Night fell over Drakoncrest.
Within the main hall of the Manor, the braziers burned low, their flames casting long, wavering shadows across the black stone walls.
Prince Aegon stood beside one of them, his pale fingers moving languidly through the fire as if it were water. The flames curled around his hand, licking at his skin, yet left not so much as a mark.
"Blood and fire spring from the same source," he murmured, watching the embers dance. "It seems that most sorcery is bound to the two. Remarkable."
Nearby, Princess Helaena sat upon a low stool, carefully peeling fruit with a small knife. At her side, Daeron stared at Aegon with wide violet eyes, unable to resist the temptation before him. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached toward the brazier.
A moment later, he yelped and jerked his hand back as if struck.
"Hiss, hiss." Daeron's face flushed bright red as he shook his fingers in pain, hopping once on the spot.
Aemond burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, pointing at his younger brother without mercy.
Helaena sighed and set aside the half-peeled fruit. "Come here," she said gently. "Let me see."
"Go on, Daeron. Hurry up. Walk slower and your hand will heal by the time you reach her. Hahaha." Aemond showed no sign of stopping.
Daeron's face darkened. Gritting his teeth, he drew the wooden sword from his belt and pointed it straight at Aemond.
"A fight to the death," he declared, his voice cracking with indignation.
Aemond raised his chin, utterly confident. "You little whelp. Today I will teach you what it means to have a backside red as a summer flower."
"That is enough." Aegon withdrew his hand from the flames, turning with an expression of weary amusement. "The moment you return home, you start tearing the place apart. Are you truly so fond of noise?"
He looked down at Daeron, his tone sobering slightly. "The blood of House Targaryen grants resistance to fire, not immunity. You must remember that."
Daeron blinked. "Then why can you play with it? And Helaena can too. Why can't I?"
Aegon hesitated for the briefest instant. "I am not the same as your sister. Helaena was born with her gift. And I… I should have been born with mine as well."
Daeron frowned, utterly confused by the answer. If not for the certainty of a beating, he would have asked what his brother was muttering about.
At last, he quieted, and Aegon turned back to the brazier, letting the fire coil once more around his fingers.
Fire can be seen, but not grasped, he reflected. Beyond its heat, I can scarcely feel it at all.
The flames flickered within his violet eyes, casting a faint, shimmering light across his pupils.
"I have heard," Helaena said softly, curiosity bright upon her face, "that there are pyromancers in the Shadow Lands. That they can command flame itself, even turn it against others."
She had once read such accounts in an ancient, crumbling tome. Even then, she had not truly believed them. To command fire outright seemed too wondrous, too implausible.
"The Shadow Lands are old beyond measure," Aegon replied. "There are pyromancers there, yes, but also scholars of darker arts. Blood magic. Forbidden rites."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "It is said that the ancient Valyrian methods of binding dragons still survive there. Whether truth or fancy, I cannot say."
The Shadow Lands were shrouded in mystery, steeped in antiquity and peril. Too many legends clung to that distant place, and even Aegon could not tell which held merit and which were mere inventions.
A sudden pounding echoed through the hall.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Aegon's lips twitched faintly. There was only one person in the Stepstones bold enough to knock upon the doors of the Manor in the dead of night.
Aemond reached the door first and pulled it open.
"Who is it…" His voice faltered.
Under the moonlight stood Skaði, tall and imposing as a black tower, four longswords cradled in her arms.
Aemond took an involuntary step back, his bravado draining away.
Seeing the door opened, Skaði forced a strained smile and drew one of the blades partway from its scabbard.
Aemond retreated two more steps, eyes wide. "Brother. Brother, come quickly."
Aegon rose, puzzled. The Manor was heavily guarded, and Aemond was no coward. Whatever had startled him so must be unusual indeed.
The answer soon became clear.
"I love this sword," Aemond shouted, slashing at the air with reckless delight. "I am going to kill all my enemies with it."
Skaði stood to one side, helpless and faintly ashamed.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I have failed you." She inclined her head. "The reforging yielded four hand-and-a-half blades, though they are smaller than customary. They can only be called longswords."
Valyrian steel did not yield easily, but even so, the loss during reforging had exceeded her expectations.
Aegon merely laughed. "Smaller or not, it matters little. So long as the steel is sound."
There were four swords in total. After the one Aemond held, Skaði placed the remaining three upon the table.
One immediately drew the eye. Its hilt gleamed gold, the blade etched with a living dragon in flight. The pommel was wrought in the likeness of Sunfyre's head.
"This blade is called Golden Sun," Skaði said. "It is a king's sword. Splendor, confidence, and pride are its spirit."
The next sword bore a pale blue hilt, its blade covered in delicate patterns. Its pommel depicted the head of Dreamfyre.
"This is Silver Moon. Golden Sun is the king, and Silver Moon the queen. Elegance and nobility define it."
"Then what of mine?" Daeron leaned forward eagerly, staring at the final sword, its hilt a deep blue as a summer sea.
Skaði scratched her head, smiling sheepishly. "Prince Daeron, yours has not yet been named."
Daeron froze. "Not named?"
The words struck him like a hammer, as though he had suffered some grievous defeat.
"Aemond's blade lacks a name as well," Aegon said lightly. "You may name them yourselves. Is possessing Valyrian steel not enough to satisfy you?"
He laughed and tapped Daeron gently upon the cheek.
"The entire House of the Dragon holds but two Valyrian steel swords. Blackfyre and Dark Sister."
Blackfyre, above all, carried unmatched weight, passed from king to king and revered as the blade of sovereignty.
Yet in time, Aegon thought, Golden Sun and Silver Moon will surely stand beside them as symbols of our house.
*
The sixth day of the seventh moon, 120 AC.
Merchant ships had begun to gather near Drakoncrest, lingering at a wary distance. Word spread swiftly among traders, and news of an order worth five hundred thousand gold dragons had traveled like wildfire.
Those who heard it first circled like sharks scented with blood. Only the dragons in the sky and the warships in the harbor restrained them from rushing in.
At the port, Aegon clasped a hand upon Hugh's Valyrian steel armor.
"Teach the Tyroshi a lesson they will never forget. Do not fail me."
"Only through victory may I enact my reforms," he continued. "Only then may you stand as a true pillar of military and state."
Hugh struck his chest in salute. "I will not disappoint you, Your Highness."
"I await your triumphant return."
Aegon turned to Kraken, Loren, and Arryk. "Once the plan is set in motion, the Stepstones fall to you. Should anything arise, speak directly to Sunfyre. Where he flies, I am not far."
The three answered as one. "Understood, Your Highness."
Satisfied, Aegon boarded the ship with Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron.
A horn sounded across the harbor.
Fifty great ships eased forward, their sails catching the wind. Above them, five dragons of differing shapes and hues roared in unison, wheeling through the sky.
Under the watchful eyes of hundreds of foreign merchant vessels, fleet and dragons alike vanished into the darkening horizon.
Night deepened.
Another horn sounded, muted and low.
Moments later, the fleet divided.
One force sailed north, bearing three dragons, fifteen warships, and five merchant ships.
The other turned south, heading straight for Tyrosh, with twenty warships and ten merchant vessels.
Aegon stood upon the deck, gazing up at the stars. Above, Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Tessarion circled beneath the moonlit sky.
At his side, Helaena wore a pale blue gown. Her silver hair streamed in the wind, her thoughts carried far away with the sea breeze. She smiled, lost in reverie.
"What are you smiling at?" Aegon asked suddenly.
She startled, color blooming across her cheeks. "I am not smiling," she protested stubbornly.
Laughing, Aegon swept her into his arms and spun her twice.
"The moon of my life has turned red as an apple, and you still claim you were not smiling?"
Helaena buried her burning face against his chest, feigning death.
A dull thud interrupted them.
They turned to see the cabin door burst open.
Daeron stumbled through, wooden sword flailing as he fended off Aemond.
"You will fall to my blade sooner or later," Daeron shouted. "Do not resist."
"When I become Prince of Lys, I shall raise a statue beside mine and carve upon it: Defeated by Daeron, Third Swordsman of the Seven Kingdoms."
He taunted relentlessly, seeking to draw Aemond into rashness.
But Aemond had been trained by Aegon since childhood. Reckless at heart, he nonetheless remembered his lessons.
If his nature could not be changed, then it must be forged into his swordplay.
Rough yet precise. Bold yet cautious.
A cunning glint flashed in his eye. He feigned wild swings, watching closely.
Daeron took the bait.
The moment he attacked, Aemond struck backhanded, knocking the sword from his grip.
Daeron's face drained of color. This is bad, he thought, scrambling toward Helaena.
Aemond caught him by the collar. The wooden sword came down in a blur.
Smack.
Daeron barely had time to cry out. "Sister, save me."
Helaena only laughed.
Seeing no reprieve, Aemond grew more enthusiastic, his strikes leaving afterimages in the air.
At last, Daeron turned to Aegon, tears spilling as pain flared across his backside.
"Waa," he wailed.
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A/N:
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