Five Years Later — 294 AC
Cicadas clung to the willow trees, shrieking as though protesting the endless clatter of wooden swords in the training yard.
Two boys of similar age crossed blades in the dust.
One bore silver-gold hair.
The other, black as night.
The dark-haired boy was clearly more refined in skill. The silver-haired one was beginning to falter.
His footwork slowed.
From the sidelines, Willem called out sharply:
"Aegon! Your footing! Aemon, mind your guard!"
Of the two, Willem favored the boy rumored to be a bastard—Aemon.
The child possessed a natural love for the sword.
Years earlier, Viserys had arranged a curious ceremony for both boys to choose their futures.
Aegon had clutched a book and refused to let go.
Aemon had stared at the king's sword with unblinking intensity.
He had been meant for the Wall, perhaps, but his passion for the blade never faded.
Even Arthur had praised his potential.
Soon the match ended.
Before Aegon could stumble, Aemon caught him by the arm, preventing a clumsy fall.
"You're getting better," Aegon admitted.
"Our uncle says the mind is sharper than any blade," Aemon replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "You're not bad either."
He tried to ease the sting of defeat.
Aegon, born legitimate, received respect easily and did not dwell on small slights.
Aemon, by contrast, was more sensitive.
By now he understood enough of the tangled past.
My grandfather killed my other grandfather and my uncle. Then my other uncle killed my grandfather and my father.
The knowledge unsettled him.
Fortunately, Lyanna remained close to him. He did not grow withdrawn and bitter. Nor thin and hardened as he might have.
He grew warm, bright, considerate.
A child with a mother beside him was fortunate indeed.
Both boys shared a single dream. To slay Robert with their own hands. To avenge Rhaegar.
Willem, unaware of Aemon's inner turmoil, instead saw only early maturity.
He thought back to their king at the same age.
While other boys clung to their mothers, Viserys had ridden to battle, raised morale, and even led a fleet against the Usurper's ports, crippling their naval strength for years.
Within a single year he had secured this land.
Within five more, he had raised Gohor's population to over eight hundred thousand.
People now called it the Reborn Free City.
All of it born from a boy who could not be described merely as gifted. Without him, House Targaryen might have vanished in that storm of chaos.
William stepped forward.
"That will be enough for today, my princes. The longbow ceremony begins soon. We must not be late."
"Yes!"
Both boys answered at once.
They adored their uncle.
To Aegon, Viserys knew everything and told the finest stories. To Aemon, he was unmatched in combat, invincible.
More importantly, he was patient.
He spent time with them. Less an uncle than an elder brother.
Their mothers praised him endlessly.
In Aemon's eyes, Viserys lacked only a dragon to rival Aegon the Conqueror.
Willem escorted them to waiting baths.
They sank into warm water as attendants scrubbed away sweat and dust.
Steam rose.
Water rippled softly.
Aemon felt the ache leave his limbs.
"Why does Uncle care so much about longbowmen?" Aemon asked idly. "Shouldn't we trust spear and sword more?"
Archers were not mere bowmen. They were trained warriors.
Archery was only one method of killing.
Yet the longbows did not seem powerful enough to justify such devotion.
Still, Gohor's people now practiced archery constantly.
A boy's coming-of-age gift was often a longbow.
Training took years. Yet Viserys intended to summon a corps of bowmen at any moment.
"Perhaps he simply likes bows," Aegon shrugged. "You could practice too."
"There aren't enough dragonbone bows," Aemon began—
The door burst open with a bang.
A bare, pale foot kicked it wide.
A girl three or four years older strode in, silver-brown hair cascading over her shoulders.
"Rhaenys!" Aegon splashed deeper into the bath. "What are you doing?"
She ignored him completely and looked to Aemon.
"Have you seen Arianne?"
"No. We just finished training."
"Where has she run off to now?"
She turned and stormed out, ignoring Aegon's demand to shut the door.
In recent years, Sunspear had become a distribution hub for Gohor's printed works.
Doran had profited handsomely as a middleman.
Gohor's rise was unstoppable. Dorne and the Reach had begun quietly defying the Iron Throne.
Dorne was distant enough that Robert could do little.
But Mace Tyrell had even written to Viserys, offering to send his second son, Garlan, for a visit.
Doran, in private, regretted not committing more firmly to the Targaryens sooner.
To mend matters, he sent his wife Mellario and their daughter Arianne to Gohor.
Arianne, fed endless praise of Viserys by her father and uncle, had arrived skeptical.
She intended to expose his supposed facade.
Surely his victories were the work of his Kingsguard. Surely the legend was exaggerated.
Yet once in Gohor, she found herself reluctantly impressed.
The loyalty of the nobles. The devotion of the common folk. The discipline of the army.
These things could not be faked.
She began seeking Viserys out frequently. And that displeased Rhaenys greatly.
She could not rest easy.
One eye always had to remain on Arianne.
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