Aegon's eyes thinned into dangerous slits, peering through the King as if he could see the very gears of anxiety grinding within the man's mind.
"I have already dispatched Ser Arryk to make ready," Aegon stated, his voice a calm tide. "You may coordinate with him if it eases your spirit. I go to Dragonstone, Father. I have no desire to wander."
The Prince stepped toward the sprawling model of the Valyrian Freehold, his shadow falling long over the miniature spires. He reached out, his fingers brushing a delicate, painstakingly carved tower before closing around it. With a sharp crack, he wrenched the stone from its foundations.
"If you deny me this, I shall unmake your city stone by stone until only rubble remains," Aegon said, his tone conversational, yet carrying the weight of an iron decree.
Viserys's eye twitched with a spasmodic rhythm. The audacity of the threat left him momentarily breathless; he himself would never have dared such insolence toward his own father at the age of seven.
"Enough!" Viserys barked, though the fire in his voice was dampened by exhaustion. "Go, then. But mark my words, boy: you are permitted Dragonstone and its surrounding waters. You shall not fly for the North. Do not let me hear of your dragon's shadow falling upon the Wall."
Aegon offered a ghost of a smirk, turning away to hide the curl of his lip. He knew well enough what haunted the King's sleep—the ancient dread of the Long Night and the pale kings of the frost. It was a secret Viserys guarded like a dying coal, unaware that his son already knew the shape of the darkness to come.
"I hear you, Father. I shall take my leave."
Without awaiting a dismissal, Aegon strode from the solar. He found Aemond pacing with the nervous energy of a caged hound, while Helaena sat nearby, her gaze fixed on a multi-legged crawler traversing her palm.
"Helaena," Aegon said, drawing her attention. "Should Mother come seeking us, tell her I have taken Aemond to play among the gardens. Keep her mind at ease, little sister."
Helaena nodded with a dreamy, detached grace, her eyes never leaving the insect. "The threads are spinning," she whispered, a comment meant for no one, as she returned to her quiet vigil.
Aegon led Aemond toward the Great Pit of Rhaenys, the massive dome of the Dragonpit looming over the city like a silent god. He felt his brother's hand trembling and reached out to steady him with a firm pat on the head.
"What shadows haunt you now? If the fear is too great, you have years yet to find your courage. You have not even seen your fifth name day."
"Brother..." Aemond's voice was small, his lips pressed into a bloodless line. "Is she... the Silver One... is she truly gentle?"
Aegon tilted his head, searching his memories of the histories and the beast herself. Silverwing had been the mount of the Good Queen Alysanne, a creature of grace and relative temperance. He harbored the belief that so long as the blood of Old Valyria ran true, Silverwing would remain receptive. If a base-born drunkard like Ulf the White could claim her in the years to come, surely a Prince of the Blood could do the same.
Yet, he would take no risks with his brother's life. "Fear not. I shall test her spirit myself when we arrive. You shall watch from the safety of the ridge and make your choice only when the path is clear."
As they descended into the cool, sulfurous depths of the Pit, the Dragonkeepers brought forth the Golden.
Sunfyre. He was a creature of singular, breathtaking majesty—a young male whose scales shimmered like molten bullion under the torchlight. Born in the fires of the Dragonmount and claimed by Aegon in his youth, he was the pride of the Targaryen line. Aegon had once considered the Bronze Fury, Vermithor, for he was a beast of terrible power and vast scale. But the moment his eyes had met Sunfyre's golden gaze, the bond had been instantaneous. It required no shouts, no ancient spells. It was a recognition of souls.
Archmaester Gyldayn would one day write that Sunfyre was the most magnificent dragon to ever grace the skies of Westeros, and looking at him now, Aegon did not doubt it.
A Dragonkeeper approached, his face obscured by the traditional hood, and bowed low. "Prince, there is a matter that requires your discernment."
"Speak," Aegon replied, his hand buried in the warmth of Sunfyre's golden neck as the dragon nuzzled his chest.
The Keeper looked at the beast with a furrowed brow. "Sunfyre's humors are... unsettled, Your Grace. His condition is not as it should be."
"Unsettled?" Aegon frowned, stepping back to survey the dragon. "He appears as radiant as ever. What ails him?"
The Keeper's eyes flickered with uncertainty. "Have you noted the growth of the Princess's Syrax, or the Lord Laenor's Seasmoke of late?"
Sunfyre, Syrax, and Seasmoke were of a single brood, hatched within the same decade. Aegon realized then that he had paid little heed to the other dragons of the court. "Speak plainly, man. You test my patience."
"Since you claimed him, Sunfyre's growth has defied all reason. He is already twice the bulk of Syrax. Furthermore, he has become possessed of a savage irritability. He lunges at his chains daily; my men struggle to contain his fury."
Aegon wasted no further words. He closed his eyes and sank into the depths of his own mind, reaching out for the connection he had forged a year prior. He was a skinchanger, a "Dragon Spirit" of rare potency, his mental strength having surged since his rebirth in this world.
He slipped into Sunfyre's consciousness like a hand into a silken glove. He felt the dragon's blood—hot, pulsing like liquid fire—and a sense of restless vitality. But as he prepared to withdraw, a wave of pure, crystalline intent crashed against his mind.
Hate the stone... hate the dark... want the sky...
Aegon gasped, his eyes snapping open. Never before had the dragon's thoughts been so articulate, so demanding.
"He is not ill," Aegon murmured, the realization dawning on him. "He is suffocating."
He looked around the magnificent, oppressive gloom of the Dragonpit. The histories were true: the dragons of House Targaryen had begun to wither the moment they were caged. The pit was a gilded coffin that stunted the growth of the great drakes, ensuring that none would ever again rival the terrifying scale of Balerion the Black Dread. Sunfyre was not merely growing; he was fighting against the very walls that sought to diminish him.