The next few days passed in a blur of grey stone and suffocating silence. At first, the adrenaline kept me sharp every creak of a floorboard, every distant shout of a guard made my pulse quicken.
But as the hours stretched into days, that sharp edge dulled into something far worse: utter, mind numbing boredom.
I found myself pacing the small square of the room, three steps forward, three steps back. I counted the cracks in the ceiling. I named the spiders in the corner. I even tried to recreate scenes from every show and movie I could remember from my past life, performing silent dramas for an audience of rats.
"This is torture," I groaned, flopping onto my back and staring at the moldy rafters. "Actual torture."
Being a modern man in a medieval world was a special kind of hell. I kept reaching for a phone that wasn't there. I kept craving the endless scroll of social media, the instant gratification of a search engine, the simple distraction of a video game.
Here, the only 'feed' was whatever crust of bread the guard shoved through the door each night. The 'network' was whatever gossip I could pry out of a scarred sellsword.
There wasn't even a book in this gods forsaken hole. Not a scrap of parchment, not a child's primer nothing. Just me and my thoughts, which were starting to circle like vultures.
I had all this knowledge about the future of the world, the true nature of the White Walkers, the political machinations of the Great Houses, and absolutely nothing to do with it but memorize the pattern of the dust motes dancing in the dim light.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the door. The boredom was dangerous; it made me reckless. It made me want to scream just to hear a sound other than my own breathing.
I can't stay here, I told myself, the urgency returning. If I don't get out soon, I'm going to start talking to the walls, and then I'll really be as mad as my father.
The familiar jingle of keys echoed down the corridor. My heart leapt. The guard was back. Whether he was bringing me another piece of sawdust bread or the key to my freedom, it was at least something to do.
The door creaked open, and the guard didn't waste time with pleasantries.
He thrust a heavy, rough spun grey coat into my arms. It smelled of old smoke and wet wool, far too big for my seven year old frame, but it served its purpose it hid my face and the tell tale Valyrian lines of my body.
"Hurry!" he hissed, his eyes darting nervously down the corridor.
I didn't need telling twice. I ducked behind him, keeping close to his shadow as we navigated the labyrinthine passages. The Red Keep was a different beast at night; the familiar grandeur of the day was replaced by oppressive shadows and the echo of my own small footsteps. It was a moonless night, the kind of blackness that made the torchlight feel like a spotlight.
"I asked a friend of mine," he whispered as we hurried through a servant's stairwell that smelled of rotting vegetables. "He's a merchant leaving for Braavos. He's agreed to take you, but he'll drop you at Dragonstone before he continues across the Narrow Sea."
I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs. The escape was happening.
But then the guard's tone shifted. "There's a castellan at the castle," he said, a dark smirk tugging at his scarred lips.
"Been left behind for who knows how many years, managing that shithole of a volcano alone. He'll welcome you with wide arms, and the two of you can die of hunger together." He let out a low, humorless chuckle.
"Bastard," I muttered, frowning beneath the hood of the coat.
The words stung because they contained a truth I'd been trying to ignore. I knew Dragonstone was neglected, but hearing it from someone who lived in the capital someone who saw the waste and the excess made it real.
If Rhaegar had abandoned the ancestral seat so completely that even the title of Prince of Dragonstone was dead, then the castle was likely a skeleton of its former self.
And if Erys Dondarrion, the current Master of Coin, was bleeding the realm's coffers dry as the guard suggested, the meager funds sent to maintain a remote outpost would have been the first to vanish.
I wasn't just heading to a sanctuary; I was heading to a ruin.
"Keep moving," the guard snapped, shoving me toward a side postern gate. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to the Gold Cloaks why you're wearing a merchant's coat in the middle of the night."
"I am seven and starved! I'd like to see you in my stead!" I hissed back, the words sharp with venom. My legs were protesting every step, the muscles screaming from days of inactivity and malnutrition. I had to practically jog to keep up with his long strides, the oversized grey coat slipping off my shoulder every few steps.
We moved through the city like rats in a sewer. The streets of King's Landing at night were a maze of filth and danger, but the darkness was our only ally. We avoided the main thoroughfares, sticking to the narrow alleys where the stench of open sewers was thick enough to taste. Every distant shout or clatter of armor made me freeze, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought it might crack them.
Finally, the salty tang of the Blackwater Rush filled my nostrils. The docks were a forest of masts and rigging, the water lapping against the pilings with a wet, sucking sound. Through the mist, I saw him a man in a worn chaloupe, his face lined with years of sea salt and desperation. He didn't even wait for us to reach him before he gestured frantically toward a small, unassuming vessel bobbing in the harbor.
"Hurry!" he whispered, his voice urgent and strained. "I've already spotted a few Gold Cloaks on the pier. They're doing a sweep. If they see a guard with a child, they'll ask questions I can't answer."
I didn't need to be told twice. I bolted toward the boat, my small boots splashing through puddles of unknown origin. The guard gave me one last look not of affection, but of something like respect before stepping back into the shadows.
I scrambled over the gunwale, nearly tumbling into the hold. The merchant grabbed me by the scruff of my coat and hauled me aboard, his grip rough and impersonal. The sails unfurled with a snap, catching a night breeze that sent a shiver straight through my bones.
As the ship pulled away from the docks, I turned back to look at the Red Keep. The massive fortress loomed on the hill, its towers dark and silent against the starless sky. For the first time in my life or rather, Vaegon's life I felt a surge of genuine relief.
"Dragonstone," I whispered to myself, clutching the rough fabric of my coat. "Here I come."
As the Red Keep began to shrink against the horizon, the massive silhouette of the fortress fading into the murky blackness of the Blackwater, I couldn't help it. The fear that had been coiled tight in my chest for days suddenly unfurled into something else entirely: pure, unadulterated spite.
Reaching out from beneath the oversized hood of the grey coat, I thrust both hands toward the castle. I extended my middle fingers straight at those towering walls, at the throne that didn't want me, at the father who forgot me, and at the queen who abandoned me.
"Fuck you all," I mouthed silently, a feral grin spreading across my face.
I let out a quiet, breathless chuckle that sounded far too old for a seven year old boy.
The adrenaline was still coursing through me, but the weight of being 'Vaegon Targaryen' felt lighter now that I was physically putting distance between myself and that gilded cage.
The merchant, who had been busy untangling a rope and cursing under his breath, froze. He turned his head, squinting at me through the dim lantern light. His jaw dropped slightly as he watched a small child in a filthy coat making obscene gestures at the most powerful castle in Westeros.
"What in the seven hells are you doing, lad?" he whispered, his voice thick with disbelief and genuine concern. "Are you trying to get us both hanged before we even hit open water?"
I just looked at him, my blue eyes bright with mischief and a strange, newfound freedom. I didn't answer. What was there to say? The boy who had been hiding in a cupboard was dead. The one who was left was already planning how to make the world pay for forgetting him.
"Just enjoying the view," I said simply, leaning back against the wooden hull. The boat rocked gently as we caught a stronger current, pushing us away from the city's corruption and toward the lonely black rocks of Dragonstone.