Aegon's eyes narrowed slightly, as though he had already guessed the heart of his father's fear.
"I've already set Ser Arryk to make the arrangements," he said evenly. "You may speak with him if you wish. I'll go only to Dragonstone, nowhere else."
He stepped closer to the great model of Old Valyria sprawled across the table, its towers and bridges a labyrinth of pale stone. Reaching out, Aegon pinched one of the slender spires between his fingers.
"If you forbid me," he said, half-smiling, "I'll start pulling down towers."
Viserys's eye twitched. The boy dares threaten me… at seven years old! Once, he would never have dreamed of speaking so to his own father. But Aegon, this strange, sharp, willful son, was of another temper altogether.
"Very well," Viserys said at last, exhaling sharply. "Go, then. But listen well, boy, only to Dragonstone. You are not to ride north again."
Aegon hid a curl of amusement. Still haunted by the Wall, are you, Father?
He knew well what troubled the King... that ancient dream of darkness beyond the Wall, the shadow of the Night King that lingered in royal memory like a curse.
"I understand," he said lightly, turning to leave. "I'll be gone before sunset."
He did not wait for his father's reply.
*
Aemond was waiting in the corridor, his little hands fidgeting with the edge of his tunic. Aegon gave him a knowing glance, then turned toward Helaena, who sat cross-legged on the floor, playing quietly with a pale green beetle.
"Helaena," Aegon said softly, "if Mother asks, tell her I've taken Aemond out to play. All right?"
The girl nodded absently, eyes still on her insect. "All right, Brother."
With that settled, Aegon clasped Aemond's small hand and led him out into the sunlit courtyard, toward the looming shadow of the Dragonpit.
The air was heavy with heat and the faint, acrid scent of brimstone. Chains clinked softly in the dark as the dragons stirred.
Aemond trailed close beside his brother, his face pale but resolute.
Aegon reached over and tousled his hair."What's got you so quiet? If you're frightened, you can wait another year or two. You're not even five yet, plenty of time to claim a dragon."
Aemond bit his lip. "Brother… that she-dragon you spoke of, she truly is gentle?"
Aegon tilted his head in thought. Silverwing, the great she-dragon once ridden by Queen Alysanne, was indeed known for her mild nature.
If even that drunken fool Ulf could win her favor, Aegon thought, then my brother, with Targaryen blood pure as flame, has nothing to fear.
Still, he would not take chances. I'll test her first. Better scorched myself than see him burned to ash.
"Don't worry," he said aloud. "I'll try her temper first. You'll watch from a distance and decide for yourself."
Aemond nodded silently.
At Aegon's summons, a low rumble echoed through the pit. From the shadows, a vast golden form unfurled, scales glimmering like molten metal beneath the torchlight.
Sunfyre, the Golden emerged, his wings half-spread, eyes gleaming with living fire.
He was a magnificent young male, born of Dragonmont's fires and bonded to Aegon in his youth. Once, Aegon had sought Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, second only to mighty Vhagar — but fate had other designs.
He had found Sunfyre instead. Or perhaps it was Sunfyre who had found him.
There had been no need for command or ritual. The young dragon had simply lowered his head, eyes shining with fierce recognition. From that moment, they had belonged to each other.
Archmaester Gyldayn would one day write that Sunfyre was the most splendid dragon ever seen in Westeros, golden as the dawn, terrible as the sun itself.
Aegon reached up to stroke the smooth ridge of his dragon's snout. Sunfyre crooned softly, his breath hot and heavy in the air.
A Dragonkeeper approached, bowing low. "Your Grace, forgive me, but there is something you should know."
"Speak," Aegon said, not turning. His hand moved slowly across Sunfyre's warm scales.
The keeper hesitated, glancing at the golden beast before answering. "It's about Sunfyre, my prince. His condition has been… strange."
Aegon raised a brow. "Strange? He looks as charming as ever."
The keeper blinked. "Charming… yes, if you say so, my prince."
He swallowed, then continued carefully, "Have you compared him to Syrax or Seasmoke of late?"
Aegon frowned slightly. Sunfyre, Syrax, and Seasmoke were all of one generation, born within the same handful of years around the Hundredth of the Conquest. He had not thought to measure them against each other.
"What of it? Speak plainly," he said in pure Valyrian, his tone cooling.
"Since you tamed him," the keeper said, "Sunfyre's growth has accelerated greatly. He is now twice the size of Syrax, and growing still. Worse, he's grown restless, even violent. He strains at his chains, thrashes against the pit walls. It takes three handlers now to calm him."
The man's voice trembled with both awe and fear.
Aegon's expression hardened. Without a word, he closed his eyes and reached inward, into that secret bond only he possessed.
He had discovered the gift by chance, a year past, not sorcery, not prophecy, but something between them. Through sheer force of will, he could touch the edge of Sunfyre's mind. In the old tongues, such people were called wargs or skin-changers. The maesters scoffed at the notion, but Aegon knew the truth.
He entered the dragon's consciousness, a rush of heat and wind, the scent of ash and molten stone filling his senses.
My beautiful Sunfyre… show me.
He felt the dragon's pulse, the thrum of its heart, the restless ache in its wings. All seemed normal, until a sudden tremor shuddered through the link.
A thought... vast, clumsy, yet unmistakably alive, rippled through his mind.
No more chains. Want sky. Want freedom.
Aegon's eyes snapped open. Sunfyre had never before spoken, not in thoughts, not in feelings so clear. It was as if some deeper spark within the dragon had awakened.
"You're restless because of the pit?" he murmured softly. "Is that it, my friend? Do you hurt? Do you feel ill?"
No hurt. Hate dark. Want to fly.
The words echoed through him, half-feeling, half-thought. And with them came understanding.
Aegon drew a slow breath. The lore of House Targaryen whispered in his mind... how the dragons of old, once mighty as gods, had grown small and stunted when caged in the Dragonpit.
It was said that no dragon bred beneath its vaulted dome had ever reached the size of Vhagar, or Meraxes, or the Black Dread himself.
Perhaps the dragons had not merely grown smaller. Perhaps they had grown weary of their captivity.
And Sunfyre, proud and golden, would not be tamed by stone walls forever.
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