84 AC, Dragonstone The storm that night was the most violent Dragonstone had seen in nearly a decade.
The tide lashed against the volcanic rock foundations, the waves shattering into white foam and quickly whipped into ice crystals by the cold wind.
The windows of Dragonstone Castle rattled loudly, and even the dragon-shaped weather vane on the tower emitted a low screech in the gale—like a young dragon’s first cry in its mother’s womb.
Alyssa Targaryen went into labor amidst that gust of wind.
This was already her third confinement.
In 77 AC, she gave birth to Viserys, a healthy and quiet boy; in 81 AC, she gave birth to Daemon, a child whose cries shook the skies the moment he entered the world.
Every time had been like a battle, and this time, her body had clearly reached its limit.
The maester said she needed a longer recuperation than the previous two times, but the child in her womb could not wait that long.
Baelon Targaryen kept watch by his wife’s bedside, one hand gripping her icy fingers.
In his other hand, he held a letter sent by Queen Alysanne from King’s Landing—stating that she had already set out with a maester and a midwife, but the storm had halted the ships.
The sea between Dragonstone and King’s Landing was in a rage.
“Hold on,” Baelon said in a low voice, “The Queen Mother will be here soon.” Alyssa opened her eyes.
Her gaze was clear, even brighter than usual.
She looked at her husband, her lips moving, her voice barely audible: “The child… is a boy.” Baelon was stunned for a moment: “How do you know?” Alyssa did not answer the question.
Her hand pressed against her abdomen, and the expression on her face was complex—there was fatigue, pain, and a sort of indescribable relief.
“I dreamed of him,” she said.
“He was riding a golden dragon, flying above the clouds.
When the dragon’s wings spread… they blocked out the sun.” Baelon’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second: “Alyssa—” “Listen to me,” Alyssa interrupted.
Her voice was fractured by contractions, but every word was as clear as if carved in stone.
“Viserys is a good heir.
Daemon is a good warrior.
But this child… he is something else.
When I dreamed of him, there was no Iron Throne by his side, no crown, only a… castle.” “What castle?” “I don’t know.
It’s huge, very dark, with many towers.
I couldn’t see clearly.” Cold sweat beaded on Alyssa’s forehead, and her voice grew weaker and weaker.
“But after I woke up… I felt he didn’t need the Iron Throne.
He has his own path.” A new wave of contractions tore apart her voice.
Baelon gripped her hand tighter, turned his head toward the maester outside the door, and shouted: “Come in!” The maester stumbled inside, his silver chain swaying under the dim candlelight.
He lifted the sheet and took a look, his expression changing drastically—blood had soaked through the mattress, spreading like a dark red tide that could neither be stopped nor held back.
He turned his head and exchanged a fleeting glance with the midwife beside him.
Baelon caught that look.
“Do your best,” he said.
“By whatever means, do your best.” The maester fell to his knees: “Your Grace… we must choose.” Without waiting for her husband to answer, Alyssa had already seized the midwife’s wrist tightly, almost digging into her flesh: “Save the child.
Save my third son.” “Alyssa—” “Save him,” she stared into the midwife’s eyes, speaking word by word.
“Bring my son out.
I want to hear him cry.” The midwife’s hands were shaking, but her movements were swift.
Baelon was pushed back two steps, only having time to catch a flash of a blade—and then came a cry.
A sharp, resonant cry brimming with infinite vitality, like a newly born soul proclaiming its existence.
The blood surged even faster.
Alyssa collapsed against the pillows, the color completely drained from her face, yet her eyes remained open.
She saw the tiny, crimson body in the midwife’s arms, saw the child’s clenched fists, saw that wrinkled little face—the exact same little face from her dream.
“Silver…” she whispered.
“My son, his hair is silver.” Then her gaze drifted past the child, falling upon the cradle in the corner of the room.
The silver-white and gold dragon egg was emitting a pulsating light—light seeping out from its cracks, like magma from deep within a crater about to surge forth.
“Vhagar’s egg…” she smiled.
“It has chosen him too.” Her voice gradually faded into the infant’s crying.
In the cradle, a hatchling burst forth from its shell, its scales shimmering with intertwined gold and silver under the candlelight, a pair of moist draconic eyes opening through a film of tears.
It looked at the crying infant, emitting a tiny, trembling chirp.
In Alyssa’s final consciousness, she heard two sounds simultaneously—her son’s cry, and the dragon’s first call.
She smiled.
Then her eyes closed.
When the infant Aegon was washed by the midwife, wrapped in silk swaddling clothes, and placed into the cradle, the words he had just heard were still echoing in his mind.
Save the child.
Save my third son.
That was the voice of this body’s mother.
She had given up herself in exchange for him to live.
Before he even had time to see her face clearly, she was already gone.
His eyes were wide open—he saw the ceiling carved with curving Valyrian glyphs, saw the fire dancing in the fireplace, and saw the small golden dragon in the adjacent cradle clumsily crawling out of the broken eggshells, then raising its wet head to look at him.
He began to cry.
Not because he wanted to, but because his body could not yet control its vocal cords.
The moment he let out his first cry, the candles throughout the room surged to three times their size simultaneously—the flames leaped from the wicks, almost licking the ceiling.
Copper basins, silver ewers, scissors, medicine bottles—all metallic objects floated into mid-air at the exact same instant, as if grabbed by the neck and lifted by an invisible hand.
The wet nurse shrieked and backed away, the maester’s chain rattled as it flew toward the ceiling, and even the heavy wooden chair left the floor by an inch, rocking as though it would smash into the wall.
When Baelon rushed in, this was the sight that met his eyes.
His son lay in the cradle, his little face flushed red, his lips trembling as he wailed; and everything within three zhang around the cradle—except for the golden cradle itself—was floating in the air, slowly rotating.
Those objects did not smash down.
They merely floated, as if supported by some force.
Baelon did not step back.
He strode over to the cradle and scooped the infant up into his arms.
The moment the crying child entered his embrace, those suspended objects fell to the ground in a clutter like marionettes that had lost their support.
The thunderous crash of the copper basin hitting the floor tiles echoed throughout the entire room.
The infant was still crying.
But within those violet eyes, something was rapidly condensing—an effort of will, exhausting every ounce of strength to pull itself together, completely unbefitting an infant.
Baelon looked down at his son in his arms, watching the chaos within those eyes settle away bit by bit.
He suddenly recalled Alyssa’s words: this child is something else.
He hugged the infant a little tighter, his voice low and steady: “I am here.
It’s alright.” The infant’s crying gradually subsided.
He buried his face against his father’s chest, sobbing, but crying no more.
The magic receded.
Those floating objects dropped back to their places, and the flames shrank back to the height of the wicks.
The entire room grew as quiet as if nothing had happened.
Only the small golden dragon in the cradle let out a soft chirp—weak and probing, as if asking: Are you okay?
Baelon held the infant and stood in the room for a long time.
He looked down at that little face—wet, wrinkled, and tear-stained, but those violet eyes no longer held the panic of moments ago.
That sense of willpower, gathered with desperate effort, now lay quietly in his arms, like a sword that had just been drawn from its scabbard and promptly sheathed again.
He did not ask “Who are you.” This was his son; he had watched with his own eyes as the midwife scooped him from Alyssa’s womb.
He merely felt… there was something indescribable about this child.
Alyssa’s dream, the premature hatching of the dragon egg, the storm that had made the entire room float just now—these things combined made it impossible for him to view this infant as an ordinary baby.
He placed the infant back into the cradle and sat down by the bedside.
The maester and wet nurses tidied up the mess on the floor, no one daring to speak.
The storm still roared outside the window, raindrops lashing against the stone panes.
The small golden dragon in the cradle struggled and crawled to the infant’s pillow, curling itself into a golden ball with its head resting beside the infant’s pinky finger.
Baelon watched this scene in silence for a long time.
He reached out and gently touched the infant’s cheek; when his fingertips brushed that soft skin, he felt a very light, almost imperceptible warmth—as if something was slightly surging beneath the child’s skin, like embers buried beneath ashes, not yet extinguished, nor blazing, merely waiting quietly.
He withdrew his hand and whispered a single sentence: “Your mother said you flew across the clouds riding a golden dragon.
I’ll be waiting to see it.” Then he stood up and walked toward the door.
When he reached the door, he paused for a moment, turned his head sideways to glance at the infant in the cradle who had already closed his eyes and the small golden dragon curled up beside his pillow.
“Aegon.” He recited the name once, then pushed open the door and walked out.
That night, no one ever mentioned that magical surge again.
The maesters kept silent under Baelon’s gaze, the wet-nurse cleaned up the shards of porcelain and copper scattered across the floor, replaced the candles with new ones, and straightened the tipped medicine bottles.
The night on Dragonstone was long and quiet, and the residual heat of the volcano was transmitted through the underground to the foundations of the ancient castle, filling all the stone walls with a hint of warmth.
The infant Aegon lay in the cradle, his eyes open quietly, digesting everything that had happened today.
He had spent the entire afternoon trying to understand his situation.
He was no longer that person.
That young man in a rented apartment in Shenzhen who ate takeout, binged TV shows, and complained about having to work overtime the next day, that ordinary person who died in an accidental fall—he was already dead.
He was now a Targaryen.
The third prince of Dragonstone.
A newly born infant.
He felt that surging, indescribable thing within his body.
Magic.
He had read about it countless times in the movies and novels of that world—Harry Potter raising his wand and saying “Expelliarmus,” Hermione waving her magic wand to light up Lumos, Dumbledore chanting complex spells to fight Voldemort.
Those stories used to be the most familiar pastime of his youth; he had followed the movies, read the original books, and discussed countless times online whether Snape was a good person.
Now that magical power truly existed in his blood vessels, like a snake just waking up from hibernation, moving slowly and searching for an exit.
It was quieter than before.
He spent some time repeatedly focusing his attention on his breathing—simply observing the surging thing within his body, perceiving it, acknowledging its existence, and then saying to himself: “I know you are here.
It is not yet time to use you.
Calm down.” To his surprise, that restlessness truly receded slowly.
It was not suppressed, nor did it use any special methods—it simply heard his voice, like a dog whose name had been called, lying down quietly and waiting for further instructions.
He turned his head to look at the small golden dragon beside his pillow.
It was staring at him with a pair of round, golden slit pupils, tilting its head curiously, its small dragon mouth slightly open, exhaling a wisp of warm vapor.
“Sunfyre.” He softly recited the name.
He did not know why he had chosen this name.
Perhaps it was what the mother said before she passed away—a golden dragon flying above the clouds—that made him think of the light piercing through the clouds.
Perhaps it was simply because he needed a name to confirm that they belonged to each other.
The small golden dragon let out a low, satisfied purr, as if it understood his choice.
He closed his eyes.
In his dream, he entered a castle.
He stood before a massive oak door, and from the cracks in the door overflowed a scent that made him pause for a moment before remembering it—old books, candles, dust.
He pushed open the door and saw candles floating in mid-air arrayed like a river of stars, illuminating four long tables, with a vaulted ceiling rolling with clouds and starlight.
He stood in a daze for a long while before snapping back to reality: Hogwarts.
He stood in a daze for a while longer before starting to think: “Hogwarts is in my head?” In the Harry Potter world, it was fictional; it was a novel, a movie.
He couldn’t remember when he had finished watching the last episode, and he might or might not have watched it a second time—but he remembered the appearance of this castle, remembered every corner of it, and remembered what kind of place it was.
He stood in the Great Hall, feeling that this was probably the first not-so-terrible thing after his transmigration.
He had a magical castle in his head; although he couldn’t figure out why for the time being, at least he knew how to use this thing.
“…Is anyone there?” he tentatively shouted.
A low, pattering sound of footsteps came from afar.
He looked down and saw a House-elf standing a few paces away from him.
It was wearing a faded old pillowcase and had two large bat-like ears, looking at him with a gaze that was both respectful and cautious.
“Hello.” The House-elf bowed, without stating its name or saying “We have been waiting for you for a long time”—it simply bowed quietly, then straightened up and stood there, as if it knew he would come.
“This castle…” Aegon began.
“It is yours, sir,” the House-elf said, “It came into this world with you when you were born.
Everything in the castle—books, herbs, brewed potions, creatures in the Forbidden Forest—all came with it.
Except for people.” Aegon digested this sentence.
He had a complete Hogwarts castle in his head, including all its inventory and all its creatures.
This sounded like some sort of cheat.
But the thing he needed to confirm most right now was: “Is the library still there?” The House-elf nodded and turned to make an inviting gesture.
Aegon followed it through the corridors, up the stairs, and pushed open a massive oak door.
The world behind the door made him forget to breathe for a moment—thousands of books were lined up on tall bookshelves extending from the floor to the ceiling, some of which even had small sliding ladders attached.
Light spilled through the high windows onto the spines of the books, and the gold and silver letters on those spines flickered slightly in the dimness, like a sleeping mine of knowledge beckoning to him.
He walked in and casually pulled one out.
“The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.” The cover was still very new, and the flyleaf bore the watermark of “Flourish and Blotts.” He flipped through a few pages and pulled out another one.
“A History of Magic.” Another one.
“Magical Herbs and Their Uses.” Yet another.
“Quidditch Through the Ages.” He closed the book, leaned against the bookshelf, and let out a long breath.
These books were real.
He could touch their thickness, smell their scent, and feel the texture of the pages.
And he—a modern person who transmigrated into House Targaryen, carrying a head full of memories of medieval political drama series and a library of a magic school—now possessed the right to use these things.
He turned around and asked the House-elf: “What is your name?” “Toby, sir.” “Toby, can I borrow all these books?” Toby blinked his green eyes: “They are already yours, sir.” Aegon nodded, pulled out a copy of “Introduction to Transfiguration” from the bookshelf, and held it in his arms.
He did not know how long he could stay in this dream, but he intended to treat this library as his second home from now on.
When he woke up from the dream, the morning light was already shining on the windowsill of Dragonstone.
The storm had passed.
The sky was a clear grayish blue, and the distant sea was as calm as a giant mirror.
Sunfyre was lying beside his pillow; the small golden dragon was no longer curled up, but stretching its neck and curiously observing the seagulls flying outside the window.
Seeing him open his eyes, it let out a small, cheerful chirp, then lowered its head and rubbed against his cheek with its warm snout.
Aegon lay in the cradle, feeling the magic inside his body—it was still there, quiet and still, like the first page of a book waiting for him to open.
He silently recited in his heart those few simple spell syllables he had learned in the dream last night; although his body could not yet voice them out, he had already memorized them in his mind.
The door was pushed open.
Baelon Targaryen walked in.
His father had changed into a clean black outer robe, his silver-gold hair was neatly combed, but the exhaustion at the bottom of his eyes remained.
Baelon walked up to the cradle and looked down at his third son.
Aegon lay flat on his back, quietly looking back at him.
In those violet eyes, there was no crying, no discomfort, only a too-quiet observation that made Baelon feel unfamiliar—like looking at a person rather than feeling a father.
Baelon was silent for a moment, then reached out, his fingertips gently touching the infant’s cheek.
His movements were very light, as if confirming something: “Your mother said you would fly across the clouds on a golden dragon.” After finishing these words, he did not wait for any response.
He stood for a moment, then turned and left the room.
Aegon looked at his father’s back and softly said in his heart: “I will.” He turned his head to look at Sunfyre.
The small golden dragon was staring at him with a pair of round golden slit pupils, tilting its head curiously.
In his mind, he opened the first page of “Introduction to Transfiguration”.
He began to recite those spells, practicing those complex syllables with silent ventriloquism—his vocal cords could not yet utter complete words, but he could repeatedly rehearse them in his mind.
He had thought about it: once he grew a bit older and could speak, his first goal would be to reproduce all those most practical spells in reality.
Sunfyre yawned, revealing a mouthful of tiny milk teeth, and then curled back up into a golden ball, falling fast asleep.
Aegon lay in the cradle and began to recite the second spell.
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