( A/N: I had to repeat this chapter a few times to hit the word count needed for ranking eligibility 😭, so as an apology, I'm dropping two full chapters today! Enjoy the double upload! )
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"Hiss!"
The air split with a crackling roar as Sunfyre descended upon the fishing village, his golden scales catching the sunlight like molten metal. The wind of his wings scattered nets, overturned baskets, and sent gulls shrieking into the air.
When the dragon landed, his claws sank deep into the sand. The villagers fell to their knees at once, some praying, some frozen in fear.
Upon the dragon's back sat Prince Aegon Targaryen, his silver-gold hair whipping about in the sea breeze, violet eyes gleaming with something sharp and restless.
"Who among you knows a blacksmith named Hugh, a bastard?" His young voice cut across the chaos, calm and cold.
An old man, bent with age and trembling in his tattered cloak, stepped forward. "I–I know him, my prince."
Aegon reached into his tunic and flicked a gold dragon at the man. The coin spun once in the air before the old man caught it clumsily.
"Is he the only Hugh here?" Aegon asked.
"Yes, Your Highness," the man replied, his voice cracking.
"Good." Aegon's tone was final. "Tell him to come to me at Stone Drum Tower. When he arrives, tell the guards the prince himself summoned him."
And with that, Aegon gave a soft command in High Valyrian.
"Soves."
Sunfyre's wings opened like great sails of gold.
A moment later, he rose into the sky, leaving the villagers staring after him, awestruck and silent, the wind of his departure whipping through their hair.
Back at Dragonstone, Aegon did not send Sunfyre to the Dragonpit. Instead, the dragon coiled before the entrance of the Stone Drum Tower, his heat radiating against the black walls, his eyes half-lidded like those of a sleeping god.
"Prince," said a guard, bowing low.
"A blacksmith named Hugh will come soon," Aegon said, brushing the dust from his cloak. "Bring him straight to me."
"As you command."
The Stone Drum Tower loomed over them, the ancient heart of Dragonstone, its walls black and rippling like cooled obsidian. When storms rolled in from the sea, thunder echoed through its hollow belly, making the tower seem to groan like a living beast.
Built in the age of dragons by Valyrian hands, Dragonstone's every arch and hallway whispered of that lost civilization. Dragons adorned every corner: stone wings framed doors, carved tails formed arches, and torch brackets were shaped like grasping claws. The place reeked of power, old, heavy, and inescapable.
Hugh, meanwhile, was at home in the lower village, packing tools into a worn leather satchel. His wife, round-bellied and six months pregnant, sat nearby, mending a shirt. The sea wind crept through the cracks in their cottage walls, carrying the faint echo of a dragon's roar.
When the old fisherman arrived breathless, clutching the gold coin, Hugh's heart nearly stopped.
"The Prince wants you," the man said. "Stone Drum Tower. Now."
Hugh froze. The words made no sense. The Prince wants me?
Moments later, he was trudging up the long road to the castle, heart hammering. Every step felt heavier than the last. What could a prince want with a poor blacksmith?
By the time he reached the gates of the Stone Drum Tower, the guards were already waiting. They said nothing as they led him inside, only nodded grimly, the sound of their armor echoing down the halls.
At the top of the tower lay the Map Room, a circular chamber lit by the sea's pale light streaming through four narrow windows.
A vast wooden table dominated the room, carved in the shape of Westeros, mountains, rivers, and castles rendered in perfect detail.
It was here that Aegon the Conqueror had once planned his wars, and here that his descendant now sat, legs crossed, drumming his fingers on the carved representation of the Vale.
When Hugh entered, the young prince looked up.
He was smaller than Hugh expected, still boyish, perhaps seven or eight years old, yet there was nothing childish in his gaze. His eyes burned with a sharp curiosity that made the blacksmith feel as though his very soul were being measured.
"I heard," Aegon began, "that you can bend iron bars with your bare hands."
Hugh blinked. Bend iron? He almost laughed, but the prince's stare made the words die in his throat.
"I… I've never tried, Your Highness," Hugh said honestly.
Aegon tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "So you might, or you might not. Interesting."
He leaned back in his chair. "A merchant told me about you, said you were strong, honest, and simple. A man of good character."
Hugh frowned slightly. "I thank you, Your Highness, though I know not what I've done to earn such words."
Aegon ignored the comment, studying him with the detached fascination of someone examining a fine horse. "Tell me," he said at last, "you have a wife, don't you?"
"Yes, my prince. She's expecting soon."
Aegon's smile widened, though his eyes did not soften. "Good. That means you have something to fight for."
Hugh hesitated, unease creeping into his chest. "Your Highness, if I may… my wife is waiting for me. I don't know why I've been called, but if it's something I can do, I'll give it my all."
His voice cracked slightly, and Aegon noticed. He could feel the man's fear, fear not for himself, but for the woman waiting at home.
That, Aegon thought, made him perfect.
"Bring me an iron bar," the prince ordered.
A guard stepped forward, returning moments later with a rod as thick as a finger.
Aegon held it out to the blacksmith. "Try. Bend it if you can."
Hugh looked at the metal, then at the prince. He swallowed. "And if I can't?"
Aegon's tone was smooth as silk. "Then you can't. But if you can…" He smiled faintly. "It may change your life. For you, and your unborn child."
Something in his voice made the room feel colder.
Hugh took the iron bar.
His hands closed around it, veins standing out along his arms. His breath came heavy as he strained, the sound of metal groaning filling the air.
The guards watched in astonishment. Hugh's face turned red, muscles bulging, tendons shifting beneath his skin. And then-
Clangggg.
The iron bent.
It wasn't perfect, but it bent, enough to make Aegon's eyes gleam with triumph.
He began to clap. "Good. Good!" he said, genuinely delighted.
The sound echoed across the Map Table, the carved kingdoms of Westeros seeming to vibrate under his palms.
Hugh let the bent rod drop to the floor, chest heaving. Sweat beaded down his brow.
Aegon rose from his chair and stepped closer, his boots clicking against the wood.
"Tell me, Hugh," he said softly, "would you serve me?"
The blacksmith blinked, unsure if he'd heard correctly.
"Serve you, Your Highness?"
"Yes." Aegon's tone left no room for doubt. "Be my guard. My shield. When your child is born, boy or girl, they will serve as my attendant. And if you perform well…"
He gestured across the carved table, to the mountains, rivers, and cities of Westeros.
"…land, titles, even a castle could be yours. All within reach."
Hugh's mouth went dry. His mind raced with thoughts of his wife, their unborn child, the future he'd dreamed of but never dared to chase.
Could it be true? Or was this some cruel game of princes and bastards?
Yet when he looked into Aegon's violet eyes, cold and alight with ambition, he saw not a child, but a dragon wearing human skin.
And he understood, at last, that whether he wanted it or not, his life had already changed.
And he dropped to one knee.