this mess was an immense undertaking. To lay new pipelines, entire buildings had to be demolished, pathways closed for construction, and merchants forced to relocate. The smallfolk, ever resistant to change, cursed him for tearing down their homes. Convincing them was a battle of wits, and for the most stubborn, Daemon had to play the villain.
His hot-tempered brother was less than pleased when the restructuring reached Flea Bottom, his favorite haunt. Aegon endured weeks of cold stares before finally bargaining peace—assuring Daemon that a new district would be built to accommodate all his "favorite activities." That was enough to silence his protests, though he grumbled for weeks.
With the sewer system underway, Aegon turned to waste management. This, at least, was simpler. He hired jobless smallfolk, putting them to work sweeping the streets at the Hour of the Bat, collecting refuse onto carts, and hauling it beyond the city walls to fertilize the distant farmlands. They were given shelter, food, and coin every fortnight—far from riches but enough to survive.
It worked. The city smelled less foul, and for once, the air in King’s Landing didn’t threaten to suffocate him.
But the real challenge lay ahead—overcrowding.
King’s Landing swelled with people daily, yet there was little work to sustain them. Aegon and Daemon saw an opportunity in a royal fleet. The problem? Viserys. Their eldest brother, ever cautious, refused the proposal outright. “The realm already has the Velaryon fleet,” he reasoned. “Rhaenys and Corlys would see this as an insult.”
Daemon, for once, spoke sense. “It is the Velaryon fleet, not the Targaryen fleet,” he pointed out. “Must we rely on our cousin’s goodwill in times of war? A royal fleet ensures the Crown’s independence and tempers that damned Sea Snake’s ambitions.”
It took weeks of relentless arguing, but Viserys eventually relented.
Thus began the great shipyard project across Blackwater Bay. The Velaryons scoffed, confident that House Targaryen lacked the expertise to build ships. Braavos refused aid, wary of a new naval power rising. The other Free Cities were no better. But Aegon was not deterred.
He found support elsewhere—the Mallisters, Manderlys, Celtigars, Darklyns, Arryns of Gulltown, and even a few Ironborn lesser houses willing to profit from shipbuilding. Builders from Essos brought innovative designs, and a master shipwright from Slaver’s Bay introduced blueprints for three distinct ships:
A warship, inspired by the Ironborn longships—swift and deadly.
A massive cargo carrier, modeled after Ibbenese whaling vessels.
A hybrid war-transport ship, influenced by the Summer Islanders’ swan ships.
The shipyard not only gave King’s Landing its first fleet but also created jobs, expanding the city beyond the river. A bridge was under construction to link the growing district—one that would house Daemon’s new estate and, of course, his beloved pleasure houses.
Meanwhile, the Fair Town flourished near the permanent tourney grounds, a clever decision that saved the Crown an ungodly amount of coin. No longer would Viserys drain the treasury on temporary lists and feasting halls. The king, oblivious to the financial benefits, merely enjoyed having a dedicated site for his beloved spectacles.
Aegon sighed, his mind already shifting to the next issue at hand, when his solar door creaked open.
In stepped Gael Targaryen, his beautiful wife, his other half, and, most importantly, his savior from the madness of ruling.
She tilted her head with a knowing smirk. “Tell me, husband—have you finally completed all the work your brothers dumped on you?”
Aegon chuckled. “For today, at least.”
Gael Targaryen, the last daughter of Good Queen Alysanne, had been a forbidden fruit—one he had risked everything to claim. Had his grandmother’s will prevailed, he would have been wed to Genna Lannister and exiled to the Westerlands, much like Daemon had been married off to the Vale.
Queen Alysanne had been wise in many ways but abysmal at arranging marriages.
Daella Targaryen, timid and plain, was given endless choices of suitors, while her stunning sister Viserra was forced into a marriage she despised.
Daemon’s match to Rhea Royce was a disaster in the making—a bride with no Valyrian blood, no love for Targaryens, and a father who schemed his way into the marriage.
Viserys and Aemma’s union, while seemingly sound, had been rushed. Aemma was married at eleven, bedded at thirteen, and suffered a miscarriage by fifteen.
Gael had no intentions of suffering the same fate.
When Aegon’s marriage to Genna was announced, she confronted their grandmother in a legendary shouting match that became the court’s favorite gossip. That was when Aegon made his decision.
He would steal her away.
Slipping past the King’s Guard, escaping the Red Keep, reaching Morghal, his untamed dragon—it had all been terrifying. Gael had hesitated, but she loved him. That was enough.
By the time their family found them—three days later—it was Daemon who caught them first. Ever the prick, he tried to arrest Aegon, only to be cowed by Gael’s fury and Morghal’s snarling presence.
Baelon was furious, but more than that, he was hurt. “Why did you not come to me?” he demanded. Aegon could only point to Daemon’s disastrous marriage as proof that even Baelon’s arguments failed against the Queen’s will.
Their punishment?
Aegon endured brutal training under three King’s Guard knights for months.
Gael was placed under house arrest and subjected to endless lectures from the Queen, Septas, and noble ladies.
In the end, Viserys pardoned them. Perhaps he saw echoes of their grandparents in their reckless love.
Now, as she sat beside him, Aegon laced his fingers through hers. “How was your day?”
“Tea with Aemma and the girls,” she said. “Alyssa and Daenerys are causing havoc with Rhaenyra again.”
Aegon smirked. “They take after their mother.”
She ignored that. “Any news from the Small Council?”
“Daemon has been named Lord Commander of the City Watch. The treasury will bleed for this.”
Gael laughed. “Daemon does what Daemon wants.”
She hesitated, then said, “We should take the children to Dragonstone—let them claim their dragons.”
Aegon considered, then nodded. “I’ll speak to Viserys. We’ll leave soon.”
Together, they rose, passing through the children’s chambers to ensure they slept soundly. And as they curled into each other’s warmth, Aegon prayed for a dreamless night.
A rare gift, in these uncertain times.