86 AC, Dragonstone When Aegon was two years old, he could already take things out of the castle in his mind.
He discovered this by accident.
That day he was lying in bed, thinking about the cover of the book *Intermediate Transfiguration* in the Hogwarts library—dark blue hard leather with gold-stamped letters—and then he turned over, his hand touching something hard beside his pillow.
He looked down, and that book was lying right beside his pillow.
The dark blue hard leather and the gold-stamped letters were identical to the ones in his mind.
He sat up, took the book in his hands, and flipped through it.
The pages were real; the touch of the paper, the smell of the ink, and the rustling sound as the pages turned were all real.
He was stunned for a long while before he realized that he had brought something from the castle into the real world.
Then he turned another page.
The book was still there.
It did not disappear.
He spent two days testing it: he took a quill out of the castle and placed it on the windowsill, and the next morning it was still there.
He tried taking out a Chocolate Frog and placing it on the bedside table, and the next day it was still there.
He tried once more, wanting to put the Chocolate Frog back into the castle—it didn’t work.
The thing remained in the real world, and he could no longer find its place in his mind.
It took him much longer to figure out the boundaries of this mechanism: he could take any inanimate object from Hogwarts—books, pens, cauldrons, potion vials, potion ingredients—but living things could not be taken.
He tried once to take out a Unicorn from the Forbidden Forest, and nothing happened.
He tried taking out a book he had already finished reading and putting it back, but he couldn’t do that either.
Once taken out, it remained in reality forever.
After thinking about it for a long time, he decided: for the time being, he would not take anything else out of the castle.
At least not on Dragonstone.
He didn’t know how to explain the origins of these things, nor did he know if the maesters would be suspicious if they saw them.
He would wait until he had his own territory and could control his surrounding environment before slowly moving the things from the castle into reality piece by piece.
He memorized this mechanism and buried the matter deep in his heart, like hiding a spare key.
When Sunfyre was two years old, it had already grown to nearly six meters in length.
Its scales had completely hardened, and the silver patterns on the golden background were as clear as if someone had traced them line by line with a fine brush.
When its wings were spread, the wing membranes had turned into thick leathery membranes with a metallic luster, casting a faint halo in the morning light.
It was no longer the little thing napping beside the cradle; its six-meter-long body lay in the courtyard, and its tail stretched across the ground, occupying nearly half of the corridor, so that even passing wet nurses had to walk around it.
It could already fly.
It did not fly perfectly; when turning too sharply, it would drop a section in altitude, and when landing, its claws would scrape a harsh sound against the stone slab floor.
But compared to half a year ago, it fell very rarely, and the coordination between its wings and body gradually found a rhythm.
Aegon would spend time every day watching it adjust its posture in the air, watching it learn to glide using air currents instead of blindly flapping.
That afternoon, he sat on a stone slab warmed by the sun in the courtyard, with no wooden sticks, no branches, and nothing around him.
He wanted to try wandless magic in reality.
In his dreams of Hogwarts, he had practiced this repeatedly in the headmaster’s office—putting down the Elder Wand, using only his fingers and mind to guide the magic, and making the feather float.
He was not sure to what extent he could achieve this in reality; after all, his body was still too small, and his magical channels were not fully developed, but he wanted to try.
He raised his right hand, extended his finger toward a cluster of weeds at his feet, and clearly constructed that image in his mind—the smallest blade of grass leaving the ground and rising slowly.
He felt the magic within his body surge along his arm to his fingertips.
Without the path guided by a stick, without the amplification and condensation of a wand, its flow was like a stream groping for the road ahead, clumsy yet firm.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” he whispered softly.
The leaves of that blade of grass trembled.
Then, it slowly left the soil.
Only an inch high.
It lasted only two or three seconds.
Then the grass gently fell back to its original place.
Aegon looked at the grass, his breath stopping for a moment.
His finger was still extended there, his fingertips slightly numb—that was the lingering sensation of magic flowing through.
He had done it.
Wandless magic in reality.
He was only two years old, his body was far from fully developed, and his magic channels were tiny and fragile—but he had done it.
He was not sure if this was a talent brought by the Targaryen bloodline, or if the soul of a transmigrator had endowed him with some higher magical affinity.
He only knew that in this world, almost no one could achieve this.
And he was only two years old.
He withdrew his hand, flexed his sore fingers, stared at the weed that had fallen back for a long while, and the corners of his mouth curled up.
“It worked,” he said to Sunfyre.
Sunfyre glanced at him, its golden slit pupils reflecting his shadow.
It yawned, then closed its eyes again, its tail gently patting the ground as a response.
Aegon reached out and scratched Sunfyre’s chin, and a low purr like a rolling millstone came from the dragon’s throat.
The sunlight fell on him and Sunfyre, the golden scales and white-gold hair overlapping together like the most natural picture in this courtyard.
He did not try a second time.
His body had reached its limit for today; his magic channels were too thin, and trying again would only make that path more exhausted.
When his body grew a bit more, when those channels widened as he grew, wandless magic would become easier and easier.
By then, he wouldn’t need incantations, wouldn’t need a wand, and with just a single thought, the magic would respond.
He stood up and patted the dust off his trousers.
Daemon was two and a half years older than him.
A gap of two and a half years between two toddlers manifested as Daemon running faster than him, roaring louder than him, and falling three times as often as him.
When Daemon was over three years old, he could already ride a pony—a small pony specifically bred and trained for him—and he rode that pony rampaging through the courtyard, scaring the wet nurses into continuous screams.
Aegon, at two and a half years old, sat on the steps with his eyes closed.
In his mind, he silently recited what he had read last night—those theories about how ancient wizards cast spells without wands.
He had already verified part of it in his own wandless magic practice, and the remaining theories still needed time to digest.
“What are you doing?” Daemon stopped his pony in front of Aegon, looking down at him from above.
Daemon’s silver-gold hair was messier than Viserys’s, with a tuft of stray hair stuck by sweat hanging over his forehead, and his violet eyes wide open like a little leopard with pent-up energy.
“Sunbathing,” Aegon said.
“Why are you always sunbathing?” Daemon frowned.
“Get up.
I’ll teach you how to ride a horse.” “I’m too small.” “How do you know if you don’t try?” Daemon patted the pony’s neck.
“It’s very well-behaved.
It doesn’t bite me when I ride it.” “That’s because you’re sitting on its back, so it’s out of reach to bite you.” Daemon was stunned for a moment, seemingly digesting the logic of these words, and then his eyebrows furrowed even tighter: “Are you going to ride or not?” Aegon looked at him and evaluated it—if he refused, Daemon would be angry; if he agreed, he would be shaken to pieces.
He chose a third option: “Get down.” Daemon slid down from the horse’s back.
Aegon stood up, walked over to the pony, and stretched out his small hand to stroke the mane on the horse’s neck.
The horse lowered its head, snorted a breath, and did not dodge away.
Aegon held onto the saddle and stood on tiptoe to step one foot into the stirrup—he wasn’t tall enough and couldn’t step firmly.
Daemon gave him a push from behind.
Aegon staggered and tumbled flat onto the horse’s back, his belly pressing against the pommel, his hands and feet hanging on both sides.
“Look!
You’re riding it!” Daemon clapped and cheered.
Lying on the horse’s back, Aegon felt like he was three feet off the ground.
The hooves gently trotted twice on the stone slab floor, and the pony wanted to shake him off—but the reins were pulled tight by Daemon.
Aegon turned his head sideways, looking at Daemon tilting his head back, holding the reins with both hands, and his face red, suddenly feeling that although this older brother was annoying, he was indeed earnestly trying to be a good older brother.
“I’m getting down,” Aegon said.
AI Model: gemini-3.5-flash “Don’t get down!” Daemon shouted.
“Viserys rode half a lap before getting down, so you have to ride half a lap too.” Aegon sighed as he lay flat on the pony’s back, deciding not to reason with a three-year-old for now.
He lay there quietly, letting the pony carry him slowly around the courtyard for half a lap.
Daemon jogged along beside him, shouting as he ran, “Hold on tight!
Don’t fall off!” He felt his greatest challenge in this family wasn’t dragons, magic, or House Targaryen’s game of thrones—it was Daemon.
Yet, in a way, Daemon was also the most sincere person he had met in this life, because Daemon didn’t know how to lie yet.
— Whenever Viserys came to see him, he usually brought something.
Sometimes it was a small piece of honey cake, sometimes a dragon he had casually drawn, and sometimes just a word.
“Father says Grandfather will be coming to Dragonstone in a while.” That day, Viserys sat next to Aegon, watching him draw circles on the ground with a piece of roof tile.
Aegon drew a circle, then drew a few curved lines in the middle to represent a volcano, and finally drew a dragon above the crater—this was the first dragon he had drawn from memory, crooked, with one wing longer than the other, and a tail as short as a twig.
“Grandfather?” Aegon looked up.
His pronunciation had improved a lot compared to a few months ago, changing from an indistinct babyish voice to a child’s voice with deliberate articulation.
“King Jaehaerys,” Viserys pronounced the name with particular gravity.
“He is our grandfather.
He lives in King’s Landing.
He rarely comes to Dragonstone.” Aegon searched his mind for what he knew about Jaehaerys—the Conciliator, the longest-ruling king of Westeros, who had reigned for over fifty years.
He was still on the throne.
He was one of the few monarchs of House Targaryen who could command both fear and respect throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
“Why is he coming?” “To see us,” Viserys said.
“Father said Grandfather wants to see his third grandson.” Aegon’s fingers holding the tile paused.
Jaehaerys coming to see him meant he needed to present a “normal” appearance in front of the family.
He calculated in his mind how he should act when the time came—like a quiet, precocious toddler, or an ordinary two-year-old.
“When is he coming?” “I don’t know,” Viserys shrugged.
“Father said soon, maybe next month, maybe the month after.
He will come anyway.” Aegon put down the tile and looked down at the crooked dragon he had drawn.
Daemon ran over and stepped on it, crushing his dragon.
Aegon watched the shattered pieces of tile scatter all over the ground without saying a word.
Daemon was completely unaware of what he had stepped on; he shouted, “Viserys!
Catch me!” and ran off.
Viserys stood up, glanced at Aegon, then at the fragments on the ground, and said after a moment of hesitation, “I’ll get you another piece of tile.” Aegon shook his head.
“No need.” He crouched down, gathered the fragments into a pile, picked up another piece, and drew a new dragon on the dirt.
This one was slightly better than the previous one; the wings were symmetrical, and the tail was drawn longer.
Viserys crouched beside him and watched for a long time before saying softly, “You draw better than Daemon.” Aegon hummed in response without looking up.
“Daemon only knows how to draw stick figures fighting,” Viserys continued.
“You draw dragons that look like dragons.” Aegon finally looked up at Viserys.
The six-year-old boy was crouching beside him, hands on his knees, looking down intently at the dragon he had drawn.
Viserys was no longer as thin as he had been a few months ago, and his facial features had rounded out slightly, but there was still a quiet, barely noticeable loneliness lingering in the depths of his eyes.
“Do you want to be an artist when you grow up?” Viserys asked.
“No,” Aegon said.
“I want to do other things.” “What things?” Aegon thought about it but didn’t answer directly.
Using the tile, he drew a tower next to the dragon—a crooked, spired tower.
Viserys leaned closer to look, not understanding what it was, but he didn’t press further.
“Tell me then, when you feel like talking about it,” Viserys said.
Aegon put down the tile.
He glanced at Viserys, whose violet eyes held a cautious sincerity, like a drowning person wanting to grab onto a piece of driftwood but afraid of breaking it.
He said, “Okay.” — On the day Sunfyre flew out of Dragonstone’s boundaries for the first time, Aegon was in his room reading a set of potion notes he had copied from the Hogwarts library.
He memorized the contents in his dreams, and after waking up, he would dip his finger in water and write them on the table, over and over, until every word was etched into his memory.
Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed from outside.
He looked up out the window.
Sunfyre was soaring into the sky from the castle’s tower—his six-meter-long golden body exceptionally striking against the backdrop of the greyish-white sky.
He flew over the castle’s outer walls, swept past the edge of the volcanic crater, and then made a wide turn over the sea, flying off into the distance.
By the time Aegon pushed open the door and ran out, Sunfyre was already flying over the sea, circling the perimeter of Dragonstone.
His flight posture was much smoother than before—his body naturally tilted when turning, and his wings and tail coordinated well, though he still occasionally flew too low due to misjudgments, letting the tips of his wings brush the sea and splash up water.
But when the spray splashed, Aegon heard Sunfyre let out a triumphant long cry, as if saying: “Look how well I fly.” He stood on the sea cliff at the edge of the courtyard, watching the golden figure dart between the grey-blue sea and sky.
Sunfyre flew past a reef protruding from the water in the distance, then looped back, sweeping low over his head.
The wind pressed down from his wings, blowing back Aegon’s hair and the corners of his clothes.
Aegon tilted his head back, watching his dragon draw larger and larger circles in the sky.
He could already fly, and he was doing decent, and he was still getting better.
What he needed to do next was wait until he was big enough, Sunfyre was big enough, and the time was ripe.
He would ride this golden dragon, flying over Dragonstone, over Blackwater Bay, and over all those heights that most people would never see in their entire lives.
That day would not be too long in coming.
— Aegon stood in the courtyard, watching Sunfyre circle in the sky.
He was flying much higher than before, and his posture was much steadier.
Although he still occasionally dropped a bit during sharp turns, he could always flap his wings in time to regain altitude, no longer crashing into trees or falling to the ground at every turn like he did half a year ago.
He recalled something—King Jaehaerys was coming soon.
The old king who ruled the Seven Kingdoms, who had ridden Vermithor, and who had sat on the Iron Throne for fifty-five years, was about to step through the gates of Dragonstone to see the third son of Baelon and Alyssa with his own eyes.
Aegon felt he should prepare.
A quiet, clever, trouble-free grandson.
A prince who didn’t fight for the throne, didn’t show off his sharpness, and wasn’t worth being wary of.
Sunfyre rolled in the sky, then dived down, folding his wings in time to land right over Aegon’s head.
When his six-meter-long body landed on the ground, it kicked up a gust of wind, messing up Aegon’s newly combed hair again.
Aegon crouched down to look at Sunfyre, and Sunfyre tilted his head to look back at him.
“Grandfather is coming soon,” Aegon said.
Sunfyre blinked his golden, slitted pupils, as if waiting for him to explain what “Grandfather” meant.
Aegon reached out and scratched his chin.
“Fly a bit nicer when the time comes.” Sunfyre snorted a small puff of sparks, which hissed and burned on the stone-paved ground, leaving a few scorch marks.
Aegon looked at the scorch marks, then at Sunfyre, and stood up to pat the dust off his trousers.
Let’s go.
Go back and clean up those leaves.
He turned and walked toward the castle.
Sunfyre followed behind him, his claws making soft, clicking noises on the stone paving.
The setting sun cast their shadows long—one tiny, one a golden mass—walking side by side into the castle gateway.
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