CHAPTER SEVEN: THRONES AND SIGILS

Jon Snow sat upon the black stone seat of Dragonstone. His hair, once dark and streaked with silver, was now entirely white and flowed past his shoulders like a winter cloak. The firelight danced across the ancient carvings of the throne—volcanic ribs shaped by blood and ambition. His cloak of deep red and black lay heavy on his shoulders, the old Targaryen colors now made his own.

Behind him, atop the shattered ramparts, the newly raised standard of House Targaryen snapped in the saltwind. The three-headed dragon, once burned from memory, returned in black and red silk

Across the hall, torches revealed ragged tapestries of House Valeryon and House Celtigar. These, too, had been wreathed in fresh cloth, their ancient arms reborn beneath his sigil. They would soon serve as vassals. He would see to it.

He rose slowly, boots echoing on black stone. His reflection flickered in polished obsidian slabs lining the corridor—long hair, pale and regal, eyes glowing with silent purpose. He touched the carved arms of the throne, feeling the weight of centuries. He was no mere exile now; he was Aegon Targaryen reborn.

Beyond the hall, the call had been sent: "Come before the dragon on Dragonstone." The lords of the Narrow Sea—Valeryon of Driftmark and Celtigar of Claw Isle—had no choice but to appear. Their war galleys waited off the reef, black hulls sliding through the moonlit surf like predators.

Jon unwound the cloak and let it fall, revealing the fitted leather jerkin beneath. He squared his shoulders, breathing in ash-scented air. He set his jaw, recalling the long nights beyond the Wall and the voices that had whispered of destiny in the Warp.

The doors opened.

First came Lord Aerion Valeryon, tall and lean, bearing the silver hair of his house and an eye as cold as the sea. His mantle of sea-green velvet was clasped with driftwood carved into a dragon's head. He swallowed as he knelt. "Your Grace," he intoned, voice wavering. "I bring the ships of Driftmark and the loyalty of my house."

Jon inclined his head, voice low and steady: "Stand, Lord Valeryon. You are not here to flee. You are here to fulfill your oaths."

Aerion rose, trembling slightly. He glanced at the banners, then at Jon's white hair. "I pledge my fealty to House Targaryen, to King Aegon VI, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

His words echoed in the vast hall. Jon's heart did not swell with vanity. He must remain the instrument of a greater purpose.

Next came Lord Manfryd Celtigar, shorter, with a sturdy frame and the blunt gaze of Claw Isle's seafarers. His oath was sharper: "By iron and tide, I swear to serve and to die for your cause, King Aegon." 

Jon nodded once. "Rise, Lord Celtigar. Your men will hold the sea lanes. Your ships will carry our banners to the southern ports."

The two lords looked at each other, uncertain whether they were prisoners or princes. Jon allowed no ambiguity.

He gestured towards the raised standards. "My banner stands above yours. Our sigils fly side by side now. By dawn, your fleets will number among mine. By candles' end, your houses will be bound to my war chest."

They bowed again. As they did, Jon felt the weight of their loyalty settle around him like armor.

Behind them, in the shadows, Tormund Giantsbane and Ghost watched silently. The giant-turned-lord grunted in approval; the direwolf's red eyes shone with the reflection of the torches.

Aerion flinched. Celtigar shifted.

Jon smiled faintly. "I will no longer bear the mask of the North. My beard will be no more." He sheared a line through the snow-white stubble, the blade whispering on skin. With each stroke, the whiskers fell away, drifting to the stones like ash.

The room was so quiet that one could hear the sea beyond the walls. When he finished, his face was smooth—almost boyish beneath the warrior's gaze.

"Beards are for hiding," he said. "My face—and my heart—will be clear."

He handed the blade back. "Lord Valeryon, Celtigar: you will carry word to your vassals that the Dragon has no veil. The face of its king is the face of its purpose."

They both bowed.

Jon motioned to a nearby table where a rough map of the Seven Kingdoms lay drawn on parchment. Saltwater stains blurred certain lines, recently redrawn. He laid down his gauntleted hand and traced the path from Dragonstone to King's Landing.

"My first moves," he began, voice echoing, "will be swift. We hold the Narrow Sea. The Stormlands will follow when Gendry's loyalty is tested. The Reach is fractured; we will offer the harvest lords a choice: pledge to House Targaryen or lose their grain. Dorne will come by intrigue, not invasion. The Vale by promise of shared rule under the Dragon's eye."

He paused, turning the hilt of his sword in one hand. His hair brushed the table's edge—long now, white as drifted snow. 

"Who among you," he asked the two lords, "will oversee the muster on Claw Isle? Who will see to it that every keel is fitted with flame-silks and dragon-banners?"

Valerion spoke first. "I will take that task, Your Grace. Driftmark's forges will burn day and night."

Celtigar added, "And Claw Isle's captains will serve under your command. We have the crews—let us train them to carry fire into the South."

Jon nodded. He rose and moved to an alcove where a chest of sealed scrolls waited. He withdrew a rolled parchment sealed in red wax—his proclamation to the realm.

"These men will carry my words to every castle and hold fast," he said. "That Aegon I has returned. That the Iron Throne awaits those who bend the knee—or face the dragon's wrath."

He broke the seal and began reading aloud. His voice was steady, resonant, filled with the authority of ancient kings and the promise of something new. As he spoke, the banners overhead shivered in the torchlight, as though eager to proclaim his words.

When he finished, silence reigned. Then a low murmur arose from the gathered lords and retainers.

Tormund grunted, stepping forward. "Not a man in Dorne or the Reach will be bold enough to call us traitors now."

Ghost padded to Jon's side, nuzzling his leg. Jon reached down to scratch the direwolf's ears.

"The world changes tonight," Jon said, looking at both lords. "By dawn, our ships will be at sea. By the next moon, our banners will cast shadows over King's Landing. But remember—this is not conquest for its own sake. It is rebirth."

He turned once more to his throne, then back to the map. He dipped a quill in ink and drew the first line towards the Stormlands.

"There," he whispered. "The first step."

And as the candlelight flickered on his snowy hair, on the rank of newly sworn lords, and on the map that bore the fate of kingdoms, Jon—Aegon knew this night would live in legend. But now he needed to think about his bride and increasing his war chest, he would need to raise funds for the war effort, and what came after the war, rebuilding, he needed long-term profit, and he knew how to acquire it...