While Raegon lay sprawled face-down upon the soft velvet mattress of his bedchamber, rubbing his sore backside after a very thorough, yet carefully measured thrashing from Visenya, the true masters of Dragonstone gathered deep within the belly of the mountain.
Inside Balerion’s cavern, pale flames licked across heaps of dried dragon dung along the walls.
The Black Dread lay curled near the entrance, exhaling low, rhythmic gusts of hot air that caused the firelight to flare and gutter across the black stone.
There was a strange, eerie stillness in watching such a colossal titan idly watch the dance of flame.
“I have already instructed the singers and harpists,” Rhaenys remarked, leaning back against a stone outcropping.
She attempted a grave look, though the slight twitch at the corner of her lips gave her away.
“Unless you speak to Father yourselves, the only tale he will hear is that Raegon tamed the Solar Crown through innate courage.
The singers will have their version ready before nightfall.”
Visenya gave her a dry glance.
It was obvious Rhaenys had penned a ballad for Raegon’s first taming weeks ago, likely intending it for some small hatchling rather than a colossal elder.
“Good,” Visenya said, turning her dark lilac gaze toward Aegon, who sat watching the embers.
“The boy needs armor around him.
He is far too young.
Even if we keep this quiet, Dragonstone cannot stay hidden forever.
The moment House Targaryen looks across the water, eyes will turn to him.
You understand that, Aegon.”
“I will choose his guard myself,” Aegon said.
“No,” Visenya countered immediately.
“I will watch him.”
Aegon and Rhaenys paused, turning toward their elder sister.
“Very well,” Aegon said after a moment, a faint smile touching his mouth.
“You know what that demands of your time, Visenya.”
Visenya did not blink.
“It is our blood.”
“Then it is settled,” Aegon nodded.
“Rhaenys manages the court whispers.
I will oversee Raegon’s studies in history, strategy, and high speech.
Visenya takes his steel, his horsemanship, and his protection.”
“There is another matter,” Rhaenys said, straightening up.
“The arts Raegon spoke of, especially those requiring fuel and material sacrifice…
such things require components that no maester or merchant would view kindly.
If we begin buying strange reagents from Essos, whispers will follow.”
“Let them whisper,” Visenya said, her chin lifting with cold pride.
“If need be, have your minstrels sing that the eldest daughter of Dragonstone dabbles in dark sorcery.
Aegon rubbed the back of his neck with a wry grimace.
Her words were little more than truth.
Over the past four years, as Visenya took to the sky on Vhagar, rumors of her severe nature had already spread through the ports.
Where Rhaenys possessed a bright, sunlit grace that drew men in, Visenya carried the edge of forged Valyrian steel.
Her beauty was arresting, yet it held an immediate, dangerous weight.
Tall, strong-limbed, and unadorned by cosmetics or silk ribbons, she looked every inch a warrior queen.
That reputation made her the perfect shield.
“One more detail,” Rhaenys added.
“Some of these rites draw upon the boy’s own blood.
We must double the meat in his diet and have our merchants in Pentos bring root tonics and draughts to strengthen the marrow.”
“I will send word to Lord Velaryon’s captains,” Aegon agreed.
“Then we bind it in blood,” Visenya said, drawing a small dagger from her belt and offering her palm.
Aegon and Rhaenys stepped forward without hesitation.
“By the blood of Old Valyria,” they spoke in low unison, pressing their palms together over the stone.
“We swear to guard the secrets of Raegon Targaryen from this day until our last.
To shield our house, and to protect the one we cherish.”
The words faded into the stone.
The oath was sealed.
Back within the quiet walls of the Stone Drum, Raegon remained draped across his bed.
Thanks to the steady warmth of his Untainted Vessel, the sting of Visenya’s hand had already faded entirely, yet he stayed still, thoroughly enjoying the quiet.
The sun was sinking low over the Narrow Sea.
By rights, he should have been preparing for his evening duties as cupbearer to his father.
For highborn heirs, pouring wine at the lord’s high table was a lesson in courtly manners, watching how treaties were weighed and how vassal lords were addressed.
On Dragonstone, however, visitors were rare.
House Velaryon and House Celtigar rarely sailed across the bay except on feast days, meaning Raegon’s service mostly amounted to pouring vintage into his father’s cup in silence.
Resting in bed is far better, Raegon thought with a contented sigh.
Before he could pull the furs over his head, a shout broke out from the outer courtyard.
“Dragon!
To the towers!”
Iron boots clattered frantically across the stone bridges connecting the towers.
On the battlements, guards struggled with the heavy cranks of the scorpion mounts, training the iron-tipped bolts toward the sky with shaking hands.
“What madness is this?” Lord Aerion squeezed through the narrow sally port, staring upward in utter disbelief.
The lord of Dragonstone had barely closed his eyes for an afternoon rest when word came that his youngest was missing, then found, and now the oldest beast in the yard had taken flight over the keep.
“Lord Aerion, get inside!” Orys urged, catching his father’s tunic to pull him beneath the stone lintel.
“If the Solar Crown has gone mad, fused stone will not save us.”
The lord watched as the massive golden beast banked across the clouds, circling the spires with impossible grace.
“Where are Aegon and Visenya?”
Orys kept his silence, and Aerion knew at once that neither of his elder riders was mounted.
Without them in the saddle, Dragonstone had no answer for an enraged elder beast.
Above them, Raegor drew a deep breath through wide nostrils, sinking his front talons directly into the carved stone gargoyles flanking the Stone Drum.
The ancient fused masonry held firm under the colossal weight.
Folding his wings against his golden flanks, the dragon snaked his long neck past the Sea Dragon Tower, peering directly through the narrow arch of Raegon’s bedchamber window.
Inside, the light vanished from the room.
Raegon sat up, blinking at the sudden darkness.
A massive, golden eye stared back at him through the glass.
You came to see me.
Forgetting all about his bruised backside, Raegon kicked off the furs, rushed to the sill, and shoved the leaded frame open.
Raegor lowered his snout, attempting to push his massive head into the room.
The opening was far too narrow.
Only the tip of the dragon’s snout could squeeze through the stone embrasure, pressing gently against Raegon’s small palms.
“Go back to your cave, old one,” Raegon laughed, stroking the warm golden scales beneath the beast’s nostrils.
“You need rest.
The fire woke you, but your body is still mending.”
He could see fresh, pink skin between several newly grown plates along the dragon’s throat.
Across the courtyard, atop the scorpion platform, Aerion stood frozen in shock.
The terror in the lord’s chest shattered into blinding joy.
As an old dragonrider himself, Aerion knew what such intimacy meant.
Raegor had not simply recovered; the ancient beast had chosen a rider.
The creature was leaning into the boy’s touch with the gentleness of a warhorse greeting its squire.
It meant House Targaryen had four dragonriders.
Once Raegon reached his twelfth or thirteenth nameday, he would take the reins of an elder beast whose size rivaled the Black Dread.
Four mounts would make Dragonstone untouchable.
Perhaps they might even look across the Narrow Sea.
“Orys!” Aerion shouted, his voice trembling with rare excitement as he waved the archers away from the scorpions.
“Find Aegon and his sisters!
Tell the cellars to bring up every cask of Arbor gold!
Slaughter the fattest sheep in the pens!
Tonight, the entire island feasts!”
The Lord of Dragonstone laughed into the wind.
“Every single soul!”