A Warm Welcome At Oldtown
King's Landing sprawled like a chaotic tapestry of mud streets, thatched roofs, and rudimentary wooden hovels, a testament to the tumultuous history of its people. In stark contrast, Oldtown rose with an elegance forged from stone, its streets a meticulous mosaic of cobblestones that wove through the city like veins of artistry and order. From the skies above, Aegon Targaryen, with his younger brother Daeron at his side, would look down upon Oldtown's labyrinthine network of winding alleys and narrow streets, seeing the city unfold like an intricate puzzle.
At twilight, when the moon draped itself over the city like a silken locket, Oldtown transformed into a realm of dreams. The moonlight kissed the surface of the Honeywine River, its pearly reflection casting a serene glow across the water. To the west, the Guildhalls lined the riverbank with a regal grandeur reminiscent of palatial splendor, while upstream, the Citadel's domes and towers stood in stately procession, linked by stone bridges bustling with life and activity.
Further downstream, beneath the imposing black marble walls of the Starry Sept, the mansions of the devout gathered in a reverent cluster, akin to children encircling a venerable matriarch. In the distance, where the Honeywine expanded into the Whispering Sound, the Hightower loomed with an awe-inspiring presence, its beacon fires casting a radiant glow against the awakening sky.
Perhaps it was due to Daeron's Tessarion, the blue dragon's continued presence and growth in the city, that the people of Oldtown did not scurry away like rats at the first roar from Sunfyre in the middle of the night. The awe was always there, but it was never accompanied by fear the general populous usually possessed at the sight of the terrifying beasts.
Though Aegon had been in Oldtown for only three moons, he had quickly attuned himself to the city's rhythms. He had mastered the art of reading time by observing the shifting shadow cast by the tower atop the bluffs of Battle Island. Walking the cobblestone streets of Oldtown with Daeron became a ritual for Aegon, and it was not long before he felt a deep-seated kinship with the city, a place governed by his maternal family. If Draco thought the Targaryens bore an uncanny resemblance to the Blacks with their madness and queer traditions, the likeness between the Hightowers and the Malfoys was even more striking.
The Hightowers, akin to the Malfoys, wielded a brand of influence that transcended sheer strength. The Malfoys, though not the most ancient of wizarding houses, carved their mark with a heady blend of ancestral pride, grandiloquent self-importance, and a storied heritage that rendered their presence in Draco's world profoundly significant. This influence mirrored the Hightowers' sway in Aegon's realm as a beacon of learning and religion due to their substantial backing of the Citadel and the Faith of the Seven.
And with just the Faith by their side, Hightowers are more than capable of raising large armies from the streets of Oldtown. And with their own warships and those of their close kin, the Redwynes of the Arbor, they could float a significant fleet as well as Velaryons can, even if they are not as wealthy with their trade as Lord Corlys Valeryon is with his voyages.
Unlike the Targaryens and Blacks, whose dominion among masses has been asserted through the fearsome might of dragons or the dark allure of magic, the Malfoys and Hightowers thrived on a more nuanced method. Their approach, though perhaps scorned by those who relied on brute force or the spectacle of power, revealed an undeniable truth: power, in its most compelling form, often lies in the delicate art of navigating the labyrinthine corridors of political, religious, and social influence. It is not merely the roar of fire-breathing dragons or ancestral reputation that dictate authority but the deft orchestration of alliances and rivalries.
True power, as the Malfoys and Hightowers often demonstrated, resides in the shadows—in their ability to shape outcomes and direct events through calculated foresight and strategic maneuvering. Both families excelled at the long game, their dominance cemented not through immediate displays of force but through the slow and deliberate accumulation of leverage, revealing a sophisticated approach to leadership that was both calculated and enduring.
In his first month in Oldtown, Aegon kept himself occupied and happily distracted by everything that piqued his interest. He wandered the streets of the city with his brother, enjoyed the hospitality of his maternal relatives, made his weekly visits to the Starry Sept and the High Septon, and met with various lords, ladies, and other reputed figures who came to offer their congratulations for his cousin Lord Ormond's thirdborn son, Garmund Hightower.
In the following months, Aegon immersed himself in the hallowed halls of the Citadel, losing himself in the endless labyrinth of the maesters' libraries, attending lectures, and exploring a range of subjects like the Histories of Tyroshi wars, The Fires of the Freehold, The Calamities of Shivers, Legends of the Long Night, The Working of Myrish lens, or the Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History which was a mostly hogwash, with a hint of treason with how provocative it was, considering the man served as the Hand for the late King Jaehaerys. It was astonishing to Draco how the realm hadn't managed to go to complete shit given such incompetent people governing it.
Yet, despite his frustrations, the Citadel was a treasure trove of wisdom, home to tens of thousands of books, and each glance at the endless rows made him feel overwhelmed by the enormity of what he had yet to read and the limited time he had. And only recently, he finally got approval from the Seneschal— a man who looked as if the weight of his maesters' chain about his wattled neck was dragging him down to the floor— to wander through the deepest parts of the library protected by stone and steel in the Citadel's bowels where the oldest books sat on heavily guarded shelves.
Gaining this access had not been easy. Aegon had to reassure the Conclave a thousand times that he would take the utmost care while handling the scrolls, and yes, he was fully aware that many were the last of their kind, crumbling relics of a bygone era. And yes, he understood the gravity of the responsibility that came with it —that these tomes could not leave the sacred room. It was only his status as a prince and kin to Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen, the Dragonless, that had swayed their decision to allow him entry.
As he ventured deeper into the silent, shadowy depths, the Prince wished he could magically summon the knowledge he sought with the wave of a hand. If only he could command magic as he had in his previous life, then perhaps Aegon could bypass the endless search and grasp what he desired without squandering precious hours in this vast, chaotic repository. But the magic of Westeros, Draco had come to learn after years of painstaking study, both practical and theoretical, was as wild and untamable as the dragons of his bloodline. Like those fierce and proud creatures, magic in this realm could not be controlled or bent to the will of mere men.
It wasn't that it couldn't be done—there were wizards, alchemists, and sorcerers scattered across the world who had harnessed its power. It's just that Aegon had yet to uncover the secret for it. Draco had books and histories to guide him in taming his dragon, the magnificent Sunfyre, but when it came to magic, there was no such roadmap. Not in the way he needed, at least.
While the Citadel might be where boys and young men from all over Westeros came to study, learn, and forge their chains as maesters', it also is swamped by a bunch of dunderheads and cavern fools resistant to change and innovation. The maesters' maddening skepticism towards magic—or anything too foreign to their stagnated minds—and their condescending dismissal of anything that challenged their intellectual supremacy made Draco ponder the genuinely tempting idea of flinging himself off the Hightower in frustration.
Was this how Hermione had seen the Purebloods of the wizarding world? He could almost hear Blaise and Pansy snickering at him from the netherworld. No, no, there was no need to compare himself to that insufferable know-it-all, no matter how dire the situation.
While some very, very few maesters dabbled in what the Citadel called the higher mysteries, they had nothing of substantial use to report. All those who studied the higher mysteries eventually tried their hands at spells, hoping to discover hidden powers within themselves. But it never worked. For the art of magic, it seemed, would forever remain beyond the boundaries of mortal ability to examine.
But that was not the case for Aegon. All Aegon's attempts at performing spells ended in different kinds of failure, producing nothing more than fleeting flickers of light and faint whispers of power that vanished as quickly as they had appeared. When pressed on, the results were even more precarious—unleashing a raw, untamed force that slipped beyond his control, threatening to consume him and his surroundings entirely.
In this, he was fortunate that Potions came to him with ease. Draco had always excelled in the subtle art of potion-making, a skill honed under the watchful eye of his godfather Severus, whose constant presence and guiding hands had shaped much of his early life. The desire to make him proud had driven Draco to master the craft. While some magical ingredients in this world differed from those he once knew—no Dittany, Wormwood, or Shrivelfig to be found—he adapted, making do with what was available. Other familiar ingredients, like Unicorn hair and Gillyweed, were nonexistent in Westeros, yet he learned to substitute and innovate.
For example, to brew the Draught of Living Death, one would traditionally require powdered root of Asphodel, an infusion of Wormwood, Valerian root, a Sopophorous bean, a sloth brain, moon dew, and a flower head. While a simple Sweet Sleep potion, given in excess, might achieve a similar effect, Draco knew better than to trust concoctions that the maesters already had antidotes for. He understood that in this world, his ability to create poison from the knowledge of his previous life was limited. Yet, Aegon refused to rely on the rudimentary brews available in Westeros.
Not all the necessary ingredients were available in the new realm, at least not with the same magical properties. The Sopophorous bean, for instance—known as the "bringer of deep sleep"—produced a silver juice capable of erasing memories and inducing a coma-like trance. Since this was unattainable, Draco was forced to adapt, substituting nightshade essence, black sleep berry extract, and Ghostleaf from Yi Ti. Though these ingredients did not erase memories, they proved a powerful alternative, or in a few cases, an even more potent combination, perfect for crafting the Draught of Living Death.
Draco's modifications ensured that the antidote to his potion would be nearly impossible to replicate. The only known counter, the Wiggenweld potion, required a rare and complex assortment of ingredients: ten Lionfish spines, freshly stripped Wiggenweld bark, wolfsbane, salamander blood, and powdered dragon bone in place of Chizpurfle fangs and Unicorn horn. The mixture demanded Kingscopper, crushed weirwood leaves instead of Stewed Mandrake, and Horklump juice, followed by honey water, a sprig of mint, shade vine leaves, and mist veil pollen in place of Moly and Dittany.
Such a concoction was beyond the reach of even the most skilled Maesters. Draco had spent countless years perfecting the potion and its antidote, enduring failure after failure until he finally succeeded. He doubted anyone in Westeros could come close to recreating a remedy, even if given a hundred lifetimes to try. This certainty had bolstered his confidence in the demise of Larys Strong despite his mother's concerns about recklessness. For Aegon knew that no one could unravel the mystery of his creation, ensuring that the secret—and the threat—remained firmly in his grasp.
As he pushed past a tome detailing a century-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead Maester and a study of rare diseases by maesters dead a thousand years, the young Prince's eye caught sight of a dusty volume — bound in rotted leather, chucked away to the back of the shelf; it's faded paint, brittle spine hinted at an age far greater than the other volumes surrounding it. Aegon was puzzled, for he knew the books in the Citadel were typically preserved and rewritten by the scribes every few years, regardless of their importance—especially those housed in the hidden vault, which certainly would have been handled with an even grander care.
Had no one discovered its existence in all these years? Or had the Conclave, in their vanity and self-importance, failed to grant permission for the scribes to tend to their most prized possessions? They certainly seemed the type. Or perhaps some Archmaester, desperate to have his own work preserved in the hallowed vault, had carelessly tossed this ancient tome aside to make room for his own musings? Whatever the reason, the forgotten book elicited a childish excitement and genuine curiosity in Aegon.
Gingerly, Draco retrieved the fragile book from its resting place. The cover emitted a scent of dust and tombs, and its delicate pages threatened to crumble under his fingers, yet they felt as smooth as silk. The text within, however, presented another mystery—it was written in High Valyrian, a language deeply familiar to Aegon, woven into the fabric of his Targaryen lineage. But this was older; its script was archaic. The letters in the text, though recognizable, had their meanings obscured by time and the evolution of the language, reminiscent of the few tomes and scrolls that survived the Doom of Valyria and should have been hidden away in the Red Keep's vaults under the royal family's watchful eye and would probably be passed down for generations to come and not in this forgotten corner of the world where most people could not even read it.
Aemond could probably read through it without much challenge. That boy had a penchant for old tongues, arcane lore, and ancient history, spending far more time than Aegon ever had immersed in the dusty volumes of their family's past. And while Aegon could likely decipher it with a few days' worth of raging headaches, he would much rather spend that time perfecting a translation spell that wouldn't risk burning down the halls of the Citadel as if they were made of wax.
Still, the question lingered: What was a royal family heirloom doing in the hidden vault of the Citadel? Should he investigate its presence further? But the book seemed to have been here longer than even the oldest living maester currently withering away in the Citadel. He doubted that getting on the wrong side of the Conclave over a forgotten book would do him any favors during his time here. So, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, Draco discreetly dropped the book into his purse, which was spelled with an undetectable extension charm.
Draco could eventually pass it on to his younger brother Daeron, but not before ensuring it contained nothing too disturbing for a child's mind. The boy seemed to follow in Aemond's footsteps, sharing a similar thirst for knowledge and a growing fascination with their family's history. But first, Draco had to make certain the contents weren't too gory or steeped in blood sacrifices, considering how it is a general agreement amongst the Westerosi that the works of his ancestors were steeped in dark sorcery. Then again, people also believed that the dragonlords of old Valyria controlled their mounts with binding spells and enchanted horns, so he couldn't fully trust the accuracy of such knowledge.
Yet, it is always wise to be cautious when it concerns your family's safety.
By the time Aegon walked out of the gates of the Citadel, past the towering green sphinxes with the bodies of lions, the wings of eagles, and the tails of serpents, Daeron was already waiting for him with two Hightower knights. The boy ran toward Aegon with a blinding smile, and for a moment, Aegon could almost imagine a tail wagging behind him as his eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Have you been waiting long?" Aegon asked, ruffling the boy's hair with a grin of his own. Aegon had promised Daeron they could go on their first official ride with Tessarion that evening. The blue dragon had been too small for Daeron to ride before, and no one in the Hightower family had any experience with dragons or dragon riding. Although a few Dragonkeepers had accompanied Daeron to Oldtown, they couldn't tame or understand the dragons the way their riders could.
So, the task had fallen to Aegon. Thanks to his magic, Sunfyre had grown three times larger than any dragon could in such a short time. His Golden Lady had already grown accustomed to flying with Aemond and Aegon, and it had only taken a few words for her to allow Daeron near her. Over the past few months, Aegon had made sure to teach Daeron every trick in the book he knew about what it meant to be a dragon rider while Tessarion followed them from behind.
Now, six months into his stay at Oldtown, Aegon decided that the Blue Queen—as Daeron had adorably dubbed his dragon—was finally ready for a short flight over Bloody Isle and back. And it could also serve as an early name day present, a way to make up for missing the celebrations of Daeron's last two. However, Draco doubted his Queen mother would be pleased when she learned of it in his brother's letter.
"I would have come sooner if it weren't for my lessons with the maester," Daeron said, a touch of apology on his pouty lips as Aegon waved away the guards, which they did with a bow. "And then I had to reassure Uncle Gwayne a thousand times that I'd be safe and follow your instructions to the letter while I'm up in the air, and still he did not look satisfied."
"Well, of course, he would. You have been living with them for as long as you have lived with us," Aegon chuckled as throws a hand over Daeron's shoulder and walked towards the Isle of Ravens, where their dragons would be resting near the ancient weirwood tree. They had to walk a weathered wooden drawbridge linked to the eastern bank to reach the Ravenry, the oldest building at the Citadel. "Be glad it's not Mother here. If it were up to her, you wouldn't be anywhere near a dragon until you were ten—if ever, if she had a choice."
"But I heard you have taken to the skies when you are only seven," Daeron questions, confused.
"It was only possible because Mother was too busy taking care of you to watch over me, and Rhaenyra was feeling cooped up in the Red Keep after birthing Lucerys. The midwives and maesters wouldn't let her take to the skies yet. So, I convinced her and Ser Laenor that if they took me along with them, I'd show them a way to the Dragonpit without anyone knowing," Aegon's grin widens as he recounts his first adventure.
"And?" Daeron prompted, his eyes gleaming with anticipation to hear the rest of the story.
"And what? We couldn't exactly hide the sight of three dragons taking to the skies—only our journey to the Dragonpit. It wasn't long before everyone knew what had happened. Mother looked livid when she finally saw us. Her shouts could have very well leveled the Keep. It was the first time I'd seen her that angry—and worried. Ser Laenor and Rhaenyra, of course, took the blame. They couldn't exactly admit that I'd blackmailed them into it, not that anyone would believe that. Besides, they were just as eager to participate in the hair-brained plan as I was. And well, that is the story of how I ended up with a Kingsguard watching over me."
"Oh," Daeron inhaled in surprise. "So it was Rhaenyra who took you on your first ride with Sunfyre?"
"Yes," Aegon hummed in agreement. "Just as I took Heleana on hers with Dreamfyre, and now, I'm taking you. One day, I'll take Aemond as well. It's my duty as your elder brother, just as Rhaenyra probably saw it as her duty to me and her own sons," Aegon said, his voice carrying a note of familial pride and warmth as he looked down at his youngest brother.
"I thought Rhaenyra hated us," Daeron says in his small voice. The way the words rasped from the little boy's throat with such conviction—unmoored Aegon.
The muscles in his neck tightened as Aegon fought back the urge to cry out. "No! No, of course not, Daeron." Aegon bent slightly, lowering himself to face his younger brother. At fourteen, Aegon had already grown as tall as a full-grown man. "Why would you think that?"
"Well, doesn't she?" Daeron replied, a hint of seriousness in his tone. "They say there will be a war one day because Rhaenyra has taken what belongs to you. That she only has protection for as long as our father is alive. But once the inevitable comes to pass, the claims of those who believe she has usurped what is rightfully yours will only grow stronger. And it will only end with either one of our family's deaths."
Aegon stiffened at Daeron's words. He hated this. Hated the suggestion that his younger brother had been subjected to the same whispers and rumors that plagued his siblings in King's Landing. Draco had naively believed that Daeron would grow up shielded from the cruel machinations of court politics, away from the shadows that loomed over their lives.
"No, Daeron," Aegon squared his shoulders as his palms came to cup the youngest Prince's face in a show of consolation. "Rhaenyra did not steal anything from me. She is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne because our father, the King, believed her to be. And the King's word is the law. Do not give too much weight to what others might say. What the lords of the realm think is irrelevant. As long as Rhaenyra and I remain steadfast against their whispers, they will have to accept the Queen they may not want but will inevitably have. Understood?"
Daeron nods solemnly with a pause. "I am serious," Aegon says once more. "There will be no war. Okay?" This time, Daeron's nod held a bit more energy. "Alright," Aegon smiles, rising back to his full height, bringing his hands together in a resounding clap. "Now, enough with the gloomy talk. Who is ready for an adventure?"