In the year of 2 A.C., the Seven Kingdoms knelt.
From the Sunset Sea to the Shivering Sea, from the frost-rimed Wall to the steaming shores of Dorne, the lands of Westeros bent their knees to Aegon of House Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm.
Six crowns had been laid at his feet: the dark iron of the Northmen, the silver circlet of the Vale, the heavy oaken crown of the Riverlands, the pale gold of the Reach, the black-tinted bronze of the Westerlands, and the seahorse-etched coronet of the Stormlands. Only one remained — and that sun-scorched land of broken mountains and searing sands, Dorne, yet stood defiant, as proud as it was stubborn.
In the Starry Sept of Oldtown, beneath the shimmering seven-colored crystal of its great dome, the High Septon had set the Valyrian steel circlet upon Aegon's brow. Forged with the fires of the Freehold, studded with rubies that burned red as dragonflame, the simple crown seemed to weigh heavier than any warhelm Aegon had ever worn. When the bells rang out across the city and the river beyond, many wept, some cheered, and a few prayed — though whether in thanks or in dread, none could say.
Aegon had come late to prayer himself. In his youth, he had scarcely given a thought to gods, be they the Seven of Westeros, the many-faced deities of the Rhoynar, or the dragonlords' own pale Valyrian divinities. Now, crowned and anointed, he spoke the language of the Faith when needed — yet to those who knew him best, he remained apart. A man alone, save for the thin silver thread of blood that tied him to his queens: Visenya and Rhaenys, sisters as well as wives.
Even among those closest to him, Aegon remained a riddle wrapped in steel and fire. He was a great warrior who sought no glory, a king who governed more through others than himself. His massive frame and martial bearing gave the lie of fierceness, but there were those who said that in council he preferred quiet to clamor, reflection to rage. His face, broad and strong-jawed, rarely betrayed the tumult beneath. Only his eyes—those deep, lilac eyes, old as summer storms—spoke of the weight he bore.
He wore his silver-gold hair short, no longer than the line of his jaw, unlike the flowing manes of the Freehold lords of old. His garments were modest for a king: black and red, the colors of House Targaryen, with only his crown and a dragon-clasp at his shoulder to mark his rank. Balerion was his true regalia—the Black Dread, whose wings could cover villages in shadow, whose breath could melt stone.
It was said that Aegon only ever mounted Balerion for war or for duty, never for sport. So too did he treat his kingship: as a burden borne for the sake of House and realm alike. His great friend—and some whispered, his half-brother—Lord Orys Baratheon, now Lord of Storm's End and Hand of the King, bore much of the weight of governance, aided by a small council drawn from lords and learned men.
Where the sword failed, Aegon bent the knee with kindness. Those who yielded were granted mercy, their rights and traditions left intact. In the North, the kingship of Winterfell became the wardenship, and the old gods were honored still. In the Vale, little changed but the banners. The Stormlands' fierce pride was soothed by blood and marriage. The Riverlands, long torn by warring lords, found in Targaryen rule a stern peace. The Reach bowed its golden fields to the dragon, and the Rock of Casterly yet glittered in Lannister hands, albeit under new fealty.
Aegon travelled the realm with maesters at his side, learning the tongues of the land—its laws, its traditions, its old grievances and older dreams. He listened more than he spoke. When he spoke, all listened.
Yet beyond the sands of the Dornish Marches, Princess Meria of House Martell kept her seat at Sunspear and sent no envoy. No oath had been sworn, no banners lowered. Dorne burned like a brand in Aegon's mind—a wound unhealed.
Peace had been won. But conquest was not yet complete.
And the dragon stirred.