In the 88th year, Dragonstone.
On the day of Aegon’s third birthday, it rained on Dragonstone.
It wasn’t a storm, just a drizzle.
A gray curtain of rain slowly moved in from the sea, enshrouding the entire island in a layer of damp moisture.
Sunfyre coiled beneath the courtyard portico, tucking both head and tail beneath its wings, revealing only a pair of golden slit pupils staring discontentedly at the falling raindrops.
Its nine-meter-long body curled in the shadows of the portico, its neck curved and resting upon its forepaws, its tail hanging over the edge of the portico with the tip gently sweeping through the rainwater, like a huge, impatient cat.
Aegon sat near the edge of the portico, holding a book he had retrieved from Hogwarts.
It had taken him a long time to learn how to retrieve things from the castle, but once taken out, they could not be put back, so he only brought out a few of the most commonly used ones.
“Standard Spells: Intermediate” was one of them; its dark blue hardcover was stamped with gilded letters, and the spine had already been worn with subtle creases from his turning.
His reading speed in reality was slower than in his dreams, because his hands in reality were too small, requiring both hands just to turn a page.
But he still sat here every morning, turning a few pages, reciting a passage silently, and then practicing it mentally.
“I’ll read one more page.” Aegon said to Sunfyre.
Sunfyre snorted, burying its nose beneath its wings.
The meaning was very clear: You read your book, and I’ll sleep my sleep.
Aegon flipped to the chapter on introductory Transfiguration, reviewing the step-by-step breakdown of turning a match into a needle.
Last month he had tried wandless magic in reality, and the success rate was less than half; most of the time, his magic would dissipate as soon as it surged to his fingertips.
Toby had told him in a dream: You are too young, your magical channels are still developing, don’t rush.
He thought about it for a moment and felt it made sense.
But he still mentally dissected those lines of incantation, from the syllable structure to the flow of magic, examining every component clearly like dismantling a clock.
Viserys walked over from the other end of the corridor, holding two cups of hot milk.
The nine-year-old boy had grown significantly taller than last year, his shoulders were beginning to broaden, and his voice had deepened a bit.
He placed one of the cups next to Aegon, then sat down beside him, leaning his back against the pillar of the portico.
“Why did you wake up so early today?” Aegon took the cup of milk and held it in his palms to warm them.
“Daemon got up before dawn and ran around the courtyard for two hours,” Viserys said, “waking up the entire floor with the noise.
Father scolded him a couple of times, so he squatted over by the stables and hasn’t come back since.” Aegon lowered his head to take a sip of milk without speaking.
The sound of rain rustled outside the portico, puddles accumulated across the courtyard, and the lead-gray sky reflected on the water’s surface, shattered by raindrops into countless tiny ripples.
Sunfyre turned over inside the portico, its nine-meter-long body sweeping an arc of dust across the floor as it shifted.
Viserys was silent for a moment, then spoke: “Daemon stood by the stables this morning and watched Sunfyre for a long time.
You didn’t see it.” Aegon’s hand turning the pages stopped.
“He stood there for nearly half an hour,” Viserys said in a very low voice.
“Sunfyre flew over the courtyard, and he just looked up from below.
Even after Sunfyre landed, he didn’t leave.
He just stood there watching your dragon.” Aegon closed the book.
He turned his head and looked through the rain curtain toward the direction of the stables.
The gray rain curtain obscured his vision, and he could only vaguely see a blurry shadow beneath the wall over there—a little bigger than a stone, a little shorter than a person, squatting there like a stray little animal.
“He wants his own dragon,” Viserys said.
“His dragon egg didn’t hatch,” Aegon said.
He remembered this being mentioned in a conversation between their father and the maester once—the dragon egg in Daemon’s cradle had never cracked open.
“Every night he listens to those stories about dragons,” Viserys looked at the cup in his hand, “the ones Father tells us—how Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.
He listens to them over and over again, remembering every single name.
But he still doesn’t have his own dragon.
Father has Vhagar, you have Sunfyre.
He has nothing.” Aegon was silent for a moment.
He looked down at the book in his hand; the corner of the pages had been splashed wet by the rain, and the ink had blurred slightly.
“…Will he blame Sunfyre for choosing me first?” Viserys thought for a moment and shook his head: “He doesn’t blame you.
But do you think he has no thoughts about it?
He is two years older than you, and he feels he should have gotten a dragon first.
But Sunfyre hatched on the day you were born, while he has nothing.
Anyone in his position would feel a bit uncomfortable.” Aegon didn’t speak again.
He put the book beside him, stood up, and walked out into the rain.
Viserys called out behind him: “Where are you going?” “The stables.” He found Daemon in the open space behind the stables.
The four-and-a-half-year-old boy was squatting in the muddy ground, facing away from him, lowering his head and drawing something on the ground with a branch.
The rain had soaked his hair, silver-gold locks clinging to his forehead, the hem of his dark blue robe stained with mud, and his shoes completely soaked through.
He didn’t hear Aegon walking over because he was so intently drawing that dragon—crooked and wobbly, one wing longer than the other, the tail as thick as a sausage.
He drew and erased, erased and drew several times, smearing the ground into a blur.
Aegon stood a few paces away, watching his older brother’s back.
A four-and-a-half-year-old child squatting in a puddle of muddy water, using a broken twig he picked up to draw a dragon he would never get.
The rain fell on his hair and shoulders, and he didn’t care at all.
Something stirred in Aegon’s heart.
Sunfyre followed behind him.
The nine-meter-long golden dragon walked steadily in the rain, its wings folded at its sides, its tail dragging across the muddy ground behind it, leaving a shallow trench.
It stopped beside Aegon, lowering its head, its golden slit pupils gazing at the boy squatting on the ground drawing the dragon.
Daemon sensed that gaze.
He raised his head, the branch in his hand stopping.
His gaze shifted from Aegon to Sunfyre.
The nine-meter-long, gold-and-silver intertwined dragon, its wings covered in fine raindrops, still shimmered faintly beneath the gloomy sky.
It stood there like a flame washed by the rain—quiet, massive, and so beautiful that it made a four-and-a-half-year-old child grip the branch in his hand tightly.
Daemon didn’t stand up.
He just squatted there, tilting his head back, looking at the dragon.
Aegon squatted down beside him.
He didn’t speak, just squatted there, looking at Sunfyre side-by-side with him.
The rain fell upon the two of them, upon Sunfyre’s scales, and upon the traces of the dragon on the muddy ground that had been repeatedly drawn and erased.
After a while, Aegon spoke: “The wings of the dragon you drew are wrong.
A dragon’s wings are attached to its shoulder blades, not growing out from above its tail.” Daemon froze for a moment, looked down at the mud dragon he had drawn, and then looked back up at Sunfyre’s real wings.
He looked for a long time, then lowered his head and forcefully smoothed away that patch of mud.
Aegon reached out his finger and redrew a dragon on the leveled mud.
Four smooth lines outlined the dragon’s body, its wings spreading from its shoulders, its tail extending from behind, and finally two arcs were drawn above the dragon’s head to represent horns.
When he finished drawing, Daemon leaned in closer to look, his violet eyes blinking twice.
“You draw better than me,” Daemon said.
There was no praise in his tone, only a statement of fact.
“I’ve practiced on paper many times,” Aegon said.
He paused, withdrew his finger from the mud, and then softly said: “Do you want to touch it?” Daemon raised his head, startled: “What?” “Sunfyre,” Aegon said, “you can touch it.” When Daemon stood up, his movements were a bit stiff.
He followed Aegon for two steps and stopped in front of Sunfyre.
The nine-meter-long golden dragon lowered its head, its golden slit pupils resting on Daemon.
There was no hostility or vigilance in that gaze, only a quiet waiting.
A deep, probing purr came from Sunfyre’s throat—as if saying: I know you, you are the child who stands over there watching me every morning.
Daemon raised his hand.
His fingers hovered in mid-air for a few seconds, and then he touched Sunfyre’s bridge of the nose.
When his fingertips touched those golden scales, his body trembled slightly.
The warm, smooth touch pulsing with life spread from his fingertips throughout his entire body.
Sunfyre blinked its eyes, gently rubbing its snout against his palm.
Daemon’s hand clenched tightly at that moment, as if wanting to catch something.
His lips were pressed tightly together, his violet eyes wide open, as if trying hard to remember the tactile sensation of this moment, unwilling to let go of a single detail.
He stood there, a four-and-a-half-year-old child petting a nine-meter-long giant dragon, not speaking, not crying, just standing there quietly.
The rain was still falling, landing on his hair and Sunfyre’s scales.
After a long time, he withdrew his hand, lowered his head, and forcefully wiped the corner of his eye with his sleeve.
He didn’t cry out loud, but Aegon saw the arc of that wipe.
Aegon didn’t say anything.
He patted Sunfyre’s neck, made the dragon turn around, and slowly walked back toward the direction of the castle with it.
After walking a few steps, he looked back; Daemon was still standing in place, not chasing after them, nor following along.
He just stood there, watching Sunfyre’s back disappear into the rain curtain.
That night, when Aegon passed by the door of Daemon’s room, he heard no sound inside.
He pushed the door open a crack and took a look—Daemon was lying on the bed, facing the wall, the quilt pulled up to his chin.
Next to his pillow lay a somewhat untidily folded piece of paper; Aegon recognized it as a blank page torn from some old book.
On the paper was drawn a dragon, crooked and wobbly, with its wings drawn at the base of its tail, the lines trembling, breaking several times and then reconnected.
Aegon gently closed the door.
He stood in the corridor, looking down at his own hands.
He had a golden dragon that grew very quickly, and it would grow to be the brightest one in the sky while he was still very young.
And the child lying inside the room currently had nowhere else besides mud and paper to place a dragon of his own.
When he turned and walked back to his room, he suddenly made a decision in his heart: He wanted to see if there were any records about dragon egg hatching in the Hogwarts library.
He might not necessarily be able to help much, but he could find those books first.
He kept this thought in his heart, burying it like a seed.
That autumn, a medium-sized dispute broke out between Viserys and Daemon, triggered by Daemon taking one of Viserys’s books while he was away—an old book about ancient Valyria history.
After discovering it, Viserys asked for it back, and the two began to argue in the corridor.
When Aegon heard the news, he was basking in the sun in the courtyard; after thinking for a moment, he decided not to get involved.
About two hours later, Daemon ran out from the castle, rushed into the courtyard, and plopped down onto the stone slab next to Aegon, very close to Sunfyre’s tail, so close he was almost swept by it.
Daemon glanced at Sunfyre and then at Aegon with a complicated expression: “Viserys said I will never be able to sit still like he does.
He said he will rule the Seven Kingdoms in the future, saying that requires patience and composure.
He can sit still, but I can’t, so I won’t do.” The four-and-a-half-year-old child spoke quickly and eagerly, as if holding it in for a long time and finally finding an outlet, “He wants to be the perfect heir, so must I always be that imperfect foil?” After listening, Aegon was silent for a moment and turned a page of his book: “Perhaps you don’t have to be a foil.
You can be something else.” “Like what?” “You still have time to think about that.” Daemon snorted, unsatisfied with this answer.
But he didn’t leave.
He sat next to Aegon, leaning against Sunfyre’s tail and quieted down.
Sunfyre looked back at the child leaning against its tail, yawned, and then lowered its head, gently touching Daemon’s hair with its snout—a very light touch.
Aegon saw that action, but he didn’t make a sound, just continued turning a page of his book.
That evening when Viserys found them, what he saw was this scene: Aegon sitting on the stone slab reading a book, Sunfyre lying at his feet, and Daemon leaning against Sunfyre’s tail with his eyes closed as if asleep.
Viserys stood at the entrance of the courtyard for a long time, then turned and left.
Aegon raised his head to see his back disappear at the end of the corridor, then lowered his head to look at Daemon dozing off against his dragon’s tail.
He told himself in his heart: Everyone in this family has too many troubles on their minds.
And caught in the middle, with a golden dragon and a castle hidden in his dreams, perhaps one day these things could help a little.
That night in the Hogwarts library, Aegon flipped through several books on dragon reproduction, which mentioned that hatching dragon eggs requires sufficient heat sources and a specific magical environment.
He noted down that passage, folded the corner of the page, and then closed the book and put it back on the shelf.
He was still too small now to offer any practical help, but at least he knew the direction.
When he grew a bit older, he could go to the volcanic areas of Dragonstone to check the nests of those dragon eggs, and perhaps find some clues.
When he walked out of the library, Toby was standing at the door, holding a cup of hot tea in his hand.
“Sir, you’ve flipped through several books about dragon eggs today,” Toby said.
Aegon took the teacup and took a sip: “I have an older brother whose dragon egg didn’t hatch.” Toby was silent for a fraction of a second: “You want to help him.” “Not yet to that point,” Aegon put the teacup back onto the tray Toby was holding, “Let’s finish reading the books first.” When he walked back to reality, it was still before dawn.
Sunfyre lay on the floor beside the bed, its nine-meter-long body rising and falling slightly in the dark, a faint light occasionally flashing across its scales.
Aegon turned to his side, reaching out to rest his hand on Sunfyre’s bridge of the nose, feeling that warm breath moving in and out in the darkness.
The sea outside the window shimmered with fine silver light under the moonlight.
Before closing his eyes, he thought of one thing: If he found a way to make the dragon egg hatch, then Daemon would have a dragon of his own.
If he found the way, he would tell him.
Not now, not tomorrow, but he would find it.
He fell asleep in the moonlight.