Chapter 626

Bathed in the warm glow of the midday sun, Aegor rode up a small rise, overlooking the army beneath him. The men under his command stood proud and resolute, their formations tighter, their movements quicker than usual. For the first time, he truly understood what it meant to be at the height of one’s fortune.

His mood was lifted not only by the clear skies but also by two particular reasons—one minor, one significant.

The minor one?

His dragonsteel armor was not only incredibly secure but also surprisingly comfortable.

The armor was primarily composed of dragonsteel scales, while the joints—elbows, armpits, and other flexible areas—were covered in dragonsteel chain links. The way the scales and chains seamlessly interlocked was nothing short of an engineering marvel, achieving a perfect balance between protection and mobility.

And beneath it all? The underlayer was not mere cloth or leather but the preserved hide of some unknown beast.

It was soft. It was resilient.

And four hundred years later, it showed no signs of rot, decay, or degradation.

At first, Aegor had been somewhat disappointed that the original owner had chosen scale armor over plate—after all, plate required less material for the same coverage while offering superior protection. But after wearing the armor for several days, he had begun to appreciate the genius of the design.

Chainmail? Flexible, but it provided poor defense against blunt force and concentrated the armor’s weight on the shoulders, causing strain over time.

Plate? Strong, but rigid. Wearing it for extended periods was exhausting, and its lack of flexibility required a custom fit.

Scale armor, however, struck a perfect balance.

It had structure, allowing weight to be evenly distributed across the shoulders and torso. It was adjustable, allowing for a snug fit without restricting movement.

And as for the drawback—that it required more material than plate to achieve the same coverage?

That was a non-issue.

Aegor had made the mistake of thinking in terms of practicality.

The original owner of this armor had not been a mere soldier, nor even an ordinary Valyrian noble.

Whoever had forged and worn this set of dragonsteel had been someone of unimaginable wealth and influence—someone who, even among the Freehold’s dragonlords, had stood at the very pinnacle of power.

For such a person, the amount of dragonsteel used in their armor would have been irrelevant. Whether it weighed five pounds or ten made no difference—if anything, more material only served to make it an even greater display of status.

It was a reasonable assumption.

But Melisandre had corrected him.

The true reason for choosing scale over plate?

The maker had deliberately increased the armor’s surface area—to allow for the engraving and binding of more protective enchantments.

In the days before the Doom, when Valyrian dragonlords waged war from the skies, their greatest threats had not been men with swords.

Their true enemies had been other sorcerers.

Against magic, protection was not simply a matter of steel and fire—it was a matter of arcane craft.
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But as remarkable as the dragonsteel armor was, it was still just a thing.

What truly filled Aegor with satisfaction—what truly made him proud—was the emblem now pinned to his chest.

A silver Hand of the Queen brooch.

Perhaps it was because Daenerys had been in an excellent mood after claiming King’s Landing.

Perhaps it was because, when she had been cut by the Iron Throne, Aegor had acted instantly—tending to her wound, easing her pain, shielding her from any embarrassment in front of her men.

Whatever the reason, after descending from the throne, her attitude toward him had shifted.

She had not only readily agreed to his proposal to spare Stannis’ wife and daughter—allowing them to be exiled to the Wall—but had also refrained from pressing him on the poisoning investigation, simply instructing him to prioritize it.

And then—before her dragons, before the Unsullied, before the gathered lords and prisoners—she had publicly named him Hand of the Queen.

The brooch itself was unenchanted silver, forged by an ordinary smith. In terms of material worth, it was less valuable than even a single dragonsteel scale from his armor.

But its significance was immeasurable.

From the very beginning, Aegor had been Daenerys’ strongest and most trusted supporter.

With the deaths of Varys and Petyr Baelish, he had already been acting as the de facto Hand.

But now—now, it was official.

The difference was like that between a lover and a husband—the same role, but with a name.

With this appointment, he was no longer merely a powerful advisor.

From this moment onward, as long as his position was not revoked, his word carried the authority of the Crown itself.

He was the first Hand of the Targaryen Second Dynasty.

No matter what the future held—whether his plans for the Crownlands came to fruition, whether his dream of expanding Targaryen dominance across the known world succeeded—his name was now forever etched into the history of Westeros.
----


The battlefield stretched before him—ranks of spears and banners forming an unbroken line.

On one side: twenty thousand well-equipped, disciplined Lannister soldiers.

On the other: barely ten thousand of the Queen’s vanguard.

At a glance, it should have been a crushing mismatch.

Yet it was not the Lannisters who pressed forward.

It was the Queen’s army that advanced.

The Gifted Men and a contingent of Dornish spearmen marched with unshakable purpose, closing the distance to one arrow’s flight before halting.

They had no intention of giving the enemy any space to retreat.

These were men who had slain the Others, who had subjugated the North, who had broken the Riverlands, who had shattered the Reach, who had annihilated House Baratheon.

They believed themselves unstoppable.

And against them stood an army that, for all its splendor, had already lost.

Artillery, Unsullied, and dragons were still on their way. Even if Tywin himself had been leading the opposing forces, he would have had to surrender.

And yet, despite knowing this battle was unlikely to happen, Aegor made his final preparations as though the enemy would charge at any moment.

Before he could send an envoy, the Lannister army broke formation.

A small company of riders emerged, carrying a white flag.

Negotiators.

A few minutes later, their leader was escorted to Aegor.

"Lord Commander," the envoy said, bowing deeply. He was clad in red and gold—clearly of Lannister blood. "Lord Tywin marched to aid the Queen, but the spring thaw delayed his arrival. He regrets—"

Aegor cut him off.

"Is Lord Tywin trying to steal the title of ‘the Late?’” His voice dripped with scorn. "The Queen forbade the Westerlands from mobilizing. He ignored that order. Does he think he can wave that away as a misunderstanding?"

The envoy swallowed. "Lord Tywin took great care to avoid crossing the Riverlands. Surely that proves his good intentions?"

Aegor scoffed.

"You think this is a game of words?"

He had no use for fair-weather allies.

It was time to end the old order.

"Enough," he said. "I believe in Lord Tywin’s sincerity."

He smiled coldly.

"Tell me—has he put on his black yet?"