Night had fallen over Dragonstone, but inside the main hall of the Golden Dragon Manor, the air was thick with the scent of burning cedar and the low hum of ancient power.
Aegon sat by the brazier, his fingers dancing through the heart of the coals.
"Blood and fire are of one source," Aegon mused, his voice rhythmic as the flickering light. "It seems every scrap of true magic in this world is bound to them. Remarkable."
The orange flames licked against Aegon's pale skin, yet they left no char, no blister—not even a reddening of the flesh.
Helaena sat nearby, quietly peeling fruit, while young Daeron watched with wide, violet eyes. Unable to contain his curiosity, the boy reached out to touch the dancing heat. A second later, he shrieked, recoiling as if struck by a mace.
"Hiss... ah!" Daeron's face flushed crimson as he frantically shook his smarting hand.
Aemond erupted into a bark of laughter, mocking his younger brother's folly. "Keep going, Daeron! By the time you reach the maester, the skin will have grown back ten times over!"
Helaena sighed, setting down the fruit knife to pull Daeron toward her. "Come here, let me see it."
Embarrassed and stinging, Daeron drew the wooden practice sword from his belt, challenging Aemond to a "duel to the death" right there on the rug.
"Little brat," Aemond teased, standing with arrogant ease. "I'll turn your backside redder than that burn."
"Enough," Aegon said, withdrawing his hand from the fire. The siblings fell silent. "Targaryen blood grants us a resistance to the heat, Daeron, not a godhood over it. Never forget that."
"Then why can you do it? And Helaena?" Daeron blinked. "Why am I the only one who gets burned?"
Aegon looked at his sister, then back at the flames. "I am different from Helaena. She was born with the old soul of Valyria... and I," he paused, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his face, "I suppose I was made for it."
He turned back to the brazier. "Fire is visible, yet untouchable. Beyond the warmth, I feel almost nothing from it."
"I have read of the pyromancers in the Shadow Lands," Helaena said softly, her curiosity piqued. "Books say they can bind the flame to their will, using it as a spear against their enemies."
"Asshai and the Shadow Lands are places of dark whispers," Aegon agreed. "Blood magic, shadow-binding... they say the true secrets of dragon-taming are still etched into the stones there. Whether it is truth or traveler's tales, I cannot say."
A sudden, heavy thudding at the door broke the mood. Only one person on the Stepstones possessed a knock that shook the hinges: Skaði.
Aemond hurried to the door and pulled it open. He took a sharp step back as the massive silhouette of the northern smith filled the frame. Under the moonlight, Skaði looked like a pillar of black iron, her arms cradling four cloth-wrapped bundles.
She offered a grim, struggling attempt at a smile—more of a baring of teeth—and stepped inside.
"I have finished, Your Highness," Skaði said, her voice heavy with fatigue and pride. She laid the bundles on the table. "The loss during the reforging was... significant. Valyrian steel is temperamental. I could not produce four greatswords."
Aegon stood, his interest sharp. "If they are smaller, so be it. Quality over mass."
The first was a hand-and-a-half sword with a hilt of spun gold. The blade rippled with the dark, smoky waves characteristic of the spell-forged steel. A dragon pattern was etched into the flat of the blade, and the pommel was shaped into the screaming head of Sunfyre.
"This," Skaði said, "is Golden Sun. A king's blade. Bold, radiant, and unyielding."
The second sword had a hilt of pale, polished silver and light blue leather. It was more slender, more elegant. Its pommel bore the likeness of Dreamfyre.
"This is Silver Moon. If Golden Sun is the King, Silver Moon is the Queen. It is a blade of nobility and quiet grace."
Daeron scrambled to the table, eyeing the last two blades—one hilted in dark blue, the other in obsidian black. "And mine? What is mine called?"
Skaði scratched her head, looking sheepish. "Forgive me, Prince Daeron. I have not named the others."
Daeron looked as though the world had ended. "Not named? But... but why?"
Aegon let out a hearty laugh, patting the boy's cheek. "Aemond's is unnamed as well. Name them yourselves! You hold Valyrian steel in your hands, brother. Until now, our House held only Blackfyre and Dark Sister. Now, we have our own legacy."
The sixth day of the seventh moon, 120 AC.
The waters around Dragonstone were choked with merchant sails. Word of Aegon's massive gold contracts had drawn the traders of the Narrow Sea like sharks to a bloodied whale. Only the sight of five dragons circling the peaks kept them from swarming the docks prematurely.
Down at the docks, Aegon adjusted the straps on Hugh's new Valyrian steel-trimmed plate.
"Give the Tyroshi a memory that will burn for a thousand years," Aegon commanded. "Win this glory, Hugh, and I will have the mandate I need for the military reforms. You will be more than a commander; you will be the Grand Councillor of the Realm."
Hugh hammered a fist against his chest. "I will not fail you, Your Highness. By my life and the dragon's breath."
"Good. I await the song of your victory."
Aegon turned to Kraken, Loren, and Alec. "The Stepstones are in your hands. If the wind turns foul, speak to Sunfyre. Where he flies, I rule."
With a final nod, Aegon boarded the flagship with Helaena and his brothers. A great horn blast echoed off the cliffs. Fifty ships began to move, five dragons roaring in a discordant, terrifying chorus above them.
As night fell, the fleet reached the split. A muffled horn signaled the separation.
Twenty warships and ten merchant cogs turned south, disappearing into the dark toward Tyrosh. Aegon stood on the deck of the northern-bound fleet, watching Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Tessarion bank toward the stars.
Beside him, Helaena looked radiant in a gown of pale blue, her silver hair whipping in the spray. She was smiling—a genuine, soft expression that she usually reserved for her insects.
"What is so funny, sister?" Aegon teased.
Helaena startled, a deep blush creeping up her neck. "I... I wasn't smiling."
Aegon laughed, sweeping her up into his arms and spinning her around. "The Moon of my life is turning as red as a summer apple, yet she claims she does not smile?"
Helaena hid her face in his chest, playing dead as he laughed. Their moment of peace was shattered by a loud thwack from the cabin.
The door burst open as Daeron and Aemond spilled out, wooden swords clattering.
"Yield, brother!" Daeron crowed, dancing out of reach. "When I am named Prince of Lys, I shall build a statue of you just so people can see the man I defeated!"
Aemond's eyes flashed with a calculated cunning. He had learned well under Aegon's tutelage. He feigned a reckless, wild swing, drawing Daeron into a lunging attack. The moment the younger boy committed, Aemond caught the blade with a parry, twisted his wrist, and sent Daeron's sword spinning into the sea.
Daeron's face went white. He tried to dive behind Helaena's skirts, but Aemond was faster. He snatched the boy by the scruff of his neck.
Smack! The wooden sword landed squarely on Daeron's backside.
"Sister! Save me!" Daeron wailed.
But Helaena only laughed harder, leaning into Aegon's side. Finding no mercy from his sister or his King, Daeron looked at Aemond's predatory grin and let out a theatrical, echoing sob of defeat.
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