Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Fuck my fate,” he muttered under his breath.

The deadline loomed, and his boss, an insufferable asshole, wouldn’t accept delays.

He glanced out of the window. The office was empty. Everyone else had long gone home, swallowed by the night, while he was still chained to his desk, working overtime.

Games had once been his passion. Now they felt like a curse.

Tonight, he was finalizing the Class Tree, the power system of the new RPG his company had pinned all their hopes on.

It appeared as a translucent structure, like a sculpture carved from clear glass. Roots curled at its base. A single central stem climbed upward from the roots. There were no branches or leaves yet.

The Class Tree served three core purposes: displaying character attributes, acquiring classes, and tracking experience gain.

With AI on the rise, he had integrated machine learning into the tree. This was the game’s true hook, the player could define their own class.

When they clicked Create Class, a blank pop-up would appear. They could type in a concept or vision for a class and hit Submit. The tree would then analyze the idea, evaluate attribute thresholds and hidden conditions. If the character met the requirements, a new branch would form on the tree. If not, the attempt would fail.

Players couldn’t create overpowered classes from the start. The system enforced attribute restrictions and layered conditions.The more powerful the class, the stricter the requirements, and greater the unique traits.

Classes were tiered. A class’s tier reflected its rarity, power potential, and progression depth. While most higher-tier classes granted more traits, some may grant a single, potent trait with exceptional scaling. Trait quantity is a guideline, not a rule.

Traits were represented as leaves along the class’s branch. Only one class could be created and leveled at a time. Only when the current class is maxed out, can you create the next class.

It was a flexible system but with restrictions. Balanced. Elegant. Almost done.

He leaned back in his chair and checked his phone. No missed calls. No messages.

Not surprising..

He was a loner. Few friends. No girlfriend. Estranged from his parents and siblings. But it didn’t bother him. The quiet was... comfortable.

Then, something shifted.

A ripple shimmered through the air, silent, unnatural.

The colors around him bent, warped, and melted like oil on water.

The space began to breathe, expanding and contracting with a pulse he couldn’t hear, only feel deep in his gut.

The sterile white walls of the office flushed amber, then sea-green, then a bruised violet. Everything twisted, desks stretched into shadows, time seemed to slow. Reality itself turned viscous, as if the rules of the world were loosening their grip.

“What the fuck!?”

He staggered to his feet, voice cracking. “Help!”

But the ground buckled beneath him. Gravity lurched sideways. The hum of the lights turned into a low, groaning moan. In a blind panic, he lunged for the nearest solid thing, his monitor. His fingers clutched at it like a lifeline.

And then,

A blinding burst of light.

A deafening crack of sound.

And everything went black.

Chapter Text

88 AC

King's Landing, Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast

Two handmaidens whispered softly beneath vaulted stone arches, their voices careful, almost reverent.

“The queen’s been quiet again,” one said, eyes flicking toward the chamber. “Three daughters lost in five years… gods have mercy.”

The other nodded, her gaze fixed on the boy playing near the fire. “And now she watches over this one like a shadow.”

The child in question, a four-year-old prince with silvery hair and wide violet eyes, was seated on the floor, arranging carved wooden figurines into mock formations.

The chamber door burst open.

“I’m back, Aegon!”

A white-haired boy, seven and wild with energy, strode in wearing a tunic a touch too fine for how carelessly it was worn. A wooden sword hung at his side.

“Guess what, brother, I knocked out three fools today! Even the instructor’s jaw dropped!”

Daemon stood tall, chest puffed with pride, eyes gleaming.

“Pity Father and Viserys weren’t there to see it.”

Little Aegon blinked up at him, captivated. He watched as Daemon performed a few dramatic swings with his practice blade.

“I want a sword too,” the younger boy said.

Daemon grinned. “You’ll get one once you're as big as me.”

“I have to share this with the king!” Daemon declared, already turning on his heel and striding away.

The handmaidens giggled behind their sleeves as the prince disappeared through the hallway.

“Time for your nap, little prince,” one murmured gently, lifting Aegon into her arms.

“Nooo, I want to play with the sword too…” he mumbled, squirming.

“You will,” the other reassured, smoothing his hair. “After your nap. Promise.”

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be tucked into bed.

“Tell me the story of Aegon the Conqueror again.”

And so they did, about the great black dragon, Balerion, and the flame that bound seven kingdoms under one crown. But partway through the tale, Aegon’s eyes fluttered shut, lulled by the familiar cadence.

Soft as snow, the handmaidens pulled the covers around him and slipped out, shutting the door behind them with a quiet click.

Silence settled.

Then, two bright eyes opened in the dark.

A strange gleam, part fear, part thrill.

Shit.

I reincarnated… into the House of the Dragon series ?

It had been nearly a month since the memories returned, since the dam broke and the truth of his past life came flooding back.

Before that, he had simply been a child. Innocent. Oblivious. Just another highborn babe in the Red Keep.

But now…

What happened after I died?

Why me?

Why here?

There were too many questions and no one to answer them. Only silence, stone walls, and the weight of doubts pressing down like a second skin.

He cursed his luck. Of all the isekai possibilities… why this? He had only ever watched the first two seasons of House of the Dragon, never read Fire & Blood. His knowledge of the lore was a jigsaw with half the pieces missing and the worst part?

There was no Aegon, he thought bitterly, no younger brother to Daemon and Viserys.

Which meant one thing:He was either a background footnote in history, forgotten and irrelevant…Or worse, someone whose existence had been erased.

Either way, it didn’t bode well.

His memories of the past four years were hazy, like looking through fogged glass. Cries, faces, milk, warmth. They bled together, indistinct.

Still, ever since the awakening, he had played the part of a child to perfection. Watched, listened, learned. No one can know, he reminded himself again. Not in a world like this.

He knew who he was now, at least.

Aegon Targaryen, third son of Prince Baelon Targaryen and his sister-wife, Princess Alyssa Targaryen.

The realization had unsettled him at first. I’m literally a child of incest. A fact he tried not to think about too often, though it clung to his thoughts like a bad aftertaste.

His mother had died a few moons after giving birth to him. His father? Alive, but distant, riding his dragon across the realm and rarely visiting.

So he remained here, in Maegor’s Holdfast, surrounded by stone, history, whispers… and the ever-present handmaidens.

Focus, he told himself, exhaling slowly. He closed his eyes, drawing his mind inward.

And then,

There it was.

A translucent, glass-like tree shimmered into existence before his mental eye. Its surface gleamed with spectral light, as if it were made of starlight and crystal. Roots coiled beneath it. A single stem rose and stood upward.

The Class Tree…

The very game feature he had been building in the final hours of his old life, right before reality fractured around him.

He didn’t know how it had come with him. Or why. Or what it even truly was anymore. A fragment of his old world? A gift? A curse?

But it floated in his mind like it belonged there.
Always just beneath the surface of thought, clear, gleaming, unshakable.

At first, he’d been terrified to touch it. He had stared at its form, lucid yet unreal: a translucent tree of glass and light, roots coiling into the abyss of thought, its branches rising like the veins of fate.

Was it a hallucination? A dream?

But no… it was real.
Or as real as anything else in this strange, dangerous world.

And there was no time to waste anymore.

This was not a world of comfort or safety. This was Westeros, a place of daggers behind smiles, of fire-breathing beasts, of fickle gods that answered prayers with curses.

He had watched Game of Thrones in his past life. He knew the kind of twisted, brutal stories this world wrote with the blood of its people.

Politics, betrayal, war, prophecy, madness…

And now he, Aegon Targaryen, third son of Baelon and Alyssa, brother to Viserys and Daemon was caught in its web.

But I never appeared in the show. Not once. Not even a mention.

Only two explanations made sense. Either I never existed… or I died before it mattered.

The thought chilled him to his bones.

I could already be living on borrowed time.

That thought had circled in his mind more than once over the past month. He didn’t know why he was here, or what forces had brought him across worlds. But one thing was clear—this place wasn’t safe. It never had been.

He stared at the translucent Tree. It was real. Tangible, in its own strange way. A thread of control in a world where most were just pieces moved by the whims of others.

But not me. Not this time.

His eyes narrowed, his resolve sharpening.

“I won’t die nameless,” he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible.

I’ll carve out a place for myself, even if I have to start from the bottom.

He didn’t need glory. He didn’t need fame. What he needed was to survive, to endure long enough to shape his own future instead of being shaped by the politics and power struggles of those around him.

He forced himself to breathe, grounding his thoughts. Then he turned his focus inward, toward the Tree.

As he concentrated, three glowing prompts hovered in the air around it like drifting sigils:

[ Attributes ]

[ Create ]

[ EXP 4192 ]

4192 EXP?

How do I even have that? From observation? From awakening? Or maybe it accumulated passively as I grew?

He didn’t know yet, but the number shimmered with promise. A reservoir of power waiting to be used.

His gaze flicked to the [Create] option.

That was the heart of it. The soul of the system.

His finger, mental or otherwise, moved toward the [Attributes] panel.

[

CON 2.7

STR 2.1

AGI 3.3

DEX 3.2

INT 9.2

]

Same as before…

He had checked them more times than he could count in the last month, each time hoping they might shift, might improve. But they never did. They remained constant.

The current attributes must be based on my natural growth.

Ten is the adult average, he recalled. That’s how he’d designed it, back in his old life.

Each stat anchored in realism, meant to mirror the growth and limitations of a real human being.

Constitution (CON) – Endurance, stamina, resistance to illness and fatigue. The kind of strength that lets you survive poison, long marches, blood loss.

Strength (STR) – Raw physical power. Muscle mass, lifting capacity, brute force.

Agility (AGI) – Reflexes, balance, reaction speed. The difference between slipping away or dying on a blade’s edge.

Dexterity (DEX) – Precision, coordination, fine control. A surgeon’s hand. An archer’s aim. A pickpocket’s fingers.

Intelligence (INT) – Memory, logic, learning speed, comprehension.

So this is who I am… physically weak, but mentally gifted.

It made sense. This body was still a child, four years old. The physical stats were low, fragile even. But Intelligence… That was another story.

My thoughts have been sharper since the awakening. Memories filed themselves into place.

The mind of an adult… but the body of a child.

Even a common squire could break my bones with a swing.

He could hear it, the soft shuffling of footsteps just beyond his chamber door.

He turned his attention back to the class tree. His finger, or the mental equivalent of it, hovered over the [Create] button.

Click.

A soft chime.

A blank text box materialized, exactly as it had during testing.

Yup. Still functioning like I built it.  Let’s just hope the rules haven’t changed…

Now came the real challenge.

The Class Tree was flexible, dangerously so. It wasn’t just about imagination; it was about balance, limitations, foresight. He had made sure of that during its development. You couldn't brute force your way to power, not without paying a price.

And I know every trap and bug built into this thing.

With a steady mind and cautious optimism, he began typing, mentally feeding the Tree his idea for the first class. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t powerful. In fact, it was borderline humiliating.

He read it twice. Adjusted the wording. Triple-checked the phrasing of the trait. And then, finally, sent it off with a silent prayer that the Tree still respected the mechanics it was created with.

The box vanished.

A pause.

The Tree pulsed softly, alive, reacting. Then, from the central stem, a thin new branch sprouted. From the new branch a small leaf bud bloomed and formed a leaf symbolizing the new class and the trait associated with it respectively.

Success.

He exhaled slowly.

He focused on the new branch, and a glowing panel unfurled.

[Class : Gluttonous Child ( Tier 1)]

[Prerequisites :

Have three meals a day for 15 consecutive days (satisfied)

Every attribute value > 2.0 (satisfied)

Age < 10 (satisfied)]

[Level 1 ( 000/510)]

[Trait : Strong digestion]

Gluttonous Child… yeah, sounds like a joke.

But it’s not.

He studied the details with a critical eye.

His attention shifted to the leaf next, and its properties immediately became clear to him:

[Trait : Strong digestion

(Enhances nutrient absorption efficiency by 5%)

(Grants minor CON bonus based on food quality/quantity consumed)]

The Trait, that’s the real prize here.

Strong Digestion. Not sexy, but efficient.

Nutrient absorption means better physical growth, faster recovery, smoother development.

He had added the trait deliberately during the class creation. In the original design, traits always scaled with class level. A 5% bonus now could become 10%, 15%, even higher, at max level, it would evolve into something truly impactful.

And most importantly, it fit.

Low risk, low requirement. The EXP cost will be modest. I can max this out quickly and move on to something stronger once I lay the foundation. There’s no sense trying to run before I can even crawl.

He closed the panel, and the branch shimmered in quiet acknowledgment, its leaf, the representation of the trait, only just starting to bud.

One step at a time.

His thoughts were cut short by a familiar sound, “Grmmmble.”

A soft, gurgling complaint from his stomach.

Huh… Wasn’t expecting that.

He blinked, mildly startled, then chuckled to himself. Guess that trait really is working.

It was a strange sensation, being awed by hunger. He slipped out of bed and shuffled toward the hall with an innocent grin. Food, after all, was now part of his training.

In the dining chamber, two handmaidens blinked in surprise as the young prince skipped his usual afternoon nap and plopped down, demanding food.

“Slower, my prince!” one said with a nervous laugh as he began shoveling in small bites with almost unnatural enthusiasm.

“Did you not eat enough at lunch?” the other asked gently.

“No,” he mumbled between mouthfuls. “I got hungry all of a sudden… Daemon said I gotta eat more if I wanna grow big like him!”

His voice was laced with innocent charm, wide violet eyes sparkling with the sincerity only a child could muster.

Always sell the lie with a smile.

After the meal, a calm clarity washed over him. His stomach settled, and there was an odd sense of internal warmth, subtle, but very real.

Evening came, and with it, the soft-voiced shuffle of Maester Norren, bald and slow-spoken, with robes that smelled of parchment, ink and sweat.

Old Valyrian. History of the Seven Kingdoms. The usual.

He listened silently, nodding at intervals.

Over the last few weeks, his studious nature had earned quiet approval among the maesters. More than once, he’d heard them murmur things like “bright boy” and “well-mannered.” Especially in comparison to his elder brother.

To be fair, they probably still have nightmares about teaching Daemon.

But this was fine.The reputation could help him in future.

Night approached. Time for the most social part of his current life, the royal family dinner.

A long stone table. Velvet cushions. Rich dishes and richer tensions. Most, if not all, of the Targaryen household gathered together under candlelight.

Chapter Text

The great hall of the Red Keep was alive with the quiet hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware. Long tables had been arranged beneath the flickering torchlight, laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruits from the Reach.

Prince Aegon, barely four years old, sat beside his grandmother, Queen Alysanne, his small hands eagerly tearing into a piece of honeyed chicken. Queen Alysanne, her silver-gold hair streaked with the wisdom of her fifty-plus years, sat regally beside him, her sharp violet eyes missing nothing despite the weary lines that framed them from decades of rule and personal loss.

His appetite had always been strong, but he had become acutely aware of the benefits of his trait, [Strong Digestion]. Every bite he took was absorbed more efficiently than most, and he made sure to eat as much as he could, knowing it would aid his growth.

Across from him, his eldest brother, Viserys, now eleven, was engaged in a quiet discussion with their grandfather, King Jaehaerys I, about the latest reports from the Stormlands.

Viserys had always been dutiful, his posture straight, his words measured, already the image of a future king with his soft silver hair and amiable purple eyes that masked a quiet shrewdness.

Beside him, Jaehaerys, the Old King, his beard more white than silver now but his bearing still commanding, listened with the patience of a ruler who had weathered half a century of storms, his sharp gaze occasionally flickering to assess the rest of the table even as he nodded at Viserys's points.

To Aegon’s left, his other brother, Daemon, seven years old, was poking at his food with a bored expression. Daemon had little patience for formal dinners, preferring the training yard or the Dragonpit. His violet eyes flicked around the table, lingering briefly on their uncle, Prince Aemon, before he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth.

Aemon, the firstborn son of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, a stern-faced man with sharp Targaryen features and silver hair streaked with grey, sat stiffly beside his daughter, Rhaenys, who had only just returned from riding Meleys.

The thirteen-year-old princess bore the striking beauty of Old Valyria: high cheekbones, flawless pale skin, and thick silver-gold hair loosely braided from her ride, her violet eyes bright with restless energy.

The queen had been displeased with her frequent absences, and the tension between them was palpable.

"You spend too much time in the skies, Rhaenys," Alysanne said, her voice calm but firm. "A dragonrider must also learn the ways of court."

Rhaenys, barely older than Viserys, met her grandmother’s gaze without flinching. "Meleys needs to fly, Your Grace. A dragon kept too long in chains grows restless."

Alysanne’s lips thinned, but before she could reply, King Jaehaerys interjected. "Let the girl ride. The bond between dragon and rider is not one to be neglected."

Alysanne exhaled softly but said nothing more. The recent reconciliation between her and Jaehaerys was still fragile, and she had no wish to reignite old quarrels.

Aegon, sensing the shift in mood, reached for another piece of chicken. His movements caught Aemon’s attention.

"You eat like a starving peasant, nephew," Aemon remarked dryly.

Aegon paused, then swallowed before answering. "I like food."

Aemon arched a brow. "Clearly."

Daemon snickered, but Viserys shot him a warning look.

Alysanne placed a gentle hand on Aegon’s shoulder. "Let him eat. Growing boys need their strength."

"Especially this one," Jaehaerys added, a faint smile touching his lips. "He’ll be as tall as his father one day."

Baelon, the Spring Prince, was not present tonight, away on some duty for the crown but his absence was felt. Alysanne’s grip on Aegon’s shoulder tightened slightly, a shadow passing over her face. The deaths of her daughters still weighed heavily on her.

Aegon, sensing her sorrow, nudged a piece of sweetcake toward her. "Grandmother, try this. It’s good."

Alysanne’s expression softened. "You’re too kind, little one." She took a small bite, though her appetite had never fully returned since the tragedies.

At the far end of the table, Rhaenys leaned toward Viserys, her voice low. "Will you be joining us in the training yard tomorrow?"

Viserys nodded. "If Grandfather permits it."

Jaehaerys waved a hand. "Of course. A prince must know how to wield a sword as well as a quill."

Daemon perked up. "Can I come too?"

"You’re still too young for live steel," Aemon said dismissively.

Daemon scowled. "I’m not."

"You are," Viserys said firmly. "But you can watch."

Daemon looked as though he wanted to argue further, but a sharp glance from Jaehaerys silenced him.

Aegon, meanwhile, had moved on to a bowl of berries, popping them into his mouth one by one. He had learned quickly that in this life, strength came not just from bloodline but from preparation. His body was still small, but he would make sure it grew strong.

Alysanne watched him with fondness. "You remind me of Baelon at your age. He was always hungry too."

Aegon grinned, juice staining his lips. "Father says eating well is a warrior’s duty."

Jaehaerys chuckled. "A wise man, your father."

The conversation drifted to lighter topics, the upcoming tourney in Lannisport, the new hatchlings in the Dragonpit, but beneath the surface, the tensions remained. Aemond’s quiet disapproval of Rhaenys’ wildness, Daemon’s restless energy, Alysanne’s lingering grief.

By the time the servants cleared the plates, Aegon had eaten more than any child his age should have been capable of. His stomach was full, his limbs warm with the satisfaction of a meal well-utilized.

As the family rose from the table, Viserys placed a hand on Aegon’s head. "Come, little brother. It’s time for bed."

Aegon nodded, though his mind was already turning to the next day, the next meal, the next step in growing stronger.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard of the Red Keep. Prince Aegon, sat on a wooden bench, swinging his legs as he watched his older brother, Daemon, spar with Ser Clement Crabb. The sharp clang of swords echoed in the quiet yard.

Most of the court had left for the tourney at Lannisport, leaving the castle unusually empty.

Daemon, still simmering with anger over being left behind, swung his wooden practice sword with more force than necessary. His strikes were wild, fueled by frustration.

He’s still mad about the punishment.

Two weeks prior, Daemon had violently assaulted a servant over some perceived offense that no one else understood. When Prince Baelon returned and learned of the incident, his rage had been immediate and decisive - Daemon's punishment was to remain confined to the Red Keep while the others traveled to the tourney.

Now the seven-year-old prince found himself drilling endlessly in the training yard under Ser Clement's stern supervision, rather than watching the jousts at Lannisport.

Not that he minds training. He just hates being told what to do.

Beside Aegon stood his two handmaidens, Ellyn and Mara, quietly discussing some court gossip. Behind them, Ser Robin Shaw of the Kingsguard stood motionless, his white cloak stirring slightly in the breeze. His presence was more formality than necessity, no one expected trouble within the castle walls.

Daemon lunged at Ser Clement, who sidestepped with ease and tapped Daemon’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.

"Too slow," Ser Clement said.

Daemon snarled and spat a curse. "I wasn’t ready!"

"You think your enemies will wait for you to be ready?"

Daemon glared but reset his stance.

Aegon popped a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Over the past two weeks, he had leveled up his class, [Gluttonous Child], to level 4, consuming roughly 2100 EXP. Leveling to level 2 took 500 EXP, level 3 - 700 EXP and Level 4 - 900 EXP.

His trait, [Strong Digestion], had also improved, now increasing nutrient absorption by 20%. The effects were undeniable. He had grown 2 centimeters taller, something he confirmed by secretly marking his height against the wall in his chambers.

Not bad for two weeks.

His attributes had also seen a slight increase, particularly his Constitution, which had risen by 0.2 points.

[

CON 2.9

STR 2.1

AGI 3.3

DEX 3.2

INT 9.2

]

The numbers floated in his mind, a system only he could see.

In the game, EXP wasn’t restricted by action, only by impact. The more impact you had on the world, the more EXP you gained.

He had tested this theory over the past weeks. Eating the same meal in his room gave him a trickle of EXP, but dining with the king and queen flooded him with gains. It made sense, interacting with the most powerful people in the realm had a greater effect on the world.

This changes things.

His original plan had been to travel Westeros on dragonback, seeing everything this world had to offer. But if he wanted to maximize his growth, he needed to stay where the influence was greatest, close to the king, the queen, the Small Council.

I have to stay in the Red Keep. At least until I’m stronger.

Daemon let out a frustrated shout as Ser Clement disarmed him again. The wooden sword clattered to the ground.

"Again!" Daemon demanded.

Ser Clement sighed but obliged.

Aegon reached for another grape, but his fingers brushed against something else—a small honey cake left on the platter. He grabbed it and took a bite, savoring the sweetness.

Ellyn glanced down at him. "You’ve eaten quite a bit this morning, my prince."

Aegon swallowed. "I’m hungry."

She smiled. "Growing boys need their fill."

If only she knew how true that is.

Daemon, panting from exertion, finally managed to land a hit on Ser Clement, a light tap on the arm, but it was something.

"Better," Ser Clement admitted.

Daemon smirked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Told you I’d get you."

"One hit doesn’t make you a knight."

Daemon’s smirk faded. "I’d do better with a real sword."

"You’ll get one when you’re ready."

Which won’t be anytime soon if he keeps acting like this.

Aegon finished the honey cake and licked his fingers. He wondered if Daemon even cared about improving or if he just wanted to prove he was better than everyone else.

Probably the latter.

Ser Robin shifted slightly, his armor creaking. "Prince Aegon, should we return to the castle? The sun is growing harsh."

Aegon shook his head. "I want to watch more."

Ser Robin nodded and resumed his silent vigil.

Daemon and Ser Clement continued their bout, the rhythm of their strikes filling the air. Aegon’s mind drifted back to his own progress.

If I keep this up, I’ll outgrow Daemon in a few years. Maybe even Viserys.

The thought brought a flicker of satisfaction. In his past life, he had never been the strongest or the fastest. But here, with this system, he could change that.

A servant approached, bowing slightly. "Prince Aegon, Queen Alysanne requests your presence."

Aegon perked up. More EXP.

He slid off the bench, brushing crumbs from his tunic. "I’m coming."

Daemon, noticing his departure, called out, "Running off already?"

Aegon shrugged. "Grandmother wants me."

Daemon rolled his eyes but said nothing else.

"You are here, Aegon? Come, let us go to the Dragonpit."

His grandmother, Queen Alysanne, stood before him, her silver-gold hair braided neatly beneath a light veil. She extended a hand toward him.

She’s taking me to see the dragons.

For days, he had pestered her about it, asking questions every time they shared a meal or walked the gardens. Now, finally, she had agreed.

He scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers. "Right now?"

Alysanne smiled. "Unless you’ve changed your mind?"

"No!" He nearly tripped in his haste to reach her side.

She chuckled and took his small hand in hers. "Then we go."

They walked through the halls of the Red Keep, Aegon’s shorter legs forcing him to take two steps for every one of hers. Servants bowed as they passed.

"Will Silverwing be there?" he asked.

"She will."

"Is she the biggest dragon?"

"No, but she is among the most graceful."

"Have you flown her recently?"

"Not as often as I once did."

If I had a dragon, I would fly every day.

The path to the Dragonpit sloped downward, the air growing warmer as they approached the massive domed structure. The scent of smoke and something sharper, something wild, lingered in the breeze. Aegon’s fingers tightened around his grandmother’s.

This is real. They’re really here.

Dragon Keepers in gray robes bowed deeply as the queen approached. One stepped forward, his voice respectful. "Your Grace."

Alysanne inclined her head. "We have come to see Silverwing."

The head keeper nodded. "She has been restless this morning. She will be glad for your presence."

The keepers moved aside, and Aegon followed his grandmother into the dim interior of the pit. The heat here was thicker, the air heavy with the smell of charred meat and molten stone. Torches lined the walls, their flickering light casting long shadows.

A low, rumbling growl echoed from the depths.

Aegon froze.

That’s a dragon.

Alysanne squeezed his hand. "She will not harm you."

Chapter Text

The keepers moved deeper into the pit, their murmured High Valyrian words blending with the scrape of chains against stone. The heavy iron links clanked as they loosened, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. Then the shadows stirred.

Silverwing emerged.

The dragon's massive form filled the passageway, her pearlescent scales catching the sunlight in ripples of silver-white. As she folded her wings against her back, the leathery membranes whispered like sails being furled. Her golden eyes, slit-pupiled like a serpent's, fixed on them with ancient intelligence. Hot breath gusted from her nostrils, carrying the scent of charred meat and molten rock, kicking up swirls of dust around their feet.

Aegon's chest tightened. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his palms growing damp. The sheer size of her - nearly sixty meters from snout to tail - made his knees weak. This close, he could see the scars along her flank, the worn edges of her claws, the way her muscles coiled beneath her hide. Every instinct screamed at him to flee from the apex predator before him.

Alysanne stepped forward, her movements smooth and unhurried. "Kirimvose," she thanked the keepers, then turned to the dragon. "Lykirī, Silverwing."

The great beast lowered her head with surprising delicacy, pressing her snout into Alysanne's palm. The dragon exhaled through her mouth, the warm air ruffling Alysanne's skirts.

Aegon stood frozen, his mouth dry. He could see now how Silverwing's teeth - each as long as his forearm - gleamed like polished daggers when she parted her jaws slightly. The heat radiating from her body made the air shimmer, like standing near a forge.

"Come," Alysanne said, her voice cutting through his daze. "You may approach, but do not make sudden movements."

Aegon forced air into his lungs. His first step nearly faltered as the stone trembled beneath Silverwing's shifting weight. Each cautious footfall brought him closer to the dragon's overwhelming presence - the mineral scent of her scales, the faint metallic tang in the air, the low rumble in her chest that vibrated through his bones.

Silverwing turned her great head toward him. Her nostrils flared, drawing in his scent with audible sniffs. Warm air buffeted his face, carrying the ghost of last night's roasted ox on her breath.

"She knows you are of my blood," Alysanne said, her hand steady on his shoulder.

Aegon's throat worked as he swallowed. "Can I...touch her?"

"If she permits it."

He raised a trembling hand, fingers outstretched toward the massive creature. Silverwing remained perfectly still, her golden eyes watching him with unblinking focus. As his fingertips made first contact, the texture surprised him - the scales weren't rough like stone as he'd imagined, but smooth like well-worn leather left baking in the sun. When he pressed his palm fully against her side, he could feel the deep, rhythmic thrum of the dragon's pulse vibrating through his hand, each beat slow and powerful enough to shake a castle wall.

A peculiar sensation blossomed in his chest - something warm and strange that made his own blood seem to hum in response. He noted the odd feeling for later examination, though now wasn't the time to dwell on it, not with the living legend standing before him. The moment demanded his full attention.

Then Silverwing made a sound deep in her chest, a resonant hum that traveled up Aegon's arm and into his ribs. The vibration made his teeth click together.

Alysanne's smile reached her eyes. "She approves."

Aegon's fear melted away, replaced by a giddy rush. "When can I claim a dragon?"

"All in time, little one."

"Hmm."

"Patience," she chided, running her hand along Silverwing's jaw. The dragon's eyelid half-closed in pleasure. "A dragon is not a pet. It is a bond forged in fire and blood. When the time is right, you will know."

Aegon nodded mutely, unable to tear his hand away from Silverwing's scales. The dragon's presence filled his awareness - the heat, the power, the strange intelligence in those golden eyes. For the first time, he truly understood why his family ruled the seven kingdoms.

At night, as he lay in bed, he received the second surprise of the day.

[ Trait: Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage

(+15% natural resistance to heat and fire)

(+25% in kinship with Dragons)

(+5% chance of receiving prophetic visions during sleep) ]

It should have appeared with that strange feeling when he touched Silverwing earlier.

A flicker of pride warmed his chest.

Fuck…this is overpowered.

Being a product of incest isn’t so bad after all.

But then he frowned.

The trait hadn’t appeared where it should.The trait appeared as a small bud directly on the main stem of the class tree - which is not how he had designed it.

Originally, as a game feature there was no way the game character could develop a trait without having a class. There should be a class, appearing as a branch, and then its traits, appearing as leaves on it.

A sudden idea formed in his mind.

Maybe I should create a class to wrap around this trait. This way I could grow this trait while leveling up the class.

His mind raced through possibilities, [Dragonkin]? [True Targaryen]? Something to synergize with the Targaryen lineage.

But first, he needed to accelerate his current class progression.

I should speed up the upgrade of [Gluttonous Child].

Every meal, every interaction with high-value targets like the king and queen, it all needed to be optimized. The sooner he advanced, the sooner he could control how these rogue traits integrated into his development.

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fading roses and damp earth as Prince Aegon walked beside Queen Alysanne through the Red Keep’s gardens. Two Kingsguard followed at a respectful distance, their white cloaks stirring in the breeze, while a handful of maids and servants trailed behind, ready to attend to the queen’s slightest need.

Alysanne’s lips were pressed into a thin line, her violet eyes sharp with irritation. She’s still angry about the ravens. It had been over two months since King Jaehaerys and most of the court had departed for the tourney at Lannisport, and despite her repeated demands for their return, there had been no sign of them.

“I never understand men and their love for tourneys.”

Aegon had heard her muttering it more than once under her breath, her tone laced with disdain. But today, she voiced it aloud, her voice dry and unamused.

“And those Lannisters…” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Few could compare to their arse-licking.”

He bit back a grin. His grandmother rarely cursed outright, but when she did, it was always precise, like a well-placed dagger.

The falling leaves crunched softly underfoot as they walked, the garden’s vibrant greens now tinged with gold and red. Alysanne sighed, her breath visible in the cool air. “Your grandfather promised it would be a short visit. Two moons gone, and not a word of their return.”

Aegon nodded absently, though his focus was elsewhere.

I’ve leveled up my class twice again.

He had leveled up his class two more times, spending a total of around 2,400 EXP. 1,100 to reach level 5 and another 1,300 for level 6.

Over the past two months, he’d been earning a consistent 30 to 40 EXP per day through everyday interactions and the occasional royal audience when Queen Alysanne let him sit in. His progress was steady, though slower than he preferred. With most of the court away, there were fewer high-yield opportunities for experience.

His class now displayed:

[Class : Gluttonous Child (Tier 1)]

[Prerequisites :

Have three meals a day for 15 consecutive days (satisfied)

Every attribute value > 2.0 (satisfied)

Age < 10 (satisfied)]

[Level 6 ( 0 / 1520 )]

[Trait : Strong digestion]

The trait's effectiveness had proportionally increased with each class level.

[Trait : Strong digestion

(Enhances nutrient absorption efficiency by 30%)

(Grants minor CON bonus based on food quality/quantity consumed)]

The attribute numbers floated in his mind, a silent reassurance of his progress:

[

CON 3.4

STR 2.5

AGI 3.3

DEX 3.2

INT 9.2

]

Four centimeters taller. He’d confirmed it that morning, pressing his back against the wall in his chambers and carving a fresh mark beside the old one. The steady rise of his Constitution had nudged his Strength from 2.1 to 2.5, though the changes weren’t without trade-offs. His arms and cheeks had grown softer, a layer of padding settling over his frame.

Too much feasting, not enough movement.

For weeks now, he’d stolen moments alone in his bedchamber to exercise—crouching until his thighs burned, pushing up from the floor until his arms trembled. If he didn’t, his trait and rising CON would turn him outright fat.

Alysanne’s voice pulled him back to the present. “You’ve been quiet today, little one.”

Aegon blinked, then quickly schooled his expression. “Just thinking.”

She arched a brow. “About?”

How much EXP I’d get if the king came back. But he couldn’t say that. Instead, he shrugged. “When Father and the others would return.”

Alysanne’s expression softened slightly. “Soon, I hope. I’ve half a mind to fly to Lannisport myself and drag them back by their ears.”

Ser Robin Shaw, cleared his throat. “Your Grace, might I suggest patience? The king’s ravens indicated they would return before the turn of the season.”

“Patience,” Alysanne repeated, unimpressed. “A virtue I’m beginning to resent.”

Aegon hid another smile.

They reached a stone bench beneath a weirwood tree, its pale branches nearly bare. Alysanne sat, gesturing for Aegon to join her. The maids immediately stepped forward, one offering a goblet of spiced wine to the queen, another presenting Aegon with a small cup of honeyed milk.

He took it gratefully, the warmth seeping into his fingers.

Alysanne sipped her wine, her gaze distant. “You’ll see a tourney one day, Aegon. And when you do, you’ll understand why I find them tedious.”

Because they’re just an excuse for lords to show off and waste time. But he nodded as if considering her words.

A rustle in the bushes made him glance over. One of the kitchen cats—a sleek black tom, prowled into view, eyeing them before darting away.

Alysanne followed his gaze. “Hmph. Even the cats grow restless with this waiting.”

Aegon sipped his milk, the sweet taste lingering on his tongue. If I keep this pace, I’ll hit Level 7 before the year’s end.

The thought was satisfying. But what he really needed was the king’s return—the surge of EXP that came with being near those who shaped the realm.

For now, though, he had his grandmother’s company, the quiet of the garden, and the steady crawl of progress.

"Grandmother, can I also join brother…" Aegon's question was cut off by a deep, rumbling roar that vibrated through the castle stones. Both he and Alysanne instinctively looked up through the high windows just as a massive shadow blotted out the sunlight for a heartbeat. The unmistakable crimson form of Meleys flashed overhead, her scarlet wings fully extended as she banked toward the Dragonpit.

Rhaenys is back.

The dragon's passing sent a gust of wind through the open balcony, rustling the tapestries and making the candle flames dance wildly. Alysanne's expression tightened slightly as she watched the dragon disappear behind the towers.

"Meleys makes quite the entrance," Aegon observed, still craning his neck toward the window.

His grandmother sighed. "That she does." Without turning, she addressed one of the nearby maids. "Send for Princess Rhaenys. Tell her to attend to me at once."

The maid curtsied and hurried away. Aegon noticed how Alysanne's fingers tapped impatiently against the armrest of her chair. The queen had been increasingly displeased with her granddaughter's frequent, unannounced flights.

She's going to scold Rhaenys again. Aegon wisely decided not to resume his earlier request about training. Instead, he focused on his plate.

Chapter Text

"Calm down, Meleys," Rhaenys murmured, pressing her palm against the dragon's warm snout. The Red Queen huffed, sending a gust of hot air through Rhaenys' silver-gold hair before reluctantly allowing the dragon keepers to guide her back into the depths of the pit. The massive crimson beast moved with surprising grace for her size, her scales glittering like rubies in the afternoon sun.

"Princess!" A breathless maid came running across the pit's stone floor, her skirts fluttering. "The Queen asks for your presence in the gardens. At once."

Rhaenys removed her riding gloves, tucking them into her belt. "I'll go immediately," she said with practiced politeness, though her stomach tightened. The walk from the Dragonpit to the gardens would give her just enough time to compose herself.

As she stepped into the sunlight, Rhaenys let out a quiet sigh. The message from her father and grandfather had been clear - they were enjoying the Lannisport tourney too much to return as planned. A few more days, Prince Aemon had written in his precise script. The Lannisters' hospitality knows no bounds, and His Grace wishes to see the final jousts.

Her boots clicked against the stone pathway as she walked. The Queen had already been displeased with her frequent flights on Meleys. Now she would have to deliver news that would only sour her grandmother's mood further.

A warm breeze carried the scent of blooming roses from the gardens ahead. Rhaenys absently touched her lips, remembering the stolen moment before her flight. The memory made her cheeks grow warm.

If only we hadn't been interrupted...

Corlys Velaryon had cornered her near the library, his sea-blue eyes alight with mischief. At twenty six, the heir to Driftmark carried himself with a confidence that made her pulse quicken. Their conversation had started innocently enough - talk of ships and dragons and the latest court gossip. Then he'd stepped closer. Then closer still. The kiss had been brief but electric, cut short by the approaching footsteps of a servant.

No worries, Rhaenys thought, a determined smile tugging at her lips. You won't escape me so easily next time, Corlys.

The garden came into view, its manicured hedges and flowering bushes arranged in perfect symmetry. At its center, beneath the shade of an ancient oak, Queen Alysanne sat waiting. Even at rest, the Queen commanded attention - her silver hair braided tightly, her violet eyes sharp as they tracked Rhaenys' approach.

"You summoned me, Your Grace?" Rhaenys curtsied, keeping her voice level.

"Yes, sit," said the Queen, gesturing to the opposite bench. "How fares the King and Prince Aemon in Lannisport? I trust they're dutifully watching... what was it? Ah yes, the tenth round of grown men hitting each other with sticks instead of attending to their royal duties." Her tone carried the sharp edge of long-honed sarcasm.

Rhaenys settled onto the bench, resisting the urge to fidget with her riding gloves. "They... they wish to stay for the final jousts. They'll return in three days' time."

Alysanne's knuckles whitened around her goblet. "Three more days? Of course. Why rule a kingdom when one can watch hedge knights bruise each other for silver coins?" She took a measured sip of wine. "And the Small Council matters piling up here? The petitions? The harvest reports?"

"I believe Septon Barth is handling-"

"Seven save us from Barth’s handling'," the Queen snapped. Aegon startled beside her, his small hands clutching the edge of the bench. Alysanne exhaled through her nose, visibly collecting herself. After a long moment, she waved a dismissive hand. "Very well. Go take a bath, you still smell like dragon. Then return to accompany Aegon in the garden."

"Yes, Your Grace." Rhaenys rose and curtsied again before retreating down the path, her shoulders relaxing incrementally with each step away from the Queen's displeasure.

The royal baths welcomed her with tendrils of steam curling through arched doorways. Four maids awaited in the tiled chamber, their arms laden with scented oils and soft linens.

"Help me with these," Rhaenys said, raising her arms as the maids descended. Quick fingers unlaced her riding leathers, the stiff material peeling away to reveal skin flushed pink from hours pressed against Meleys' heated scales. The maids worked efficiently, their hands neither lingering nor hesitating as they divested her of each layer until she stood bare in the humid air.

Nothing like a good bath after riding a dragon.

She stepped into the sunken pool, the heated water enveloping her in instant relief. The maids followed, their own light shifts clinging damply as they set to work. One began loosening Rhaenys' braided hair while another poured lavender-scented water down her back. A third maid took up a pumice stone, gently scrubbing her arms.

Rhaenys leaned back against the pool's edge, letting the warmth seep into her muscles. At fourteen, her body had begun its gradual transformation from girl to woman. The water lapped at the newly rounded curves of her hips, the subtle swell of her breasts barely breaking the surface. A maid's skilled fingers massaged jasmine oil into her shoulders, working out knots left by hours gripping the dragon rider’s seat.

Another maid knelt beside the pool with a bowl of rosewater, carefully rinsing Rhaenys' face. The princess kept her eyes closed, enjoying the ministrations. For all the Queen's reprimands about propriety, these moments of quiet indulgence remained unquestioned - a Targaryen privilege as unquestioned as their dragons.

Should go now to look after the kid.

With reluctant movement, Rhaenys rose from the water. The maids descended again with drying linens, their practiced hands blotting moisture from her silver-gold hair before wrapping her in soft robes. They dressed her in fresh layers - a light linen shift first, then a flowing gown of pale blue silk that complemented her violet eyes. The final touch was a delicate silver chain around her waist, its links cool against her still-warm skin.

One maid began combing through her damp hair while another fastened tiny pearl buttons at her wrists. The familiar routine soothed her - the certainty of each step, the unspoken understanding between princess and attendants. No awkward glances at her changing body, no comments about how much taller she'd grown since last moon's turn. Just efficient service.

"Leave it down to dry," Rhaenys instructed as the maid reached for braiding ribbons. The girl nodded and stepped back with the others, their heads bowed as Rhaenys smoothed her skirts.

She took a final glance in the polished bronze mirror - cheeks flushed from the bath's heat, hair cascading in damp waves - before turning toward the door. The maids fell into step behind her as she exited, their soft footfalls fading as they branched off to attend other duties. Rhaenys alone continued toward the gardens, where a four-year-old prince and a displeased queen awaited.

Aegon watched as Rhaenys returned to the gardens, her silver-gold hair now unbound and slightly damp from her bath. The afternoon sun caught the strands, making them gleam like spun metal. At fourteen, she carried herself with the unconscious grace of someone raised in royal courts—chin slightly lifted, shoulders straight, the hint of Targaryen arrogance in her violet eyes.

She could’ve won Miss High School back on Earth, Aegon thought, studying her features. High cheekbones, full lips, and that distinctive Valyrian beauty, even at her age, she outshone most grown women he’d seen in his previous life.

His grandmother rose from the stone bench, smoothing her skirts. "Aegon, stay with Rhaenys. I have matters to attend to." She gestured to the nearby maids and the Kingsguard standing at a respectful distance. "Behave."

Aegon nodded dutifully as the Queen departed, leaving him alone with his older cousin. Rhaenys sat beside him, her expression unreadable. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant chirping of birds in the garden.

Time to break the ice.

"How was the tourney?" he asked, swinging his legs childishly.

Rhaenys glanced at him, as if surprised he’d spoken. "Usual. Knights jousting. Crowds cheering. Lords making wagers."

Aegon nodded sagely, as if he understood. "Why don’t ladies participate in tourneys?"

That earned him a raised eyebrow. For a moment, he worried he’d overplayed his hand—a four-year-old shouldn’t sound too perceptive. But Rhaenys seemed to dismiss it as childish curiosity.

"Men won’t allow it," she said, a hint of sarcasm creeping into her tone.

Aegon put on his most innocent expression. "When I grow up, I’ll ask the King to let girls become knights."

Rhaenys chuckled softly, the sound light and unexpected. "Then I’ll wait for it."

Score one for me.

She tilted her head. "How are your lessons with the Maester?"

"They’re fine. He says I’m smart." Aegon puffed out his chest slightly, playing up the childish pride. Then, with a grin, he added, "I have a riddle for you."

Rhaenys arched a brow but humored him. "Go on."

"If you have ten apples in one hand and fifteen apples in the other, what do you have?"

She considered it for a moment. "You’d have twenty-five apples."

"Wrong!" Aegon smirked. "You’d have really big hands."

For a heartbeat, Rhaenys just stared at him. Then, to his delight, she burst out laughing, a genuine, unfiltered sound that made the nearby maids glance over in surprise. Even a few muffled chuckles came from the attendants.

Jokes work in every era, Aegon thought smugly. And now I’ve got her attention.

"Do you want to hear more?" he asked, widening his eyes in exaggerated eagerness.

Rhaenys wiped at the corner of her eye, still smiling. "Alright, little prince. Amuse me."

Aegon cleared his throat dramatically. "Why did the knight bring a ladder to the tourney?"

"I don’t know. Why?"

"Because he heard the competition was highly regarded!"

Another laugh escaped her, though she tried to suppress it this time. "That’s terrible."

"But you laughed."

"Against my better judgment," she muttered, though her lips still twitched.

Aegon pressed his advantage. "What do you call a knight who’s afraid to fight?"

Rhaenys shook her head, already anticipating the punchline. "What?"

"Ser Render!"

This time, even the stoic Kingsguard snorted before quickly schooling his expression. Rhaenys covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

"You’re ridiculous," she said, though there was no bite to it.

Aegon grinned. "But you like it."

Rhaenys leaned back against the bench, studying him with newfound interest. "Where did you even hear these?"

"The Maester tells me stories," Aegon lied smoothly. "Sometimes they have jokes in them."

"Maester Norren must be more amusing than I remember."

Aegon seized the opportunity to steer the conversation. "Do you like stories? I know lots of them."

Rhaenys shrugged. "Depends on the story."

"How about one about a princess who tamed the fiercest dragon in the world?"

That caught her attention. "Go on."

So Aegon spun a tale, loosely based on a children’s book from his past life but adapted to fit Valyrian lore. He embellished details, making the princess clever and bold, the dragon majestic and untamable until the heroine outsmarted it. Rhaenys listened intently, her earlier amusement replaced by genuine interest.

When he finished, she tilted her head. "Not bad. Though real dragon bonding isn’t quite so... poetic."

"But it’s more fun this way," Aegon said with a grin.

Rhaenys exhaled, almost smiling again. "You’re an odd child, you know that?"

Aegon just blinked up at her, all innocence. "Grandmother says I take after Uncle Aemon."

That drew another laugh.

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment before Rhaenys spoke again. "You’re smarter than most boys twice your age."

Because I’m technically thirty-four, Aegon thought but wisely didn’t say. Instead, he shrugged. "I listen a lot."

Rhaenys studied him a moment longer before standing. "Come on. Let’s see if the kitchens have those honey cakes you like."

Aegon scrambled to his feet, hiding his satisfaction.

Favorability increased successfully .

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Red Keep Training Yard – Summer

The midday sun beat down on the training yard as wooden swords cracked against each other. Daemon advanced with a flurry of strikes, his silver-gold hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Opposite him, Aegon moved with uncanny precision, his slightly smaller frame twisting to deflect each blow.

The new trait is working perfectly.

Aegon’s [Elastic Frame] had redistributed his excess bulk into lean muscle over the past months. Where he’d once been a chubby child struggling to keep up, he now matched Daemon’s footwork effortlessly. He pivoted on his heel, dodging a horizontal slash that would’ve bruised his ribs weeks ago.

Ser Clement Crabb, observing from the sidelines, stroked his beard. "Prince Aegon’s reflexes have sharpened considerably."

Daemon snarled and lunged again. This time, Aegon didn’t just block, he countered. His practice sword smacked Daemon’s wrist with a loud thwack, forcing a yelp from his brother. Before Daemon could recover, Aegon struck his shoulder, then swept his legs out from under him. The tip of his wooden blade hovered at Daemon’s throat.

Silence fell across the yard. Even the sparring squads paused to gawk.

Daemon’s face flushed scarlet. "Again!" he demanded, scrambling up.

Aegon hesitated. He’d won three rounds today, unprecedented. Too much?

The next bout was a careful performance. Aegon let Daemon drive him backward, taking a theatrical stumble when their swords locked. Daemon’s final strike tapped his chest with triumphant force.

"Well fought, brother," Aegon panted, rubbing his sternum. "You’ve gotten faster."

Daemon’s scowl softened marginally. "Took you down in half the time today."

Ser Clement eyed Aegon but said nothing.

Aegon sank into the steaming water with a groan. The royal life had its perks, soft beds, endless feasts, servants attending to his every need, but the relentless schedule wore on him. Mornings were drills with Daemon, afternoons spent memorizing Valyrian histories with the maester, evenings practicing spending time with his grandmother.

Only tourneys and feasts broke the monotony, and even those were political theater.

At least the EXP is good.

His attachment to Queen Alysanne paid dividends. Noble ladies cooed over his "sensible nature" within earshot, each compliment ticking his EXP upward. Even now, he recalled yesterday’s exchange:

"Such a dutiful boy," Lady Redwyne had murmured, watching him fetch Alysanne’s shawl without prompting.

The Queen’s health had improved since he’d become her constant shadow. Color returned to her cheeks, her smiles more frequent. A small victory, but one that strengthened his position.

Across the castle, Rhaenys continued her flights to Driftmark, barely discreet, though Alysanne no longer chastised her. Probably resigned, Aegon mused. Meanwhile, Viserys had fallen under his new friend, Otto Hightower’s influence, the two whispering over scrolls like miniature lords.

"Prince, shall I scrub your back?"

The maid’s voice startled him. She stood by the bath’s edge, a bristle brush in hand. Her round face and thick arms marked her as one of the kitchen servants reassigned to bathing duty.

Wouldn’t have declined if you were a pretty girl instead of a stout aunt, Aegon thought. Aloud, he said, "Just leave the soap. I’ll manage."

The bath's residual warmth clung to his skin as he padded across the chamber.

[EXP 16158]

The glowing numerals hovered at the edge of his vision. Enough for three upgrades. He focused on [Nimble Rascal] and willed the progression forward.

[-5127 EXP]

[Class Level Increased: 7 → 10 (MAX)]

The familiar warmth flooded his limbs, tendrils of heat coiling around muscles and joints. His fingers twitched as the system's energy rewrote his physiology. The updated status shimmered into view:

[Class : Nimble Rascal (Tier 1)]

[Prerequisites :

At least 3 instances of evading adults or guards playfully (satisfied)

AGI ≥ 3.0 (satisfied)

Age < 10 (satisfied)]

[Level 10 (MAX)]

[Trait : Elastic Frame

(50% of all passive CON gain is rerouted to DEX and AGI )

(Movements are boosted by 20%)]

Aegon sprang from the bed, testing his enhanced agility. His bare feet made no sound as he darted between furniture, the world slowing around him. A roll across the fur rug, a handspring off the wardrobe, movements that would've been impossible months ago.

His reflection in the polished bronze mirror showed a boy growing leaner by the day, though traces of childhood softness lingered around his jawline.

The full moon's light streamed through his chamber window, painting silver streaks across the floor. He paused, watching the celestial body's slow arc. Calm. Focus. The night's real work awaited.

Closing his eyes, he visualized the crystalline class tree. Two branches now glowed steadily, [Gluttonous Child] and [Nimble Rascal], each having a single shimmering leaf. His attention turned to the faintly pulsing bud on the tree’s stem: the [Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage] trait.

Time for Tier 2.

He selected [Create], and the familiar text panel materialized. His mental fingers flew as he drafted parameters for the new class, carefully structuring it as a Tier 2 class with dual traits one of them being the [Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage] trait. After quadruple-checking, he confirmed the submission..

The tree shuddered violently. A new branch erupted from the bloodline bud, with two leaves growing on it that shimmered with light. Then, the branch started graying out, its glow snuffed like a candle in a storm. Aegon immediately understood that class creation had failed. His eyes flew open to the system's stark notification:

[FAILED CLASS CREATION - PREREQUISITES PENDING]

[Class : Heir of Old Valyria (Tier 2)]

[Prerequisites :

- Trait: Valyrian Bloodline (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- Age < 10 (satisfied)

- Physical Contact with Dragon or Dragon remains older than 100 years old (pending)

- Swear an oath in High Valyrian while in contact with a dragonglass relic older than 200 years, pledging to awaken the legacy of Old Valyria (pending) ]

[Level 1 ( 000 / 1000 )]

[ Trait: Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage

(+15% natural resistance to heat and fire)

(+25% in kinship with Dragons)

(+5% chance of receiving prophetic visions during sleep) ]

[ Trait: Blood and Flame Awakening

( +5% Instinctual Flamecraft: Can create small flickers of fire from blood, your own or another's, by concentrating and sacrificing a few drops. The flame obeys emotion rather than logic.)

(+3% Obsidian Echo: Slight chance of receiving fragmented visions when near dragonglass) ]

He sat up slowly, heart pounding in his chest. Finally, a strong class… a real one, something more than just digestion perks or passive stat boosts. This was magic. Real magic. Something out of the old tales, the kind the maesters tiptoe around in dusty libraries and that the septons dismiss as dangerous heresy. But he knew better.

After all, I have seen both ‘Game of Thrones’ and two seasons of ‘House of the Dragons’.

The Class creation failed... but not completely.The Class Tree had accepted the concept, but it was waiting for the prerequisites to be fulfilled.

Same design that I created. This was a mechanism of the class tree. Every failed class creation would appear on the class tree as a branch with leaves as its traits. But it would be grayed out. If the prerequisites are fulfilled later, the class would be created successfully. Now if there was a failed class creation but with impossible prerequisites, a result of trying to create overpowered classes, it would appear as a grayed out branch on the class tree forever.

Five grayed out branches and the class tree would shatter along with the death of the player and ‘Game Over’ message. So Players had to be very very careful while creating the class.

Physical contact with a dragon or remains older than 100 years… His mind immediately raced to Vhagar, the colossal she-dragon now bonded to his father Prince Baelon, but that was not possible. His father had already declined his wish of touching it many times previously.

Then another possibility sparked, Meraxes. Or rather, what remained of her. The skulls… Yes, beneath the Red Keep, down in the vaults, the skulls of the ancient dragons were still preserved, some over a hundred years old. If he could gain access to them, perhaps just brushing a hand against one of their ancient bones would be enough.

But the second requirement was harder. Swear an oath in High Valyrian while in contact with a dragonglass over 200 years old… The phrasing was specific. It couldn’t be just any obsidian, it had to be old. Very old. That ruled out anything new the smiths might have shaped or any relics the court had collected in recent decades.

He knew of only one place where such ancient relics might be found, Dragonstone. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen. Built on a volcanic isle, forged in the style of Valyria before the Doom, and still filled with shadows of the old world. If there was ancient dragonglass anywhere, it would be there, maybe even still lining the caves or sealed inside the ancient vaults.

But how do I get there? He frowned, thinking through his options. Dragonstone was close to King's Landing but not close enough for a casual visit. And a five-year-old prince didn’t exactly get to plan sea voyages on a whim. Not without permission. Not without supervision. He’d need a pretext, a reason, or an opportunity, perhaps when one of the older royals traveled there next.

Chapter Text

90 AC
Targaryen Flagship Balerion's Wrath, Narrow Sea

The massive Targaryen warship cut through the choppy waves of the Narrow Sea, its black sails emblazoned with the three-headed dragon snapping in the salt-laced wind. Six-year-old Aegon gripped the polished oak railing, his fingers digging into wood worn smooth by decades of sea voyages. At his current growth rate, thanks to [Strong Digestion] and [Elastic Frame], he stood nearly as tall as a ten-year-old, though his face retained some childish roundness.

Not that it stops Daemon from treating me like an infant.

His older brother stood at the forecastle, black doublet flapping like a banner, pretending to captain the ship. The crew humored him, though the actual captain, a grizzled Velaryon cousin, barked orders from the quarterdeck.

"Prince! Away from the rails!" Ser Robin Shaw's voice carried over the wind. The Kingsguard lurched toward him, white cloak whipping like a startled bird.

Aegon stepped back dutifully, though the churning sea fascinated him. The water wasn’t blue this far out, but a deep, ominous green, flecked with white foam where waves collided. Dozens of other Targaryen ships formed their convoy, their sails a constellation of red and black against the horizon.

All this for a wedding.

Princess Rhaenys' marriage to Corlys Velaryon had mobilized the entire realm. Grandmother Alysanne and King Jaehaerys had flown ahead on Silverwing and Vermithor, while the non-dragonriders endured the two-day voyage. Viserys and his shadow, Otto Hightower, traveled on the Sea Dragon, their ship visible as a speck to starboard.

Aegon’s stomach lurched as the deck rolled beneath him. The first day had been miserable, he’d vomited twice before his [CON 6.3] stat finally overruled the seasickness. Daemon had mocked him relentlessly until Ser Clement forced him to run drills until he retched too.

Below Decks – Officers’ Cabin

The cramped cabin smelled of salt, lamp oil, and the citrus peel the sailors chewed to ward off scurvy. Aegon traced a finger over the map nailed to the wall, a detailed rendering of Blackwater Bay and Dragonstone’s jagged coastline.

"When do we arrive?" he asked the ship’s master, a thin man with a spiderweb of tattoos across his knuckles.

"By evening, my prince," the man said, not looking up from his logbook. "If the winds hold."

Dragons would’ve had us there by noon.

The failed [Heir of Old Valyria] class still weighed on him—not just as a missed opportunity, but as an unfinished equation.

One prerequisite down. One to go.

He had already handled the first requirement, contact with the dragon remains older than a century. Convincing his grandmother to let him visit the Red Keep’s vaults had been simple enough. A few well-timed questions about "family history," an exaggerated curiosity about Meraxes' skull, and Queen Alysanne had personally escorted him below the castle. The massive dragon skull, its empty sockets staring into the dark, had sent a primal shiver down his spine. The moment his fingers brushed the ancient bone, the system had acknowledged the prerequisite as fulfilled.

Now, only the second condition remained: swearing an oath in High Valyrian while touching a dragonglass relic older than 200 years.

And Dragonstone was the only place in Westeros where such relics existed in abundance.

The island loomed ahead, its jagged spires clawing at the sky like a petrified dragon. Even from this distance, Aegon could see the telltale veins of obsidian streaking through the black stone. Dragonglass. The volcanic rock was embedded in the very foundations of the Targaryen stronghold, remnants of the ancient Valyrian empire.

His fingers twitched at his side. The relic had to be old enough. And, most importantly, he had to do it without drawing attention.

A raucous laugh snapped him from his thoughts. Daemon stood at the prow, shouting something to the crew about "sailing like we’ve got dragons between our legs." The sailors chuckled, though their eyes kept flickering toward the approaching island. Even they seemed to feel the weight of the place.

Aegon exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

Tonight.

The wedding feast would provide the perfect cover. While the lords and ladies drank and danced, he would slip away. The castle’s lower levels, the ones carved into the volcanic rock, were said to hold chambers untouched since the Doom.

Main Deck – Late Afternoon

The air changed as Dragonstone emerged from the sea mist. Not gradually, but suddenly, a monstrous fortress of black stone clawing at the sky. Aegon’s breath caught. The citadel looked less like a castle and more like a dragon mid-takeoff, its towers forming spines along its "back." Even from miles out, he could see the smoke curling from Dragonmont's peak.

Daemon appeared beside him, uncharacteristically quiet.

"First time seeing it?" Aegon asked.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. "I flew over it with Father last year." The lie was obvious, Baelon had refused to take him until he mastered basic High Valyrian.

A commotion erupted near the bow. Sailors pointed upward as a shadow blotted out the sun. Meleys descended in a spiral, Rhaenys astride her in a gown of seafoam green. The Red Queen’s wings sent spray flying as she skimmed the waves, her shriek echoing off Dragonstone’s cliffs.

Showing off for her betrothed, Aegon thought. Corlys Velaryon’s flagship, the Tidefyre, was already moored in the harbor, its silver sails bearing the seahorse sigil.

The gangplank shuddered underfoot as they disembarked. Aegon counted six other great houses’ banners among the docked ships:

Baratheon’s crowned stag

Lannister’s golden lion

Hightower’s flaming tower

Arryn’s moon-and-falcon

Tully’s leaping trout

Tyrell’s golden rose

A delegation of Dragonstone guards awaited them, their black armor etched with fiery patterns. At their head stood Prince Aemon, Rhaenys’ father and heir to the Iron Throne. His hair had more silver than Aegon remembered, his posture rigid as a sword.

"Uncle," Daemon said with a stiff bow.

Aemon’s gaze slid to Aegon. "You’ve grown."

Thanks to 50% nutrient absorption, he almost said. Instead: "Sea air agrees with me."

Aemon snorted and turned toward the castle. "The feast starts in two hours. Try not to embarrass yourselves."

As they climbed the winding path to the citadel, Aegon noted every obsidian outcropping, every dragon-shaped gargoyle. Somewhere in this volcanic fortress lay the key to his [Heir of Old Valyria] class.

And he’d tear Dragonstone apart to find it.

The maids led them to a modest chamber, stone walls, a narrow window overlooking the sea, and two beds draped in black-and-red linens. Daemon immediately claimed the one by the window, tossing his travel bag onto it with a thud.

"Don’t snore," he said without looking at Aegon.

"I don’t."

"You did on the ship."

"That was seasickness."

Daemon snorted and started unbuckling his boots. Aegon took the other bed, smoothing the Targaryen sigil embroidered on the blanket. He discreetly checked his attributes:

[

CON 6.3

STR 5.8

AGI 6.7

DEX 6.6

INT 9.7

]

Stats of a ten-year-old in a six-year-old’s world. He flexed his hands, the calluses from training rough against his fingertips.

"Stop spacing out," Daemon snapped, already changed into a fresh black doublet. "The feast won’t wait."

Aegon dressed quickly, dark red tunic, silver-threaded belt, boots polished to a shine. He adjusted the fit. The clothes had been tailored for his accelerated growth, but even they were starting to strain at the shoulders.

The hall roared with layered conversations, clinking goblets, and the occasional burst of laughter. Braziers lined the walls, their flames making the carved dragon reliefs appear to breathe as shadows flickered across their stone wings. Long tables sagged under their burdens - whole roasted boars with apples stuffed in their mouths, towers of steaming bread still dusted with flour, and platters of fruits glazed so thick with honey they sparkled like jewels. The mingled scents of spiced wine, charred meat, and perfumed nobles created a heavy atmosphere that clung to clothes and hair.

Aegon's eyes tracked through the crowd with practiced precision.

Viserys, at thirteen but already holding a wine goblet like a seasoned lord, laughed too loudly at some murmured comment from Otto Hightower. The Hightower stood closer than proper, his green-and-silver robes untouched by the feast's mess, those sharp eyes constantly evaluating the noble daughters like a merchant appraising wares.

Near the high table, Lord Corlys Velaryon held court effortlessly. His silver hair, tied back with a black ribbon, gleamed almost as brightly as the seahorse pendant at his throat. Beside him, Rhaenys stood resplendent in deep blue samite, though her restless fingers betrayed her impatience as they tapped against her thigh in time with some unheard rhythm.

The Baratheon contingent dominated an entire corner, their booming voices drowning out subtler conversations. Lord Boremund's barrel chest shook as he recounted some battle to a captive - or perhaps trapped - audience, his great black beard bristling with each emphatic gesture.

Then came the tug at his sleeve. Light but insistent.

"Are you going to eat that?"

A girl with round, rosy cheeks and a spill of silver hair pointed at the untouched lemon cake on his plate. Up close, her sky-blue silk dress brought out the cornflower hue of her eyes, currently bright with curiosity as she waited for his answer.

He pushed the plate toward her. "All yours."

She beamed, scrambling onto the bench beside him with the unselfconscious grace of childhood. "I'm Aemma. Of the Eyrie." She announced it with practiced pride before stuffing a large bite of cake into her mouth.

Future wife of Viserys. Future mother of Rhaenyra. Future corpse on the childbed. The memories from the show surfaced unbidden, leaving a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the feast.

"Aegon."

"I know." Powdered sugar dusted her upper lip as she spoke. "Viserys and Daemon's brother. We're cousins, you know. My mother was your father's sister." She licked the sugar away thoughtfully. "Which makes us...first cousins?"

The precision of her question surprised him. "You know your lineage well."

Aemma shrugged, swinging her legs so her slippers knocked rhythmically against the table leg. "Lady Elena makes me memorize it. Says 'a lady should know her family branches better than her embroidery stitches.'" She mimicked the lofty tone perfectly before giggling. "I'm terrible at embroidery though."

A serving girl refilled their cups with watered wine. Aemma took a delicate sip, then made a face. "Why do they call this wine? It tastes like sour grapes."

"Because it is sour grapes," Aegon deadpanned.

She giggled again, a bright sound that cut through the hall's murmur. "You're funny. Not like your brothers. Viserys just talks about boring lord stuff, and Daemon..." She leaned in conspiratorially, "Daemon smells like he bathes in vinegar."

Aegon choked on his drink. Across the hall, Daemon was indeed scowling at some Reach lord's son, his expression promising future torment. "Don't let him hear you say that."

Aemma rolled her eyes with all the fearlessness of an eight-year-old who'd never been on the receiving end of Daemon's temper. "Do you like dancing?" she asked abruptly.

"Not really."

"Me neither!" She bounced slightly on the bench. "It's just spinning until you're dizzy and people step on your toes." Her nose wrinkled. "Lord Baratheon's son squashed three of my toes last feast. Lady Elena said I couldn't stab him with my hairpin though."

"Who is Lady Elena?" Aegon asked.

"She's my father's wife…his third," Aemma replied.

Aegon filed away that delightful piece of information. "Your father’s wife sounds practical."

"She is." Aemma's gaze drifted to where Viserys was now attempting to impress some Tyrell girl. "Your brother's being stupid."

Following her line of sight, Aegon watched Viserys misquote a Valyrian proverb while Otto hovered like a specter. "Which part? The bad poetry or the worse politics?"

"All of it." Aemma sighed with world-weary exasperation that seemed absurd on a child. "He thinks talking loud makes him sound smart."

The musicians struck up a lively tune, sending nobles scrambling to form dance lines. The sudden movement made the hall feel even more crowded, the press of bodies driving the temperature up. Aemma fanned herself with her hand.

"It's getting stuffy. Want to explore instead?" Aegon asked casually. "Dragonstone has secret tunnels, or so I've heard."

Aemma's eyes lit up. "Really? Elena says the lower levels are dangerous."

"All the best places are."

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before sliding off the bench. "Lets go then!" she whispered, already darting between chairs.

Aegon followed at a more measured pace, careful to avoid the watchful gaze of the Kingsguard. As he slipped into the shadowed corridor after her, the raucous noise of the feast faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of torch flames and their own echoing footsteps.

Let Viserys play at being lordling, he thought as Aemma's laughter floated back to him. I'll be securing real power.

Chapter Text

The feast’s noise faded as they slipped into a side passage. Torches guttered in iron sconces, their light barely touching the soot-stained walls. Aemma led with the confidence of someone who’d done this before.

"Are you trying to get us lost?" Aegon asked as they took a sharp left.

She grinned over her shoulder. "You’re scared?"

"No. Just calculating how many people will yell at us if we’re caught."

Aegon let his fingers trail along the walls as they walked, brushing against every vein of dragonglass they passed. The volcanic rock was everywhere in Dragonstone, embedded in the walls, forming jagged outcroppings along the corridors, even crushed into the mortar between stones.

Aemma watched him curiously. "Why do you keep touching the walls?"

"It's not just rock," Aegon said, pausing beside a particularly large shard of obsidian. "This is dragonglass. The Valyrians called it zīrtys perzys, frozen fire. They used it in their sorceries."

Aemma tilted her head. "Sorceries?"

"Spells. Blood magic. Things forgotten now." He traced the edge of the stone, careful not to cut himself. "Dragonstone was built with it. They say the first Targaryens who came here carved these halls with dragonflame and dragonglass tools."

She frowned. "But the castle looks like dragons made it."

"Because they did," Aegon said. "Not directly, but the architects shaped it in their image. The towers are spines, the gates are maws, the bridges are wings. Every stone here remembers Valyria."

Aemma shivered. "It’s creepy."

"It’s power."

They turned a corner, the corridor narrowing further. The air grew damp, the torches sputtering in their sconces. Then, there. A jagged outcropping of dragonglass, larger than the others, its edges sharp as knives, embedded in the wall like a fossilized claw.

Aegon’s breath caught. This is it.

The Oath

Aemma tilted her head. "Why’re you staring at a rock?"

He didn’t answer. His pulse thundered in his ears as he pressed his palm flat against the obsidian. The stone was cold at first, then,

Warm.

Aegon closed his eyes and whispered the words he had practiced for weeks, in a low but firm voice that only he could hear, the oath in High Valyrian:

"By blood and flame, I, Aegon Targaryen, pledge to bring back the glory of Old Valyria in this world."

The moment the last syllable left his lips, the world stopped.

The torchlight froze mid-flicker. Aemma’s breath halted in her throat. The distant echoes of the feast above ceased.

Then,

Vision.

A city of black stone and gold, towers stretching into a smoke-choked sky.

A thousand dragons circling above, their roars shaking the earth.

Voices chanting in High Valyrian, words of fire and blood.

A great temple, its doors carved with runes that pulsed like living things. A figure in crimson robes lifting a blade,

SNAP.

The vision shattered.

[Prerequisite Fulfilled.]

[Class: Heir of Old Valyria – Creation Successful.]

Aemma gasped. "Your eyes—!"

Aegon turned. Her face was pale, her small hands clutching her skirt.

"What?" he asked, blinking.

"They glowed." She pointed, her voice trembling. "Like…like embers!"

Aegon forced a laugh. "Trick of the light."

But the system’s notifications burned brighter than any flame in his mind.

[Class : Heir of Old Valyria (Tier 2)]

[Prerequisites :

- Trait: Valyrian Bloodline (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- Age < 10 (satisfied)

- Physical Contact with Dragon or Dragon remains older than 100 years old (satisfied)

- Swear an oath in High Valyrian while in contact with a dragonglass relic older than 200 years, pledging to awaken the legacy of Old Valyria (satisfied) ]

[Level 1 ( 000 / 1000 )]

[ Trait: Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage

(+15% natural resistance to heat and fire)

(+25% in kinship with Dragons)

(+5% chance of receiving prophetic visions during sleep) ]

[ Trait: Blood and Flame Awakening

( +5% Instinctual Flamecraft: Can create small flickers of fire from blood, your own or another's, by concentrating and sacrificing a few drops. The flame obeys emotion rather than logic.)

(+3% Obsidian Echo: Slight chance of receiving fragmented visions when near dragonglass) ]

Aemma was still staring at him. "That wasn’t normal."

Aegon wiped his palms on his tunic, feigning nonchalance. "Probably just the torch reflecting."

She didn’t look convinced.

Then,

A distant dragon roar shook the corridor. Dust rained from the ceiling. Then came another, then another roar after that, as if all the dragons were warning or welcoming something.

Aemma yelped. "What was that?"

The tremors faded, but the air itself felt charged, thick with something old. Aegon flexed his fingers, half-expecting flames to leap from his skin. Not yet, but soon.

"Come," Aegon said, stepping back. "Let’s return before they notice we’re gone."

Aemma didn’t move. She still looked a little suspicious.

He met her gaze.

She swallowed but didn’t say anything.

As they retraced their steps, Aegon’s mind raced. The vision, the power, the potential, this changed everything.

Now the real game will begin.

The sudden roar from a distance echoed in the hall. The hall immediately fell silent. Then, another roar shook the castle. Not just Vermithor’s deep bellow, but a chorus, Silverwing’s piercing cry, Meleys’ shriek, even the younger dragons joining in from the pits below. The sound rattled the goblets on the tables, making wine slosh over rims.

The feast hall had just begun to settle back into its usual clamor after the sudden series of roar when the doors burst open. A dragonkeeper, his gray robes disheveled from running, hurried straight to the high table. The musicians faltered mid-song as the man bent to whisper urgently in King Jaehaerys' ear.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Jaehaerys stood slowly, his face unreadable. After a beat, he chuckled, a practiced, kingly sound. "It seems our dragons wish to congratulate the bride and groom as well!"

Forced laughter rippled through the hall. Lords and ladies raised their cups in uneasy cheer, though their eyes kept darting toward the high windows where dragon shadows circled.

The musicians struck up a livelier tune, and the feast resumed with doubled fervor, as if volume could drown out unease.

Queen Alysanne leaned toward her husband, her smile never slipping even as her voice dropped to a hiss. "What actually happened?"

Jaehaerys speared a piece of fruit with his knife. "The keepers say every dragon on the island woke at once. No provocation. Just... agitation."

Alysanne’s fingers tightened around her cup. Dragons didn’t stir without cause.

Across the table, Prince Aemond watched his parents’ silent exchange, his jaw working. Rhaenys, oblivious beside Corlys, laughed at some jape, but her free hand gripped her betrothed’s arm a little too tightly.

Aegon and Aemma slipped back into the hall through a servants’ entrance, their boots dusty from the lower corridors. No one remarked on their absence, too distracted by wine and the lingering tension.

"You won’t tell anyone?" Aegon murmured as they neared the Arryn contingent.

Aemma shook her head, though her gaze lingered on his hands. "Not if you show me the tunnels again tomorrow."

He nodded. Smart girl.

She curtsied with exaggerated formality. "Goodnight, cousin."

"Sleep well," he said, and meant it.

Daemon sprawled across his bed, one arm dangling over the side, his snores filling the room. Aegon sat on the edge of his own mattress, staring at his palms.

The vision, Valyria, burned behind his eyelids. And the dragons...

They felt it too.

The morning came clear and bright, with the sea air fresh against the rising sun. The wedding ceremony had been grand the day before, Rhaenys Targaryen, wed to Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, Lord of Driftmark. Lords from every corner of the realm had gathered to witness it, their banners flapping against the salt-heavy wind of Dragonstone. The feast that followed lasted deep into the night, and word around the castle was that it would continue for another seven days in celebration. Food, wine, and song flowed freely through the halls.

But Aegon had grown weary of the noise and the press of noble bodies. He had risen early, slipping from his chambers before anyone else in his hall had stirred. The beach was quiet, save for the rhythmic crash of the waves and the call of gulls overhead.

The sea wind blew against his silver hair as he walked alone along the shore. The sand was cool beneath his feet, the damp grains shifting slightly with each step. He liked it here, the vastness of the sea, the openness of it. No courtly expectations. No stares.

“Aegon!”

He turned at the sound of his name. Rhaenys, dressed simply in a flowing tunic of deep blue, was jogging across the sand toward him. Her long silver-gold hair flowed behind her. She was smiling, though slightly out of breath.

He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” she said between breaths, grinning as she came to a halt beside him.

Aegon tilted his head. “Why? Because we might get caught in a scandal if Lord Corlys discovers that his new pretty wife was seen with another man on the beach?”

Rhaenys blinked, then burst into laughter. The sound echoed across the shore, surprising even a few gulls into flight.

“Still so humorous,” she said once she caught her breath again. “Though, of course, it would be a scandal,” she added, putting on a mock-serious tone. “A newlywed noble lady sneaking off to the beach with a man.”

“A six-year-old man,” Aegon reminded, deadpan.

“Exactly!” She giggled again, eyes twinkling. “What a dreadful tale for the maesters to record.”

They walked in silence for a few paces, the tide lapping gently just beyond their reach.

“Guess you’ll be living in Driftmark now,” he said quietly.

Rhaenys glanced at him, brow raised. “Why? Already missing me?”

“Yup,” Aegon replied without hesitation. “Your absence will be very much noted. The feasts will be quieter. The jokes will echo unappreciated through empty halls.”

She gave him a fond look, half-amused, half-soft. “You really are something.”

“Speaking of which—” Aegon pulled a folded parchment from his belt. “A gift.”

Rhaenys took it with some surprise. She opened it carefully, her brow lifting further as she read the first few lines.

“Twenty jokes?” she asked.

“Twenty jokes I made. You can read them anytime. If Driftmark gets too quiet.”

Rhaenys stared at the parchment for a long moment, then folded it again with care and tucked it into her sleeve. “Thank you, Aegon. Truly. I’ll keep it close.”

Before he could reply, the distant sound of a bell rang from the castle, followed by the echo of a voice.

“My lady!” a maid called out from the edge of the beach. “Breakfast has begun, Lord Corlys is asking for you.”

Rhaenys sighed. “Duty calls.”

They turned back toward the winding path leading up the rocky slope of Dragonstone. As they began the slow climb, Aegon glanced back once at the waves crashing behind them, committing the scene to memory.

The warm water lapped against Aegon's skin as he reclined in the copper tub, steam curling in the quiet solitude of the royal baths. Several weeks had passed since Rhaenys' wedding to Corlys Velaryon - an event that had seen the princess officially relocated to Driftmark, leaving King's Landing noticeably quieter.

Aegon's fingers traced idle patterns across the water's surface as his thoughts drifted to the wedding festivities. He could still picture Aemma Arryn's silver hair catching the torchlight as she'd dragged him through Dragonstone's shadowed corridors. The girl had been persistent in her attempts to continue their unlikely friendship even after the celebrations ended, proposing they exchange letters.

As if her parents would allow that, he mused. The Arryns had made their displeasure clear enough - their daughter associating with a thirdborn prince, no matter how precocious, was hardly advantageous. He'd seen the way Lady Arryn's mouth had pinched whenever Aemma sought him out, how Lord Arryn had quickly invented reasons to pull his daughter away.

Still, the memory brought a faint smirk to his lips. Aemma had been... refreshing. Unlike the simpering noble children who treated him with either condescension or false flattery, she'd simply seen him as a playmate. No hidden agendas, no careful calculations - just childish curiosity and a shared desire to escape the stifling formality of court.

He raised his right hand, palm upturned, and focused on the familiar pinch beneath his skin.

[Blood and Flame Awakening] activated without visible cuts, just the internal sting of sacrifice as his own blood ignited within his veins. A wisp of orange flame flickered above his palm for three seconds before dissipating, the steam around it hissing.

Longer than yesterday.

Aegon had meticulously tested the limits of his [Blood and Flame Awakening] trait through weeks of clandestine experiments.

He'd discovered that a single drop of internally sacrificed blood could produce a brief spark capable of lighting a candle, while five drops generated a sustained flame hot enough to melt wax. A thimble's worth of blood, however, unleashed a roaring burst that could scorch wood and leave lasting burns.

The flames remained frustratingly tied to instinct rather than conscious will, a stray flinch could send fire spiraling unpredictably across a room, and his emotional state directly influenced their behavior. Anger produced wild, spreading flares that threatened to escape his control, while calm focus yielded steadier but noticeably weaker flames.

Yet the trait held two crucial advantages: the internal blood sacrifice left no external wounds or evidence, and the unnatural flames resisted immediate extinguishing, continuing to burn for two full seconds even when submerged underwater, a property that might prove invaluable in future battles.

Now, alone, he checked his reserves:

[EXP 41,237]

Time to upgrade.

He focused on the Class Tree, its crystalline branches shimmering in his mind’s eye. The [Nimble Rascal] and [Gluttonous Child] branches glowed steadily at Level 10. The [Heir of Old Valyria] branch, still fresh, pulsed with potential.

Upgrade.

He selected the class and willed the EXP forward.

[–15,000 EXP]

[ Heir of Old Valyria: Level 1 → Level 6 ]

[EXP 26,237]

A rush of heat flooded his veins, not painful, but alive, like embers igniting beneath his skin. His fingers twitched, and for a heartbeat, the water around them steamed, bubbles forming before vanishing just as quickly.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

91 AC

Training Yard, Red Keep, Spring

The clang of steel against steel rang out through the Red Keep’s private training yard. Sparks flew with each strike as Prince Daemon and Prince Aegon exchanged blows beneath the morning sun.

Both were clad in light armor, polished steel breastplates and vambraces over padded tunics. The weight no longer slowed them, the result of years of rigorous training under Ser Clement Crabb.

Daemon charged forward, blade arcing down in a fast diagonal. Aegon pivoted smoothly to the left, his feet light and precise, and let the strike sail past him.

Before Daemon could recover, Aegon snapped his blade out, a clean strike to the side of Daemon’s torso that, had it not been dulled, would have left a long gash.

Daemon growled and stepped back, regaining his stance. “Again.”

Aegon didn’t speak, he simply advanced, letting the rhythm of the spar guide him. Daemon struck thrice in quick succession: a high feint, a low stab, and then a backhand sweep.

Aegon saw through it. He dodged the feint, parried the stab, and ducked under the sweep. As Daemon spun to reposition, Aegon lunged forward with a sudden feint of his own, then reversed the blade’s direction and tapped Daemon’s chest twice, a clear victory.

Daemon stumbled back, armor scuffed and his breath short. “Fuck. That’s three defeats in a row... and by someone three years younger.”

Aegon lowered his sword, grinning. “Could be worse. I can defeat Viserys in two blows, and he’s four years older than you.”

Daemon blinked, then burst into laughter. “I’ll take the loss with grace then.”

Despite the banter, Aegon watched his brother carefully. Daemon was proud and often hot-tempered. Aegon had made a habit of offering praise where it was due, nudging Daemon’s confidence back up without being patronizing.

“Your counters were sharper today,” Aegon added, nodding. “You almost caught me with that second feint.”

Daemon smirked, swiping sweat from his brow. “Almost.”

Ser Clement stepped forward from where he’d been observing, arms crossed, helm under one arm. His expression was firm, but there was unmistakable pride in his voice. “Marvelous strikes, my princes. It seems I have nothing more to teach either of you.”

The brothers turned and bowed lightly to the knight.

“You’ve trained us well, Ser Clement,” Aegon said with sincerity. “We wouldn’t be half as skilled without your guidance.”

“I learned more from you than the others put together,” added Daemon. “Even if you still beat me with that blasted training stick.”

Ser Clement chuckled. “The beatings served their purpose. I’ll inform the King of your completed training. I trust you’ll continue to refine your skills. A sharp sword dulls if left unused.”

“We won’t stop,” Aegon said. Daemon nodded beside him.

With a respectful nod, Ser Clement turned and left the training yard, boots crunching on the gravel path as he vanished around the corner.

Aegon sheathed his practice sword, then tilted his head toward the balcony that overlooked the yard. “Look over there,” he said, smirking.

Daemon turned to look.

A dozen young maids and several noble ladies leaned over the stone railing, clearly having watched the match from start to finish. Some clapped softly. Others giggled behind their hands when they saw the boys looking.

Daemon’s grin spread. He raised a gloved hand and gave a flamboyant wave, followed by an exaggerated wink and mock bow. More giggles followed.

“Seems we’ve got admirers,” Daemon said smugly.

Aegon rolled his eyes, amused. “Keep your armor on. You’ll scare half of them off.”

They shared a laugh, sweat glistening under their armor, the clang of their sparring still echoing in the quiet yard.

Sunlight filtered through the high arched windows of the Small Council chamber, casting sharp lines across the polished stone floor.

The chamber was quieter than usual today, no crisis from the Crownlands, no dispute from the Reach or Dorne, just the steady creak of wood as council members adjusted in their chairs, and the faint scratching of Lord Beesbury’s quill as he annotated ledgers beside him.

At the center of the long oaken table sat King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Conciliator. His expression was calm, measured, but the spark in his eyes had not dulled with age.

Beside him was Queen Alysanne, her gaze sharper than his, her hands folded neatly on the table. Prince Baelon, seated to the King’s left, leaned back slightly, arms crossed, while Prince Aemon, always composed, sat to his right.

On the far end, Lord Corlys Velaryon, newly returned from Driftmark, sat as the Master of Ships.

The tall, armored figure of Ser Clement Crabb stood near the foot of the table. His armor had been polished for the occasion, but he wore no cloak or flourish. A seasoned knight in his fifties, Ser Clement had spent years training the younger generation of Targaryens. Today, he had come with purpose.

Jaehaerys looked up from the parchment he had been reading. “You wished to speak, Ser Clement?”

Ser Clement bowed. “Aye, Your Grace. I come today to formally report on the training progress of your grandsons, Prince Daemon and Prince Aegon.”

There was a murmur of interest around the table. Queen Alysanne leaned forward, attentive.

“Their training under my guidance has concluded,” Ser Clement continued. “Both have surpassed the expectations I set for boys of their age. Their swordsmanship is refined. Their footwork, balance, and judgment in sparring are at the level of squires many years older. If not more.”

“Daemon’s always been a fast one with a blade,” Prince Baelon said, with a proud half-smile.

Ser Clement nodded. “Indeed, Prince Daemon has spirit and aggression, well-honed into discipline. But it is Prince Aegon who has shocked me most.”

That drew attention.

“He is only seven, Your Grace,” Ser Clement said respectfully, turning toward the king. “But he fights with the precision and patience of a trained knight. His strikes are measured. His movements are calculated. And he has already bested Prince Daemon several times in fair sparring.”

A few eyebrows rose around the table. Lord Beesbury’s quill paused mid-scratch. Prince Aemon looked toward Queen Alysanne, whose eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Ser Clement continued, “It is my firm belief that, with continued training, both princes are ready for knighthood when they come of age. Their fundamentals are strong, and their discipline is commendable.”

A long silence followed, broken only by the soft hiss of the brazier fire.

Then King Jaehaerys smiled, not wide, but with genuine pride. “You give fine praise, Ser Clement. And I thank you for your service to the crown and to our family.”

“It was an honor, Your Grace.”

Queen Alysanne turned to the king. “Aegon surprises us more with each moon’s turn. He’s grown faster and sharper than we expected.”

“Aye,” Prince Aemon added. “I saw them spar once. I thought it was play-fighting. Then Aegon disarmed Daemon with a pivot I’ve only seen knights use.”

Prince Baelon grunted. “They’ll make fine warriors when the time comes.”

Lord Beesbury, always exact, spoke up. “It’s rare to see such early skill in boys their age. Perhaps the blood of the dragon flows stronger in this generation.”

Ser Clement gave a small bow, then stepped back. “If there is nothing more, Your Grace, I shall take my leave.”

“Go with our thanks, Ser,” said Jaehaerys warmly.

As the knight left the chamber, the tension in the room loosened. The meeting continued, but the mood was lighter now, suffused with a sense of optimism. Grandsons growing strong. Heirs learning quickly. The realm felt secure.

And the King, though old, could smile with the knowledge that the future of House Targaryen was in skilled, if still young, hands.

The long table in the royal dining hall was set lavishly with roast venison, honeyed carrots, and fresh-baked bread. Candlelight flickered along silver goblets, catching the glint in the eyes of the assembled Targaryens and their close kin.

The King and Queen sat at the head of the table, with Prince Baelon to the King’s left and Queen Alysanne to his right. Down the table sat Prince Aemon and his wife Lady Jocelyn, and across from them were the royal grandchildren; Viserys, Daemon, and Aegon.

The usual clatter of cutlery and soft conversation filled the chamber until King Jaehaerys cleared his throat. The room settled quickly.

“I have heard of your impressive training sessions,” the King said, his voice calm but carrying authority. “Both of you - Daemon and Aegon, have made remarkable progress. Tell me, is there any reward you desire for your hard work?”

Daemon, never one to hesitate, leaned forward slightly in his seat, face alight. “I would like a Valyrian steel sword, Grandfather.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by a few raised eyebrows.

Prince Baelon, seated next to the King, let out a short chuckle. “A Valyrian steel sword is a rare and precious gift, boy. Perhaps a finely crafted steel blade would suit you better for now.”

Daemon scowled lightly, but said nothing further, hiding his disappointment behind a sip of watered wine.

Then all eyes turned to Aegon. He had been quiet through the meal, focused more on the honeyed duck on his plate than the discussion. Wiping his mouth with a cloth, he looked up and spoke, his tone steady and sincere.

“I would like to join the City Watch. I want to learn more about the realm and its people.”

The dining hall fell silent for a heartbeat. Even the servants paused briefly.

Queen Alysanne tilted her head, brows lifting slightly. “That is an unusual request for someone of your age,” she said, her tone more curious than disapproving. “What draws you to the City Watch?”

Aegon met her gaze without hesitation. “I believe that understanding the people and their lives will make me a better leader. The City Watch sees the realm from a different perspective. I want to learn from that, from the ground up.”

King Jaehaerys studied his grandson for a long moment, his fork resting idle against the edge of his plate. At last, he nodded.

“Your desire to understand the realm is commendable,” the King said. “We shall discuss this further and see how best to accommodate your request.”

Across the table, Daemon muttered just loud enough to be heard, “What’s fun in the City Watch?”

Without missing a beat, King Jaehaerys turned to him, his tone even. “You’ll be joining Aegon.”

Daemon blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

The King raised a brow. “You could stand to see more of the city yourself. It will do you good.”

Prince Baelon stifled a laugh, glancing at his younger son. Daemon leaned back in his chair with a groan but did not argue.

Then the King’s gaze turned further down the table. “And you, Viserys. You’ve been neglecting your training.”

Viserys looked up from his plate, caught mid-bite. “I’ve been... busy.”

“He’s building Old Valyria again,” Daemon added dryly, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

That earned him a firm smack on the back of the head from Baelon.

“Ow!”

Viserys cleared his throat. “They’re models. I’ve been studying architecture. And... I’ve been focusing more on court politics. Learning the responsibilities of rule.”

There was a faint murmur of acknowledgement from Queen Alysanne, who gave Viserys an approving nod. “That is not without value.”

“But you’ll return to training as well,” the King said firmly. “A Targaryen prince should not be soft of body, even if his mind is sharp.”

Viserys nodded reluctantly, his fork poking at a piece of carrot. “Yes, Grandfather.”

At the far end, Aegon had resumed eating, largely uninterested in the back-and-forth now that the attention had shifted. He chewed quietly, satisfied that his request had been taken seriously. He did not need to press further. The City Watch would come, in time.

The conversation moved on to other matters, trade ships arriving in Driftmark, grain reserves in the Reach.

Back in his chambers, Aegon was surprised to find a new loose trait budding from the stem of his class tree:

[Trait: Squire’s Instincts

(+10% weapon handling efficiency )

(+5% bonus to balance and grip when riding)

(+ 5% Less likely to flinch or fall when struck or unseated)]

The appearance of this trait confirmed a suspicion he had long held, that traits could be cultivated not only through class advancements or mystical events, but through consistent training and lived experience. The class tree, it seemed, accounted for all forms of growth.

Even more striking, his accumulated experience had quietly reached the threshold to level up [Heir of Old Valyria] to Level 10, the final stage.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were unlike any Aegon had experienced. True to his request, both he and Daemon were formally placed under observation with the City Watch.

Their time was split between shadowing patrol routes, observing dispute resolutions, and understanding the common challenges faced by the guardsmen of King’s Landing.

They were each given a steel sword of fine make, simple but sharp, and light armor suited for ease of movement.

Their mentor during this assignment was none other than Ser Rickard Redwyne, brother of the famed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ryam Redwyne.

Ser Rickard, though lacking his brother’s fame, commanded the respect of every guard under his charge. He greeted them at the Watch barracks, his weathered face stern and disciplined.

“You are princes,” he said bluntly, voice carrying over the gathered guards, “but here, you will act as learners. You will not be given special privileges. The City Watch does not serve kings and lords. It serves the peace.”

His speech continued at length, a precise lecture on their duties, the history of the City Watch, and what it truly meant to wear the black-and-gold cloaks of King’s Landing’s protectors. He emphasized restraint, vigilance, and judgment over raw strength. By the end, Daemon looked visibly restless, but Aegon remained attentive, absorbing every word.

Afterward, Ser Rickard assigned three guards each to the princes.

“Today, follow them. Learn by watching. Tomorrow, you may act.”

The city was less glamorous than the stories. Aegon and Daemon walked narrow alleys and muddy roads, speaking to bakers, breaking up street squabbles, and watching drunks get tossed out of taverns. He asked questions. He listened.

Daemon, by contrast, took to the action more directly.

“Stop, you bastard!” a guard’s voice rang out one afternoon, as a man fled down the alleyways behind Flea Bottom. The man, a rapist, by what the guards shouted, bolted past beggars and stalls, shoving over a merchant’s cart.

Daemon and two guards were in pursuit, their boots slapping the uneven stone. Then, without warning, a foot snapped out from the shadows. The man tripped violently, hitting the ground just as another form emerged, a blur of silver-white hair. The man barely saw Aegon before a swift, practiced strike knocked him unconscious.

Daemon huffed as he caught up. “Nice blow, Aegon. Didn’t think you’d get ahead of me.”

“Just cleaning the trash,” Aegon said dryly, wiping his hand on a rag.

The guards bound the man and took him toward the dungeons.

Later, while heading back, Daemon jabbed at him with a grin. “So, you're done pretending to be a smith yet?”

Aegon had, in fact, spent hours in a small forge off Cobbler’s Square. After days of following patrols, he had asked to observe a local smith, and eventually joined in minor tasks. The heat didn’t bother him. The rhythm of hammer and steel was meditative.

“Not pretending,” Aegon replied. “Learning.”

Daemon scoffed, but didn’t argue. They headed back to the Red Keep together, boots dusty and armor scuffed.

That night, after his bath and supper, Aegon sat alone in his chambers. The firelight flickered as he checked the Class Tree.

There were now two branches with a single leaf each. But one branch held two leaves, a rare sight. He focused on that.

[Class : Heir of Old Valyria (Tier 2)]

[Prerequisites :

- Trait: Valyrian Bloodline (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- Age < 10 (satisfied)

- Physical Contact with Dragon or Dragon remains older than 100 years old (satisfied)

- Swear an oath in High Valyrian while in contact with a dragonglass relic older than 200 years, pledging to awaken the legacy of Old Valyria (satisfied) ]

[Level 10 ( MAX )]

[ Trait: Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage

(+60% natural resistance to heat and fire)

(+70% in kinship with Dragons)

(+18% chance of receiving prophetic visions during sleep) ]

[ Trait: Blood and Flame Awakening

( +50% Instinctual Flamecraft: Can create and control fire. The flame obeys the will of the Heir.)

(+12% Obsidian Echo: Slight chance of receiving fragmented visions when near dragonglass) ]

Just a few days prior, he had consumed a massive 30,000 EXP, pushing the class from Level 6 to its peak Level 10. His reserve now showed only [EXP: 8325], yet the cost had been worth it. The transformation wasn’t just theoretical anymore.

He extended his palm, focusing inward. He concentrated.

With a faint hiss, flame erupted, not wildly, but as if summoned into existence. A sphere of fire, about the size of a soldier’s shield, hovered just above his skin. The warmth pulsed, but it did not burn him. He no longer needed to sacrifice blood to create fire. The blood now only acted as a conduit to what he presumed as – ‘Magic’, the source of his flamecraft.

He exhaled slowly and began to shape it.

The fire stretched into a spear, hardened to a point. Then it curled inward, taking the form of a dragon’s head, its snout open and crackling. The image flickered and shifted into a bird in flight, wings fanned out. With a thought, it dissipated, scattering into nothingness.

Within a five-meter radius, he could now command all flame, shape it, restrain it, unleash it.

Taking a deep breath, he smiled.

Now to the real goal of tonight.

He stood and crossed the room to a shadowed corner, where a simple wooden box lay tucked beneath a folded cloth. With measured hands, he drew it into the light, pulling back the fabric to reveal its contents.

Inside was a short dagger, wrapped in waxed linen. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a blade utterly unremarkable to the eye, unadorned, dull gray steel, with a plain hilt bound in coarse leather. There were no sigils, no ornamentation, not even a maker’s mark.

It was exactly as he had requested.

He’d commissioned it two weeks ago, during his routine patrols through the streets of King’s Landing. His presence among the City Watch had already raised eyebrows, but the blacksmiths had quickly grown used to seeing the lean, silver-haired prince among them. One of them, Harold, a gruff, weathered man with burn scars along his forearms and smoke-stained teeth, had been the one to forge this particular dagger.

When the blade was finished, Harold had presented it with both hands, respectful but not quite deferential enough.

“It’s done, my prince,” he’d said, laying the blade out across the anvil. “Plain, as you asked. Won’t draw any eyes.”

Then, almost nervously, he’d added, “That’ll be five silver stags, for the work and the steel.”

Aegon remembered the moment clearly. He’d raised a brow, straightened his back just slightly, enough to remind the man of who he was, and replied in a tone sharp and loud enough to draw the attention of the other smiths nearby.

“You should be honored to do a task for the blood of the dragon,” Aegon had said coolly. “For such a plain dagger, one without a crest, without Valyrian steel, without even polish, and you dare ask for a price?”

The words hung heavy in the smoky air. Harold blinked, clearly realizing his mistake. He dipped his head quickly, eyes lowering.

“Apologies, my prince. Of course. It was my honor,” the old man mumbled, stepping back. “A gift, then. With my thanks.”

Aegon had taken the dagger without another word and left the forge.

In truth, he hadn’t been trying to humiliate the man, not entirely. He simply didn’t have coin to spare. The royal princes were not given stipends or salaries. Everything they needed was provided by the Red Keep, but beyond those confines, they held no purse strings of their own.

Asking for a dagger, even a plain one, meant leveraging status, not silver.

Still, the blade had turned out well. Balanced. Durable. Unimpressive to any thief or noble’s eye, which made it perfect.

Now, in the privacy of his chamber, Aegon held the dagger in his palm and studied it in the firelight. Rough, utilitarian, and blank, a fitting canvas for what came next.

He placed the dagger gently on the stone floor of his chamber, away from anything flammable. He then moved to the small side table and picked up another blade, this one a gift from Queen Alysanne herself.

Polished, elegant, made of fine steel with silver inlay along the hilt. It was a treasured item, but not tonight’s focus.

Aegon drew a steady breath and pressed the edge of the ceremonial blade against the tips of his index and middle fingers. A sharp sting, and a trickle of red welled up immediately. He didn’t flinch. He crouched down and smeared the blood over the blade of the plain dagger, slowly and deliberately, coating the steel with his blood.

Then, standing over it, he raised his palm.

The blood shimmered.

With a hiss, it caught fire, no spark, no ignition source, only his will. The dagger lit up in a thin layer of crimson flame, flickering along its edges, curling around it like it was being baptized.

He did not blink.

The flames slowly began to change. No longer flickering randomly, they moved in patterns. Shapes curled along the surface, forming grooves, etchings that hadn’t been there before. Symbols. Swirls. A pattern that echoed something deep and ancient.

Then the fire died out.

What remained on the floor was no longer the plain steel dagger he had commissioned.

It was Valyrian steel.

Aegon stared at it for a long moment. He picked it up, testing the weight. Lighter. Sharper. The blade was now marked with swirling patterns, those unmistakable rivers of color that every Valyrian blade bore.

The same patterns he had seen on Dark Sister, his father’s sword. Except this wasn’t inherited. It was made.

By him.

The realization struck not with shock, but with satisfaction.

He had done it.

He had recreated a lost art. The final levels of [Heir of Old Valyria] had not just made him stronger, they had gifted him something else: memories, fragmented images of pyromancers and smiths, of dragonfire and screaming steel. Methods lost to the world, preserved only in the legacy of a bloodline older than Westeros.

He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade. It was smooth, flawless. Lethal.

He picked up the other dagger, Queen Alysanne’s gift, and carefully wiped it clean, placing it back in its embroidered sheath. It would remain untouched.

Then he tucked both daggers beneath his tunic, one on either side, nestled against his ribs where no one would see them.

He was still just a boy to them, a promising heir, a prince with fire in his veins. But not this kind of fire. Not the kind that forged Valyrian steel in silence.

He didn’t plan to use the dagger yet. But it was there now, a piece of ancient power reborn through him. A weapon and a secret both.

One more thing that was affected by the class upgrade. He focused on the attribute panel:

[ Magic 1.7 ]

Chapter Text

Aegon was continuing the patrol with two City Watch guards, their boots echoing against the damp cobblestone streets as they moved through the quiet alleys of Kings Landing. The hour was late, the torches flickered low, and a thin mist clung to the ground. At first, nothing seemed unusual, but gradually, Aegon began to notice something strange.

People were avoiding him.

Not the way they usually did when gold cloaks passed by, no muttered curses, no annoyed glances, no quick steps to simply avoid trouble. This was different. They were moving away in fear.

Men lowered their heads, women pulled children behind them, and no one met his eyes. The expressions they wore were not of contempt or indifference, but anxiety and dread.

A strange feeling crept over Aegon. A subtle pressure in his chest, a tightening sense that something was deeply wrong. He stopped walking, eyes scanning the street ahead.

Then he saw him, a man in a tattered brown cloak who had just turned the corner, saw Aegon, and immediately turned back, quickening his pace in the opposite direction.

Aegon didn’t hesitate.

“You two, come with me,” he ordered the guards. Without waiting for a response, he darted after the man, weaving through the narrow, twisting alleys of the district. His quarry moved fast, but not fast enough.

After a short chase, Aegon caught up and shoved the man roughly against a damp brick wall, pinning him in place with his forearm. With a swift motion, he drew a dagger and pressed it coldly against the man’s neck.

The man froze in terror, eyes wide.

“Don’t let anyone enter,” Aegon commanded the guards behind him, not looking back.

Then, facing the terrified man, Aegon said calmly, “Shh… answer my questions truthfully, and I will let you go… of course, you may lie… but I’ve asked the same questions to others already, so if your answer doesn’t match theirs…” He smiled coldly.

The man nodded fearfully.

Expressionless, Aegon asked, “First question, why are people avoiding me?”

The man looked up in fear. “It’s rumors, my lord… rumors… about…” His voice faltered, unwilling to continue.

“Rumors about what?” Aegon asked, pressing the dagger harder against his neck.

“Rumors about your cruelty,” the man blurted out.

Aegon let go of him. The man ran off in terror. Aegon stood still, thinking. While Daemon and his actions did include violence, it had only ever been directed against criminals.

Such actions didn’t justify these kinds of rumors, unless someone was deliberately spreading them.

He immediately sought out Daemon, finding him still on patrol. Without giving much detail, he pulled him aside and insisted they needed to go to the Red Keep, now.

Daemon was irritated at the suddenness of it, but the look in Aegon’s eyes silenced his protests. Together, they made their way to the castle, their steps quick and quiet.

Before they entered the royal chambers, Aegon turned to Daemon and explained what he needed him to say to the king. Daemon's face twisted with confusion, then irritation.

“You want to what?” he asked, barely keeping his voice down. “You dragged me here to quit the Watch? After all the effort?”

Aegon held his gaze firmly. “I’ll tell you the real reason afterward. But I need you to trust me. Just this once.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, clearly struggling with the demand. He had never liked being kept in the dark, least of all by his own brother.

But the intensity in Aegon’s eyes wasn’t something he could ignore. It wasn’t just stubbornness, it was caution, purpose… and fear.

After a long pause, Daemon exhaled and gave a single nod. “Fine. I’ll follow your lead. But you better explain everything after.”

“I will,” Aegon said quietly. Seeing the seriousness in Aegon’s eyes, Daemon nodded.

During the audience with King Jaehaerys I, Aegon and Daemon stood before the Iron Throne, their faces composed, though tension simmered beneath.

Aegon stepped forward and spoke calmly, “Your Grace, we’ve spent the past week in the City Watch. It has been… illuminating.”

Daemon added, following the script Aegon had urged him to memorize, “We’ve learned a great deal, about the city, its people, and what it takes to maintain order.”

Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly on the throne, observing them closely. “And now?”

“It is time we stepped away from the City Watch,” Aegon said. “We believe we’ve seen enough.”

The old king raised a brow, lips pressing together in mild disappointment. “A few weeks,” he said, voice even but laced with weary amusement. “Just a few weeks, and already you wish to quit?”

Aegon remained calm.

“We are grateful for the opportunity, Your Grace,” Aegon replied, his voice steady. “But we believe our time would now be better spent elsewhere.”

Jaehaerys exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Still boys,” he muttered to himself. “So eager to begin, and just as eager to be done.”

There was a long pause. Then the king gave a slight nod.

“Very well,” he said. “If that is your decision, I will not keep you shackled to it. But I hope you carry with you what you’ve learned.”

“We will,” Aegon said respectfully. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The king waved a hand, dismissing them. As they turned to leave, Jaehaerys’ gaze lingered on them a moment longer.

Back in his chamber, Daemon slammed the door shut behind him and turned to Aegon with narrowed eyes. “You better have a good reason for this… or someone’s getting a broken nose.”

Aegon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Did you notice the smallfolk avoiding you?”

Daemon frowned, thinking. “Yes… now that you mention it.”

Aegon nodded. “We used violence, yes, but only against criminals. Our actions weren’t severe enough to justify the kind of rumors spreading about us… unless someone is spreading them deliberately.”

Realization struck Daemon like a bolt. His expression twisted in fury. “Then we find whoever it is and make them talk, with knives if we must.”

But Aegon stepped forward and grabbed his arm, his voice loud and forceful. “Your outburst is exactly what the enemy wants. Think!”

Daemon stared at him, tense and breathing hard.

Aegon continued, “Whoever is behind this wants to destroy our reputation. Ask yourself, why? What purpose could that serve? And to do it so boldly, to act against Targaryens, they must be someone powerful… someone influential. Someone in court, or on the small council.”

Daemon’s face paled slightly. A chill ran down his back. He slowly sat down, absorbing the weight of Aegon’s words. “Then why not tell the king?”

“Even if we do,” Aegon said, “we have no evidence. We don’t even know who it is. The king can’t move against his court or council based on suspicion alone. Worse, it might alert the culprit.”

“But,” he added, eyes narrowing with purpose, “this works to our advantage. The enemy doesn’t know that we know.”

Daemon asked, “What should we do then?”

“For now nothing,” Aegon replied. “Us quitting the City Watch early has already disrupted his plans. So he will probably act again. We have to be cautious… and most importantly, we must keep this a secret for now.”

Daemon sat quietly, processing everything. Finally, he looked up and gave a small nod. “It’ll be a secret, then. For now. Let me know if you find anything.”

Aegon nodded in return. “I will.”

A raven flew through the night sky, its wings cutting silently through the cold air as it approached a distant castle. It circled once, then descended, gliding directly toward a specific window.

Inside, a servant was already waiting. As the raven landed, he swiftly untied the sealed letter from its leg and hurried through the stone corridors. Reaching a dimly lit chamber, he approached the man seated in a high-backed chair by the fireplace.

“My lord… from King’s Landing,” the servant said, bowing slightly as he handed over the letter.

The lord took it without a word, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. There was only a single sentence written on it:

“The plan failed.”

His eyes lingered on the words for a moment. Then, without expression, he held the parchment over a candle, watching as the flames licked it away into ash.

Outside, high atop the castle’s tallest tower, a flag fluttered in the wind, its coat of arms clear in the moonlight: a tower with flames rising from its top.

Chapter Text

The flickering light of oil lamps cast long shadows on the carved stone walls. The lords and advisors of the realm sat around the polished table, the air thick with the scent of parchment, wax, and quiet tension.

Seated at the table were Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, his calm eyes sharp with intellect. Beside him, Grand Maester Elysar adjusted his chain with quiet patience.

Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, sat with a small ledger clutched to his chest. Prince Aemon Targaryen, Master of Laws, watched with a composed, if distant, gaze.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, stood to speak, his voice steady and authoritative. At the end, seated beside the king’s chair, was Queen Alysanne, silent but attentive.

Corlys began, “Your Grace, the brutal civil war in Myr has spread chaos across the city and beyond. Rape, hangings, killings, civilians caught in the middle of the carnage.”

Septon Barth frowned. “What of the other Free Cities? What is their stance?”

“They have chosen neutrality,” Corlys answered. “Despite the chaos, not one has offered support to either faction.”

Prince Aemon leaned forward, voice cool. “Then what does the Master of Ships suggest by bringing this matter before the council?”

Corlys met Aemon’s eyes without hesitation. “According to our sources, the conflict is between two rival merchant-political factions. If we move now, we can negotiate favorable terms, trade routes, harbor rights, perhaps exclusive contracts, in return for helping one side.”

Lyman Beesbury interjected, looking anxious. “And what of the cost? Gold, ships, soldiers, it won’t come cheap. Our coffers are not limitless, my lord.”

Corlys’s tone sharpened slightly. “Our coffers won’t matter if trade through the Narrow Sea continues to decline. Myr’s ports are key to multiple trade lanes. We’ve already seen delays in shipments. This will bleed into Westeros if left unchecked.”

Septon Barth considered the words carefully, then turned to Queen Alysanne. “Your Grace?”

The Queen spoke after a pause. “I understand Lord Corlys’s concerns, but Westeros must not be drawn into the feuds of the Free Cities. This is not our war. Let them burn or settle it themselves, we have no need to interfere.”

There was a quiet murmur of agreement around the table.

Prince Aemon nodded. “Let us focus on keeping Westerosi shores safe, not wading into foreign blood feuds.”

Corlys’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.

King Jaehaerys, who had been listening in thoughtful silence, finally spoke. His voice was calm but carried the weight of finality.

“We do not involve ourselves in the wars of merchants and power-hungry factions,” he said, glancing at each of the council members. “The Free Cities have long played their games, and they will continue to do so, with or without our interference.”

“But Your Grace,” Corlys said, his tone measured but firm, “we risk losing influence. If we wait too long, another power, Braavos, perhaps, or Pentos, might intervene and gain the upper hand in trade.”

Jaehaerys looked at him, eyes sharp but not unkind. “And if we act rashly, we may gain nothing but corpses and a drain on our coin. Westeros is not yet ready for foreign war, not when our own stability still requires tending.”

Corlys held his tongue, though his dissatisfaction was plain. Septon Barth gave the king a small, approving nod.

“We shall reinforce our ports and keep a close watch on all traffic through the Narrow Sea,” the king continued. “If the war spills toward our shores, we will act accordingly. Until then, no swords, no ships, and no gold leaves Westerosi soil for the sake of a Free City’s greed.”

Queen Alysanne added gently, “We must not become a kingdom ruled by profit. Let our strength come from peace, not war.”

Prince Aemon folded his hands. “A wise decision, Your Grace.”

“Then it is settled,” Jaehaerys said, rising from his chair. “We will not involve ourselves. This council is adjourned.”

The chairs scraped quietly as the lords stood and bowed, the chamber emptying slowly, only the quiet crackle of the hearth remained.

Later That Night – In the King’s Private Chambers

King Jaehaerys sat beside the fire, a cup of warm wine in his hand, Queen Alysanne opposite him in a cushioned chair. The day's council had worn on both of them, and the weight of ruling never truly eased.

The king sighed, glancing toward the window. “Baelon has barely been seen in the capital these past weeks.”

The queen’s voice was soft. “He’s taken new lovers, it seems… and spends most of his time elsewhere. I hear he prefers the quiet of the countryside, or perhaps the noise of it.”

Jaehaerys shook his head with tired affection. “He was never one to sit still.”

Then, shifting topics with a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, King Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair and asked, “And the boys? How are Viserys, Daemon, and little Aegon doing in the Dragonpit? I told them to begin their training, try to bond with a dragon, claim one of their own.”

Queen Alysanne’s expression softened, her eyes reflecting both pride and concern. “Viserys and Daemon have been trying. They watch the dragons closely, spend time in the pit almost daily. But so far, no bond has formed. Dragons are willful creatures, especially the older ones.”

Jaehaerys nodded slowly, considering that. “And Aegon?”

Alysanne let out a quiet laugh. “He’s been watching as well, more silent than usual when among the dragons. But he’s only seven, Jaehaerys. He’s still young.”

The king’s eyes twinkled with quiet amusement. “Young, yes, but already built like a young knight squire. Taller than most boys his age.”

“With that appetite and all that energy,” Alysanne said with affectionate exasperation, “we’ll have a strong knight soon enough.”

He stood slowly and walked to the window, gazing out at the distant rooftops of King’s Landing beyond the Red Keep. The horizon was tinged in the fading orange of twilight. His voice was quiet now, more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s hope they claim their dragons soon… the world is changing.”

Alysanne joined him at the window, her hand brushing gently against his. “They will. In time. Our blood still sings to the dragons.”

Jaehaerys gave a faint nod, the weight of foresight and kingship pressing behind his steady gaze. “Let’s hope it sings loudly enough.”

A few months passed in uneasy silence. No further rumors surfaced, no whispers echoed through the streets, and the enemy, whoever they were, made no new move. But Aegon’s sense of unease never faded. The quiet felt unnatural, like the stillness before a storm.

He remained alert, watchful.

During this time, he had compiled a list of possible suspects, noble houses with enough power, influence, and ambition to orchestrate such a subtle attack. At the top of his list were the Hightowers.

He couldn’t help but remember the version of history he had seen in the TV series, how the Hightowers had carefully manipulated King Viserys, how they had worked to isolate Daemon, casting him in a darker and darker light. Maybe, in the show, Daemon had earned that reputation - cruel, unstable, dangerous. But the Daemon he knew now… he wasn’t like that. Not yet.

Yes, his brother was prideful. Yes, he had a temper and was sometimes aggressive. But he wasn’t cruel. Not without reason. He fought hard, but he fought with purpose. And Aegon knew that a man like Daemon, if pushed the wrong way, could become exactly what the realm feared, if someone was deliberately trying to shape him into that monster.

That thought chilled him.

So Aegon stayed cautious. He watched. He listened. He smiled when he needed to, and kept his suspicions close to his chest. The enemy had gone quiet, but Aegon knew silence didn’t mean surrender. It meant they were waiting. Planning. Preparing for their next move.

Inside the Red Keep’s vast and shadowed library, nestled between towering shelves of dust-covered tomes, the faint rustle of turning pages echoed in the stillness. Aegon moved slowly down one of the aisles, fingertips gliding over ancient spines, eyes scanning titles faded with age. Somewhere nearby, the soft footsteps of a maester approached.

“Looking for anything in particular, my prince?” the old man asked politely, his voice warm with curiosity.

Aegon didn’t even glance up. “No,” he replied quietly, “just reading. Searching for something interesting.”

The maester hesitated, clearly hoping to continue the conversation, but Aegon cut him off gently. “I prefer silence.”

“I understand,” the maester said after a pause, voice tinged with disappointment. He gave a small bow and slowly walked away, leaving Aegon alone once more in the dim, dusty quiet.

These days, Aegon had been spending hours here, hoping to stumble across something, anything, related to magic. But the deeper he searched, the more barren the trail became.

Books on Valyria spoke of sorcery, yes, of enchanted steel, binding spells, and fire-wielding priests, but every mention was vague, poetic, or buried in myth. Nothing practical. Nothing instructional. No spells, no rituals, no guides.

It was becoming clear: magic in Valyria had been rare, even at its height. And whatever written knowledge had existed likely perished with the Doom. The great secrets, if they had ever been written down at all, were now smoke and ash.

Frustrated, he closed his eyes and summoned his class tree. A faint flicker pulsed in his vision, a new branch had formed. With a single leaf.

[Class : Knight’s Squire (Tier 1)]

[Prerequisites :

- STR ≥ 6 (satisfied)

- DEX ≥ 6 (satisfied)

- CON ≥ 6 (satisfied)

- Trained in swordplay and horsemanship for at least 1 year under a recognized knight or armsmaster (satisfied)

- Participated in live training drills or mock combat (satisfied) ]

[Level 10 (MAX) ]

[ Trait: Squire’s Instincts

(+100% weapon handling efficiency)

(+50% bonus to balance and grip while riding)

(+50% less likely to flinch or fall when struck, unseated, or overwhelmed) ]

He had wrapped the class weeks ago, applying the loose trait that had lingered in his pool, then immediately pushed it to level 10 using experience reserves.

It had cost him 14,000 EXP, a heavy investment that had nearly drained his entire stash. But it was worth it. The bonuses from the class were very useful, enhancing his survivability and combat finesse in ways that weren’t flashy but mattered.

His moves had become much more refined, enough that he was confident to easily best his past self in a few moves.

Fortunately, his EXP still grew steadily, about 140 to 180 per day, most of it earned during his time patrolling the city with the gold cloaks.

And interestingly, the spread of rumors had added to that total.

The more public the perception of his actions, the more EXP he seemed to receive.

More the impact, more the reward, he mused.

With a quiet sigh, he slid the book he’d been holding back onto the shelf and stepped away, his thoughts drifting as he exited the library.

Chapter Text

The Dragonpit was alive with heat and noise. Inside the cavernous dome, smoke lingered in the air, and the chittering screeches of young dragons rang through the stone chamber. Aegon found Daemon crouched near one of the enclosures, trying, without success, to coax a snarling baby dragon into compliance.

“Zaldrīz ilzi naejot vēttan...” Daemon muttered in High Valyrian, gripping a charred length of meat with tongs.

The baby dragon snapped at the air but wouldn’t come closer.

Daemon stood up with a growl of frustration and shouted, “Drēje! Nyke jaelagon hontes zaldrīz riña!” (Fuck! I want an adult dragon!)

The shout echoed through the pit, startling more than just the hatchlings. Several of them flared their wings and hissed, startled by the sudden noise.

From nearby, one of the older dragon keepers barked at him, “Quiet, prince! You’ll spook the entire pit!”

Daemon muttered under his breath but backed away, casting a smoldering glare at the young dragons as if they had personally offended him.

Aegon chuckled quietly, arms crossed as he approached. “Maybe they just don’t like your tone.”

A few days ago, Daemon had made an audacious attempt to claim Dreamfyre, the proud she-dragon known for her brilliant blue scales and fierce temperament.

Dreamfyre was the largest dragon in the Dragonpit after Vermithor, Vhagar, and Balerion, moderately bigger than Caraxes, Meleys, or Silverwing.

The attempt had ended in disaster. Daemon had come sprinting out of the cavernous depths of the dragon lairs, yelling, hair partially singed and eyes wild with fury.

“Fuck that old cunt! She almost roasted me alive!” he’d screamed, slapping at the smoldering ends of his silver hair.

Viserys had been laughing about it ever since.

“Maybe she thought you were a rat,” Viserys had teased the next morning, snorting with amusement. “A silver rat.”

But Daemon wasn’t one to be teased without striking back. “Better a silver rat than the shit shoveler of Balerion,” he snapped, smirking.

Indeed, Viserys had recently begun the daunting process of attempting to bond with Balerion, the Black Dread himself.

The legendary beast, once the mount of Aegon the Conqueror, was now over two hundred years old. His body bore the marks of time: scarred, gaunt, with leathery wings that no longer stretched with the majesty of his prime.

His massive form rested deep in the Dragonpit, rarely moving, half-asleep in the gloom, yet still exuding an aura that turned hardened men into trembling boys.

Viserys had never seen Balerion fly, nor roar with the fury that had melted Harrenhal to slag. But that didn’t matter. The stories were enough. The legacy was enough.

The mere idea of claiming such a creature, a symbol of raw power, a living relic of conquest, was enough to swell Viserys’s pride to new heights.

Encouraged by sycophants like Otto Hightower and a circle of young lords desperate to win favor, Viserys had declared he would be the next rider of Balerion.

His declaration had turned heads, and raised eyebrows.

The first attempt had been a disaster.

Armed with a fresh goat carcass and a chest full of confidence, Viserys had descended into the pit, torch in hand.

He approached slowly, holding out the offering. The silence was overwhelming. Then, without warning, a low growl vibrated through the stone walls, deep, ancient, and terrifying. It was not a roar of aggression, but of disinterest… of warning.

A sound that said, "Leave, insect." Viserys froze. The torch trembled in his hand. When Balerion’s head stirred slightly, one massive eye opening like a slumbering god’s, Viserys had turned and fled, dropping the meat behind him and nearly tripping over his own feet.

The laughter from Daemon had echoed louder than the growl.

“Did the old beast yawn and almost inhale you, or was that a scream?” Daemon had teased for days.

Shaken but undeterred, Viserys changed tactics. If feeding didn’t work, perhaps humility would. He began visiting daily, not to approach Balerion directly, but to clean the enormous chamber.

Bones, ash, soot, old scales, and droppings were slowly carted away by a team of handlers under his instruction, and often with his own hands.

The stench was awful, the work degrading, but he believed that if he proved himself useful, Balerion would warm to him. That perhaps the ancient dragon would see loyalty in toil.

Daemon, of course, was merciless in his commentary.

“Shit shoveler of the Black Dread,” Daemon had called him, grinning wickedly.

Despite the teasing, Aegon had remained kind. “You’ll do it, I know you will,” he had told Viserys one evening. “If anyone can claim him, it’s you.”

Viserys had looked at him, surprised and touched. “Thanks, little brother,” he said quietly, with rare sincerity.

Now, sitting on the worn stones near the Dragonpit entrance, the three brothers rested in the fading sun. Aegon was lost in thought when Daemon nudged him with a boot.

“So,” Daemon said, raising a brow. “When are you trying?”

Aegon blinked, then gave a slow smile. “Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow.”

Daemon leaned forward with curiosity. “And which one are you aiming for?”

“You’ll know tomorrow,” Aegon replied, cryptic and calm.

Daemon clicked his tongue and snorted. “Try the baby dragons. Much safer. Less chance of ending up bald and broiled like me.”

Just then, Viserys returned, dirt smudged on his tunic, the smell of ash clinging to him. He dropped onto the stones beside them with a sigh.

“Well?” Daemon grinned. “Did the Black Dread grunt in appreciation this time?”

“Better than screaming and running, no?” Viserys shot back. “At least I’m making progress.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. “Progress? You mean less shit in your boots?”

“Jealousy is ugly on you,” Viserys said with mock dignity.

Aegon laughed as the two bickered, content to sit between them. The tension of politics, rumors, and dragons faded for a while, lost in the warmth of sibling rivalry.

“My prince… are you sure? We can wait till your brothers come,” the young dragonkeeper asked hesitantly, his voice tight with worry.

Aegon stood before the entrance to the dragon caves, his silver-blond hair catching the pale morning light, his violet eyes fixed and unreadable.

He had arrived before dawn, slipping into the Dragonpit while most of King’s Landing still slept. Only the outer guards and this one young dragonkeeper were present, just as he had planned.

“I am sure,” Aegon replied, his voice calm but firm.

The boy hesitated again, shifting his feet nervously. “It’s just… it’s not usually done alone, my prince. The older keepers—”

“I do not want anyone interfering,” Aegon interrupted, his gaze turning steely. “No one guiding me. No ritualistic feeding or coaxing. I’ll do it my way.”

“But—”

“I am going inside,” Aegon said sharply, taking a step forward. “When my brothers come, you may tell them.”

The young keeper swallowed hard. “But… my grace…”

Aegon turned, his expression cold now, and spoke with iron in his voice. “Do you dare defy my orders?”

The keeper paled at the sudden shift in tone. “Never, your grace,” he said quickly, stepping aside and bowing low. “Forgive me.”

Without another word, Aegon walked past him and entered the caves.

The dragon caves beneath the Dragonpit were massive, ancient, and eerily quiet, save for the occasional rumble or shift of scaled bodies in the darkness.

The air was thick with heat and the acrid smell of ash, soot, and old blood. The stone beneath his boots was uneven, worn smooth in some places, jagged and treacherous in others.

Great stalactites hung from the high ceilings, dripping mineral-heavy water that hissed softly as it landed on patches of warm rock.

It was a place of living myth. The bones of old meals littered the corners, scorched black or picked clean. Dung baked in the rising heat of the dragons’ breath.

The deeper he went, the more he felt the oppressive weight of time pressing in on him, the legacy of Valyria, of fire and blood.

And he was not afraid.

Torch in hand, he moved with quiet purpose, each step echoing slightly through the massive cavern. Shadows danced along the walls, shifting with every flicker of the flame.

His destination was clear.

Dreamfyre.

One of the oldest dragons still alive. A creature of both beauty and terror, graceful in form, monstrous in size. Larger than Meleys, larger than Caraxes, her sinuous form stretched like a serpent carved from moonlight and frost.

Only the ancient titans— Vhagar, Vermithor, and Balerion, had ever surpassed her in sheer mass and power.

Aegon’s hand tightened around the torch. The heat from the flames was nothing compared to the warmth of the cave air, thick with the scent of sulfur, ash, and something older, the breath of dragons.

His palm was slick, but he did not loosen his grip.

He would not bribe her.

He would not flatter her.

He would face her.

He stepped forward, each footfall slow but deliberate, echoing in the cavernous dark. The light from his torch cast long, quivering shadows along the jagged walls.

Behind him, the entrance had already faded into gloom, swallowed by the belly of the Dragonpit.

There, he saw it.

Not a shadow, but the outline of a sleeping behemoth. The rise and fall of her breathing stirred dust from the floor.

He moved closer, and details began to form from the dark: the vast horns curling back from her skull like silver-bladed scythes, the jagged ridges down her spine, the sweep of her tail coiled around ancient bones and scorched stone.

He stood before her head, massive, majestic. Her eyes were closed, her breath heavy and steady, like the exhalations of a slumbering mountain.

The head alone was larger than his entire body. He could hear her heart in the air: slow, steady, ancient.

He took a deep breath and stepped closer.

Suddenly, the massive nostrils twitched.

The breathing stopped.

Then, in a blink, her golden eyes snapped open, slitted, vertical, and bright as molten coins. They locked onto him, unblinking, ancient intelligence behind them.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The silence screamed louder than any roar.

Then she rose.

Not with haste, not with threat, like a storm cloud unfolding, slowly, magnificently. Her wings unfurled slightly, brushing the walls of the cave. Talons clicked against the stone, and her neck arched high above him. Her mouth opened slightly, smoke curling from between her fangs.

Her scales shimmered a pale blue, almost ghostly in the dim firelight, tipped with silver that caught every flicker like starlight on water. Wings folded like a cathedral roof, spined and vast, lay tucked against her body.

Aegon didn’t flinch.

He extended his right hand, palm steady, fingers outstretched. The torch in his other hand trembled as a gust of hot, sulfurous air surged past, causing the flame to gutter violently, casting flickering shadows along the ancient, soot-blackened walls of the Dragonpit.

And then, in a voice that rang with clarity and command, he spoke, not in the Common Tongue, but in the language of dragons, the language of Valyria, with every syllable ringing with ancestral weight.

“Dreamfyre… Āeksio.”
(Dreamfyre… Serve)

The word echoed across the vaulted chamber like a ripple of thunder, swallowed by stone, but not forgotten.

It reverberated in the stale air, in the bones scattered across the cracked floor, and in the deep, primal memory of the beast before him.

Aegon felt it, not just a sound, but a pulse, emanating from within. His bloodline trait, of his class [Heir of Old Valyria], surged to life.

A resonance stirred, ancient and invisible, unfurling like unseen heat waves from his body, flowing out toward the great blue-and-silver dragon crouched before him.

Dreamfyre’s eyes narrowed, sharp and ancient, fixated on the boy who dared command her. She had tested many before. Most failed.

But now… something shifted.

Aegon saw it, her pupils, once slitted and calculating, dilated slightly. A change not of mood but of recognition. Not full submission… but memory. Familiarity. As if something within her blood responded to the echo of Valyria within his.

She blinked slowly. Then, slowly, ponderously, her head began to lower, not submissively, but with hesitant curiosity. Her breath was deep and ragged, like a forge pulled open after years of silence. Her eyes studied him, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking the air, tasting the resonance, the blood, the power.

But then something changed.

Her pupils suddenly contracted, sharp and tight once again. As if the primal part of her,the wild, fire-born beast, rebelled. The ancient instincts warred against the call of blood and bond.

And then, with a piercing shriek, she roared.

The sound was deafening, thunder trapped in stone, a cry of fury and defiance that rattled the very foundation of the Dragonpit. The ground trembled beneath Aegon’s feet. In the far corners of the pit, baby dragons startled from sleep screeched and scattered, wings flapping in panic.

Dreamfyre reared slightly, her massive jaws opening—

And she unleashed.

A torrent of searing orange flame erupted from her maw, a wave of living fire that surged across the floor and engulfed Aegon’s entire form. It washed around him, over him, licking stone and ash, flooding the cavern in light and heat.

To anyone watching, it would have seemed like incineration. An execution.

But Aegon did not move.

He stood there, eyes still locked with the dragon’s, consumed in a pillar of flame.

Chapter Text

A roar thundered from deep within the stone heart of the Dragonpit, reverberating up the spiraling stairwell that led to the lower dragon caves.

It was no ordinary roar, there was fury in it. A fury that made stone shudder, dust fall from ancient ceilings, and distant dragons cry out in anxious reply.

The young dragon keeper at the entrance, paled instantly. His heart seized in his chest as the ground trembled beneath his boots, a breath of hot air sweeping up the tunnel like the exhale of a giant.

His mouth opened in horror, words slipping out before thought could catch them. “Oh… no,” he stammered, taking a staggering step back. “What have I done…”

He had only meant to humor the bold young prince, to give him a thrill, a moment of reckless bravado. Let the little Targaryen stand in front of Dreamfyre for a heartbeat and feel her heat.

He had thought the dragon would ignore him, or roar once and scare him off. Maybe Aegon would retreat with a red face, and that would be the end of it.

But this...

This was not that.

This sound, this roar, had weight. Of a boundary being crossed.

“It was only for a moment,” the dragonkeeper murmured to no one, sweat clinging to his brow. “He said he just wanted to see her…”

Now he realized his folly. Not in breaking protocol, but in forgetting who the boy was.

“The king will have my head,” he whispered again, the full weight of it pressing on his shoulders. “The prince is… he’s…”

He didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t. It was too horrible to put into words.

Then, panic seized him.

Without another second’s hesitation, he spun around and fled, boots clanging against the ancient stone, footsteps echoing through the vaulted corridors.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he ran, his voice bouncing off the high, curving walls.

“The elders!” he shouted. “Someone fetch the elders! The prince, he’s inside with Dreamfyre!”

Behind him, the tunnels echoed not only with the fading roar, but with rising cries. The high-pitched screeches of young dragons stirred into fear and fury. A rumble of unease threaded through the foundations of the pit.

Deep in the cavern, Dreamfyre finally stopped.

For five full seconds, she had let loose her fury in a steady, unrelenting torrent of fire. The stone walls glowed orange, the very air still rippling with heat.

Smoke swirled and hissed from blackened rock, and the space before her, once occupied by the boy, was now bathed in ash and shimmering flame.

She took a long breath, nostrils flaring, ready to turn away. To return to the shadows and the silence of her cave, to rest again atop old bones and memory. The boy, presumptuous, foolish, was surely dead.

But then… something made her stop.

Her eyes narrowed. Her pupils shrank.

There, at the center of the scorched path, was a space untouched by fire. A perfect ring where the flames had curved around rather than through.

At the heart of that space stood the boy, hand still raised, his silver-gold hair unburned, his violet eyes alight not with fear, but with command and determination.

The flames, her flames, danced around him like servants. They twisted unnaturally, coiling and shaping, and as Dreamfyre watched, their motion grew purposeful.

They were forming something.

A shape loomed behind the boy, vast and flickering, an enormous dragon’s head, sculpted from flame itself, its jaws open wide.

Dreamfyre’s heart thundered in her chest. Not from rage… but something older. Something deeper.

She remembered this feeling.

It was blood.

Not just Targaryen blood, true blood. Blood that called to her in the language of fire and storm. The resonance that had stirred at his first command now slammed into her with force, a tidal wave of ancient magic carried not just through words, but through lineage.

And then, the boy’s voice came again.

Louder this time. Clearer. Resonating not only through the stone, but through her, down into her marrow, into the very flame that burned in her veins.

“DREAMFYRE… ĀEKSIO.”
(Dreamfyre… Serve)

The sound did not echo, it settled, heavy and absolute.

And Dreamfyre felt her limbs tremble.

She resisted once more. For a heartbeat. For pride.

But then… she relented.

A long, slow breath escaped her nostrils. Her claws scraped against the floor as she lowered herself, inch by inch, bowing, not just in recognition, but in submission. Her head touched the warm stone, wings slowly folding inward.

She had fought the call. But the call had won.

The boy before her was no pretender.

He was Targaryen. He was also something older - much Older.

And now… he was her rider.

Aegon stood still for a long moment, staring at the bowed form of the dragon before him. The air was still shimmering with residual heat, the ground scorched around him, yet he felt no fear.

The massive dragon head made of flame, his own conjuration, born of blood and will, dissipated slowly as he released it from his focus.

Trails of fire curled upward and vanished into the thick smoke still lingering in the air.

His skin burned faintly where the heat had licked too close. Reddened, but not blistered. A badge of the moment. He winced as he flexed his fingers, but his resolve never wavered.

He stepped forward.

Each footfall echoed with quiet authority as he approached Dreamfyre’s snout, the massive, ancient dragon now utterly still.

He extended a hand, slowly, deliberately, and pressed his palm against the shimmering blue scales of her face. They were warm. Not just with heat, but with something else, something alive.

A pulse. A rhythm.

He ran his hand along her jaw, the scales surprisingly smooth beneath his fingers. There was a moment of stillness, almost sacred.

Then something changed.

The traits of his class , [Heir of Old Valyria], surged once more, not in a loud, overpowering wave as before, but in a deeper, more settled thrum. The magic no longer shouted.

It whispered. It sank in. Like embers pressed into the coals, the resonance deepened.

His vision blurred momentarily. Dreamfyre’s eyes half-lidded, and in perfect synchrony, Aegon closed his as well.

For a breath… they were one.

He didn’t understand words, not truly, but he felt her. Felt the residual tension in her massive body, the sharp edge of pride dulled now by curiosity… and something gentler.

Acceptance.

He opened his eyes, and Dreamfyre’s enormous golden-blue gaze met his again, no longer filled with challenge, but something more intelligent. Something more… connected.

Without speaking, he turned and walked along her side, boots crunching against scorched ash and old rock. She turned her head to watch him as he reached her shoulder and paused. Her wings shifted slightly, raising halfway in a protective reflex.

Then, slowly, she lowered them, spreading one broad wing outward and downward to create a slope.

Aegon blinked. “You understand…” he muttered softly, mostly to himself.

He grabbed hold of the wing joint and scrambled up with an agility and strength born from his traits. He climbed up over the shoulder and swung a leg across, settling himself on the old leather saddle affixed there.

Dust puffed out from the seat as he dropped into it. No one had sat here in decades, maybe longer. The bindings were stiff, but intact.

He checked the harness loops and grips,as he’d been taught by the dragon keepers, and gave them a small tug.

Secure.

He looked down at the long neck of the dragon below him and then toward the far mouth of the cavern. “Dreamfyre…Outside,” he commanded.

Dreamfyre then got up slowly, then with regal calm, she turned and began walking.

Each footfall sent little tremors through the ground. The cave grew brighter as she approached the other exit, sunlight piercing in from a massive opening high on the hillside beyond the Dragonpit's main dome.

She walked slowly, but purposefully, each step radiating a kind of restrained power.

Aegon adjusted his grip. His heart thudded in his chest, not from fear, but from anticipation. He was riding a dragon.

His dragon.

Outside, the first light of dawn was breaking over King’s Landing, casting a golden hue across the city’s rooftops and the sprawling expanse of the Red Keep.

At the wide, jagged mouth of Rhaenys’ Hill, the air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt from the Narrow Sea mingled with the faint smoke still rising from the Dragonpit below.

A low rumble stirred the air, a deep, vibrating pulse that grew steadily louder.

From the shadows of the cave’s wide opening emerged a magnificent sight: Dreamfyre, the great blue-scaled dragon, her massive form stretching nearly the entire length of the hilltop.

Her scales shimmered like polished sapphires, catching the light with every subtle movement. With slow, deliberate grace, she stepped forward, each movement shaking the earth beneath her talons.

Atop her broad back sat the silver-haired boy, Aegon Targaryen.

His violet eyes shone bright with a mixture of awe, determination, and the weight of what he was about to do. His hands rested firmly on the thick, leather reins, his slender fingers tightening their grip with practiced resolve.

Despite the rush of cool air and the looming height, there was no hint of fear in his posture, only focus.

Dreamfyre’s great neck curved gracefully as she lowered her massive head to look back at her rider. Her deep, ancient eyes met Aegon’s, filled with a strange intelligence that seemed to pierce beyond the physical.

It was a moment of silent understanding, an unspoken pact between dragon and rider, forged through blood and fire.

Aegon inhaled deeply, the cold morning air filling his lungs. He steadied himself against the saddle, feeling the heat radiating from the dragon beneath him.

Then, with a calm and clear voice, he spoke aloud, in the old tongue of their bloodline:

“Fly, Dreamfyre.”

The words echoed softly in the still air as the great dragon tensed, her powerful muscles coiling beneath her scales.

With a sudden movement, Dreamfyre stepped forward toward the cliff’s edge, the ground dropping away sharply beneath her colossal feet.

Then she launched herself off the edge.

A wall of wind rushed past Aegon’s face, buffeting his silver hair and tearing at his clothes. The force was immense, but he held firm, planting his feet into the saddle and clutching the reins tighter than ever.

For a fleeting second, the ground seemed to disappear entirely, replaced by the vast openness of the sky.

With a powerful beat of her wings, Dreamfyre unfurled her great leathery wings, each one spanning wide. The wind surged beneath them, lifting them higher and higher.

The tremor of her flight thrummed through Aegon’s body, a rhythmic pulse that matched the racing beat of his heart.

A guttural, triumphant roar burst from Dreamfyre’s throat, a sound both terrifying and magnificent, echoing across the city like a thunderclap.

It was a declaration, an ancient, unyielding call to the skies.

Together, dragon and rider soared above the tiled roofs of King’s Landing, casting a long, sweeping shadow over the waking city.

The early morning sun kissed the towers of the Red Keep and painted the rooftops in warm gold and crimson.

Below, the city began to stir, shopkeepers lifting wooden shutters, bakers fanning ovens, sailors unloading at the harbor, and children scampering in alleyways.

Then, the cry came.

A thunderous, piercing roar echoed across the sky. Heads snapped upward.

From the muddy streets of Flea Bottom to the marble courtyards near the Grand Sept, all eyes turned skyward. Old men peered up from cracked porches, merchants halting mid-sale to gape in awe. The noise of the city dimmed for a heartbeat as the presence above demanded attention.

“By the Seven…” muttered a baker’s apprentice, shielding his flour-dusted eyes with a hand. “It’s a dragon!”

“Aye, and a big one too!” called out a butcher, stepping into the street, cleaver still in hand.

Children squealed with delight, pointing skyward with sticky fingers.

“Look, look! A dragon!”

“Is it Silverwing?”

“No, stupid, Silverwing’s white! This one’s blue!”

“Maybe it’s one of the prince’s dragons!”

A potter near the city’s edge dropped a jug that shattered on the ground, her eyes wide. “Hells… that ain’t no hatchling. That’s a proper beast!”

In the alleys of Cobbler’s Square, a ragged group of beggars stared skyward.

“Haven’t seen one that size over the city in years,” one croaked.

“Not since King Jaehaerys flew Vermithor to Oldtown, I wager,” said another, wiping grime from his brow.

“Looks like the gods are wakin’ again,” whispered an old woman.

On the city walls, a pair of Goldcloaks froze mid-conversation.

“Didn’t know any of the young princes had claimed one yet,” one said.

“That ain’t Prince Aaemon’s Caraxes. This one’s different.”

“Who’s that on its back?”

The other squinted. “Can’t see clear, but…Targaryen, for sure.”

The people craned their necks, hands shielding eyes from the morning glare. Above, they could just make out the vague silhouette of a rider, the silver-white of Targaryen hair fluttering like a banner in the wind.

“A new dragonlord,” someone whispered in reverence.

“Must be Prince Viserys.”

“No, too small. That rider’s just a boy!”

“A boy? On a dragon that size?”, a grizzled fisherman murmured, crossing his heart with trembling fingers.

The awe was palpable, tinged with fear, but also pride. For the common folk of King’s Landing, it was a sign, a symbol of strength. Dragons had long been the divine right of House Targaryen. And now, a new rider had taken to the sky.

The whispers spread like wildfire.

“A young prince has claimed a dragon.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t know. But he rides above the city now.”

“Bless the blood of the dragon.”

And in the sky above it all, Dreamfyre cut a sweeping arc, wings stretched wide, her cry echoing once more over the city of men, loud and clear, like a herald of ancient power reborn.

Chapter Text

The sharp knock jolted Queen Alysanne from her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented, just as Jaehaerys stirred beside her. He blinked, frowning groggily.

"Come in," Alysanne called, her voice sharper than she intended.

The door creaked open, revealing a trembling maid, her face pale and eyes wide with panic. "Your Grace," she said in a rush, "the dragonkeepers just informed us, Prince Aegon has gone into the Dragonpit. He’s trying to claim Dreamfyre."

"What?" Jaehaerys sat up at once, eyes widening. Alysanne was already moving, throwing off the covers and scrambling for a robe. “No, no, no…” she whispered as her hands fumbled with the laces. Her face had gone pale with fear.

Though age and grief had weighed her down in recent years, Alysanne moved swiftly. “Get my slippers and robe,” she ordered another servant as she rushed to dress. The King, now fully awake, donned his cloak and followed her out, his brow drawn tight with concern.

They descended the stairs in haste, robes flaring behind them, until they came upon an old dragonkeeper standing just outside Maegor’s Holdfast. He bowed low as they approached, but the Queen was in no mood for ceremony.

“If something has happened to my grandson…” Her voice trembled with fury, “I’ll see every last one of your order hanged!”

The dragonkeeper raised his hands quickly in supplication. “My Queen, please, calm yourself. The senior keepers have already gone in to investigate. We don’t know what has happened yet.”

But Alysanne could not be calmed. Her lips were tight with anguish. She had lost too many children already—Daella, Viserra, Alyssa. The very thought of Aegon burning beneath dragonflame made her knees weak.

Jaehaerys moved beside her and gently took her hand. “Do not let fear rule you, my dear. The gods… may not be so cruel this time.”

Tears glistened in Alysanne’s eyes. “Let’s go. We must go to the Dragonpit. Now.”

Just as they stepped out into the courtyard of the Red Keep, footsteps hurried toward them. Septon Barth, robes half-tied, his eyes wide with alarm, came into view. “Your Graces, what’s happened? I heard shouting!?”

“The boy. Aegon,” Alysanne said quickly. “He’s gone into the Dragonpit. Dreamfyre.”

Barth’s mouth opened in shock. “Seven save us…”

But before another word could be spoken, the sound came. A roar, deep, ancient, unmistakable, split the morning sky.

All movement ceased. Servants, guards, the Queen and King, all froze and turned their eyes upward. A great gust of wind swept over the walls of the Red Keep.

Then they saw it.

A great dragon, her wings vast and shimmering in hues of ocean-blue and sky-silver, soared above the city. Her roar echoed across the rooftops, scattering birds into the air. Her eyes glowed with fierce pride and freedom as she wheeled through the air in a great arc.

“Dreamfyre…” whispered the old dragonkeeper, awe-struck. “She’s flying again…”

“There’s someone on her!” cried a maid, pointing skyward. “Look, there, on her back!”

All eyes followed. And then they saw him.

A boy. Small against the great bulk of the dragon, but unmistakable. Silver hair flashing like starlight in the wind, his frame seated firmly atop the saddle, riding as if born to it.

“Aegon,” Jaehaerys and Alysanne breathed at once, the name rising like a prayer on their lips.

They turned to look at one another, stunned disbelief giving way to joy and pride. The Queen’s hand flew to her mouth. Her tears, once born of fear, now disappeared, while she looked freely in wonder.

“He’s just… seven,” Septon Barth stammered, his voice nearly lost in the wind.

The King stood straight, his face cracking into a slow, broad grin. “Yes,” he said, chest swelling. “He is.”

Then, for the first time in what felt like years, Jaehaerys the Conciliator threw his head back and laughed. A deep, heartfelt laugh that echoed across the courtyard.

Septon Barth looked up at the young boy circling the Red Keep atop a dragon thought unclaimable. He exhaled, placing a hand over his heart, and smiled.

“Congratulations, Your Graces,” he said with quiet reverence. “It seems the youngest dragonrider in the history of the Seven Kingdoms has just been born.”

Aegon felt the rush of the wind against his face, the freedom and raw power beneath him. The sun climbed higher, gilding the dragon’s scales in bright blue and silver, a living jewel cutting through the sky.

This is what I have been waiting for all these years, he thought, heart pounding with fierce joy.

From this vantage point, the troubles and fears that had weighed on him, the schemes, the shadows lurking in the halls of power, felt distant, almost insignificant.

Up here, he was no longer just a boy tangled in the tangled webs of court and suspicion. He was something more.

The wind ruffled against his hair and kissed his cheeks. Higher, Dreamfyre, he urged, and the dragon obeyed, soaring upward with majestic grace.

Deep inside Aegon’s mind, something new stirred. The faint humming of the class tree, a quiet, constant presence, shifted suddenly. A grayed-out branch, a Tier 2 class he had forged in the quiet of last night but had not yet created, began to shimmer with a soft, ethereal light. The final prerequisite had been met: riding a dragon.

[Prerequisite Fulfilled.]

[Class: Dragon Rider – Creation Successful.]

A subtle pulse of energy rippled through Aegon’s body. His vision sharpened, senses tingled with heightened awareness.

But the most profound change was the mystical thread now weaving between his mind and Dreamfyre’s — a bridge formed of ancient blood and magic.

Suddenly, Dreamfyre faltered mid-flight, a flicker of panic flashing in her great eyes. The new connection startled her, a fresh presence invading her thoughts, unsteadying her graceful flight for a moment.

Steady, Dreamfyre, Aegon shouted, voice both loud and clear, yet somehow also inside her mind, a strange and intimate command. Calm now.

The dragon’s panic eased. A soft, melodic voice echoed within Aegon’s thoughts, Dreamfyre’s own. Fly straight, he commanded, she immediately rebalanced herself, steadying her powerful wings.

Aegon smiled, feeling the bond deepen.

This is my voice.

Remember it.

We are partners now.

You are mine as I am yours.

The emotions that surged through their connection were profound: Dreamfyre’s cautious joy, the trust blooming between ancient creature and young rider.

~Yes, her voice whispered like a breeze in his mind.

Together, they swept above the Red Keep, the city sprawling below like a grand tapestry of stone, smoke, and life. The wind carried them onward, the sun casting long shadows across rooftops and spires.

We are bound by more than blood, Aegon thought, more than fire. Together, we will rise.

The city beneath felt smaller, the world wider, and his purpose clearer than ever.

This is only the beginning.

The morning sun was high by the time Aegon guided Dreamfyre down from the skies. The blue-scaled dragon circled once before descending in a controlled spiral near the Dragonpit’s wide entrance. Dust kicked up in swirling clouds, scattering across the courtyard where a few dragonkeepers stood frozen in awe.

Aegon sat tall in the saddle, wind-tossed silver hair framing his youthful face, though his eyes, calm, proud, and commanding. As Dreamfyre settled, wings folding in, she let out a deep, contented rumble.

When she lowered her massive body to the ground, Aegon slipped off with ease, landing lightly on the packed stone. Without hesitation, he walked up to her snout and placed his hand gently on her scales. Dreamfyre gave a low, affectionate grunt and nudged her great head softly against him.

“You flew well,” Aegon whispered, smiling. “Now rest inside the pit. I’ll call on you again soon.”

Dreamfyre snorted, exhaling warm air that ruffled his tunic, then turned and lumbered toward the cavernous interior of the Dragonpit. Aegon watched her go, then turned to the nearby dragonkeepers.

“She’s hungry. Feed her,” he said simply.

“Yes, my prince,” they replied in unison, bowing as Dreamfyre vanished into the shadows of the cave.

As Aegon turned toward the Red Keep, an older dragonkeeper approached with a measured gait. He bowed deeply.

“Congratulations, my prince,” the man said, his voice heavy with reverence. “Dreamfyre… she has not flown for years. To think, claimed by a boy of seven. The king and queen await you in the Great Hall.”

Aegon gave a small nod. “Thank you.” Then, with quiet confidence, he ascended the steps toward the castle.

As he passed through the Red Keep’s corridors, servants and maids paused to bow or curtsy. Whispers followed him.

“That’s the prince, right?”

“He was riding Dreamfyre!”

“Did you see the way she flew?”

Their eyes were wide with awe, their voices tinged with wonder. Aegon kept walking, trying not to look too pleased, though a quiet pride stirred in his chest. Still, part of him felt… awkward. He wasn’t used to all this attention.

A few days ago, he was just little Aegon, the clever boy with strange eyes and too many questions. Now? He was something else.

The doors to the Great Hall loomed before him, open wide. Torches flickered in iron sconces, and sunlight spilled in through the stained-glass windows high above. He stepped inside.

At the far end of the hall, the Iron Throne sat atop its jagged steps, a hulking monument of swords and shadow. King Jaehaerys Targaryen sat upon it, his long white beard braided, his expression grave but warm. Beside him stood Queen Alysanne, hands clasped together, worry still fading from her eyes.

Prince Aemon, the heir, stood off to the right, arms folded, brow slightly arched with curious scrutiny. Down below, Aegon spotted his brothers, Viserys and Daemon, watching him intently. Viserys looked bewildered. Daemon’s expression was harder to read: admiration, annoyance, and perhaps something like envy flickered in his violet eyes.

The small council flanked either side, Septon Barth, Lord Tully, Ser Ryam Redwyne, and others, all staring at him, silent and expectant.

Aegon walked forward. His boots echoed against the stone floor. When he reached the base of the Iron Throne, he knelt on one knee, bowing his head.

There was a moment of silence. Then the King’s voice rang out:

“Rise, Aegon Targaryen, rider of Dreamfyre. The youngest dragonrider in the history of Westeros.”

Aegon stood slowly. He swallowed. “Thank you… Your Grace. Though, um…” he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck and glancing around. “That’s… quite a lot of titles for someone who’s still missing a few teeth.”

A ripple of chuckles moved through the hall, even from the King himself.

“You gave your king and queen quite the surprise this morning,” Jaehaerys said, smiling. “My guards were ready to storm the Dragonpit.”

“I… didn’t mean to cause a fuss,” Aegon said sheepishly, glancing toward Queen Alysanne.

The Queen stepped forward then, her face softened with pride and motherly warmth. “You are safe, and that is all that matters. I feared… well, I feared the worst.”

Aegon bowed his head to her. “I’m sorry for worrying you, grandmother.”

The King nodded. “Dreamfyre was once the dragon of your Aunt Rhaena. She was a fierce woman, strong-willed and untamed. That dragon shares her spirit. You must care for her as your aunt once did.”

“I will,” Aegon replied, voice steady.

Prince Aemon finally spoke, his tone dry but not unkind. “Congratulations, Nephew. I look forward to flying with you one day. ”

Aegon nodded in response, “Me too Uncle.”

That drew a soft chuckle from the king. “No matter how it came to be, for such an extraordinary feat” Jaehaerys said, “this is a day that will be remembered.”

As the council nodded in agreement and the court murmured with approval, Aegon stood still beneath the vaulted ceiling, no longer just a boy, but something more.

Chapter Text

As the court adjourned and the gathered lords began to disperse, Aegon found himself flanked almost immediately by his two older brothers, Viserys to his left, Daemon to his right. Both wore identical expressions of strained smiles barely concealing their envy.

Viserys leaned in, trying to sound casual. “So… how did you do it?”

Daemon, more blunt as always, scoffed. “Yeah, no way you just walked in and she let you ride her. Definitely didn’t shovel shit like Viserys has been doing for the past few months. So, how?”

Aegon smiled wryly, rubbing the back of his neck with mock modesty. “Honestly? I just walked in, approached her slowly, kept my voice calm… spoke to her in High Valyrian.”

He shrugged, deliberately omitting the part where he was nearly incinerated alive and bent fire to his will. “Then she just lowered her head. Let me climb on.”

“You’re saying she just let you mount her? Just like that?” Viserys asked, incredulous.

“She didn’t even snap at you?” Daemon added, his brow furrowing.

Aegon shook his head innocently. “No. I think… maybe she was waiting. I just got lucky, I suppose.”

Daemon swore under his breath. Viserys looked away, muttering something about wasted months. They both stood silent for a moment, stewing.

Then a slow, calculated voice cut through the tension.

“Congratulations to the young prince,” said Otto Hightower, stepping forward from the shadows at the edge of the hall. He was just a few years older than Viserys, but already carried himself with the quiet arrogance of a man who thought three moves ahead.

“As a third-born, you’ve done what your elder brothers could not. Remarkable.”

There was a pointed gleam in his eye, a subtle smirk curling his lips as his gaze flicked between Viserys and Daemon. A seed of discord, deliberately sown.

Viserys’s jaw tightened. Daemon’s fingers flexed at his sides.

Aegon smiled, calm and composed. But behind his eyes, fire stirred.

“Oh, I’ve only just claimed Dreamfyre,” he said lightly, with feigned humility. “She’s a fine she-dragon, but my brothers are destined for something greater. I’m certain they’ll claim stronger male dragons.

That’s why it’s taking time, they’re simply… waiting for the right one. I fully believe in them.”

Otto’s smirk faltered. Just a fraction. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deliver another insinuation, but then froze. A pained gasp escaped his throat. He staggered back, one hand clutching at his face.

“AHHH—MY EYE!” Otto screamed, collapsing to one knee, clutching at the left side of his face.

“Otto!” Viserys shouted in alarm, rushing to his friend’s side.

Blood trickled between Otto’s fingers. His left eye was red, raw, weeping fluid, and something else. A smell, faint but distinct, burnt flesh.

“GUARDS!” Viserys roared. “MAESTER! QUICKLY!”

A flurry of movement followed as several guards scrambled forward to escort Otto out. A maester appeared from the rear hallways, shouting for cloth and herbs as they rushed away with the screaming noble.

Aegon stood still, worry painted convincingly on his face. He watched with furrowed brows, playing the role of the concerned.

But within, he was calm. Curious, even.
That was the first time he’d used it that precisely, his trait [Blood and Flame Awakening], focused like a needle.

A tiny spark, conjured on the surface of Otto’s eye, had done the work of a dagger in complete silence.

A fitting punishment, he thought coldly.

Daemon leaned close, grinning ear to ear. “The cunt deserved it.”

Aegon chuckled under his breath. “It seems today really is a great day.”

Daemon snorted. “Viserys looked like he might cry over his little friend.”

They both laughed quietly, ignoring the suspicious glances of a few passing knights. As they exited the hall together, side by side, the tension between them felt a little lighter.

“Come,” Daemon said, clapping a hand on Aegon’s shoulder. “Let’s go eat something before the whole court starts whispering about your miraculous taming of Dreamfyre.”

“Too late,” Aegon replied with a smirk. “They’re already whispering.”

At Harrenhal — House Strong

The great hall of Harrenhal was unusually quiet save for the soft clatter of utensils on pewter plates.

Lord Lyonel Strong, a broad-shouldered man with a sharp, contemplative gaze, had just received a raven from King's Landing. He wiped his mouth carefully with a linen cloth and broke the seal with calm.

A servant stood silently nearby, waiting for dismissal, but Lyonel’s brow furrowed as he read. He didn’t look up immediately.

“What is it, father?” asked Larys, just nine but already unusually observant, with eyes far sharper than his limp form suggested.

Lyonel didn’t answer him. Instead, he turned toward his older son, Harwin, who was still tearing through a roasted pheasant.

“Harwin,” Lyonel said in a measured tone. “Stop eating for a moment. A raven from the Red Keep.”

Harwin blinked. “News from court?”

“Something more significant than that.” He folded the parchment. “A dragon has been claimed.”

Harwin's interest was piqued. He leaned forward, brushing crumbs from his chin. “Prince Viserys? Has he taken the Black Dread already?”

Lyonel shook his head slowly. “No. Not Viserys. It is Prince Aegon. The third son of Baelon the Brave. He’s claimed… Dreamfyre.”

Harwin sat back, stunned. “Dreamfyre? That’s the dragon of Princess Rhaena, was it not?”

Lyonel nodded solemnly. “She’s lain unclaimed for years. And the boy is only seven.”

Both brothers were shocked into silence. Even the calculating Larys seemed briefly shaken.

“That makes him…” Harwin began.

“…the youngest dragonrider in the history of Westeros,” Lyonel finished. He stared into the fire. “The court may not yet realize how significant that is.”

At the Eyrie — House Arryn

Far in the mist-veiled mountains of the Vale, a white-feathered eagle descended with measured grace onto the high windowsill of the Eyrie. Its talons scraped lightly against the stone as a servant stepped forward, unfastened the sealed scroll from its leg, and quickly carried it to Lord Rodrick Arryn.

Rodrick, a tall, reserved man in his mid-thirties, took the parchment with a nod. His features were etched with quiet weariness, a calm exterior masking a life touched by repeated sorrow.

His children sat near the hearth, murmuring among themselves until they noticed their father’s eyes narrowing slightly as he read.

Beside him sat Lady Elena Royce of Runestone, his third wife, watching him closely, her brow arching in silent question.

Rodrick had married three times. His first wife, a Redfort, had died after giving him an heir and two daughters. His second, Princess Daella Targaryen, had borne him Aemma before being lost to childbed fever.

That guilt still weighed on him, so much so that when he wed Lady Elena, he had sworn to her personally that there would be no children between them. A promise of restraint, born from pain he never truly voiced.

“Well?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Rodrick looked up, folding the letter with deliberate care. “News from the capital. Aegon Targaryen, Baelon’s youngest, has claimed a dragon.”

“Aegon?” said his daughter, Aemma Arryn, incredulous. “He’s younger than me.” She remembered playing with him during the wedding of Princess Rhaenys at Dragonstone.

“And the dragon?” asked Elena, suspicion already forming in her voice.

“Dreamfyre,” Rodrick said flatly.

Even Elena, who had little fondness for Targaryen airs, fell quiet at that.

Rodrick’s face grew thoughtful. “At seven, he now rides a dragon. The youngest to do so in living memory. The blood runs strong in him...”

At Casterly Rock — House Lannister

In the high seat of Casterly Rock, Lord Tymond Lannister, just into his thirties, sat with a golden goblet in hand, hearing the letter read aloud by his steward.

“Dreamfyre… claimed by a boy of seven,” Tymond said, running a hand through his neatly trimmed beard. “Baelon’s youngest.”

His twin sons, Jason and Tyland, both barely twenty, showed astonishment at the news. They exchanged glances, clearly caught off guard.

At Storm's End — House Baratheon

In the storm-blasted keep of Storm’s End, Lord Boremund Baratheon read the raven himself, frowning behind his thick black beard. Around him, several bannermen and kin were gathered for supper.

“Aegon Targaryen, age seven, now rides Dreamfyre,” he said aloud.

A silence fell over the hall.

“Seven?” muttered one knight. “The dragon must be mad…”

But Boremund shook his head. “Or the boy is far more than we’ve been led to believe. The blood of Old Valyria burns hot in some of them. I met Baelon in his prime, if his son has even half his strength and a dragon’s fire to match…”

He trailed off. “The realm may hear more of this Aegon, sooner than expected.”

At Oldtown — House Hightower

In the white towers of Oldtown, Lord Hobert Hightower stood at the balcony, staring down at the harbor as the bells tolled noon. The message in his hand was brief, but weighty.

“Dreamfyre?” asked one of his retainers, just returned from a visit to the Citadel. “I thought she’d gone feral.”

“She hadn’t,” Hobert said quietly.

He already had heard one bad news today about Otto losing an eye. Now this is the second one.

He stared at the parchment again. “Seven years old.”

Behind his calm voice, gears were turning. Quietly. Coldly.

From White Harbor to the Twins, even the Isles of the Arbor, the news spread like wildfire:
Aegon Targaryen, barely seven years of age, had claimed the mighty Dreamfyre, last ridden by Rhaena Targaryen.

A new dragonrider had risen.

And across Westeros, lords whispered quietly in their halls and solar chambers, each wondering what this meant for the future of the realm, and who this boy might grow to become.

Watching the moon at night from his balcony, Aegon stood quietly, arms resting on the carved stone balustrade.

The lights of King’s Landing flickered like a living sea below, lanterns and torches stretching across the city’s spine, from the Dragonpit to the docks. The distant echo of waves, the murmur of late-night voices, and the rhythmic beat of hooves in the streets far beneath were all softened by the night wind.

Aegon exhaled slowly, eyes lifted to the stars as he opened his interface. With a thought, he brought up his new class.

[ Class: Dragon Rider (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Class: Heir of Old Valyria at max Level 10 (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- DEX ≥ 6.0 (satisfied)

- AGI ≥ 6.0 (satisfied)

- Accepted by a dragon for riding (satisfied) ]

[ Level 1 (000 / 1100) ]

[ Trait : Symbiosis of Flame and Flesh

(+20% Riding efficiency and control with bonded dragon)

(+20% Mental connection with bonded dragon)

(+10% Growth rate of bonded dragon) ]

[ Trait : Draconic Conduit

(+20% Dragon fire temperature when riding)

(+15% Combat efficiency with bonded dragon)

(+10% Magic resistance) ]

He smiled faintly.

He had attempted to create this class the night before he claimed Dreamfyre. While defining the class, he had used his words carefully, precisely enough that the Class Tree system would accept another Tier 2 class as a prerequisite.

A subtle maneuver, but a crucial one. Doing so allowed the [Dragon Rider] class to possess more powerful traits than would normally be permitted. After all, the blood of Valyria was not meant to be bound by shallow constraints.

Originally, he had aimed higher. Vhagar. Vermithor. The mightier, older dragons. But even as he considered his lineage and potential claim to those ancient beasts, reality had stepped in.

He could not wait that long.

The attempt to discredit him and Daemon during their tenure in the City Watch, spreading malicious rumors, fanning courtly suspicion, had already alarmed him. The political game was sharpening.

Delay could cost him everything.

Besides, claiming Vhagar or Vermithor was not even possible at present. Vhagar still flew under his father, Baelon. Vermithor belonged to King Jaehaerys himself.

So, Aegon made a decision: if he could not claim a powerful dragon now, he would take a different path.

Instead of seizing an already mighty dragon, he would claim one with immense potential, and make her mighty.

Dreamfyre.

Rhaena Targaryen’s she-dragon. Known for her grace and speed, but not her raw dominance.

Not yet.

But with the Class Tree in his hands... he would change that.

Based on this idea, he created the class [Dragon Rider (Tier 2)].

And now, as he watched the experience reserves rising exponentially, every moment he spent after claiming Dreamfyre, his gamble was proving correct. He had begun to be noticed. Being Watched.

The class was working. The bond was growing.

Now I have finally stepped on the stage, he said silently, eyes fixed on the lights of King’s Landing below.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since he first soared over King’s Landing on Dreamfyre’s back, thought Aegon as he adjusted the clasps on his new riding gear. Since that first flight, he had taken to the skies twice more, once over the bustling sprawl of the city and once over the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay. He hadn't ventured farther, not yet. His grandmother, Queen Alysanne, had forbidden it, for now.

And the reason why was wrapped around him at this very moment.

The dragon-riding suit.

A gift from the King and Queen, it had taken a full week to be custom-forged and fitted. Aegon admired it in the mirror, quietly impressed. The base was a light, flexible leather, dyed in a rich royal blue that echoed the hue of Dreamfyre’s glittering scales. Metal pauldrons capped his shoulders, engraved with faint Valyrian patterns that shimmered subtly when the light caught them.

It was not a suit of war, but one of status, an acknowledgment that he had ascended to the rarest of heights.

It reminded him of Princess Rhaenys’s own riding gear, practical, elegant, and unmistakably regal. But this one was his, tailored to his form.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts. He turned to see Daemon leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You look like a real dragonrider now, brother,” Daemon said.

Aegon gave a small, knowing smile and nodded in acknowledgment. Daemon always wore mischief like a cloak, but there was genuine pride in his voice.

“So, where will you be flying today?” Daemon asked, his tone casual.

“I’ll be going over Driftmark,” Aegon replied as he tugged his gloves into place. “Thought I’d give cousin Rhaenys a visit. I imagine Lord Corlys would appreciate a visit from the realm’s newest dragonrider.”

Daemon snorted softly. “Driftmark, huh? You’ll charm half the Velaryon fleet while you're at it.” He turned, waving a lazy hand as he walked away. “See you later then, brother. Don’t fall into the sea.”

Aegon chuckled under his breath and made his way down the hall, the sound of his boots echoing softly through the Red Keep.

As he passed, young maidservants paused mid-step, blushes blooming on their cheeks. Servants bowed or stepped aside with wide eyes, many stealing furtive glances at the finely dressed boy who was no longer just a prince but a dragonrider.

“Dreamfyre is already waiting, my lord,” said the dragonkeeper, his voice hushed with reverence as he led Aegon through the wide, echoing passageway toward one of the Dragonpit’s open-air caverns.

Aegon stepped into the sunlight and caught sight of her.

Dreamfyre.

She lay basking on a sun-warmed plateau near the edge of the cliff, her long serpentine neck curled loosely, wings half-unfurled like sails at rest. The light shimmered over her pale blue scales, each one catching the sun like polished sapphire.

Her eyes, however, never rested, glancing warily at the dragon keepers nearby. They stood watchful, hands near weapons, though none dared provoke her.

As Aegon approached, he felt it immediately, the subtle hum in his mind, a mental thread that tightened the closer he drew. The connection. In the past few days, he had tested its range meticulously.

Within twenty meters, it was strong, capable of full mental conversation. Beyond that, the link thinned and frayed. It didn’t vanish, but reduced to a faint tether: a sensation that she was alive, no more, no less.

Dreamfyre, he thought, reaching out to touch her snout, stroking the warm, scaled surface gently. “Did you have a good meal?”

~Yes, came the answer, her voice a rich, feminine echo within his mind, calm, yet tinged with underlying pride.

Aegon smiled. “Let’s ride, then.”

She lowered her body, shifting so the saddle at the base of her neck was within reach. Aegon moved with practiced ease, climbing the rigged footholds and settling into the seat, strapping himself in with a fluid motion.

The leather reins hung loose, more ceremonial than functional now, they no longer needed to guide her by hand.

“Let’s go, Dreamfyre.”

The dragon growled softly, then began to move. Her wings twitched in anticipation as she ambled toward the edge of the cliff. Without hesitation, she leapt forward, diving headfirst into the open sky.

The drop was sudden, exhilarating. Wind howled past Aegon’s ears, pressing against his armor, snapping the fabric of his cloak. He leaned forward, smiling, as Dreamfyre angled her body and unfurled her massive wings. With a powerful beat, she caught the air and rose sharply.

They were flying.

“Left, Dreamfyre. Towards the sea.”

~Yes, she responded without hesitation, banking smoothly in that direction.

Below them, the Blackwater Bay gleamed like liquid silver, ships like toy boats bobbing near the harbor. King’s Landing shrank behind them, the Red Keep rising high above the city like a crowned sentinel.

Aegon sat straighter in the saddle, feeling the wind and freedom rush over him.

A blue dragon and its rider flew low along the eastern coast of Blackwater Bay, their shadow stretching long over the waves as the sun climbed higher.

Every time he flew, Aegon felt it again, that untouchable, wild sense of liberation. No walls. No court politics. No whispers. Only sky and wind.

“Dreamfyre, fly close to the sea,” he said aloud, not needing to.

~Yes, came the voice in his mind, fluid and serene.

The dragon angled downward, wings folding slightly to dive. Wind screamed past them as they descended, cutting the air like a spear. Then, just above the surface, Dreamfyre flattened out. Her claws nearly skimmed the water, and her wings kicked up a trail of sea spray.

“Dreamfyre… to the sea. Dracarys.”

With his command, her throat glowed with inner light, and a blast of brilliant yellow-white fire erupted from her maw.

It scorched the sea below, boiling it instantly, leaving a trail of hissing, steaming water behind. The ocean screamed where fire met salt.

“Dreamfyre, higher,” he ordered, eyes shining.

Yes. She began to rise in smooth arcs, wings straining powerfully as they climbed.

“Now… move straight.”

She soared forward steadily, the wind now colder, stronger, whispering across his face. Aegon closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply. This was his dominion, his place in the world.

After a while of flying, “Dreamfyre… land near that hill.”

~Yes. She banked gently, then descended toward a low cliff east of Duskendale. From the air, Aegon had scanned the area, no movement, no people. Just rocks, scrub plants, and the sound of distant waves.

Dreamfyre landed with a rumbling growl, her wings folding around her like a cloak.

Aegon remained atop the saddle, eyes scanning the horizon before pulling up his interface. He needed to see it with his own eyes.

[EXP: 120,400]

He couldn’t help it, he grinned foolishly. That was more than he’d ever held in reserve. All of it earned in a single week of claiming Dreamfyre.

The scale of impact was undeniable. Every flight, every awe-struck noble, every tremble of fear and wonder in the eyes of the smallfolk, it all fed into this.

Becoming a dragonrider changed everything.

He reached down and patted Dreamfyre’s side. “Remember how we first got mentally connected?” he whispered. “Now I’m going to do something similar again.”

Dreamfyre growled, deep and approving.

Grinning, Aegon concentrated, reaching inward to the pool of stored experience. Then, with deliberate control, he poured a torrent of EXP into the class [Dragon Rider].

[-16,500 EXP]
[Class Level Increased: 1 → 6]

The change was immediate.

Heat, intense, radiant, swept through his body. But it didn’t stop with him. It surged into Dreamfyre as well, racing across her scaled hide in pulsing waves of energy. It was as if their very blood, their very souls, were syncing in perfect harmony.

For a moment, the heat formed a bridge between them, not mental, not physical, but something in between. He could feel her pulse, her hunger, even her amusement.

~Feel good, her voice purred in his mind, more intimate than ever. ~Again.

He chuckled wryly. “Later.”

He did not dare to leap straight to Level 10.

The power granted by each stage of [Dragon Rider] was immense, he could feel it in every fiber of his bond with Dreamfyre. To push too fast, too recklessly, might trigger changes he could not control.

Unstable growth, unforeseen backlash... Aegon knew better than to gamble with a force he was still learning to master.

Instead, he took the cautious route, first raising the class to Level 6. He would observe the transformations, grow used to them, test their limits.

Only once he was sure everything remained stable, no shifts in temperament from Dreamfyre, no erratic magic feedback or changes to his own body, would he commit to the final surge toward Level 10.

Then, focusing his breath, he examined the new changes.

[Class: Dragon Rider (Tier 2)]

[Prerequisites:

- Class: Heir of Old Valyria at max Level 10 (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- DEX ≥ 6.0 (satisfied)

- AGI ≥ 6.0 (satisfied)

- Accepted by a Dragon for riding (satisfied) ]

[Level 6 (000 / 6600)]

[Trait : Symbiosis of Flame and Flesh

(+45% Riding efficiency and control with bonded dragon)

(+45% Mental connection with bonded dragon)

(+35% Growth rate of bonded Dragon)]

[Trait : Draconic Conduit

(+45% Dragon fire temperature when riding)

(+40% Combat efficiency with bonded dragon)

(+35% Magic Resistance)]

The results were beyond what he’d hoped for.

He could feel it already, the strength in Dreamfyre’s frame, the sharper edge in their mental bond. Her instincts bled into his more clearly now, and her body already felt… larger. He wouldn’t be surprised if she grew faster now, more muscle, broader wings, thicker scales.

She was evolving with him.

Aegon sat back slightly in the saddle, wind rustling his hair. “We’ll make you one of the greats, Dreamfyre,” he said softly.

The dragon let out a low, proud trill.

He spent the next hour weaving through the clouds and testing the limits of their new synergy. The riding felt smoother now, like he was moving with her rather than atop her.

Where once he guided with reins and pressure, now he guided more by thought, an intention, a glance, even a silent image in his mind was enough to make Dreamfyre respond.

When he willed her to bank right over the coast, she twisted effortlessly, following not a command, but a shared impulse.

He even tried something new, closing his eyes and picturing the cliff where they had first flown together. Within seconds, Dreamfyre stirred, sensing the image in his mind. She didn’t move, she understood it wasn’t a command. But she knew.

He smiled.

The strengthened mental connection had expanded their reach. He now knew with certainty that he could summon her from nearly 500 meters away, sharing his position and emotion with clarity.

She could find him now, even through walls or forests or castle stones.

Their synergy was no longer just rider and dragon. It was fusion.

Once satisfied, Aegon directed Dreamfyre forward, the blue-scaled dragon slicing through the sky like a bolt of magic toward the sea. Their destination loomed ahead: Driftmark.

Aegon soon reached Driftmark, the island home of House Velaryon, its sharp cliffs and grey-stone architecture looming above the churning sea. Dreamfyre flew high and proud above the isle, her azure wings casting long shadows over the beaches, the bustling docks, and the clustered fishing villages that clung to the coast.

He did not land immediately. Instead, he guided Dreamfyre in a wide, majestic circle around the entire island. Below, the smallfolk looked up, squinting at the blue shape in the sky, some shielding their eyes, others pointing excitedly.

The sailors in the harbor dropped what they were doing, jaws slack.To them, this wasn’t just a dragon; it was the arrival of a prince, a rider of fire and blood.

As he flew low over the beaches, Aegon caught sight of Meleys, the Red Queen, basking atop a large flat rock near the southern shore. Her crimson scales shimmered like flame in the sunlight, and she lifted her head sharply as Dreamfyre passed overhead. With a thunderous, echoing roar, she greeted Dreamfyre.

Dreamfyre answered with her own resonant bellow, wings flaring wide in pride.

Aegon couldn’t help but smile.

Finally, he brought Dreamfyre into a slow descent toward Castle Driftmark. The keep stood at the island’s heart, old and weathered, but with the unmistakable strength of generations.

Dreamfyre landed just outside the main gate, sending gusts of wind and loose dust across the courtyard as she touched down. Her wings folded with a low shhhk, her tail curling around protectively.

Bannermen and retainers of House Velaryon were already gathered, having seen his approach. They stood in a loose half-circle, silent in awe, as they stared up at the dragon and its young rider.

And then the gate opened.

From within strode Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, clad in a finely tailored tunic of crimson and black, its edges embroidered with gold thread that caught the light with every step.

Upon her chest gleamed the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, her new station as the Lady of Driftmark proudly displayed.

Lilac eyes, sharp and steady, sparkled with pride as they rose to meet the sight of her young cousin astride Dreamfyre. There was admiration in her gaze, but also recognition.

Rhaenys knew what it meant to be a dragonrider.

Beside her walked Vaemond Velaryon, the Sea Snake’s nephew. His expression was more controlled, measured but his eyes held sharp focus, as though assessing Aegon’s purpose.

Chapter Text

Aegon immediately dismounted from Dreamfyre, his movements smooth and practiced, landing lightly on the ground. With a quiet thought, he calmed the great dragon behind him. Stay still, don’t startle them, he told her mentally.

Dreamfyre let out a low rumble but remained where she was, curling her tail slightly and settling into a watchful crouch, her eyes tracking everyone around her.

He strode toward Rhaenys with a confident smile.

“Aegon,” she called warmly, her voice tinged with both affection and amazement as she stepped forward and embraced him briefly, formally. Her arms lingered for a heartbeat longer, enough to show her pride.

“You’re already as tall as me,” she said with a teasing laugh, pulling back to look at him fully.

“Soon I’ll surpass you,” Aegon replied with a grin, brushing a few windswept strands of silver hair from his face. “I hope you don’t mind the unexpected visit.”

“No, of course not,” Rhaenys said, her smile turning more genuine. “I’m glad you came.” She held his hands for a moment longer before finally letting go.

Aegon turned then to Vaemond Velaryon, who had remained slightly behind, his eyes flicking between Aegon and the looming presence of Dreamfyre in the background.

The dragon’s size and the heat radiating off her were clearly making the retainers uneasy, some of them instinctively shifted back, hands never straying far from their weapons even though they knew it would be pointless.

“Ser Vaemond,” Aegon said politely, inclining his head.

Vaemond gave a short nod in return. “Prince Aegon,” he replied, his voice betraying a trace of hesitation. “You… honor us with your presence.”

His eyes lingered on Dreamfyre for a moment longer before flicking back to Aegon.

Rhaenys looked at Dreamfyre once more, her eyes filled with a mix of awe and nostalgia. “I still can’t believe it,” she said softly, shaking her head. “When the ravens arrived, I thought it must’ve been a mistake. But seeing you on her back…” she glanced at Aegon with a smile, “now I believe it.”

“Come,” she added, gesturing toward the castle entrance. “Let’s talk inside.”

Aegon nodded and followed her as she led the way past the bannermen and into the castle proper. The halls of Driftmark were decorated in the Velaryon style, cool stone and rich blues, coral and silver adorning the tapestries, and the ever-present scent of salt in the air. The sea was never far here.

As they walked, Aegon stole a glance at Rhaenys beside him. Her silver-white hair, braided and laced with small pearls, caught the light with every turn of her head.

Her profile was sharp yet soft, confident yet graceful, each movement speaking of strength and poise. The sunlight streaming through the arched windows kissed her fair skin, outlining her in a glow that made her seem almost ethereal.

She’s more beautiful than I remember, Aegon thought, a flicker of something warmer than admiration stirring within him. The show never did her justice…

He pushed the thought down, clearing his throat slightly as they reached the throne hall.

The chamber was wide and airy, carved of Driftmark’s pale stone and decorated with naval motifs. In the center sat the seat of House Velaryon, though it was currently unoccupied.

“Where is Lord Corlys?” Aegon asked, turning toward the others.

Vaemond, who had been quietly following behind them, stepped forward stiffly. His tone was clipped. “Lord Corlys is at sea. On another of his expeditions,” he said, his gaze weighing the boy before him.

“He is not expected to return for some weeks.” There was a pause, before Vaemond added more pointedly, “I wonder what brings Prince Aegon to Driftmark?” There was no overt challenge in his tone, but it was there - subtle, skeptical.

Vaemond Velaryon was a man of narrow vision, and to him, a dragon’s landing was no casual visit. Aegon met his gaze calmly, his expression smooth. “I came to see my cousin,” he said, voice even and polite. “And to see Driftmark, now that I can fly here myself.”

Vaemond gave a curt nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Then I will leave you to it,” he said stiffly. “I believe your cousin will show you around... I have further matters to attend to.”

Without waiting for further pleasantries, he turned on his heel, his retainers falling in line behind him. The click of their boots echoed down the hall as they left, an intentional dismissal, just shy of disrespect.

Rhaenys watched them go, her expression unreadable, only the faintest smile gracing her lips. A mask well practiced.

She turned to Aegon. “Ignore him,” she said, tone light as she waved over a maid. “Prepare a feast for Prince Aegon. Fresh fish, fruit, and wine, we’ll be dining in the upper terrace.”

The maid bowed quickly and scurried off.

“You must stay for a few days,” Rhaenys said, turning back to him. Her tone was warm now, with a thread of genuine hope beneath it.

Aegon smiled, though a little apologetically. “I’d like that,” he said, “but I only took permission from Grandmother to be out for a day. She misses you, you know. We all do. It’s been some time since you last visited.”

Something in her eyes softened at that.

“I miss you all too,” she said gently. “Come. Let me show you your room.”

The room was large, sea-facing, with a balcony that caught the light of the late afternoon sun. The windows were open, letting the salt breeze drift in. Aegon stood beside the carved bedpost, running his hand along the polished wood as Rhaenys lingered near the window.

The maid who had led them in waited outside the door now, giving them privacy.

Noticing they were alone, Aegon stepped closer, his expression turning serious. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Is Vaemond bothering you?”

She blinked, surprised by his earnestness.

“He just acts a little… officious when Corlys isn’t here,” she said, brushing it off. “He enjoys hearing his own voice more than anyone else does.”

Aegon nodded in relief.

He and Rhaenys spent the next hour speaking of recent events, sharing stories and laughter. Aegon recounted Daemon and Viserys’s clumsy attempts at claiming dragons, which drew a bright laugh from her lips.

The feast had been pleasant, filled with Driftmark’s coastal delicacies, rich with flavors of the sea. Vaemond never reappeared after their initial exchange, but Aegon made no mention of it, choosing not to embarrass her by dwelling on the man’s disrespect.

Later, as they stood once more under the stars, Aegon turned to her with a smile. “Would you show me some of your moves on Meleys? I’d love to learn from you.”

Rhaenys’s eyes lit up at the request. “Gladly,” she said with genuine warmth. “Let’s see if the young dragonlord can keep up.”

That evening, the skies over Driftmark shimmered with the sight of two dragons in flight, one a brilliant sapphire blue, the other a radiant red. Dreamfyre and Meleys soared side by side, their massive wings slicing through the golden hues of sunset.

From the castle and shores below, heads tilted upward in awe at the rare sight of two dragonriders dancing in the sky.

Astride their mounts, Aegon and Rhaenys smiled at each other across the sky. It was more than just a shared joy, it was mutual understanding. They mirrored each other’s aerial moves with precision and grace: steep dives, tight spirals, wide gliding turns.

Each maneuver was a display of control, power, and trust between dragon and rider. They weren’t showing off, they were sharing a language few in the world could speak.

As the sun dipped lower toward the sea, the sky bleeding orange and purple, Dreamfyre tilted her wings and banked toward a lone, sea-facing hill on the western edge of the island. Aegon scanned the area. Empty, secluded. Good.

Land here, he thought, and Dreamfyre responded with a low growl of acknowledgement as she descended.

She landed softly upon the grass-strewn hill, claws pressing into stone and earth. Moments later, Meleys followed with a thunderous beat of her wings, her shadow sweeping across the hill like a red banner.

Rhaenys slid down from the saddle, placing a steadying hand on Meleys’ neck before walking toward Aegon, her wind-tossed braids gleaming in the dying light.

Aegon stood near the edge of the cliff, looking out over the sea. The air was crisp with salt, the waves crashing below. He smiled faintly, not turning as she approached.

“It’s a beautiful view here,” he said.

“It is,” Rhaenys replied softly, stepping beside him.

There was a quiet moment between them, filled only by the sound of dragons shifting behind and the wind brushing past.

“Actually,” Aegon said, turning to face her, “I was wondering if you could help with something.”

From beneath his cloak, he drew a sheathed dagger, plain in appearance, with a dark grip and no ornamentation. He handed it to her with both hands.

Rhaenys took it, her brow lifting in curiosity. On his subtle nod, she drew the blade from its sheath.

The moment the metal caught the last rays of sunlight, its surface shimmered, not with polish, but with that unmistakable smoky, dark patterns on the blade.

Her eyes widened slightly. “This is…”

“Valyrian steel,” Aegon said quietly, completing her sentence.

“How much do you think it’s worth?” he asked, his tone light, but his eyes watching her closely.

Rhaenys, still inspecting the blade, looked up with a flicker of surprise. “Quite a fortune,” she said, turning it slightly to admire the smoky, rippling patterns. “Valyrian steel is rare. A dagger like this could fetch ten thousand gold dragons, maybe even twelve hundred more, if sold to the right buyer.”

Aegon nodded thoughtfully. The sea breeze stirred his silver-blond hair as he said, voice low, “Let’s say I may or may not have come across… a few more blades like that. Valyrian steel. I want to sell them, but discreetly, no one can know they came from me.”

She blinked, brows rising. “Aegon…”

“The source is safe,” he said quickly, cutting off any concern. “No bloodshed, no stolen relics. I can promise you that.”

Rhaenys regarded him for a long moment, the dagger still in her hands. She wasn’t easily convinced, nor was she the type to act recklessly. But Aegon wasn’t a child in her eyes anymore.

Rhaenys said nothing. Her eyes searched his face, not just for honesty, but for intent. He stood tall, meeting her gaze without flinching. She was struck again by how quickly he was growing, in presence, in sharpness, in ambition.

Finally, she gave a small smile. “You’re full of surprises, cousin.”

“We split the returns. Half for you, half for me,” he said. His gaze didn’t waver, and his voice was calm, but there was something bolder in it now. A quiet confidence.

He could see how the light played off the pearls in her hair. Rhaenys was always beautiful to him, more than the TV show in his past life had ever captured.

Still, over the past few hours, he’d seen glimpses of something else in her eyes. Loneliness. Isolation. Even now, with Corlys away, surrounded by men like Vaemond who never truly respected her authority. Aegon understood more than he let on.

She was still looking at him when he spoke again, this time with a faint, almost playful smile. “So what do you think?”

Rhaenys exhaled slowly, weighing his words, and the man he was becoming. The dagger, the proposition, the closeness of his gaze. It wasn’t just a business offer.

Her lips curved, just a little, “I’ll think about it.”

Then she handed the dagger back, gracefully.

Chapter Text

"Higher, Dreamfyre," Aegon urged silently through their bond.

The dragon answered with a powerful sweep of her wings, rising smoothly into the crisp morning air. Below them, the rooftops of King’s Landing shimmered in the distance, sprawled out like a sleeping beast at the edge of the horizon.

He had departed from Driftmark earlier that day, after a quiet breakfast with Rhaenys. Their parting had been calm, warm, even, but brief. There was still much to do.

At his side, the weight of the trade deal hung heavily but reassuringly, a pouch of coin fastened tight against his belt. Rhaenys had given him nearly six thousand gold coins in exchange for the Valyrian steel dagger.

Generous, though unsurprising as the first lady of House Velaryon, the wealthiest house in the realm.

But Aegon wasn’t foolish enough to carry that kind of fortune openly into the Red Keep. Too many eyes. Too many questions.

So he had taken a careful portion for himself, and flown north of Dragonstone, where he found a small, uninhabited island. There, beneath a jagged black rock near the treeline, he buried the bulk of the gold.

Now, only sixty gold coins and a handful of silver remained with him, tucked safely inside a worn leather pouch, light enough not to draw suspicion.

Rhaenys had purchased the Valyrian steel dagger after careful inspection, agreeing to the deal on one condition: that he promise not to do anything reckless.

Aegon had given her his word, though the hidden glint in his eyes suggested how loosely he defined “reckless.”

He smiled now as Dreamfyre soared over the capital. Though he’d sold the only Valyrian steel dagger he possessed, it wasn’t a loss, he would forge more. Better ones. This was just the beginning.

They descended into the Dragonpit, Dreamfyre’s wings casting a shadow over the dome as she landed with thunderous grace. The great bronze doors opened, and a dragonkeeper approached, bowing low.

Aegon dismounted smoothly and gave the man a nod.

“She’s had a long flight. Give her something fresh, preferably goat. And honeyed water, she likes that.”

The keeper blinked, surprised at the specificity, then bowed again.
“Of course, Prince Aegon.”

Before leaving, Aegon removed a small pouch from his belt, counting out ten gold coins, minted tokens, stamped with the image of King Jahaerys. He kept these on him for now.

The other fifty, he tucked securely beneath the saddle mount on Dreamfyre’s riding seat, concealed beneath a hidden panel of leather and reinforced wood. No vault in the Red Keep was safer than his bonded dragon.

With a final glance at Dreamfyre, who had already begun to settle in for rest, Aegon turned and made his way toward the Red Keep, the morning sun behind him and a silent satisfaction in his step.

“I say it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Ser Robin? Perfect to roam around King’s Landing,” said Aegon as he leaned against the stone balustrade of his chamber’s balcony, eyes scanning the city stretched below under the golden light of morning.

Ser Robin stood by the chamber door, arms crossed and lips drawn in a wry smile. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “Your cloak is ready, my prince.”

A few days earlier, Queen Alyssa had summoned Ser Robin to speak with him privately, an assignment, quiet but unmistakably clear. From that moment on, Ser Robin was to shadow Aegon, responsible for his safety both within and beyond the Red Keep.

Whether it was protection or a polite form of surveillance, the knight couldn’t say for certain. Likely both. He didn’t fault the Queen; she had already buried too many of her children.

And now, with Aegon as the youngest dragonrider in Westeros, there were few more tempting targets for those who would see the Targaryen legacy broken.

Ser Robin hadn’t protested. Duty was duty, and more than that, the boy was growing into someone formidable. It was better to be at his side than anywhere else.

Today’s “outing,” however, was something else entirely.

Aegon turned from the balcony, already fastening the worn, ash-gray cloak around his shoulders. The fine silver-threaded tunic beneath was covered completely now, and the hood would shadow his pale hair and Valyrian features.

To the eye, he could pass for a street boy, or perhaps the squire of a minor knight.

He pulled up the hood and walked past the knight, a certain lightness in his step.

“Let’s go,” he said simply.

And Ser Robin followed.

The morning sun bathed King’s Landing in a golden haze, and the city was already alive with noise and movement. Merchants cried out their wares, donkeys brayed under heavy loads, and the ever-present scent of salt, sweat, and roasted meats hung thick in the air.

The capital pulsed with its usual chaos, the cobbled streets of the Fishmonger’s Square teemed with barefoot children chasing dogs, washerwomen gossiping over laundry lines, and carts creaking beneath crates of dried fish, fruits, and barley.

Aegon moved through the bustle in his worn gray cloak, his hood pulled low. Ser Robin followed a step behind, alert but casual, blending in well enough with the crowd. Despite the hood, Aegon’s posture had a grace and surety that wasn’t common among the smallfolk. Still, most eyes were too busy bartering and surviving to take notice.

He passed a fruit vendor and paused, glancing down at a stack of ripe red apples. “How much for one?” he asked.

“Two copper,” the woman replied, barely sparing him a glance.

Aegon blinked. “Two? That’s double what they were last week.”

The vendor shot him a look. “Then maybe ye should’ve bought one last week.” Ser Robin snorted quietly behind him, and Aegon smirked, handing over the coins anyway.

They wandered deeper into the heart of the city, weaving through Ragman's Hill, where secondhand goods and stolen trinkets were laid out on patched cloth.

Aegon examined a rusted dagger with mild interest, but quickly moved on when the seller tried to convince him it once belonged to Maegor the Cruel.

In Cobbler’s Square, he watched a boy no older than seven expertly repairing a boot sole with hands blackened by pitch. “Even the children work here,” Aegon muttered.

“They have to,” Ser Robin replied. “There’s no feasting in Flea Bottom.”

Eventually, they came to the Street of Steel, a long, smoke-filled lane echoing with the sound of hammers striking anvils. The forges roared behind open shutters, and the tang of molten metal stung the nose.

Here, the finest smiths of King’s Landing plied their trade. Men and women worked with sweat-drenched brows, forging swords, horseshoes, armor, and nails alike. Most shops were cluttered, crowded, but one stood out, wide, organized, with the distinct clang of precision and rhythm inside.

Above the door, a modest iron sign read “H. Hammer – Master Smith.”

Aegon exchanged a quick glance with Ser Robin before stepping inside.

The forge was hot, but clean. Tools were hung neatly along the walls, and in the back stood a broad-shouldered man with arms like tree trunks, his shirt soaked with sweat. His face was lined with age and soot, but his eyes were sharp.

“Looking for something, boy?” he asked, not glancing up from the glowing steel he was hammering.

The smith's hammer paused mid-strike, and he looked up at last, squinting through the heat and smoke.

Aegon smiled faintly beneath his hood.

“I’m looking for daggers,” Aegon said, his voice calm but purposeful. “Short swords, too. That sort of thing.”

Harold Hammer furrowed his brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in suspicion. “What for?” he asked, his tone less hostile than wary.

“Collection,” Aegon answered simply, brushing a bit of soot off a nearby workbench with his gloved hand. “I have a taste for fine weapons.”

The smith’s eyes flicked from Aegon’s partially shadowed face to Ser Robin standing silently at the door. The guard's posture was too upright, too composed to be that of a mere servant or street companion.

“Who exactly is asking?” Harold said gruffly. “Might be polite to say who you are before talkin’ coin.”

Aegon tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk forming on his lips. “I could say the same,” he replied. “Shouldn’t a smith introduce himself to his customers first?”

Harold blinked once, then let out a short grunt of amusement. “Harold Hammer. Smith of the Street of Steel, and I don’t waste time with cheats.”

“Good,” Aegon replied, voice still smooth. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

He stepped closer to the workbenches, eyes gleaming under the hood. “And as for who I am… that’s not something a good smith needs to know, so long as the coin’s real and the work is honest.”

Harold studied him for a beat longer, then gave a grunt of reluctant approval. “Fair enough.”

Just then, a lanky teen boy wandered into the forge, wiping his hands on his apron. “Father, who is it ?”

“Go away, Hugh,” Harold barked without looking back. “I’m working.”

The boy scowled slightly, then disappeared into the back.

With a muttered sigh, Harold reached beneath a heavy cloth and brought out several blades, five gleaming daggers with varying hilts and one short sword, its edge freshly honed. “These are finished. Good steel, sharp, balanced. If you’ve got the coin, I’ve got more in the back.”

Aegon took his time examining the selection, feeling their weight in hand. He turned the daggers slowly, admiring the craftsmanship. All of them bore fine edges and no excess ornamentation, they were practical, beautiful in their simplicity.

“These five,” Aegon said, pointing with gloved fingers. “I’ll take them.”

Harold nodded and wrapped the weapons in cloth, bundling them into a leather satchel. “Seventeen silver stags, then.”

Aegon paid without hesitation, pulling the coins from within his cloak and placing them neatly on the workbench. Once everything was secured in the bag, he turned to Ser Robin.

“Lets go back,” Aegon said casually, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

Ser Robin raised an eyebrow. “What did you buy?”

Aegon grinned faintly, the expression almost boyish. “Just some good-looking daggers. I thought they’d look fine adorning my chambers.”

Robin looked at him for a moment longer, but then gave a resigned sigh and turned to leave.

Aegon stepped out into the street with a faint laugh on his lips and a satchel full of steel on his back.

Looking at the five weapons spread across his chamber’s table, Aegon felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest. Each blade, two short swords, three finely wrought daggers, gleamed faintly under the flickering torchlight. Though they looked ordinary for now, he knew better.

Now the raw materials for the Valyrian steel weapons are ready, he thought, his violet eyes narrowing with purpose.

There is still a week before the agreed time to meet Rhaenys, so let’s wait till then. Anyway… turning them into Valyrian steel weapons isn’t difficult anymore.

He stepped back from the table and took a moment to breathe in deeply. The door to his chambers remained closed behind him. No one had stopped him from bringing the weapons inside the Red Keep, this was, after all, a different era. In King’s Landing, and most of Westeros, it was common for nobles and lords to keep weapons on hand.

Even ladies of noble houses carried small blades or dirks for “protection.” Only the maids and low-born servants went unarmed.

His fingers brushed across the hilt of one dagger. The steel was solid, well-forged.

With a shift in focus, he brought up the image of his internal class tree. It had grown in complexity over the past year, the branches extending wider with each path he mastered.

Now there were three Tier 1 classes, each represented by a thin, singular branch bearing a single gleaming leaf:

- [Gluttonous Child]

- [Nimble Rascal]

- [Knight’s Squire]

Then there were two larger, twisting branches that branched off from the base like mighty limbs of a growing tree. Each had two leaves shimmering like gold-flecked fire:

- [Heir of Old Valyria]

- [Dragon Rider]

He’d only recently managed to push [Dragon Rider] to its peak, an effort that drained 33,000 EXP in one go. The final rewards, however, were immense.

[Class: Dragon Rider (Tier 2)]

[Prerequisites:

- Class: Heir of Old Valyria at max Level 10 (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- DEX ≥ 6.0 (satisfied)

- AGI ≥ 6.0 (satisfied)

- Accepted by a Dragon for riding (satisfied) ]

[Level 10 (MAX)]

[Trait : Symbiosis of Flame and Flesh

(+65% Riding efficiency and control with bonded dragon)

(+65% Mental connection with bonded dragon)

(+55% Growth rate of bonded dragon)]

[Trait : Draconic Conduit

(+65% Dragon fire temperature when riding)

(+60% Combat efficiency with bonded dragon)

(+55% Magic resistance)]

The change had been very, very obvious.

Dreamfyre could now perform summersaults mid-air while he rode her.

Well, he had only tried it a few times, and always far away from King’s Landing. He wasn’t that reckless.

If anyone in the city had seen a full-grown she-dragon doing acrobatic flips above the clouds, half the population might have fainted and the other half would’ve written songs or sermons about it.

The mental connection was the most drastic improvement. Before, it had felt like they shared a thread, a tug when he pulled too hard, a reaction when emotions spiked. Now, it was as if they were joined by a live current.

Aegon could speak to Dreamfyre mentally, in full thoughts, and she would respond, sometimes dryly, sometimes playfully. He could feel her mood from over a kilometer away, sense her hunger, her restlessness, even her satisfaction when sunbathing atop the Dragonpit’s dome.

The link was clear, precise, and an incredibly rare effect among all his traits.

At a full 3 kilometers, he could mentally summon her. Not just signal or call her, but urge her to rise and fly to him with an unspoken command. In a land of kings and blades, that was a weapon no one else had.

He was fairly certain, no, absolutely certain, that no dragonrider in Westerosi history had ever achieved such a bond. Not even Aegon the Conqueror himself, as far as records told.

And Dreamfyre’s flame? It had become terrifying. He’d tested it only once at full force, aimed at a massive boulder by the shore, and the fire had turned the stone to molten slag in seconds.

Even with his [Blood and Flame Awakening] trait, Aegon had to shield himself or risk burns. That was new. Before, he could dance around Dreamfyre’s fire with enough control. Now? Not unless he wanted to test the limits of his pain tolerance.

But the most noticeable change was her size.

In the past few days, Dreamfyre had grown by nearly five meters, and she hadn’t stopped yet. The dragon keepers had noticed, of course.

One of them, an older man, had scratched his head and muttered something about “a growth spurt like we haven’t seen since the days of Meraxes.” Another younger keeper had stared in awe, whispering rumors about old magic returning.

Aegon had just shrugged and smiled, saying, “She probably just needed the exercise after being unclaimed for so long.”

He wasn’t about to explain that a mix of blood resonance, class traits, and flamebound communion had likely reignited dormant growth pathways in her blood.

Let them wonder.

Chapter Text

91 AC
King’s Landing, The Red Keep,  Autumn

The quiet scratching of quill on parchment filled the dimly lit chamber. Aegon Targaryen, seated at his desk, paused mid-sentence as a crisp autumn leaf fluttered in through the open balcony doors, carried by the evening breeze.

He lifted his head, turning his gaze toward the left where the balcony overlooked the city, the sky painted in hues of amber and violet as dusk settled over King’s Landing.

Three months had passed since his trade with Rhaenys. Of the five weapons reforged into Valyrian steel through flamecraft, four had been sold, netting him a sum of twenty four thousand gold dragons.

The last, a dagger, the finest of the set, he had kept not for profit, but as a gift for Rhaenys. The memory of her reaction warmed him still: the way her eyes had lit up, the fleeting press of her arms around him, the soft curve of her smile. It had been worth more than gold.

And in that moment, Aegon had realized the truth, he had a crush on her.

On his cousin. His married cousin.

A wry thought flickered through his mind following that: I guess I’m a Targaryen after all.

A murmur of voices drifted in from the corridor, pulling Aegon from his thoughts. Servants and maids whispered in hushed tones just beyond the heavy oak door.

Their words were fragmented, cautious, but one word carried clearly through the stone walls, War.

"Did you hear? Another merchant ship went missing near Bloodstone."

"The pirates again? Gods help us, they'll be on our shores next."

"They say Lord Velaryon’s fleet is already at sea."

Aegon leaned back in his chair, quill resting against his lower lip. So even the servants were speaking of it now.

That meant it had become real, not just a matter for the Small Council, not just a whisper in noble halls, but something alive in the Red Keep itself, threading its way through the kitchens and courtyards, lodging itself into the bones of the realm.

It’s begun, he thought. The fear, the questions. And soon, the calls for action.

He stood, walking slowly to the balcony, the voices behind him fading into a blur. Below, King’s Landing sprawled in a patchwork of rooftops and smoke, its people oblivious to how close they stood to the edge.

The civil war in Myr had ended midway through summer. It had been bloody, decisive. One faction had claimed victory, the other shattered.

But the defeated didn’t die, they scattered.

Desperate and hunted, they fled the city with their ships, their rage, and their gold. With no banners, no laws, no homes, they became pirates. Raiders. Wolves with sails.

At first, no one in Westeros cared. The squabbles of Essos were a world away. But that indifference turned to unease when the pirates seized islands in the Stepstones.

One by one, they carved out strongholds, turning the scattered isles into a nest of vipers: untamed, brutal, and growing bolder by the day.

The consequences were swift and severe.

Trade between Essos and Westeros ground to a near halt, ships vanishing into the clutches of these new reavers like gulls swallowed by a storm.

No house felt the blow more keenly than House Velaryon. Their immense wealth, earned not through gold mines or taxes, but through mastery of the sea, began to bleed away with every lost ship, every merchant slain, every port avoided.

The numbers were grim. Caravels from Lys, galleys from Pentos, even coastal traders from Dorne, gone, plundered, or sunk without a trace.

Some came limping back to Driftmark half-burnt and ransacked, their captains trembling with tales of black-sailed warships manned by men with no flags, no king, and no mercy.

It had been enough. Rhaenys Targaryen and her husband, Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, had descended upon King’s Landing like a gathering storm.

They came not as petitioners, but as protectors of Westerosi prosperity, demanding the Crown do its duty.

Corlys, ever the mariner, laid out maps on the Small Council table, jabbing at them with a calloused finger. “If we lose the Stepstones,” he warned, “we lose the Narrow Sea. What comes next? Plundered fleets from Oldtown to Gulltown? Essosi gold funding sellsails off our own shores?”

But King Jaehaerys remained unmoved.

“The pirates have not attacked Westerosi lands. Our ports are intact, our people unharmed. We cannot justify war on foreign soil for the sake of foreign trade.” His voice, calm and deliberate, left no room for debate.

Corlys had left that very day, his jaw tight with fury. He had no need for permission to defend what was his. His fleet sailed within the week, swift, silent, and armed to the teeth.

Rhaenys, however, stayed behind in the Red Keep.

Where Corlys wielded sails and steel, she would wield words and will.

Her goal: to turn the king’s mind, and the Small Council’s, before the Stepstones became something far worse than an inconvenience: an empire of raiders, too entrenched to uproot.

But Aegon had no time to bother with such matters of realm and trade. He was in the midst of his own quiet crisis, one no one else knew about.

He took a deep breath, turned away from the balcony, and focused his gaze inward. With a silent mental command, he opened his attribute panel.

[

CON 7.0

STR 6.8

AGI 7.3

DEX 7.5

INT 9.8

Magic 2.1

]

The numbers hung before his mind’s eye like floating glyphs, unseen by the world.

Though only seven years old, he possessed the attributes of a thirteen or fourteen-year-old youth. These attributes manifested physically as well, giving him the appearance of a young squire. But then a problem arose.

His class [Heir of Old Valyria] granted prophetic dreams, visions, flashes of future possibilities, fragmentary glimpses of fates yet to unfold. At first, they were rare, even helpful.

But everything changed after he advanced his [Dragon Rider] class to its maximum level.

That was when the visions stopped being dreams. They became something else.

Nightmares.

Unbidden and violent, the visions came to him in sleep, pulling him under like a riptide. Scenes of war and blood filled his mind, dragons screaming through firelit skies, men dying in droves, ships sinking into black waves.

Some of the visions didn’t even belong to this age. He recognized a silver-haired girl in a ruined throne room, surrounded by ash.

Another showed a grim-faced man in black furs, sword drawn, facing down a tidal wave of white death in the North.

Daenerys. Jon Snow. He had never seen them with his own eyes, but he could recognize them. His memories from his past life filled in the rest. He was seeing far beyond his own time.

And when he woke, it never ended cleanly. His head would throb with a splitting ache, his limbs would tremble, and a sense of foreboding would linger like smoke clinging to his skin.

The intensity only worsened with time.

It began to show. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his growing reluctance to leave his room, people noticed.

The servants whispered. Even Rhaenys had given him a few concerned looks he chose not to acknowledge.

The only relief he found was in Dreamfyre’s presence. When he rested near her, the pressure eased. The headaches faded. He could breathe.

It didn’t take long for him to make the connection.

One of the traits of his [Dragon Rider] class, [Draconic Conduit], granted a measure of magical resistance. That, combined with the close bond he shared with Dreamfyre, dulled the aftereffects of the visions.

That was when he began to suspect something deeper. Not just about the visions, but about the attribute that had changed the most in recent months: Magic.

It had crept upward slowly. From a flat 1.7 to 2.1.

That was the threshold.

Before, his dreams were manageable. But when Magic reached above 2.0, when it crossed whatever invisible barrier governed the soul of this world, it was as if a door had opened in his mind, and the sea beyond was too vast to contain.

No other trait had reacted so violently to growth. When his CON had begun increasing due to the class [Gluttonous Child], his body had visibly grown plumper.

That’s when he realized this attribute system wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t some game overlay. These numbers were him, physically and metaphysically. They were affecting the fabric of his existence.

Which meant leaving an unknown attribute like Magic to grow unchecked was dangerous.

He needed to understand what it was. What governed it. Why it affected only some aspects of his being and not others. Why dreams could become prophecies. Why they now threatened to unmake his sanity.

So, during the past three months, he refrained from forming new classes, except one, created just last week.

A class not for war or politics, not for power or prestige.

A class created purely to uncover the unseen.

A Tier 2 class.

[ Class: Occult Scholar (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Possess at least one supernatural or magical trait (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- Demonstrated methodical study or experimentation related to the supernatural (satisfied) ]

[ Level 1 (000 / 1000) ]

[ Trait : Arcane Methodology

(+10% focus and insight on a supernatural trait, relic, magical anomaly, or supernatural-based phenomenon, gaining a moment of structured clarity.)

(+1% INT bonus for every unique magical phenomenon successfully analyzed.) ]

[ Trait : Rationality

(+ 5% Mental resistance: Negates harmful side effects from [Arcane Methodology] or exposure to dangerous magical stimuli.)

( 10% Reduction in INT damage or sanity deterioration effects from magical or supernatural sources.) ]

The effects of the new traits were immediate. His nightmares faded back into dreams, and the persistent headaches eased significantly. He finally got his beauty sleep which he had been missing the past few months.

Looking at the scattered papers on his table, Aegon leaned forward and exhaled slowly. The dim candlelight danced over lines of ink, some smudged by hurried revisions or half-formed thoughts.

His fingers brushed against a loosely bound stack, and a ghost of a smirk touched his lips as he remembered how it had all begun.

The creation of his new class hadn’t been immediate. When the idea had first formed in his mind, to develop something dedicated solely to understanding the supernatural, he’d imagined it would be easy. But the Class Tree had proved stubborn.

The class had first appeared as a grayed-out branch, a failed class creation. Its name, [Occult Scholar], had hovered temptingly before him, but remained inaccessible.

Only one prerequisite remained unmet: “Demonstrated methodical study or experimentation related to the supernatural.”

And thus began his research.

The subject of that research had been the most logical, and most dangerous, thing available to him: his own flamecraft ability.

His power to create and manipulate fire, born from the class [Heir of Old Valyria] and fueled by blood and will, was potent and unpredictable. It was also uniquely his. The perfect candidate for supernatural analysis.

Over the following weeks, he buried himself in study. He requested tomes and scrolls from the Grand Maester under the pretense of curiosity in Valyrian lore.

He asked for volumes on alchemy, natural philosophy, and mythical properties of dragonflame. Some came with raised eyebrows, others with quiet indulgence.

The court was too distracted to probe further. With the growing chaos in the Stepstones and Corlys Velaryon’s departure, the Crown had other worries.

That worked in his favor.

He isolated variables. Volume of blood. Intentions. Though he did not require to sacrifice his blood to manifest the effects of the trait [Blood and Flame Awakening] anymore, he still did it while noting every slight change in the flames.

He recorded the color and shape of the flames, how fast they responded to thought, how much blood triggered a reaction, how the fire reacted to metal, wood, stone, and water. It was slow and taxing, but methodical.

And then, at last, last week, it clicked.

The Class Tree system acknowledged his effort. The branch grayed no longer, and the [Occult Scholar] class was his.

"Time to continue what I was doing," he muttered to himself, settling into the chair once more and dipping the quill into ink.

The papers before him were his research logs, painstakingly written notes of observations, hypotheses, and wild theories. But they were not in the Common Tongue. Nor in High Valyrian.

They were written in English.

The language of his past life.

It had taken him time to reacquaint himself with the alphabet and structure, after all, it had been years since he’d used it, but the benefit was obvious.

Nobody in this world could read it. Not even a maester or a spymaster.

Even if someone stumbled upon his notes, they would see nothing more than strange glyphs and foreign script.

He had considered other forms of secrecy. A hidden location, perhaps. He even explored one of the old secret passages built by Maegor the Cruel beneath the Red Keep.

The one he discovered was narrow, winding, and long-forgotten. It would’ve made an ideal base of operations.

But it was infested with rats.

Dozens of them. Bold, aggressive, half-starved vermin that had likely made the tunnels their home for generations.

They would have chewed through his parchment, dragged away pages for nesting, and destroyed everything within days. That ended that idea.

And so, with no truly secure hiding place, he turned to the next best solution: encryption by language. If he couldn’t physically shield his work, he could mentally shield it. And what better cipher than a tongue no one in this world had ever heard?

His quill scratched against the parchment, adding another entry to the pile:

Test 41: Blood volume = 5 drops; flame summoned via fingertip incision. Immediate ignition. Color: deep orange with blue edges. Mental Shape: serpentine curl. Flame sustained for 12 seconds.

He paused, tapping the quill against his chin. "Need to isolate for intent-driven shape variance," he murmured. "Possibly linked to the subconscious...."

Chapter Text

Southern Narrow Sea, near the Stepstones

The sea rolled beneath the hull of Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon’s flagship, as the prow cut a determined path through choppy waters dyed crimson by the setting sun.

Wind tore through his cloak and silver hair, the brine stinging his face. His eyes, sharp and watchful, swept the vast horizon.

Around him, six warships sailed in a crescent formation, lean, fast Velaryon ships, their sails trimmed to maintain quiet speed.

Behind them trailed three battered merchant cogs, sails patched, hulls scarred. Survivors of the last pirate ambush, now limping home to Driftmark under heavy escort.

Corlys stood without speaking, gloved hands resting lightly on the railing. The silence aboard Sea Snake was not of peace, but anticipation, every man waiting, watching, listening.

The calm was broken by murmurs near the mid-deck, where several sailors clustered by the rigging. One nudged another with his elbow.

"Reckon we'll see 'em again before sunset?" the first whispered, eyeing the horizon nervously.

"If we do," the other muttered, "I hope it's quick. I'm tired of dragging half-dead traders home and watchin' our men get burned by those Myrish fire pots."

A captain approached from the stern, boots echoing on the damp planks. “Lord Corlys,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “All ships report readiness. Signalmen have flags raised, and ballistae are loaded. But morale is... wary.”

“They’re sailors,” Corlys replied without turning. “Wary is better than cocky. Keep the line tight. Tell the Silver Shard to fall back slightly. She’s drifting too far to port.”

The captain nodded and retreated to deliver the orders.

From the quarterdeck stairs came the clatter of boots, Vaemond, Corlys’s nephew, clad in fine chainmail and an uneasy scowl. He joined his uncle at the prow, arms crossed tight across his chest.

“This is foolish,” Vaemond said low. “We should wait. The Crown will act soon, surely now that word of Tarth’s trade losses has reached the Red Keep.”

Corlys didn’t look at him. “We’ve waited long enough. Every ship they sink costs us coin. Every sailor they kill costs us more than gold.”

“But this, this isn’t war. Not yet. It’s poking a hornet’s nest without a helm. If the pirates strike with full force, we’ll lose more than just coin.”

“We lose either way, boy,” Corlys said, turning finally to face him. “I’d rather lose with my sword drawn than my hands tied waiting on the whims of old men in council chambers.”

Vaemond looked away, jaw tightening. “You risk Driftmark’s fleet for pride.”

“No,” Corlys said quietly, eyes hardening, “I risk it for my people. For every widow and fatherless child these pirates leave behind.”

At that moment, a shout rang out from the crow’s nest above.

“SAILS! STARBOARD!”

All eyes turned. A young sailor sprinted across the deck, skidding to a halt beside Corlys.

“Fast ships, my lord, narrow hulls, dark sails. Coming around the rocks. Not merchants.”

The murmurs turned to tension. Crewmen rushed to stations. The signal flags flapped into position, rippling commands to the rest of the fleet.

Corlys’s gaze followed the rising shapes on the horizon. Five, six, seven ships. Long and lean. No banners, no colors, just dark, silent hulls bearing down across the broken waters.

He drew a slow breath, the wind biting colder now.

“Pirates,” he said flatly.

He turned to his signal officer. “Flank formation. Prepare for boarding. Fire orders on my mark. And gods help them if they get too close.”

The sea creaked, the warships turned, and the silence before battle thickened like a storm cloud.

The Broken Waters were about to live up to their name.

The pirate ships came on like a black tide, sleek Essosi galleys rowed in perfect rhythm, their decks bristling with siege contraptions unfamiliar to Westerosi eyes.

Grappling hooks gleamed in the dying light, fire pots were stacked beside iron-slatted ballistae.

Their sails bore sigils from old Myr, forgotten cult symbols, serpents, and warped glyphs that spoke more of blood oaths than of any kingdom or cause.

They didn’t parley. They didn’t hesitate. They charged.

“Counter-flank!” Corlys roared, his voice cutting through the rising wind. “Signal all ships, turn starboard, sweep around them like a blade!”

The fleet responded with drilled precision. Velaryon warships curved inward like a scythe, their bows turning with grace belying their size.

The catapults aboard Sea Snake loosed first, flaming bolts arcing toward the oncoming galleys. One found its mark. The bolt drove through the mid-hull of the leading pirate ship, striking a stack of fire pots mid-deck.

The result was instantaneous, a thunderclap of fire, black smoke, and men thrown screaming into the sea.

But the others did not break. Four more galleys surged through the fire, hulls low and fast, slamming against the Velaryon line with a sickening crunch.

Grapples flew. Chains clanged. The boarding began.

Corlys met them head-on. He leapt across the collapsing rail of a smaller ship, axe in hand, landing amid a cluster of Myrish sellswords.

Their blades were curved like scimitars, serrated, meant to tear flesh more than cut. One came at him high, he ducked, buried his axe in the man’s thigh, then shoved him overboard with a boot to the chest.

Around him, chaos reigned. Velaryon sailors fought shoulder to shoulder against waves of invaders who fought not for coin but out of sheer desperation. Their fire pots exploded on impact, splashing burning oil across the deck.

A second Velaryon ship caught flame bow to stern, its crew forced to jump into the sea, screaming as the fire chased them down the ropes.

Corlys turned just in time to see one of his captains fall, gutted by a spear through the gut, and the crew of Storm Kissed overwhelmed. The pirate flag rose atop her mast, black and jagged. Her surviving crew were tossed into the waves like ballast.

The Velaryon warships rallied, using harpoons to drag one of the pirate galleys between two hulls and bombard it with fire and quarrels until it broke apart, its deck burning red.

Corlys, blood streaked across his face, shoulder torn and cloak tattered, planted his axe in the chest of another sellsail and roared for the men to hold.

“Push them back! To the sea with them!”

It took another ten minutes for the tide to turn. The pirates, realizing their momentum had faltered, began to withdraw.

One by one, their galleys pulled back under cover of smoke, slipping behind rocky islets and out of view, leaving behind a sea littered with broken hulls, charred debris, and floating corpses.

The cost was steep.

Two Velaryon warships sank beneath the waves, their hulls cracked and burning. Over eighty men lay dead or wounded, including three officers and a dozen veteran sailors.

The captured Storm Kissed was lost entirely.

Corlys stood on the deck of Sea Snake, breath heaving, hands slick with blood not entirely his own. Around him, the wounded groaned and the survivors slumped in exhaustion.

“We held them,” one captain said beside him, spitting blood into the sea. “But gods help us if they bring more.”

Corlys didn’t answer. His eyes were still on the horizon.

This had not been a raid. This had been a message.

And the next time, it would be worse.

The scent of salt, smoke, and blood still clung to the sails as the battered remnants of Corlys Velaryon’s fleet limped back into Driftmark’s harbor.

The dockhands stood in stunned silence as the warships came in, scarred hulls blackened by fire, masts snapped and patched mid-sea, decks stained with dried blood. The great Sea Snake had returned, but not unscathed.

Wounded men were carried ashore on makeshift stretchers, some missing limbs, others too dazed to speak. Women wept on the docks.

The dead were brought out last, shrouded in soaked linen, laid side by side like driftwood at low tide.

Within the stone walls of High Tide’s hall, the survivors were given wine and quiet corners to rest. A funeral pyre was being prepared on the cliffs. Corlys stood alone at the head of a large map stretched across a war table, his fingers tracing the curve of the Stepstones.

Three small silver pins marked the last known positions of the lost ships. He moved a fourth pin, representing Storm Kissed, from the fleet’s crescent formation to a separate corner of the board, labeled in charcoal: Taken.

Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open.

“You call this a victory?” came a sharp voice. Vaemond entered with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. His jaw was clenched, his manner righteous. “Two ships sunk. Another captured. Nearly a hundred dead or maimed. And still no support from the Crown. This was folly.”

Corlys didn’t turn. “Those waters are ours, and I’ll not have pirates turning them into hunting grounds.”

“And what of Driftmark? What of our strength? We are bleeding men and ships while the king does nothing!” Vaemond paced to the window, gesturing toward the sea. “This was the price of pride, Uncle. We should have waited.”

“We would have waited ourselves into ruin,” Corlys snapped. “You saw what they brought. Siege engines on galleys. Alchemical fire pots. They’re not rabble. They’re building something.”

A silence fell. Outside, the wounded moaned under the hands of healers. The crackle of the pyre fire echoed faintly from the cliffs.

Within the Red Keep, the late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, casting long golden lines across the stone floor. The air was still, heavy with tension, as Rhaenys entered her father’s study without knocking, the scroll clenched in her hand.

Prince Aemon looked up from the parchments before him, brows furrowing at his daughter’s expression. “News from Driftmark?”

She handed him the letter in silence. Aemon scanned the first lines, and his face grew hard.

Hours later, the Small Council gathered in full. The letter from Driftmark, penned in Corlys’s unmistakable hand, now lay unrolled on the polished table of the council chamber. Prince Aemon, standing at the head of the scroll, read aloud with steady gravity:

“...Two warships lost. A third taken. Over eighty good men dead or maimed. The pirates did not strike in desperation. Their ships were sleek, reinforced, flying the symbols of old Myr. Siege weapons aboard. Firepots. They do not raid. They invade.”

A hush settled over the chamber.

Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, clutched a small ledger to his chest, his lips pressed into a pale line. “They’re building an empire,” he muttered. “One island at a time.”

Grand Maester Elysar leaned forward, eyes glinting with unease behind his spectacles. “Essosi fire pots. Organization. This is no mere rabble.”

Seated at the king’s right hand, Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, folded his fingers together. “Why is Lord Corlys waging war in the Narrow Sea when His Grace gave no such order?”

Before Barth could speak further, Prince Aemon’s voice cut in, controlled but firm. “Because House Velaryon has taken the brunt of these losses, while we debate. The sea is theirs to protect, yet the pirates now patrol it like lords. Shall we fault Corlys for defending his own waters when we do nothing?”

The council shifted at the sharpness in his tone.

“The king ought to take measures,” Aemon pressed. “If we do nothing now, we lose control of the Narrow Sea, and the trade routes with it. Today it is Driftmark. Tomorrow it may be Storm’s End. Or King's Landing.”

Septon Barth gave a long look toward the Iron Throne’s shadow looming behind the king’s dais. “Your Grace, I believe Prince Aemon speaks the truth. The threat grows with each day we delay.”

Queen Alysanne, who had been silent until then, leaned forward slightly, her voice tinged with concern. “And how is Lord Corlys? Has he been injured?”

Prince Aemon inclined his head to her. “No, Your Grace. He was not hurt.”

The queen nodded, but her worry did not ease.

All eyes turned to the seat, where King Jaehaerys sat in silence. His face was calm, expression unreadable, as though carved from marble. The crackle of the brazier fire in the corner was the only sound in the chamber.

At last, the old king spoke, his voice slow and cold as stone. “The pirates have not yet stepped on Westerosi soil. They raid, but they have not declared war upon us.”

There was a pause. Even Aemon said nothing.

“There will be war,” Jaehaerys said, “when they give us cause. Not before.” His gaze flicked to Prince Aemon. “Tell Lord Corlys… to continue his patrols. But he is not to provoke open war.”

Then, with finality, he stood and left the chamber, his white cloak trailing behind him, leaving his council in silence.

Chapter Text

Winter Morning on a Lone Island in Blackwater Bay

The morning mist clung low over the narrow, lonely isle, its rocky surface dusted with a pale frost. Waves lapped gently at the blackened shores, and above them, rising like a monument to fire and blood, Dreamfyre, scaled in deep, iridescent blue, her vast wings curled inward, slumbering in a light doze. Plumes of steam curled from her nostrils each time she exhaled.

Aegon Targaryen stood a short distance away, his silver hair tousled by the wind, his slender frame wrapped in a dark cloak.

The cold didn’t bother him. He crouched low near a small, makeshift desk, a flat stone slab beside his satchel, where a blank notebook from the maesters lay open. A quill danced in his fingers. He scribbled rapidly, eyes sharp with focus.

He rose without a word and walked to the center of the small clearing. Before him stood a large boulder, scorched black from repeated impacts, 15 meters away. His breath fogged as he steadied himself.

He raised his palm, fingers splayed toward the rock.

It was now an instinct.

A sphere of fire manifested instantly in front of his palm, roaring silently into existence, a condensed orb of flickering orange-gold, nearly the size of a clenched fist. With a mental nudge, it shot forward, trailing fire like a comet. It struck the boulder dead-on and exploded in a brilliant flash of heat and light, the shockwave scattering snow and ash around it. A crack split the stone’s surface.

Aegon lowered his hand and exhaled.

He walked back to the slab, picked up his notebook, and resumed writing.

Spell: Fireball (Finalized - Experiment 27)
Definition: A condensed ball of fire shot at the target
Casting Time: <1 second
Strike Range: 15 meters
Velocity: ~10 m/s
Explosion Radius: ~1.5 meters
Use: Lethal against armored targets at range < 20m
Warning: Avoid use in enclosed or fragile structures

“Finally… third spell done,” Aegon murmured, shutting the notebook with a soft snap. Dreamfyre’s great eye opened slightly, observing her rider with a curious rumble, her long tail flicking across the frost-tipped ground.

Two months had passed since Aegon upgraded his class [Occult Scholar] to Level 10, consuming over 45,000 EXP in the process. It had been worth every drop. The clarity it gave him during his magical research was unlike anything he had experienced before. It felt like his mind had been sharpened into a blade.

[Class: Occult Scholar (Tier 2)]

[Prerequisites:

- Possess at least one supernatural or magical trait (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)

- Demonstrated methodical study or experimentation related to the supernatural (satisfied) ]

[Level 10 (MAX)]

[Trait : Arcane Methodology

(+65% focus and insight on a supernatural trait, relic, magical anomaly, or supernatural-based phenomenon, gaining a moment of structured clarity.)

(+12% INT bonus for every unique magical phenomenon successfully analyzed.)]

[Trait : Rationality

(+60% Mental resistance: Negates harmful side effects from [Arcane Methodology] or exposure to dangerous magical stimuli.)

( -70% INT damage or sanity deterioration effects from magical or supernatural sources.)]

The entire working of his flamecraft ability had been slowly analyzed, disassembled, and reassembled, bit by bit, as if he were unweaving the threads of fire itself.

With the precision of a surgeon and the clarity granted by his fully realized [Occult Scholar] class, Aegon learned not just to wield fire, but to mold it. To shape it. His fire was no longer instinctual chaos. It was measured, intentional, repeatable. He began calling these refined uses spells, even though no incantation or ritual component was involved.

To an outsider, they may have looked like sorcery born of will alone, but to Aegon, each spell was a structured expression of an underlying supernatural principle, crafted with purpose, shaped by will, tested with method, and refined through iteration.

With today’s finalization of [Spell:Fireball], Aegon now had three such spells in his arsenal today - the other two being:

Spell: Ring Burst (Finalized - Experiment 36)
Definition: Creates a ring of fire around the caster, then bursts it outward in a fiery shockwave
Casting Time: ~2 seconds
Strike Range: 10 meters with user as centre
Velocity: Fast (difficult to avoid within strike range)
Use: Lethal to all enemies within 360° at range <10m
Warning: Do not use with allies within strike range

Spell: Fire Torrent (Finalized - Experiment 9)
Definition: Continuous stream of fire from hands, akin to a flamethrower
Casting Time: < 1 second
Strike Range: 7 meters
Strike Radius: Adjustable by user, can spread or condense
Use: Lethal against armored targets at range <5m
Warning: Enemy may reach the caster while burning

Each spell was more than a tool, it was a milestone in understanding. And each was rooted in a deeper grasp of his blood-born flamecraft, a power inherited but now studied and weaponized. What had once been creation and manipulation of fire driven by instinct and will were now spells, catalogued and refined.

His dreams had changed, too. The nightmares, twisting voids and fragmenting visions, were gone. Now, his dreams came clear and crisp, like reels of prophecy, glimpses of moments not yet written. He woke with thoughts as clear as still water. It was like being whole again.

He checked his current experience.

[EXP: 100,632]

Even after maxing out his class, the accumulated experience from daily patrols with Dreamfyre had left him with a sizable reserve. With the full power of [Occult Scholar] unlocked, his pace of magical analysis had accelerated like a racehorse unshackled from its starting gate.

His conclusions came quickly, formed from careful notes, repeated trials, and the occasional inspired leap.

Magic, Aegon now believed, was not merely elemental energy, it was dimensional in nature. A force not born of this world, but one that touched it, like a vast sea brushing against the shores of reality. What people called “magic” were just the ripples of that sea, manifesting in the few who could connect to it.

Its forms, pyromancy, dreamwalking, blood magic, green sight, were not disciplines but expressions, shaped by the nature of the user’s connection to that power. That connection wasn’t random. It was latent, often buried in bloodlines, ancestry, or shaped by physical or spiritual resonance. Perhaps what the Valyrians had stumbled upon, or mastered, was not just control over dragons, but the breeding of a bloodline attuned to magic.

Targaryen bloodlines bore unmistakable mutations that hinted at this deeper link:

Dragon bonding - the near-mystical ability to connect and ride dragons.
Fire resistance - not total fireproofing, but a clear adaptation.
Dream sensitivity - visions, sometimes prophetic, often confusing, but unmistakably magical.

Dragons themselves… they were more than creatures. Aegon could feel it when he laid his hand on Dreamfyre’s scales, or when her breath stirred flame that obeyed instinct, not physics.

Dragons pulsed with raw, untamed magic. They didn’t cast spells, they were magic, breathing, moving, roaring embodiments of that dimension’s presence in this world.

He began thinking in metaphors, the way a philosopher might.

Magic was a sea.

Some people walked beside it.

Some, like the First Men, dipped their feet in.

But others, like the Valyrians and the children of the forest, found sponges.

“Sponge.” The word sounded crude, but the image was perfect. When you dip a sponge in water, it absorbs. It retains moisture even after being removed from the source.

Perhaps Valyrian blood, Weirwood trees, and dragonglass were these sponges, substances and bloodlines that could absorb magic from the Sea and carry it into the world.

That would explain why some materials and creatures were so uniquely magical, while others were inert. Why dragonglass killed White Walkers. Why Weirwoods “remembered.” Why a child born of two dragonriders might see dreams before he even understands words.

The more magic you had in you, whether by blood, nature, or artifact, the closer you were to that Sea.

And perhaps, if you had enough of it… you could dive in. Not just catch the waves on the shore, but actually breach the veil and enter that higher dimension. Maybe the ‘Gods’ were from that dimension.

That was what Aegon sought now, not just to use magic.

But to understand it.

Not just to swim on its surface.

But to find the path beneath it.

Many of his notes were still theoretical, bold hypotheses waiting for rigorous testing. But one truth had become undeniable: to truly master his magic, he needed to go one step further.

Perception.

To interact with the force behind the manifestations, he had to see it, truly sense magic in its native form. Only then could the [Occult Scholar] class reach its full potential.

Aegon’s thoughts shattered like glass beneath a boot as he checked the sun’s position. “Shit, I’ll be late—”

He snapped the notebook shut, stuffed it into his satchel, and with practiced ease, swung onto Dreamfyre’s back.

The great dragon rumbled beneath him, wings spreading like silver sails across the morning frost. With a powerful thrust, they launched into the sky, wind rushing past him as the coastline blurred below.

The air was cold, biting with winter’s breath sweeping over the land. Snow had dusted the hills and castles like powdered sugar, white and serene beneath the gray sky.

But King’s Landing was already stirring.

The Red Keep was alive with the sounds of feast preparation, music, laughter, the clink of goblets, the rustle of silks. King Jaehaerys had declared a feast to lift spirits, a reprieve from the gnawing unease of pirate raids and political tension.

Nobles from across the realm had arrived to show face, to speak peace, and perhaps to sniff for advantage in the gathering storm.

Aegon made it just in time. His silver hair was brushed back, his robes fine but understated, deep crimson with faint gold trim. He slid into his seat beside Daemon, who was already nursing a cup of wine and eyeing the guests with amused detachment.

Across the hall, Viserys sat with a group of young lords, laughing too loudly at something one of them said. Prince Aemon, dignified as ever, stood with the King and Queen at the high dais, welcoming each noble guest as a white-cloaked Kingsguard called out names and titles.

Suddenly, Daemon leaned in close, his grin sharp and gleaming.
“Pay attention, brother,” he said under his breath, “to who comes next.”

Aegon arched a brow but said nothing. The hall fell into a hush as the next names were called.

“Ser Otto Hightower… the One-Eyed…”

The words hung like smoke in the air. A moment of silence, then it broke into barely-concealed snickers, gasps, and murmured amusement. A few courtiers failed to hide their smiles behind goblets.

Daemon stifled a laugh and looked victorious, like a boy who'd just won a bet.

Aegon turned to see Otto Hightower, his face tight with shame, entering the hall with his wife beside him and a thick black patch covering his left eye.

The skin around it was still slightly discolored, the memory of a burn that had never been explained, one Aegon himself had caused, months ago, in the heat of a discreet confrontation.

The young man walked stiffly, posture proud but clearly shaken by the ridicule. He had brought his family as a show of unity, his wife’s expression was brittle, her smile pasted on.

Beside them waddled a small child, no older than three, with striking green eyes and red-brown curls. Their presence was a political maneuver, meant to display strength. Instead, it reeked of weakness.

Daemon leaned back, content. “The one-eyed owl,” he murmured. “How wise does he look now?”

Aegon didn’t smile. He watched Otto intently, noting every flicker of pride, pain, and calculation on the young man’s face. The man still had influence. Still had ambition. Wounded pride made for dangerous resolve.

But tonight was a feast. The masks would stay on.

As the feast wore on, with music echoing off vaulted ceilings and nobles weaving through golden candlelight, Aegon rose from his seat beside Daemon. The younger prince’s smirk remained, but Aegon had a different purpose in mind.

He crossed the hall with quiet poise, weaving through murmuring lords and ladies until he stood before Otto Hightower. The young noble turned, tension flickering in his lone visible eye.

His wife, straightened beside him, a tall, pale woman wrapped in a conservative gown of pale green and gold, a seven-pointed star glinting on the chain around her neck.

“Ser Otto,” Aegon greeted, voice smooth and polite, the edges of his Valyrian accent just faintly audible. “Is this your child?”

Otto inclined his head stiffly. “Yes, my prince. This is my wife, Lady Alyrie Florent… and our daughter, Alicent.”

The little girl, barely three, stood between her parents. Her wide green eyes blinked up at Aegon for a heartbeat before she promptly turned away and resumed smearing cake on her fingers with glee, lost in her own world.

Aegon gave a courteous nod to Alyrie. “My lady,” he said, offering a brief but respectful smile. “It seems the new Kingsguard on duty lacks a sense of restraint. I will speak to Lord Commander Ryam about it. Such introductions should not be used to mock a man’s injury.”

Otto hesitated, clearly caught between suspicion and surprise. “I… am grateful for your consideration, my prince.”

“Then please, enjoy the feast,” Aegon said with a calm finality. He inclined his head and turned away, his crimson and black cloak whispering behind him as he returned to his seat.

Alyrie leaned in, her voice low. “Is he…?”

Otto nodded. “Yes. Prince Aegon. Youngest son of Baelon. Rider of Dreamfyre.”

Their daughter, oblivious to the undercurrents flowing around her, had abandoned her cake and now stared at the golden candelabra overhead, humming softly to herself.

Otto’s jaw tightened. He watched Aegon retreat, gaze shadowed with calculation.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The late morning sun filtered through the high windows of the Tower of the Hand, casting long streaks of light upon the polished floor. A stillness hung in the air, tense and waiting, as King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the first of his name, set down the letter.

The wax seal of House Baratheon lay cracked beside his plate, and his fingers lingered on the parchment as if weighing the truth of the words.

He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a breath. Then, with deliberate calm, he raised his gaze to the small council gathered before him.

Jaehaerys’s voice, when it came, was quiet, but filled with the weight of iron and fire.

“I have always valued peace,” he said, his voice firm, “not from cowardice, nor weakness, but because I know the face of war. I have seen the cost it demands. I have smelled the burned flesh, heard the screams that linger long after the swords have fallen silent.”

He paused, letting the silence settle over them like a heavy cloak.

“That is why they call me the Conciliator.” He looked down at the table, and then back to each of them in turn, his violet eyes sharp now, cutting through the chamber. “But perhaps they forget what blood runs in our veins. Perhaps they forget that beneath peace… lives the fire.”

A faint flicker of emotion crossed Aemon’s face, and a slow breath escaped Septon Barth.

The king’s voice rose, stronger now, ringing with finality.

“Then let them remember.”

He turned his gaze to Prince Aemon.

“Let House Velaryon prepare the fleet. Corlys will take the sea, and he will strike first.”

He paused, then locked eyes with his son.

“And you, Aemon… you will ride Caraxes. You will remind the Free Cities what it means to rouse the wrath of the dragons. Let them see you descend from the sky in flame and steel. Let them know who holds the sky above Westeros.”

Alysanne’s breath caught, and her hand moved subtly, instinctively, toward her son. Her voice, soft but sure, followed.

“He is my son… and the heir to the realm.”

Jaehaerys turned to her then. His face, so often serene, was a mask of tempered steel.

“And he must be more than that. He must be seen. In their eyes, in their fears. A crown is not kept by love alone, but by strength. This is the hour for Aemon to etch his place not just in line, but in history.”

Aemon gave a short nod, no smile on his lips. He bowed slightly to his father.

“I will ride, Your Grace. Caraxes and I are ready.”

Jaehaerys shifted his attention to the aged Lord Beesbury, who had already drawn forth a ledger.

“You will oversee the war expenditure, Lord Beesbury. I want our coffers bled wisely, gold in the right hands, not spilled across the sea.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Beesbury replied. “The treasury will bear it.”

Jaehaerys stood slowly, the King in full. Light shone on the silver thread in his hair. His voice was now final, the hammer stroke at the end of the forge.

“Two months. That is all. I want the ports retaken and the pirates burned. Let the Essosi look westward and see fire. Let them speak of dragons, and tremble.”

No one spoke. They rose as one, bowing low, and began to file out of the chamber, each man and woman off to fulfill their command.

Alysanne lingered a moment longer. She did not speak again, but as she passed her husband, she placed her hand gently on his.

Jaehaerys closed his eyes only briefly.

The peace was ending.

And the sky would burn.

The afternoon sun bore down on the Red Keep's training yard, heat clinging to the sweat-slicked skin of the two princes. Dust rose beneath their boots, scattered by swift movement, parries, and the sharp clack of wood striking wood.

“What are you thinking, brother?” Daemon grunted as he lunged, his wooden sword cutting the air with speed.

Aegon didn’t answer immediately, his eyes narrowed, body pivoting on instinct. The blow came, and he caught it clean with his own blade. With a sharp twist and flick of his wrist, Daemon’s guard opened, and Aegon’s strike landed flat against his ribs.

“Fuck…” Daemon hissed, stumbling back a step. “Why is your skill so damn strong when all you do is bury yourself in books?”

Aegon exhaled, calm and unhurried. “Wisdom, brother,” he said with a slight smirk, “is the edge that dulls the blade of recklessness.”

Daemon scowled, teeth clenched as he charged again, but Aegon was already moving.

He pivoted, sidestepped, and delivered two quick blows, one to the shoulder, another to the leg.

The clash of wooden blades rang like bells in the courtyard.

Around them, retainers and guards had gathered, half their duties forgotten. Even a few knights paused their routines, eyes drawn by the display.

It wasn’t every day that both princes dueled, and fewer still had ever seen swordplay like Aegon’s. Controlled, efficient, elegant.

Daemon’s strikes were passionate, fast, fierce, yet they were met and turned away each time.

Aegon knew why.

It was the weapon handling effect of max level [Knight’s Squire] class. Every movement, every instinct was refined beyond what even some grown knights could boast.

“Fuck,” Daemon muttered, stumbling back and dropping his sword with a loud clatter. “I can’t even beat my little brother anymore, and you’re three years younger.”

Aegon wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and walked over, offering a hand.

“Yes,” he said with a half-smile, “but I don’t think anyone else here could beat you. Except me.”

Daemon let out a short, frustrated laugh and took the hand, rising to his feet. “I want to go to war,” he said, throwing the training sword to a waiting servant. “Ride out with Uncle Aemon. Put those Myrish bastards’ heads on pikes in the Stepstones.”

Aegon’s expression turned thoughtful. “Guarding the city is important too,” he replied. “Someone needs to watch the shadows while the others chase glory in the fire.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue. Ever since their investigation into the mysterious rumors, and the strange enemy that had not surfaced again, he had returned to the City Watch.

Though restless, Daemon knew the importance, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

Aegon suddenly felt a presence. He turned.

Rhaenys stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, her long silver hair catching the breeze, her expression unreadable. He gave her a small, knowing smile.

“It’s Rhaenys,” Daemon muttered, noticing. His voice had a hard edge to it.

Aegon said nothing.

“Well then, brother,” Daemon continued, brushing sweat from his face and heading for the courtyard gate, “I’m off to patrol the city. Keep your sword sharp.”

He didn’t look back as he walked away, his boots crunching the gravel with every step.

Daemon had never forgiven Rhaenys, not since she had bonded with Meleys, the dragon their mother once rode.

It had stung his pride in ways he never admitted.

Aegon watched him go, then turned to unbuckle his training armor.

The corridor was quiet, sunlight filtering through tall windows and casting golden lines across the polished stone floor. The Red Keep felt almost peaceful, at odds with the war raging across the narrow sea.

"You are quite the fighter, cousin," Rhaenys said, her voice soft but clear as she approached, her presence poised as ever.

Aegon turned, a hint of pride on his face. "Yup," he replied, allowing himself the smallest boastful grin. "Even Daemon can’t keep up anymore."

Rhaenys chuckled lightly, but the laughter didn’t reach her eyes. There was a quiet strain there, worry that couldn’t be hidden behind courtly grace.

Her father and husband were both away, locked in battle on foreign waters, steel flashing in the Stepstones while she remained in the keep, waiting.

Her hand drifted gently to her belly, cradling it instinctively.

"So… have you decided on the name?" Aegon asked, trying to keep the tone casual as they walked slowly side by side.

Rhaenys’s lips curved into a warm smile, eyes softening as her fingers traced the curve of her belly. "Not yet. We spoke of names before he left… but nothing final. I think I’ll know when I see the child."

Aegon nodded. He smiled, but his throat felt dry.

The moment she had announced her pregnancy, public, radiant, loved, he’d felt something stir and settle bitter in his chest.

But he was mentally old enough not to let it bother him.

“The child will be strong,” he said instead. “With your blood.”

She touched his arm gently, thankful, but didn’t speak for a long moment.

They talked a little longer, the way people do when time slows around grief and worry.

Old childhood memories. Dragons. Daemon’s sulking. The absurdity of court politics.

Rhaenys laughed a little more freely by the end, though a shadow lingered in her eyes.

As they parted, Aegon bowed his head slightly, offering her a quiet farewell.

He walked back to his chambers with a steady step, though his thoughts weren’t still. Tonight was important. Meditation awaited.

The final hours needed to unlock the [Mental Adept] class were slowly building, and every breath brought him closer.

As the door to his room closed behind him with a soft click, he sat cross-legged on his bed once more. The light dimmed. The world narrowed.

He cleared his thoughts.

Focused on the silence.

A windless hush settled over the darkened cove, broken only by the crash of distant waves against jagged rock.

Within the caves, once used by smugglers, now transformed into a makeshift war-camp, firelight flickered off damp stone walls.

The air smelled of salt, pitch, and sweat. Shadowed figures hunched around a long driftwood table, weapons within reach, eyes sharp.

A heavy silence reigned until one of the pirates finally spoke, his voice hoarse with fear.

"Commander… how long can we hide?"

He was younger, his beard still patchy, but his eyes betrayed the desperation of a man who had seen dragons in the sky.

"We will die if we face the dragonlord."

Around the fire, murmurs rippled. Someone spat on the stone floor. Another clenched his dagger tighter.

The pirate commander sat in the center, cloaked in a dark, salt-stained coat, his scarred fingers tapping the table in slow rhythm. He looked up, eyes reflecting the fire like molten iron.

"Who is it…Commander?" the younger pirate asked again.

The commander’s voice was low, flat.

"Aemon Targaryen. Rider of Caraxes."

A chill passed through the group.

"The Blood Wyrm..." muttered one man, his voice barely above a whisper.

Another slammed his fist against the stone. "You saw what happened at sea. That beast boiled the waters! Burned three of our ships like they were driftwood."

But the commander didn't flinch.

"He is a man," he said coldly, standing now, his boots scraping on the stone. "And men can bleed."

"Aye, but arrows rarely touch him!" the younger pirate insisted. "The bastard’s in armor, and the beast shields him like a mother hen."

The commander raised a hand, silencing them.

"Then we don’t strike him in the sky. We strike when he sleeps. When he pisses. When he thinks himself safe."

He leaned forward into the firelight, the burn-scar across his cheek catching the glow.

"A sword in the dark will kill a king the same as a peasant."

A murmur of agreement now. Not enthusiasm, just grim resolve.

He turned to one of the silent men standing behind him.

"Send a raven to our brothers in Tarth. Tell them the dragon must not fly again. Not from the sky.

Not from the sea. We'll clip his wings while he walks the earth."

A nod. The man vanished into the shadows beyond the fire.

The pirate leader’s eyes narrowed. He turned back to the others.

"We are not some broken rebels. We are exiles, yes, but we are sons of Myr, and this is our war. Tarth was only the beginning."

He drew a dagger and drove it into the map spread across the table, right into the heart of Westeros.

"Let the dragon come."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

92 AC
The Red Keep, Summer, A Month After the War

“Your Grace… Your Grace…”

Septon Barth’s voice cut gently through the thick stillness of the chamber. The old man’s words were careful, respectful, but insistent.

Across the table, King Jaehaerys stirred from his stupor, blinking as though waking from a long dream. His hand rested motionless atop a scroll, untouched for some time.

“About the heir,” Barth pressed softly.

The king’s gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight spilled over the Dragonpit's distant dome. “Hmm?” he murmured, mind slowly reeling itself back from elsewhere.

A month had passed since the war in the Stepstones had ended, but its cost had bled far deeper than coin or steel.

Prince Aemon, firstborn son of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, heir to the Iron Throne, was dead.

Struck down by a poisoned arrow on the shores of Tarth. A death no one had expected of a dragonrider.

It had shattered the royal family.

Queen Alysanne had refused to believe the news when it reached court. Without a word to her maids or the lords of court, she mounted Silverwing and flew to Dragonstone in a gale of grief.

Aemon’s body had been carried back from Tarth in solemn procession, his dragon Caraxes flying overhead in eerie silence.

At Dragonstone, the funeral was held. Every great house in the realm sent banners, not just for respect, but to witness the storm gathering over the line of succession.

At the pyre stood Princess Rhaenys, Aemon’s daughter, heavily pregnant.

Beside her, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, the prince’s widow, clutched her hands in silent grief.

Queen Alysanne did not speak. She only sobbed, her shoulders trembling as flames consumed the body of her firstborn.

Prince Baelon, who had been away, arrived too late. He said nothing at first, only wept beside the pyre.

But the next morning, his sorrow had hardened into something else. Vhagar carried him into the skies, and he flew east with vengeance in his heart.

Within fifteen days, he returned.

The heads of every known leader of the Myrish exile pirates were nailed to a cart and paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

The people cheered wildly, crying Baelon’s name. Smoke still clung to his cloak, and to the stories.

The Stepstones had burned. Vhagar’s fire had scoured even the deepest caves, turning them into tombs of smoke and silence.

No soul had survived.

But inside the Red Keep, celebration soured into conflict.

The Queen and King quarreled behind closed doors.

It was whispered that Queen Alysanne blamed King Jaehaerys for their son’s death, that his delays, his reluctance to act, had allowed this fate to unfold.

One day, without ceremony, she mounted Silverwing once more and flew to Dragonstone.

She had not returned since.

Now, in the aftermath, the realm faced a new question, one no less grave:

Who would inherit the Iron Throne?

The court was split.

Some lords, supported by recent memory, spoke for Prince Baelon, the King’s second son.

He had proven himself in fire and vengeance, riding Vhagar like a true Targaryen prince.

But others, powerful, ambitious, had turned their eyes toward Princess Rhaenys, the daughter of the slain heir.

She was of the elder line, and though young and with child, her claim stood as the rightful continuation of Aemon’s legacy.

The tension in the chamber was suffocating, a heat not born of the sun, but of ambition and grief.

The shutters were drawn against the summer glare, yet the air within remained close and heavy, thick with the musk of ink, wax, and quiet fury.

When Lord Corlys Velaryon rose to speak, all turned toward him. His cloak, rich with sea-blue velvet and the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, flowed like a banner behind him.

His voice, when it came, was crisp and composed, but there was iron beneath the polish.

“I do not understand,” he said, surveying the gathered lords. “Why this council must meet to debate what is already plain.

Princess Rhaenys is the daughter of the late Prince Aemon, your Grace’s firstborn son. The line of succession passes through blood, does it not?”

His eyes moved from face to face, Lord Beesbury, Grand Maester Elysar, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Septon Barth, and finally the king himself.

Corlys's gaze held firm, his jaw set like a man anchoring in storm-tossed seas.

There it was, ambition laid bare, yet wrapped in the silken cloth of duty.

He did not say what all present knew: that Princess Rhaenys was his wife, and that if she ascended to the Iron Throne, the child in her womb would one day inherit a crown.

A Velaryon heir, of both sea and fire.

“It is time,” he declared, “that Westeros had a Queen upon the Iron Throne.”

The words settled like a thrown gauntlet.

From across the table, Lord Beesbury snorted softly, adjusting the spectacles perched on his nose.

The master of coin was older than most in the room, and his tone carried the brittle authority of tradition.

“With respect, Lord Corlys,” he said, “the realm has never had a queen ruling in her own right, not in the time of the Targaryens, nor before.

And now, with a strong candidate present in Prince Baelon, brother to the late Prince Aemon, I ask you, truly, do you think the great lords of Westeros will bend the knee to a woman?”

He folded his hands together. “Tradition is not so easily cast aside.”

Corlys straightened.

“And I ask you,” he countered, “what tradition places a brother ahead of a daughter? Was she not born of Aemon’s blood? Would you have the daughter of the crown prince cast aside, simply for her gender?”

He leaned forward, voice low, precise. “Rhaenys has the blood of Old Valyria. And more sense, I would wager, than many who wear swords and call themselves dragonlords.”

The two men stared, the air between them tense as drawn steel.

Before either could speak again, Grand Maester Elysar raised his hand in gentle appeal.

“My lords,” he said, voice smooth as parchment, “surely this is not the time for division. Prince Aemon's death is a wound still raw.

The grief of Her Grace the Queen, and His Grace the King, is not yet quieted. Let us not allow ambition to tread upon mourning.”

He turned to Jaehaerys, whose silence had grown darker with every word exchanged.

“Your Grace, perhaps it is best…”

The king slammed his goblet onto the table.

The silver cup bounced once, wine sloshing over the rim, crimson splashing onto the table.

“Enough!” Jaehaerys thundered, rising to his feet. His voice cracked like thunder, raw with fury and sorrow.

“Not three months have passed since my son, my firstborn, was laid upon his pyre. You would stand here, in this chamber, and bicker like crows over his corpse?”

He stared them down, eyes burning, voice rising.

“My son is dead! And now, all I hear are arguments for the crown he never wore. Have you no shame?”

Silence gripped the chamber.

Not even a breath stirred.

Lord Beesbury looked down at his hands. Corlys remained standing, lips tight. Grand Maester Elysar murmured a prayer beneath his breath.

Septon Barth, seated in shadow near the end of the table, said nothing. His eyes watched, calm and deep, like a man studying a tide yet to break.

Jaehaerys drew in a breath, slower now, as if the fury had drained from him like blood from an open wound.

“I will decide,” he said, voice quieter, but firm as stone.

“Within a fortnight, I will name my heir. Until then, this matter is closed. I will hear no more.”

He sat again, heavy with grief. One hand trembled faintly as he reached once more for his cup, but he did not drink.

A long moment passed before the chamber slowly emptied, boots thudding against stone, robes brushing wood. No one spoke as they departed.

Only Septon Barth remained behind for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the king.

He glanced toward the Table, where shadows from the high windows crept slowly across the shape of Westeros, as if the realm itself was being swallowed by dusk.

The realm stood at a crossroads.

The dragon’s line was broken, and the crown now hung above two paths, one of fire, and one of change.

The evening sun filtered softly through the high arched windows, casting amber light across the stone walls of the royal chambers.

The air was quiet, thick with the scent of old parchment, burning oil, and the faint salt carried in from Blackwater Bay.

King Jaehaerys sat by the open window, clad in simple robes of deep crimson and black, the weight of his years showing more in his stillness than in his face.

A cup of wine sat untouched at his side, forgotten. When the door opened and Prince Baelon stepped in, the king did not turn his head, but his voice, when it came, was low and familiar.

“Come in, Baelon.”

Baelon hesitated only a moment before closing the door behind him. He moved slowly toward the king, not as a prince in court, but as a son returning to his father.

“Father…” he said, voice softer than usual.

King Jaehaerys finally turned and gave him a faint smile. “Come. Sit.”

Baelon pulled a chair close, lowering himself with a sigh. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, they had sat in many such silences before, across years of wars and councils, feasts and funerals.

But this one carried the weight of mourning.

“How are my grandsons?” Jaehaerys asked at last, watching his son’s face.

Baelon rubbed the back of his neck, then answered, “Viserys is learning well. He’s been shadowing Lord Beesbury, listening to him drone about coin and taxes. He’s making friends with the young lords at court, too.”

The king nodded approvingly.

“And Daemon?” he asked, though his voice dipped slightly at the name.

“In the City Watch,” Baelon said, with the faintest of smirks. “He likes the freedom. Says wearing gold armor makes the thieves take him seriously. I told him not to break too many bones.”

A low chuckle rumbled from the king’s chest. “He reminds me of someone,” Jaehaerys said.

Baelon smiled faintly.

The silence returned for a breath.

“And what of little Aegon?”

Baelon glanced up. “He asked if he could go to Dragonstone, to be with Mother. I said yes.”

The king’s gaze drifted to the open window. The sea winds whispered against the stone.

“It’s good,” he said, after a pause. “It’s good that he stays with your mother. She needs someone close, now.”

Baelon gave a slow nod. Though the quarrel between the king and queen had driven Queen Alysanne to Dragonstone, the care in his father's voice was still there, quiet, wounded, but steady.

“You’ve been away from home too often,” Jaehaerys said suddenly, eyes sharpening.

“Flying, hunting, fighting pirates, chasing glory… and I allowed it. Maybe I even encouraged it. But things are different now.”

Baelon stiffened slightly.

“With your brother gone, you must shoulder some of what he carried.”

The words hung in the air like the weight of a swordbelt. Before Baelon could speak, the king continued:

“I’m naming you Master of Laws. You’ll take your brother’s seat on the Small Council.”

Baelon opened his mouth to protest, but Jaehaerys raised a hand, firm and final.

“You cannot always run, Baelon,” he said, voice rising slightly.

“You cannot always fly across the realm with your dragon and think the world will wait for you. Responsibility must be met. And I will accept no rejection.”

His tone hardened, the father fading behind the king. “It is your king’s command.”

Baelon exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking. “Yes, father,” he said at last.

But then, more quietly, he added, “I don’t want to be the heir.”

Jaehaerys turned to him, expression unreadable.

“It’s fine,” Baelon went on.

“Let it pass to Rhaenys. She’s his daughter. Aemon’s daughter. She’s more like him than I ever was.”

It was clear that he had heard the whispers.

The court was already dividing: some for him, others for Rhaenys. The matter of succession loomed like a storm.

Jaehaerys did not respond. He only looked at his son, long and hard.

And in that silence, something shifted within the old king.

Baelon’s reluctance, his refusal to chase the crown, landed more heavily than any eager claim might have.

For Jaehaerys had ruled long enough to know: a man who seeks the throne too eagerly is rarely fit to hold it.

But the one who resists? Who would carry it not for power, but for duty?

Such a man might well make a king.

He said nothing more, and neither did Baelon. The moment passed between them like the setting sun, wordless, but not forgotten.

Outside the window, the wind shifted.

Change was coming. Whether they welcomed it or not.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone, Queen Alysanne’s Chambers

A soft knock echoed against the thick oak door, barely audible over the wind battering the ancient stone walls of Dragonstone.

“Leave me alone,” came a tired voice from inside, low, worn, not angry but weary. It was the voice of a woman who had lost something too deep to name.

“It's me, Grandmother,” said Aegon, standing on the other side. His silver hair fell past his shoulders, slightly tousled from the sea breeze, his violet eyes bright but uncertain.

There was a long pause. Then the door creaked open slightly.

Queen Alysanne Targaryen stood within, her frame thinner than he remembered, her once proud shoulders now slouched in quiet sorrow.

Her silver hair, still regal, seemed duller in the flickering torchlight. The light that used to burn behind her eyes had dimmed.

“What is it, Aegon?” she asked softly, managing a faint smile.

Aegon hesitated, then said with boyish stiffness, “Nothing. It’s time for dinner.”

He looked up at her, trying to sound casual, but he’d overheard the maids whispering, that the Queen had refused most of her meals, that she barely left her chambers, that she’d spent days now in silence, surrounded by memories.

Since he had arrived at Dragonstone to accompany her, he had tried to be quiet, respectful, but worry gnawed at him.

“I’m not hungry,” Alysanne murmured, turning away and stepping back inside. “But thank you, sweet boy.”

She moved to sit by the hearth, her motion slow, her limbs tired. The chair creaked faintly as she settled. Aegon followed her in, gently closing the door behind him.

The room was dim, lit by a single cluster of candles near the fire.

Aegon approached her, then sat beside her, “Me too,” he said softly.

Alysanne looked over at him. “Me too?”

“I’m not hungry either,” he added, eyes downcast.

But even as he said it, his stomach betrayed him with a loud, unmistakable gurgle.

The sound broke the stillness like a pebble tossed into a pond.

Aegon stiffened, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Alysanne blinked, then a true smile crept across her face.

A smile with warmth, however fragile. She reached out and gently touched his silver hair, brushing it back.

“Well,” she said, her voice steadier now, “it seems one of us is lying.”

Aegon grinned sheepishly.

For the first time in days, Alysanne laughed, a quiet laugh, tinged with sadness but real. She looked down at the scroll spread across her lap.

One painted figure showed Prince Aemon, as a child, riding on a tiny wooden dragon carved by a craftsman from Driftmark.

“He was smaller than you when he first tried to climb onto his dragon,” she murmured. “Thought he could fly before he could ride. Nearly broke his leg jumping off the stairs.”

Aegon tilted his head with a smile.

“I told him if he wanted to fly so badly, he’d best grow wings.” She smiled to herself. “He didn’t speak to me for two days.”

She traced her finger gently over her son's name inked in the scroll, Aemon Targaryen, the pride of her heart, now reduced to words and memory.

Aegon sat quietly, letting the silence sit between them like a shared cloak. There was nothing he could say to fix the hollow in her chest, but he stayed, and that was enough.

The candles flickered. Outside, the wind howled faintly across the cliffs. The sea raged as it always did, unconcerned with the grief of queen.

Then, with a sigh and a smile tugging at her lips again, Alysanne said, “Come. Let’s go find something to eat before your stomach betrays you again.”

Aegon stood up quickly, then offered her his hand. She took it without hesitation.

Together, they walked slowly down the torchlit corridor, past carved dragon sconces and cold stone arches, toward the dining hall.

The long stone table had only three places set tonight. The hall, once built to host lords and dragonlords alike, echoed softly with the clink of silverware and the quiet crackle of torches.

Lady Jocelyn, widow of Prince Aemon, sat near the head, eating slowly. Her movements were graceful, even though her eyes seemed distant.

Grief rested on her shoulders like a worn shawl, but she bore it with dignity.

She was dressed simply, but her dark hair framed her face in elegant waves, and her beauty, even in mourning, was impossible to miss.

The creak of the doors opening drew her eyes up.

Queen Alysanne entered, arm in arm with young Prince Aegon. Jocelyn blinked, surprised. The Queen had barely left her chambers since arriving at Dragonstone, and certainly not for meals.

Her face lit with something between relief and nervousness, and she made herself stand.

But the Queen gave her a soft smile and a small shake of the head.

“Please, Jocelyn. Sit.”

Jocelyn nodded and eased back into her chair. As maids swept forward to serve roasted fish, greens, and black bread, Aegon and Alysanne quietly took their seats.

For a while, the only sounds were of quiet eating and the rustle of skirts and platters. Aegon tucked into his food with his healthy appetite, while his grandmother picked slowly at her meal.

Jocelyn watched them both for a time, her fingers gently wrapping around her cup.

Then, as if weighing her words carefully, Jocelyn spoke.

“It is said... the King means to name the new heir within a few weeks,” she said, softly but with purpose. “It seems Rhaenys’s claim is being… contested.”

She didn’t look directly at Alysanne but kept her tone measured, respectful, yet clearly hoping for a reaction. “By Prince Baelon,” she added, letting the name hang in the air.

The Queen said nothing, simply took another slow bite of her fish. Her silence was heavy.

Jocelyn tried again. “It is strange to think that my daughter, our daughter, may be overlooked for what is hers by birth.”

Still, Alysanne remained quiet.

Jocelyn glanced at Aegon, who was focused on his meal. She smiled gently. “Aegon has grown into a fine young man,” she said, tone warmer now.

“What do you think, nephew? Who will be declared the heir?”

The Queen’s eyes lifted then, not sharply, but with a trace of disapproval.

A slight frown creased her brow.

She did not like her grandson being drawn into this.

Aegon noticed the look but hesitated only a second.

He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with the cloth at his side.

Jocelyn's gaze lingered on him, kind, perhaps too kind.

He glanced at Jocelyn, at her smooth, pale skin and the gentle curve of her neck, framed by loose black hair.

Her dress, though modest by court standards, did little to hide the fullness of her figure. She had always been beautiful, and now with grief softening her eyes, there was something different, vulnerable, and alluring.

He blinked. No…stop. He shook the thought from his head quickly.

She’s your aunt. She’s in mourning. Be decent.

He swallowed, then answered.

“I think... the King will probably name my father.”

Jocelyn’s expression stiffened.

Alysanne tilted her head slightly, her interest piqued now.

Aegon continued, voice calm, clear. “I think Princess Rhaenys would make a fine queen. She’s strong. Smart. But the realm has never had a woman rule from the Iron Throne. Not truly.

The lords, many of them, would not take kindly to it. And if there’s unrest…”

He paused briefly.

“…Grandfather doesn’t like conflict. He avoids bloodshed when he can. Naming my father is the safer choice, for peace.”

Jocelyn blinked, surprised. She had expected something boyish, a naive sentiment, or perhaps family loyalty.

But his reasoning was calm, deliberate. For a moment, she opened her mouth to say something, but no words came.

Alysanne set down her knife gently.

“That is enough,” she said, not sharply, but with firmness. “This is not court. We do not speak of thrones and succession at the dinner table.”

Jocelyn lowered her gaze, chastened.

Silence fell once more. They finished the rest of their meal without further talk. The only sounds were the occasional clink of utensils and the distant crash of the sea.

Aegon kept his eyes mostly on his plate.

When the plates were cleared, Queen Alysanne rose first. “Thank you,” she said softly to the maids, then turned to the others. “I will retire.”

Jocelyn rose and bowed her head.

Aegon stood too. “I’ll walk you back,” he offered.

Alysanne nodded, and the two of them departed in silence.

Behind them, Lady Jocelyn sat back down, alone at the long table, eyes lingering on the empty table in front of her.

With a hand resting behind his head, Aegon Targaryen lay sprawled across his bed, staring at the shadowed canopy above.

The flickering orange glow from the brazier near the wall cast soft shapes on the ceiling, but his mind was far away.

He let out a long sigh.

The last few months have been… something.

Dragonstone was quieter than King’s Landing. The salt-laden winds and rhythmic crashing of waves helped him think, helped him decompress.

“Fucking teenage hormones,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

He was only eight, but his body now looked like that of a tall, lean boy of thirteen or fourteen.

It wasn’t just the height or the growing muscle definition, it was his voice beginning to deepen, the sharper angles forming in his jawline, and the way the older maids had started treating him just a little differently.

More and more, he noticed the soft smiles, the flutter of lashes, the subtle glances.

And under the influence of those damn hormones, he sometimes found his own gaze lingering where it shouldn’t.

They noticed. Of course they noticed.

And they smiled back.

Gods.

He shut his eyes and took a breath, pushing those thoughts down. They were distracting. He was not some hormonal child, not really.

That boyish hunger warred against a soul that had already lived a life once, an adult’s mind trapped in an ever-growing shell.

Focus.

His thoughts shifted, finally, to something that truly mattered, the new class he had just maxed out.

[ Class: Mental Adept (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Has resisted or consciously interacted with a supernatural mental effect (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 10.0 (satisfied)

- Must have completed at least 10 hours of self-guided meditation or introspective practice (satisfied) ]

[ Level 10 (MAX) ]

[ Trait : Inner Eye

(+65% awareness of hidden supernatural effects)

(+60% detection of supernatural presences)

(+60% mental defense against magical influences or false perceptions) ]

[ Trait : Thought Control

(+75% perfect memory in all situations)

(+75% ability to visualize and model structures or mechanics within the mind)

(+60% speed when creating mental frameworks or models) ]

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

He focused on the Tier 3 class he had tried to create four months ago, and the information unfolded before him like a carved inscription etched into his mind:

[ Class: Wizard Apprentice (Tier 3) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Max level Class: Occult Scholar (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Mental Adept (satisfied)

- Understanding of Runes (pending)

- INT ≥ 13.0 (satisfied)

- Magic ≥ 2.5 (satisfied) ]

[ Level 1 (000 / 10,000) ]

[ Trait : Spirituality

(+10% perception of ambient or hidden magical phenomena)

(+10% interaction with supernatural forces)

(+5% regeneration rate of Spirituality when resting or meditating) ]

[ Trait : Spellcraft

(+10% creation of mental spell models from runes)

(+10% stability of custom spell models during casting)

(−5% Spirituality and Magic cost when activating refined spell models) ]

[ Trait : Magic Control

(+10% control over magical power flow)

(+10% effectiveness in shaping or bending magic )

(+10% resistance to uncontrolled magical interference) ]

It was a powerful class, far beyond anything he had possessed until now. Everything about it screamed strength and power.

A path not just to wield magic but to understand and mold it.

The structure of the class laid out the path forward with unusual clarity. It even resolved the doubts he'd harbored about spells, revealing the system that governed them.

Spells were to be built as mental models formed from runes, powered jointly by Spirituality and Magic, and stored within the mind.

But there it was, the missing piece. Runes.

He had completely overlooked them when trying to create the class. Now it was clear. Without an understanding of runes, the class could not be created.

He had no concerns about his [INT] or [Magic] attributes.

Thanks to the [Occult Scholar] class, his [INT] had been steadily climbing with each analysis of the supernatural.

Months of consistent spellwork and arcane experimentation had finally pushed it past the 13-unit threshold.

Likewise, his [Magic] attribute had gradually increased through repeated spellcasting, recently reaching the required 2.5 units.

[

CON 7.3

STR 7.1

AGI 7.5

DEX 7.6

INT 13.2

Magic 2.5

]

His true focus now had to be on runes.

He had searched the records in Dragonstone’s vaults for anything on runes, focusing on old Valyrian texts, lost tongues, and ancient glyphs.

His search led him to scattered notes and translated fragments. Some older maesters had attempted to decode them.

According to what he found, runes were used by the First Men as a form of writing, long before the Andals brought the Common Tongue.

The runes were inscribed on stones, weapons, and artifacts.

Some scholars speculated they had magical significance, but these were always dismissed as superstition.

There was no consensus. Most believed they were purely symbolic.

So Aegon began searching for rune-engraved items. Stones from ancient barrows, old family items, broken weapons recovered from deep within castle storage.

He even brought his findings to the maesters, asking about their origins, purposes, anything.

But every time, he heard the same thing.

“There is nothing magical about them.”

“They’re just old markings.”

“Relics of a forgotten age.”

He checked them with his perception, invoking the senses granted by [Occult Scholar] and [Mental Adept]. But there was nothing. No glow, no pulse, no aura.

He wasted nearly a month chasing these dead ends.

His obsession didn’t go unnoticed.

One afternoon, as the golden light of the sun filtered through the high windows of the Queen’s solar, Queen Alysanne sat at the table with her grandson Aegon, sharing a quiet midday meal.

The servants had just cleared the first course, poached trout in lemon and herbs, when she set down her goblet of watered wine and turned to him with a thoughtful look in her eyes.

She dabbed her lips with a silk cloth, then said, "Aegon, may I ask you something, my dear?"

Aegon looked up from his plate, surprised by the tone. "Of course, Grandmother."

“I heard you’ve been searching through the old records, asking about runes and… things related to magic,” she said, her tone gentle but probing.

He nodded carefully. “Yes.”

She studied him for a moment. “You know, magic… if it ever truly existed, it hasn’t been seen in the world for many years. Most of what people believe about it comes from songs and stories. Myths and old wives’ tales.”

He looked up at her, expression unreadable. “Then it doesn’t exist?”

The Queen gave a small sigh. “I don’t say that with certainty. There are… strange things in this world. When your grandfather and I flew to the Wall many years ago, Vermithor and Silverwing both refused to cross it. No matter how hard we tried to push them forward, they turned back. We didn’t understand it then. We still don’t.”

She paused, watching him. “So, maybe… magic or gods or whatever it was, they do exist. Maybe not in the form the old tales describe. But if such forces are real, they should be respected. Cautioned against. Not toyed with.”

Aegon nodded slightly, then asked quietly, “What about pyromancers?”

Alysanne raised a brow. “There are records of them. Alchemists who claimed to control fire with their minds. But those are ancient stories. None have been seen since the Doom of Valyria.”

“Why?” she asked after a moment. “Why are you so interested in all this?”

He took a breath and gave the excuse he had prepared from the beginning, the one he knew he’d need.

“I’ve had dreams,” he said. “About magic. About… people using fire. Blood. Shadows. It’s unclear.”

Her face darkened slightly. “And do these dreams come often?”

“No,” Aegon lied. “Very rarely.”

The Queen was quiet for a long moment, then finally spoke. “I think you should stay away from those books… and from things related to witchcraft or magic. They can be dangerous, even if you don’t understand why.”

Aegon gave a small shrug, trying to appear casual, even playful. “I’m just curious, grandmother. It’s not serious or anything. The dreams were strange, and the stories sound... interesting. Like puzzles. That’s all.”

He offered a faint smile, the kind a boy might give after being caught sneaking an extra lemon cake. “It’s probably nothing. I just like reading about odd things. I get bored sometimes.”

Alysanne studied him for a few moments, her sharp eyes searching his face. Still, he didn’t seem frightened or disturbed. Just… inquisitive.

She sighed. “Books can feed the imagination, and dreams can play tricks. As long as you remember that.”

“I do,” he said quickly. “I’m just having a bit of fun.”

She shook her head, half amused, half concerned. “Alright then. But if you come across anything strange, truly strange, you come to me first. Understood?”

Aegon nodded with perfect obedience. “Of course.”

She ruffled his silver hair gently. “You’re a clever boy. Just don’t go chasing shadows and ghosts.”

“I won’t,” he said, his smile unchanged.

Since his efforts had yielded little of value about Runes so far, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

The Class Tree had hinted at their existence, which meant they had to be real, he simply hadn’t uncovered them yet.

So, he forged a new path.

A new Tier 2 class was created, focused solely on runic knowledge and discovery.

He had already pushed it to Level 6 just the month before, investing a total of 22,500 EXP to do so.

That left him with [EXP: 97,632] remaining.

[ Class: Rune Initiate (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Max level Class: Occult Scholar (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Mental Adept (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 11.0 (satisfied) ]

[ Level 6 (000 / 9000) ]

[ Trait : Rune Sense

(+35% speed of recognizing hidden or partial rune structures)

(+35% efficiency in creating simplified rune constructs from raw magical observations) ]

[ Trait : Rune Engraving

(+35% speed and accuracy when drafting or engraving structured rune sequences)

(+35% stability when layering runic patterns to form complex glyph constructs) ]

This class had sharpened Aegon's senses to a supernatural degree, awakening a new layer of perception, one he had never accessed before. He could now feel the flow of magical energy itself.

Within his mental perception, magical energy appeared as tiny pinpricks of black light, swirling and flickering in distinct rhythmic frequencies.

They weren’t static, they flowed, pulsing with intent and structure.

Aegon retrieved his notes, flipping to a page etched with a complex, three-dimensional diagram, the [Fire Rune].

Over the past month, he had carefully studied and deconstructed the magical structure behind his flamecraft spells.

The three spells—[Fireball], [Ring Burst], and [Fire Torrent], had each been carefully deconstructed and analyzed through the lens of his new perception.

By comparing the underlying magic flow, he had finally identified a shared pattern, the essence of fire itself.

That essence became the foundation of the [Fire Rune].

Now it was time to test it.

Aegon extended his hand, palm up, and closed his eyes.

He began tracing the fire rune mentally, visualizing its intricate structure while focusing just above his outstretched palm.

His mental perception scanned the space carefully, watching for even the slightest reaction.

At first, nothing happened.

But he persisted, again and again, refining his focus, repeating the rune in his mind with unwavering determination.

Then, a flicker.

He felt it: a subtle pull within his consciousness. The black pinpricks of magical light inside his body stirred, then began drifting toward the space above his palm, as if drawn by an invisible current.

Suddenly, with a gentle whoosh, a flickering flame sprang to life in the air above his hand.

The fire wavered, unstable, held together solely by the continuous tracing of the rune in his mind. He knew that the moment he lost focus, the flame would vanish.

Even so, he felt a surge of elation.

Mental fatigue set in quickly. He stopped tracing the rune and withdrew his perception.

The fire collapsed instantly, like a torch snuffed by wind. Yet he remained smiling, sweat on his brow and satisfaction in his heart.

Then, a pulse from deep within his mind, the Class Tree.

[Prerequisite Fulfilled.]

[Class: Wizard Apprentice – Creation Successful.]

Aegon felt something shift within his consciousness. His mental energy twisted, folded upon itself, and condensed, gaining both weight and clarity.

It grew dense and alive, and for a moment, pain stabbed through his mind as if space itself resisted the transformation. Then, with a sudden pop, something within him gave way.

Relief washed over him.

A cool sensation spread through his skull as his newly forged mental power, spirituality, vanished into an unseen void, drawn toward something greater.

The Class Tree followed, sinking into that same hidden space without resistance.

Yet Aegon wasn’t alarmed. Instinct told him: This was his Mental Space.

The moment the class [Wizard Apprentice] awakened, it had imprinted knowledge of this space into his mind.

He turned inward to explore it.

There it was, a vast, black expanse, filled with drifting bluish mist: Spirituality, alive and flowing like ethereal vapor. At the center floated the Class Tree, serene and suspended in the void.

Returning to the physical world, Aegon opened his eyes and activated his new power.

His spirituality unfolded around him in a ten-meter sphere, enveloping the world like a second skin.

Instantly, everything within range lit up in his mind: objects, textures, materials, colors, details layered with clarity no human eye could ever perceive.

Spirituality wasn’t just energy or mental power. It was a limb, an extension of himself.

A supernatural power born of mind.

He checked his attributes:

[

CON 7.3

STR 7.1

AGI 7.5

DEX 7.6

INT 13.2

Magic 2.5

Spirituality 1.0

]

As expected, a new derivative stat had been added, Spirituality.

He was confident there would be no clash between derivative stats, because he had never gotten around to adding that particular restriction to the Class Tree before he died in his past life.

He had planned to implement a rule in the Class Tree, a player could develop only one derivative stat.

If a player created classes that generated multiple derivative stats, such as both Magic and Qi, they would suffer a strong, permanent debuff, like a reduction in primary stats (CON, STR, DEX, AGI, INT).

This restriction would have prevented players from taking both classes like: Magician and Martial Artist without serious penalties.

Fortunately, he had not added that rule before his death.

That oversight had now become a gift. A rare, incredibly valuable gift.

But I still need to be cautious. This is reality, not a game. I can’t guarantee that having multiple derivative stats active at once won’t lead to unintended consequences.

That uncertainty was one of the key reasons he created the [Wizard Apprentice] class in the first place.

Unlike Magic, Spirituality was a power that originated entirely from his own mind and consciousness, and was under his complete control.

The [Wizard Apprentice] class was designed to grant him a powerful supernatural research capability, enabling him to develop new classes in the future through a more systematic and structured approach.

But I cannot upgrade it now…

Though the [Wizard Apprentice] class had been successfully created, it could not be upgraded yet.

According to the rules of the Class Tree, only one class can be upgraded at a time.

Evening – Dragonstone, Dragon Caves

A gust of wind swept through the wide mouth of the cave as Dreamfyre, her shimmering blue scales glinting in the fading light, swooped in with a low, resonant roar.

Her wings kicked up ash and dust, causing the dragon keepers already stationed at the entrance to raise their cloaks over their faces.

“My prince…” they greeted as Aegon dismounted smoothly, one hand gripping a worn leather satchel filled with notes.

He gave a small nod in response, already sending a mental nudge to the dragon.

Rest. You’ve done well.

Dreamfyre growled in reply, the deep rumble echoing through the stone. She moved past the keepers without hesitation, her talons clicking against the rock, disappearing into the deeper chambers of the cave.

One of the younger keepers flinched at her passing.

Aegon didn’t stay to chat. He turned sharply and headed toward the castle.

They must be in the dining hall by now, he thought, quickening his pace.

Best not keep grandmother waiting longer.

He detoured briefly to his chamber, throwing off his flight leathers and tucking his notes under the wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

A splash of cold water across his face, a change into fresh tunic and doublet, and he was gone again.

Queen Alysanne sat at the head of the long table, her posture relaxed but regal, cup of mulled wine in hand.

Beside her sat her daughters Maegelle and Gael, and Lady Jocelyn, quietly sharing court stories. The meal had already begun, roasted duck, baked apples, and thick black bread with honeyed butter.

“Where is Aegon?” Gael asked, her voice soft but clear, eyes flicking to the door for the third time in as many minutes.

Queen Alysanne sighed, “Late again…” Then her tone turned teasing. “Why, Gael, do you miss him already?”

Gael’s cheeks flared pink, and she looked down at her plate, flustered.

Maegelle covered a laugh with her cup.

Lady Jocelyn smirked and raised an eyebrow toward the queen. There was no malice, just knowing looks, they all had seen it for weeks now.

The doors opened, wood groaning slightly on the iron hinges.

Aegon entered, composed and freshly washed, hair damp.

“My apologies,” he said with a slight bow of the head. “I came a little late.”

Queen Alysanne gave him a pointed look, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her fondness. “You always come back late from flying, Aegon. One day you’ll make us believe you’ve flown off across the sea.”

“I wouldn’t go that far without telling you,” he said with a smile, settling into the empty seat beside Gael.

She greeted him with a quiet, "Welcome back," not quite meeting his eyes.

He noticed her blush but said nothing.

Maegelle passed him a plate. “You missed the part about Lady Staunton’s scandal.”

“Did I?” Aegon replied dryly. “A tragedy, truly.”

Queen Alysanne chuckled softly. “Eat, and then tell me what you saw in the sky today. I expect at least one good story for the evening.”

Taking a deep breath, Aegon set his fork down, his expression shifting subtly but unmistakably. The glint of humor vanished from his eyes, replaced by a calm, steady seriousness.

“Umm… actually, about that,” he began, his gaze briefly sweeping across the table before settling on Queen Alysanne. “I need to have a conversation with you… alone.”

The words, spoken softly yet with quiet weight, caused a ripple of surprise across the table.

Gael blinked, her hand pausing halfway to her cup.

Maegelle and Lady Jocelyn exchanged a glance, curiosity flickering behind their composed faces, though none of them dared voice it aloud.

Queen Alysanne studied her grandson carefully for a moment, her wine cup halfway to her lips.

She could see it, whatever Aegon wanted to speak of, it wasn’t trivial.

That rare, composed tension in his voice always came before something important, perhaps something troubling.

“All right,” she said at last, setting the cup down with deliberate gentleness. “Then come to my chambers after dinner.”

Aegon gave a respectful nod. “Thank you.”

The table went quiet for a few heartbeats, the clinking of cutlery and soft rustling of cloth resumed.

Gael looked down again, twisting a piece of bread in her fingers.

Maegelle resumed talking lightly about the rumor involving Lord Mooton’s daughter and a Braavosi musician, trying to dispel the shift in mood.

Queen Alysanne, while smiling, responded to her daughters’ conversation.

Chapter Text

“Knock, knock,” came the soft, deliberate taps on the chamber door.

Queen Alysanne, still seated in her chair by the hearth, lifted her gaze.

“Come in,” she called, her voice calm and firm.

The door creaked open, and Aegon stepped in, his face lit gently by the firelight. A maid was near the bed, adjusting the pillows.

“Leave us,” said the Queen, her tone gentler this time. The maid immediately bowed to her and then to Aegon before slipping out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

“Sit, Aegon,” she said, gesturing to the cushioned chair across from her.

Aegon obeyed quietly, lowering himself into the chair with grace well beyond his years.

The silence between them was warm but heavy.

Queen Alysanne watched him fondly. Her eyes softened, as they always did when she looked at him.

Her daughter had died giving birth to him, and though Alyssa had borne two sons before, it was Aegon who felt like the closest living piece of her.

A final, irreplaceable link to the daughter she had lost.

She had raised him herself, doted on him, taught him to read, to reason, to question.

Not just a grandson, he was hers, in every sense that mattered.

She remembered the day he’d climbed Dreamfyre’s back at only seven.

Gods, how her heart had nearly stopped.

She could still remember how she had rushed towards the dragonpit, only to find him in the skies of Kingslanding on top of Dreamfyre.

Her grandson, the youngest dragonrider Westeros had ever seen.

Oh, how proud she had been. After that, every court lady wanted to know her secret.

“How do you raise a child so well-mannered? So brave?” they would ask.

Alysanne had only smiled and deflected their awe, though inside, she’d glowed with pride.

“So…” she began, her voice light but curious, “what did you wish to tell me?”

Aegon exhaled slowly. His hands rested on his knees, but they flexed ever so slightly, betraying a quiet tension.

He didn’t meet her eyes right away.

“Umm… Grandmother,” Aegon said, his voice careful but steady, “do you remember when we talked about my dreams… dreams about magic, fire, and blood… a couple of months ago?”

Queen Alysanne’s brows knit slightly, and she leaned forward in her chair.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “And I also remember telling you to let me know if you ever found anything unusual.”

Her tone shifted, concerned now.

“Did something happen?”

Aegon nodded. “Yes… about that.”

He hesitated only a moment more before taking a deep breath.

“I’ve discovered the reason why I have those dreams,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze.

There was no doubt in his eyes, only certainty.

He slowly raised his right hand, palm facing upward.

“It seems… I am a Pyromancer.”

Alysanne’s lips parted in confusion, but before she could ask, a whisper of flame sparked to life in the center of her grandson's palm.

Then, in a breath, it grew, a silent, controlled swirl of fire, suspended just above his hand, burning brightly without heat or smoke.

“Ah—!” she gasped, flinching back instinctively as her hand shot to grip the side of the chair, as if for balance.

Her breath caught, heart skipping a beat, eyes wide with disbelief at the sight before her.

Is this a trick? Some new sleight of hand?

But the fire stayed. Alive, precise.

And then, her grandson moved it.

“Do not be scared, Grandmother,” he said gently.

“I can control it.”

The flame twisted, reshaping itself like clay made of light. It flattened, lengthened, hardened, into the shape of a flaming sword.

Then it melted again, curling and shifting mid-air into a tiny dragon, wings of living fire flapping as it circled above their heads with a low hum, casting flickering shadows along the chamber walls.

She began breathing heavily, her mind still in daze from what was before her eyes.

Pyromancy…

A word from myth. From the whispered pages of lost Valyrian tomes.

Something no living person had seen since the Doom.

And here it was.

In her grandson’s hand.

In Aegon’s hands.

“This… how…” his grandmother stammered, struggling to form the words, her fingers trembling faintly.

Aegon's expression swiftly shifted to concern as he caught sight of his grandmother, who stared at him in shock and visibly shaken.

He closed his hand, and the fire vanished at once, no smoke, no scent. Gone like a dream.

He stood up and crossed to her chair, kneeling beside her.

“Are you okay, Grandmother?” he asked softly, placing a hand on her arm.

His voice carried none of the pride that had shone in his demonstration, only concern.

Alysanne looked into his eyes, the same eyes she had seen since he was a babe in her arms, and slowly, shakily, she nodded.

She drew in two long breaths, steadying her heartbeat.

“I… I’m alright,” she said finally, still a bit breathless.

Her hand found his and squeezed it.

“I just never thought… never imagined…” She blinked, fighting to hold back the flood of emotions.

A heavy silence hung between them, Alysanne’s mind still reeling from what she had just witnessed.

After a pause, she finally spoke, her voice low but charged with gravity:

“Aegon, do you realize what this means?”

He gave a faint smile. “I have some idea.”

Her eyes searched his again.

She wasn’t just looking at her grandson now.

She was seeing history reborn.

A legacy that had died with the Freehold… rekindled in the blood of a boy.

Her own grandson.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

And she meant it more than she had ever meant anything.

She stayed silent for a moment longer, her eyes still fixed on Aegon as if afraid he might vanish like a dream.

The reality of what she had just witnessed clung to her like mist, thick, unreal, but undeniably there.

Then, at last, she exhaled, the tension softening from her shoulders.

Seeing her calm at last, Aegon allowed himself a breath of relief.

He returned to his seat beside the hearth, resting his hands in his lap.

His eyes met his grandmother’s, who watched him with a blend of shock, affection, and deep concern.

“Should we let the King know?” he asked quietly.

Queen Alysanne nodded slowly at first, then firmer. “Yes… Yes. Jaehaerys must know.”

She stood then, more suddenly than he expected, and moved toward him.

She pulled him into a hug, her arms strong, her breath warm with emotion.

He felt her grip tighten for a moment longer than usual, as though she feared letting go.

Pride, love, shock, and an edge of unease warred in her chest, tangled like threads of different cloth.

But one thing stood unshaken, her love for the boy she had raised.

No discovery could undo that.

She pulled back just enough to cup his cheek briefly, her hand soft, eyes misted but steady.

“I will send the ravens,” she said, her voice composed again. “Stay here until I return.”

Aegon gave a slight nod. “Yes, Grandmother.”

Without another word, she turned and swept from the room with a sudden urgency, her long skirts whispering against the stone floor.

The door closed behind her with a low click.

Aegon leaned back into the chair.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, the only sound in the room. Shadows danced across the stone walls, flickering like faint memories.

He glanced at his hand, the same hand that had held flame just moments ago, and flexed his fingers slowly.

So it begins, he thought.

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – Late Night

The Red Keep lay under a blanket of silence, broken only by the occasional gust of wind brushing against the ancient stone walls.

Inside, the king’s chamber glowed faintly with the flicker of dying candlelight.

King Jaehaerys I Targaryen sat alone on a high balcony, wrapped in a thick cloak, his silver hair glinting faintly under the stars.

The cool night air brushed against his weathered face as he gazed up, eyes reflecting the sky above.

At nearly sixty, the weight of the realm lay heavy on his shoulders, and in these quiet moments, he found his only peace.

The hush was broken by urgent footsteps. A servant burst in, flanked closely by the towering figure of Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The polished white enamel of his armor gleamed under the torchlight.

“Your Grace,” the servant panted, slightly bowed. “A raven has arrived. A letter… from the Queen.”

Jaehaerys turned, brow lifting in surprise. “Alysanne?” he said, rising slowly from his chair. “At this hour?”

He had not received word from her in months, not since she’d taken her leave to reside in Dragonstone. That she would send a raven now, and in the dead of night, unsettled him.

The parchment was sealed with the royal crest. He cracked it open with steady fingers, but as his eyes scanned the neatly written lines in his wife’s hand, his expression changed.

His brow furrowed. His eyes widened. Then, silence.

He read the letter twice, thrice.

“Gods,” he whispered.

He lowered the parchment slowly, his knuckles whitening as he clutched it.

“She wouldn’t lie,” he muttered to himself. “She wouldn’t imagine this.”

He looked up, his voice suddenly sharp with urgency. “Send for Prince Baelon. Immediately. Wake him if you must.”

The servant dashed out the door without a word.

Jaehaerys turned to Ser Ryam, his voice low but commanding. “Have the dragonkeepers ready Vermithor and Vhagar. We fly to Dragonstone. Tonight.”

The knight hesitated for only a breath, then bowed deeply. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The castle burst into a quiet storm of activity.

Dragonkeepers were roused from sleep, torches lit the paths down into the dragonpit, and the deep roars of dragons echoed faintly in the distance as they were prepared.

Within the hour, two shadows rose from the pit and streaked across the sky, the massive wings of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, and Vhagar, ancient and colossal, blotting out stars as they beat toward the east.

From below, night sentries of the city watch looked skyward in silent awe, torches flickering in the sudden wind.

Two dragons, one bearing a king and the other a prince, soared through the darkness, toward the island of Dragonstone, toward the Queen, and toward a truth that defied reason.

Chapter Text

Aegon stood quietly near the far end of the Painted Table.

There was a stillness about him, calm on the surface, but a sharp eye would catch the flicker of tension behind his eyes, the careful control in every movement.

His grandmother had instructed him to dress properly and wait in the hall alongside his aunts and Lady Jocelyn.

She had entered earlier, accompanied by two of her most trusted retainers and a pair of older maesters, their faces drawn with confusion and quiet concern.

The summons had been abrupt, without explanation.

Just a single, firm command from the Queen: "Assemble in the Hall of the Painted Table. Now."

Now, low murmurs rippled through the chamber like the restless pull of the tide.

“She called us here at this hour and won’t say why?”

“Do you think someone’s died?”

“She looked pale when she returned from her chambers… pale and trembling.”

“No... not trembling. More like... lit from within.”

Aegon remained still. He heard every whisper but offered no response.

They didn’t know yet. None of them did. Only the Queen.

Queen Alysanne stepped forward at last, seeing that all were present.

She took a steady breath, and then smiled.

Not a soft smile, but one tinged with pride and quiet astonishment.

“The King will be arriving shortly,” she announced.

There were gasps. Eyes widened.

The King, at this hour?

Before more questions could rise, Queen Alysanne raised her hand, graceful, deliberate.

The room quieted at once, the last few murmurs dying on uncertain lips.

“Something has happened tonight,” she said, her voice steady, neither loud nor forceful, but carried with the quiet authority only she possessed.

“Something rare… something that may one day be remembered in the annals of our House.”

Her gaze swept across the gathered faces, curious, confused, half-drowsy.

“You were summoned not to be told,” she continued, “but to bear witness.”

A taut silence followed, heavy with questions no one dared ask aloud.

Even the crackling braziers seemed to soften, the firelight shifting across carved stone.

She looked to each of them, her gaze sweeping across the room, Maegelle’s puzzled expression, Lady Jocelyn’s narrowed eyes, Gael’s nervous curiosity.

“You will understand soon enough,” Alysanne said. “When the King arrives, all will be made clear.”

Whatever had happened tonight, it was no small thing. And the Queen’s composed but shining expression made one thing certain...

This was no crisis.

It was a revelation.

Then it came.

A sound like thunder rolling across the world.

A deep, guttural roar echoed from the cliffs above, rumbling down through the stone corridors of Dragonstone like the voice of an ancient god.

Vermithor.

Moments later, a sharper, shriller cry split the night air, higher, more piercing.

Vhagar.

The great stone corridors of Dragonstone echoed with the heavy footfalls of two Targaryens, one old, one in his prime, both cloaked in shadow and storm.

The chill of the sea air seeped in through the narrow, carved windows, and torches flickered along the walls, casting wavering light on the damp grey stone.

King Jaehaerys I walked with quiet urgency, his long cloak brushing the floor behind him, his face unreadable but tight with anticipation.

Beside him strode Prince Baelon, taller and broader, his silver-blond hair still mussed from sleep, jaw clenched in a scowl that hadn’t eased since Vhagar took flight.

Every servant they passed bowed deeply, stepping back against the wall.

The guards along the halls straightened, silent and watchful, offering deep nods of respect to both King and Prince.

Baelon’s boots thudded heavily against the stone as they descended a wide staircase.

His expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and restrained fury. In his hand he still clutched the folded letter, crumpled slightly at the corners.

His voice was low but tight as he spoke for the first time since leaving the dragonpit.

“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “My son? Pyromancer?” He scoffed, but there was no humor in it. Only a growing knot of unease.

He shot a glance at his father. “Are you sure Mother wasn’t…”

“Your mother knows what she sees,” Jaehaerys said firmly, not looking at him. “She would not send word unless it was real.”

Baelon exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then we’ll see it. With our own eyes.”

“But if Aegon tricked her somehow, if he’s been playing at magic to get attention, I swear by the Seven… I’ll beat his little arse till dawn.”

Jaehaerys didn’t respond. His eyes were locked forward, the burden of what might await weighing heavier than any threat or lecture.

They turned the final corner, and at the end of the hallway stood the great black doors of the Hall of the Painted Table, carved with ancient dragons.

Two guards swung them open without a word.

The doors creaked open with a low groan, and in stepped King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon.

The latter looked stiff with tension, jaw tight, while the king’s aged face was unreadable, cast in sharp lines by the flickering firelight.

Everyone in the room immediately bowed.

"Your Grace," came the united murmur.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by hanging braziers and wall sconces.

The massive, carved table that depicted Westeros in rich detail sat at the center of the chamber like a sleeping beast.

Around it stood Queen Alysanne, dressed regally despite the late hour, her face composed but shadowed with pride.

Beside her stood Lady Jocelyn, widow of Prince Aemon.

Maegelle, the Queen’s daughter, wore the modest greys of the Faith, hands folded loosely in front of her, her face serene but curious.

Gael, hovered near Maegelle. Fair and bright-eyed, she strained to look dignified, though wonder flickered behind her eyes.

Aegon stood near the far end of the table.

The king gave a brief nod, his gaze sweeping across the chamber before settling on the Queen.

She returned it with a curt, silent nod, an acknowledgment, not a reconciliation.

The air between them was cold, still holding the weight of unresolved argument.

“Mother,” Baelon said quietly as he passed her, dipping his head.

She gave him a gentle, silent look, then returned her attention to the center of the room.

Jaehaerys stepped forward, his expression hard to read, but his eyes soon fixed on the boy at the far end.

He studied Aegon intently for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

“Show me.”

His voice was low, steady, and cut through the chamber like a blade.

The sudden command made heads turn sharply. All eyes shifted to the boy at the far end of the hall.

And in that instant, they understood.

The “historic moment” the Queen had spoken of… was him.

Aegon Targaryen.

Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly toward his grandmother.

She gave him a faint, reassuring nod.

The boy straightened, took in a slow breath, and stepped forward.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, slowly and clearly.

He raised his right hand, palm turned upward.

At first, there was nothing. Then, with a subtle shimmer in the air above his hand, a flame burst into existence, suspended just above his skin.

Gasps echoed through the room.

The flame flickered and danced, but did not smoke or sputter.

A perfect sphere of fire hovered in stillness, warm and golden.

“I can shape them according to my wishes,” he said.

The flame twisted, elongating until it became a fiery blade.

Whispers rose around the room as the sword floated, glowing with orange heat.

Then it melted into a stream of sparks and twisted again, this time into the form of a tiny dragon, wings of fire beating slowly.

The dragon hovered above the table, gliding past the shocked faces of the queen's daughters, swooping once over Gael’s head, who let out a small squeak, before circling around and returning to Aegon.

He caught it gently in his palm, the fire compressing again into a perfect sphere.

And then, with a simple breath, he closed his fingers and extinguished it.

Silence.

Everyone stared at the boy, mouths slightly agape.

Even the seasoned maesters, who had seen births, deaths, and worse, looked stunned.

Maegelle’s lips moved in a silent prayer.

Gael looked like she’d just seen a miracle.

Baelon’s jaw had gone slack.

He blinked and glanced at his mother, who only raised a brow slightly as if to say I told you so.

Then the King laughed.

It started low, a rumble in his chest, but quickly grew louder, genuine, joyous, almost boyish in its delight.

He stepped forward and clapped Aegon on the shoulder, then turned to face the room.

“A pyromancer,” he said, still breathless from laughter. “By all the gods... a Valyrian pyromancer has been born into our family.”

He turned, arms partially raised, addressing everyone as if proclaiming from a throne.

“The magic of Old Valyria has returned to the world.”

“It flows in the blood of my grandson. You’ve all seen it with your own eyes!”

There were murmurs of awe, some uncertain, others reverent.

“This is no trick. No illusion. This…this is heritage,” the King declared.

“A gift buried by ash and time, now reborn in flame.”

Baelon stepped forward at last, still staring at his son. His voice was low, a little hoarse.

“Seven help me… You truly weren’t lying to her.”

Aegon tilted his head slightly, looking up at his father with a calm, almost amused expression.

“Why would you think I’d lie to her?” he asked softly.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then let out a breathy chuckle and reached forward to clap his son on the shoulder, harder than necessary, perhaps to mask his own discomfort.

Aegon gave him a faint smile but said nothing more.

Queen Alysanne remained quiet, but a small, proud smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

The King sank slowly into a carved chair near the head of the table.

The others followed suit, rustling robes and shifting chairs echoing in the quiet chamber.

Aegon remained standing a moment longer, then took his seat beside his grandmother.

And then came the questions.

Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, hands folded before him.

“How… When did this happen?” His voice was calm but charged with curiosity.

Around the room, every face turned toward Aegon, Lady Jocelyn’s eyes sharp, Maegelle’s dazed expression, and Gael practically leaning over the table in anticipation.

“I don’t know exactly when,” Aegon said slowly. “It started with dreams…dreams of fire, of blood… of magic.”

At the mention of dreams, King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon exchanged a glance.

Baelon’s brow furrowed, skepticism plain on his face.

“Dreams?” he echoed, the word carrying a quiet disbelief, as if unsure whether to dismiss it or be concerned.

Jaehaerys said nothing, but his expression shifted, subtle, contemplative.

His eyes lingered on Aegon, weighing the boy’s words with the gravity of a man who had heard such things before.

Aegon nodded, steadying his voice with the answers he had already prepared. “Yes. But it was just yesterday that I started feeling... different. Like something inside me was waiting to be noticed. I didn’t think much of it at first.”

“But when I was flying Dreamfyre…” he paused briefly, letting the image settle in their minds, “...I felt it again. A pull, from within.”

His voice had a quiet conviction to it now. “So I landed on a hill and listened. And when I did… the fire answered. It was just there, waiting.”

“I tested it for hours before I returned and told Grandmother.”

All eyes turned to Queen Alysanne.

She gave a slight nod. “He came to me with talk of dreams. At first, I thought of them as nothing more than a child’s fantasy.”

A small, almost wistful smile touched her lips. “But it seems they were something far greater.” Her gaze lingered on Aegon, warm with pride and fierce, protective love.

Baelon cleared his throat. “Could you… show the flames again?”

The Queen and King turned their heads sharply toward him.

Baelon lifted a hand in a sheepish shrug. “I’m just curious if the flames are… hot enough. So he doesn’t burn himself, accidentally.”

He gave Aegon a sidelong look, half teasing.

Alysanne shot him a look only a mother could give, both amused and exasperated.

“A pyromancer burning himself down,” she scoffed.

Her eyes narrowed. “Enough demonstrations have been made.”

Aegon gave a small shrug, complying without argument.

One of the maesters, a lean, sharp-nosed man with a voice like dry parchment, cleared his throat.

“If Your Graces would allow,” he began cautiously, “I would recommend a full examination. Just to ensure there are no… adverse effects on the young prince’s health. Magic, after all, is unpredictable.”

Chapter Text

A brief silence followed.

The King’s jaw tensed, a flicker of irritation shadowing his features, but before he could speak, Aegon did.

His voice came low, even, but laced with steel.

“I am not an object, Maester,” Aegon said.

“I don’t need to be studied. I can control my flames.”

“And I can control myself.”

The words hung in the air like coals left to smolder, quiet, yet burning.

Aegon’s pulse was steady, but his fingertips itched faintly, a familiar warmth coiling inside his body, the same heat that answered when he summoned fire.

He kept it leashed, just as he kept his tone from flaring.

There was no need to raise his voice. Not when the truth cut so clean.

The room stilled.

The maester blinked, caught off guard. Aegon had pierced right through him, not just the words, but the intent behind them.

His mouth parted, fumbling for a reply.

“I didn’t mean…”

“You did,” said Queen Alysanne as her eyes locked on the maester like a hawk considering a rat in her dovecote.

“And I believe the Prince has made himself clear.”

The maester’s throat clicked shut. He bowed his head, pale, the unspoken reprimand weighing heavy in the charged air.

A cold bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

Baelon gave a slow, predatory smile.

“Seems the Citadel trains its minds but forgets to teach them respect,” he muttered, voice cold and sharp as flint.

The maester flinched. He stepped back quietly, retreating into the shadows of the chamber, cowed.

Around the table, a quiet understanding dawned like a slow, collective breath held too long.

Lady Jocelyn’s brows were raised, her eyes locked on Aegon.

She looked at him, and saw not a child, but something else.

Not just blood of the dragon… but something rarer still.

Something that would interest many eyes across the realm, powerful eyes.

Eyes that remembered the old tales, whispered of pyromancers and fire-speaking sorcerers from the ashes of Valyria.

The older maester beside the sharp-nosed one, his face slack with age, jowls trembling, bowed his head, not in reverence, but regret.

As though silently distancing himself from his colleague’s blunder.

Aegon said nothing. He didn’t need to.

He was not merely a prince. Not merely a dragonrider. He was a Valyrian pyromancer.

A creature of story and legend, born anew in flesh and flame.

And if anyone dared to treat him like a curiosity, or worse, a threat, they would not face just his wrath.

They would face the fury of House Targaryen.

Later that night, after the wonder had cooled into silence, the royal family and household retired to their chambers.

The fire had burned late into the night in Dragonstone, but no one spoke much after.

The King and Queen exchanged a few words.

Everyone had their thoughts, their doubts, their awe.

And soon, Dragonstone settled into sleep.

But before drifting to sleep, Aegon had one more thing to do.

Currently, his class [Rune Initiate] was at level 6.

Wasting no more time, he immediately transferred the experience into it:

[-45,000 EXP]

[Class Level Increased: 6 → 10]

[EXP: 58,906]

[ Class: Rune Initiate (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Max level Class: Occult Scholar (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Mental Adept (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 11.0 ]

[ Level 10 (MAX) ]

[ Trait : Rune Sense

(+55% speed of recognizing hidden or partial rune structures)

(+55% efficiency in creating simplified rune constructs from raw magical observations) ]

[ Trait : Rune Engraving

(+55% speed and accuracy when drafting or engraving structured rune sequences)

(+55% stability when layering runic patterns to form complex glyph constructs) ]

The change was immediate.

His thoughts sharpened, and patterns began to flicker through his mind, clearer, more coherent than ever before.

The flow of magic, the runes he had studied, the principles he’d uncovered, all of it converged, sparking fresh ideas.

Alongside this clarity came new understanding, not just of runes themselves, but of how to discover them, shape them, and combine them into more complex forms.

He felt the urge to experiment immediately, but it was already deep into the night.

He sighed, forcing himself to wait.

I will test it later

And with a small, satisfied breath, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

The next day, everyone slept until the sun was high.

At midday, they gathered again, this time in the solar for a quiet lunch.

The wind off the Narrow Sea blew gently through the open shutters, and the scent of roasted fish, lemon and bread filled the air.

King Jaehaerys set down his goblet and swept his gaze around the table, his voice calm but firm, carrying the gravity of a ruler speaking not just to his kin, but to history.

“This is no small wonder,” he said.

“It must be honored, not in silence, but before the eyes of the realm.”

“In two moons, when spring arrives, we shall hold a royal hunt. Let it stand as a celebration of the return of true Valyrian magic.”

He then turned to the older maester at his side.

“Send word to every great house, from Winterfell to Reach. Let them all know: the magic of Valyria lives again in House Targaryen.”

Baelon gave a low, approving chuckle. “Now that will have the lords talking.”

He grinned, setting his goblet down with a satisfied thump.

“As for you,” he added, turning to Aegon, “meet me in the training yard after this. I want to see what a pyromancer can really do.”

Aegon raised a brow, halfway through a bite of bread.

Queen Alysanne cut in gently, though a note of amusement colored her voice.

“Don’t pester him too much, Baelon. He’s a boy, not a fire barrel.”

"I want to see too," Gael said softly, her voice laced with shy excitement.

“Then we’ll all watch,” said the Queen, her eyes lingering on Aegon. “I admit… I’m curious myself.”

Aegon looked around the table, seeing their eager face, his grandmother’s steady gaze, his father’s challenge, his aunt’s gentle smiles, even the spark in Gael’s eyes.

The King, seated at the head of the table, said nothing, just watched them all with a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Aegon gave a small, confident nod.

“I think I can manage something interesting.”

Dragonstone Castle, Training Yard

The clash of steel faded into silence as the guards paused mid-drill, turning toward the new arrivals, especially the silver-haired boy beside Prince Baelon.

Whispers had already begun to ripple through the castle’s halls: Prince Aegon, a Valyrian pyromancer, reborn from the ashes of legend.

It started in hushed tones among the maids, passed in wonder between kitchen hands, then carried by torchlight to the soldiers in the yard.

Some were awestruck, others skeptical, and a few simply curious, wondering if the tales were truth or rumor dressed in silver and flame.

Up on the viewing balcony stood King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, joined by Lady Jocelyn, Maegelle, and bright-eyed Gael.

The Queen wore a light shawl against the wind, her hands clasped as she stared down at the yard.

Baelon stood on the training field, sword in hand, opposite Aegon, who wore no armor and looked more amused than concerned.

The King turned slightly to the Queen beside him. His voice was soft, almost reverent.

“First the youngest dragonrider… and now, a pyromancer.”

The Queen didn’t look at him at first.

Then, after a pause, she said quietly, “Alyssa gave us a gift before she left us.”

Jaehaerys looked at her, surprised by the sudden softening in her tone.

“Yes,” he murmured, his gaze distant as memories of their lost daughter stirred. “She truly did.”

The Queen turned to him fully now, her expression firm.

“We must protect him properly. The world won’t be kind to a boy with such power.”

The King’s face darkened slightly with understanding. He gave a single, solemn nod.

“They’ll have to go through us first.”

A shout from the yard drew their attention back.

On the ground, Baelon was pacing in a wide arc, sword drawn.

“Come now, boy! Show me what the songs will write of. Don’t go shy now!”

Aegon let out a long sigh, shaking his head.

“Father, please step back.”

“What?” Baelon snorted. “Afraid you’ll singe me? Come on. I’m not that old.”

“You’re not old,” Aegon muttered under his breath, “just reckless.”

The guards nearby, who had stopped their training when the pair entered, watched with wide eyes.

Whispers passed among them. Everyone had heard the tale whispered through the castle the night before.

Aegon gave one last glance to the balcony, his grandparents, his aunts, and Lady Jocelyn all watching with sharp eyes and bated breath.

He drew in a slow breath.

This is it.

What he showed here, how much power, how much control, would decide his future.

If he held back, they’d think him fragile, an anomaly to be hidden away, swaddled in protection like a rare bird.

But if he proved strength… if he made them feel it…then perhaps they’d give him what he truly wanted.

Freedom. Resources. Respect.

Aegon stepped forward. The courtyard felt larger now, as if the stone itself were holding its breath. His palm rose, steady.

The air around him shimmered. Heat coiled up his arm like a serpent.

Then…

[Spell: Fireball]

A burst of flame swirled to life above his hand, twice the size of a clenched fist, the core burning white-hot, edges flickering orange and gold.

The guards stiffened. Even the wind seemed to draw back.

Aegon then released the fireball.

It shot through the air like a blazing comet, striking the armored training dummy dead-center with explosive, unerring force.

BOOM.

Flames exploded outward, wrapping the figure in a violent embrace.

The impact rang out like a war drum, echoing against the stone walls. The force was enough to knock the dummy halfway off its stand.

The flames didn’t sputter. They clung.

Armor glowed red, then blackened. Smoke curled thick into the air, acrid and sharp.

A few soldiers staggered back on instinct, hands rising to shield their faces. One dropped his spear.

A gasp rippled across the balcony.

Gael squeaked aloud and clutched Maegelle’s arm, eyes wide as saucers.

Maegelle herself blinked rapidly, her usual poise shaken. Jocelyn pressed a hand to her chest, lips parted in shock.

The retainers exchanged uneasy glances, each silently wondering what their fate might’ve been had they stood where the dummy did.

Jaehaerys leaned forward in his chair, mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. There was no jest in his gaze now. Only calculation… and awe.

Beside him, Queen Alysanne had gone still.

Her eyes were locked on her grandson, lips parted as though she'd forgotten to breathe.

Baelon stood at the edge of the yard, his sword lowered slightly, staring at the smoldering ruin of the dummy.

He swallowed hard.

And then came Aegon’s voice, light, teasing, but unmistakably clear:

“Would you still want to face me, Father?”

The question floated over the smoke and silence.

Baelon didn’t answer right away.

He just stared at the blackened crater, the faint heatwaves still rising from it.

His jaw clenched. Slowly, his sword dipped all the way down, tip brushing against the dirt.

“Gods,” he muttered.

Not in anger. Not in fear. But in sheer, dawning realization.

But Aegon wasn’t finished yet.

Without a word, he turned and launched two more fireballs in quick succession.

BOOM. BOOM.

They struck two nearby dummies, both armored, igniting them in near-instant bursts of flame.

The crackle of fire filled the yard as the heat shimmered off the air. The soldiers nearby flinched again, backing further away.

Then, as the last flames settled into embers, Aegon strode toward a fourth dummy.

All eyes tracked him, silent, focused, tense.

He stopped just a few feet from the target.

He raised his hand.

“Wait!” Baelon shouted sharply from behind, alarm flashing in his voice. He stepped towards his son.

The boy was too close, if he cast another fireball at that range, it could splash back and burn him.

But Aegon didn’t cast another fireball.

He had something else in mind.

[Spell: Fire Torrent]

With a sudden roar, a stream of flame erupted from both of Aegon’s hands—intense, concentrated, and unrelenting.

The torrent blasted forward, engulfing the dummy in a cone of searing fire.

For ten long seconds, he held it there, flames hissing and writhing as they poured from his palms.

The metal armor on the target turned cherry red, then began to blacken. The wood beneath cracked, splintered, and collapsed into molten ruin.

On the balcony, King Jaehaerys leaned in, his expression stunned. His voice was quiet, but carried:

“…The same as dragonfire.”

There was no argument. No one disagreed.

Even the maesters held their tongues.

The lean, sharp-nosed one, who had earlier suggested studying Aegon and been swiftly silenced by both Prince Baelon and Queen, took a cautious step forward.

His eyes flicked between the boy and the smoldering wreckage below, the weight of what he had just witnessed pressing visibly on him.

Finally, Aegon turned toward his father. The scorched training yard around him still sizzled.

Baelon stared at him, mouth slightly agape, unsure whether to be alarmed or proud.

Aegon shrugged, voice light, almost casual.

“Well… that’s it.”

Chapter Text

Dragonstone Castle

Aegon walked through the corridor with measured steps, his expression unusually serious. The echo of his boots on the stone floor was the only sound that accompanied him as he made his way toward the royal chambers.

He hadn’t expected things to unfold quite like this.

His little "demonstration" in the training yard, fireballs slamming into armored dummies, the last consumed by a stream of searing flame, had gone beyond impressive.

It had been terrifying.

He could still picture their faces: wide eyes, parted lips, a few steps unconsciously taken back. The guards stiffened. His aunts looked as though they'd forgotten how to breathe.

Even his father, Prince Baelon, always bold, always brash, had gone silent, sword lowered. And the King… Aegon hadn’t missed the way his grandfather’s gaze lingered on the scorched earth.

It hadn’t been simple awe.

It had been calculation. And perhaps... unease.

Only his grandmother, Queen Alysanne, hadn’t flinched. She had looked at him not with fear, but with something softer.

Relief.

Maybe even pride. Still, there had been a glimmer of something else in her eyes, something thoughtful.

Aegon exhaled quietly.

Seven hells, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck.

Maybe I overdid it.

Trying to look cool and powerful, smart. Accidentally terrifying half the royal family? Less so.

But what was done was done.

Dinner had been quiet. The clink of silverware echoed a little too loud in the hall. Conversations veered around him like water around a rock.

Everyone looked. Few spoke.

The King had said little. But when the meal was over, he looked at Aegon and simply said:

“Come to my chambers. We need to talk.”

So here he was, standing outside the door.

He knocked once.

“Enter,” came the King’s voice from within, calm, but firm.

Aegon pushed the door open.

Inside, King Jaehaerys sat alone by the hearth, one hand resting on the armrest, the other cradling a goblet.

His face was lit by firelight, casting deep lines across his thoughtful expression.

“Your grace,” said Aegon.

He looked up slowly, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.

“Sit,” the old king said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Aegon stepped forward and obeyed, lowering himself into the chair opposite the King.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jaehaerys studied him in silence for a long moment, the firelight reflecting in his pale violet eyes.

“It seems I underestimated the power of pyromancers,” he said at last, his voice low and tinged with something between awe and caution.

“What you displayed today… was nothing short of phenomenal.”

He gave a dry, wry smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifting.

“But power like that,” he continued, swirling the wine in his goblet, “comes with consequences. And expectations.”

Aegon said nothing, letting the King speak.

“The fire you command is not just fire, Aegon. It is legacy. It is myth, brought back into flesh. And it is dangerous. To others…and to yourself.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.

“The Valyrian Freehold revered their pyromancers. Feared them too. And rightly so. What you did to those dummies…” He shook his head.

“That kind of force could burn through a group of knights….”

Jaehaerys paused, voice quieter now. “But there are no manuals. No scrolls. Nothing remains of their teachings. Whatever path lies ahead… you will have to walk it largely alone.”

Before Aegon could reply, a knock echoed from the door.

The King frowned, clearly irritated by the interruption. “Yes?”

The door creaked open, and Queen Alysanne stepped inside.

Her expression was calm, but her eyes flicked between her husband and grandson with quiet determination.

“I heard you were planning to speak with Aegon,” she said gently. “I thought I’d join you.”

She walked gracefully to Aegon’s side, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder as she passed.

Then she settled into a cushioned chair nearby, her gaze warm but alert.

The King looked at her, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then, with a faint sigh, he gave a nod.

“Very well. You should hear this too.”

Aegon felt the Queen’s presence settle the room slightly. The air, once thick with scrutiny, softened, though not entirely.

The fire still crackled in the hearth, shadows dancing along the stone walls, casting both King and Queen, in shades of gold.

Jaehaerys turned his gaze back to Aegon.

“As I said… the power you have has no precedent in Westeros,” the King continued.

His voice was steady, but there was a weight behind every word.

“No lore remains on how to train a pyromancer. No mentors to temper your growth. No one to guide you.”

Aegon gave a solemn nod, his back straight, hands resting on his lap.

The King continued. “The power you showed in the yard must be controlled. Not just in form, but in instinct. You are eight years old, Aegon. And fire listens to you. That is as wondrous as it is dangerous.”

He paused, studying the boy's face.

“You know about Maegor, don’t you?”

Aegon nodded again. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Maegor… or Maegor the Cruel, as he is remembered. His legacy is one of fear, not glory. Of domination, not leadership.”

The King’s expression grew darker. “Your fire can be a sword. But if you wield it carelessly, you’ll burn more than your enemies, you’ll burn your own name into history in ash.”

The words hung heavy.

Then the Queen’s voice broke the tension, soft, almost a balm to the stern lesson.

“Aegon has always acted above his years,” she said with a small smile, her gaze resting gently on him. “Still… this power must be learned and tamed. Thoroughly.”

Aegon inclined his head. “Yes, Your Graces.”

But the King wasn’t done.

“There is one more thing you must understand,” Jaehaerys said, leaning forward slightly, his voice quieter, but sharper.

“Though you are young… the world won’t care. Men will fear you. Some will seek to use you. Others may seek to kill you.”

Alysanne’s brows drew together at once. “Jaehaerys, he’s still a child…”

“I know,” the King said firmly, turning to her.

“I know. But he must be made aware of such things, Alysanne. The world doesn’t wait for children to grow into their power. Especially when the child holds fire in his hands.”

“But…” she began again, a protest rising.

Then Aegon spoke.

“Your Graces…” he said slowly. “May I speak freely?”

The question cut through the room. Both Jaehaerys and Alysanne turned toward him, surprise flickering in their eyes…surprise at the calmness in his tone, the steady confidence in his bearing.

The King gave a nod, sitting back.

“Of course,” he said. “Speak.”

Aegon took a deep breath.

He could feel the warmth of the fire on his skin, but it was the weight of two royal gazes that pressed heavier on him now.

Still, he didn’t look away. His back remained straight. His voice was calm, almost too calm for a boy of eight.

“I know that both of you are worried about me using this power… impulsively,” he began. “And you’re right to be cautious.”

His words were met with silence, but he could feel the subtle shift in the air, the King leaning slightly forward again, the Queen still and watchful beside him.

“I can give you my word,” Aegon continued. “I won’t be reckless with it.”

A pause, and then his tone shifted, firmer, deeper. “Yes, I will use it against those who would harm me… or threaten our House. That is the duty of any Targaryen with power. But this fire, this… gift,” he said the word carefully, “is not just a weapon. It is fearsome, yes. But I believe it can also be beautiful. Useful. A gift to the realm, not just a curse to fear.”

Both Jaehaerys and Alysanne raised their brows at that, eyes narrowing not in doubt, but in surprise.

“I intend,” he said, his voice growing clearer, “to use this power not only to defend, but to build. To create. Like the pyromancers of Old Valyria once did, crafting wonders, like Valyrian steel. That was more than destruction. That was magic woven into permanence.”

There was a stillness in the room now. The fire cracked once, but otherwise, the chamber was silent.

Jaehaerys blinked slowly. His lips parted, but no words came.

“I know I am young,” Aegon went on. “I know I’m just eight. I don’t have scrolls passed down to me. No mentors as no order of pyromancers survived the Doom. I don’t even know if what I can do is anywhere near what they once achieved…”

He looked into the fire, briefly, then back at his grandparents.

“But I want to try.”

There was something resolute in his gaze now, something heavy, earned.

“I want to study this power. Understand it. Shape it. Even if what I discover are mere scraps compared to what once was… they could still be the beginning. A foundation for something greater. A new branch of knowledge. For those who come after me.”

The Queen’s lips parted slightly in astonishment. The King, stone-faced as ever, still betrayed a flicker of emotion, a quiet kind of wonder, tinged with something harder to place.

“After all,” Aegon added, “even the pyromancers of Valyria must’ve started with nothing. Once.”

His voice lowered slightly. “I cannot do it alone. Not without resources. Not without time. And not without the crown’s support.”

He looked between them now, no longer just a boy asking for permission. There was a quiet dignity in his bearing, as if he understood the scale of what he was asking… and was prepared for the cost.

“This will be my legacy,” he said. “Aegon Targaryen…not only the fearsome pyromancer, but the one who brought back the beauty of magic to the realm.”

There was a long silence.

The words hung between them like incense, bold, ambitious, and burning at the edges.

Jaehaerys leaned back slightly in his chair. The goblet in his hand shifted, then stilled.

The old King let out a slow breath. He looked at Aegon…really looked at him.

“Gods,” he murmured under his breath. Then, louder: “You speak like no child I’ve ever known. And with thoughts most men wouldn’t dare voice even grown.”

He set the goblet down.

“Good,” he said at last, his voice low but firm. “Then hear this, Aegon Targaryen, third son of Baelon and Alyssa.”

Jaehaerys straightened, regal and sharp.

“You will have the full support of the crown.”

Aegon’s breath caught slightly. He hadn’t realized just how tense he’d become, how hard he’d been holding his composure.

His shoulders loosened, just a bit.

The Queen, quiet until now, reached out across the small table between them. Her hand, gentle and warm, rested atop his.

“And whatever storm comes,” she said softly, “you will not face it alone.”

Aegon turned to her, his grandmother who had stood by him when others hesitated, who had smiled when others had feared, and offered a grateful smile in return.

“Thank you,” he said. “Both of you.”

The fire crackled again.

The shadows shifted, dancing along the chamber walls like echoes of a time long buried, like memories of a legacy that had almost vanished in ash and time.

But not anymore.

The boy who sat before them was no longer just a prince. He was a spark rekindled.

And the world would soon come to know it.

Chapter Text

Driftmark, House Velaryon

Within one of its warmer chambers, Lord Corlys Velaryon paced beneath the flickering light of a hearthfire.

In his hands, slightly crumpled from how tightly he gripped it, was a sealed letter bearing the unmistakable seal of the Crown.

The door creaked open. A maid stepped in, bowing slightly.

“My lord… Lady Rhaenys is here.”

Corlys stopped pacing but didn’t look up. He only gave a short nod.

Moments later, Rhaenys swept in, loosening the fur around her shoulders. A faint smile played on her lips.

“It took some convincing to put Laena to sleep. She already has the lungs of a dragon.”

Her tone was light, but it faded when she caught sight of her husband’s face. “What is it?”

Corlys said nothing. Instead, he extended the letter.

Rhaenys took it with a raised brow. As her eyes began scanning the words, her expression slowly shifted…curiosity, confusion… then disbelief.

She looked up sharply.

“This… this can’t be right.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Aegon?”

Corlys didn’t answer. He only watched her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his own lingering disbelief.

She read the message again, slower this time.

A royal hunt… in two moons’ time… to honor the awakening of Prince Aegon as a Valyrian Pyromancer…

Rhaenys stared at the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more believable.

“This…” she stammered. “This can’t be real…”

But then, her breath caught. Memory flared.

The daggers.

The Valyrian steel blades Aegon had given her more than a year ago. Told her they were “discovered,” asked her to sell them discreetly, to keep his name out of it.

She had wondered then, but now the truth hit her like a crashing wave.

She said nothing, only slowly lowered the letter to her lap, her mind racing.

Corlys’s voice broke the silence. “That raven arrived just an hour past. Sent from Dragonstone.”

He sat down heavily in a chair beside the fire.

The fire crackled between them. Rhaenys stared into it, the flames dancing in her eyes, mirroring the storm within.

“…Do you think it’s true?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. She had held the proof in her own hands. Sold it. Profited from it. And promised never to speak of it.

Corlys leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them.

“If it’s not true… then the King has lost his wits and sent ravens to every lord and lady in the realm for a jest.”

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t humor, just disbelief laced with a trace of awe. “A royal hunt… named in his honor. That’s not rumor, Rhaenys. That’s a declaration. A crowning.”

Rhaenys was quiet.

Corlys turned his gaze to the fire again, the flames reflecting in his eyes.

“It’s as if the gods themselves favor House Targaryen.” There was no anger in his voice, only a bitter undercurrent of something older: longing… and envy.

Rhaenys moved slowly, almost in a daze, and sank into the chair beside him.

Corlys looked at her, his voice quieter now.

“Already the youngest dragonrider… and now this. A Valyrian Pyromancer.” He laughed once, dryly. “The third son of the heir. Barely past childhood.”

He shook his head. “Why them? Why always them?”

Rhaenys said nothing. Her eyes were still on the letter.

“Our blood is the same,” Corlys continued. “Both of our houses come from the old Freehold. We sailed with them. We bled beside them. But they have the dragons. The fire. The throne.”

He gestured toward the window where the sea crashed below.

“And we… we fish for coin and build ships, scraping our legacy from the waves..”

Silence settled between them, heavy and long.

Only the fire in the hearth crackled, casting warm light across the stone chamber.

Then, Corlys spoke, his voice quiet and thoughtful as his gaze lingered on the flames.

“Did the dragon egg show any signs of hatching?”

Rhaenys blinked at the sudden shift in topic. She looked down at her hands for a moment before answering.

“No,” she said softly. “Only half of them ever do, they say. The rest stay cold.”

Corlys exhaled, slow and deep, eyes distant.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching the fire flicker and dance. Then, after a long pause:

“You know Laena will have to marry someday.”

Rhaenys turned to look at him sharply, her expression tightening. “What are you saying?”

Corlys met her eyes directly. “I plan to betroth our daughter to Aegon.”

Rhaenys stood at once, startled. “No. No, Corlys, she’s barely two moons old! She’s a baby. You can’t mean this.”

Corlys didn’t flinch. “Of course they would not be wed until they’re both much older,” he said, calm but resolute.

“This is only a betrothal. A future alliance.”

Rhaenys’s brow furrowed, her voice rising. “She hasn’t even learned to crawl, and you’re already choosing her husband? What about her wishes?”

Corlys sighed again and stood slowly, approaching her but keeping his tone even.

“I know you care about her happiness. And I know you know about Aegon.”

That made Rhaenys falter.

“You’ve always spoken kindly of him,” Corlys continued. “Do you think he would make a cruel husband? A poor match?”

Rhaenys’s breath caught in her throat. Memories flitted through her mind, Aegon’s wry humor, his clever words, the fire behind his eyes when he spoke of things beyond his years.

She didn’t answer, but her silence was telling.

Corlys pressed on, voice lowering.

“He’s not just the third son anymore. He’s the youngest dragonrider Westeros has seen. And now…” He gestured faintly toward the letter on the table. “Now he’s something no one’s seen since the Doom.”

“A Valyrian Pyromancer,” Rhaenys whispered.

Corlys nodded. “That kind of power… tied to our bloodline? Imagine what it could mean for our House, Rhaenys. For Laena. If we had dragons and fire magic in our blood…”

Rhaenys looked away, her jaw tight, struggling to find the line between her daughter’s future and her family’s legacy.

She understood now, not just the ambition, but the desperation. Corlys didn’t just want power.

He wanted balance.

Targaryens ruled the skies, the throne… and now the flame itself.

And House Velaryon? They were always beside them. But never equal.

Rhaenys closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly.

“You don’t just want Laena to marry a prince.”

Corlys met her gaze without blinking.

“You want House Velaryon to share in that fire.”

Corlys didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Rhaenys’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he said quietly, intently. “If it’s true…if he really is a Pyromancer…then I want that fire carried in Velaryon blood.”

Rhaenys looked up at him, and in his eyes, she saw it: ambition, burning and unhidden, like the fires of Driftmark’s forges turned inward.

Her lips tightened. The fire cracked in the hearth, spitting embers as if it, too, had something to say.

“You forget…” she said quietly, “I am a Targaryen too.”

Corlys’s eyes met hers. “Then why didn’t they do you right?” he asked, his voice soft but bitter.

“Your claim…cast aside like it was ash on the wind. Passed over, dismissed… because you were a woman. Because you were not him.”

She didn’t respond, but her silence spoke louder than words.

Corlys stepped closer, his tone shifting, less anger, more urgency now.

“Think about our daughter, Rhaenys. Think of Laena. Think of what could be hers… what could be ours. This…” he gestured broadly, “...this fire, this power… it doesn’t have to be only theirs.”

He paused, watching her closely.

“This isn’t just about them. It’s about legacy. About House Velaryon no longer waiting in the shadows of dragons. It’s about standing beside them…not as shipbuilders and seafarers alone, but as equals. As fire-blooded kin.”

Rhaenys let out a slow breath, her hand brushing over her lap as though calming herself.

He turned and began pacing the chamber, the letter still resting on the table behind him like a coiled secret.

“The Targaryens already have dragons,” he said. “But House Velaryon…we…we must not be left behind. If they have the skies… then we must take the flame.”

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed slightly. “There are no records…none…that say pyromancy can be passed by blood. This isn’t like bonding a dragon.”

“I know,” Corlys replied, stopping to face her again. “But do we even understand how magic does pass? Who wrote the laws on this? No one’s seen a Valyrian Pyromancer since the Doom, and that boy…” he gestured vaguely toward the letter, “...he’s changed everything.”

He took a breath, then added, “And there’s more than just fire to think about. There’s succession.”

Rhaenys stiffened. “Succession?”

Corlys nodded. “Prince Viserys still hasn’t claimed a dragon. Prince Daemon hasn’t either. But Aegon? He bonded with Dreamfyre when he was barely seven. And now this…pyromancy. That puts him far ahead of his brothers.”

Rhaenys felt a chill settle into her chest, though it warred with a quiet sense of awe.

Corlys turned back toward the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes. “The king passed over us once,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “Said a woman had no place on the throne. But this… this might be another path.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “If our daughter marries him…if she bears his children…then who could question her place at the heart of the realm? That boy’s blood… it’s stronger, older, purer than either of his brothers’. He’s not just the third son anymore. He’s something greater.”

Rhaenys didn’t respond this time. Her mouth was slightly open, her thoughts racing.

Corlys saw the silence, and he smiled, not smugly, but like a sailor who finally saw the glint of harbor lights through storm.

“This is the kind of chance that only comes once in a lifetime,” he said softly. “We cannot waste it.”

He paused, his tone shifting as he turned back toward her.

“But before anything,” he added, “we must see it with our own eyes. Confirm what the king’s letter claims.”

Then his gaze sharpened. “And we must move quickly. The raven reached Driftmark first because of our proximity to Dragonstone. But the other houses… they’ll receive theirs soon enough. And you know how they’ll react. Power like this…it draws attention…and greed.”

Rhaenys didn’t argue. She couldn’t. The truth lay between them like the fire in the hearth, undeniable, consuming.

Slowly, silently, she nodded.

Chapter Text

Oldtown, House Hightower

The raven arrived at the Hightower just as the evening bells tolled, their solemn chimes echoing through the ancient halls like the voice of history itself.

Lord Hobert Hightower stood by the high window of his solar, the last light of the sun catching the silver streaks in his beard as he broke the royal seal.

He unfurled the scroll with practiced ease, until his eyes reached the words at its heart.

His hands stilled.

The color drained from his face.

The parchment crinkled slightly in his grip as his fingers unconsciously tightened. He read the line again, and then a third time, as though repetition might soften the truth it carried.

"A Valyrian pyromancer…" he murmured, voice barely audible. “They were meant to be extinct.”

He turned toward the hearth, where the flames danced quietly, tame, harmless. His jaw clenched.

The name at the center of the scroll burned brighter than the fire: Prince Aegon… son of Prince Baelon… awakened as a Valyrian pyromancer…

The letter went on to announce a royal hunt in his honor, to be held in the spring.

Lord Hobert exhaled, slow and deliberate, and cast a long look toward the east-facing windows.

Beyond them, the Citadel rose like a crown of learning and order, its spires shadowed against the twilight sky.

His voice, when it came, was measured, but edged with urgency.

“Send word to the Citadel. At once. They need to see this.”

His steward bowed quickly and departed. Hobert remained where he stood, still holding the parchment.

His thoughts churned like the tide beneath Oldtown’s bridges.

A Valyrian pyromancer… in the blood of Targaryens.

Oldtown, The Citadel, Midnight

By the time the raven was delivered to the Citadel, the light of the day had already bled into dusk.

A few senior stewards glanced at the royal seal with thinly veiled alarm and passed it on without delay.

Moments later, bells were rung, low and deliberate, summoning the Archmaesters of the Conclave to an emergency session. It had been years since the last such gathering.

In the heart of the Citadel, behind the ancient oak-and-bronze doors of a chamber, the Archmaesters gathered one by one.

Their heavy chains clinked faintly as they took their seats around the great circular table. Bronze, silver, black iron, each link on each neck a statement of mastery and pride, and now, of uncertainty.

The atmosphere was thick with unease. The candlelight cast long shadows, flickering over parchment-dry faces etched by time and study.

The message lay at the center of the table, still unfurled, as if the inked words alone might catch fire.

“A Valyrian Pyromancer,” one Archmaester murmured, as if saying the words too loudly would conjure flame. “Announced by the King himself.”

“Impossible,” another said. “There hasn't been a recorded pyromancer, an authentic one, since the Doom.”

“No mere rumor,” said a voice from the far end, thin but sharp. “The King does not call for a royal hunt over children’s fancies. This is real.”

One of the older Archmaesters, chain rustling as he leaned forward, tapped the table with his knuckles. “The art of fire was the crown jewel of the Freehold. Blood rituals. Soul-binding. Fire drawn from the body like oil from a well. It is not a gift, it is a curse. And it cannot be permitted to bloom again.”

Agreement rippled through the chamber like wind across tall grass.

“And yet it has,” another said bitterly. “In the blood of the dragonlords. Just as it did before.”

The room quieted as the doors creaked open again. Soft footsteps echoed into the hall, calm, deliberate.

A figure stepped into view, clad in modest grey robes, the links of a maester’s chain gleaming faintly under candlelight.

But it was the man’s face that drew attention, youthful compared to the rest, with fine-boned features and unmistakable violet eyes. He bore no smile, no humility, only the cold clarity of one who had long since made peace with his choices.

Maester Vaegon. Son of King Jaehaerys.

Tension immediately bristled across the room.

One voice snapped, “Who allowed him in?”

“I did,” came the reply from a figure seated near the letter. “He may not yet bear a ring of office, but this matter touches his bloodline, and ours. And you will listen to what he has to say.”

The rest shifted uncomfortably. Some nodded. Others scowled.

Vaegon stepped forward and inclined his head, but only slightly. “I have no intention of defending the boy,” he said calmly. “I gave up the name Targaryen. My loyalty lies here.”

That didn’t stop the suspicion in some eyes.

“Your blood rides dragons,” one Archmaester said grimly. “And now it wields fire. The same fire that built Valyria’s empire, and burned it down.”

“My blood also writes books,” Vaegon said softly, “and teaches boys to read. Shall we silence the scribes as well?”

A silence fell like a hammer. No one answered.

From the shadows near the back of the chamber, a younger voice broke the thick silence, measured, yet edged with the daring of someone still new to power.

A younger Archmaester, one whose chain bore fewer links than most present, leaned forward from his seat. His face was pale in the candlelight, but his tone was calm.

“If this is true…if the boy truly commands flame as the sorcerers of old…then should we not study it?” he asked. “There may be something to learn. Something to understand.”

The reply came sharp and cold.

“No,” barked one of the senior Archmaesters, a man whose chain had weighed down his shoulders for decades.

“The arts of the Freehold are a blight. Their legacy is death and tyranny, cloaked in fire and blood. The Citadel exists to resist them. To unmake their memory. We have spent centuries killing their echoes. We will not nurture their return.”

A low murmur of agreement followed. The brazier crackled in the center of the chamber, as if stirred by the tension.

Vaegon did not flinch. His fingers remained steepled, his violet eyes unreadable.

“And how do you propose to kill a boy who holds fire in his palm?” he asked softly. “Will you throw books at him? Or hope he burns himself before he becomes something worse?”

A moment of hesitation passed.

Then, one of the more pragmatic voices, a veteran of courtly maneuverings, known more for patience than passion, spoke.

“He is still young,” the Archmaester said carefully. “The fire may fade… or not. Either way, we must prepare. Quietly. A delegation could be sent, disguised as scholars, advisors, healers if need be. We gain access. We observe. And if necessary…”

“Measure him,” another added, voice colder. “Limit him. Weaken him.”

“To ensure his power never ripens,” someone else finished.

“Or,” came a whisper near the brazier, barely audible, “to erase him.”

That final suggestion sent a silence rippling across the chamber like a stone cast into still water.

It lingered, unspoken but undeniable. An idea that no one would voice directly, yet none dismissed.

The younger Archmaester looked disturbed. Not merely by the idea itself, but by how easily it had taken root in the room.

He had joined the Citadel to expand knowledge, to safeguard order, not to plot the quiet undoing of a royal child.

Vaegon saw the discomfort in his colleague’s eyes.

“He is just a boy,” Vaegon said, not to challenge but to remind. Then, after a pause, his gaze drifted to the firelight. “But boys grow. And fire… spreads.”

The session stretched deep into the night. Voices rose and fell. No consensus formed.

The more aggressive proposals, open warnings, demands, even preemptive condemnation, were dismissed as reckless. Too visible. Too risky.

The King had declared the boy a wonder, not a threat. To oppose him openly was to court suspicion.

Instead, they debated quieter approaches: the collection of old Valyrian texts from across the libraries of Westeros; the reexamination of long-forbidden treatises locked beneath the Citadel; the dispatching of trusted agents to King’s Landing under other guises.

Some even argued for a direct, secret audience with the King.

Still, no firm path emerged. Just tension, layered and unspoken.

But on one point they were united.

Prince Aegon Targaryen, third son of Baelon, had become the most volatile element in the realm.

And the Citadel would not be caught unprepared.

At last, the Conclave was dismissed. One by one, the Archmaesters filed out into the cold, echoing corridors of stone.

The younger Archmaester lingered for a breath longer, his expression troubled. Then he too slipped away, robes trailing behind him.

Only Vaegon remained.

Seated alone in the vast chamber, he gazed into the heart of the brazier. The flames danced, reflected in his eyes, violet, steady, unfathomable.

“Fire reborn,” he murmured, not as a threat, nor a hope.

Simply a truth.

The Eyrie, Vale of Arryn

The sky above the Eyrie was a pale sheet of ice, the kind that seemed to hang motionless even as the wind screamed through the mountain passes.

Snow had fallen lightly the night before, frosting the slender white towers and leaving the Vale far below hidden under a soft shroud of mist.

Inside the High Hall, Lord Rodrick Arryn sat at the carved stone table, the weight of age and thought bowing his shoulders slightly.

Across from him, his third wife, Lady Elena, stirred her tea without drinking it, her brows drawn together in quiet concern.

The fire crackled, but the room still felt cold, perhaps not from the wind, but from the letter lying open between them.

The royal seal had been broken with care. Its contents had been read thrice.

“Would there be any trouble… in the succession?” Elena asked at last, her voice tentative but firm.

Rodrick’s eyes remained fixed on the letter as if hoping it would change.

“There can’t be,” he said, though he did not sound entirely convinced. “Baelon is the heir. That much is settled. After him, Viserys. It’s tradition. Aegon may be the youngest dragonrider, and now… this,” he gestured toward the parchment, “but he is still the third son.”

Elena didn’t respond at once. Her fingers brushed the edge of the letter as if feeling for truth in the vellum.

“You’re saying that because the King already agreed to your proposal,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Because Aemma will be betrothed to Viserys.”

Rodrick’s sigh came like the wind through the Eyrie’s Moon Door, low and weary.

“Yes. That bond must hold. It ties us to the line of succession.” He reached for the goblet beside him but did not drink. “Viserys must claim Balerion soon. It is the only way he can truly secure his place.”

Elena watched him carefully. “And if he cannot?”

Rodrick finally drank, swallowing the warm wine like a man swallowing a bitter truth.

“Then we must hope blood and names are still enough.”

Silence stretched between them before he added, more quietly, “Our alliance with House Targaryen must stand. And Viserys is… amiable. Malleable. Aemma will not be mistreated.”

Elena frowned. “But Aegon… He’s not just another boy. A Valyrian pyromancer?” Her voice trembled slightly. “It sounds like a tale out of Old Valyria. And if the realm begins to see him as something more, something sent by the gods…”

“They won’t,” Rodrick cut in, though without force. “Not yet. This royal hunt is spectacle, not strategy. An attempt to frame the boy as a marvel, not a monarch.”

Elena wasn’t sure she believed that.

Rodrick shifted, running a hand down his face, then said, “Besides… it’s not just us backing Viserys.”

She blinked. “You mean…”

“Yes. The Hightowers,” Rodrick said, rubbing at his temple. “Perhaps even before we made our offer.”

Lady Elena's eyes narrowed. “That’s dangerous.”

“Yes,” Rodrick agreed softly. “Which is why we must hold our ground. Quietly. Carefully.”

He fell silent then, the crackle of fire filling the chamber.

For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. Then, with a tired exhale, he leaned back in his seat, eyes drifting to the frost-tinged window.

“I am too old for this,” he murmured.

Elena tilted her head. “You’re not yet fifty.”

Rodrick gave a hollow chuckle. “The mountains weigh heavier with age. And so does politics. Perhaps it’s time to pass the burden.”

“To your son?”

He nodded.

“Taron,” he said after a moment, naming his eldest. “He’s twenty and level-headed. Spends more time at the Eyrie than in the tourney yard. He understands duty. Has the heart of a falcon, if not the wings yet.”

Elena considered the name. “He’s untested.”

“So was I, once,” Rodrick replied. “But the boy listens. And in these days, that may matter more than any sword stroke.”

She reached for his hand and held it.

“We will stand beside him,” she said.

Rodrick gave her a grateful nod. “Then let us begin the long handover, after the winds shift. The Vale must be ready.”

They sat in silence again, the fire low, the storm outside the Eyrie beginning to stir once more.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone, Black Vault Tower, Late Morning

The chamber was quiet, save for the scratch of a quill on parchment. Aegon sat at a table near the window, writing steadily.

The room was large, plain, and cold, though the fireplace helped a little. A few crucibles of bronze and iron sat on side tables, along with mortars and pestles.

Two alembics and a pair of retorts glinted faintly in the firelight.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He paused, setting the quill aside and leaning back in his chair. A breeze slipped in through the window, sharp with the sea’s bite.

Aegon let it wash over him, eyes distant as the past days replayed in his mind.

It had been ten days since the ravens were sent to every major house in Westeros.

The King and his father, Prince Baelon, had remained on Dragonstone for two more days before returning to King’s Landing.

With the promise of the Crown’s support, Aegon had asked for the old Black Vault tower, a lesser-known part of the Dragonstone castle, set near the cliffs.

It had been used as storage, filled with old furniture and rusting gears no one needed anymore.

He’d had it cleaned out in two days with the help of a few servants and maids.

Nothing elaborate, but enough to make it usable. His own chambers were too cramped for what he intended.

Here, at least, he had space and the quiet.

This would be his tower now. His place to study, to experiment.

Aegon glanced once more at the alembics, retorts, and crucibles on the tables, their glass and bronze-iron surfaces glinting in the light.

The glass was thick and slightly green-tinted, hand-blown in the eastern style, likely from Lys or Tyrosh, and the metalwork was clumsy in places but serviceable, forged from tin-braced copper and sealed with strips of leather at the joints.

This was no mere curiosity set; it was the genuine equipment of a working alchemist.

The tools had arrived a few days ago in a lacquered chest, bound in iron.

They were sent by one of the self-proclaimed "Grand Masters" of the Alchemists' Guild in King’s Landing, an aged man who claimed to have glimpsed “the return of true fire” in his dreams.

He had journeyed to Dragonstone in person, hoping to meet the young prince said to conjure flame with his very blood.

But Queen Alysanne, had received the man herself and promptly dismissed him, stating that “Dragonstone is not receiving guests at this time.”

The man left disappointed, but he did not leave empty-handed, he left the chest behind, as an offering.

It was not the only one.

In the days following the royal announcement, tokens and trinkets from neighboring houses had begun to arrive, books of Valyrian history, preserved scrolls, cloaks, carvings, even perfumes laced with spice and smoke.

Most were thinly veiled attempts at favor-seeking, but some bore a trace of sincere curiosity or reverence.

Aegon had no desire to be flattered or burdened with diplomacy. He’d asked his grandmother to handle the influx, and she had done so with relish.

Queen Alysanne had deputized Lady Jocelyn, along with Maegelle and little Gael, to manage the process.

The three women treated the matter like a game, laughing over the gaudy extravagance of certain gifts or debating the intentions behind others.

Lady Jocelyn kept score of the “most shameless offering” of the day. Maegelle, insisted on cataloging every item and organizing them by region.

Even Gael enjoyed guessing which noble had sent what based on the quality of the wrappings.

For Aegon, it was all noise.

But that wasn’t all he received.

Two letters had come, distinct in tone and hand.

One bore the elegant script of his older brother Viserys, the other the bold, hastier scrawl that could only belong to Daemon.

Viserys’s letter was polished, careful, and formal in its structure, though not without warmth. He began by offering his congratulations on Aegon’s “awakening,” calling it a miracle not seen since the days of the Freehold.

He quoted half-remembered legends of Valyrian pyromancers of old, who could ignite anything with a gesture or bend flames into living shapes.

He admitted, with cautious awe, that their father, Prince Baelon, had already spoken of Aegon’s gift with pride.

But Viserys wanted to see it for himself.

"I hope to witness it in spring, when the royal hunt is held," Viserys wrote. "If you can conjure fire as they say… well, it shall be a sight worth more than all the tales."

He closed with a brief update on his bonding attempts with Balerion, the Black Dread. Though the ancient dragon was slow to respond, Viserys believed progress was being made.

"Soon, I shall mount him as ‘The Conqueror’ once did. I am certain of it." There was confidence in his words, though Aegon could sense the undercurrent of pressure, of expectation weighing heavily.

Daemon’s letter, by contrast, was chaotic, personal, and entirely without caution.

He congratulated Aegon in his usual brash style, calling him “the flame-blooded brother,” and declared that he would “see this fire-trick for myself soon enough.”

He claimed he was nearly finished with his business in the City Watch under Ser Rickard Redwyne and planned to return to Dragonstone in secret.

“I’m coming to claim Caraxes,” he wrote plainly, “and I don’t mean to ask nicely.”

He urged Aegon to keep his return quiet, “no telling Queen Alysanne or our aunts”, and then followed it with a sharp jab of humor.

“You remember how Rhaenys crept into the Dragonpits and took Meleys for herself? That dragon belonged to Mother—and now I’ll take her father’s. Let’s see what her face looks like when I fly off with her legacy.”

Aegon smiled wryly, shaking his head.

Typical Daemon, bold, brash, and delighting in chaos.

Sighing to himself, Aegon turned his attention back to his immediate concerns.

The revelation of him being a pyromancer had never truly been ‘sudden’.

He had known he would need to make a stronger impact when he reviewed the details of the [Wizard Apprentice] class after its creation had failed.

Leveling his first Tier 3 class, [Wizard Apprentice], to its maximum would demand an enormous amount of experience. And earning that experience by simply flying around atop Dreamfyre would take far too long.

But he couldn’t afford to wait that long, because he needed the class [Wizard Apprentice] urgently.

His magic attribute was steadily increasing, little by little, and he knew all too well the toxic effect it had on living beings.

Yes, he could have created another physical class to resist the side effects of magic, but that would take him down another path.

His future depended on magic. He couldn’t reject it, he had to transform it into his own power.

After all, magic was his only hope of fighting the fate that hung over him like a sword.

The prophetic dreams had shown him that his existence hadn’t caused a strong enough butterfly effect, at least not yet, to alter the future.

He remembered the show, House of the Dragon, more clearly now that his [INT] had increased.

In truth, there were many differences between what he saw here and what he had watched, but the overall flow of the story remained the same.

He knew this because he had dreamed of the Dance of the Dragons.

The dreams were a jumbled mix of scenes and silhouettes, difficult to interpret, but he wasn’t foolish enough to miss the meaning.

To Aegon, they suggested two possibilities: either the dreams showed the most likely course the future would take, or they revealed certain fixed events, anchor points in time that would unfold no matter what.

Either way, his life was at risk. But since danger was already part of his path, a little more of it was worth the gain, especially if it brought a large amount of experience.

“Knock. Knock.”

The sound of knuckles against wood broke through Aegon’s thoughts.

"Come in," he said, not turning from the table.

The door creaked open, and Ser Clement stepped inside. The white of his Kingsguard cloak shimmered faintly in the light.

"My prince, the things you ordered have arrived," he said with his usual calm.

Aegon gave a short nod. The guards on Dragonstone had been significantly increased since his awakening as a pyromancer.

King Jaehaerys had immediately seen to the security of the island.

And along with the soldiers came Ser Clement, the sworn brother of the Kingsguard who had once trained both Aegon and Daemon in swordplay and discipline.

Now, he served as Aegon's protector.

Following him, a few servants and maids filed into the chamber, carefully carrying two wide trays, each filled with damp clay.

"Place them beside the crucibles," Aegon instructed.

Once the trays were settled near the corner of his worktable, he added, "You may go."

Ser Clement gave a silent nod and left with the others, shutting the heavy door behind him.

Aegon stepped forward. On the table, next to the newly arrived trays, lay the collection of crucibles and a single unremarkable-looking gray stone.

The crucibles contained soil and mud from various parts of Dragonstone, dug from beneath rocky cliffs, forest patches, even the black-sanded beaches.

These had been used in previous attempts to bind magic.

All of them had failed.

All except the stone.

Despite its plain appearance, the stone held magic, it was the only one that had successfully formed a binding.

Aegon could see the faint, steady flow of magical particles within it, twisting and curling in patterns only he could perceive. That flow was crucial.

Magic, in its raw form, could not be studied unless it was bound to a medium.

Once bound, the way it flowed through a material revealed the kind of magical trait or property that had awakened within it, or the specific effect it imposed upon reality.

From those magical flows, those glimmering veins of metaphysical black lights, he could observe patterns. From patterns came structure.

And from structure, he deduced runes.

He had already deduced the [Fire Rune] earlier, by observing the underlying magic flow of the flames he conjured through his flamecraft. But fire was only the beginning.

Since he had to observe the flow of magic to deduce runes, there remained the question: how to find more items that had magic bound to them?

He couldn’t roam the world collecting every enchanted object or relic, such a method would be slow, inefficient, and draw too much attention.

But he had another path. A more elegant one.

Spirituality.

Granted by his Tier 3 class [Wizard Apprentice], spirituality was the metaphysical force of his mind, his bridge to the unseen.

With it, he could interact with magic particles itself, guide it, shape it, even subtly force it to bind.

Using the [Wizard Apprentice] class, Aegon could manually channel his inner magic, control it through spirituality, and guide it into selected objects, stones, soil, water, metal.

If the object accepted the binding, the magic would root within it, forming patterns. From there, rune deduction would begin.

Once he gathered enough runes, he would be able to construct mental spell models from them, complex, layered structures to be stored within his mind.

These models could then be activated with a single thought, unleashing their effects instantly.

The spells he currently wielded, like [Spell: Fireball] and [Spell: Ring Burst], were different.

They didn’t rely on runes or structured models. Instead, they stemmed directly from his innate flamecraft ability.

From this point onward, he would refer to them as Innate Spells; simple, raw manifestations of his power, distinct from the more refined, rune-based spellcraft he now pursued.

Aegon’s current goal was defense. A spell to block physical attacks or deflect arrows, bolts, thrown weapons.

Earth, being stable and protective, was the natural affinity to pursue.

Yet, all his previous attempts, soil from the cliffs, sand from the beaches, even volcanic ash, had failed to form a magical bond.

All except one: the gray stone.

Only the stone had accepted his guided magic. And only it revealed a magical flow that could be studied.

Using the combined benefits of his four classes: [Occult Scholar], [Rune Initiate], [Mental Adept], and [Wizard Apprentice], Aegon began observing the flow hour after hour, measuring the movement, sketching the patterns.

Within three days, he succeeded.

He had deduced the [Earth Rune].

Chapter Text

Aegon reached for the gray stone and held it just above the crucible filled with coarse sand.

The grains shimmered faintly in the light, motionless for now.

Closing his eyes, he extended his spiritual perception outward, threading it into the stone.

He could see it.

The bound magic within the stone pulsed in subtle, rhythmic flows, gentle currents winding like roots through soil.

He focused carefully, isolating the specific segment of the flow that corresponded to the [Earth Rune] he had spent the past week deciphering.

It was faint but distinct.

With precision, Aegon gently tugged at the relevant strands of that flow.

The effect was immediate.

Below, the sand in the crucible shifted. At first, it was barely a tremble, a grain here, a twitch there. But then the surface began to swirl softly, like dry wind running across dunes.

The reaction was delicate, but unmistakable.

Aegon immediately ceased his manipulation.

He set the stone back on the table with a soft clack as he let out a slow breath, focusing inward again.

He had his confirmation, the rune had not only been successfully deduced, but was now fully usable.

Aegon withdrew into his mind, where his mental space was filled with Spirituality.

Using a small amount of it, he began to recreate the [Earth Rune] from memory, mentally tracing each arc, line, and intersection of the structure.

The rune was not carved or written, it was shaped directly from his will and formed from Spirituality itself.

As the last symbolic line was completed, the [Earth Rune] hung suspended in his mental space, glowing faintly, like a spiritual construct etched in soft light.

Aegon focused.

With a single mental command, he activated the rune.

It shimmered, and the magic within his body stirred in response, like a tide turning toward a new shore.

The magic particles gathered in his chest, moved down his arms, and flowed outward toward the crucible of sand.

At the same time, a portion of his Spirituality was consumed, linking his internal magic to the rune and guiding it into effect.

The sand began to ripple again, this time more vividly, as if responding directly to his will.

He could feel the connection.

The rune in his mind served as a remote trigger, a control node. By adjusting its focus and feeding it measured amounts of Spirituality, he could influence the intensity, duration, and shape of the effect it produced.

The key to all magic in this system lay in harmony: the balance between Spirituality and Magic.

If the effect was large or long-lasting, it would drain more from both pools. If it was subtle and brief, the cost was minimal.

Aegon smiled, satisfied.

He had succeeded, not only in deducing the rune, but in mentally structuring and casting it without relying on a bound item.

He now possessed a working spell component for earth manipulation. That meant progress.

With the sand still swirling lightly in the crucible, Aegon ended the effect.

The magic in his body settled, but the spiritual construct of the [Earth Rune] remained intact in his mental space, still gleaming.

He hesitated for a moment, then with another thought, he dismantled the rune’s structure, crushing it within his mental space.

The rune began to disintegrate. It crumbled into luminous fragments, which were reabsorbed, freeing the portion of his Spirituality that had been used to create it.

The rune was gone for now, but he could recreate it again whenever needed.

Still, the process wasn’t without its limitations.

When the [Earth Rune] had existed in his mental space, Aegon had noticed something peculiar, it had taken up a portion of the mental space itself, occupying it like a physical object would occupy a room.

That meant only a limited number of rune structures could be held at once.

And from that, a deeper realization had followed: full spell models, composite structures built from multiple runes, would naturally require even more space.

If a single elemental rune claimed that much room, then a functioning, refined spell could take up the space of several.

His arsenal of ready-to-cast magic would be limited not by power, but by mental space.

It was a constraint, but not an unexpected one.

Just as a warrior could not carry an entire armory on his back, a mage could not store an infinite number of spells within his mind.

Choices would have to be made. Priorities set. Efficiency would become everything.

At least he didn’t have to worry about the energy source itself.

Spirituality, while finite in total, was different. It existed as the pervasive, ambient power within his mental space, something like air, present in every corner, not confined or restricted by the existence of runic constructs.

The creation of a rune consumed a portion of it, yes, but simply holding a rune in his mind didn’t drain it.

That made things far more manageable. If the presence of a rune had also affected the ambient quantity of Spirituality, Aegon would have found himself in a far tighter bottleneck.

Fortunately, though the overall quantity of spirituality was bound by the size of his mental space, any used during spellcasting would naturally replenish over time.

This meant he could, when needed, cast spells of greater scale or duration by intentionally consuming more spirituality and magic, without long-term penalty.

The realization eased a weight off his shoulders. It gave him room to grow. Room to experiment. And it reassured him that he wasn't walking a path with a dead end.

This wasn’t his first experience, either. He had already attempted something similar with the [Fire Rune], his first and most instinctive discovery.

Unlike the [Earth Rune], which shaped and manipulated existing matter, the [Fire Rune] manifested energy, converting magic and spirituality into heat and flame.

Both runes represented the essence of their elements, yet their behavior was fundamentally different.

The [Fire Rune] burned. The [Earth Rune] moved.

It was from these experiments that Aegon had begun to categorize what he now called Elemental Runes.

Each rune was more than a symbol; it was a language that bridged spirituality and magic with the fabric of reality.

Now, his attention turned to the clay trays resting on the table.

Coarse, dull, and lifeless at first glance, the clay showed no natural affinity for magic. But Aegon knew better.

From the knowledge granted by his fully mastered [Rune Initiate] class, he recalled that a certain rune, essential for constructing the spell models, could be drawn from clay once magic had been successfully bound to it.

He stretched out his hand, letting his spirituality gently guide the magic within him.

He resumed the careful, tedious work of attempting to bind magic to the clay, seeking the hidden structures within it that might yield the next rune.

Shores of Dragonstone Island, Afternoon

The wind swept in steady gusts across the rocky shoreline, tugging at cloaks and sending sprays of briny mist into the air.

The tide lapped against the aged pier, rhythmic and slow, as Lady Jocelyn stood tall at the edge of the dock, her eyes narrowed against the sun as they scanned the vast blue horizon.

Behind her, a quiet retinue of guards and handmaidens stood in disciplined stillness. Cloaks were drawn tight against the salt-laden breeze, and the faint clink of mail could be heard beneath the stillness.

Jocelyn’s gaze remained fixed on the sea until she saw it, three ships emerging from the horizon, sails swelling in the afternoon wind.

White canvas shimmered in the light, bearing the unmistakable silver seahorse sigil of House Velaryon. Her lips curled into a small, satisfied smile.

They’ve come.

The ships glided into the dock, the crews moving like clockwork. Mooring lines were cast and secured, gangplanks lowered with the creak of wet rope and wood.

Jocelyn stepped forward, lifting the hem of her gown as she descended the slight incline of the pier to greet them.

Lord Corlys Velaryon was the first to disembark, his boots striking the dock with purpose. His cloak, embroidered with silver thread, billowed behind him in the gusting wind.

Close behind followed Lady Rhaenys, her expression softened by the burden she carried, a swaddled infant in violet silks, no larger than a loaf of bread.

Her daughter. Laena.

As Rhaenys stepped onto the pier, her face lit with familiar warmth. “Mother,” she called.

Jocelyn's face broke into a smile, and she stepped forward, embracing her daughter carefully, mindful of the precious bundle nestled between them.

“Rhaenys,” she said, her voice warm and rich with affection. She pulled back, her gaze falling to the baby, and gently brushed her fingers over the child’s soft cheek.

“My beautiful granddaughter,” Jocelyn murmured with a flicker of wonder. “Laena.”

“Did she cry on the ship?” Jocelyn asked, almost teasing.

Rhaenys gave a tired smile. “Not once. She takes after her father, calm and curious. She only watched the waves as we crossed.”

Jocelyn chuckled softly, then turned to greet Corlys as he approached. He bowed respectfully.

“Lady Jocelyn,” he said.

“Lord Corlys,” she replied with a nod, her tone equally formal.

As pleasantries were exchanged, Corlys turned and gestured to his men, who remained aboard. “Begin unloading.”

A procession of retainers began moving down crates and boxes, elegantly carved chests, bolts of colored silks, jars sealed with wax and bearing fragrant hints of spice.

Wealth, clearly curated to impress.

Jocelyn raised an eyebrow, amused. “It seems you’ve brought half of Driftmark with you.”

“Only the finest,” Corlys said, offering a modest smile. “A gift for Dragonstone… and for the talks ahead.”

She didn’t press further but gave a thoughtful nod. Her gaze returned to Rhaenys, who adjusted the blanket around Laena and looked up at the looming towers of Dragonstone with a faint crease to her brow.

Then Corlys’s voice lowered as he turned back to Jocelyn. “Have you spoken to the Queen about… the matter?”

Jocelyn’s expression didn’t shift, but her reply was deliberate. “No. That conversation must begin with Laena’s parents. The proposal must come from you. Only then will I speak.”

Corlys gave a short nod of acknowledgment. “Of course.”

Rhaenys remained quiet, but Jocelyn noted the tension in her shoulders, an unease rooted not in fear, but in the weight of what this visit might mean for her daughter’s future.

Corlys's tone turned thoughtful, shaded with uncertainty.

“To be honest… I still can’t quite believe it,” he said, eyes trained ahead. “A boy wielding fire, like some revenant from the Freehold? Even with the King’s word, even with your letter… it defies belief.”

Jocelyn glanced between him and Rhaenys. Their composure was practiced, but doubt lingered in their silence.

She inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “You’ll believe it,” she said, voice quiet but resolute, “when you see it with your own eyes.”

The certainty in her tone silenced any rebuttal.

The memory still lived within her, of fire dancing at the command of a child’s hand, a flame shaped by will alone.

Corlys met her gaze, then turned to look at his wife. There was a brief exchange, unspoken, but shared.

He turned forward again, expression settling into something more guarded. A shift, less doubt, more anticipation. Or perhaps ambition, sharpened.

“Then I look forward to it,” he said.

Jocelyn gave a small nod and motioned toward the carved stone path that wound up toward the castle.

“Come,” she said. “The Queen is expecting you.”

The group began moving inland, their boots thudding softly against stone and gravel. The wind persisted, cool and briny, but now the sunlight broke through the clouds in long, slanted rays, casting golden light across the worn path ahead.

Behind them, the Velaryon men moved in silent rhythm, hauling the gifts of Driftmark toward the ancient seat of dragonlords.

And though nothing more was said aloud, Jocelyn could feel it hanging between them as they walked, the truth of what this visit truly was.

Not just a family reunion, not merely courtesy.

But a wager for legacy.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone Castle, Evening

The torches lining the corridor flickered in the breeze that filtered through the ancient stone, their golden light dancing on the black walls of Dragonstone.

Aegon moved at a measured pace, Ser Clement a few steps behind, the soft sound of their boots echoing down the hall.

He’d been surprised when the queen’s servant had informed him: Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys had arrived earlier that afternoon. Now they waited in the great hall, bearing gifts, no less.

As Aegon neared the tall oak doors, the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter reached him. The doors opened and he stepped into the hall.

Queen Alysanne sat comfortably near the fire, Maegelle and Gael flanking her. Lady Jocelyn stood nearby, her posture straight.

All heads turned toward Aegon.

The Queen’s face brightened. “Come, Aegon. We were waiting for you. Lord Corlys has come to offer his congratulations.”

Corlys stepped forward, dignified in his dark blue cloak. “I had to,” he said with a faint but sincere smile. “Prince Aegon has achieved something I can hardly put into words.”

Aegon dipped his head respectfully. “Thank you, my lord, and forgive my delay. I’d sequestered myself for some study.”

“The Queen mentioned as much,” Corlys replied, his tone edged with amusement. “Trying to forge Valyrian steel, was it?”

Aegon gave a slight nod. “An early attempt, at least.”

Corlys chuckled. “Then I suppose my wait was well spent. But take care, my prince, at this rate, you’ll have every lord in the realm begging you to forge a blade for their house.”

Aegon allowed the faintest smile. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Near the fire, Rhaenys rose from her seat, gently passing the infant in her arms to a waiting maid. Her eyes lit up. “Cousin,” she said warmly, stepping forward and embracing him. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

Aegon returned the gesture with polite grace. As they parted, his gaze drifted to the child now nestled in the maid’s arms.

“This must be Laena.”

Rhaenys smiled and nodded .

Corlys gestured toward the gifts arranged neatly along one wall. “We brought a few tokens from Driftmark.”

Rhaenys moved to present them, opening one of the carved chests. “Bolts of silk from Lys,” she said, lifting a shimmering fold of violet fabric. “And spices, cinnamon, pepper, even myrrh.”

The air filled with a soft, fragrant tang as she opened a jar.

Maegelle, murmured an appreciative comment about the craftsmanship on the fabric. Beside her, Gael leaned forward, eyes wide, clearly fascinated by the treasures.

Queen Alysanne, however, kept her attention on Aegon. Her smile was warm but knowing. She had seen this game played before, many times.

Aegon’s expression remained neutral, polite. He listened as Rhaenys continued to explain the items.

It was Jocelyn who spoke next, her tone light but unmistakably purposeful. “Lord Corlys did not just come to bring gifts, Aegon. He came to see the prince who wields flame. Perhaps… you might give him a glimpse?”

Corlys inclined his head. “That I did,” he said carefully. “Curiosity got the better of me. The truth is harder to believe without seeing it. The flame of Old Valyria, that is no small thing, for either of our houses.”

There was a beat of silence.

Aegon remained still. The request did not surprise him, he’d anticipated it the moment the gifts were presented, but it irked him nonetheless.

He had grown used to the curious, the awed. But that did not make being asked to perform any more pleasant.

Still, refusing after such courtesies would be seen as rude. “Very well,” he said at last, his voice even and composed. “I will show you.”

Later in the evening.

Corlys sat at the long dining table, his hands resting still on either side of his goblet.

Around him, the hall buzzed faintly with the clink of silverware and the soft murmurs of conversation as servants moved quietly, laying platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and honeyed root vegetables before the assembled.

But Corlys’s mind was elsewhere.

He barely registered the scent rising from the dishes. His thoughts were still in the training yard, back where Prince Aegon had stood beneath the dusky sky and had shown his pyromancy.

Two armored dummies had been set across from him. Without a word, the boy had lifted his arm, and fire answered.

It wasn’t the wild, erratic fire of a torch or a forge. It had been precise. Controlled. A ball of flame burst from Aegon’s palm, striking one dummy in the center. The next followed an instant later, engulfing the second.

Corlys could still feel the heat, phantom against his face. He’d felt his heart seize for a breath, caught between awe and fear.

It was Valyrian sorcery, real and terrifying.

He reached for his goblet and took a long, slow sip of wine, trying to steady himself. The thought came again, clear and sharp:

The Velaryons must have that power.

If that blood, if that flame, flowed through his descendants, through Laena’s children, House Velaryon would no longer just sail beside the Targaryens.

They could rise above them.

The dragons had long symbolized Targaryen supremacy, but this boy had both the dragon and the flame.

Corlys’s eyes drifted down the table.

Queen Alysanne spoke easily with Lady Jocelyn, while Maegelle sat in quiet dignity beside Gael, who laughed at something one of the maids had said.

All of them had watched Aegon’s demonstration with calm familiarity.

None seemed shocked. It wasn’t new to them.

They’ve seen it before, he realized. That’s why Lady Jocelyn welcomed the idea so easily.

Across from him, Rhaenys sat quietly, her gaze resting on Aegon. She had spoken only a few words since the demonstration, but she kept stealing glances at her cousin. There was curiosity in her eyes, perhaps even reverence.

In the brief moment they’d shared in their chambers after the demonstration, Rhaenys had spoken simply. Her voice had been low, serious.

“Make the proposal happen.” she’d said.

And he would.

With fire like that in Laena’s future, how could he not?

He looked at the boy again, Prince Aegon. Not yet ten, yet already with the height and form of a squire of fifteen.

The youngest living dragonrider. And now, the only known Valyrian pyromancer since the Doom.

The longer Corlys watched him, the more certain he felt.

He gave a brief look toward Lady Jocelyn, then to his wife. His resolve hardened.

Taking a breath, he rose.

The scrape of his chair silenced the hall. All eyes turned to him.

Lifting his goblet, not in toast, but to command the room, he spoke with the steady tone of a man who knew the weight of his words.

“If I may, Your Grace.”

Queen Alysanne, seated at the head of the table, inclined her head with quiet authority. “Speak freely, Lord Corlys.”

He nodded and stepped slightly forward, facing her fully. “I have long respected your wisdom, Your Grace, and the strength with which you’ve held House Targaryen together through many trials. And I have remained loyal, even when the tides turned against what seemed fair.”

A pause. Subtle. Intentional.

“You see, my wife, Rhaenys… is your granddaughter.The only child of your firstborn son, Prince Aemon. And yet, when the matter of succession arose, it was Prince Baelon, your second-born, who was chosen as heir.”

The temperature in the hall dipped just slightly. Rhaenys looked down briefly, her expression unreadable.

Corlys continued, his voice steady. “We did not question the King’s will. Nor do I now. But to say that it passed without pain… would be false. My wife has never spoken against her kin, but no husband could fail to see what was lost that day, not only to her, but to history.”

Jocelyn remained still, lips pressed into a faint line.The Queen, however, said nothing yet.

Corlys bowed his head slightly. “I speak not to reopen wounds, but to honor what was lost…and build something stronger for what lies ahead.”

He looked to Rhaenys for a moment, then to the infant Laena, sleeping in a maid’s arms beside the hearth.

“I come not only as husband to your granddaughter, but as a father. I believe in legacy, Your Grace. In fire. In strength that endures through blood.”

He turned now toward Aegon, sitting quietly, a single eyebrow raised in interest.

“Prince Aegon is no ordinary child. He is a dragonrider, the youngest in the history of Westeros. And now… he commands flame with his hands. Not in dreams. Not in stories. But in truth.”

He faced the Queen again, his voice quiet but firm.

“My daughter, Laena, is still young, a babe in arms. This is not a call for wedding bells, but for a bond. A promise. I propose a betrothal, between her and Prince Aegon. To bind House Velaryon and House Targaryen in a way that honors the past and prepares for what lies ahead.”

The silence that followed was deep and heavy.

Queen Alysanne regarded him with sharp, thoughtful eyes. “You ask much, Lord Corlys.”

“I ask only for what might benefit us all,” Corlys said. “For unity. For strength. For the blood of Old Valyria to remain strong in both line and legacy.”

Lady Jocelyn now leaned forward gently, her voice soft but steady. “It would bring comfort, Your Grace… to know that my granddaughter will be joined to a boy I have seen wield flames. He carries the blood of the dragon… and now, the flame of Valyria itself.”

Maegelle and Gael exchanged glances but said nothing. Rhaenys remained composed, though her hands tightened slightly in her lap.

Queen Alysanne said nothing for a long moment.

Then finally, she spoke, her voice calm, but no less commanding for it. “I must consider what is best for the realm, for my grandson… and for the child in your arms. But I do not dismiss your offer, Lord Corlys. Nor do I ignore your loyalty… or your wounds.”

Queen Alysanne’s silence lingered. Then, her gaze shifted, to Aegon, then Rhaenys, and finally to Corlys once more.

Her tone sharpened slightly, “But such matters demand more than goodwill and timing. The King must be consulted. So too must Prince Baelon.”

She let the words hang. Her expression shifted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to signal caution.

Queen Alysanne continued, “Know this as well. Viserys and Daemon remain unwed. They are older, and of the same blood. This matter touches more than hearts, it touches succession.”

The words cut cleanly through the air.

“I know your proposal comes from care and foresight, Lord Corlys,” she continued, her gaze unwavering, “and I do not question your devotion to your house, or to my granddaughter Rhaenys.”

Her eyes shifted to the sleeping Laena in the maid’s arms. Then slowly, deliberately, they returned to Aegon, who, as always, sat composed and unreadable.

“But Prince Aegon is the third son. Viserys and Daemon stand ahead of him, and neither has yet been matched. Their futures are undecided. Their fates… still in motion.”

Her words were even, but each syllable struck with purpose.

Then, a note of softness entered her voice, the mask of queen briefly becoming that of grandmother.

“And yet I understand why your eyes turn to him.”

She looked once more to Aegon. There was warmth now, subtle, but genuine. The kind only a grandmother could offer.

“Aegon has already bonded with Dreamfyre. He wields fire not in tales, but in waking truth. The flame of Valyria lives in him…undeniably.”

Around the table, subtle reactions stirred.

Queen Alysanne’s voice cooled once more.

“That is why I must consider not only the strength of a proposed match, but the ripples it would send through bloodlines, ambition, and the realm itself.”

She turned to Corlys again. “You offer the hand of your daughter, yet still a babe. And while I respect your boldness… I will not be hurried into binding him.”

Lady Jocelyn shifted slightly, clearly restraining herself. Her expression, while composed, betrayed a flicker of conflict. She had spoken earlier in Laena’s favor, perhaps too eagerly. Now, she seemed to weigh whether speaking again would worsen the Queen’s mood.

Then Alysanne added, her voice quieter, but precise as a blade drawn beneath silk:

“There is also Gael to consider.”

The statement struck like a dropped stone in water.

Gael froze. Her eyes lifted to her mother, wide. Not frightened, shocked.

Aegon’s gaze flicked to her in that moment, just briefly. Enough to notice her reaction. Enough for the room to notice he had.

Lady Jocelyn let out a small sigh.

Maegelle looked down, her fingers now steepled tightly together in her lap.

Queen Alysanne didn’t dwell on the name. She merely added, “She is of age. She, too, carries the dragon’s blood. And she has not yet been promised. There are many bonds that must be weighed, Lord Corlys… before I can tie a new one.”

The message, though politely delivered, could not have been clearer.

This match, between Aegon and Laena, was not hers to give. Not yet. And perhaps, not ever.

Corlys stood still, absorbing the silence.

Then, slowly, he bowed his head. “That is all I ask, Your Grace. That you weigh it.”

The Queen offered a single nod, composed once more. “And I shall.”

Only then did the moment release its grip.

The hall exhaled.

Plans had been laid.

Yet the Queen’s board had more pieces than Corlys had counted.

And not all of them would move as he expected.

Chapter Text

Aegon let out a long breath as he lay on his bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling above.

So that was their intent all along.

He had expected that Lord Corlys’s visit wasn’t solely for pleasantries, but a betrothal? To little Laena? A babe still in swaddling cloth?

That had caught him off guard.

What surprised him more was Lady Jocelyn’s immediate support. She had spoken in favor of it.

And Rhaenys, though she hadn’t said much at all, hadn’t needed to. Her presence was enough.

One didn’t sail to Dragonstone with an infant daughter and a barge of gifts unless their mind was already made.

Aegon closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, blinking up at the cold ceiling.

Honestly, he didn’t oppose the betrothal.

Laena was still an infant. Any wedding would be more than a decade away.

Twelve, perhaps fifteen years.

More than enough time for him to grow stronger, sharper, and far more powerful than he was now.

But even so…he knew it wouldn’t happen.

He already knew that his grandmother intended to pair him with Gael.

Her words to Lord Corlys had been little more than a stalling tactic, a carefully crafted political maneuver designed to deflect his attempt to corner her with guilt over Rhaenys being passed over for succession.

Her words had been measured, but her meaning wasn’t. She hadn’t dismissed Corlys. She couldn’t. Not publicly.

The Lord of the Tides led the richest fleet in the realm, and his wife was the Queen’s own granddaughter. A snub in the hall would’ve turned respect into resentment.

One thing puzzled Aegon, Lady Jocelyn must have known that the Queen intended to pair him with Gael.

So why had she supported the proposal?

Did she truly believe the Queen would be unable to refuse the Lord of the Tides?

Perhaps she did. Perhaps Jocelyn had enough faith in Corlys’s influence, and in the strength of his offer, to think that even the Queen’s private intentions would have to yield before such a bold move.

Maybe she believed Alysanne couldn’t risk offending the Velaryons again, not after they had already been passed over once.

The timing, too, was telling. It felt rushed, as if Corlys had wanted to stake his claim before the King and Queen began entertaining proposals from other great houses.

And judging by the way he reacted to the pyromancy, Aegon had little doubt what other lords would believe, that such power could be passed through blood.

Just as the ability to bond with dragons was inherited, they would assume that Valyrian flame, ancient, forgotten, feared, might also run in the veins of the dragonlords’ descendants.

And if that were true, then binding that power to their own bloodlines would become a prize worth chasing.

Aegon slowly sat up. He swung his legs over the side and rose, walking over to the small table near the hearth. Pulling out the chair, he sat down and rested his elbows on the polished wood.

Perhaps I’ve made myself too dazzling, he thought wryly. Dazzling enough for great Houses to start seeing him not just as the third Targaryen prince, but as a future worth investing in.

It wasn’t good.

Revealing his pyromancy had served its purpose, it earned him resources, attention, and the space to study. But it had also shifted how others measured his worth.

If more lords began whispering that he was more valuable than Viserys, the firstborn… things could turn dangerous.

His grandfather, King Jaehaerys, the Realm’s conciliator, prized peace and stability above all.

If he suspected that Aegon’s existence might threaten the future harmony of succession, even unintentionally, there would be consequences.

It wouldn’t matter that Aegon rode a dragon. Or that he was the only living pyromancer since the Doom.

He would still act to protect the realm first.

Aegon gave a dry smile and leaned back in the chair, fingers tapping the wood.

It seems I’ll need a new class soon, he thought, amused. One to survive the game of politics.

Next day.

The wind cut sharp as Aegon stepped into the courtyard, grey clouds pressing low overhead. A thin layer of frost coated the stones, crunching quietly beneath his boots.

He was almost to the tower when a figure emerged from beneath the archway.

“A moment, Aegon?” Rhaenys’s voice was soft, but it carried.

He stopped and gave a small nod.

Ser Clement, silent and watchful, stepped back to give space.

“We’ll be leaving today,” Rhaenys said.

Aegon tilted his head slightly, “So soon?”

Rhaenys gave a small, self-conscious smile. “I should’ve spoken to you first. Before the proposal. Corlys… tends to act once he’s decided.”

Aegon said nothing. The wind moved between them, tugging strands of her hair loose. She didn’t meet his eyes at first.

“You know how it is,” she said, voice quieter now. “Princes. Princesses. We rarely get to choose whom we marry.”

The words lingered in the cold air.

“You’ll get more offers,” she said. “Many more. From every great house. That’s the truth of it.”

Aegon glanced past her toward the sea, where waves crashed endlessly against the cliffs. She followed his gaze for a moment, then returned her eyes to him, her expression more serious.

“The Queen wasn’t eager, I could tell. But Corlys will try again, with the King, and with Prince Baelon.”

A pause.

“You’re clever. You know what your power means.” Her eyes searched his face. “Your match will be more than just marriage.”

A moment passed, she added, “Laena is still a babe. But I’ll raise her to be someone who’s worthy of standing beside you.”

Her voice was firmer now, but still gentle. “And you’ll have House Velaryon’s full support, whether you seek Valyrian steel, knowledge, or something else.”

Aegon met her gaze. Neither warm nor cold. Just… listening.

“I only ask that you consider it,” she said.

Then, her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Gael’s a fine match too.”

Aegon blinked, just once. A flicker of surprise.

Rhaenys gave a soft laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I want you to marry Laena. But I want you to be happy, too.”

She reached out, touched his arm lightly. A gesture more personal than political.

“Take care, cousin.”

She turned to leave, her footsteps light on the frosted stone. But halfway down the steps, she stopped and glanced back with a sly smile.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you forge Valyrian steel…again.”

Aegon blinked. Again?

Then it clicked.

Wait… does she think I made those daggers?

Before he could say anything, Rhaenys smirked, and walked on.

The wind tugged at her cloak as she disappeared into the morning fog.

Aegon stood still for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Then, behind him, Ser Clement approached. “Prince?”

Aegon exhaled slowly, the faintest smile touching his lips.

“Let’s go.”

They turned toward the tower, boots crunching softly over frostbitten stone.

A few days later.

“Finally,” Aegon muttered with relief, setting his quill down as he leaned back in his chair.

It had taken nearly four days of relentless effort to bind magic into clay using spirituality. Countless failed attempts had nearly dulled his patience, but now, the breakthrough was undeniable.

The magic settled within the clay, faintly pulsing beneath its surface.

Once the binding was stable, he began observing the flow of magic through the material.

Two more days passed in quiet study and mental strain before he finally isolated what he had been searching for: the [Form Rune].

The rune’s structure was elegant. It represented shaping and molding, an essential foundation for constructing the spell models.

As he stared down at the diagram he had drawn, neatly inked across the parchment, a rare feeling of satisfaction settled in his chest.

Now, he thought, it’s time to make something real.

His goal was clear: to integrate the newly discovered [Form Rune] with the [Fire Rune], and recreate the fireball spell, similar to the one he could cast innately through his flamecraft.

But unlike his innate ability, which could be shaped freely in the moment, this constructed spell would follow fixed parameters set by the rune structure.

With each theoretical design, Aegon would construct the structure into his mental space using his spirituality, and test its viability in the real world.

Trial after trial followed, models that collapsed under their own weight, unstable constructs that fizzled out entirely.

But slowly, his understanding deepened.

The more he worked, the more he realized how much more refined his innate flamecraft was compared to this artificially built fireball. The difference in control, responsiveness, and efficiency was stark. And yet, he pressed on.

Until finally, it happened.

A perfect sphere of flame floated above his outstretched palm, stable, controlled, and uniform in shape.

Inside his mental space, a detailed construct hovered: the full structure of the [Fireball] spell, built from the integration of [Form] and [Fire].

Aegon allowed himself a faint, wry smile.

It wasn’t complete…not yet. The flame floated obediently in place, but refused to move. It couldn’t be thrown or launched. For that, he would need another rune, something tied to propulsion, force, or directional movement.

Even so, the success was undeniable.

He had created a prototype spell model. And more importantly, it was usable by others. Anyone with a sufficiently strong mind and a source of magic could, in theory, replicate this spell. The second requirement could even be bypassed with a nearby magical catalyst.

Of course, there was a catch.

The model’s foundation rested on spirituality, a higher, purer form of mental energy. For most people, even attempting to manifest this spell would leave their mind drained or shattered.

But that didn’t matter.

Because now, Aegon had proven the concept.

He leaned back, breathing slowly and deeply. His gaze drifted toward the window. The morning sun filtered weakly against the lingering chill of winter.

His mind shifted to something else, something he had been expecting.

The growth of his experience points had slowed significantly.

The flurry of gains he'd received after news spread of his awakening as a Valyrian pyromancer had mostly settled. The echoes of awe, fear, or reverence across the realm had already been absorbed.

It’s time, he thought, time to move forward.

He opened his status and checked the numbers.

[EXP: 623,247]

More than six times what he’d earned upon bonding with Dreamfyre. Back then, when he’d become the youngest dragonrider in Westerosi history.

He checked his class tree and focused on the only branch with three leaves.

[ Class: Wizard Apprentice (Tier 3) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Max level Class: Occult Scholar (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Mental Adept (satisfied)

- Understanding of Runes (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 13.0 (satisfied)

- Magic ≥ 2.5 (satisfied) ]

[ Level 1 (000 / 10,000) ]

[ Trait : Spirituality

(+10% perception of ambient or hidden magical phenomena)

(+10% interaction with supernatural forces)

(+5% regeneration rate of Spirituality when resting or meditating) ]

[ Trait : Spellcraft

(+10% creation of mental spell models from runes)

(+10% stability of custom spell models during casting)

(−5% Spirituality and Magic cost when activating refined spell models) ]

[ Trait : Magic Control

(+10% control over magical power flow)

(+10% effectiveness in shaping or bending magic )

(+10% resistance to uncontrolled magical interference) ]

He studied the screen for a moment, unmoving. There was a temptation to leap forward, to flood the class with experience and reach its apex in a flash.

But no.

This was his first Tier 3 class. He wanted to understand it as it unfolded. Step by step.

Slow and measured, he reminded himself.

"Let’s start with two levels," he muttered aloud.

Then, with a careful exhale, he funneled the necessary experience into the [Wizard Apprentice] class, raising it to Level 3.

[-30,000 EXP]

[Class Level Increased: 1 → 3]

Chapter Text

A sharp, tearing pain suddenly shot through Aegon’s head.

He groaned and slumped back in the chair, barely able to stay upright as the agony pulsed through his skull. Inside him, something was shifting.

His mental space and spirituality were undergoing profound changes.

Bit by bit, his mental space began to expand, pushing outward like a bubble stretching at the edges. As it grew, the total amount of spirituality within it increased as well, rising in direct proportion.

Eventually, the expansion slowed and came to a stop. But the transformation wasn’t over.

Now, the spirituality itself began to change, not in volume, but in nature.

It was becoming purer, more refined in a way that was hard to define.

The searing pain in his head slowly faded, replaced by a cool, soothing sensation that washed over him. It felt like finding water after being lost in a desert, relief so deep it bordered on euphoria.

Only a few seconds had passed in the real world. But to Aegon, it felt like an hour.

He blinked, slowly regaining awareness. His entire body was soaked with sweat, and he was breathing hard, like he’d just come out of a storm.

“Fuck…” Aegon muttered under his breath. “Why did that hurt so much?”

None of his previous class upgrades had caused pain anywhere near this level.

He shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, heart still thudding in his chest. For several minutes, he sat motionless, recovering, regaining his center.

Always upgrade in a secure place, he reminded himself grimly.

Once he felt composed, Aegon closed his eyes again and peered inward into his mental space. It had expanded, almost by ten percent. The mist-like energy within, his spirituality, had grown both in volume and presence.

But the biggest shift wasn’t in quantity.

It was in quality.

The spirituality now felt… refined. Sharper, clearer. As though it had touched something beyond his comprehension. Something higher.

He let out a long breath, then focused on the interface to review the changes summarized by the Class Tree.

[ Class: Wizard Apprentice (Tier 3) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Max level Class: Occult Scholar (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Mental Adept (satisfied)

- Understanding of Runes (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 13.0 (satisfied)

- Magic ≥ 2.5 (satisfied) ]

[ Level 3 (000 / 30,000) ]

[ Trait : Spirituality

(+20% perception of ambient or hidden magical phenomena)

(+20% interaction with supernatural forces)

(+15% regeneration rate of Spirituality when resting or meditating)

(+5% passive danger awareness) ]

[ Trait : Spellcraft

(+20% creation of mental spell models from runes)

(+20% stability of custom spell models during casting)

(−10% Spirituality and Magic cost when activating refined spell models) ]

[ Trait : Magic Control

(+20% control over magical power flow)

(+20% effectiveness in shaping or bending magic )

(+20% resistance to uncontrolled magical interference) ]

Aegon’s eyes paused on the new line: +5% passive danger awareness.

Danger awareness? That was new… and exactly what he needed.

Perfect. A small smile tugged at his lips. Just what I’ve been missing.

He had become too high-profile of late. Too visible. He’d already been planning to include a danger-sensing trait in his next class design, but now, it seemed he wouldn’t need to.

Still, curiosity crept in. How does it actually work?

His gaze drifted to an apple resting on the table. He picked it up, weighed it lightly in his hand, then tossed it into the air and shut his eyes.

A faint tingle spread through his spirituality, a subtle ripple, like static brushing his skin. Then a momentary chill prickled the back of his head.

Thud.

The apple smacked squarely against his forehead.

He opened his eyes with a slow blink. Blank expression.

“…That’s it?”

So the tingling was the warning.

Passive danger awareness, indeed.

He let out a long breath, somewhere between a sigh and a dry chuckle, rubbing the spot where the apple had landed.

Well… it’s something. Not quite a spider-sense, but definitely better than nothing.

Maybe it’ll sharpen as the class grows.

He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching in reluctant amusement.

King’s Landing, Red Keep

The heavy oak door of the king’s solar groaned shut behind Septon Barth, sealing away the murmurs of the court still lingering in the corridors beyond. The afternoon light slanted through the leaded glass windows, casting geometric patterns across the Myrish rug.

The king stood by the window, his back to the room, watching the distant shimmer of the Blackwater. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the stone sill before he turned.

"Yes, Barth?" His voice was calm, but the undercurrent was steel. "You said you wished to speak in private."

Barth bowed his head slightly, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his simple brown robe. He had been Hand for decades, but even now, there were moments when the weight of counsel sat uneasily upon him.

"Your Grace," he began, then hesitated.

Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow. “Speak your mind.”

Barth inhaled slowly. "The Faith's reaction to Prince Aegon's... awakening has not been favorable."

A beat of silence. The king's face remained impassive, but his knuckles whitened where they rested against the sill.

"Unfavorable how?"

Barth chose his words carefully. "Whispers, Your Grace. Among the septons. Some call it sorcery. Others speak of Maegor's flames returning."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Jaehaerys' eyes, usually warm, turned cold.

"They dare." The words were quiet, but the edge in them could have drawn blood. "To spread such filth about a prince of the blood, is not just insolence, it is treason."

Barth did not flinch, but his fingers tightened within his sleeves. "I do not disagree. But silencing them outright may only fan the flames."

Jaehaerys' lip curled in anger. "Then let it burn them."

Silence fell between them for a long moment.

Jaehaerys’s voice was tight. “He’s a child. A child! And they would rather call it cursed blood than admit that something great has returned.”

“Great and terrible often share the same shadow,” Barth replied gently.

"Your Grace," he pressed, "we risk turning murmurs into outright defiance. The Faith is no longer armed, but tongues can wield sharper knives than swords."

The king turned fully now, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "What would you have me do, Barth? Beg their forgiveness for my grandson's gifts?"

"No," Barth said. "But we might... sanctify them."

Jaehaerys stilled. "Explain."

Barth stepped closer, his voice lowering. "The Faith fears what it does not understand. But it reveres what it believes is blessed. If we frame Aegon's gifts as divine, a vessel of the Crone's wisdom or the Warrior's fire, then it is no longer sorcery. It is grace."

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the distant cries of gulls over the Blackwater. Jaehaerys exhaled, the weight of years pressing upon him like a physical thing.

"Do you remember Maegor's reign?" he asked abruptly, his voice distant.

Barth blinked. "Only from the histories, Your Grace."

"I was a boy," Jaehaerys murmured, "but I remember the fires. The way the septons screamed as Balerion's shadow passed over them." His fingers flexed against the sill. "I swore I would never rule through fear. And yet now they whisper of my grandson as though he were Maegor reborn."

Barth studied the king's profile, the deep lines etched by time.

"They fear what they do not understand," he repeated. "But fear can be shaped, Your Grace. The Conqueror was feared too, until the Starry Sept and the High Septon anointed him with holy oils."

Jaehaerys frowned.

Barth hesitated. Then added, “There’s more, Your Grace. Prince Baelon has been… overly proud of Aegon. At court, he boasts openly. He tells the lords how Aegon conjured fire from his hands, how no knight could hope to stand against him.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “That fool.”

Barth continued, gently but firmly. “And he rides Dreamfyre, outmatched only by Balerion, Vhagar and Vermithor in might. His power is real, Your Grace. And he is not yet ten.”

The truth settled between them like a stone dropped in a still pool.

The king turned, his gaze sharp. "You suggest I lie?"

"I suggest," Barth said carefully, "that truth is a malleable thing when it comes to gods and kings. The Faith proclaims miracles when it suits them. Why should the Crown not do the same?"

Jaehaerys was silent for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, a dry chuckle escaped him. "You make a terrible septon, Barth."

Barth’s lips twitched. "Fortunately, I serve a higher power."

The tension in the room eased, if only slightly. Jaehaerys moved to the table, pouring two cups of wine, a rich Arbor gold that caught the firelight like liquid amber. He handed one to Barth.

"After the hunt, then," he said at last. "If the whispers persist, we will... reshape the narrative, as you say." He took a slow sip. "But gently, Barth. I'll not have my grandson used as a pawn in some mummer's farce of piety."

Barth raised his cup in acquiescence. "Of course, Your Grace."

Outside, the bells of the Great Sept began their evening chorus, their deep peals rolling across the city like a tide. Somewhere beyond the Red Keep's walls, the smallfolk would be kneeling in prayer, their faces turned toward the Seven.

Jaehaerys' gaze drifted to the window again, toward the distant spires. "Do you think it will work?"

Barth followed his gaze. "If the gods are good."

Jaehaerys gave a faint snort. “The gods have little say in politics, Barth. But you and I? We’ll manage.”

Barth raised his cup in agreement. “Together, Your Grace.”

As the bells continued to toll and the shadows lengthened across King’s Landing, the king and his Hand stood side by side, two weary men watching the storm they would soon need to weather.

Narrow Sea, just before dawn.

The rowboat cut quietly across the waves, its wooden frame groaning faintly under the shifting weight of its passengers. The sea was calm, the sky a dull slate of pre-dawn grey, and Dragonstone loomed in the distance like a brooding beast, half-shrouded in mist.

One of the guards, broad-shouldered, balding, and not built for rowing, grunted and wiped sweat from his brow. “We’re going to lose our bloody jobs,” he muttered.

“Only if someone talks,” said the other, younger and thinner, his voice low as he glanced over his shoulder. “Which you just did.”

The balding one glared. “I meant to you, idiot.”

From beneath his dark cloak at the bow, a third voice rang out, loud, clear, and very much not bothered.

“I can hear whispering,” Daemon said lazily, lifting his head. His silver hair poked from beneath his hood, catching the weak morning light. “Do the King’s men always mutter like fishwives, or is it only when accompanying greatness across the sea?”

The guards shared a look.

“I swear,” the older one grumbled, “he’s been talking like this since we left the docks.”

“'You two are honored,’” the younger mimicked in a nasal tone, “‘to assist me in a mission worthy of song.’”

Daemon sat up straighter in the boat, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Aye. And when they do write songs about me, you’ll be in the footnotes.”

“You mean the bit where we got flogged for desertion?” the older one asked dryly.

Daemon spread his arms, dramatic as ever. “Desertion? Nonsense. You’re escorting a prince. There’s honor in that.”

“You threatened to report us to Lord Rickard if we didn’t come,” the younger said.

Daemon pointed at him. “Which worked. Excellent initiative on my part.”

The castle grew larger as they approached, jagged towers rising like fangs from the stone. The wind picked up. Daemon’s cloak fluttered behind him as he stood in the swaying boat.

“Ah, Dragonstone,” he said grandly. “Land of my birth. Roost of dragons. And home… of Caraxes.”

The boat rocked, and the older guard grabbed the side. “Sit down before you tip us all in, Your Bloody Grace.”

Daemon grinned at them and didn’t sit.

Chapter Text

The spring air was crisp with the scent of salt and moss as it swept through the training yard of Dragonstone. The grey stone walls echoed with the sharp clatter of metal on metal.

Clang. Clang.

Aegon ducked, parried, then twisted to the side, the worn grip of his training sword slick in his hand. Daemon pressed forward, eyes bright with the thrill of the spar, swinging again in a high arc.

Aegon blocked it, barely, the blow jarring up his forearms.

Then came another flurry, quick and chaotic. Aegon moved with agility, slipping and weaving, faster than most boys his age had any right to be. But Daemon matched him. Not in grace, but in sheer instinct.

His strikes came at strange angles, surprising ones, always with a faint smirk curling his lips, as if he were dancing to a rhythm.

"You can’t beat me anymore, brother," Daemon said between breaths, eyes gleaming.

Aegon said nothing, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed a silent acknowledgment. It was true. Daemon had grown fast. He was bulkier than Aegon now, having spent months sparring near daily with the City Watch. His swordplay was rough, sometimes unrefined, but it worked.

Still, Aegon was faster. His footwork more precise. His control more measured. But Daemon's fighting instincts were wild and sharp. He fought like someone who didn’t care whether he won or lost, only that the fight was good.

Aegon exhaled sharply, stepping back after deflecting another forceful blow. “Your swings are getting reckless,” he said, circling. “Must be all that time spent knocking swords with city guards.”

Daemon grinned, unbothered. “They hit harder than half the knights in the Red Keep. And none of them waste time preaching about stance or honor.”

They clashed again, swords whipping through the air. Ser Clement watched quietly from the side, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was steady and solemn. These were not boys anymore. Their swordsmanship had reached the level of young knights.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Sweat glistened on both princes. Their tunics were soaked, boots scraping against the stone floor as they circled.

Then, an opening. Subtle. Barely there. But Daemon saw it.

He lunged.

Aegon could have defended, but he didn’t. He let it happen. Daemon’s dull blade came to rest just against his throat.

A heartbeat passed. Then Aegon gave a small smile. “I lost.”

Daemon grinned, triumphant. “You did.” He was about to gloat, but then his face clouded. The grin faltered, and his body seemed to sag all at once.

He stepped back, tossed his sword away, and dropped flat on the ground, arms spread wide, eyes fixed on the pale sky above.

Aegon frowned. “What is it?”

Daemon didn’t answer right away. A seagull screeched somewhere beyond the wall.

Then he muttered, “Nothing. Just realized… I’d be a burnt piece of meat if that was a real fight.”

Aegon blinked. Then laughed.

Daemon wasn’t wrong. Aegon’s flamecraft had been displayed openly to him a few days ago. He had watched his brother conjure fire with a flick of his hand, shaping it like an artist molds clay. It had both terrified and thrilled him.

“I wouldn’t roast you too much,” Aegon said with a grin. “Just enough to make you surrender.”

Daemon groaned. “That’s comforting.”

He sat up, tugging off his sweat-soaked gloves, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “You ever think about how insane that is? You can summon fire. I just swing a sword.”

“Fire’s not everything,” Aegon said. “You fight better than most knights I’ve seen.”

“And yet, I’d still end up a blackened lump.” Daemon sighed and leaned back again.

“Where are the two guards you dragged here with you?” Aegon asked, cocking a brow.

Daemon’s face twisted in a grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

The memory was still fresh, and stung.

The plan had been perfect in his mind. Convince, or rather, intimidate, two City Watch guards to sneak him onto a small boat in the dead of night. Sail for Dragonstone. Arrive at dawn. Claim Caraxes. Greet his brother in glory. Perhaps even make the Queen proud.

Instead, the boat had barely docked when they were spotted by the patrols.

They had been dragged, half-soaked and shivering, straight before Queen Alysanne, who was not pleased to be woken from her chambers because of “an intruder.” That intruder being her grandson, dripping saltwater and grinning like a fool.

An intruder. Prince Daemon Targaryen. The indignity.

“She was not pleased,” Daemon muttered. “Her eyes were glowing like Vhagar’s.”

Aegon laughed again, full and honest.

“Those two cowards sold me out the moment she asked!” Daemon barked, voice rising. “Didn’t even try to lie. Just fell to their knees and said, ‘Prince Daemon made us do it! He threatened to tell Ser Rickard we were drunk on duty!’”

Aegon snorted. “Did you?”

“I might have implied it.”

Aegon chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re still here and not halfway back to King’s Landing in chains.”

Daemon threw his hands in the air. “Me too.”

A long pause followed, broken only by the sound of gulls and waves in the distance.

“When are you planning to bond with Caraxes?” Aegon asked, glancing sideways as he began brushing dust from his sleeves.

Daemon, still lying flat on the warm flagstones, turned his head toward him with a lazy grin. “Soon… as soon as I get the chance. Maybe even tomorrow.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been saying that for three days now.”

Daemon smirked.

He propped himself up on one elbow. “Why are you so worried about me, little brother? Could it be… that Aegon the studious has finally grown a heart?”

Aegon rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Of course. How could I not worry? It is the honor of Caraxes to be bonded with the great Daemon Targaryen, the finest swordsman in King’s Landing, and champion of midnight schemes.”

Daemon gave a mock bow from the ground. “Finally, some respect.”

Aegon laughed and stood, stretching. “Just don’t get yourself eaten. I’d have to create a song about it.”

Daemon grinned as he sat up. “You better be ready to congratulate me properly.”

Aegon dusted off his tunic. “With what?”

“A Valyrian sword,” Daemon said, pointing a finger dramatically. “A fine one. Forged by your magical hands. No less than what I deserve.”

Aegon started to walk off toward the castle steps, waving behind him. “We’ll see. If you survive the fire and fangs, I might consider it.”

“Just make sure it’s sharp!” Daemon shouted after him, grinning.

Aegon looked back once, gave a small smile, then disappeared into the keep. The yard quieted, save for the sea wind and Daemon’s thoughts, already drifting to the dragon waiting for him inside the caves.

Nothing like a good bath after a sweaty spar, Aegon thought as he made his way toward the Black Vault tower, drying the back of his neck with a cloth.

At the base of the tower stood Ser Clement, ever-stern, and beside him, the old blacksmith Aegon had hired, a weathered man with a wiry beard and a voice like gravel being ground underfoot.

“Is it done?” Aegon asked, pulling the cloth from around his neck.

“Almost, my prince,” the blacksmith said with a respectful nod. “My apprentices are finishing up the hearth now. It’ll hold heat proper, no doubt.”

Aegon nodded, satisfied. A few days earlier, he had quietly commissioned a private forge to be built within one of the tower’s unused rooms, his workspace for experimenting with Valyrian forging techniques.

After all, he couldn’t exactly go around telling people that he could turn ordinary steel into Valyrian steel just by sprinkling his blood on it. He needed it to appear as though he were forging it the traditional way…like a true smith of Valyria.

Aegon went inside the tower followed by Ser Clement and the blacksmith. There were guards present who were overseeing the construction of the forge. They bowed and continued monitoring the blacksmith apprentices, workers who were busy making the forge.

“Good. Make sure the airflow channels are right. I don’t want smoke choking the whole tower,” Aegon said.

“Aye, my prince. You’ll be able to melt godsdamned stone in there once we’re done.” The blacksmith grinned, missing a few teeth.

“I’ll pay extra if it’s solid work,” Aegon added, glancing at the forge where flames were beginning to curl faintly up the chimney.

The old man’s eyes lit up at the mention of more coin, and he turned back to the apprentices with renewed enthusiasm, clapping his hands. “Get that back wall aligned! And double-check the vent!”

Aegon gave a final glance, then turned and walked deeper into the tower, Ser Clement trailing behind like a silent shadow. The blacksmith and the guards at the door gave a short bow as he passed.

As soon as Aegon disappeared into the stone stairwell, one of the younger apprentices, barely older than a squire, nudged the boy next to him. “Why do you think the prince wants a forge? Princes don’t make swords.”

The second boy leaned in with wide eyes. “You don’t know? I heard from my sister’s friend’s mother’s lover’s wife’s daughter—”

“That’s too many people,” the third muttered.

“Shut up! She’s a maid at the castle,” the boy said dramatically, glancing around to be sure no one was listening. “She said… Prince Aegon is a pyromancer. A real one. Fire and all!”

The other two apprentices gawked.

“Swear on your balls?” one whispered.

Before he could reply, WHACK!—a stick smacked the back of his head. Then WHACK WHACK, two more hits rained down.

“Yowch!”

“AH—old man, that hurt!”

The blacksmith loomed behind them like a stormcloud. “You sniveling fools! Gossipin’ like washerwomen. We’re not here to trade tales like old hens—we’re building a forge for a prince!”

“But Master—”

“Not a word! I catch one more whisper about maids and pyromancers and your wages will vanish like piss on hot iron!”

The three boys scattered, scrambling back to their posts.

The guards nearby shared a glance. One of them let out a quiet yawn behind his gauntlet. Fools, he thought.

Aegon stepped into his study, the heavy door shutting quietly behind him.

Time to get back to it, he thought, settling at his cluttered desk and flipping open his notes.

Over the past few days, he’d made progress. Two new elemental runes added to his growing collection: the [Water Rune] and the [Air Rune].

The [Water Rune] functioned similarly to the [Fire Rune], capable of drawing or conjuring water. In contrast, the [Air Rune] resembled the [Earth Rune], it allowed manipulation of air, but not its creation. Movement and shaping, yes; manifestation, no.

Aegon frowned slightly, tapping the quill against his notes. I’ll have to change the plan.

The [Wizard Apprentice] class, while invaluable for long-term growth, wasn’t giving him the immediate power boost he needed. Its benefits were subtle, deep and foundational, but not the kind that could block a bolt mid-flight or sense a poisoned goblet at a glance.

And that was the problem. He didn’t have time. He needed power that worked now, not months from now.

By revealing his pyromancy, he had stepped into dangerous waters, drawn the attention of powerful players across the realm.

He had hoped to develop a few practical spells before then, defenses against crossbow bolts, poisons, and ambushes.

But the spells weren't ready, he did not have enough runes to craft them.

So much for that, he thought grimly.

For now, he would have to rely on the danger awareness effect from his class. A limited safety net, but better than nothing.

And that means I need to make it stronger.

The effect scaled with class level. If he wanted sharper instincts, earlier warnings, and a greater margin of survival, he had only one real path forward: upgrade.

As many levels as he could manage before the hunt.

Chapter Text

93 AC

Narrow Sea, Spring Morning

The sea shimmered beneath them, painted in shifting hues of blue and silver as a massive dragon cut through the skies. Its scales glistened in the morning sun, sapphire streaked with pale iridescence.

Wings spread wide, the creature soared above the calm waters with regal grace.

Seated astride the dragon’s neck was a silver-gold-haired boy, his hair tousled by the wind. Though he was only nine years of age, he bore the tall frame and poise of a youth several years older. The strange maturity of his form was no accident, but the effects of his classes, unseen and unknown to the world he now lived in.

“Slower, Dreamfyre,” Aegon said mentally, calm and clear.

~Yes, the dragon responded. She adjusted her flight at once, the air around them stilling as their speed diminished to a steady glide.

Aegon leaned back slightly in the saddle, letting the wind wash over his face. The chill of early spring mixed with the golden heat of morning sunlight. It was a good feeling, one that reminded him that he was alive, and soaring far above the world of men.

Dreamfyre hummed beneath him, a low, contented vibration.

Aegon opened his eyes slowly. Far ahead, framed by drifting mist, loomed the red-stone sprawl of King’s Landing. The Red Keep stood proud above the city like a thorned crown.

As they crossed the walls and towers, heads turned below. Market stalls, city watchmen, dockworkers, and nobles in carriages all gazed skyward in awe.

With a sharp tilt of her wings, Dreamfyre angled toward the Dragonpit. Her descent stirred the air into a wild storm, sending dust and leaves tumbling.

Swoooosh.

She landed with a thunderous grace, wings folding close to her massive body. Despite her immense size, equal now to Vermithor himself, she moved with a feline agility, tail swaying and nostrils steaming.

The old stone of the Dragonpit echoed with the sound of clawed feet meeting earth. Already, a dozen dragonkeepers had rushed out from the shadows of the great domed cavern. Their cloaks fluttered behind them as they approached.

One among them, older than the rest, stepped forward. His words were spoken in High Valyrian, as he bent into a deep bow. “It is a great honor to serve the Dragon of Flame reborn.”

The others bowed as well, murmuring ancient words beneath their breath, as if he were not a boy but a holy sign, the return of magic long thought buried in the ashes of Valyria.

Aegon gave a polite nod. “Feed Dreamfyre twice today. She is hungry,” he said in fluent High Valyrian. Then, mentally, he whispered to the dragon, Rest well in the caves.

Dreamfyre blinked at him once, then lumbered toward the wide tunnel entrance carved into the stone beneath the pit, her tail dragging slow furrows in the ground.

The keepers scattered to make way.

Aegon adjusted the folds of his riding cloak and turned toward the gates of the Red Keep, his boots clicking against the stone. Morning sun warmed the red walls, and the banners of House Targaryen fluttered high above, their black dragons catching the wind like they might take flight at any moment.

As he passed through the courtyard and toward the inner halls, maids and servants moved aside to let him through. Some bowed with startled expressions, others whispered behind their hands. Aegon ignored them.

He was used to it by now.

As he neared Maegor’s Holdfast, a voice rang out behind him. “Aegon!”

He turned to see Viserys striding toward him, all exuberance and wind-swept silver hair. The sixteen-year-old grinned widely, eyes shining with relief and excitement.

Aegon smiled in return, and barely had time to brace himself before Viserys pulled him into a crushing bear hug.

“It’s so good to see you, little brother,” Viserys said, clapping his back. He held him at arm’s length for a moment, scanning him up and down. “A Valyrian pyromancer, huh? I still can’t believe it. Daemon told me but—”

“Oi, Viserys! Leave him alone, would ya?” another voice called out.

They both turned to see Daemon approaching, hands in his belt, a crooked grin on his face.

He gave Aegon a nod. “Good that you didn’t come with us yesterday.” He jabbed a finger in Viserys’s direction. “First, you’d have had to sit through a whole day of the Queen and the ladies chattering on the ship… and then this one’s endless questions about fire magic.”

“I was curious!” Viserys snapped, glaring. “Maybe I should let the Queen know how much her conversations had bothered you.”

Daemon smirked. “Maybe I’ll tell the Queen how much you enjoyed Miss Cara’s company last week instead.”

Viserys’s eyes widened. “You little—”

Before he could finish, Aegon blinked innocently. “Who’s Cara?” he asked, voice laced with curiosity.

Viserys immediately coughed and looked away, suddenly fascinated by a passing guard. “No one. Just… just someone Daemon made up.”

Daemon let out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying it. “Don’t worry, Aegon. One day we’ll take you to Silk Street. Your older brothers will show you the ropes.” He slung an arm around Aegon’s shoulders. “Isn’t that right, Viserys?”

Viserys gave a strained smile, red creeping into his cheeks. “Don’t listen to him, Aegon. He’s a fool.”

Before another jab could be thrown, a new voice cut in, firm and unmistakable.

“What ropes?”

All three boys stiffened and turned. Prince Baelon stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Why aren’t you three dressed yet? We leave for Kingswood within the hour.” His tone brooked no nonsense.

“Yes, Father,” they chorused quickly.

Baelon gave each a hard look, then turned and walked away, his red cloak trailing behind.

The moment he was out of earshot, Daemon whispered, “You were about to say something stupid again, weren’t you?”

“Better than outing your favorite whore,” Viserys hissed.

Aegon just shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Well,” Viserys said finally, clapping his hands, “let’s get ready then, boys.” He paused, grinning. “The hunt awaits.”

Aegon stood still as the maids worked around him, fastening buckles and adjusting folds.

His reflection caught in a nearby mirror. Dark leather riding boots, well-fitted breeches, and a finely tailored tunic of deep charcoal, edged with silver thread. The embroidery hinted at dragon wings along the sleeves, subtle and elegant. Clearly his grandmother and aunts had their way with the design.

Yet, he'd quietly discarded the more flamboyant flourishes, golden chains, a brocade cloak, and gods-awful plumes.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath as one maid tightened a belt around his waist. "Wearing such clothes is always a pain in the ass."

The eldest maid glanced up sharply, but said nothing.

Finally dressed, he stepped away and examined himself in the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothed the collar.

"Not bad," he murmured.

By the time Aegon descended to the courtyard, the carriages had been prepared and most of the retinue was gathered. Courtiers stood in neat rows, nobles with jeweled belts and feathered caps murmured to one another. His brothers were lounging off to the side near a fountain, flicking pebbles at each other.

He stepped toward them, his presence immediately drawing attention. Conversations paused briefly as a few lords and ladies turned to glance, just a boy, and yet… not just a boy.

Then came the sound of footsteps and murmurs, the King and Queen had arrived.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Conciliator, stepped forward in his crimson cloak, his white beard neatly combed. Behind him walked Queen Alysanne, flanked by the Hand, Septon Barth.

The King’s gaze found Aegon, and a smile softened the old lines of his face.

“Aegon,” he said, motioning him over. “This royal hunt is in your honor. Ride with us in our carriage.”

Aegon stepped forward and gave a short, respectful bow. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I would rather ride with my brothers, if that pleases you.”

Jaehaerys chuckled softly, eyes crinkling. “Suit yourself. Enjoy the day, my boy.”

Queen Alysanne, however, marched up with a sharper purpose. Her eyes locked on Aegon’s tunic. She narrowed them.

“Where is the rest of the attire I sent you?” she asked, inspecting him head to toe.

Aegon offered a wry smile. “Didn’t like the rest. So I didn’t wear it.”

The Queen sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Seven save me. You sound more like your father every day.”

Then her eyes softened. She touched his cheek briefly. “Just… remember this is a significant day. You’re not just a boy anymore. They’ll all be watching.”

Aegon nodded solemnly. “I know.”

Soon after, horns sounded. Footmen opened the carriage doors. One by one, the party boarded their respective carriages. Guards mounted their horses. The procession began rolling out of the Red Keep gates, banners flapping overhead.

Aegon climbed into a richly appointed carriage alongside Daemon and Viserys. Plush seats lined with velvet. Carved wood panels gleamed in the light.

The moment the door closed, Viserys leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin.

“Brought something for the road,” he said, reaching into a pouch hidden beneath the seat.

He pulled out a polished silver goblet and a small glass bottle of dark red wine, along with three modestly sized cups.

“One of Father’s finest. Had to sneak into his chambers while he was off with Grand Maester Elysar. Worth the risk.”

Daemon’s eyes lit up as he sat forward, already reaching for a cup.

“Gods, I needed this,” he muttered.

“Careful,” Viserys warned, pouring slowly. “This is strong. Don’t spill. It’s from Lys, I think—imported.”

They each took a glass. Aegon swirled the wine, sniffed, then took a cautious sip.

It was smooth. Strong. Warm going down. The kind of drink that stayed in your chest.

“Not bad at all,” Aegon said, raising his glass slightly. Daemon echoed him with a grin.

“To fire and dragons,” Viserys toasted, eyes glinting.

“To the hunt,” Daemon added.

Aegon looked at both of them, his smile steady.

“To what comes next.”

The clink of silver cups followed, and the wine flowed freely after that. The carriage swayed gently as it rolled through the outer gates of the Red Keep and onto the Kingsroad.

They leaned back against the plush seats, warmth in their bellies and spring sun on the windows. Outside, guards rode in formation.

“So,” Viserys said, swirling his wine and shooting Daemon a sly look, “you never told me what your recent visit to Dragonstone was really about.”

“Tch.” Daemon snorted. “I already said, it was to see Aegon’s pyromancy.”

“Mhm. Sure,” Viserys said with a grin. “Absolutely not about claiming any dragon, right?”

Daemon froze mid-sip. “Wait—how did you know?” He turned to Aegon, narrowing his eyes. “Did you tell him?”

“Don’t blame Aegon,” Viserys said, holding up his hands innocently. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. You were walking around Dragonstone with that smug ‘soon-to-be-dragonlord’ strut. Everyone knew.”

Daemon frowned, trying to scowl, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“Careful with those teeth, brother,” he shot back. “You haven’t claimed a dragon either.”

That wiped the smirk right off Viserys’s face. “You little shit—” he growled. “Wait till I claim Balerion, then we’ll see who’s laughing. I’ll have him piss on you from the skies just for sport.”

Aegon nearly choked on his drink.

“Disgusting,” Daemon muttered, though he was grinning. “Besides, Balerion’s older than the bloody Wall. He’d rather nap for a hundred years than carry your whining ass.”

“Better than stealing one like a brat,” Viserys huffed.

“It wasn’t stealing. It was bonding, thank you very much,” Daemon sniffed, tossing his silver hair back like a haughty noblewoman.

Aegon couldn’t help it, he laughed.

Then Daemon leaned in.

“So… which of the noble ladies do you think is going to faint first when they see Aegon conjure fire with his fingers?”

“Lady Reese,” Viserys said immediately. “She once screamed at a lantern for flickering too loud.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, but his smirk gave him away. “Maybe I’ll conjure fire in the shape of your faces. That’ll really frighten the realm.”

“Please don’t,” Viserys groaned.

“The realm’s suffered enough,” Daemon agreed with mock solemnity.

Their laughter lingered, easy and unguarded, as the conversation drifted on, sometimes teasing, sometimes thoughtful, always full of the chaotic bond only brothers shared.

And beyond the carriage walls, the wheels turned steadily, carrying them ever closer to the Kingswood.

Chapter Text

A thin trail of dust curled into the spring air as the royal procession made its way into the outer edges of the Kingswood. Sparrows startled from the trees, flitting into the canopy above, while the slow rhythm of hooves and creaking wheels echoed through the underbrush.

The forest opened into a wide glade, where sunlight broke through the boughs of towering oaks and elms. There, the royal hunting camp had been raised, bright pavilions sprawled across the grass in orderly rows, their silken peaks catching the breeze. Banners of crimson, gold, silver, green, and blue stirred in the midday light, each sigil marking the presence of the realm’s great houses.

Aegon leaned slightly out of the carriage window, the wind ruffling his silver-gold hair. He watched the camp draw nearer, smoke curling from cookfires, stablehands tending to horses, young attendants darting about in livery.

“We’re here,” he murmured.

Beside him, Daemon drained the last of his wine and gave a lazy grin. “Your moment to shine, little brother.” He gave Aegon a nudge with his elbow. “Try not to set anyone on fire. Unless it's someone annoying. Like that Lannister whelp out there, the one yapping about his bloody horse.”

He tilted his chin toward a golden-haired boy outside the carriage, loudly bragging to a cluster of squires about the “impeccable gait” of his steed.

Viserys, seated opposite, was fussing with his doublet for the third time. He gave his collar a cautious sniff and frowned. “Gods, I hope I don’t reek like wine.” He reached into his satchel, uncorked a small glass vial, and dabbed a drop of rose oil onto his neck.

“Now you smell like a maiden on her name day,” Daemon mocked.

“And you look like you rolled out of a hedge,” Viserys snapped. “Fix your laces. At least pretend to be nobility.”

“I am nobility. Just the better-dressed kind.”

The carriages stopped. Outside, horns blared, and the camp stirred to attention. Footmen moved quickly, banners shifted in the breeze, and a fresh waft of roasting meat drifted through the air, venison, crackling bread, and the sweeter note of spiced mead. The door of the royal carriages opened with a polished snap.

King Jaehaerys stepped down first, composed in every movement. Queen Alysanne descended beside him, her presence quiet but commanding. Their arrival stilled the crowd, lords bowed, ladies dipped in curtsies. Behind them came Prince Baelon, Septon Barth, and a few other court figures.

Aegon climbed down from the carriage with Daemon and Viserys close behind. A few eyes turned his way. Some held curiosity, others something more uncertain.

A white-cloaked knight approached.

“Prince Aegon,” he said with a formal nod. “Her Grace has asked that you join them.”

Aegon glanced at his brothers. Daemon gave a nonchalant shrug. Viserys raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Aegon gave them both a nod and turned to follow the knight.

Queen Alysanne was waiting, her hands folded neatly before her, a calm expression resting on her face. She looked up as he approached, her gaze softening.

“Come, Aegon,” she said gently. “Walk with us.”

He fell in beside her without hesitation. King Jaehaerys walked ahead, his pace even and deliberate, while Septon Barth and Prince Baelon followed a few steps behind. Courtiers and noblemen parted respectfully as they passed, some bowing low, others casting sideways glances at the young prince who had begun to stir rumors.

They reached the entrance of the royal pavilion, its silken panels stirring in the breeze. From within, the low hum of conversation filtered out, nobles exchanging pleasantries over wine, alliances stitched together over bread and meat.

Just before stepping inside, Alysanne reached out and touched Aegon’s forearm lightly.

“You don’t need to dazzle them,” she said in a quiet voice, warm and reassuring. “Just be who you are. That’s more than enough.”

Aegon nodded, then stepped inside.

The interior of the royal tent was lit with muted gold, sunlight filtering through silk like liquid fire. Velvet-lined chairs flanked long trestle tables. Tapestries hung from the poles, and above the dais, the dragons of House Targaryen twisted and coiled in fine embroidery. The scent of beeswax candles mingled with the ever-present forest air, grounding opulence in earth and pine.

The King and Queen ascended their thrones without fanfare, their motions practiced and unhurried. Aegon was shown to a chair at the Queen’s right. He sat, spine straight, eyes steady.

He felt them on him, the glances, the subtle tilts of heads, the whispered speculations. Lords with lined brows. Ladies with fans held too close to their lips. No one stared openly, but none ignored him either.

Aegon found his father Baelon having conversation with Lord Arryn; Viserys laughing with Otto Hightower; Daemon predictably at the food tables, already with a drumstick in hand.

Scanning the room, Aegon noted several other familiar faces. Aemma, whom he had last met in Rhaenys’s wedding, stood in a pale gown beside her father, her eyes drifting with curiosity.

Lord Corlys Velaryon stood composed, his sea-silk robes catching the light like ocean foam. He was joined by his nephew Vaemond who seemed to be whispering something to him.

Rhaenys was nowhere to be seen, either absent from the gathering or simply occupied elsewhere, most likely caring for little Laena.

Lord Hobert Hightower hovered near the rear, surrounded by green-and-white-clad knights.

“Aegon,” came the King’s voice. low, but clear.

Aegon stepped forward.

Septon Barth rose beside the throne, his posture solemn.

Jaehaerys checked his grandson carefully. “It’s time,” he said, voice even. “I’ll speak first—welcome the lords, speak of the hunt. And when I call on you… show them what you showed us at the Painted Table. No more, no less.”

Aegon nodded, his expression settling into calm seriousness.

Queen Alysanne leaned toward him, her voice gentle. “Show them what you showed us that night,” she said with quiet pride. Then, more dryly: “And try not to burn down the pavilion. It's a fine tent.”

Aegon allowed himself a brief smile. “I’ll try.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Jaehaerys’s face before he turned to Septon Barth, all warmth gone from his gaze.

“Let’s begin.”

The septon stepped forward. Though his voice was not loud, it carried with effortless clarity through the pavilion.

“Lords and ladies of Westeros.”

The hum of conversation dwindled. Goblets were lowered. Servants stilled. A hundred pairs of eyes turned toward the dais.

“His Grace, Jaehaerys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Jaehaerys rose slowly, hands resting before him. His voice was calm.

“Welcome.” He looked out over the gathered lords and ladies. “This hunt, as you know, is no ordinary gathering. It is not merely for sport, or feasting, or fellowship. It is for something more.”

A quiet pause followed.

“Two moons past, on Dragonstone, a power stirred. A power long buried—thought extinguished. A fire not seen since the days of old Valyria… rekindled in the blood of my grandson.”

Heads turned to Aegon again.

“You’ve heard the stories. Whispers. Claims. Doubts.” His gaze moved across the tent, steady. “I offer you more than words. I offer you witness.”

He lifted his hand and gestured toward Aegon.

The boy stepped forward with measured pace, his boots soft against the velvet runner. His face showed neither anxiety nor arrogance, only calm.

He stopped in the center of the pavilion.

Raised one hand.

A breath. A stillness. Then…a flicker.

A spark bloomed in his palm. It spun slowly, gently, as if lifted by a breeze none could feel. It grew, not wild, but deliberate, until a sphere of fire hovered just above his skin. Golden-orange light danced across the tent’s inner walls, flickering against faces now held in awe.

Gasps rose. A dropped goblet clattered to the floor.

The flame began to shift. Its edges curled, bent inward, shaping. It stretched, split, two wings unfurling from its sides. A tail coiled beneath. In a matter of seconds, the flame had reshaped itself into a tiny dragon of living fire.

No smoke. No heat. Just light, and motion.

The flame-dragon beat its wings once. Twice. Then it lifted, rising through the air to circle the peak of the pavilion, casting shadows over the onlookers as it glided in slow, measured arcs.

No one spoke.

The flame hovered once more, then drifted downward, curling back into Aegon’s open palm. He closed his fingers around it.

It vanished.

The silence that followed felt deeper than before. Like the whole world had exhaled and was waiting to breathe again.

Then…a single clap.

The King.

He clapped again, this time louder. Then stood.

“The blood of Valyria endures,” Jaehaerys said, voice quiet but unwavering. “In House Targaryen. In my grandson.”

Septon Barth stepped forward once more.

“May its flame never falter,” he intoned, the words carrying a weight that settled into the bones of every listener.

At first, there was only the King’s applause.

Then another clap. And another.

Slowly, like a tide creeping in, the sound grew. A cautious wave of applause rolled through the pavilion, hesitant at first, nobles glancing at one another as if seeking permission.

A few clapped with stiff decorum, too schooled in politics to do otherwise. Others sat stunned, their hands forgotten in their laps, eyes still fixed on Aegon with something between awe and unease.

Aegon didn’t bow.

He simply stood where he was, the echoes of fire fading from his palm.

The applause slowly began to fade, not because of lack of fervor, but because the King raised a hand.

Jaehaerys’s voice filled the quiet again.

“Let it be known,” he said, “that today, we ride not just for sport or honor. We ride to mark the return of something far older than crowns and keeps. The fire that once shaped Valyria has stirred again. And it stirs in our blood.”

He paused, letting the moment settle.

“And so…let the hunt begin.”

Chapter Text

The sharp crack of underbrush split the quiet as a wild boar crashed through the trees. Leaves flew in its wake, startled birds flapping upward in alarm.

Thwip.

An arrow hissed through the air, missing the boar’s head by mere inches. The creature gave a sharp grunt, half surprise, half fury, and disappeared deeper into the woods.

Fast, uneven footsteps followed a moment later.

“Fuck,” Daemon muttered, brushing past a low-hanging branch. He dropped to one knee and yanked his arrow from the earth. His bow remained gripped in one hand, a quiver slung across his back.

Aegon emerged a step behind him, brushing pine needles from his tunic. “Did you see which way it went?”

Daemon didn’t answer right away. He was already scanning the forest floor, turning in slow circles, searching for hoofprints or signs of the boar’s passing.

“A little help here?” he said, glancing up.

“No,” Aegon replied flatly.

“Seven hellls,” Daemon groaned. “Don’t be a bore—enjoooy the hunt.” He twisted his face into a ridiculous grimace, waving his hands in mock drama.

Aegon rolled his eyes. “ I'm just here for the walk.”

“Fine. Stand there and be useless,” Daemon snorted, already moving off the narrow trail.

“I’ll find the damn thing myself.”

Aegon didn’t answer. He tilted his head back and looked up instead. The sky had shifted. The light was slipping from golden to grey, the trees casting long, quiet shadows across the forest floor.

Dusk already. He frowned slightly, then scanned the treeline.

A few hours earlier, the hunt had officially begun.

Though King Jaehaerys made a ceremonial appearance, it was Prince Baelon who led the main party of nobles and knights deeper into the Kingswood, hounds barking at their heels.

Aegon had stayed behind at first, lingering at the edge of the royal pavilion, his presence drawing glances from every corner. But stares had grown heavier, too many eyes, too much awe, too much whispering behind goblets and embroidered sleeves.

So he left.

Outside the camp, he found Daemon tightening a saddle strap, muttering about “idiot nobles” and “better company in the trees.” He had been preparing for a solo ride, bow slung over his shoulder, horse already stamping in place.

“I’ll come with you,” Aegon had said without preamble.

Daemon only gave him a raised brow, then nodded.

Now, hours later, the two of them moved deeper into the wood.

Just trees, wind, and the lingering adrenaline of a near-miss shot.

Aegon exhaled quietly, adjusting the weight of his belt sword as he scanned the forest.

The boar was long gone.

And now, so was Daemon.

Aegon simply stood still amidst the thickening woods. But he wasn’t worried.

With a breath, he reached inward, and unfolded his spirituality.

Like an unseen wave, it spread outward from him in all directions, threading through bark and branch, over roots and stone. Every blade of grass, every flicker of movement, every living thing within sixty meters came into his mind.

There. Daemon, thirty paces to the northeast, poking around under a thicket. And beyond him, deeper tracks pressed into the soft forest floor, the boar’s trail.

This was the effect of pushing his [Wizard Apprentice] class to Level 6. His spiritual perception had expanded with it, sixty meters of absolute awareness centered around him.

And more importantly, there was no one else nearby.

No knights. No watchers. Just trees and twilight and quiet.

Aegon turned slowly, eyes scanning. Plants and branches broke the line of sight, but his perception pierced through them effortlessly.

Isn’t this the perfect place to test it? he thought.

A slow breath left his lungs. His fingers flexed.

Let’s begin.

He swept the perimeter again, every animal, every breeze accounted for, then dropped into stillness.

His focus turned inward.

Within his mental space, glowing softly, floated a single spell model. Complex, elegant, woven from runes arranged in deliberate pattern.

Aegon reached for it with his mind. And activated it.

The ground in front of him stirred.

Grass and small plants bent back, pushed aside as the dirt below churned. In seconds, the soil rose upward, reshaping, first into a broad, flat slab, then higher. A mud wall, roughly two meters tall and fifteen centimeters thick, stood before him like a crude barricade.

Aegon tilted his head, studying it. Then smiled.

He raised a hand, focused again.

The wall crumbled like wet sand, then swirled upward, reforming into a three-meter pillar, thin and cylindrical.

Another flick of his will. The pillar collapsed.

This time the earth trembled slightly as the ground caved in, forming a clean-edged pit, three meters deep. The surrounding grass folded over its lip.

For the next several minutes, he worked silently. Reshaping and testing.

Walls, trenches, slopes, barriers. Everything responded to his direction like clay in the hands of a sculptor.

From time to time, he swept his surroundings again with his spirituality, ensuring no one had wandered too close. He couldn’t risk being seen.

Finally, he let the last of the dirt settle.

“Perfect,” he murmured, wiping a trace of dust from his palm. His smile was quiet, but wholly satisfied.

All of this, from walls to pits, had come from the single spell model, floating in his consciousness: [Primary Earth Manipulation].

It was clean, elegant, and flexible. But the real discovery hadn’t been the spell, but with what it had been constructed with.

When his class had hit Level 6, his spirituality had changed.

It had begun to show hints of bonding with magic.

That had never happened before. Until now, magic had only bonded with objects—fire, stone, air, water, clay. But with this upgrade, his spirituality had undergone a transformation: it could now bond with magic itself.

He began experimenting at once, for this had opened up a whole new range of possibilities.

And within days, he succeeded. By binding magic to his spirituality, which he controlled with precision, he had unlocked a new rune. Something entirely different from the elemental glyphs he had worked with before.

He called it the [Will Rune].

Not a rune of nature or substance, but of intent. It asserted the caster's intent into the spell model.

And now, it pulsed faintly at the heart of his only constructed spell, [Primary Earth Manipulation].

The model was built from three runes: [Earth Rune] + [Form Rune] + [Will Rune].

He had only a single model for now, but the inclusion of the [Will Rune] had made it vastly more adaptable, capable of real-time reshaping, collapsing, or reconfiguring with nothing but thought.

It resembled his flamecraft ability, except it manipulated earth, not fire.

Satisfied, Aegon straightened.

Then turned and began moving toward Daemon.

While the men were off in the woods, the royal pavilion had taken on a different kind of energy. The ladies of the realm gathered around low tables, sipping wine and nibbling on fruits and cakes as maids moved between them with trays.

Light, polite laughter drifted through the tent. Conversations skipped between family news, dress embroidery, idle gossip… and inevitably, Aegon.

“I was shocked terribly,” murmured Lady Redwyne, eyes wide as she leaned in toward the circle. “Just held up his hand and there it was… flame. Floating like a living thing.”

“I thought it was some illusion at first,” said Lady Elena. “But when it flew overhead... Seven help me, I felt the heat.”

“It’s blood. The blood of dragons,” Queen Alysanne said mildly, her tone warm but proud. She reached for a cup of tea instead of wine.

Most nodded, more intrigued than afraid. There was no panic, only the kind of awe that left people glancing sideways, uncertain of the boundaries of the world.

Lady Alyrie Hightower sat a little apart from the others, her hands folded neatly on her lap. She hadn’t spoken. She didn’t need to. The tightness in her shoulders and the faint crease between her brows made her thoughts plain enough. She was devout, and while she would not speak ill of the prince, certainly not in front of the Queen, she did not like what she had seen.

Magic was not something the Faith welcomed.

Gael, sitting beside her mother, reached for another pastry.

“He did much more than that on Dragonstone,” she said matter-of-factly. “Shot balls of flame and burned down armored dummies like they were toys.”

Several ladies blinked at her in unison.

Lady Jocelyn chuckled under her breath. “She’s not exaggerating. We saw it ourselves.”

Lady Redwyne gave a thoughtful nod. “I’ve heard the rumors. Prince Baelon mentioned something at court... but I never thought...”

Before she could finish, a maid stepped in through the curtain and leaned in to whisper something into Queen Alysanne’s ear.

The Queen’s expression shifted almost immediately, eyebrows lifting in surprise, lips parting in a smile that warmed to delight.

“I beg your pardon, ladies,” she said, rising from her seat with a gracious nod. “Please, carry on.”

She followed the maid outside, her steps quickening until she reached the edge of the pavilion. A familiar figure in maester’s robes waited just beyond the tent.

“Vaegon!” she said with sudden joy.

The man turned and bowed his head. “Mother.”

She walked forward and embraced him tightly, holding on for a moment longer. When she pulled back, she studied him with both affection and a touch of reprimand.

“You finally came. You were supposed to be here hours ago. And your letters…have grown shorter. And fewer.”

“Things at the Citadel have been relentless,” Vaegon replied with an even voice. “More reports than essays lately.”

“Too constant to write to your mother?”

He gave a faint, sheepish shrug. “I’ll do better.”

“You’d better,” she said, though her tone was light.

She glanced up at him again, her gaze softer. “You missed your nephew’s miracle.”

“So I’ve heard,” Vaegon said with a wry smile. “I imagine he made quite the impression.”

“He did. You’d have been proud,” Alysanne said quietly with a smile.

“Hmm.” Vaegon gave a quiet, noncommittal reply.

She tilted her head at him. “Come. Sit with me awhile. We’ve barely had a moment to speak these past few years.”

They returned to the pavilion and found seats just slightly removed from the main group. The buzz of conversation continued around them.

“So,” Alysanne said, after a pause, “what are you studying these days? Though I likely won’t understand half of it,” she added with a chuckle.

Vaegon smiled. “More advanced work lately. Metallurgy, primarily. If all goes well, I might earn an archmaester’s ring in a few years.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said, pride softening her voice. But the smile faded after a beat.

“Saera,” she murmured. “Has she written to you?”

Vaegon’s expression shifted, a brief flicker of discomfort passing across his face.

“I sent letters, as you asked. She’s in Lys now. Still…” he paused, searching for a gentler way to phrase it. “Still working in... the same places.”

Alysanne’s gaze dropped, her voice no louder than a whisper. “As long as she’s alive and safe.”

Vaegon looked at her then, his mother, still holding the burdens of all her children in the lines around her eyes.

She straightened a little, brushing the moment away with a quiet breath.
“You’ll stay a while, now that you’re here? Maegelle’s in the city. She didn’t wish to join the hunt.”

“I’d planned to,” Vaegon replied. “My current studies are on metallurgy. Since young Aegon seems determined to understand Valyrian steel, I thought I might work alongside him. At least for a time.”

Alysanne’s eyes lit up.
“That’s wonderful. He’ll be glad to have you near. And truthfully… it would ease my mind as well.”

They shared a quiet look. Then more small conversation followed, about childhood memories and old names.

Eventually, Alysanne rose.

She smiled and walked away, rejoining the soft laughter inside the pavilion.

Vaegon stayed where he was for a moment longer, then walked outside the tent, his gaze sweeping across the hunting camp beyond.

A flicker of memory surfaced, sharp and uninvited. Alyssa. Her laughter, her pride. And the way she’d humiliated him in front of others when he was barely twelve.

That memory receded, giving way to a different one. Colder.

The last words given to him by the Conclave.

Observe…

His expression flattened.

Observe Aegon.

And so, he would.

Chapter Text

Morning, The Vale

The road twisted through the hills, pale sunlight spilling across the cliffs and scattered pines. A line of carriages moved steadily toward the Eyrie, flanked by knights in Arryn colors and vassals riding close behind.

Inside one of the carriages, Aemma Arryn sat stiffly by the window, her face turned toward the passing cliffs. Her posture was rigid, hands clenched in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the Kingswood.

Across from her sat Lady Elena. The older woman glanced at her in silence for a long moment, then sighed. Her voice was steady but firm.

“Don’t blame your father,” she said. “Everything he says and does is for the good of our house.”

Aemma’s brow creased. She turned from the window, eyes sharp.

“How is stopping me from speaking to a friend…someone I haven’t seen in years, supposed to help House Arryn?”

Lady Elena kept her gaze level. “It wouldn’t be a problem if your ‘friend’ wasn’t a dragonrider. And now, a pyromancer.”

She let the words hang, then added more quietly, “Your betrothal to Prince Viserys will be announced within weeks. You’d be wise to focus on that.”

The name made Aemma’s jaw tighten. Her fingers curled. She stared at her stepmother, anger flashing behind her eyes but finally she looked away, down at her boots, silent.

Lady Elena’s voice softened just slightly.

“Like I’ve told you before… people of our station don’t always get to act as they please. We all serve the realm in one way or another.”

Aemma’s reply was quiet, almost a whisper.

“I just don’t understand why.”

Elena watched her for a moment. A flicker of empathy touched her face, but it faded quickly.

“You will. When you’re older.”

Neither spoke after that. Aemma returned her gaze to the window, lips pressed in a tight line. Lady Elena looked away as well, her eyes drifting toward the sloping peaks outside.

The carriage rocked gently onward, toward the high paths of the Vale, and the Eyrie above.

The Red Keep

The garden lay still under the gentle sun, awash in golden light. Flowers trembled in the breeze. Crocuses, daffodils, and violets blooming in tangled harmony. Butterflies danced over blossoms. A honeybee buzzed past, fat and content. Somewhere in the hedges, a thrush began to sing.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen walked slowly down the path, his pace unhurried. He let his fingers trail across a rose petal, soft as silk. Behind him came Prince Baelon, walking with quiet tread. He stopped a step behind his father.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Jaehaerys said without turning.

Baelon looked over the garden, the butterflies hovering, the flowers swaying gently. “Yes, they are.”

The King exhaled slowly. “I wonder how many more springs I’ll see like this.”

Baelon blinked. “You’re still in your prime,” he said. But his voice didn’t quite carry conviction.

Jaehaerys chuckled softly. “Prime? Hah. My beard’s silvering. My joints ache after long council days. And my grandchildren are nearing the age to wed. You’ll forgive me if I begin to feel old.”

Baelon fell silent. The thought of his father’s eventual passing felt uncomfortable.

Seeing his son’s discomfort, Jaehaerys smiled faintly. “Don’t scowl. I’m not dying just yet. Are the letters sent?”

Baelon blinked back into the present. “Yes. I’ve spoken with the maesters. They’ll go out over the next few days.”

The King nodded. “Good.” His gaze lingered on a lilac bush blooming near the foot of a marble bench.

After a pause, Baelon cleared his throat.

“And… what of Corlys’s proposal?” His voice lowered. “The betrothal?”

Jaehaerys turned, brow lifting. “Laena and Aegon, you mean?”

Baelon gave a small nod. “Did you speak with Mother?”

“I did.” Jaehaerys’s voice took on a faint edge. “It seems Corlys had the foresight to speak to her first.”

Baelon’s eyes widened. “He did what?”

“Yes. And no, she didn’t accept it. But she didn’t reject it either.” The King glanced over the garden again, as though arranging thoughts. “Your mother and I are aligned in this.”

Baelon raised a brow. “And what is that alignment?”

Jaehaerys’s tone grew firm. “Aegon’s blood must not leave House Targaryen.”

Baelon nodded slowly. He understood what was unspoken: Aegon was not just another grandson. The fire in him, the gift of Valyria, was too precious to give away.

Even through a match with a Velaryon.

Still, he hesitated. “Corlys offers more than a name. He promised us a fleet. A true fleet. We’ve long relied on House Velaryon’s ships for royal business, but now—”

“And you’d give your son away for ships?”

The words were quiet. But they struck hard.

Baelon stumbled. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jaehaerys watched him for a long moment, then raised a hand. “Bring a chair,” he told a waiting maid.

She returned quickly, and the King lowered himself into it with care. He sat still for a moment, feeling the sun on his skin.

“A fleet can win battles,” he said. “But Aegon’s power… it means more than mere strength.”

Baelon bowed his head.

Jaehaerys continued, his voice more thoughtful than hard. “Corlys will have his answer. Tell him the Crown will consider it seriously. But not before Laena and Aegon come of age.”

Baelon nodded. “We’ll focus on Viserys and Aemma in the meantime.”

The King waved a hand. “Yes. That is the pairing the realm expects.”

They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the chirping of sparrows nearby.

Jaehaerys leaned back slightly. “What of Daemon?”

Baelon blinked. “What of him?”

“He’s twelve. I hear he’s been training with the City Watch for nearly a year now.”

“He has. Ser Rickard says he’s bold. Too bold, at times.”

“Sounds like someone else I knew at that age,” the King said dryly.

Baelon chuckled.

Jaehaerys looked thoughtful again. “He hasn’t claimed a dragon yet, has he?”

“No. Not for lack of trying,” Baelon said. “He snuck to Dragonstone not long ago.”

Jaehaerys smiled faintly. “The boy has fire. Not like Aegon’s. But something burning all the same.”

Baelon said nothing, but he looked distant.

The King noticed. “You worry for them.”

“I do,” Baelon admitted. “Viserys is gentle. Daemon is too wild. And Aegon… he’s changing so quickly. Faster than I can keep pace.”

“Then run faster,” Jaehaerys said simply.

Baelon blinked, surprised by the sudden sharpness of the tone. But the King’s face was kind, not cold.

“You are their father,” Jaehaerys said. “And one day, you’ll wear the crown. These choices—who they marry, where they’re guided, what burdens they’re given—they begin with us.”

Baelon straightened. “Yes, Father.”

After a moment, he bowed again and took his leave.

Jaehaerys sat in the chair a while longer, letting the breeze pass gently across his face. The sun was warm. The day was beautiful.

Aegon was nine.

Viserys, nearly a man.

Daemon, already seeking dragons.

And suddenly, Jaehaerys felt very old.

Nightfall, Blackwater Bay

The fog rolled in low and thick along the shore, swirling between moored ships like the breath of something vast and silent. Lanterns swung from mastheads, their orange glow dimmed by mist. The scent of salt, tar, and old wood clung to the night.

A lone man walked briskly along the pier.

He wore a servant’s cloak, the hood drawn low. A satchel hung at his side. He moved with quiet purpose, weaving between crates and barrels, careful not to draw notice.

Near the edge of the wharf, two men in black-and-gold halted him. City Watch.

“What’s in the satchel?” one asked, already reaching for it.

“Clothing. Bread. Dried figs.” His voice was calm.

The guard opened the flap, rummaged through quickly. “Heading somewhere?”

“Pentos,” the man replied, gesturing to the small cog behind him. “Ship Cook’s assistant. They lost a hand to a fishhook. I’m to replace him.”

The guards exchanged a glance, then waved him through.

The man gave a polite nod and moved on.

The ship waiting for him was modest, hull scraped by years of trade. It would be gone by first light, bound east with salted cod, Dornish wine, and one extra passenger.

He gave a light knock on the hull. Three quick raps, then one slow. A sailor appeared from the shadows and waved him up the gangplank without a word.

Once aboard, he moved toward the rear deck, settling near a coil of rope where shadows pooled thick.

He waited.

The sea lapped gently against the hull. Somewhere behind, distant bells tolled from the Red Keep, muffled by fog.

He reached into his satchel and drew out a small, narrow scroll case from the hidden pocket. Brass, with a wax seal stamped in deep red. The emblem pressed into the wax was foreign, two beasts flanking a torch.

He turned the tube in his hand once.

Then slid it back into the depths of his cloak.

He had seen the boy with his own eyes. No illusions. No tricks. Just a flame, held aloft as if it belonged there.

He had felt the heat while standing at the edge of the royal pavilion, dressed like the other servants.

The King’s voice had rung through the tent. A proclamation. A name declared as a proof. Proof of something older.

Footsteps scraped behind him. A sailor passed, gave him a quick look. The man answered a muttered question with a few quiet words, nothing out of place.

The sailor moved on.

The man turned toward the rail. The wind was shifting now, pulling eastward, tugging at the ropes and sails with eager fingers.

By sunrise, they would be gone from the bay.

And soon, the word would reach the right ears.

The flame had returned.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone, Autumn

A low groan echoed faintly from the chamber ahead. Queen Alysanne flinched at the sound. Inside, the soft murmur of maesters could be heard, along with the rustle of robes and the occasional clink of metal against stone.

Aegon sat beside the Queen in silence. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her gaze was heavy with worry, and her fingers twisted a handkerchief in her lap, over and over.

He looked away and adjusted his posture slightly. Then made an expression that seemed like a face of concern.

Maids stood nearby, one cradling a stack of folded towels, another ladling water into a basin before slipping inside the room without a word.

Aegon’s gaze drifted to the stone floor, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, back to the months following the royal hunt.

Maegelle had returned to Oldtown shortly after the hunt ended. Jocelyn, Gael, and Aegon had accompanied Queen Alysanne back to Dragonstone. But they were joined by someone new: Prince Vaegon Targaryen, or rather, Maester Vaegon.

The Queen had smiled gently when she told him.

“Your uncle’s come to stay for a while,” she’d said. “He’s missed us. He might even help with your studies, perhaps.”

Aegon had nodded politely at the time. “It would be helpful to gain insight from a maester,” he had said. But inside he was cautious. His brothers had spoken of Vaegon in passing; bookish, detached, more Citadel than kin. And his sudden desire to study with him was too convenient.

Still, when they spoke, Vaegon came off mild and soft-spoken. Polite. Aegon answered his questions when asked, what he read, what he learned, but never more than surface truths.

Then came the first request.

“Might I observe your flamework sometime?” Vaegon asked one morning. “I missed the demonstration at the hunt. I’d very much like to see how it... manifests.”

Aegon had agreed with a smile. He’d conjured fire between his palms, showed how he shaped it, danced it in the air like cloth. Just as he had for the court weeks ago.

But Vaegon’s gaze during the display had unsettled him. Obsessive. Almost reverent. And when he saw Aegon watching, the older man quickly smiled, brushing it off with a mild chuckle.

“I was simply... impressed. Forgive me.”

From then on, Aegon kept his guard higher. He noticed how Vaegon’s eyes lingered on the scrolls he carried. How he started loitering more often near the Black Vault tower.

One day, returning from feeding Dreamfyre, Aegon found him there, standing just below the tower steps, speaking to the guards.

The guards looked uneasy.

“Uncle,” Aegon greeted calmly, wiping dust from his hands. “Didn’t expect you here.”

Vaegon turned, smile in place. “Aegon. Good. I was hoping to catch you.”

He gestured toward the door. “I thought I’d have a look at your work. But these guards—well, I think they may need a reminder of respect.”

Aegon replied plainly, “No, Uncle. They were right to stop you. No one is allowed inside without my say.”

“Oh.” Vaegon’s smile tightened briefly. “I only came to offer help. As I’d promised the Queen.”

“There’s no need,” Aegon said, still calm. “I think I’ll study alone.”

Vaegon raised an eyebrow. “How can that be? Forging is dangerous. And you’re still a child—”

“I don’t need your permission,” Aegon said softly. Then, with a polite smile: “I know the risks. I can manage.”

“My methods,” he added, “aren’t based on smelting or forging. Not in the way you know. They’re not easy to explain.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Vaegon replied. “But—”

“I work alone,” Aegon said again, this time firmer. “Some of it is... volatile. Not safe for others.”

There was a pause. Then Vaegon nodded slowly. “Of course. I only wished to offer guidance.”

“It’s appreciated,” Aegon said, turning toward the door. “But unnecessary.”

Vaegon stood there a moment longer, lips drawn, before stepping aside.

From that day onward, Vaegon no longer made requests, but he lingered near the Queen often, whispering advice, offering tea, and discussing mundane matters. He had also told the Queen about Aegon’s refusal.

The Queen was a little unhappy after learning Aegon did not want to study with Vaegon. But when Aegon explained that his pyromancy might be dangerous to others during experiments, she relented and asked Vaegon to give him space.

So he did.

Instead, he invited two other maesters from the Citadel. Studied dragon bone and steel under their eyes.

Then came the next major event: the wedding of Viserys and Aemma. It was held at Dragonstone, a grand affair. Lords and Ladies from across the realm arrived. Aegon, while cordial, kept his distance. He and Aemma exchanged pleasantries, neither cold nor warm. Just two children now playing roles in a larger game.

The happiest person was undoubtedly Viserys. His face never stopped smiling throughout the celebration. Nothing unexpected happened, the Hightowers, especially, behaved with careful normalcy.

There were quite a few eyes on Aegon as well. His pyromancy at the royal hunt had made waves, and many nobles now watched him with a blend of curiosity and unease. A few bold young ladies even approached him, their eyes full of awe and fascination, but Aegon was swift to dodge their attention. He offered only polite smiles and slipped away before any conversations could linger.

The celebration passed in a blur. Once the festivities ended, Lady Jocelyn departed for the Stormlands to visit her relatives.

In the weeks that followed, Dragonstone grew quiet again. Aegon poured himself into work, deducing more runes and creating more spells. He had maxed out his Tier 3 class [Wizard Apprentice], and even created a new Tier 2 class:

[ Class: Observer (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- INT ≥ 10.0 (satisfied)

- Has observed at least 20 individuals in emotionally varied situations (satisfied)

- Has accurately identified hidden emotion or intent during social interaction (satisfied) ]

[ Level 1 (000 / 1300) ]

[ Trait : Microexpression Reading

(+10% accuracy when interpreting facial microexpressions, vocal stress patterns, and subtle body language)

(+5% detection of emotional state, deception, or concealed intent) ]

[ Trait : Behavioral Mapping

(+10% speed and accuracy when establishing a person’s behavioral baseline)

(+5% detection of emotional or mental state deviation under stress or manipulation) ]

The class was only a Tier 2, but it still took a considerable amount of time to create, mainly because the second prerequisite remained unfulfilled. When defining it, Aegon realized that none of his existing classes could serve as a prerequisite.

For instance, while [Occult Scholar] had supported the creation of [Wizard Apprentice], both being rooted in the study of supernatural phenomena, it had no relevance to the observational and behavioral focus of [Observer].

He had hoped that adding high Intelligence attribute as a prerequisite might ease the requirements imposed by the class tree, but that proved false. Some prerequisites were too fundamental to be overridden. It became clear that whenever he tried to create a class in a new, unrelated field, he would always have to start from scratch.

So he adapted.

For the next two months, Aegon committed himself to observation. His title as prince gave him an advantage: an entire court of maids, servants, and attendants. Sometimes he gave commands to test their reactions. Other times, he handed out compliments or coins and studied what flickered across their faces. Every twitch, every pause, every stolen glance, he catalogued it all. He watched them in all emotional states: anxious, pleased, embarrassed, angry.

He was careful to avoid drawing suspicion. His change in behavior wasn’t questioned. Targaryen Princes were expected to be willful, moody even. That belief served as cover for his methodical research.

Eventually, he fulfilled the requirements. The class formed, and with his vast experience pool, he began leveling it without delay. His momentum was building again.

Then, one morning, after a clear sky flight on Dreamfyre, Aegon returned to the castle.

He barely had time to brush the wind from his hair when the summons arrived…from the Queen.

He entered the solar to find Vaegon standing by the window and his grandmother sitting beside.

On the table lay a stack of parchment.

His notes.

Aegon’s expression darkened.

Queen Alysanne looked up, eyes full of concern. “Aegon... what is this?” she asked gently, motioning to the papers.

Before he could answer, Vaegon stepped in.

“It’s not his fault,” he said. “The signs are subtle. But they’re there.”

Aegon turned. “Excuse me?”

“The writing,” Vaegon said evenly. “None of us can read it. The language is unknown. It’s... incoherent. I’ve seen similar symptoms before. Obsessive scribbling. Delusions of clarity. The mind deteriorates quietly when exposed to…””

Aegon’s eyes narrowed.

Vaegon hesitated. “Sorcery, magic, the darker arts… the Citadel has documented—”

“That’s enough,” Aegon said sharply.

“You think I’ve gone mad?” he asked coldly.

Alysanne also looked confused.

“I’ve seen worse, Mother,” Vaegon said. “They all believe they’re fine. They never see the spiral. It starts small. Insomnia. Obsession. Whispers in the dark—”

“Enough,” Aegon snapped. “I see now. You didn’t come for family.”

The Queen blinked. “Aegon—”

“No,” he pressed. “He’s here for the Citadel. Not for you. But for me. He waited. Got close. Then began undermining trust.”

Vaegon stepped forward. “That’s not true—”

Aegon cut him off. “You haven’t visited since I was born. Then I awaken the flame and suddenly you appear? Curious timing.”

Alysanne glanced at Vaegon, troubled now.

Aegon tapped the notes. “That script came to me through the dream that gave me fire. A language only we understand. You call it madness because you’re blind to it.”

“Or because it’s nonsense,” Vaegon muttered.

“It’s knowledge,” Aegon replied. “And if you weren’t so busy worming into our good graces, maybe you’d see that.”

Vaegon’s tone sharpened. “Even if you don’t trust me, you should trust the Queen. She deserves to know if you’re—”

“And accusing your kin of madness—is that loyalty?” Aegon spat.

“That’s enough,” Queen Alysanne snapped.

The room fell silent.

She rose, her face tired and drawn.

“We are family,” she said. “This is not how we speak to one another.”

Neither of them responded.

“I want both of you to return to your chambers. Now.”

Vaegon opened his mouth. “But—”

She raised a hand. “Not. A word.”

Vaegon froze, then turned and left.

Aegon blinked, drawn back to the present.

Alysanne stood slowly from her seat and turned toward the maesters who had just stepped out.

“Is he all right?” she asked, her voice laced with worry.

One of the maesters straightened. “He has a fever, Your Grace, and it appears he strained something in his lower back… perhaps the waist. He can sit, but walking will be difficult for some time.”

The second maester added, “We’ll continue observation. If there are any concerning developments, we’ll inform you at once.”

Alysanne gave a small nod, her lips drawn in a thin line. “Do what you must.”

Aegon looked up at her. “He’ll be fine, Grandmother,” he said softly. “It should not be serious.”

She gave him a weary smile, touched with gratitude. “I know, dear.”

He hesitated, then lowered his gaze. “I shouldn’t have spoken to Uncle that way.”

The Queen sighed gently and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. Families quarrel. We get angry. But remember this… no matter what happens, we’re family first.”

Aegon nodded, face composed. “I’ll remember.”

She smiled again, more gently this time. “Go on now. You’ve your own work to focus on.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” he said, then turned and walked away down the hall.

His steps were steady, unhurried. But the expression he’d worn a moment before, the softness in his eyes, the touch of guilt on his brow, slipped away with every step.

There was no remorse. No sorrow.

Not for Vaegon.

Because it was Aegon who had done this.

Vaegon was a threat. A polite, quiet, persistent threat wrapped in family colors. And Aegon did not have the patience to play a long game of smiles and pretense.

So he acted.

A few nights after their confrontation, while Dragonstone slept and the sea whispered softly below, Aegon stood silently outside his uncle’s chamber. He did not enter.

He didn’t need to.

He simply unfolded his spirituality, like a net, weaving through stone walls with ease, until it covered the man entirely.

Vaegon was asleep. Breathing slow. Heart steady.

Aegon extended deeper. His spiritual perception, now sharp and honed, swept through skin and sinew, past ribs and muscle, until it found what it sought.

There you are.

The left kidney.

Not the liver. Not the heart.

He wasn’t trying to kill.

A tiny spark ignited, a thread of fire no bigger than a grain of rice, conjured silently and precisely through his flamecraft. It formed deep inside the organ, and then, gently, it burned.

Ten percent. No more.

Enough to cause pain, inflammation. Not enough to kill.

He had avoided arteries. Left no visible wound. Aegon knew they didn’t have the knowledge to detect it, not without opening him up.

Now, Vaegon would lie in bed for weeks, perhaps longer. Incapacitated. Confused. Harmless.

Aegon had no intention of letting him near his research again.

And if the Queen grieved her son’s sudden illness, Aegon would grieve with her. Concern on his face, warmth in his words.

But his heart would remain cold.

He would protect what was his. And none, not even blood, would stand in the way.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, Red Keep

The bell hadn’t yet rung, but Lysa was already at her bedside, pulling open the curtains. She always moved softly in the mornings.

“Up now, my lady. The water’s warm, and the fire’s still strong,” she said, placing Aemma’s slippers by the edge of the bed.

Aemma sat up and rubbed her eyes. “It’s not even light yet.”

“That’s why it’s called morning and not noon,” Lysa replied, gently tugging the blankets back.

Lysa had long served House Arryn. Lady Elena had sent her to the Red Keep so Aemma would have a familiar face by her side.

Marra entered a moment later with a silver tray. “Your breakfast is coming, my lady. But first, your bath.” She gave Aemma a warm smile.

Marra, another handmaiden, had been assigned by the Queen herself to serve Aemma. She had once taken care of Aegon and Daemon when they were little, so Queen Alysanne was sure she would help the new wife settle in and get used to life as a Targaryen.

Aemma’s eyes lit up. “Is there a new story today?” She was quite fond of the tales and gossip Marra shared about the royal family.

Marra chuckled. “Sure, my lady... but only once you’re washed and dressed.”

Soon after, she sat by the fire, her hair damp as Lysa brushed it in long strokes. Marra moved about the room, carefully folding the bed linens.

“Shall I tell you about the time young Daemon tried to crown himself with a chamber pot?” Marra asked, her eyes dancing.

Aemma blinked. “What?”

“Oh yes,” Marra said proudly. “He was four. Thought it was a ‘dragon helm,’ he said. Wore it right on his head and ran through the halls shouting ‘Daemon the Dread.’”

Aemma burst into laughter, nearly toppling off the stool. “No!”

“Oh, indeed. The nursemaid screamed. The Lord Hand nearly tripped over him. And the chamber pot... well, let’s just say it hadn’t been cleaned yet.”

Even Lysa snorted at that. “That boy always did have ideas too big for his britches.”

Still grinning, Aemma took her seat at the small table by the window as her food arrived: warm oatcakes, sliced pears, and a bit of cheese. She ate slowly while Lysa recited from The Seven-Pointed Star. Her voice was low and calm, but Aemma barely paid any attention. She had already mastered the skill of looking attentive even when she wasn’t.

Viserys came in after the hour of prayer. He greeted her gently, as he always did, and kissed her hand. His hair was still damp from the bath, and he smelled faintly of mint and saddle oil. Aemma was still not used to her new husband, though she smiled politely.

“Good morrow,” he said.

“Good morrow, my prince.”

He sat beside her and reached for a piece of bread, tearing it absently. “The dragon keepers say Balerion stirred again. I can feel it... it won’t be long now. Soon you’ll see your husband upon the Black Dread.”

“I believe you will, my lord. The gods favor the bold,” she said, careful to sound supportive but not overeager.

Lady Elenna had taught her that husbands should feel led, not pushed.

Viserys beamed at her, clearly pleased.

Then he asked, “Would you like to come with me to the dragonpit, my beloved?”

Aemma shook her head gently. “Not today. I was hoping to walk in the gardens. It’s nearly the end of autumn, I’d like to see the flowers before they fade.”

Viserys smiled warmly... then hesitated, stepped closer, and gave a quick peck on her forehead. Aemma, a little surprised, just smiled back.

He blushed slightly and left. The handmaidens shared knowing glances behind him, hiding their smiles.

He didn’t stay long. He rarely did, thought Aemma.

Once he left, Marra began clearing away the breakfast dishes, humming softly.

Aemma reached for her embroidery hoop again and settled back into her chair. The falcon still looked uneven. She picked at a loose thread.

Marra returned and peered over her shoulder. “You’ve nearly got the wing right,” she said, squinting at the stitching.

“It’s lopsided,” Aemma replied, frowning.

“Then it’ll be a brave falcon. One who flew crooked, but flew anyway.”

Later, they walked in the gardens. The wind was sharp enough to sting her cheeks, but the sky was clear.

It didn’t smell like the Vale. No mountain air. No pine.

Letters from her mother came every few weeks, but they were short. Measured. Her sisters wrote more, though mostly about what to do and what not to do.

Aemma felt lonely sometimes. Although there were handmaidens to accompany her, Queen Alysanne was away at Dragonstone. There were a few ladies from the Crownlands she could speak with... more like listen to, really. They never stopped chattering.

She did not dare dislike her current life. She knew this was the dream every lady across the realm grew up with.

Still, sometimes, when her maids had stepped out and the fire crackled alone in the hearth, she wondered quietly…

Is this what being married is like?

The Citadel, Oldtown

The chamber was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the creak of old wood.

Shelves crowded with tomes loomed from floor to ceiling, and the late sunlight streamed through the narrow windows in dusty gold columns.

At the far end of the chamber, an Archmaester pored over a crumbling volume. He leaned close, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the text with a gloved finger. The light of a single lantern flickered beside him, dancing shadows across the rim of his chain of office.

Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor. A younger maester appeared at the doorway, clad in grey robes, a scroll case held firmly in his hands. He entered without a word, moving quietly until he stood beside the table.

The Archmaester kept his eyes on the page before him.

“Well?” he asked, his tone dry and disinterested.

The younger maester bowed his head slightly. “A letter from Vaegon.”

That made the Archmaester pause. He looked up.

Setting aside the old tome with care, his brow rose with interest as he reached out. The maester stepped forward and handed him the scroll. The Archmaester unrolled it.

Then paused.

His frown deepened.

There were no glyphs of Valyria, no High Tower script, no glyphic cipher or coded Citadel tongue. Instead, the symbols sprawled across the page were utterly foreign, angled, symmetrical, precise. The script carried no patterns he recognized, no link to known languages of Westeros or Essos. It was elegant in its own strange way, but entirely alien.

He did not speak.

The maester cleared his throat. “He said… they are transcriptions. Findings. From the little pyromancer’s study.”

“The boy?” the Archmaester said softly, still scanning the page.

The maester nodded. “Yes. Prince Aegon. Vaegon wrote that he asked the boy to explain the language, but the prince refused to cooperate.”

The Archmaester raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“So he tried other means,” the maester continued, somewhat uneasily. “He did not elaborate. But the attempt failed. Mostly. Still, the boy claimed the language came to him in a dream. Said it was only meant for those who… wield fire.”

“Dream again,” the Archmaester murmured. He leaned back, scroll still open in his hand.

He was silent for a long moment.

Then: “He believes these writings may hold true knowledge?”

“He suspects so. He wrote that they were unlike anything he’s seen, even in the Valyrian vaults. He hoped the Conclave might help decipher them… that somewhere in our records there might be a point of reference.”

The Archmaester set the scroll down gently, fingers drumming against the table’s edge. Outside, the ravens called to each other across the rooftops of the Citadel, harsh and distant.

“Take a few of your brothers,” he said at last. “Start working on it.”

The younger maester bowed. “Yes, Archmaester.”

“Begin with the Old Blood records,” he added, eyes fixed on the scroll. “And the sealed annals from the days before the Doom. If it’s anywhere, it will be there.”

The maester nodded and turned to leave.

The Archmaester remained seated, staring down at the unknown letters that sprawled across the parchment.

It was not Valyrian. Not Ghiscari. Not even one of the obscure northern runes.

Something new. Or something very old.

Essos, Volantis

The walls were dark stone, veined with red. No torches burned, only oil lamps. The air was close, thick with the scent of cooling wax and old stone. Five figures sat around a table of black marble, cloaked in the silence of the Old Blood.

The spy stood before them, salt-stained and stiff from the long voyage. His boots were crusted with dry mud, his cloak heavy with travel. His hands trembled slightly, though whether from cold or fear, none could tell.

“You saw it?”

“I did,” the man replied. “With my own eyes.”

He kept his voice steady. “The boy conjured flame from the air. No torch. No alchemist.”

“He shaped it. Bent it to his will.”

Murmurs passed between the seated men. The sound of silk shifting, a cup being set down.

“It was no trick,” he added. “The fire moved… morphed as he wanted.”

“And the others saw?”

“All of them. Lords, knights, ladies. It was during a royal hunt, held in his honor.”

Another leaned forward, voice quiet but sharp. “Did he speak? Chant? Cut himself?”

“No. He raised his hand, and the fire came.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Thoughtful.

A voice finally broke it. “So. The blood is waking.”

“Too young to be dangerous,” said another. “But not for long.”

There was a pause.

“He rides a dragon?”

“Yes. A she-dragon. Dreamfyre.”

Someone clicked their tongue. “Two signs, then.”

The man at the head of the table sat still for a long moment. “We are the stewards of Valyria’s legacy,” he said at last. “If fire stirs in the west, it does not stir in our favor.”

No one replied.

“We watch him,” he continued. “And we plan. If he rises too high, we must be ready... to contain, to claim, or to kill.”

A single nod passed from one man to the next.

The meeting ended with no formal vote. There never was.

The lamps burned lower by the hour. Away from the meeting chamber, in a narrow room lined with scrolls and dust, one of the men sat alone at a low desk. The stone floor chilled the soles of his boots. He kept his gloves on.

The parchment was smooth. The quill already cut.

He wrote quickly, plainly. The ink dried fast in the cold. He sanded it, folded the paper, and pressed the seal, a heart wrapped in flame.

He handed it to the servant waiting in the shadows, then turned away without a word.

The servant walked through the tunnel beneath the Black Walls, the ceiling brushing his hood. When he emerged, he passed through the alleys behind a wine shop, then vanished into the noise of the fish market.

The letter passed quietly, hand to hand , a butcher’s boy, a washerwoman, a lantern-lighter. None of them paused. None of them read.

By dusk, a cloaked woman took the letter at a spice stall, her fingers gloved in red silk. The street lamps flickered behind her in the wind.

She walked alone through the lower city, past shuttered inns and crumbling arches, her steps silent on worn stone. The city grew quieter as she climbed. Snow had not reached Volantis, but the wind had teeth.

She reached the temple near the gate. A low building of blackened stone, half-forgotten by most. A single red flame burned above the door.

She paused beneath it.

Then drew back her hood.

Hair black as night. Eyes rimmed with kohl. Her face was pale, sharp, and beautiful. The robes beneath her cloak shimmered red in the firelight.

The guards stepped aside without meeting her eyes.

Inside, the air smelled of ash and incense. Dozens of candles burned along the walls, their light steady. The stone beneath her feet was warm.

She knelt.

Read the letter once.

Then held it to the flame.

The parchment curled, blackened, and was gone.

She whispered a prayer under her breath, not loud, not urgent. As if repeating something she had said many times before.

When it was done, she rose with quiet grace. The robes moved like smoke behind her as she disappeared into the dark.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, Dragonpit, Winter

Inside the Dragonpit was cold, filled with the sharp scent of old ash and stone. Several dragonkeepers stood gathered near the southern gate, their faces grim and lined with tension. Among them stood Ser Otto Hightower, clad in a dark green cloak, and Prince Viserys Targaryen, who was fidgeting with nervousness.

“You really think I can do it today?” Viserys asked, his voice low and a little uncertain. His eyes flicked toward the massive iron gates that led deeper into the pit, toward the beast that dwelled beyond.

Not being able to claim Balerion, the Black Dread, despite several attempts, had begun to wear down his confidence. Each failure chipped at the image of what a Targaryen should be.

Otto gave him a steady look. “Of course you can. You carry the blood of Old Valyria. Doubt is for small men, not Targaryens.”

Viserys exhaled and glanced down at his hands, he hadn't noticed they were trembling. He clenched them into fists and nodded once, but the uncertainty remained etched across his face.

“The High Septon told you the stars are aligned?” he asked, trying to find reassurance in the divine.

“Yes,” Otto said smoothly. “He said today is the most auspicious date for your action.” His tone was confident, every syllable precise. “And unlike most days, I find myself inclined to agree with him.”

Viserys gave a dry, slightly bitter smile. “So the gods have aligned, and even you believe. Then perhaps everyone will finally see a new rider atop the Black Dread.”

Otto gave an encouraging nod, his lips curling into a smile. “And they will remember it. Not just your wife, not just the court, but the entire realm. What better symbol of strength and legitimacy than Balerion himself bowing to your command?”

Viserys glanced at him. “You always make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Otto replied, “if you believe in yourself. The dragon feels—as they say. If you hesitate…he will know.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to walk into the dark and face him alone.”

Otto gave a short chuckle. “That’s true. But I also don’t have the blood of conquerors in my veins.”

Viserys looked away again, toward the gate. “And what if he turns on me?” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “He’s old, yes, but still powerful. What if I push too far?”

Otto stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Viserys to hear. “Then you meet your fate as a Targaryen should, on dragonback or in fire. But you won’t die, Viserys. Not today. Not if you believe. He’s let you climb his back before, hasn't he?”

Viserys nodded faintly.

“Then he knows you,” Otto continued. “And if he knows you, then somewhere within that ancient being, there’s recognition. Trust it. He hasn’t thrown you off. That means something.”

The prince was silent for a moment.

“He’s so… massive. When I stand before him, it feels like standing before a mountain that could breathe fire and swallow armies. Like a memory of a time that was long before.”

Otto didn’t respond at first. Then he said softly, “Then become part of that memory. Make yourself worthy of it.”

Viserys looked at him again. The nerves were still there, but so was something else now. Determination. Or the beginnings of it.

The dragonkeepers exchanged glances but kept their silence.

A creaking of chains drew their attention as a senior keeper approached, his face sun-weathered, half his hair burned away years ago by an angry hatchling.

“He’s awake,” the man said in a rough voice.

Viserys inhaled deeply, then exhaled slow. He gave Otto and the keeper a final nod, then turned and began descending the long, winding steps into the shadowed belly of the Dragonpit.

Each footstep echoed down the stone slope. The deeper he went, the colder it grew, the chill of winter with the damp of the earth, pressed in with age and fire and time. The faint scent of sulfur touched his nose.

Then he saw it.

The cavern opened into a vast chamber, blackened stone walls rising like a cathedral above. At its center, curled in uneasy rest, was a shadow out of legend.

Balerion.

The Black Dread.

Even at rest, his sheer size defied belief. His wings were folded, but each membrane stretched longer than sails. His scales were duller now, some flecked with grey, but they shimmered faintly in the torchlight like old iron. His ribs rose and fell like great bellows. His tail, thick as a ship’s mast, curled near the cavern wall.

One red eye opened. It did not blink.

Viserys slowed, then stopped. His mouth was dry. He could hear his heartbeat louder than his footsteps.

Still, he walked forward.

Balerion’s head turned slightly, massive jaws flexing once. Viserys stepped closer, not running, not flinching. He could feel the warmth of the beast’s breath now, hotter than forge-fire, even in the dead of winter.

Then, carefully, he reached out.

His palm pressed against the thick, scaly hide of Balerion’s neck. The skin beneath felt like old stone warmed by the sun, rough and ridged.

Balerion did not move.

Viserys stood there for a long moment, hand resting on the living mountain. Then he turned, scanning the ridges that led up toward the old riding saddle, aged leather, still lashed to iron rings fitted between shoulder joints.

He began to climb.

It was not easy. The ridges were massive, the height dizzying. Twice he had to pause and regrip, arms burning, breath coming quickly.

Balerion made no move to stop him.

Eventually, Viserys reached the saddle and slipped into it. He tightened the reins attached to the old harness. This was a rider’s place. And he would ride.

Just once, Viserys thought, just once… you’ve let me climb your back. Let me ride you too. Just once.

He waited, barely breathing.

Then.

He felt it. A shift. A tremor through the dragon’s body.

A low growl, not hostile….

Balerion turned his head slightly, one massive eye gazing back at him.

Viserys froze. Don’t tell me…

Then, slowly, painfully slowly, the Black Dread began to rise. First, his wings stretched, creaking like ancient sails in the wind. Then his limbs straightened, pushing against the stone. The floor groaned beneath him.

Viserys gripped the reins tighter, barely daring to believe it.

Balerion took a step.

And then another.

The sound echoed like thunder through the pit.

Then came the roar.

It split the cavern, a blast of sound and fire and fury. The Dragonpit trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling above. Men standing at the gates outside dropped to their knees. Even Otto Hightower looked stunned.

The Black Dread moved forward, toward the cavern’s mouth. Toward the light beyond the gate.

And on his back, for the first time in more than forty years, a Targaryen sat ready to fly.

Red Keep

The throne room was warm despite the season. Septon Barth stood beside the Iron Throne, reading aloud from a rolled parchment. His voice was calm, loud.

“…and so the man claims his neighbor’s dog mauled his sheep, but has no witness save his mother-in-law.”

From atop the Iron Throne, King Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Let the man who owns the dog pay restitution. One silver stag, and a fresh fleece come spring.”

The next parchment was already in Barth’s hand.

“A merchant from Cobbler’s Square reports the theft of three bolts of dyed silk. Claims it was done in the night…”

“the suspects are two boys, possibly orphans, last seen near the south market. No further leads.”

Jaehaerys rubbed his temple. “Tell the city watch to post a reward for their return. Half a stag for each bolt recovered. And find the boys. Feed them, question them, and see if they can be apprenticed.”

Barth gave a soft nod and passed the order to a page.

The murmur of court continued. Lords and ladies lounged at the sides, barely feigning interest in the petty matters of the city. The rhythm of rule was steady. Predictable.

Until it shattered.

A roar.

A sound like no other.

Raw. Primeval. It rolled through the stone walls like thunder given breath.

The hall froze.

Barth’s head snapped up, lips parting.

Jaehaerys rose half from his seat. “That…” he murmured.

Then came the clamor, guards rushing into the hall, red cloaks fluttering, boots loud on stone. The Kingsguard stepped in as well, swords half-drawn, forming a shield around the throne.

The rushing guards fell to their knees before the steps of the dais, panting.

Jaehaerys frowned. “Who is it? Which of mine flies so close to the Keep without warning?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the lead guard, still catching his breath, stammered, “It’s… it’s the Black Dread, Your Grace. Balerion.”

Gasps rippled through the court.

Barth turned sharply to Jaehaerys. Their eyes met…same conclusion, same name forming behind their eyes.

Viserys.

Jaehaerys was already striding down the steps.

“To the windows.”

The court surged toward the tall glass panes. Nobles craned their necks, servants pressed against marble pillars. Outside, the pale winter sun was eclipsed by something massive, its shape ancient, unmistakable.

A black shadow circled high above the Red Keep. Balerion. Wings like torn sailcloth stretched across the sky. His scales caught the light in dull glints of bronze and gray. Even in flight, he seemed impossibly vast.

And on his back, small as a flea from this distance, sat a boy of silver and gold.

Viserys… you mad, stubborn boy… Jaehaerys clenched his fists not in anger, but in a surge of joy and fierce pride.

“Seven,” a lady whispered.

Septon Barth let out a long breath, eyes still locked on the sky. “He’s done it.”

Across the Red Keep, atop the highest balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemma stood with her maid, Lysa.

The wind tugged gently at her pale blue cloak, her silver-gold hair loose and lifting in the cold breeze. Her hands gripped the stone railing, knuckles white.

She hadn’t blinked since the roar.

Balerion’s shadow passed over the holdfast again, casting the tower briefly in shadow. The wind from his wings reached even here.

Lysa stood a step behind, voice soft. “Congratulations, my lady. It seems Prince Viserys has finally claimed his dragon.”

Aemma didn’t reply at first. Her gaze never left the sky.

There he was.

A silver shape on black, holding fast to the dragon’s back, his form steady.

He did it…

She exhaled slowly. Not from relief. Something more complicated.

Her heart beat quickly.

She had watched him try and fail for over a month, returning from the pit with feigned smiles and downcast eyes. He always carried some excuse, lighthearted words to mask the weight of disappointment. But Aemma had seen through them. Behind the laughter, she could feel the quiet frustration he never spoke aloud.

But today…no excuse.

Today, there was only sky.

She glanced at Lysa and gave a small nod. A smile found her lips, hesitant, but real.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Another roar echoed overhead, shaking the balcony tiles beneath her feet.

Aemma looked up again.

She had never seen anything so terrifying. Or so beautiful.

And her husband was riding it.

Dragonmont, Dragonstone

High in the jagged ridges of Dragonmont, hidden far above the ground, there lay a stretch of land consumed by shadow. It was a place where no sunlight reached: not during morning, nor noon, nor twilight. The surrounding cliffs blocked every angle of light, leaving the area in a state of near-perpetual darkness.

Within this lightless zone was a cave, narrow-mouthed and yawning deep into the mountain’s side.

Inside, a lone figure sat.

Aegon.

His body was wrapped tightly in layered cloth, hood drawn low, scarf wound around his neck, and a strip of linen veiling his face. The cloth had been soaked in vinegar, its acrid scent sharp in the still air. It clung to his clothes, his gloves, even the soles of his boots.

Precaution.

He wasn’t willing to risk exposure to spores or unknown lifeforms that might have taken root in this sunless cave. Without light, the place was a haven for fungi, molds, or worse, creatures adapted to thrive in complete darkness.

But Aegon wasn’t blind here.

To any other man, the cave would be pitch-black. But to him, it was as bright as day.

He did not see with his eyes, but with his spirituality, his extended awareness mapping the space around him. Every crevice, every droplet of moisture on the stone, every thread of unseen life was laid bare to his mind.

His focus, however, was fixed not on the walls, but on the darkness before him.

To the eye, it was empty space. But through his spirituality, he perceived something else.

An aggregate of magic.

An artificial aggregate, created by him. He had released raw magic into the cave and using his spirituality like a sculptor’s chisel, guided it into cohesion. He shaped it slowly, carefully, feeding it into the ambient darkness until the two fused, interwoven into a single form.

It pulsed subtly in the void, an invisible mass suspended in the air. Magic particles flowed through it in a deliberate, three-dimensional pattern. Not random. Structured. Intentional.

That structure was what Aegon sought to unravel.

Because that pattern, complex, shifting, and veiled to all but his spiritual senses, represented exactly what he had hoped to find here:

The [Shadow Rune].

Chapter Text

A few days later.

"Finally…" said Aegon, emerging from the narrow mouth of the cave. His voice was hoarse, his cloak dusted with soot and dust, but there was a smile of unmistakable relief on his face.

He had done it.

The [Shadow Rune] had been deduced.

Aegon held out his hand, flexing his fingers. Shadows clung to his skin like ink-colored mist. He willed them forward, and they moved. The shadows of the surrounding rocks shifted subtly, curling around his arm, not quite solid, not quite smoke. This rune allowed him to manipulate shadows with precision and subtlety, redirecting them, cloaking objects, even dampening his own silhouette to blend more easily into darkness.

He had tested it extensively within the dark cavern, whose natural conditions offered the perfect environment.

"Now, time to go back," he murmured to himself, adjusting his belt as he began the climb toward the surface through Dragonmont’s winding ridges.

Winter air had begun to seep into the cracks of the island. Even Dragonstone, bathed in thermal heat from the volcanic depths below, was not immune to the biting chill creeping across the land.

The mountain eventually gave way to sky. Aegon reached a familiar point, a tall cliff edge, at least two hundred meters high, overlooking a jagged field of black stone far below. There was no road from this height. Only the drop.

He walked to the edge and looked down.

He took a breath and reached into his mental space. A spell model responded at once.

[Spell: Featherfall]

A soft tingle spread through his limbs. His body lightened as though the very air around him had reached out to hold him in an invisible cradle.

Without hesitation, Aegon stepped off the cliff.

And dropped.

Slowly. Gently. The wind caught him, not in gusts but in purposeful flow. His cloak fluttered as he descended like a leaf in late autumn. It wasn’t elegant though. His legs swung awkwardly once or twice but he touched the ground with both feet intact and not a single bone broken, which was all that mattered.

"Definitely one of my smartest decisions," he muttered.

The [Spell: Featherfall] had been one of four new spell models Aegon had created since the royal hunt, made from the runes: [Lightness Rune], [Air Rune], and [Will Rune].

The key rune, the [Lightness Rune], was deduced from the magic flowing within his own Valyrian steel sword.

Valyrian swords and weapons had always felt lighter than any normal steel counterparts. And on analyzing it with spirituality, he found why.

From his Valyrian steel sword, three distinct runes had been deduced:

[Lightness Rune]: which reduces weight and inertia.

[Durability Rune]: the source of the blade’s resistance to wear and deformation.

[Sharpness Rune]: the reason why Valyrian blades could cut with supernatural precision.

It had been a revelation. Valyrian steel wasn’t just a metal, it was a reservoir of bonded magic. It was utterly foolish of him not to have checked it sooner. Nevertheless, those three runes were his now.

Including the freshly uncovered [Shadow Rune], Aegon now possessed 12 runes in total. A respectable collection for any self-made Wizard Apprentice.

His thoughts shifted to his current spells, five models, each a work of art, present within his mental space:

[Spell: Primary Earth Manipulation] – his first spell, made from the runes: [Earth Rune], [Form Rune] and [Will Rune], allowing manipulation of terrain and earth.

[Spell: Featherfall] – for safe descents, made using [Air Rune], [Lightness Rune] and [Will Rune].

[Spell: Wind Blade] – One of his newer offensive spells. Built using [Air Rune], [Sharpness Rune] and [Form Rune]. It conjured a curved blade of wind, nearly invisible, which could be attached to a sword or even his bare palm. While it lacked the strength to cut through armor or bone, it was more than enough to slice through flesh, particularly dangerous in close quarters. He’d practiced with it extensively on hanging meat in the kitchens. The results were… satisfying.

[Spell: Mirror Clone] – Aegon’s personal favorite, if only for the nostalgia it stirred. Inspired by a certain loud-mouthed, yellow-haired shinobi from a world long lost to his past life, this spell conjured a solid and realistic illusion of himself. Built from four runes: [Mirror Rune] , [Form Rune], [Will Rune] and [Durability Rune], it consumed twice the mental space of a three-rune spell model. The clone could mimic movement and posture, but lacked speech or independent action. Still, in the midst of a battle, even a moment’s distraction could be priceless.

[Spell: Whirlpool Ward] – His only defensive model so far. Constructed with [Water Rune], [Form Rune], [Durability Rune] and [Will Rune]. It created a swirling barrier of water in a tight radius around him. It wasn’t impenetrable, but was enough to deflect low-velocity projectiles like thrown knives or low-powered bolts.

Of course, he couldn’t use that one in public. He was a ‘Pyromancer,’ after all.

At first glance, many of these spells seemed to rely on similar runes. Yet, when each was bound together into a completed model, the structure, the intricate weave of runes, was entirely unique.

With all these spells, he could still create new ones. Maximizing the [Wizard Apprentice] class had granted a considerable increase in his mental space. With his current reserves, he could still construct:

Three more 3-rune spells, or

One 4-rune spell and one 3-rune spell model.

He had already verified through trial that a 4-rune model consumed double the space of a 3-rune one, something he made sure to record carefully in his research notes.

And now… with the [Shadow Rune] in his arsenal, his next set of spells would delve into deception, concealment, and silence.

He already had ideas forming.

The path back to Dragonstone castle soon came into view, black towers rising above the cliffs, veiled in mist and framed against the dying amber of sunset. He stepped over the volcanic rocks as he moved toward it.

Dragonstone Castle

After a long, steamy bath and a change into fresh clothes, Aegon stepped out of his chambers. He ran a hand through his damp silver hair and stretched his shoulders.

Just outside his chamber, leaning casually against the stone wall of the corridor, was Gael.

She stood with her hands folded behind her back, rocking gently on her heels, clearly waiting for him. Her long silver-blonde hair was neatly brushed, and she wore a soft lavender gown trimmed with pale blue lace.

Aegon lifted an eyebrow, already smiling. “So… did Grandmother ask for me?”

Gael returned his smile with a knowing look. “Of course she did. I told her the usual story… that you were out visiting the village blacksmith.”

He laughed softly. “The village blacksmith again?”

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “It worked last time.”

Aegon chuckled, a warm and grateful sound. “You’re a savior. Truly.”

Gael beamed, looking far too pleased with herself. “I know.”

She’d covered for him during the days he’d vanished into Dragonmont without telling anyone but her. She’d dined with the Queen in his place, answered vague questions with vague answers, and slipped away before suspicion could take hold.

He studied her face for a moment. “I owe you.”

“Yes,” she said sweetly, rocking on her heels again. “Yes, you do.”

Aegon narrowed his eyes. “Alright then. What do you want in return?”

Gael tapped her chin in mock thought. “Hmm… nothing right now. But I’ll let you know later.”

He gave her a playful glance. “That sounds ominous.”

“Only if you make it so,” she replied with a smile.

He laughed and shook his head. “Alright. I’ll be waiting.”

There was a small pause. The flickering light from the sconces danced across the stone walls. For a brief moment, Aegon noticed the way Gael was looking at him, not quite directly, as though hesitant, but with a quiet warmth in her eyes that lingered just a beat too long. He looked away, pretending not to notice.

“I’m heading to the hall,” he said casually. “I skipped lunch, and am starving. Want to come?”

Gael hesitated for half a second. Then she shook her head with a regretful little smile. “I can’t. I have lessons with the septa.”

“Ah, the ever-watchful Septa,” Aegon teased.

Gael rolled her eyes. “She says I’ll never be marriageable if I keep skipping lessons.”

Aegon smirked.

Gael blushed slightly and gave him a mock glare. “Go eat. I’ll see you later.”

With a graceful turn, she walked off down the corridor, her gown swishing gently behind her.

Aegon watched her for a moment before heading in the opposite direction.

After a fulfilling meal, Aegon returned to his chambers. The warmth of the food still lingered in his belly, but his mind was already drifting elsewhere. He leaned back in his chair, fingers lightly drumming the wooden armrest, and turned his focus inward. Toward his Class Tree.

The new class he had unlocked not long ago, [Observer], was already fully leveled.

[ Class: Observer (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- INT ≥ 10.0 (satisfied)

- Has observed at least 20 individuals in emotionally varied situations (satisfied)

- Has accurately identified hidden emotion or intent during social interaction (satisfied) ]

[ Level 10 (MAX) ]

[ Trait : Microexpression Reading

(+55% accuracy when interpreting facial microexpressions, vocal stress patterns, and subtle body language)

(+45% detection of emotional state, deception, or concealed intent) ]

[ Trait : Behavioral Mapping

(+55% speed and accuracy when establishing a person’s behavioral baseline)

(+45% detection of emotional or mental state deviation under stress or manipulation) ]

He could now read others with little more than a glance. A flicker of emotion. A tightening of the jaw. A single breath drawn too quickly. Within minutes of interacting with someone, he could build a profile of their behavior, their likely reactions, their tells, their fears.

It was as if the world had slowed down, and every social mask had turned translucent.

If he had lived on Earth, he could have become a psychiatrist. Or perhaps something darker.

But he hadn’t just leveled the class blindly. This was his first new class since [Wizard Apprentice], and it was only natural for him to approach it with greater scrutiny.

Throughout the upgrade process, he had scanned his body and mind repeatedly using spirituality, trying to sense what was being altered, where the traits were being embedded, how they were constructed.

He found nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It was as though the traits had appeared from nowhere, granted to him by some unseen hand.

He had hoped to learn something deeper about the mechanism of the Class Tree, something to create a theory about trait formation but again, the mystery only deepened. After a dozen failed attempts to catch the source of the transformation in real time, he gave up.

Maybe some things did not want to be understood.

So he turned his focus to what came next.

A new class. One he had defined a few weeks ago. A missing piece in his arsenal. The only real gap in his personal power system, his lack of physical resilience. He had long delayed it, waiting for the right moment. Now, with the Observer class complete, it was time.

But he was met with disappointment again.

The class creation had failed.

Aegon focused on the only grayed out branch in the Class Tree.

[FAILED CLASS CREATION - PREREQUISITES PENDING]

[ Class: Ironblood Knight (Tier 2) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- All physical attributes ≥ 8.5 (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Knight's Squire (satisfied)

- Possesses danger-sensing ability (satisfied)

- Survive a life-or-death fight or duel (pending) ]

[ Level 1 (000 / 3500) ]

[ Trait : Hardened Frame

(+10% increase in physical durability)

(+5% resistance to blunt force trauma, poison, fatigue, and bleeding) ]

[ Trait : Battle Reflex

(+10% reaction speed when responding to sudden threats)

(+10% spatial awareness and motion tracking under immediate danger) ]

It was perfect.

Everything he needed to increase his physical prowess and complement his spiritual and magical strengths.

But it remained grayed out.

The creation had failed.

One prerequisite was still pending: Survive a life-or-death fight or duel.

Aegon exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he stared at the requirement. Everything else had been fulfilled. His physical stats were high, his Knight's Squire class was maxed out, and he possessed the danger sense. Yet this final condition stood in his way like a locked gate. A silent judgment.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Every step he had taken so far, every class, every trait, had been carefully chosen to avoid this exact scenario. To never gamble with his life.

And now the only way forward… was to do exactly that.

He would have to suppress himself. Put himself in danger on purpose. Not just any danger, but one where death was real, immediate, and probable. And the worst part was: merely surviving wasn’t enough. The system had to recognize it. There had to be real risk. Real blood.

But then again…did it truly require killing?

He frowned, turning the thought over in his mind. If he fought someone who genuinely tried to kill him...and won… would that count? If he subdued them, disarmed them, left them alive but broken…was that survival enough?

Or would the system see it as incomplete? What if the fight wasn’t close enough? What if he won too easily? What if the danger didn’t truly touch him?

Would the Class Tree still deem it a life-or-death experience?

He didn’t know. And that uncertainty was worse than the risk itself.

Still, a small voice in him whispered that the answer was likely no. That in the end, he would have to stand at the edge…and make sure it was real. Even if the killing wasn’t necessary, the threat had to be absolute.

The only way to be sure… was to make the danger unquestionable. And if killing his opponent ensured that, then so be it.

It wasn’t about bloodlust. It wasn’t even about cruelty. If the system needed death to be certain the fight was real, then perhaps it was wiser not to gamble. A dead opponent could not leave room for interpretation.

But the thought lingered. He had never taken a human life before, neither in this world nor the one that came before.

He no longer feared the act, those days were gone. He had long accepted that this world would, sooner or later, demand blood from him. What he hadn’t expected was to be driven to that point, by his own Class Tree.

It felt… strange.

He had avoided the normal Knight class for a reason: it would almost certainly have a prerequisite involving a social or political oath. Swearing loyalty to a lord, receiving ceremonial knighthood, or pledging fealty to the Crown. Aegon had wanted none of that. So he had crafted something else. A battle-hardened variant that could rely on strength and survival, not politics or loyalty.

But it backfired.

Now the system demanded a fight for survival.

One where mercy might cost him this new class.

Aegon slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Sooner or later, he thought, this was bound to happen.

Still, it felt different… being forced by something he had built himself.

Not a war. Not vengeance. Not even necessity.

Just a requirement.

And a silent dare.

Chapter Text

94 AC

Driftmark Castle, Morning

Lord Corlys Velaryon strode through the sunlit corridor. A pair of maids stood near the doorway ahead, speaking in hushed tones.

At the sight of him, their chatter died instantly, and they straightened.

"Is the lady well?" Corlys asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yes, my lord," one of the maids replied quickly. "She is inside."

He gave a short nod and pushed the door open.

Inside, the chamber was warm, the morning light spilling across the bed where Lady Rhaenys sat propped against the pillows. A gentle smile curved her lips. Two maids hovered nearby, their own smiles betraying excitement. The maester of Driftmark stood at the foot of the bed, hands folded and seemed oddly pleased.

Corlys crossed the threshold, his concern plain. "What happened? I was told you fell sick after breakfast."

Rhaenys’ eyes met his, calm but amused. "Yes… I was," she said softly.

He frowned slightly, glancing toward the maester for answers.

The old man’s face broke into a smile. "It is good news, my lord. You will soon be expecting your second child."

For a heartbeat, Corlys stilled. The words seemed to take a moment to anchor in his mind. Then his surprise gave way to a flash of joy. He turned back to Rhaenys, seeking confirmation in her eyes.

She nodded, her smile deepening.

A slow breath left him, his shoulders loosening as warmth spread through his chest. Then he crossed to the bed, the maids and maester exchanging discreet glances before quietly withdrawing, leaving husband and wife alone.

Corlys took her hand gently, the coolness of her skin soft against his calloused fingers, and kissed it.

"You have given me a wonderful surprise, my lady."

Rhaenys’ cheeks flushed faintly, though her tone carried her usual wit. "A surprise I doubt you will complain about."

He chuckled, sitting at her side. "Not in the slightest. In fact, I may boast about it to every soul in the castle by nightfall."

"Please don’t," she murmured, though her smile betrayed no true objection.

Before he could reply, a soft knock sounded at the door. Corlys glanced over his shoulder, impatience flickering briefly at the interruption.

The door opened a crack, revealing a maid holding a fair-haired toddler in her arms.

Laena’s bright eyes lit up the moment she saw them. "Mama!" she squealed, reaching out with eager little hands.

Rhaenys’ face softened instantly. She extended her arms, and the maid stepped forward to place the one-year-old in her mother’s embrace.

Laena squirmed happily, patting at her mother’s gown before tucking herself close.

Corlys leaned closer, brushing a hand over his daughter’s soft curls. "Laena," he said with a teasing smile, "you are going to have a little brother or sister soon."

The toddler blinked at him, then made a delighted sound and lunged for his beard with small, determined fingers.

Rhaenys laughed, a clear, warm sound. "She has no idea what you’ve just told her."

"All the better," Corlys said, gently prying her grip loose.

The child babbled something unintelligible, but the cheer in her voice made both parents smile.

Corlys rested a hand on Rhaenys’ knee. "You’ve done more for me than I could have dreamed, Rhaenys. First Laena, and now…" He glanced down at his wife’s still-flat stomach with quiet pride. "Our house will be stronger for it."

"And noisier," she added dryly.

"Perhaps," he admitted with a faint grin. "But I’ll not complain of that either."

Laena began patting insistently at her mother’s collarbone, fingers catching at her necklace. Rhaenys shifted her to a more comfortable hold.

"You should rest," Corlys said softly.

"I will," she promised, "after someone takes Laena for a walk before she decides my necklace is a snack."

Corlys stood, taking the little girl from her arms. Laena reached back toward her mother but soon busied herself trying to grab the gold chain that hung loosely around his neck.

"I’ll take her down to the hall," he said, steadying the child on his hip. "And perhaps begin deciding whether I should hope for another daughter… or a son."

Rhaenys gave him a pointed look. "You will be happy either way."

Corlys paused briefly, then smiled, inclining his head. "That I will."

He left with Laena chattering against his shoulder, her bright voice fading into the corridor, leaving Rhaenys in the warm quiet of her chamber, her hand unconsciously resting on her stomach as her smile lingered.

King's Landing, Grand Sept

The scent of incense and beeswax candles lingered in the air.

From his seat in the shadowed corner near a pillar, an old man in plain grey robes watched the faithful move like a slow tide: kneeling, murmuring prayers, leaving coins in the alms box, before slipping away into the streets.

He was one of the Most Devout. Age had stooped his shoulders, but it had also taught him the value of appearances. He wore the humility of a common servant of the Seven like a second skin. Few would guess how much influence he wielded beneath the High Septon himself.

Soft but deliberate footsteps drew near. A younger septon halted before him, bowing low. “Most Devout”

The old man nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Septon.”

The younger stepped closer, keeping his voice beneath the rustle of the worshippers.

“The brothers have begun spreading the rumors again… but altered, as you commanded. This time, there is no direct naming of the prince. The words pass only through our septons in the villages, far from the notice of the Crown.”

A faint narrowing of the old man’s eyes. “And?”

“How long must we remain like this?” the younger whispered. “If not for that traitor Barth, we would have already branded the pyromancer as a heretic. But no, Barth stood before the High Septon himself and urged him to sanctify the boy. To bless his sorcery in the name of truth.”

The younger septon’s tone carried unshaken conviction.

“Patience,” the old Most Devout answered, his voice slow and deliberate.

The younger man’s jaw tightened. “The High Septon may not have agreed to Barth’s request, but he promised Barth such talk, our talk, would no longer be spread among the brothers.”

The old man’s gaze shifted to the great altar at the far end of the hall, but his mind drifted elsewhere, to the moment when the High Septon had summoned him in private.

He had looked him in the eye, voice calm but firm: I know you are the hand that guides these whispers. They will cease, or I will be forced to give Barth what he asks.

Behind Barth, the King himself had applied his quiet pressure. And even this old wolf knew when not to bare his teeth. Sanctifying Aegon under the Faith was something he could not allow, so he had bowed to the High Septon’s will. Outwardly, at least.

The younger septon shifted again, restless. “So now the truth…the horrors of Old Valyria and its pyromancers…will be told without naming him. But it is useless. The royal family stands at the height of its power. Dragons fill the skies. Who will heed such talk when the fire-blooded sit so firmly on the throne?”

The old man turned his head slightly, just enough for the younger to catch the faintest curl of a smile: cold, patient and certain.

“Perhaps no one will heed them now,” he murmured. “Perhaps they are nothing but idle tales told in country septs, shared over cups of watered wine by men with no voice in court. That is as it should be. Words, Septon… words are seeds. You plant them, you leave them, you let them rest beneath the soil. One day, when the ground is right, they will grow.”

He leaned back against the stone, voice dropping lower still. “The day will come when the Targaryens are not so strong. When dragons are fewer, when the Iron Throne trembles. And when that day comes, the whispers, ignored for years, will be remembered. They will have taken root.”

The younger frowned faintly. “And until then?”

“Until then,” the old Most Devout said, “we keep them far from the Red Keep’s ears. Let them ferment in the villages and market squares. Let them sound harmless, like old tales. Like wine kept in a dark cellar, untouched, until it is ripe enough to bring to table.”

The younger hesitated, his expression flickering between conviction and the faint unease that came after speaking too long with this man. “And the pyromancer?”

The old man’s eyes hardened, a glint like flint catching the dim light. “He will stumble. They always do. Power corrupts, and the blood of the dragon… it burns its own. With a gift like pyromancy, he will not resist showing it. Sooner or later, someone will be burned…and when that happens, the old tales will not sound like lies.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The voices of a septa and a small group of orphans chanting prayers drifted faintly from the nave.

The old man rose with slow dignity, his knees stiff from decades. “Go. Ensure the brothers in the villages keep to the new tale. No names. Only history. The rest will come in time.”

The younger bowed and slipped away into the incense haze.

The Most Devout lingered, gaze fixed on the altar. In the deep lines of his face lay the patience of decades…and a hatred that had never cooled.

He remembered the smoke and screaming when Maegor’s forces set the Sept of Remembrance aflame. He had been a young septon then, barely raised to the cloth, and he had watched friends, brothers, burn or be cut down in the nave.

In the years after, he had learned to smile, to serve, to rise within the Faith’s hierarchy. Behind that smile, he had gathered others who shared his hatred for House Targaryen, weaving them into a faction of his own.

The dragons were strong now, too strong for open defiance. But time eroded stone, and patience was a weapon in itself.

Dragonstone Castle, Garden

The garden was quiet, save for the wind rolling in from the sea and the soft hiss of lemon leaves shifting in the breeze. The air carried a faint bite of cool, threading through the low hedges and the still pond where orange fishes stirred the water with flicks of their tails.

Queen Alysanne sat on a stone bench near the water, a book closed in her lap, her shawl drawn close about her shoulders.

Aegon found her there and made his way down the gravel path, his boots crunching lightly. She looked up and smiled warmly.

“You’re out early,” she said.

He returned the smile. “I am. It’s a fine morning.”

“Chilly,” she countered, adjusting the shawl. “But that’s Dragonstone for you. Even the sun feels like it has to fight the wind here.”

He eased down beside her without ceremony, the bench cool beneath him. For a while they spoke idly, about the weather, the way the lemon trees had fared through the last storm, and the new shipment of books the maesters had received from Oldtown.

“You’ll like some of them,” she said. “Histories of the Reach. A few on Dornish customs, though I imagine the writers were more Reachman than Dornish in their telling.”

“I’ll read them anyway,” he said. “Better to know how the Reach sees Dorne than not at all.”

Her lips curved faintly. “You sound like your grandfather.”

They shared a small smile, letting the talk drift on to the repairs of the garden wall and the litter of kittens born in the kitchens. The rhythm was easy, unhurried.

Aegon’s gaze lingered on the pond a moment. He leaned forward slightly, hands loosely clasped between his knees, watching the ripples spread across the water.

“Actually… I wanted to speak to you about something.”

Her eyes lingered on his face, and something in her expression stilled. A flicker of memory crossed her features, this was how he had begun the conversation when he first told her of his pyromancy.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, voice easy. “All my life has been spent here… or in King’s Landing. Same walls, same halls. I think I’ve seen every stone of both places twice over.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “You sound almost… tired of them.”

“Not tired,” he said, glancing toward the horizon where the sea faded into grey, “but it feels a little close sometimes. Like I’m breathing the same air over and over. Maybe it’s time I explored more of the realm.”

Her head tilted, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “Explored? Where?”

“I was thinking of starting in the North,” he said.

“Winterfell.”

Chapter Text

***

Important Note: I realized I had accidentally skipped uploading Chapter 51 titled “Knight” earlier. It’s now been added in its proper place. If you notice a jump in the story or something feels missing, please go back and check out “Chapter 51: Knight” for the full sequence. Thanks for catching up and for your patience!

***

Alysanne’s lips pressed together.

She’s already measuring the distance… and the weeks.

“That is a long journey,” she said carefully. “And very far from here. Why the North of all places?”

“I’ve read of the Wall all my life,” Aegon replied. “A fortress like no other in the world. And you and the King have seen it yourselves. I’d like to see it too.”

Her eyes softened with memory. “You would find it colder than you expect. The wind there cuts like a blade, even in summer.”

He smiled faintly. “Cold I can bear.”

Alysanne sighed. “Still…it is no small thing you ask. The Crown would need to send carriages, guards, supplies. Such matters cannot be made light of.”

“Unless,” he added quickly, almost finishing her thought, “I went on Dreamfyre… Alone.”

Hearing this, her frown deepened at once. “Alone? Aegon, you are still…”

He cut in gently, his tone steady. “I’d still like to see it. It’s not as if I’d be walking into danger. The Starks are known for their loyalty. If anyone in the north could be trusted with my current status, it’s them. And…” He let the pause linger, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, “…you know what I can do. Even a knight in full plate would not last against my flames. I would hardly be helpless.”

Her mouth tightened. She then looked at him with quiet sternness. “Do not let fire make you arrogant, Aegon. Not every foe comes with a sword in hand. Fire does not guard against every danger: poisons, whispers, daggers in the dark. Sometimes it is caution that is tested, not strength.”

Aegon bowed his head slightly. “You are right.” But his [Observer] class made the rest plain to him: the slight tremor in her breath, the way her hand gripped the shawl, the shadow in her eyes.

She is warning me with memory. Losses she has already endured. She fears I trust fire too much.

Better to let her believe I have taken her lesson fully.

He lifted his gaze again, calm. “Even so… the thought of seeing the North calls to me.”

Alysanne held his gaze, her face composed, but he could read her as easily as the pages of a book. She still does not want me to go. Thinking about loss. Her children.

“You have always been here with me, Aegon,” she said softly. “And I have already watched too many of my children leave…some never to return.”

“I know.” His voice was gentle. “That’s why I’m not asking to leave tomorrow. Only in spring, after my tenth name day. I don’t want to be a prince who has only known two castles. I want to see the world beyond them.”

Alysanne looked down at her hands, fingers curling into the fringe of her shawl.

She’s searching for a reason to say no that will not wound me.

At length she said, “If you go, it must be with your father’s knowledge… and the King’s. And the Starks must be told in advance.”

“That’s what I hoped,” Aegon said, easing back slightly. “A word from you would carry weight with the Starks. They would see me safe. And it would strengthen our ties besides.”

Her gaze lifted again, a trace of hesitation still in it. “And how long will you be gone?”

“A season perhaps,” he answered. “Three, maybe four months.”

He hesitated, then added, “I had thought Viserys might join me…two brothers riding together. But in his last letter he said Balerion was giving him trouble.”

Her lips curved faintly, though worry lingered. “As if the Black Dread would allow himself to be mastered so easily. He is old, and ill-tempered. Perhaps too old for such journeys.” She looked back to Aegon. “The Starks would keep you safe, yes. Yet still, I would rather you wait a few more years. I would not see you restless as your father was… always away.”

“I truly wish to go,” Aegon said, insistent but warm. “But not in haste. Spring seemed a good time…only so you’d know I wasn’t rushing.”

Alysanne exhaled, slow and quiet.

She thinks I’m being stubborn. That this is the start of a boy turning into a willful youth.

Aegon waited patiently.

At last she nodded. “Then I must write to your grandfather.”

Finally…

Aegon’s face brightened with a boy’s smile, unguarded and genuine. She could not help but return it, though faintly.

“Good,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll go back to my studies now.”

“Be back in time for supper,” Alysanne called after him, her eyes following as he walked away.

When he was gone from sight, her fingers tightened on the edge of her shawl. The sea wind felt colder than it had a moment before.

Black Vault Tower

Aegon entered his chamber. He glanced once at his desk and the papers scattered there, then turned toward the window.

The shutters were half open, letting the winter morning air creep inside. He stepped closer, set both hands on the cold stone sill, and leaned forward. The wind struck his face, sharp and bracing. For a moment he closed his eyes, letting it wash over him.

The heaviness lingering in his heart lowered slightly.

He felt sad for his grandmother. He could see the strange attachment she held toward him, yet he did not mind. He knew it came from old grief, the marks of wounds so deep they could never truly heal.

The sorrow of a mother who had buried too many of her children.

He drew a long breath, letting it out slowly. Then another. Until the tightness in his chest eased.

At last he opened his eyes, steadier now. The sadness remained, but he set it aside coldly. He turned back and walked toward the desk.

The talk with Grandmother is done. Now to the other tasks.

On the desk lay several parchments, but three had been set aside neatly, as if waiting for him. He pulled them closer and laid them side by side. The headings, written in his own careful hand, read:

Prototype Healing Spell

Rune Deduction from Living Matter (Plants & Animals)

Meditation Method for Common Use

Each was a project he had set for himself.

Aegon’s eyes lingered on the second.

Rune Deduction from Living Matter (Plants & Animals).

The idea of drawing runes from living things had come with the [Wizard Apprentice] class. When Aegon reached its highest level, he had received fragments of memory, scattered pieces of knowledge, among which were methods, not only for drawing runes from inanimate elements: stone, air, fire, water, but also from the characteristics of life itself.

He remembered the knowledge that had poured into him then. A hawk’s eye, sharp and unblinking, holding the potential for a rune tied to vision. A dog’s nose, sensitive to scents, suggesting a rune of smell. A bat’s ear, catching the faintest echo in the dark, pointed toward a rune of sound. And many others besides.

The principle was simple: when magic bonded with living tissue, it often produced extraordinary properties. Such properties were usually tied to the creature’s natural traits. By studying these changes, one could deduce runes that reflected these new abilities.

He tapped his fingers against the desk. Magical mutations. That is what he called them.

Aegon wanted to try, but the knowledge he got warned him otherwise. Failures would be many. Most of the time, magic would not bond. Even with his strong spirituality, there was no guarantee he could induce such changes. Life itself resisted magic’s attempt to twist it. Artificially forcing the bond was difficult, near impossible.

When he first received the memories, another thought had taken root. Perhaps the Valyrians themselves had used such methods. Perhaps their bond with dragons, their fire-touched blood, had not been natural at all, but born from experiments with flesh and magic.

To think his own line might be the product of such designs. The idea was unsettling…and yet it fascinated him.

Still, he shook his head. He would not walk that path here. Even with the secrecy of the Black Vault, he dared not risk it. If discovered, the price would be his ruin.

He set that parchment aside.

His hand moved to the third.

Meditation Method for Common Use.

This thought had been with him longer. His own growth came through classes, traits, spirituality, and the Magic Sea. But what of ordinary men? They could not see magic, could not touch it, could not imagine what he did daily.

If he could craft a meditation method, repeatable, steady, opening even a crack of possibility for common folk to possess magic, it could change the world. And by consequence, the total amount of experience he had.

Of course he would not be dumb enough to just create it and present it to everyone. But making such a meditation method would not be easy either.

It would demand human trials. Controlled practice. Correction over time. Things he could not attempt here.

He placed that parchment aside as well. Later. After I claim the Ironblood Knight class.

That left the first. And the most urgent. Something he currently lacks.

Prototype Healing Spell

The parchment was mostly bare, save for a few neat notes. At its center, one rune was drawn: [Blood Rune].

Although blood was a biological matter and it would have taken him multiple attempts to artificially induce its bond with magic, he did not need to do so. He already had magic-bonded blood…his own. And thus came the [Blood Rune].

The [Blood Rune] was the heart of this project. Its function was clear…the ability to manipulate blood. If there was to be a healing spell, blood would be its foundation. And also because he had no other runes that could serve in its place. It was his only starting point.

But [Blood Rune] alone was not enough. Two more runes were needed.

His gaze shifted to the corner of the desk. There, in a small glass container, lay a thin measure of water. It glimmered faintly, not with light but with something deeper: the residue of magic still clinging to it. This was the same water from which he had first drawn the [Water Rune].

He leaned back, folding his arms, thoughtful. Perhaps water holds the answer.

So he set to work.

For hours he moved between parchment and jar. His quill scratched across the page, tracing runic chains, testing possibilities. His eyes lifted often to the glimmer of water, following the threads of magic with his spiritual sight.

The air in the chamber grew colder as the morning slipped into noon, but he hardly noticed.

Again and again he rose, lifted the jar, and followed the flow of bonded magic with care. He traced its lines, compared its shapes, searching for patterns.

He would not stop until he found a way forward.

***

A quick note about seasons! In canon, Westeros has very unpredictable seasons that can last for years. For this fanfic, I've simplified things: spring, summer, autumn, and winter will be treated like on Earth, lasting just a few months each. If a rare long season ever comes up in the story, I'll mention it separately, but otherwise, the seasons here can be understood just as they are on Earth.

***

Chapter Text

Lys, Nightfall

The pleasure house stood at a bend in the canal, where swan boats drifted by on the water. Brightly painted doors opened onto an entryway draped with silk panels that stirred in the breeze, softening the sound of voices and footsteps. Inside, under the warm glow of lamplight, a lute strummed a slow, languid tune. Laughter broke out here and there, mingling with murmured conversations and the shuffle of dancers’ feet across polished wood. The air was heavy with incense, a sweet haze that hung like a veil.

A man in close-fitting clothes stepped through the doors. He paused to take in the room, his gaze passing over men and women in loose silks, their bodies winding to the rhythm of the music. When he caught sight of a girl carrying a tray of drinks, he stopped her with a word and asked for the mistress of the house. She pointed toward the far side of the hall, and he moved that way.

The mistress reclined on a low chaise near the stair. She wore the fashion of Lys, where modesty was scarce: a thin silk gown, the color of seafoam clung to her shape and fell open at the thigh, tempting passing men to look twice. A single strand of pearls wound through her piled hair, framing the smooth line of her neck.

She regarded the man the way one might study a ripe peach at market, lips curving into a sly grin.

"M-mm… you don’t look like the sort who carries a song," she murmured, amusement in her voice.

"The Targaryen princess," he said.

"Ah" Her grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. "Your taste is either very fine… or very foolish. Perhaps both!" She rose with unhurried grace, silk whispering down her body like water. "Most men ask for her with steadier voices, you know! Older men... her special preference!" Her gaze flicked to his chest, where the faint outline of a seal pressed through his tunic. "And~… most do not bring Westerosi wax to a Lyseni door."

"It is for her," he replied. "From the Queen."

"Hm-mm…" The mistress lifted one brow, her smile never fading. "Queens may write, yes… but daughters…" She tipped her head toward the stair with a teasing smirk.

"You may ask. Whether she answers or not… that is hers to decide."

They climbed beneath a painted ceiling alive with sea nymphs chasing fish through rolling waves. The hallway bent, and the sounds from below faded, muffled as though the silk-draped walls had swallowed them whole. The mistress halted before a half-open door.

“All yours~” she said with the same sly smile. “But take care… she has little patience for men like you.”

With that, she left him, her parting look a promise that she would be near enough to hear if anything inside went amiss.

He pressed his palm to the door and pushed slowly. The chamber beyond was a play of lamplight and shadow, divided by a screen that bisected the space. From behind it came soft voices, low and coaxing, the intimate murmur of lovers.

Stepping past the screen, he found them on a couch near the open balcony: Princess Saera, and the man whose bare arm rested across her pale white shoulder. Their hands lingered on each other, tracing and teasing as they whispered close.

He cleared his throat and tapped a knuckle against the wooden table.

Saera turned her head. She was not startled; only annoyed at being asked to look away. Her hair gleamed with pale silver-gold, pinned high yet spilling in a loose fall over one shoulder. Her mouth curved in a shape that carried both amusement and indifference. The blood of Old Valyria marked her plainly, the same sharp beauty seen in King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne.

Yet it was her body that held the eye. She wore beauty like a dare, wrapped in pink silk that revealed far more than it concealed. A narrow strip crossed her chest, tied carelessly at the side, baring the smooth line of her shoulders and deepening into an alluring cleavage between her perfect breasts. Another length of silk clung to her hips, sliding against her thigh with every shift, showing more than it hid. Nothing in her attire was meant to disguise; it was meant to tempt, to provoke, to remind any watcher of what lay just beyond reach.

The man swallowed hard, heat coiling in his chest and sinking low through his body. His sleeve brushed a lacquered side table, sending a small bowl rattling to the floor with a sharp thud that cut through the air.

The lover glanced over with irritation. “This room was not yours to enter,” he said in a rough tone.

The man bowed his head slightly, steadying his breath. “Forgive me. I was told to deliver this by hand.” From his chest he drew a folded letter. The red wax caught the lamplight, stamped with the dragon’s seal.

Saera made no move to take it. “From whom?” she asked, though her tone carried the certainty of someone who already knew the answer.

“From Queen Alysanne,” he answered.

The name shifted the ambience in the room.

Saera’s eyes went to the seal, then back to the man. She reached for her cup and drank, unbothered by the hand still on her shoulder. “Leave us,” she told her companion with a bored voice.

The lover hesitated, then rose reluctantly, heading towards the door, brushing the man with a look that wished him poor health.

Silence settled. Saera set her cup down and stood slowly, coming closer with unhurried steps as her hips swayed from side to side. The silk at her curves gave a soft sigh as they brushed against her skin. A clever grin formed on her face as she caught the man watching.

“New,” she said, considering him. “Not the old one with bad teeth. And not the other with the spotted cloak. You are younger…”

She stepped closer and traced her hands on his chest. Her perfume spread across the man’s breath.

Seeing a princess, and in such clothes, ignited a forbidden desire in the man. He quickly swatted her hand away.

She smiled, pleased. She lifted a hand as if to take the letter, then let her fingers drift, not quite touching him. She circled once, as if studying a statue. He felt being weighed for many measures at once.

“Name?” she asked.

He gave it.

“House?”

“N-none that would impress you.”

“Honesty~” she teased. “Charming!” She stepped close enough that the silk at her chest brushed lightly against him, her breath warm on his jaw. She smelled of citrus and something sweet. “Will you tell me what is inside before I read it?”

“I do not know, princess. It is sealed.”

“Princess,” she repeated, tasting the word as if to see whether it soured. “You bring odd titles to odd doorways.” Her hand hovered near his chest again, but this time he did not remove it. “You should not lead with family when you come to find me. It makes me poor company… ”

He tried to hold the room steady. “I am not here to argue blood, your…” He stopped short of the title she had just mocked. “I am here because the Queen wished for it.”

Saera’s gaze flicked to the letter again. There was a smile at one corner of her mouth. “The Queen wishes many things,” she said. “She did not wish her daughter to be …like this” she gave a coy smile, “Yet here I am…” She turned, and the silk at her back slid like a wave. “Come,” she added, pointing him toward the balcony.

They stepped out under a sky the color of ripe plums. Below, boats moved like thoughts. A boy on a bridge tossed petals into the canal; girls laughed and stole them back. Saera leaned on the rail, bare foot tipping the fallen bowl with her toe. The man kept the letter on a small table beside.

The letter lay untouched on the table. She regarded it as one might a fly.

“For a letter,” she went on, her grin widening. “You carry it so seriously. Men usually cross seas for softer reasons.” Her eyes raked him from head to heel. “For silk sheets. For a warm body. For forgetting their wives.”

“I was sent,” he insisted, holding his ground.

“Of course you were,” Saera purred. “All men are sent by something. A king’s coin, a queen’s word, their own… cock. Tell me, which leash do you wear tonight?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.

She laughed coquettishly, stepping nearer until the heat of her body brushed the edge of his restraint. “A dutiful little hound,” she teased. “Faithful enough to carry a letter across the Narrow Sea, but not brave enough to admit he’d rather carry something else.” Her fingers drifted over his chest, nails grazing through cloth. “And~... that’s why I let you stay.”

Her hand slid lower, deliberate, until he caught her wrist.

“I came for the Queen’s word,” he said, firmer.

“And yet your hand holds me as if you came for mine,” she continued, twisting her wrist in his grip until his palm pressed against her breast. The silk shifted, and he felt the flesh beneath; soft, warm and real.

His breath hitched. He should have pulled away, every thought screamed it, but his hand did not move.

“That’s better,” she whispered. “Letters wait. Queens wait. But a man’s want never waits.”

She tugged at the knot on her shoulder. The strip of silk loosened and fell, baring her chest fully. Her breasts were pale and full, glamorous, tipped with a dusky pink, rising and falling with her laughter. She leaned closer until they brushed against his chest

“Tell me,” she said, lips at his ear, her breath warm, “will you ride back to Westeros and tell your Queen, her daughter was drinking wine, or will you tell her you tasted… her daughter?”

His throat tightened. “I…”

She didn’t let him finish. Her mouth found his neck, tongue trailing like fire against his skin. One hand rose to his collar, tugging it loose, while the other guided his free hand down her waist to the swell of her hip.

He groaned despite himself, his body betraying him.

Saera smiled against his throat, her voice a husky whisper. “Good~”

She stepped back only to push the last of the silk away. Her body glistened faintly in the shallow light, pale curves and smooth lines. She turned slowly, showing him the dip of her back and the roundness of her hips, the teasing sway of a woman who knew how to provoke the beast inside a man.

“Come then” she said, her voice low and taunting. “How many men who serve the Crown can say they’ve tasted a princess? A fruit reserved for kings and lords… and yet here I am. For you~”

Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled him down to her, kissing him hard, her tongue parting his lips as his hands roamed her bare skin. The table rattled when her back pressed against it, the red dragon seal forgotten, sliding into a corner.

He tried to think of duty, of the Queen’s eyes, of the wax seal that had carried him across the sea. But the scent of Saera’s hair, the feel of her breasts against his chest, the heat of her thighs parting for him, all of it drowned out thought.

Clothes were stripped away in hurried pulls, the sound of fabric tearing mixing with their ragged breaths. Saera giggled into his mouth, as she guided him between her legs. “That’s it~” she whispered, her words rolling like silk, “Now… M-mghm!”

The letter lay where it had been placed, its wax unbroken, while the room filled with the sounds of flesh, grunts and moans.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, Red Keep

The winter sun slanted over the garden walls. Septon Barth stood beside King Jaehaerys, who sat comfortably on a carved chair near the trees.

“Winterfell?” Barth asked, adjusting his robes. “Does the boy mean to be fostered with Lord Stark?”

Jaehaerys shook his head. “No, nothing of the sort. He only asks to visit. A season, no more.” He gave a faint smile. “Alysanne would not allow it otherwise. Even in her letter, she warned me not to grant it too easily. She has grown very attached to that one.”

Barth gave a soft laugh. “She has cause. He keeps her company, listens better than most boys. Still, there is some use to it beyond pleasing his curiosity.”

Jaehaerys raised a brow. “Oh?”

“The North has not seen a royal guest in years,” Barth said. “A prince of your blood, and one already known for wielding fire…he will be remembered. And perhaps it might soften old grievances. Many northern lords still mutter over the lands their grandsires were pressed to yield to the Watch. They do so quietly, but the memory lingers. A royal visit would not mend it, though it might ease the sting.”

The King stroked his beard, thoughtful. “Hmm… perhaps so. Though to me, it sounds more like a boy wishing to see the Wall than a matter for lords and lands.”

Barth turned his head slightly. “And so it is. Yet sometimes even small journeys leave marks, both on the boy and on those who host him.”

The King’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “You would make an envoy out of him already.”

“A little practice now will spare him any harder lessons later,” Barth replied.

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. “Alysanne will fret regardless. But she cannot keep him tied to her skirts forever.”

“Better she let him go a little now,” Barth said gently, “than fight him later when he insists on more.”

The King gave a quiet hum of agreement, his eyes following the pale sky. “Indeed. Let him have his season, then. It is a small thing.”

Dragonstone

The evening tide rolled in quietly, waves hissing as they lapped against the black sand. Aegon walked barefoot along the beach, his toes sinking into the damp grit. The cool water foamed against his ankles now and then, retreating with a soft pull.

He liked this time of day. The sky was painted orange and violet, the sea glinting with the fading light of the sun. It reminded him of his old life back on Earth. He had often gone to beaches then, sitting for hours to listen to the waves. The smell of the sea and the endless horizon felt the same here as it did there. The only difference was the looming castle of Dragonstone at his back.

He stood for a while, watching the sun dip lower. Then he shut his eyes and pulled up his attributes.

[

CON 9.5

STR 9.1

AGI 9.2

DEX 9.3

INT 15.6

Magic 10.7

Spirituality 10.1

]

He exhaled slowly. A lot had changed.

All his physical stats were already at the level of an average grown man. Constitution, strength, agility, dexterity, each one high enough that a normal adult would struggle to match him.

And he was only ten years old.

If he were on Earth, he would have been labelled as a freak. But not in this magical world. There were enough freaks here that he would easily fall short in comparison.

His intelligence had already shot past fifteen. Though fifteen wasn’t genius, it was far beyond the ordinary. He had already noticed subtle differences, like being able to remember more and calculate faster.

In games, you could stack points on strength or constitution and watch your numbers climb. No risks, no side effects, just bigger stats and better results. But this wasn’t a game. This was reality.

That was why he had always been wary of creating classes that gave direct attribute boosts. Imagine unlocking a class that increased your strength. At first, great, your stats climb, you feel stronger. But then you start upgrading it, and suddenly your body begins changing in ways you can’t control. Muscles tearing, bones reshaping, organs stressed in ways you don’t understand. And the worst part? Once a class existed, there was no removing it.

Yes, he could create a new class to counter its effects, but to upgrade it, the old one had to be maxed first. This meant that if he created a dangerous attribute-based class, he’d be locked into upgrading it even if it was slowly breaking him. No turning back. A one-way road that ended in self-destruction.

Aegon was fortunate that his first class, [Gluttonous Child], did not do much damage to his body, and he was able to neutralize it with the next class, [Nimble Rascal].

Thankfully, from this he was able to figure out one thing: attribute-giving classes were traps. Maybe not always, but the risk was too high. Better to grow through the effects of traits, rather than force his body down a path it couldn’t survive.

He opened his eyes again, staring at the horizon.

Magic and spirituality were another matter. Both had risen since he began filling his mental space with spell models. Each time he carved a new one, he experienced a magic surge that increased his magic attribute. After analyzing it, he realized that every spell model strengthened his connection to the Magic Sea dimension.

He had seven spells now. Five from before, and two new additions. With them, his magic stat had finally pushed past ten. That single jump mattered more than the physical stats. With over ten points of magic, his spells reached farther and lasted longer.

But higher spells demanded more magic.

He had already tested the difference. Four-rune spells devoured magic compared to three-rune ones. Cast them too often and he’d be drained within seconds. And five-rune spells? He laughed quietly to himself.

“I probably wouldn’t even be able to fire one,” he murmured. “Empty myself completely and still not enough.”

That was a problem for later, though. He didn’t even have a five-rune spell yet. But one day he would.

For now, the setting sun washed the sea in red and gold, and the waves curled around his feet like old memories. Aegon let the silence linger, then turned back toward the looming black castle.

The dinner hall was quiet when he entered. No food had been served yet. At the long table sat his grandmother, with Lady Jocelyn beside her and Gael across. Their voices carried softly, mingling with the crackle of the fire.

Lady Jocelyn had only returned to Dragonstone a few weeks past, after a long stay with the Baratheons. Most had thought she would remain there for good.

Her return had surprised everyone. Aegon suspected some quarrel had soured things, but Jocelyn had spoken nothing of it, and no one pressed.

He made his way forward and took his seat. Alysanne turned to him with a stiff smile.

“You have good news today, Aegon,” she said. “The King has agreed to your visit to Winterfell. So then… you mean to leave in spring?”

Aegon inclined his head, smiling faintly. “Yes, Grandmother. There is still a month till spring. I will depart after that.”

Alysanne nodded once, though her eyes lingered on him a little longer.

Jocelyn raised an eyebrow at the exchange.

Gael noticed and shifted in her seat. Her voice dropped, a little downcast. “Aegon wished to see Winterfell. The Wall. So… he will leave in spring.”

Jocelyn’s gaze flicked to her, then softened. She gave a small nod, then smiled, teasing lightly, “And do you wish to see it too?”

Gael startled a little, then glanced quickly at Alysanne. “I… I want to,” she admitted, her tone nervous, “but… he is leaving on Dreamfyre.”

Alysanne’s eyes settled on her daughter, then moved to Aegon. “It is not as though two cannot ride a dragon together.”

The weight of the table turned to him. Aegon gave a wry smile, spreading his hands slightly. “I do not think Dreamfyre would allow it. Our bond… she grows rather temperamental at times.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Alysanne. “That much is certain. She rejected nearly everyone who tried to claim her. You riding her at all was a miracle in itself.”

The moment eased with her laugh, and for a while the talk flowed idly again. Then Aegon looked toward his grandmother, his expression turning thoughtful.

“Uncle Vaegon will not be joining us tonight? I thought he had been feeling better of late.”

Alysanne’s smile faded. She let out a quiet sigh. “No. He is taking his supper in his chamber. Yesterday the pain returned…his lower waist again.”

Aegon’s brow furrowed with concern. Of course. Because I burned him again, he thought coldly. His face, however, showed only worry.

When he had heard whispers of Vaegon’s health improving, Aegon had gone to see him with feigned care. But it had been enough to see through him. Vaegon still carried resentment, hatred, hidden beneath the polite words. Aegon had slipped into his chamber later that night, unseen, and burned him once more, not in the same place, but enough to lay him low for months again.

And I will keep doing so, he thought calmly. I cannot kill him, but I can keep him in bed as long as he stays here.

“Have the maesters still not found the cause?” Aegon asked, voice laced with concern.

Alysanne shook her head, weary. Gael reached for her grandmother’s hand, squeezing gently, while Jocelyn offered quiet words of comfort. “He will recover soon. The Seven grant it.”

The sound of hinges broke the moment. The great doors opened, and servants began to file in, bearing trays of food and pitchers of wine. The scent of roasted fowl and herbs drifted through the hall.

Then it struck him.

Aegon’s breath hitched, no more than a heartbeat, but inside, everything snapped taut. His spirituality surged like a blade drawn from its sheath. A sharp, cold signal tore through him.

Danger.

He sat perfectly still, hands folded on the table, his face betraying nothing. But within, his pulse quickened, his body coiled. The warning was unmistakable.

Quietly, without shifting a muscle, he let his spirituality unfold. It swept across the hall, brushing over every movement, every breath.

The servants approached. Dishes were laid down, pitchers poured. Yet to Aegon the air had turned heavy. His gaze drifted, careful, scanning. Faces bent toward their work, harmless, deferent.

Until one.

A maid.

Tray steady in her hands, posture perfect. Under his spiritual sense her shape rippled. Tiny black pinpricks flickered across her skin, faint but unmistakable: magic, coiling where no servant’s body should carry it.

The cold along his spine hardened.

Her.

She is the source of danger.

He forced his breathing steady, face unmoved. But his mind sharpened to a point. None at the table noticed anything wrong, Alysanne still spoke softly, Gael leaning close to listen and Jocelyn with her hands folded, waited for the meal.

Aegon’s eyes stayed on his plate, but within, his thoughts raced. He pressed deeper with his perception, and the truth came clear.

The skin was only a mask.

Beneath it, another form, broad where the maid was narrow, a man’s frame forced into a woman’s shape.

His chest tightened.

A Faceless Man.

Chapter Text

“Quicker, Matilda,” called the head maid, her sharp voice cutting through the clatter of pots and pans.

Matilda adjusted the platter in front of her, steadying her hands as she set the roast into place. The kitchen hall was alive with motion, maids moving in and out with baskets, cooks bent over steaming pots and the hiss of fat dripping into the fire.

It was nearly time for dinner and everything had to be perfect. Tonight’s meal was roasted fowl with herbs, a dish that filled the air with a warm, savory fragrance. The smell was so rich her stomach gave a faint twist of longing. She was glad she had eaten a piece of bread earlier; without it, the sound might have betrayed her and earned a scolding from the head maid.

Her fingers ached faintly from the work, but she kept at it.

Out of habit, she turned her head slightly, her eyes finding Anya at her side. She was plating too, though her movements were slower.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Matilda whispered.

Anya looked up at her in surprise, then lifted an eyebrow as if to ask what she meant. Matilda cast a quick glance toward the head maid to make sure her attention was elsewhere, then leaned closer, her voice low.

“After all these years, you still can’t plate properly?” she muttered, half teasing, half scolding. She reached over, steadying the garnish on her friend’s dish before setting it right herself.

Anya gave a small, wry smile. “I’m just not feeling well.”

Matilda frowned, her hands pausing. “I told you to rest. You should have stayed back a few days, not rushed back to work.”

“It’s fine,” Anya said quietly. “I can manage.”

Matilda let out a soft sigh, but she didn’t push further. “Alright,” she said, and turned back to her own platter, though she kept glancing at her friend now and again.

They had been together a long time, ten years, give or take. Both had entered service as children, just twelve when they first became cleaning maids in the Red Keep. That was where their friendship began. Seven years they had spent in King’s Landing, side by side in endless duties, before they were chosen to serve at Dragonstone.

It felt like a lifetime.

Matilda’s own path had been simple enough. She came from a small village near Rosby. When she was twelve, her parents and the village head had arranged for her to work in House Rosby’s castle. But Lady Rosby, for reasons Matilda never quite understood, decided she would be better suited for service in the capital. So she was sent to King’s Landing. Letters from her family had been rare, then rarer still, until they stopped altogether. Over time, her memories of them had grown hazy, like mist on a window that never quite cleared.

Anya’s story was different. She was the second daughter of a knight in Duskendale. Her mother had died young, her father had remarried, and there had been quarrels in the house. Eventually her father thought it best to send her into service, framing it as an honor. Anya had believed it then. She had gone to serve the Darklyns, and later, like Matilda, had been chosen for the Red Keep. Unlike Matilda, she had never been cut off from her kin. Her father and stepmother had softened when they saw she was serving the royal family. She wrote to them often and visited once a year.

That was where she had been for the past month, home with her family. Matilda had felt her absence keenly, the days long and dull without her friend’s chatter to fill them.

But since her return last night, Matilda had noticed something different. Anya was quieter, distracted, her thoughts wandering. She forgot small things, made mistakes she never used to. When Matilda asked, she only said the journey had tired her, that she felt unwell.

Unwell.

Matilda knew what that could mean. People often fell sick, and sickness lingered. Sometimes it passed. Sometimes it didn’t. The thought left her uneasy. She didn’t like the way Anya’s face seemed pale, or how her hands slowed at simple tasks.

I should make her rest, Matilda thought.

“Clap, clap.”

The sharp sound brought her back. The head maid stood at the center of the room, clapping her hands together briskly. “Time to serve.”

The kitchen stilled for a moment, then everyone moved. Platters were lifted, trays balanced, pitchers gathered. Matilda looked once more at Anya. Her friend gave her a small nod, faintly tired but managing.

Matilda adjusted her grip on the tray she carried. The roasted bird was heavy, the herbs giving off a sharp, pleasant scent. She drew a slow breath, then nodded back.

Together, they fell into line, following the others out of the heat of the kitchen and into the colder corridors that led toward the dinner hall.

Soon the line of servants and maids reached the feasting chamber. Two Kingsguard stood tall at either side of the great doors, white cloaks brushing the floor.

Creak. The doors swung open.

One by one they filed in, trays balanced carefully. At the table sat Queen Alysanne, Princess Gael, Lady Jocelyn, and Prince Aegon, their conversation easy, their laughter soft against the hum of the hall.

On the cue of the head maid, the servants spread out. Platters were placed, goblets filled. Matilda stepped forward with her tray, her focus sharp, until her eyes flicked sideways.

Anya.

She was still standing at the edge of the hall, unmoving. Slowly, she began walking, not toward the Queen or Lady Jocelyn but straight for Prince Aegon.

You’re not supposed to place the tray there! Matilda’s stomach turned cold. Her friend had made mistakes before, but never something this careless. The head mistress will have her hide tonight.

She was about to hiss a warning when the sound split the air.

Bang!

A wine glass shattered in front of the prince. Aegon was on his feet in an instant, his chair clattering backward across the stone. Gasps rippled through the hall. The gentle prince, who had never raised his voice at the maids or servants, now stood smiling, wide and unshaken.

That smile unsettled Matilda more than the broken glass.

Then his voice rang out, sharp as steel.

“KINGSGUARD!”

The cry thundered through the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. All froze. Maids clutched their trays tighter, the Queen herself turned her head in confusion.

And then the hall erupted.

The Kingsguard burst through the doors, their boots pounding against the floor. At that same instant, Anya, her Anya, sprinted forward, tray clattering to the ground. Her movement was wrong, too fast, too precise.

Aegon’s hand lifted, and in it bloomed fire. A sphere of flame swelled, roaring into life, and with a thrust of his arm he hurled it forward.

Boom!