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POV: Aegon Targaryen
Location: Dragonstone
Date: Ninth Day, Third Month, 21 BC
The fire came first. A deep, slow-burning heat that pulsed like a heartbeat around him. Aegon couldn't see it, not truly, but he felt it all the same. Beneath his skin. In his bones. In the spaces between thoughts.
Shadows moved beyond the edge of the flame. Wings. Scales. Eyes like burning coals. It should have frightened him. It didn't. Instead, he reached for them—not with hands, but with something inside him. Something deeper.
He remembered the warmth more than the shape. Vast. Protective. A beast not of flesh, but of fire and purpose.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the dream faded. The fire dimmed. The heartbeat slowed.
Aegon Targaryen opened his eyes.
His chamber was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft rays of morning light spilling through a tall, narrow window carved into the black stone of Dragonstone. The volcanic rock of the walls gave off a faint warmth, and steam drifted lazily from the shallow brazier near his bed. It smelled of salt, ash, and something ancient—like the world had never cooled.
Moments later, servants entered quietly. Wordless and efficient, they helped Aegon rise and dressed him in a dark tunic with silver thread. They combed his hair and fastened his boots, bowing before retreating into the shadowed hall.
As he stepped into the corridor, Aegon felt the castle breathe around him. Dragonstone was no ordinary fortress. Forged of black volcanic stone by Valyrian sorcery and dragonfire, its walls curved in unnatural ways, archways coiled like serpents, and stone pillars rose like the spines of ancient beasts. There were no courtyards like in Westerosi keeps, only cavernous chambers lit by red glass or molten troughs of flame.
The walk to the solar was quiet, save for the distant boom of waves crashing against the cliffs. Aegon passed carvings of dragons mid-flight and murals of burning cities, their meaning lost to time.
Breakfast in the solar was already underway when he arrived.
"I will ride Vhagar," Visenya declared, slamming her tiny fists on the table. "Even if she bites me."
Orys laughed through a mouthful of bread. "She might eat you instead."
Aegon slid into his seat with a small smile. Despite their squabbles, he liked the mornings. Visenya's fire, Orys' good humor—they were a strange but comforting rhythm. The trio had grown close in the past year, and Aegon had come to see them not just as siblings, but pieces of his foundation.
"Sword practice begins at noon," Orys added proudly. "Maester says I'm strong for my age."
Visenya pouted. "I want a sword too."
Lady Valaena sat at the head of the table, her silver hair pinned in a regal twist. Her eyes were sharp and knowing.
"You'll attend your lessons today. History and High Valyrian," she said, her voice calm but firm. "A woman's place is not the battlefield."
Visenya crossed her arms. "Then the battlefield should fear what I will bring to it."
Orys snorted and nearly spilled his milk. Aegon chuckled softly.
Valaena turned her gaze to Aegon, her expression softening. "And you, my son? Did you dream again?"
He nodded. "I dreamed of fire."
Her brow lifted slightly. "Was there more than fire. Tell me."
Aegon hesitated, then said, "There was something in the fire. Huge. Watching me. But I wasn't afraid."
Valaena reached for a leather-bound journal beside her and opened it to a fresh page. She handed him a charcoal stick.
"Draw what you remember. You may not know what it means, but your father and I will try. These dreams are not idle things, Aegon. Not for those of the blood."
He nodded solemnly and began to sketch a vague outline of wings and flame.
Later that day, Aegon was summoned to his father's study. The chamber was carved directly into the rock, its walls covered in ancient Valyrian script and maps of Essos and Westeros. Two great blades were mounted above the hearth—Blackfyre and Dark Sister, heirlooms of old Valyria. The fire beneath them glowed low, casting shadows like dragon wings.
Aerion Targaryen stood at a writing desk, reading from a scroll.
"A trading vessel from Volantis was delayed by storms," he muttered. "And another letter from Claw Isle. Still no viable brides of Valyrian stock. Hmph."
He set the scroll aside and looked up at Aegon.
"Your mother says you dreamed again."
"Yes."
"Of dragons?"
"Of fire. And something watching me. I think... I think it was Balerion."
Aerion studied him for a long moment.
"The blood of Valyria flows through you, Aegon. But dreams such as these... they have meaning. They can lead kings to glory or ruin."
Aegon looked him in the eye. "I want to see them. The dragons."
Aerion's expression tightened. "They have not accepted riders in a generation. They are not horses to be paraded. They are fire and death given form."
"I don't want to ride," Aegon said. "I want to understand."
Before Aerion could answer, Visenya and Orys burst in.
"We want to see them too," Visenya said without hesitation.
Orys grinned. "If they're going, so am I."
Valaena appeared moments later, standing just within the threshold.
"Let them go," she said softly. "Let them learn what it means to be dragonlords."
Aerion studied each of them, his eyes lingering longest on Aegon. Then he nodded.
That evening, the family descended deep beneath Dragonstone, following a winding path that led through the ancient bones of the castle.
The halls grew narrower, darker, and warmer. They passed under arches shaped like coiled dragon wings, past statues of Valyrian dragonlords, and murals depicting great beasts in flight. As they moved deeper, Aegon noticed a hallway partially collapsed, torchlight glinting off something large and curved within.
He paused.
A dragon's skull, half-buried in darkness. The size of a carriage. Ancient.
He hurried on to catch up.
At the base of a stair carved into the mountain, two dragonkeepers awaited. Robed in blackened leathers and adorned with runes and brands, they bowed silently.
One keeper addressed the children. "You walk into the heart of fire. Show respect. Show quiet."
The other turned and led Lord Aerion and Lady Valaena ahead, speaking in low tones. Aegon caught none of it, but the tension on his father's brow said enough.
They passed into the Dragonmount through a wide archway. The air grew thick with heat and sulfur. Molten veins glowed in the walls like dragonfire trapped beneath stone. Shadows danced and stretched.
Aerion glanced back at them. "One day, you will train with them," he said, nodding toward the keepers. "Not to ride, but to understand. To survive."
The first dragon appeared suddenly.
Vhagar.
She was the smallest, youngest, and most active of the three—but still large enough to crush a cottage beneath her talons. Her bronze scales shimmered green-blue in the torchlight. Bright green eyes locked onto them.
She moved.
Visenya gasped. Vhagar surged forward with surprising speed, wings unfolding.
"JAKAGON!" one keeper barked.
The other clanged a metal rod against the stone. Vhagar halted, huffed smoke, then turned sharply and soared away deeper into the cave.
Visenya vibrated with excitement. "She's perfect! When can I ride her?"
"She is not ready," the keeper said. "Nor are you."
"She hunts often," said the other. "Sometimes for days. She is the wind. The youngest."
Orys pointed toward the darkness. "What about the others?"
The keeper nodded solemnly. "Meraxes and Balerion. Bonded mates. Older. Wiser. They hunt together. Sleep together. They have yet to lay eggs but we expect a clutch soon."
The tunnel ended in a high overlook, carved to resemble a natural ledge. Below, a massive hollow of rock stretched into darkness.
Vhagar glided below them, circling.
Then they saw her.
Meraxes. Silver-scaled, golden-eyed, curled like a cat in the crook of a volcanic shelf. She yawned, showing rows of jagged teeth. Vhagar flapped noisily near her, pestering.
And then—a sound.
A low, rolling growl.
The cave vibrated.
Something moved.
The darkness over Meraxes shifted.
It hadn't been stone above her.
It had been a wing.
Balerion unfolded, scale by scale. As black as a starless night, his wing stretched over half the cavern.
Aegon stared, breathless.
The great head rose slowly. Red eyes opened.
And for a moment—just a breath—those eyes met Aegon's.
No one else saw. No one else noticed.
But Aegon knew.
The dragon saw him.
And remembered.
---
That night, Aegon sat in his chamber, parchment before him. He drew maps with clumsy lines, sketches of wings and fire. He paused once to look out the window, where the Dragonmount glowed red against the night sky.
"Not yet," he whispered.
His fingers curled around the charcoal.
"But soon."