Fire.
A sea of molten gold and surging crimson.
The moment Raegon’s blood welled from his sliced palm, an unseen force drew it into the crevices of the ancient beast’s scales.
Before the dying dragon could comprehend the shift, a surge of warmth tore through its withered core.
Raegor froze, his consciousness swallowed by an overwhelming tide of vital energy.
Curse my past life, Raegon thought as a dull numbness struck the back of his head, knocking his thoughts into a haze.
No pain followed.
Streams of liquid heat washed over his limbs, carrying a soothing, unfamiliar lightness.
Golden flame broke through the gaps between the dragon’s plates, washing along the tattered wing membranes and charred flesh.
The fire surged outward like liquid sunlight, curling over the dazed beast and wrapping the small boy in its embrace.
Crimson heat welled from within Raegor’s throat, feeding into the golden fire like dry timber thrown upon an open hearth.
The withered scales burned.
The fraying membranes burned.
Raegon’s clothes and hair caught the light, yet the fire did not consume.
It bathed dragon and boy alike, washing away grime, rot, and bone-weariness like boiling water drawn from a brass spout.
The column of fire grew taller.
It burst from the mouth of the cavern, throwing thick pillars of golden smoke into the overcast sky above the Dragonmont.
“What do you mean, gone?”
Orys Baratheon gripped the doorframe, his dark brow furrowed in disbelief.
Standing beside Master-at-Arms Quenton Qoherys outside Raegon’s empty chamber, the young man felt a cold knot tighten in his chest.
If the dragons were the pride of House Targaryen, then Raegon was its fragile heart.
The late Lady Valaena’s favored child, cherished without reservation by Visenya, Aegon, and Rhaenys, the boy commanded a tender devotion that even Lord Aerion dared not disturb.
If any harm came to him, the keep would tear itself apart.
“Do not just stand there,” Orys snapped, taking charge of the household guards with immediate authority.
“Colin, Harry, inform Lord Aerion at once.
Byron, find Lady Rhaenys.
Meraxes is resting in the courtyard; she can take to the sky faster than we can run.
Ser Quenton, seek out Aegon and Visenya over the upper slopes.
The rest of you, search every corridor from the cellars to the battlements.”
Orys was the son of Lord Aerion and a dark-haired woman from the fishing hamlet beneath the castle walls.
Though he bore none of the silver-and-purple coloring of Old Valyria, his broad shoulders and formidable frame had earned him respect among the household.
Aerion had brought him into the castle with his lady’s blessing, granting Orys’s mother a mill, a sturdy boat, and sufficient coin to live in comfort.
That generosity had bought absolute devotion.
As Aerion steadily passed the administration of the fortress to eighteen-year-old Aegon, Orys served as his brother’s right hand, able to move men with a word.
The quiet afternoon shattered into hurried shouts.
“Lady Rhaenys, wait!” Byron wheezed, sprinting across the wide flagstones of the courtyard toward the row of carved stone beasts.
“Return to the keep, Byron.
Help Orys search the cellars,” Rhaenys called back, tossing her open book into the guard’s arms without breaking stride.
The silver-scaled Meraxes paced near her paddock, snapping her jaws and letting out a shrill, agitated hiss.
Rhaenys signaled the stablemen to release the iron chains.
“Easy, girl,” the maiden murmured, throwing her arms around the broad snout of the beast and pressing her forehead against the cool silver scales.
“You sense it too, do you not?
Take me to him.”
Meraxes answered with a rumbling growl.
Rhaenys caught the leather stirrups hanging from the high-backed saddle of silver and enamel, pulling herself onto the beast’s back with practiced agility.
Once her boots found the stirrups, the dragon launched itself into the salt air, banking toward the smoking crags of the mountain.
Let him be whole, Rhaenys prayed, her knuckles white on the reins.
A shadow crossed her path as two massive shapes descended through the gray mist.
Balerion and Vhagar.
Aegon and Visenya had already seen the fire.
“Aegon!
What lies down there?” Visenya shouted across the wind.
Vhagar circled low above the boiling haze, her deep green scales catching the light.
At twenty namedays, Visenya possessed a commanding, sharp beauty, her pale silver braid whipping behind her in the gale.
She leaned far over the rim of her saddle, scanning the glowing fissure below.
“Nothing clear,” Aegon bellowed back from high above.
Mounted atop the Black Dread, Aegon cast a shadow wide enough to dim the cliffs.
Clad in a salt-stained leather jerkin, his silver hair gathered tight, the young heir stared into the mouth of the cavern.
“The smoke is too thick.
That is Raegor’s lair.
Visenya, keep watch from above.
I am going in.”
“Aegon, wait!”
Before she could finish, Balerion let out a deafening roar, tucking his broad wings and slamming his talons onto the rocky ledge.
The impact shuddered through the stone.
The Black Dread was already the largest and most formidable beast on the island, his broad jaws and armored neck dwarfing Vhagar.
The downdraft from his great wings would have snuffed out an ordinary timber fire, yet the golden heat rolling from the pit did not waver.
Aegon dropped down along Balerion’s wing, tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve, tied it across his mouth and nose, and threw himself toward the fiery threshold.
“Reckless fool,” Visenya hissed under her breath.
Bringing Vhagar down on the opposite ridge, she leaped from the saddle and tied her own scarf across her face before darting after him.
“When we find the boy, I will deal with both of you,” she muttered, disappearing into the golden smoke.
When Meraxes circled the mouth of the pit moments later, Rhaenys looked down to see Balerion and Vhagar crouching low near the edge, staring into the radiant heat with strange longing, as though yearning to plunge into the bath of flame themselves.
Her heart nearly stopped in her chest.
Inside the cavern, Aegon braced his forearm against the glare.
The heat was immense, yet as the fire licked against his leather jerkin and woolen breeches, neither fabric nor skin scorched.
The flame seemed to exist in two places at once, parting around his boots without burning.
“Raegon!
Raegon!”
Aegon called into the smoke, pushing through the light.
The flames curled past his fingers like warm water, completely harmless.
“Have you lost what little wit you had?” Visenya’s voice cut through the roar as she caught up to him, glaring with open fury.
“Charging blindly into a dragon pit without steel or rope?”
“Save the scolding, Visenya,” Aegon replied, pressing forward until his palm met a wall of solid, shimmering light.
The fire formed a barrier across the passage, yielding only as far as a stone dropped into deep water.
“Look at this.
The flame is shielding the interior.”
“I see it,” Visenya murmured, extending a gloved hand.
The light played across her knuckles, refusing to burn yet turning rigid the moment she tried to push past.
“The boy was never ordinary.
But this…
this is beyond anything in the scrolls.”
“We knew he carried something strange the day he opened his eyes,” Aegon said, throwing his shoulder hard against the barrier.
A golden ripple spread across the surface, yet the wall held firm.
“One eye like the sun itself.
Who was it that wanted to dye her own eyes gold when we were children?”
“It was Rhaenys,” Visenya answered without missing a beat, keeping her eyes fixed on the glowing wall.
“Whoever it was, he is our brother,” Aegon grunted, bracing his boots against the rock to ram the wall once more.
The barrier did not yield an inch.
Aegon drew back his fist to strike again, but Visenya’s hand clamped down on his wrist.
Her lilac eyes widened in the shifting light.
“Quiet,” she commanded.
“What is it?” Aegon asked, his brow furrowing.
“Did you hear him?”
“No,” Visenya whispered, the cold sharpness in her voice giving way to sheer astonishment.
“Listen to the stone.
It is a heartbeat.”