The funeral of Alyssa Targaryen was held on the third day after the storm.
The sky over Dragonstone was a leaden gray, the clouds hung very low, and the sea was as calm as a worn silver mirror.
Aegon was wrapped by his wet-nurse in thick woolen swaddling clothes and carried out, with an extra layer of a black cloak added on the outside, wrapped tightly from head to toe.
He only revealed a tiny, pale face, his two violet eyes gazing at the gray sky overhead.
He was too small to actually see anything clearly, but he heard it—a low chanting in the wind, ancient eulogies in Valyria, their syllables harsh and lingering, like stones rubbing against stones.
He saw Baelon standing at the very front, wearing a black robe, his silver-gold hair streaming backward in the wind.
His right hand pressed against his chest—the gesture a dragonrider used to issue commands to his dragon.
Vhagar stood on a high platform on one side of the courtyard, her massive black body resembling a hill, her golden vertical pupils lowered, gazing at Alyssa wrapped in white silk upon the pyre.
The dragon made no sound, merely standing quietly like a black sculpture.
Viserys stood beside his father, his small face tightly drawn, not crying, but his shoulders trembling slightly.
Daemon was held in the wet-nurse’s arms; he was still too small and did not understand what was happening, blankly watching the tall stack of firewood in front of him.
The Valyria eulogy was finished.
Baelon lifted his hand from his chest and raised it forward slightly—a concise and heavy command.
Vhagar lowered her head, her golden vertical pupils taking one last look at the silk-wrapped figure on the pyre.
Then she opened her mouth.
The moment the dragonflame surged out, Aegon felt a wave of heat wash over him, as if he had been suddenly shoved into an oven in the dead of winter.
He did not dodge.
Keeping his eyes wide open, he watched his mother’s remains grow brighter, thinner, and turn into a golden outline in the flames, before turning to ashes and being swept into the sky by the wind.
Vhagar’s flames carried a deep, almost weighty green, falling upon the pyre like flowing lava.
The entire process lasted for a while.
When the last trace of flame was extinguished, Baelon stepped forward, personally picking up some tiny white fragments from the ashes and placing them into a stone urn within the House Targaryen crypts on Dragonstone.
No one wept.
Those Valyria eulogies rang out once more, low and solemn, like the earth breathing.
When Aegon was carried back to the castle, there were no tears on that little face.
He had witnessed the most naked death ritual in a medieval kingdom—consumed by dragonfire, ashes returned to an urn, leaving no tombstone.
House Targaryen did not bury their dead; they returned them.
That night he lay in his cradle, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Sunfyre lay beside his pillow, gently rubbing his forehead with a warm snout.
He reached out, grasped one of the little golden dragon’s claws, and remained silent for a long time.
After that night, life on Dragonstone returned to a superficial peace.
But Aegon knew—everyone carried that kind of peace.
Baelon was more silent than before, Viserys smiled rarely, and Daemon was still his old self, but his overly exuberant energy made everyone lack the heart to be angry with him.
They were digesting the same thing in their own ways: Alyssa was gone.
— The first month Aegon Targaryen spent on Dragonstone was long and quiet.
His body was still too small, unable to move or speak, and for most of every day he could only lie in his cradle.
In the early morning, he was picked up by the wet-nurse to be fed, then changed, burped, and placed back in the cradle to stare blankly at the ceiling, waiting to be picked up again for the next feeding.
This process repeated four or five times a day, and the only scenery was the light filtering through that narrow window—changing from gray-blue to gold, then from gold to deep purple, and finally merging into night.
But he was not bored.
Every night, when he closed his eyes and drifted into dreamland, the gates of Hogwarts would open wide for him.
He had already confirmed that it truly was not an ordinary dream.
In his dream, he could smell scents, feel temperatures, and touch the texture of book pages, clearly remembering every detail upon waking.
He had secretly tested it a few times in his mind—intentionally observing the position of a fallen leaf on the windowsill before sleep, then remembering the grain of a certain floor tile in the Hogwarts corridor within the dream, and after waking up, comparing it with the memory in reality; both were equally clear and verifiable.
He confirmed one thing in his heart: that castle was real, and his consciousness entered an independent space every night, and everything within that space—books, magic, creatures—was waiting for him to utilize.
In the first week, he found the location of the library.
He spent three nights confirming all the library entrances, from the large reading room on the side of the first-floor lobby to the iron gate of the Restricted Section on the top floor, drawing a mental route map and memorizing the direction of each door and the number of steps.
In the second week, he figured out the layout of the castle.
He walked the eight-story spiral staircase, crossed the stone bridges connecting the towers, and discovered that the castle’s structure was more complex than what he had seen in the movies—some corridors were not in the same place during the day and at night, and a few doors only appeared at specific times.
In the third week, he finally started reading.
When he opened the first page of “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1”, he couldn’t help but smile slightly.
He was far too familiar with this book—scenes he had seen countless times in the movies, Harry squatting in the library chewing over this book, Hermione having already finished reading the entire volume on the Hogwarts Express.
Now it was his turn, a transmuted soul with an adult consciousness, starting over from scratch with the wand-waving movements of the “Levitation Charm”.
“Wingardium Leviosa…” He gripped his wand in the dream—that white wooden stick he later dug out from a drawer in the headmaster’s office—and whispered softly toward a feather on the hall table.
The feather wobbled and drifted upward.
It hovered about an inch above the desktop, stayed for two or three seconds, and then slowly drifted back down to its original place.
He froze for a moment, then rearranged the feather and tried again.
This time it was two inches higher.
Toby stood a few steps away, looking at him with a gaze of restrained approval.
This House-elf walked out from the kitchen on the very first night he entered the castle, stated his own name, and then quietly retreated to the side to await instructions.
He only said “Everything in the castle is yours”, and then returned to a state of being on duty.
Aegon was very satisfied with this style—no superfluous plot, no emotional debts, just a castle he happened to know and a cabinet of books he happened to know how to use.
“Sir, you succeeded on your very first wand-movement,” Toby said.
“That is the result of me practicing it a thousand times in my mind.” Aegon put down his wand, “The actual situation will be much worse.” “But you have done it.” Toby paused, “And…
you might not have noticed, but your magic output during spellcasting just now was extremely stable.
Most wizards casting spells for the first time in an adult physical state will experience obvious fluctuations in magic—sometimes strong, sometimes weak, or even interrupted.
But your magic was uniform from start to finish, as if measured by a ruler.
This kind of control is rare in beginners.” Aegon glanced at Toby: “Have you seen many beginners?” “When the castle was still in its original world, I saw every incoming class of first-years over sixty years,” Toby said, “There were those with great talent, those with no talent at all, and those who were very hardworking but could never find the trick.
But like you—first wand-movement, first incantation, with absolutely no prior training, yet your magic output was so steady—I have only ever seen one person.” “Dumbledore?” “Yes, sir,” Toby said, “Mr.
Dumbledore in his youth.
And your performance just now ties his record.” Aegon was silent for two seconds.
He wanted to say something polite, but in the end he just placed the feather back onto the desktop, gripped his wand tightly, and said “Practice once more”.
He didn’t know if he could really compare to Dumbledore, but at least for now, he had an entire library in his hands to prove this matter.
He practiced it dozens of times repeatedly, each time floating an inch higher and staying half a second longer than the last.
By the fortieth time, that feather was able to levitate half a meter above the desktop for ten seconds.
His wrists and shoulders began to ache, and the sense of magic at his fingertips was gradually fading—he knew this was the limit; continuing to practice would only lead to regression.
He withdrew his hand, leaned back against the chair, and caught his breath.
He put the wand on the table, closed his eyes and sat quietly for a while, then stood up and said to Toby: “Continue tomorrow.” He lived a life of inverted days and nights in his dreams.
By day, he was a true infant—wide-eyed as he looked at the stone patterns on the ceiling and the projections of candlelight on the walls, carried by the wet-nurse for walks around the castle, occasionally being picked up by Baelon and placed on his knee to listen to him handle Dragonstone’s affairs.
At night, he was the master of a magical castle, holding the Elder Wand as he flipped through books in the library, practicing spells in empty classrooms, and gazing out the headmaster office window at the magical starry sky where it never rained.
The speed of his learning was fast, so fast that even he himself was surprised.
By the end of the first month in the dream, he could already stably cast the Levitation Charm, the Unlocking Charm, and the Wand-Lighting Charm.
In the second month, he began contacting the basic theories of Transfiguration—not practical spellcasting, but understanding the core principles of Transfiguration: conservation of mass, boundary conditions for the conversion of material properties, and how to maintain the biological activity of objects during the transformation process.
Those contents were only touched upon lightly in “The Standard Book of Spells”, but he discovered several manuscripts deep in the library specifically discussing the underlying logic of Transfiguration, authored by a few names he completely did not recognize, their handwriting as neat as print.
He spent four nights chewing through those three manuscripts, and then on the night of the fifth day tried his first transformation—turning a feather into a matchstick.
The matchstick’s shape was wrong, its color leaned gray, and it wouldn’t catch fire.
But he had already caused a fundamental change in the structure of a substance.
He made a mental note: “My talent is stronger than I imagined.” He dared not say he was stronger than Dumbledore—that was too arrogant—but he could feel that his rate of progress was faster than any description in the original work he had read.
He didn’t need to practice dozens of times repeatedly to find the knack; he usually could find the right feeling after three to five tries, and then reproduce it the next time.
He began to suspect this might be related to the soul structure of a transmigrator—an adult’s focus and comprehension placed inside a toddler’s brain, where the neural pathways had not yet solidified and plasticity was extremely high.
Or perhaps the Targaryen bloodline itself carried a certain magical affinity.
He didn’t know the reason, but he did not waste it.
He practiced four to six hours every day in his dreams, and after waking up continued to review with his consciousness.
Although his body was sleeping, his brain never stopped.
What he learned in a month was more than the course load of an ordinary wizard in a year.
And he was only just beginning.
Sunfyre grew very fast.
In the first month after hatching, its scales had changed from a damp membrane to a hard, metallic luster, gold and silver patterns flowing under the candlelight, like fine lightning solidified across its spine.
Its wings were still developing; the wing membranes in the hatchling stage were thin and translucent like a wisp of thin silk, barely discernible in shape when folded against its sides.
By the second month, he was close to a meter long—from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail exceeded the length of the cradle, and the wet-nurse laid a thick soft cushion beside the cradle.
Sunfyre curled up and slept on that every night, resting its head on the edge of the cradle so that its warm breath could brush against Aegon’s fingertips.
Every night, Aegon would spend some time observing Sunfyre.
He could feel that there was an invisible thin thread between himself and Sunfyre, one end tethered to his chest and the other tied to the little golden dragon’s heart.
He could perceive its emotions: hunger, sleepiness, curiosity, boredom.
“You will grow very big.” He said to Sunfyre in his heart.
Sunfyre raised its head, looked at him for a moment with its golden vertical pupils, and then yawned.
Aegon understood the meaning of that expression: “I know, don’t rush.” — When he was two months old, Aegon was taken out of the nursery for the first time.
The wet-nurse carried him through the corridor.
He saw the rugged dragon carvings on the stone arches, those dragon heads protruding from both sides of the vault, holding unlit torches in their open mouths, their winding wings extending along the stone walls to both sides as if to protect the entire corridor beneath their shadows.
An old tapestry hung on the wall, embroidered with gold and deep crimson threads depicting a huge dragon coiled over a volcanic crater; the stitches had faded somewhat, but the dragon’s eyes were still clearly distinguishable.
He saw a boy.
About six or seven years old, with silver-gold hair, violet eyes, and wearing a dark blue doublet, sitting on the stone steps near the fireplace.
He did not squat down to play with fire or run around like children his age; he just sat there, hands resting on his knees, staring blankly at the flickering flames in the fireplace.
When the wet-nurse carrying Aegon approached, the boy did not turn his head immediately.
He paused for a moment before turning his profile to glance at the silk-swaddled infant in the wet-nurse’s arms.
His gaze lingered on that wrinkled little face for a brief moment—and then quickly shifted away.
“Is that the little brother Mother gave birth to?” he asked.
His voice was flat, not at all like what a six-year-old boy seeing his brother for the first time should sound like.
“Yes, Prince Viserys.” The wetnurse said, her voice also softening, “This is your third younger brother, Aegon.” Viserys stood up.
He had grown a bit taller and thinner than two months ago, and the curve of his cheeks was not as round as when they last saw him.
His eyes were still looking elsewhere, as if something was stuck in his throat, and he was hesitating whether to say it out loud.
“He…” Viserys began, then stopped.
He pressed his lips together before squeezing out the second half of the sentence: “Does he look like Mother?” The wetnurse did not answer immediately.
She held Aegon more steadily and said softly, “His hair is silver-gold, just like yours.
His eyes are purple.
He has a pair of eyes identical to yours.” Viserys finally turned his head and carefully looked at Aegon’s face.
Those violet eyes were covered with a thin layer of moisture at this moment—he did not cry out, but he gripped his cuffs tightly, his knuckles turning white.
He looked for a long time, so long that Aegon began to feel a subtle unease in his heart.
“Mother left right after giving birth to him,” Viserys said.
The sentence was short, without blame or complaint, just a statement.
Aegon understood the emotion within it: the child did not blame his younger brother, but he needed an explanation, a way to understand “why Mother is no longer here.” A six-year-old child, in medieval Westeros, was already old enough to understand what death meant.
He had seen dead fish and dead birds, and he knew that “disappearing” meant never coming back again.
The wetnurse squatted down, making her line of sight level with Viserys’s: “Prince, your mother—” “I know,” Viserys interrupted her, “the Maester said so.
She didn’t stop bleeding after giving birth.
It’s not Aegon’s fault.” After finishing these words, he glanced at the infant in the swaddling clothes again, and then softly added: “I just… I wanted to see what he looks like.
The next time I go to the sanctuary to see her ashes, I can tell her.” He pulled back his fingers, turned around, walked back to the stone steps by the fireplace, sat down again, and stared blankly at the flames.
Without looking back.
The wetnurse held Aegon and stood at the door for a while, then softly said “We will take good care of him,” and stepped out.
When Aegon was carried away, he memorized this scene in his heart—the six-year-old boy sitting on the stone steps before the fireplace, his lean shoulders slightly hunched, his silver-gold hair dancing in the firelight like a lamp that had not yet been lit.
He decided to make a mental note for Viserys in his heart: this older brother needed some time.
He would not vent his anger, but he would remain silent.
At four months old, Aegon saw Daemon for the first time.
Daemon was two and a half years older than him, an overactive toddler.
Unlike Viserys, who quietly squatted by the fireplace, he was the kind of child who ran up and down the corridors with messy hair, always missing one boot on his feet, making all sorts of strange roaring noises in his mouth, imitating the postures and sounds of the dragon reliefs he saw on the castle walls.
When the wetnurse was holding Aegon and sitting on the window bench basking in the sun, Daemon rushed in and caught sight of the new thing wrapped in golden swaddling clothes at a glance.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing at Aegon.
“It is your younger brother, Prince Daemon.” Daemon leaned in and looked for a long time.
He was even less polite than Viserys, bringing his face directly in front of Aegon’s nose tip, as if sizing up a strange little animal.
Then he reached out to grab Aegon’s hand.
Aegon’s fist was clutched in Daemon’s grip, feeling those small, warm fingers tightly grasping his thumb.
“His fingers are smaller than mine,” Daemon announced this discovery with a triumphant tone, “Mine are bigger than his.” “You are the older brother.” “So I am bigger than him.” Daemon nodded vigorously, “I am much bigger than him.” Aegon sighed inwardly.
He could tell that Daemon was a child eager to prove he was “the older brother.” Competing for attention, fighting for presence, being competitive and showy—these traits were still a blurry ball of fuzz for now, but their embryonic forms could already be seen in Daemon’s words and deeds.
He made a mental note to himself: getting along with Daemon meant neither competing with him nor giving way to him.
He needed to find a different rhythm.
Daemon pinched his face and then ran off.
Aegon lay in the wetnurse’s arms, looking at the sea outside the window and the distant circling dragon shadows, silently reviewing the spells he had memorized in Hogwarts last night in his heart.
At six months old, Aegon did something that surprised even himself.
Give me more motivation!