Chapter 720

Today, he was headed to the port to inspect the first stage of loading cannons onto the fleet.

"I’m fine," Myrcella said, a little guiltily. She was riding in the same carriage as Aegor and Melisandre. The two adults were unconscious, while she remained unscathed—not by luck, nor by sheer resilience, but because she had used the Prime Minister and the Red Priestess as human cushions to avoid being thrown around and knocked out like they were. "You're bleeding!"

To control the clouds and summon the rain with a flick of the wrist—wasn’t that how the saying went?
----


The explosion came from a small two-wheeled cart that had been pushed aside by the cavalry ahead. More specifically, from the sacks piled atop it. The ignition mechanism? A red-hot crossbow bolt, fired from a half-open window above. The timing was precise—so precise that it struck just as Aegor’s carriage passed beside the cart.

The bolt pierced through burlap and fabric, striking the hidden powder charges within. The tightly packed black powder ignited instantly, expanding with violent force, rupturing its container, and unleashing a blinding flash of fire and steel.

Despite having assured Myrcella that he would not interfere with her choices, the stubborn little princess had taken it upon herself to run straight to Melisandre and, under the Red Woman’s witness, sworn a sacred vow to R'hllor. She pledged herself to the Lord of Light, vowing lifelong devotion, forsaking marriage and children, dedicating herself entirely to Aegor’s service. She had even spent her own allowance to have a set (or perhaps multiple sets?) of red robes tailored, styled after a high priestess’s garments. She had been wearing them since yesterday.

The clamor outside faded quickly. Vendors with wide-spread stalls hurriedly packed up. Pedestrians and carriages moved to the roadside, making way for the Prime Minister’s convoy. The driver flicked his reins, urging the horses into a slightly faster trot, eager to pass through the narrow stretch of road flanked by buildings on both sides.

Then came the fear. And the rage.

The dragon scale gifted by R'hllor burned against his chest, reacting to his injury. Waves of searing heat surged through his body, accelerating the clotting of his head wound, dulling the pain from his battered torso. In its place came an overwhelming clarity—a surge of battle instinct and raw power.

Aegor's carriage was a specially reinforced model, built for security. He hadn’t been looking out the window, so the explosion’s flash had not blinded him.

But he felt it.

A deafening boom drowned out all other sound.

The carriage was lifted off its wheels, as if some god had swatted it into the heart of a storm. It flipped twice before crashing against a building on the other side of the street, throwing Aegor violently against the wooden frame. His head struck hard, and darkness swallowed him.
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Once she confirmed Aegor wasn’t mortally wounded, Myrcella turned toward the carriage door. “What do we do now? Should I go outside and check if it’s safe?”

The attack had come without warning.

Somehow, either through superior craftsmanship or the limited potency of the black powder, the carriage remained structurally intact despite landing upside-down. The blast had shattered the windows, and smoke and the acrid stench of burnt powder filled the air, but even the door remained in place.

He was lucky.

Too lucky.

Aegor exhaled sharply, blinking away the dizziness as he surveyed the wreckage of the carriage’s interior.

Opposite him sat two figures draped in red—one young, one older, both utterly striking in their own way.

Even with a ringing skull, he had enough presence of mind to consider how he was supposed to explain this to Tyrion.
----


“Don’t move. Stay inside,” Aegor ordered, grabbing Myrcella just as she attempted to climb out. He yanked her back to his side. “Whoever did this planned it thoroughly. They wouldn’t launch an attack like this unless they were determined to kill me. If they’ve set up an ambush, stepping outside now makes us perfect targets for crossbows. Stay put. Watch over Lady Melisandre. We wait for the patrols to clear the scene.”
----


In the makeshift Westerland army encampment beyond Oldtown’s eastern walls, a dragon stirred.

Rhaegal, who had been dozing in his nest, snapped open his bronze-hued eyes. Lifting his long neck, he turned toward the western sky, where a small mushroom cloud was curling upward.

A moment later, the green dragon launched into the air, beating his wings with powerful strokes as he soared toward the city.
----


"Wake up, my lord!"

Aegor groaned.

He wore armor, but no one could keep a helmet on at all times. If the impact had been just a little stronger…

He clenched his jaw. He wanted to rip the man responsible for this apart with his bare hands.

Meanwhile, outside the city, House Hightower had finally accepted reality. With the Oldtown Autonomy Council swiftly formed, the High Septon paraded through the streets in disgrace, and no outside force coming to their aid, they had surrendered to the inevitable.

Seven days after Aegor’s arrival in Oldtown, the Hightowers boarded their ships under the escort of Unsullied soldiers, bound for King’s Landing.
----


The wooden wheels of the carriage rattled over cobblestone, the steady rhythm punctuated by the occasional sway.

Oldtown, once the economic heart of Westeros, had infrastructure far superior to most cities. But like all early centers of civilization, it had grown old. Parts of the city had begun to decay, buildings showing their age.

Aegor hoped the new council would put the funds he had allocated to good use—repairing the city, improving life for its citizens. If they succeeded, all the better. If they failed, if they embezzled and mismanaged?

That would just give him the perfect excuse to replace them with more obedient figures.

The economy made for the best political weapon, after all.
----


Aegor would leave later than the Hightowers, and he would likely be delayed returning to King’s Landing. Daenerys would undoubtedly be impatient and anxious.

But the wait would be worth it.

King’s Landing would not fall to the slavers.

And when he returned to the Narrow Sea, it would be at the head of a newly forged fleet—one bearing the red dragon banners, battle-ready, and prepared to join the war.
----


His carriage was reinforced, designed to withstand attacks.

But it was not invulnerable. A scorpion bolt would still tear through it with ease.

And someone had just tried to kill him.

Aegor inhaled deeply, forcing his mind to sharpen through the lingering haze of pain.

His attackers had made one critical mistake.

They had failed.

And now, they had his full attention.
----


Outside, the streets had returned to their usual chaos—shouts, footsteps, and hurried movement as soldiers cleared the wreckage. The mounted escort drove back pedestrians and carts, ensuring no obstacles delayed their passage.

Once, when Aegor had been nothing but a commoner, he had loathed the disruption caused by noble processions.

Now, he understood.

His time was too valuable to waste.

In this foreign city, surrounded by unseen enemies, every delay was a risk.

He could not afford to be stopped.

Aegor shook his head, forcing himself back to focus.

Then, with some effort, he sat up, ignoring the pain searing through his body, and began assessing the situation.