Morning.
Under the sunlight, the streets of King's Landing were already packed with people.
These smallfolk weren't here to cause trouble.
Today, they were following King Aegon II Targaryen.
"Have you heard? His Grace is going to open the granaries and distribute grain!"
"Distribute what grain?"
"They say—it's that batch from Dragon's Roost."
"Yeah! It was supposed to be sent to the North, but His Grace said it should be supplied to us first!"
"Is that true?"
"True as it gets!"
"Last night, the Septon himself told us!"
"He said His Grace would lead troops this morning, head to Dragon's Roost, and haul that grain back to King's Landing!"
"The Septon said anyone who follows His Grace today will get a sack of grain!"
At this moment, the smallfolk of King's Landing poured out like a tide from Flea Bottom, passing through the fish market, through Silk Street, all heading toward the southern gate.
Dragon's Roost wasn't far from the city—just south of King's Landing.
Dockworkers carrying sacks, washerwomen, blacksmith apprentices, even a few rag-clad septons—
Everyone moved in the same direction.
"Quick! If we're late, we won't get any!"
"We will! They say that grain meant for the Northerners could feed King's Landing for a whole year!"
"Why should those Northerners get grain for free?"
"We have money and still can't buy food, and we're the ones starving?"
"Exactly! Those Northerners are about to join the rebels—damn fools!"
"A whole year's worth? Will it be cheaper then?"
"Cheaper? They say His Grace has ordered fair prices—no increases!"
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
An old man, shoved and jostled, muttered to himself, "Cutting off the North's winter grain…?"
"The late king… the late king never did such a thing…"
A burly man beside him steadied him. "Old man, the late king didn't—but His Grace did!"
"His Grace cares for all of King's Landing. That's what makes him a good king!"
The old man said nothing more. He simply followed the crowd forward.
Right now, the people of King's Landing were starving half to death.
Who cared if the Northerners lived or died?
Filling their own bellies—that was what mattered.
The city gates were already in sight.
...
At Dragon's Roost, atop the walls, Carter's face was darker than the stone beneath his feet.
"Krytt, tell me—am I dreaming?"
Krytt didn't answer. He stared at the massive crowd gathering below the walls, his brows tightly knotted.
"That's… His Grace?"
Carter followed his gaze.
At the very front of the crowd, a young man in armor sat astride a white horse.
Behind him rode a group of guards.
Silver hair draped over his shoulders, armor polished bright enough to reflect light, a black cloak emblazoned with a golden three-headed dragon—
It was Aegon.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was the dragon circling above his head.
Sunfyre.
The great dragon that had been gravely wounded at Dragonstone was now recovered—flying once more.
Golden scales glittered in the morning light. His wings stretched eighty meters wide, each beat stirring gusts of wind.
He flew low—almost brushing the heads of the crowd—letting out a deep rumble from his throat.
Not a threat.
More like a display.
"His Grace… really brought a dragon," Carter muttered.
"Has our king lost his mind?" Krytt cursed. He glanced toward the distance outside the walls.
"Where's Will? Has Will arrived?"
"I just sent someone to fetch him. He should be—"
Before he could finish, the sound of hoofbeats rose from below the wall.
Will Simmons dismounted with his attendants, his expression grim.
...
At the gate, Aegon reined in his white horse and looked up at the banners atop the walls.
Black field, three-headed golden dragon—his banner.
But he knew well enough.
Not a single man on those walls belonged to him.
"Your Grace."
A fawning voice slipped in from the side.
Aegon glanced down. A military officer stood there.
Deputy Commander Frey wore a brand-new suit of armor, a sword at his waist, a smile plastered across his face as he approached the horse.
"His Grace rides out in person—surely for some grand purpose?"
Aegon had no time for him.
Frey didn't mind. He stepped back and shot a glance at the soldiers behind him.
They immediately scattered into the crowd, raising their voices so loudly it was impossible not to hear: "His Grace has come in person to claim the grain—for all of King's Landing!"
"Anyone who dares to block His Grace again is making an enemy of the King—and of everyone in King's Landing!"
A wave of voices immediately rose in agreement from the crowd.
On horseback, Aegon moved his lips, saying nothing, but his back straightened a little.
The Master of Coin, Will, hurried up to Aegon—and happened to witness the scene.
His steps faltered.
He looked at the riled-up crowd.
This just became trouble.
He drew a deep breath, stepped forward quickly, and bowed with proper form.
"Your Grace."
Aegon looked down at him from horseback, saying nothing.
Will kept his bow, forcing himself to speak. "Your Grace has come in person—may I ask what commands you have for Dragon's Roost?"
Aegon shifted slightly in the saddle, settling into a more comfortable position.
"Will Simmons," he said. His voice was not loud, but it carried clearly to those nearby.
"I ask you—inside the granaries of Dragon's Roost, is there a batch of the kingdom's grain?"
Will's heart skipped.
"Your Grace refers to—"
"Don't play the fool," Aegon cut him off. "The batch prepared to be sent to the North."
Will fell silent for a second.
"…Yes."
"How much?"
"A great deal. A great deal…"
Aegon nodded, then turned to look at the mass of people behind him.
Tens of thousands had gathered.
A dark sea of bodies stretched as far as the eye could see.
Old men. Children. Women holding infants. Cripples leaning on canes.
Every pair of eyes was fixed on Aegon, bright and expectant.
Aegon let out a quiet breath. Something stirred hot in his chest.
These were his people. He had to do something.
"This batch of the kingdom's grain," Aegon turned back, looking at Will, "I will use it to make sure every man in King's Landing can eat his fill."
Will's face went pale.
"Your Grace, this… this grain was ordered by the Prince—"
"The Prince?" Aegon's voice rose sharply.
"This grain belongs to the realm!"
"It belongs to the King!"
"Am I the King—or is he?"
The Master of Coin lowered his head, not daring to answer.
A murmur rose in the crowd, quickly swelling into a buzzing tide of voices.
"His Grace speaks true!"
"He is the true dragon!"
"What is a prince compared to him?"
The few soldiers Frey had planted among the crowd shouted the loudest.
Aegon heard it clearly. A trace of satisfaction flickered across his face.
Another burst of hoofbeats sounded at the gate.
Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, rode out from the city with several attendants. At the sight before him, he nearly fell from his horse.
After all, the troops Aegon had brought were all his men.
He dismounted hastily and stumbled forward to Aegon. Just as he was about to speak, Aegon spoke first.
"Lord Jasper, you've come at the right time."
Jasper froze.
"The mark on your face—that was from my hand, wasn't it?"
Jasper's face flushed red.
There was indeed a red mark on his cheek, the imprint of five fingers clearly visible.
That morning in the Red Keep, he had tried to dissuade Aegon—and had been slapped by the King himself.
"…Yes."
"Then tell him," Aegon said, pointing at Will, "am I the King?"
Jasper opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Aegon waited a moment. When no answer came, his expression darkened.
"What? Is my question so hard to answer?"
Jasper gritted his teeth, then turned to Will, his face twisted like he'd swallowed something bitter.
He pulled Will aside—who had already straightened—and spoke in a low voice.
"Lord Will… His Grace… His Grace summoned me this morning…"
"Said… said he would reclaim this batch of grain belonging to the realm…"
Will stared at him. "And you agreed?"
Jasper's expression grew even more pained. "What use is my agreement or refusal? His Grace said anyone who disagreed would be dismissed on the spot…"
He pointed at the red mark on his face. "After that, His Grace personally went to the city barracks and rallied these militia."
"You should understand—Prince Aemond is not here, and Hand Tyland has gone to the Westerlands. Right now, in King's Landing, His Grace holds the greatest authority…"
The Master of Coin, Will, drew in a breath and turned his head to look at Aegon on horseback.
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