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POV: Aegon Targaryen
Location: Dragonstone
Date: Fourth Day, Seventh Moon, 27 BC
It's been two days since my dramatic arrival and subsequent adoption into House Targaryen—and I must say, I made quite the entrance.
The moment Lord Aerion lifted me from the wreckage of that pod, he carried me back to Dragonstone as though I were a gift from the gods themselves. Servants and guards whispered behind him, rumors already taking root in the cracks of the keep. A babe from the stars, sent to revive a dying bloodline. A miracle. Or a warning.
Dragonstone loomed ahead like a slumbering beast—its towers jagged and black, carved from volcanic stone and crowned with dragon-shaped gargoyles that watched the sea like sentinels. The air smelled of salt and sulfur, and the sky above was a swirling canvas of ash and stormlight. It was a place built for fire and fury, not for children.
Once we reached the stronghold, Aerion took me straight to the maester. The man was ancient—bald, hunched, and draped in a chain of mismatched metals that jingled with every step. His sunken eyes held the tired patience of a man who had seen too many lords and too many fools. Still, he did his duty.
Maesters, as I remembered from fragmented memories and stories, were scholars, healers, and advisors trained in the Citadel—a quasi-religious institution that followed the Faith of the Seven. Picture a group of medieval scientists bound by faith and tradition, and you're not far off.
He spent hours examining me. Hours.
Most of that time was spent hovering inches from my face, peering into my eyes, inspecting my limbs, listening to my heart with a seashell-like device, and muttering to himself. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. I half expected him to start licking my skin for omens.
Eventually, he stepped back and gave Aerion a solemn nod. "The child is healthy," he said, though I didn't put much stock in the opinion of someone who probably still believed illness was caused by bad humors.
Still, I felt fine. My body, while small and infantile, responded well to stimuli. My mind was... sharp. Too sharp. I could already understand words around me, though my body wouldn't obey my thoughts. It was like being a prisoner in a crib.
After the checkup, Aerion took me deeper into the keep. We climbed a spiraling set of stairs that led to a large private chamber—lavish but dark, full of carved stone and dragon motifs. There, waiting by the window, was Lady Valaena Velaryon.
My new mother.
She stood tall and proud, her silver hair woven with sea-green ribbons that matched the color of her eyes. Her belly had the subtle swell of a woman newly with child. She turned at our approach, and I saw a flicker of emotion cross her face—not joy, not revulsion—something in between. Uncertainty.
Aerion approached her carefully, holding me in both hands like a sacred offering.
"Valaena," he said softly. "The gods have answered. Look upon our son."
She said nothing at first, her gaze lingering on my face. Then she stepped closer, slowly, as though fearing what she might see.
"He has your eyes," she murmured, almost to herself.
"And your calm," Aerion added with pride. "Even as he fell from the sky, he did not cry until he was freed from that... vessel."
Valaena reached out, but hesitated before her fingers touched my cheek. Then, with a breath, she allowed her hand to brush against my face.
Warmth. Soft, but cautious. Like someone petting a wild animal for the first time.
"He's beautiful," she said. But her voice was distant, guarded. She wasn't cold—not like the horror stories of Catelyn Stark and Jon Snow—but I could tell she was uncertain. This wasn't her child. Not truly.
Still, she held me when Aerion placed me in her arms. Awkwardly. As if unsure of where her hands should go.
But she did not reject me.
Aerion kissed her forehead, his hand resting on her stomach. "Two children. The future of our house is secured."
Valaena gave a ghost of a smile, then turned her gaze back to me.
"He came from the sky," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Is he even of this world?"
Aerion didn't answer. Perhaps he didn't want to. Perhaps the answer scared him.
---
Time passed quickly after that. Servants came and went. The maester made more visits, recording everything from the pod's composition to the color of my eyes. A raven was sent to the Citadel, though I doubted they'd believe it. The pod itself was sealed away in the depths of the keep, guarded by men who didn't understand what they were protecting.
Lady Valaena did not spend every waking moment with me—but she checked in often. She watched me in the nursery, sometimes from the doorway, sometimes sitting at a distance. I would catch her staring, not with malice or resentment, but with a question she hadn't yet formed.
On the third night, she asked to hold me again. This time, she didn't flinch when I reached out to touch her necklace. Her hands were steadier. Her eyes softer.
"You are not mine," she whispered, "but perhaps you could be."
And I somehow understood her.
Not in words. Not in reason.
But in spirit.
A part of me, buried under the fragments of war, machine, and forgotten empires, yearned for that simple bond. A mother. A family. A second chance.
I reached out and grabbed her finger. She smiled.
---
The next day brought new introductions.
I was placed in a cushioned cradle in the solar, where the warm light of day filtered through stained glass, illuminating the polished stone floor with soft reds and golds. A maid announced the approach of Lady Visenya.
She was no older than three, a small girl with pale skin and striking amethyst eyes that stared with curiosity and a flicker of something sharper. Her silver-blonde hair was braided neatly, and she clutched a small stuffed dragon in one hand.
She toddled toward me, her steps confident for someone so young. Valaena watched silently, arms crossed, but made no move to intervene.
Visenya stood beside my cradle and leaned over me, her eyes narrowing as if trying to figure out whether I was a toy, a threat, or something else entirely. Then, without warning, she reached into the cradle and poked my cheek.
"You're squishy," she announced.
The room stilled for a moment, then Valaena let out a small, reluctant laugh. It was the first time I heard something like mirth in her voice.
"His name is Aegon," Valaena said, stepping closer.
Visenya blinked at me. "Egg-on?"
I wanted to groan. Aegon the Egg. Just great.
Still, I watched her. She was intelligent. Observant. And though young, I could already sense a fire behind those eyes that reminded me of warriors from a past I could barely remember.
She patted my head and gave a satisfied nod. "He can be my little brother. I'll teach him how to fly dragons."
Somehow, I knew she meant it.
---
Later that evening, I met Orys Baratheon.
The boy was perhaps four or five, and he carried himself with the uncertain posture of a child who didn't know where he belonged. His hair was a rich brown, eyes a duller shade than the rest of the Targaryens, and though his face had hints of nobility, he lacked the dragon's grace.
He stood beside Aerion, fidgeting as the lord introduced us. "This is your brother, Orys," Aerion said. "You must look after him, one day."
Orys peered down at me with a guarded expression. He didn't step forward. Didn't smile.
"He doesn't look like me," he said quietly.
Aerion frowned, but said nothing.
Valaena approached then and placed a gentle hand on Orys' shoulder. "Nor do you look like us, my sweet boy. But you are still part of this family."
That seemed to calm him slightly. He stepped closer and looked at me again. "He's small," he muttered.
"You were smaller," the maester added from a corner.
Orys tilted his head. "I guess he's okay."
He didn't touch me, but he didn't walk away either. He stood there for a long while, watching, thinking. Maybe wondering if I was a rival. Or a replacement.
I couldn't move or speak, but something passed between us—a silent acknowledgment. Neither of us chose this, but we would live it.
Together.
Outside, the storm that had loomed since my arrival began to fade. The skies cleared. Dragonstone, still shrouded in mystery and volcanic fumes, stood just a little brighter in the morning sun.
The wind carried the scent of ash and salt, but also something new possibility.
Aegon Targaryen had arrived.
Not born of fire, but of stars.
And this time, he would be more than a conquer.