Raegor pressed his massive snout further through the stone embrasure, refusing to budge.
Raegon pushed against the smooth scales beneath the beast’s jaw, but the colossal dragon had no intention of moving.
Had Raegon not already formed an unbroken bond with the golden elder, a single impatient nod from the beast would have caved in the outer wall of the Sea Dragon Tower.
This was an ancient titan of the Freehold.
If it took a mind to linger, the household had no choice but to indulge it.
From the remnants of his past existence, Raegon understood why true communication with dragons was rare.
The creatures of this world were elemental beasts, sustained by inner fire rather than human intellect.
His gift of wyrmspeech functioned through instinct and resonance rather than spoken debate.
Raegor understood him primarily because the dragon had lived through three centuries of flight and battle.
Among the records of Old Valyria, a dragon’s lifespan rarely stretched beyond three hundred and fifty years.
In truth, few ever reached such an age unless tended by high fire mages, bloodbinders, or dragon priests.
Aerion’s mount, Gaeleros, had succumbed well before reaching three centuries.
Raegor was already an elder among elders.
His long life made him far more perceptive than the younger beasts, though his responses still relied on gestures, throat rumblings, changes in posture, and shifts in the heat of his breath.
“Easy, grandfather,” Raegon murmured in fluent High Valyrian, wrapping his arms around the broad ridge of the dragon’s snout.
His natural grasp of the tongue had sharpened the moment the wyrmwarden arts settled into his blood.
The old tales held true: the high speech of the Freehold had been crafted specifically to bind and guide dragons, weaving the pitch of draconic roars into its cadence.
“The room is far too small for you,” Raegon said, leaning into the warm heat pouring from the dragon’s maw.
The air carried no foul stench of rot; the solar flames that burned away his withered plates had left his maw clean, revealing rows of fresh, needle-sharp teeth.
“I give you my word.
Once I finish my rest, I will climb to your cave.
I will need your strength in the days ahead.”
A sudden commotion echoed along the curtain wall connecting the Gargoyle Tower to the Sea Dragon Tower.
Lord Aerion rushed out onto the parapet with a dozen guards at his heels.
The moment the lord appeared, Raegor pulled his snout from the window and turned toward the battlements with a low, territorial hiss.
The golden membranes along his neck flared wide, bright light gathering behind his teeth.
“Hold, Raegor!
That is my father!” Raegon shouted, leaning out over the stone sill.
Aerion and Orys froze in their tracks, the lord staring at the window with wild disbelief.
Raegor extinguished the glow in his throat and withdrew his head slightly, though his long, sinuous body remained coiled along the outer black stone of the fortress like an immense serpent.
How did this happen?”
Seeing the golden beast settle, Aerion hurried down the tower steps and burst into the bedchamber.
He caught the boy up in his arms before Raegon could climb back beneath his furs.
“Why did you keep this from me?” Aerion’s voice shook with rare excitement as he glanced past the window at the gleaming plates outside.
“Had I known you claimed the Solar Crown, I would never have let Visenya lay a hand on you.”
He set the boy down gently, remembering the bruises from earlier.
“I cannot explain it, Father,” Raegon replied, keeping his voice innocent.
“Raegor burst into flame in the lower cave, and when the fire died, he looked at me and followed me home.”
“Impossible,” Aerion breathed, though a wide grin broke across his bearded face.
“Yet the old histories speak of the Flame-Touched riders in the deep Freehold.
The line of the dragon endures!
Where are Aegon and Visenya?
Why did they say nothing?”
The lord paced the rug, eager to voice his pride, yet realizing his older children were already managing the island in their own way.
“They helped me calm the beast, Father,” Raegon offered smoothly.
“They should be returning to the yard shortly.”
“Good, good,” Aerion nodded vigorously.
“We feast tonight.
Rest here, Raegon.
I will have the kitchen send spiced broth and honeyed pastries directly to your bed.”
Raegon settled back against his pillows with a quiet grin.
Slipping out of a long walk to the Great Hall was an unexpected reward.
A sharp roar echoed from the crags above.
Raegon recognized the cadence: a low acknowledgment, signaling that other wings were approaching.
Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys had returned to the keep.
Vhagar, the swiftest of the three, had spotted the golden coil atop the tower first, her throat glowing before Raegor answered with a territorial rumble that settled the skies.
Friends, not rivals.
Satisfied, Raegor pushed off the masonry, launching his heavy frame toward his cavern high in the Dragonmont.
The courtyard beneath the keep was too narrow to stable four great beasts at once; both Balerion and Raegor kept their own vast dens in the upper slopes, hunting the coastal waters for whale and shark. Follow the newest chapters on novelping.com.
Their independence saved the house a fortune in cattle and grain, allowing Targaryen coffers to steadily swell.
While Dragonstone celebrated the bonding of a fourth rider, the wider world continued to fracture.
In the east, Aerion’s refusal to receive the Volantene envoys bore no ill fruit.
The Triarchs dared not strike at true dragonlords, leaving Dragonstone undisturbed.
Darchu, having secured Targaryen neutrality, sailed south to the court of King Argilac Durrandon.
With Braavosi coin and ships, the Lysene exiles seized the Stepstones, using the island choke points to raid Volantene supply lines and buy precious time for Tyrosh.
In the west, the Vale erupted into blood.
The mountain clans launched a widespread uprising, and King Eldric Arryn was struck down by a stray arrow during the fighting.
His young queen, Sharra Arryn, known across the courts as the Flower of the Mountain, placed her infant son upon the weirwood throne and ruled as regent with an iron grip.
She hanged twenty-three clan chiefs along the mountain road from the Bloody Gate to the Gates of the Moon, winning the fierce loyalty of the Vale’s knightly houses.
Following her victory, Arryn lances rode through the Bloody Gate to repel the forces of King Harren Hoare.
The tyrannical Ironborn king, known as Harren the Black, turned his fury upon his own river lords.
He ordered the Lord of Blackwood flayed in the old manner of the iron islands and had the Lord of Bracken put to the sword, striking sheer terror into the riverfolk.
Along the shores of the Gods Eye, Harren’s colossal seat of Harrenhal neared completion, its monstrous towers rising like black fists toward the clouds.
Time moved swiftly across the turbulent decades.
Five years passed.
Raegon reached his twelfth nameday.
Deep within the smoking vents of the Dragonmont, the air was thick with sulfur and heat.
For five continuous years, Raegor had circled the island daily, bathing the rock in his radiant presence, while Raegon poured his blood into the deep subterranean fissures to awaken the dormant stone.
A thick bubble burst across a pit of dark, bubbling mineral sludge.
Raegon plunged his bare arms into the steaming mire without hesitation, his calloused fingers locking around a heavy, textured oval.
He pulled the prize free with a sharp heave, wiping the dark grime from its surface.
“Visenya!” Raegon called out, his face smeared with soot, his mismatched eyes bright with triumph.
“You need to have a word with Vhagar.
She leaves her clutches scattered in every boiling vent she finds, and I am the one who has to fish them out!”
He cradled the warm stone in his arm, grinning through the smoke.
It was the third healthy dragon egg pulled from the mountain that moon.