Gusts of wind and streaming clouds swept past his ears, lifting his silver hair. Even viewed from high above, Storm's End remained imposing.
The fierce winds of Shipbreaker Bay drove the waves against it, only for them to shatter against the foundations of Storm's End, while the great stone castle stood unmoved.
Only the rows upon rows of yellow Dornish tents outside Storm's End looked glaringly out of place amid this magnificent spectacle of nature.
Aegon looked at those tents, at the banners belonging to the Dornish, his brows tightly furrowed and a trace of coldness flashing through his eyes.
He did not understand.
House Martell, his mother's family, his own blood-why would they treat him like this?
Their actions in the past, at least, he could understand.
During his years of exile across the Narrow Sea, he had chosen to conceal his identity. The reason was simple: when the War of the Usurper ended, he and his sister had been declared dead.
He had not known how he could prove his identity if he went to Dorne. Even if he did prove it, he had not known whether Dorne would fight the victorious Usurper to the bitter end for his sake.
For the sake of family? For the Targaryen claim to the Iron Throne?
After all, by then the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, had already won the Battle of the Trident and taken the Iron Throne.
Targaryen rule had collapsed utterly with the defeat of the loyalist army. Robert Baratheon commanded the armies of the Stormlands and had secured the support of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and even the Westerlands.
When word reached the Reach that the Targaryen army had been annihilated at the Battle of the Trident and King's Landing had fallen, even the Reach surrendered to