Blood of the Dragon

73 AC

Vaegon Targaryen hit the ground with a thud, his ribs smarting where Baelon’s practice sword had struck. He spat dirt and blood from his mouth, the metallic taste sharp on his tongue. Above him, Baelon stood, grinning that insufferable grin of his, the tip of his wooden blade tapping lightly against Vaegon’s arm.

“You’re hopeless,” Baelon said, his voice filled with amused disdain. “At least Aegon knows which end of the sword to hold. But you?” Baelon leaned down, mockery evident in his sharp violet gaze. “Maybe Father will make you a bard. Or a baker. Anything but a warrior.”

Vaegon pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the jabs. If Baelon wanted a reaction, he wouldn’t get one. Not from him. They never did.

Instead, Vaegon bent to retrieve the practice sword that felt as foreign in his hand as a stranger’s grip. His fingers tightened around the worn wood as he stood, his pale face a mask of calm indifference.

“I will not be something I’m not,” he muttered under his breath, the words more for himself than Baelon.

“What’s that?” Baelon called, his ear unerringly sharp. “Do speak up, Vaegon. You’ve got such a way with words.”

Vaegon’s patience began to fray, but before Baelon could goad him further, the sharp crack of boots on stone heralded the arrival of a steward.

“Prince Vaegon,” the man said, cutting a curt bow. “His Grace has summoned you to his solar.”

Vaegon froze for a moment, though his face betrayed none of his trepidation.

“Finally,” Baelon said with a laugh, wiping sweat from his brow. “Maybe Father will put an end to your aimless wandering.”

Vaegon ignored the remark. Quietly, he set his practice sword back on the rack and began to follow the steward toward the Keep. As he left the training yard, Baelon’s taunts faded into the clatter of steel on steel.

The path to his father's solar was quiet, lined with tapestries showing the history of House Targaryen, dragons soaring over the fields of battle and great castles. Vaegon glanced up at them in passing, his mother’s words echoing dimly in his mind from when he was a boy. Aegon’s line is destiny given form, Alysanne had told him once, one of her hands lightly stroking his silver hair. And you are all bound to it.

Destiny was a word Vaegon had come to resent. His brothers—Aegon the Prince of Dragonstone, Aemon the Spare, and Baelon the brash third son—seemed to wear destiny like a familiar cloak, each moving through life with a clarity he envied. They knew their places in the world. They fit.

He did not.

He was a fourth son. Any illusions he might have had about kingship had gone up in smoke before the first dragon egg of the world ever hatched. And unlike the rest of his family, he wasn’t even sure he wanted a place in the world at all.

Swords bored him, prayers annoyed him, and undoing a raven’s knot made his fingers ache. No path laid before him seemed worthy of committing his life to, not a path walked by men, at least.

No. His place wasn’t among swords or septons or scribes. The dreams had shown him that much. His dragon dreams. The terrible visions that haunted him in the dark, flashes of fire and fury and a future he dared not describe.

They frightened him—a cold, gnawing fear so sharp and intimate it wrapped itself around his ribs like a chain and tightened with every breath. What would his brothers think if they knew? Or his father? His mother?

Better to bury it.

He would rather they believe him heartless, distant, coldblooded. Baelon’s barbs and Daella’s wistful sadness were a price he would pay a thousand times over to keep his visions safe and secret.

But what did that leave him? What future could he claim for himself when every voice around him asked only what household need he would choose to serve? A maester—chained to lords and ravens? A septon—reading prayers and preaching piety for gods he did not care for? Encouraging Daella seemed another duty looming in the distance, something everyone had hinted at but no one had dared press him on… yet. He should care for something. Someone. But he didn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t.

He sighed as the steward opened the solar door, and the smell of parchment and wax greeted him. Inside, King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Conqueror’s grandson himself, was seated at his desk. His silver hair shone in the afternoon sunlight that poured in from the high windows, but his eyes were sharp and piercing, betraying no warmth. This was no doting father, not in this moment—this was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, measuring his fourth son with the same precision he might reserve for lords and envoys.

Vaegon bowed. “Father.”

“Come, sit,” Jaehaerys commanded, his tone even.

Vaegon crossed the chamber, his boots reverberating faintly against the stone floor, and took his seat opposite his father.

“You’ve come of age,” Jaehaerys began, his tone giving no room for argument. His gaze was calm but heavy. Vaegon could see measured thought behind every word, and he couldn’t help but feel he was being judged against an invisible standard. “And yet, I see no purpose in you. No path.”

Vaegon said nothing.

“You’re not like your brothers,” his father continued after a pause. “That much has always been clear. Aegon follows me as my heir and Prince of Dragonstone. Aemon is the spear, the son I can send where I must. Baelon… well, Baelon will make his own way by blade and laughter. But you?” Jaehaerys leaned forward just slightly, his pale violet eyes fixed firmly on Vaegon. “I cannot have a fourth son who drifts without direction. The realm cannot.”

“What would you have me do?” Vaegon finally asked, his words carefully measured.

“That depends on you,” Jaehaerys said simply. “The perks of being a fourth son are few, Vaegon, but there is one. You have the privilege of choosing your path. So I would hear it. Do you wish to wield a sword in my service? Wear a maester’s chain? Claim the Starry Sept?”

“I wish for none of those things,” Vaegon said, quickly enough that he surprised even himself.

Jaehaerys tensed slightly, though his face remained calm. “Then what do you wish for?”

Vaegon hesitated, his lips parting as though words might spill out—dragonfire and dreams, flames in his veins and prophecies on his tongue—but the fear stopped him.

“I don’t know yet,” he said finally, the lie coming easier than the truth.

Jaehaerys exhaled, a sound that carried the weight of disappointment.

“We’ll speak again when you’ve decided,” the King said, his voice firm as he dismissed him.

Vaegon rose silently, his father’s words echoing in his chest as he left the chamber, his head bowed against the weight of choices he could not make.

Vaegon’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone halls of the Red Keep as he walked aimlessly, his mind heavy with thoughts that refused to quiet. Two weeks. His father had given him two weeks to determine his future.

Two weeks.

It had seemed an eternity when Jaehaerys spoke the words, seated on his small council’s throne with all the gravity of a king delegating matters of great importance. Now, with the days already slipping away, the time seemed unbearably short.

At first, Vaegon had tried to ignore his father’s command—burying himself among the old scrolls of the library, wandering the gardens, strolling through the halls as he’d done a hundred times before. If he could simply lose himself in the monotony of days, perhaps the quiet would drown out the decision looming ahead.

But no solace came. The future hovered before him, silent and unrelenting, demanding answers he did not have. His brothers had always known what the world required of them. Daella, bound to marry—tragically bright-eyed about her likely fate—knew hers. Even Maegelle seemed content with her life of quiet devotion to the gods. But Vaegon? He did not belong to anything, or anyone—not gods, not flame, not family, not future.

If anything, he only belonged to the abyss clawing inside his chest, a cold, hollow void that made everything meaningless.

And yet.

His feet, of their own accord, led him here.

Vaegon hesitated in the doorway, his hand grasping the cold stone frame as he glanced into the chamber within.

Septon Barth sat at his desk, his shoulders hunched slightly as he scribbled on a length of parchment. Across from him sat Daenerys—his sister, her silver hair falling loose about her shoulders—reading from a heavy tome. Her lips moved faintly as she wrote something in quick strokes, her expression absorbed.

For a moment, Vaegon simply stared. He had never considered Daenerys bookish. She had always seemed quiet and sweet-tempered, shy in the way of young women who had nearly been gods-blessed martyrs in their infancy—the child desperate to give as much joy back to the world as her family had lavished upon her for surviving. And yet, here she was, focused, industrious.

Before he could quietly retreat down the hallway, Barth turned his head, his sharp eyes catching Vaegon at once.

“Ah,” Barth said warmly, his deep voice breaking the silence. “Prince Vaegon. Is it our time already?”

Vaegon blinked but said nothing, discomfort creeping up his spine.

Barth glanced at the darkened windows and chuckled. “My, Your Grace, we’ve overstayed once again.”

Daenerys looked up, startled at first, but quickly her lips curved into a soft, apologetic smile as she stood, gathering the stack of parchment in her arms. “Forgive me, brother. I meant only to borrow a moment of Barth’s time.”

Her tone was so gentle—too gentle, too kind, as though she were afraid her presence had somehow inconvenienced him.

Vaegon only nodded stiffly as she passed, her skirts whispering against the stone floor.

For a moment, he considered leaving after her. But Barth gestured toward the chair Daenerys had vacated. “Come. Sit.”

Vaegon stepped inside reluctantly, his gaze falling on the old Septon’s desk, cluttered with books and parchment. There were tomes bound in cracked leather, pages yellowed with age, their bindings loose, and scraps of parchment hastily stuffed between them. He hesitated a moment longer before pulling the chair out and sitting stiffly.

“What were you doing?” Vaegon asked, his voice flat.

“Writing,” Barth said with characteristic warm brevity, his hands moving instinctively to order the untidy stack of scrolls.

Vaegon rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

Barth smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Your sister and I were compiling knowledge about dragons,” he said, watching Vaegon for a reaction. “Did you know she is drawn to the higher mysteries?”

Vaegon blinked. “Daenerys?”

“A pleasant surprise, isn’t it? The quietest among your siblings, and yet the most curious when it comes to such things.” Barth’s smile broadened. “And what of you, Your Grace? What draws you?”

Vaegon frowned. Draws him? Nothing drew him. For a moment, he almost told Barth as much, but something about the Septon’s calm gaze stayed his tongue. The truth of his feelings began to spill out instead.

“Everything feels pointless,” he said, his words brittle. “Life is pointless. We live, we die, we leave behind nothing of substance.” He exhaled sharply, glancing at the table’s mess of books and scrolls. “Marriage, lording over castles, feasts, and banners—it feels empty. Even the gods feel hollow to me. I don’t care for any of it."

Barth said nothing at first. For a long moment, he simply studied the young prince, folding his weathered hands across the table. “Do you truly believe that?”

Vaegon’s frown deepened. “Why wouldn’t I?”

The Septon tilted his head, quietly considering him. “Because you are here. And if you cared for nothing, if everything truly felt pointless, you wouldn’t have come.”

“I came because my father sent me.”

“No,” Barth said gently but firmly. “You came because something within you is searching. It may not have a name yet, but it is there.”

Vaegon opened his mouth to refute him, but something in Barth’s tone—conviction without judgment—halted the words. Nonetheless, he gave a sullen shrug, unwilling to concede so openly.

Barth chuckled softly, the sound kind and warm. “What do you know of the higher mysteries, Your Grace?”

Vaegon stiffened. A flicker of heat—a memory of fire, of blood, of great wings shrouding a sky—stirred deep in his mind. He clenched his hands at his sides, the secret too fragile to share, too dangerous to admit.

“Nothing,” he said at last.

Barth did not look convinced. “Is that so?”

Vaegon glanced away.

Barth leaned forward slightly, a small, patient smile creasing his face. “What would you say—if I told you that the higher mysteries touch all of us, in one way or another? That we stand at their edges, waiting to understand, whether or not we choose to admit it?”

Vaegon’s throat tightened. He dared not speak.

“Does the thought intrigue you, Prince Vaegon?” Barth asked, his voice soft but pressing.

Vaegon hesitated, his fingers curling against the carved arms of his chair.

“I don’t know,” he said. But deep inside, he thought—perhaps.

And for the first time in a very long while, the silence didn’t feel so hollow after all.

The first time Vaegon returned the day after his confession of feeling directionless, he told himself it was only because he had nowhere else to be. He certainly did not tell Septon Barth that.

Barth was seated at his usual desk, his quill scratching against parchment. He looked up only briefly as Vaegon entered, offering a small nod of quiet acknowledgment before returning to his work. Vaegon took the same seat he had the day before, close enough to see the small dragon figurine on the desk carved from old blackened wood.

For hours, he sat there. Barth didn’t ask him questions, didn’t press him for conversation. The septon merely talked as he worked, his smooth voice filling the room like a gentle undercurrent. He spoke of things Vaegon did not expect—dragons long dead, their bones now scattered beneath the ashes of old Valyria; stories passed down by the dragon tamers of Dragonstone; how the great wings of Balerion had once blackened the skies over Pentos.

Vaegon barely spoke, listening wordlessly as the midday sun shifted across the chamber.

By the time Barth paused to roll the stiffness from his shoulders and cap his inkpot, Vaegon remained still, not even realizing how much time had passed. He left soon after, but something lingered in him—a faint tugging in his chest, like a thread pulling him back to the same chair, the same desk, the same voice.

On the second day, Daenerys was there again.

She offered him a small smile as she spread out a thick parchment before Barth. “Look, I found another name on the list,” she said brightly, her voice soft but certain. “Serenys Galyranis. She claimed her dragon, Aelwys, but hatched three eggs at the same time. A century before the Doom.”

Barth gave a thoughtful hum as his finger followed the delicate script. “An intriguing event, is it known how she managed such miracle?”

Distantly unsettled by Daenerys’ presence—still unused to her sudden strength of will in such academic pursuits—Vaegon sat in silence again, watching as she read from her notes. She spoke of her efforts to compile lists of names and accounts, shared whispers from tamers who had lived their whole lives tending dragons, their hatches, their cycles of health and illness.

“She’s learning their language,” Barth said at one point, smiling faintly as he glanced at Vaegon. “Dragons do not speak with words, you see—only fire and blood and instinct. But those who live long enough among them begin to discern patterns of thought. Princess Daenerys has taken a particular interest in their song.”

Daenerys flushed faintly but nodded. “Their cries mean different things. Their joy… their sorrow. Even their anger. A dragon tamer told me they always hum low in their sleep—it’s a comfort to themselves, almost like a babe with a crib song.”

Vaegon had never heard of such a thing before, and yet he could not bring himself to sneer or jest. Instead, he simply listened, the familiar tug in his chest now more insistent.

Throughout the day, Barth told them of ancient theories, accounts in dusty, half-forgotten tomes that spoke of dragons as magical creatures born in the shadow of great heat and death. He spoke of dragonfire, of spells lost to history, and of mysterious locations etched forever into Valyrian glass.

Vaegon found himself wondering about these things far longer than he cared to admit, even after reluctantly excusing himself for the day.

When he returned on the third day, Barth seemed neither surprised nor inconvenienced by his arrival. He merely gestured toward the empty chair as though he had been expecting him all along.

The silence hung heavy as Vaegon lowered himself into his seat. This time, Barth said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Vaegon’s hands rested on the carved arms of the chair. He traced the patterns idly, running his thumb against the grooves, the words that had knotted in his chest finally forcing their way out.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he started, each word emerging carefully, haltingly, as though unsure they should be spoken. “But I know there’s… something.”

Barth watched him quietly, his old, patient eyes seeing far more than Vaegon cared to admit.

“I think…” Vaegon hesitated, glancing away before meeting Barth’s gaze once again. And for the first time, he let the words loose. “I think I am a dragon dreamer.”

Barth tilted his head slightly, studying him with neither surprise nor skepticism. He neither interrupted nor prodded.

The silence stretched between them, endless and taut, until—finally—Vaegon exhaled, the sound as hollow and fractured as broken glass.

“I see things,” he said quietly, his voice growing tighter. “Flashes, moments. Things that come to pass. Things that are. Things that…” his throat tightened, “will be.” His hands curled into fists against the chair. “And they are rarely wrong.”

This time, Barth leaned closer, his expression soft but intent.

“How long?” he asked gently.

Vaegon met Barth’s gaze. “Since as long as I can remember.”

“And why now?”

Vaegon hesitated, his lips parting. Why now? He didn’t know. Not truly. But he dared to answer, bare and vulnerable.

“Because I don’t know what else to do with it.”

Barth didn’t so much as blink. He waited.

Vaegon looked down at his hands, lying still but tense upon his lap. “For years… I’ve buried them. Locked them away where no one could touch them. But they don’t stop.”

As the confession spilled out, slow and jagged, Vaegon felt the faintest flicker of relief—fragile, but not unwelcome. He had never spoken of this to anyone. He had buried it with an almost religious fervor. But Barth was different. Barth listened.

When he glanced up again, he found the septon watching him with quiet understanding.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel so hollow after all.

Vaegon eyed the Grand Maester with silent suspicion, his arms crossed over his chest. The chamber was small compared to the septon’s—cozier, with shelves lined floor to ceiling with jars, scrolls, and worn books. The air smelled faintly of parchment and earthy herbs, a curious mingling of knowledge and alchemy. But none of this eased Vaegon’s wariness.

Elysar sat behind a desk scattered with quills, ledgers, and an aged astrolabe. The Grand Maester was older than Barth by perhaps a decade, his face lined by the weight of years and his chain gleaming with links of varying metals—more than a dozen earned through the pursuit of different disciplines. His gaze was keen beneath his silver brows, but his demeanor lacked the fire and ferocity of some of the King’s other counselors. Elysar carried himself like a man who spoke when necessary, no more, no less.

Still, Vaegon did not sit.

“You can sit if you wish,” Elysar said mildly, gesturing toward a chair opposite the desk. “But you are free to stand, just as I am free to remain patient.”

Vaegon gave a small huff, but he finally sat, his arms still crossed. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, but the young prince refused to shift or betray his unease.

“You’ve spoken with Septon Barth,” Vaegon said sharply.

“I have,” Elysar admitted without hesitation, folding his hands neatly atop the desk. “But if you fear that he has shared anything spoken to him in confidence, Your Grace, you are mistaken.”

Vaegon frowned but said nothing. Still, his fingers curled against the armrests of the chair.

Elysar continued after a measured pause. “Septon Barth merely expressed that you’ve taken an interest in knowledge—specifically in matters others might overlook.” The corners of his mouth lifted faintly. “He thought such contemplation might benefit from a wider perspective.”

Vaegon couldn’t help but snort softly. “What makes you think I care about your perspective?”

Elysar chuckled, the sound low and rich, barely more than a rumble. “Oh, I’ve no cause to think you do. In truth, I would not have been so bold as to summon you. But it seems you’ve come here willingly—or at least, willingly enough.”

“I only came because Barth said I should.”

“No,” Elysar said, his voice quiet but firm. “You came because you are curious.”

Vaegon stiffened slightly but forced his expression into something neutral. He would not allow himself to be read so easily. Barth had already seen too much; he would not offer the same vulnerability to this unfamiliar old man.

Elysar gave no sign of noticing Vaegon’s discomfort. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Your Grace, what do you know of The Citadel?”

Vaegon hesitated. His first instinct was to offer some cutting reply—perhaps to mock the Maesters’ chains and endless candles, the dull monotony of weighing grain and wrangling ravens. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was the way Elysar’s sharp eyes studied him, not unkindly, but with steady expectation.

“That it is a place for those who wish to be marked by chains,” Vaegon said at last. “For those who aspire to be servants to lords they cannot rival.”

If Elysar was insulted, he did not show it. Instead, he chuckled lightly. “A fair observation,” he said. “If a limited one.”

Vaegon frowned.

“The chains of a Maester, Your Grace, are not symbols of binding or servitude. They are keys. Keys forged of knowledge.” He lifted his aged hand, tapping a link of iron. “The knowledge of warcraft.” Then he tapped one of Valyrian steel. “The higher mysteries.” Next came a link of bronze, dulled by time. “History. Healing. Astronomy. The chains are not merely worn—they are earned. And as one earns them, so do they learn how to wield them.”

Vaegon said nothing as Elysar spoke, his gaze lowering slightly to the Grand Maester’s chain.

“You are partly right,” Elysar continued, his tone unhurried. “Many Maesters take vows to serve castles and banners their entire lives. But The Citadel is not merely for those who extend their knowledge to others. It is a refuge, Your Grace. For questions. For answers. For mysteries whose purpose has yet to be illuminated.”

Vaegon’s hands tensed.

Elysar leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Do you know why Barth thought of you, Vaegon?”

Vaegon’s lips pressed tightly together, but he still shook his head.

“Because you are restless,” the Grand Maester said simply. “Because you are discontented by the shallow currents others seem content to swim in, and because you are unmoored by the thought of finding purpose in marriage, lording, or even faith.”

Vaegon’s gaze flicked up to meet Elysar’s.

“Purposelessness is a heavy burden to bear, but it is not an uncommon one,” Elysar said thoughtfully. “Do you know what makes you different, Your Grace? What tempted me to speak with you today?”

There was no edge of patronizing condescension in his voice, only a quiet curiosity that almost felt… real.

“What?” Vaegon muttered.

Elysar’s sharp eyes seemed to glitter. “You are searching.”

Vaegon scoffed, though it came from his throat rather than his heart. “And the Maesters will help me search? Please. What does The Citadel need with a discontented Targaryen boy who doesn’t wish to swaddle lords in chainmail or bandage their wounds?”

“The Citadel needs little from you,” Elysar admitted. “But you may find that you have need of The Citadel.”

Vaegon frowned.

Elysar gestured to the shelves around them. “Have you considered how much there is to know? How much men will never know? You need not serve lords or smallfolk, Your Grace. You could take up vows to knowledge itself. You could wield understanding as a knight wields his blade, slicing through shadows of ignorance where others dare not step.”

“And what then?” Vaegon asked sharply. “What changes with words written in ink? With theories and philosophies hoarded in tomes?”

“That depends,” Elysar said calmly, “on the purpose of the man who writes them.”

Vaegon held Elysar’s gaze. The Grand Maester’s expression revealed no guile, no deception, only a quiet conviction that sat uncomfortably in Vaegon’s chest.

“Among the Maesters, you could study all your restless heart desires—fire, blood, dragons, the stars above, the gods below.” Elysar allowed himself a faint smile. “And shape what you learn, not to serve others, but to challenge the world to be more than it was.”

The silence stretched again.

Vaegon did not move. He didn’t speak.

And yet, somewhere deep within him, he felt the faintest, unspoken thought begin to stir.

Vaegon had made his choice.

He stood before them now, spine straight, face composed, his hands clasped tightly at his sides. Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys sat before him in quiet expectation—a king and queen who had shaped the realm more than any Targaryen before them, now simply a father and mother regarding their son with a mixture of hope and unspoken trepidation.

“I wish to go to the Citadel,” Vaegon said, his voice steady, measured, each word falling into the stillness like the strike of a hammer.

Alysanne’s smile came first. It was a soft, fleeting thing, but it lit her face with relief. She had spent so many years looking for something—anything—that Vaegon might claim as his own. To hear him speak of a choice, a future, it was enough to ease the burden on her brow, if only for a moment.

Jaehaerys, however, only watched. The King’s face revealed nothing, his expression as unreadable as it had been the day Vaegon had spoken his first bitter words in the council chamber all those years ago.

“So you will forge your chain?” Jaehaerys asked at last, his tone calm as the sea before a storm.

Vaegon shook his head slightly. “I will learn,” he corrected. “I do not yet know what path I will take. But this…” He paused, searching for the right words. “This is the first step.”

Jaehaerys tilted his head, as if weighing the truth of Vaegon’s words. At last, he gave a single, slow nod.

“Then I have a gift for you,” the King said, lifting his hand.

Vaegon blinked, startled, as a servant approached, carrying a small chest of dark, polished wood. Its silver hinges gleamed softly in the torchlight as it was set before him.

For a moment, Vaegon didn’t move. Gifts from his father were rare. Not because Jaehaerys was unkind, but because he rarely afforded sentiment the same weight as practicality. Vaegon half-expected to open the chest and find some relic of Valyrian lore—a book, perhaps, or a small trinket from Dragonstone.

Taking a steadying breath, Vaegon knelt and flipped the latch. The hinges creaked faintly as he lifted the lid.

His breath caught.

Inside lay seven dragon glass candles.

They glistened like liquid obsidian, dark and smooth, catching the light in their muted silence.

Vaegon stared at them, his hand hovering over the chest, unwilling to touch them. A flicker of panic rose in his chest, sharp and insistent.

He knew what they were. He had read of their use in Valyria, of how the sorcerers of old claimed the candles burned with an undying, unnatural light when kindled. But here they sat, utterly still, seemingly lifeless.

Did he know? Vaegon’s throat closed ever so slightly. Did Barth betray my trust and tell him about the dreams?

Slowly, Vaegon looked up, his gaze locking with his father’s. Jaehaerys held his son’s eyes with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down Vaegon’s spine. Then, at last, the King smiled—not coldly, not sharply, but not without purpose either.

“Septon Barth told me some things,” Jaehaerys said evenly. “And I have long suspected others.”

Vaegon’s pulse quickened, his panic deepening for a moment into something sharper, more raw.

But Jaehaerys raised a hand, a quiet gesture of reassurance. “You are not the first Targaryen to dream, Vaegon, and you will not be the last. Our blood tells many stories. What matters is not the dream itself—what matters is what you choose to do with it.”

The words struck Vaegon like a blow. He couldn’t look away from his father’s face, framed by the light of the chamber flames. There were no accusations there, no judgment. Only understanding.

He lowered his gaze, his eyes falling back to the candles, and for the first time, the unease in his chest began to loosen.

“Use them well,” Jaehaerys said softly, his tone almost gentle. “Use your knowledge well. Not for yourself, not for petty ambition, not for fleeting glory—but for the realm. For all of us.”

Vaegon’s fingers curled against the edge of the chest. For so much of his life, he had felt unseen. Misunderstood. A troubled piece in a larger game of politics and expectations. But now… now, he felt it for the first time—that quiet, fragile recognition.

His lips parted, words of gratitude forming—but then everything shifted.

The edges of the world blurred, and the sight before him became something else.

Jaehaerys was older, thinner, his silver hair limp and his skin frail like parchment worn thin by time. The light in his violet eyes dimmed, clouded by exhaustion and the years weighing upon his frame. Alysanne was gone, the space beside him hollow. The Iron Throne loomed behind him, cold and unfeeling as ever.

Vaegon blinked, and the vision vanished in an instant.

His father sat there as he had before, regal and steady, the weight of his crown resting lightly on his shoulders. But the image lingered in Vaegon’s mind, etched into his thoughts like one of his dreams.

Carefully, Vaegon closed the chest and rose to his feet. He felt the weight of his father’s words, of the candles, of the future pressed onto his shoulders.

He met Jaehaerys’ gaze and nodded once, every ounce of his being poured into the next three words: “I will learn.”

Jaehaerys inclined his head, his faint smile returning.

74 AC

The Citadel was nothing like the Red Keep.

Vaegon had learned this quickly and thoroughly.

Here, a name and a crown meant nothing; even dragons would bow before the weight of knowledge, their fire a flickering match beside the steady blaze of history and inquiry. No man at the Citadel bent the knee for a prince. Titles, once stripped of their silk and gold, became simply words.

Yet he still felt the weight of his own name, clinging to him like a chain.

Elysar’s letter of recommendation had greased his first steps into the citadel’s labyrinth, and Barth’s influence lingered like a ghost. There were some maesters who sought him out, curious about the boy described in whispers—a Targaryen prince, yes, but one whose talents seemed bent not toward war or power but toward the sharp edge of the mind. Others regarded him as nothing more than another lad in robes, thinner and quieter than most.

Vaegon walked those halls with something to prove. And now, it seemed, he was being summoned to prove it.

The Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries—a man named Othar, of no house Vaegon recognized—had sent word. It was not a formal summons, nor was it rich with pleasantries. The note had been quick, blunt, written in an almost impatient hand.

Come to my chambers at the seventh bell. Bring your mind with you.

Vaegon had stared at the words for a long moment, turning them over in his head. He had heard of Othar in whispers around the Citadel—a man of dispassionate brilliance, they said, regarded equally with respect and wariness. What little reputation Vaegon had been able to glean elsewhere barely touched Othar’s orbit. But this summons likely owed itself to Barth, whose shadow seemed to twist around every opportunity Vaegon was given here. Barth had sent letters, no doubt urging men like Othar to test his mettle.

So Vaegon came at the appointed time. The door to the Archmaester’s chambers was already ajar, and from within wafted the scents of parchment, herbs, and something faintly bitter.

“Enter,” came a voice before Vaegon could knock, rough and raspy but stronger than age alone often allowed.

Vaegon stepped inside.

The chamber was modest—not plain, exactly, but stripped of any unnecessary adornment. Shelves of scrolls curled like snakes around the room; a brazier lit the space with the muted glow of firelight. At a small table covered in scratched parchments and strange implements, the Archmaester sat, pouring tea into two plain cups.

He looked up, and his sharp gray eyes cut into Vaegon like a sword—not with malice, but with the precision of a man who had made a lifetime of seeing through layers of pretense. He was old, his face carved by time and thought, but strong in a way that suggested weight beneath his robes and strength in his movements. His chain glinted in the firelight, and Vaegon noticed how worn several of the links were, the telltale smoothing that came from decades of study.

“So,” Othar said, his voice almost lazy. “The princeling finally shows up.”

Vaegon’s jaw tightened at the jab. His title was a sore spot here, an anchor he could not sever no matter how much he wanted to. He forced himself to keep his spine straight, to return Othar’s gaze with quiet resolve. “I came when you summoned me.”

“And,” the old man said, smirking faintly, “you even brought your tongue. Not just your mind.” He gestured toward the seat on the opposite side of the table. “Sit, then. Tea?”

Vaegon hesitated, unsure if the question was an offer or a test. “Yes,” he said, choosing caution over pride.

Othar poured the tea in silence, sliding one of the cups toward Vaegon without comment. His own hands cradled the other as though he enjoyed its warmth but had no intention of drinking from it just yet. “I’ve read Barth’s letter,” the old man said finally, breaking the silence. “He seems to think you’ve a brain in that silver-haired head of yours.”

Vaegon reached for the tea, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat when Othar didn’t follow Barth’s compliment with anything softer. He took a sip, his face twitching at the bitterness.

“Don’t grimace,” Othar chided, almost amused. “Bitterness sharpens the tongue.”

“I prefer sharper thoughts to a sharper tongue, Archmaester.”

Othar chuckled, and it wasn’t entirely unkind. “Then we’ll get on well enough, if you survive me.”

Vaegon bristled slightly. “I’ve survived worse.”

Othar raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Have you now?”

A challenge hovered in the Archmaester’s voice, but Vaegon didn’t bite. He simply met Othar’s gaze coolly and took another sip of tea, even as the bitterness curled against his mouth.

“Hmm,” Othar muttered, sitting back. “Perhaps Barth didn’t overstate your pride. But pride won’t carry you far here, princeling.” His eyes darkened. “Not without purpose to ground it. So—tell me, boy. What purpose do you serve?”

Vaegon blinked, startled by the abruptness of the question. He set the teacup down gently, as if that would give him space to think. “I seek knowledge,” he answered carefully. “My father told me to use it for the good of the realm.”

Othar snorted, a sound somewhere between amusement and disappointment. “Ah. The good of the realm. How noble.” He scratched at his chin, the faintest of smiles curling his lips. “And tell me, Prince. What is the realm?”

Vaegon exhaled slowly, his annoyance flaring at what felt like mockery. “The realm is the kingdom, the people. It’s House Targaryen.”

“Is it?” Othar asked, tilting his head slightly. “Then should the smallfolk pray to your family crests when they starve? Should they burn incense in honor of your father’s crown when their fields rot beneath frost and flame?”

Vaegon’s jaw clenched, the warmth of the tea doing nothing to soften his steadily rising ire. “We have ruled for over a century,” he said evenly, “and we have brought peace as often as war.”

Othar’s smile widened, wolfish now. “Ah, peace and fire. The Targaryen gifts.” His voice dropped, quiet but sharp. “Perhaps your father should have reminded you, princeling: peace is built on ash.”

Something—shame, anger, doubt, perhaps all three—twisted in Vaegon’s stomach. But before he could respond, Othar’s tone changed, lowering into something more deliberate.

“The realm is not a name,” he said softly. “Nor a crown. Nor even a banner, though men cling to those things as if they matter.” He leaned forward again, his voice growing heavier. “The realm is the people who live and die beneath the lies you tell yourselves about power and legacy. It is the children who cry in fear of dragons, not those who ride them.”

Vaegon frowned, his composure cracking slightly. “And I’m meant to help them how? By abandoning my family? By serving yours?”

Othar’s brow rose slightly, his voice soft but cutting. “You’re meant to serve knowledge, boy. Not kings. Not ambition. Knowledge.” He gestured faintly at the candle on the table between them, its soft flame twisting in the air. “Fire can guide. Or it can burn. That’s your choice.”

For the first time, Vaegon faltered. The fire seemed to flicker faintly, its light fragile but unyielding.

“Dreams can be fire,” Othar said. “A bright flame, beautiful and dangerous. But knowledge…” He smiled faintly. “Knowledge is the hand that wields it. Learn to wield it—or it will consume you, and those you claim to love.”

Vaegon had no answer. Only the faint rustle of the flame lingered in the quiet chamber.

Vaegon sat motionless, his fingers curled loosely around the bitter tea he had barely touched. Othar, for his part, seemed content to let the quiet reign, his sharp eyes fixed on Vaegon as though weighing something unseen.

At last, the Archmaester broke the stillness with a dry chuckle. “I see it now,” he said, not unkindly. “The son of Jaehaerys Targaryen and Alysanne the Good. You wear their legacy heavily, even when you try not to.” He leaned back in his chair, the chain around his neck clinking softly with the motion. “But tell me, boy, do you know why Barth sent you here?”

Vaegon thought he might. That Barth had seen something in him—something curious, something restless. That the Septon, despite his closeness to his father and mother, had looked at Vaegon as more than just another heir to the dragonlord legacy. But the truth of it, the deeper truth, felt just out of reach.

“To guide me,” Vaegon ventured at last, though his tone lacked certainty.

“Wrong.” Othar’s voice was sharp, almost biting, but his eyes held a knowing glint. “Barth sent you here not to be guided, but to be tested. He wanted to see if you’d burn out like so many other clever boys who think themselves valuable simply because they want to be.”

Vaegon bristled—again—but swallowed the sting. He didn’t trust his tongue not to betray him now.

“And?” he asked finally, forcing his voice to remain steady.

Othar smiled faintly, though it was not a smile of warmth or approval. “That remains to be seen.”

The words hung heavy in the air, less a dismissal than a declaration of war. Vaegon set his tea down, carefully aligning the cup with the edges of the table as if ritualizing some form of control.

Othar rose with the slow grace of a man who knew no unnecessary movements. He stepped toward one of the shelves lining the chamber, his gaze sweeping over the scrolls as though searching for something forgotten. “Barth believes in you,” Othar said, his back turned now. His hand moved across the spines of books without lingering. “That’s no small thing. He believes you can be… different.”

“Different how?” It escaped Vaegon before he could help himself.

Othar glanced at him over one shoulder, smirking in that sharp, knowing way of his. “Let’s find out.”

He plucked a scroll from the shelf and returned to the table, unrolling it as he sat once more. Vaegon’s eyes flicked to the parchment, noting strange runic markings alongside written text in an unfamiliar language.

“Do you know what this is?” Othar asked, sliding the scroll toward him.

Vaegon hesitated. He had seen glimpses of scripts like this in scattered histories. Only glimpses, though. “Valyrian glyphwork,” he said cautiously. Then, after a beat, added, “Ancient. Older than Aegon the Conqueror. Maybe older than the Doom itself.”

“Correct,” Othar said, his tone neither approving nor dismissive. He tapped the center of the page with one ink-stained finger. “Read it.”

“I can’t.” Vaegon’s voice was clipped, frustration creeping into his tone. “It’s too old. I’ve seen nothing like it—”

“Good,” Othar interrupted, cutting him off with the same bluntness he wielded like a weapon. “You’re honest enough to admit what you don’t know. That’s the first step most men miss on their way to wisdom.”

Vaegon stiffened at the vaguely patronizing tone but bit back the retort forming on his tongue. He focused instead on the glyphs in front of him, leaning closer.

“Where did you find this?” he asked, curiosity outweighing pride for the moment.

Othar let out a low chuckle. “In the ashes,” he said enigmatically. “As most treasures are found. But you’ve no use for where it came from—not yet, at least. What matters is what it means.”

Vaegon frowned, scanning the page again. His instincts told him there was a logic to it, something he could unravel if he just looked long enough, thought hard enough.

“What does it mean?” he asked, despite the annoyance he felt at the necessity of asking.

“Ah, there’s the rub,” Othar said, leaning forward conspiratorially. His chain swayed with the motion, catching the firelight like dark iron. “Do you see these glyphs? And here, these strange patterns? Do you know what binds them together?”

Vaegon shook his head slowly, feeling less like a prince with every passing second.

“Knowledge,” Othar said simply. “And the realization that you will never hold all of it. That is your first lesson, boy.” He leaned back, his gaze steady. “You will spend the rest of your life chasing what lies in that gap—between what you know and what you don’t. The question is whether you’ll let that fire consume you… or let it shape you into something stronger.”

For a long moment, Vaegon said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t trust himself to speak.

But something flickered within him—a quiet ember of purpose rekindled, faint but persistent. He didn’t know if he could ever be the man Othar thought Barth intended him to be, and he didn’t know if he wanted that either. But he did know one thing:

He would learn.

Vaegon rose slowly, still uncertain whether he had passed a test—or if the test had only just begun. He glanced down at the unreadable scroll one last time, letting its mysteries weigh on his mind.

“Shall I return tomorrow?” he asked, his voice even.

Othar smirked. “You’ll return every day for as long as you can stand me, princeling.” He waved a hand toward the door, already signaling his dismissal. “Now go. Let that Targaryen pride of yours simmer down before you come back.”

Vaegon turned without another word, stepping out into the cool corridor beyond the Archmaester’s chambers.

As the door closed softly behind him, he let out a slow breath. He had no illusions that this path would be easy—Othar would ensure it wasn’t. Barth’s favor, his father’s expectations, his mother’s hope—they all weighed heavily on him, driving him toward something vast and unknowable.

But for the first time in his young life, Vaegon felt the faintest edge of clarity. He would not serve himself. Not his family. Not even his own pride.

He would serve knowledge itself.

One day, memories of Othar’s sharp words and relentless lessons would shape the man he became. One day, he would wield his mind as both sword and shield, carrying the torch of learning for the realm, for the future—for all of mankind. But not without cost.

Because duty, he was learning, was a flame that burned brighter than love.

And men’s hearts were fragile things.

Extra scene:

Oldtown, The Citadel, 99 AC

The light of the single oil lamp flickered faintly in the low-ceilinged chamber, casting long, dancing shadows across shelves crowded with tomes whose spines were cracked with age. The air smelled of parchment and ink, with just a trace of the lye soap used to polish the flagstones. Somewhere far off, muted by thick stone walls, the bells of Sunhouse Harbor tolled midnight.

Vaegon Targaryen, clad in the plain robes of a maester-in-training, sat perched on a three-legged stool beside his mentor’s chair. His silver-blond hair was pulled back tightly, his youthful features stern and sharp as he read aloud from The World of Weir and Wonder, his fingers idly tracing the spine of the book while his voice rose and fell with the cadence of the text.

Across from him sat Archmaester Othar, barely more than a shape beneath the folds of a heavy blanket. The man’s head, bald but ringed with wisps of gray, rested against the back of the chair as his single seeing eye glinted in the lamplight. His other eye, clouded over with milky whiteness, peered blindly ahead. Once a giant of a man, Othar now seemed diminished, bent by the frailty of age. But his voice, when he spoke, still carried the weight of his authority.

“That will do for tonight, Vaegon,” Othar said, raising one hand slightly. The book fell silent as Vaegon obediently closed it with a faint sigh of parchment against parchment. “You read too neatly. Could at least pretend you’re an acolyte in need of discipline.”

Vaegon quirked a rare half-smile at the weak jest, carefully placing the book on a nearby table. “Would that please you, Archmaester?”

“Nothing pleases me,” Othar muttered, his expression curling faintly toward mirth. But his one good eye gleamed as he motioned for Vaegon to adjust the pillow at his side, which the younger man did with practiced ease. “Tell me, lad—have you finished your essay on Valyrian glyphs yet? Or were you too absorbed by Lomos Longstrider’s drivel to bother?”

“It is finished,” Vaegon replied, resuming his place by the archmaester’s side. Always disciplined, always precise, Vaegon was nothing if not efficient. “Though I suspect you’ll mistakenly believe me to be sympathetic to glyphomancy and its so-called divine nature.”

Othar chuckled faintly, a dry sound that rasped in his chest. “Have I labored all these years to forge a blind fool? Even I reject gryph beliefs mistaken for scholarship.” He squinted at Vaegon, as if to appraise him. “Still, you’ve always had... an affinity for Valyrian matters. I see it in the way your interest lingers.”

Vaegon’s brow furrowed slightly at the comment. “Hardly surprising,” he replied coolly. “Their language, their history, their magic—it’s the inheritance of my line, whether I lay claim to it or not.”

“Hm. But how much of that inheritance remains?” Othar mused, his voice dropping to a near-murmur, like a fading heartbeat. “How much has been forgotten or destroyed?”

Vaegon didn’t react to the question at first, his calm expression giving little away. Finally, he said, “You think little of my family’s legacy, don’t you?”

Othar turned his head slightly, studying the young man with his single eye. “Oh, I think plenty of it—and of its lessons. The rise and rule of Valyria is the finest tragedy the world has ever known,” he said, his voice sharpening. “Their triumphs, unmatched. Their hubris, unrelenting. And their ruin—inevitable, and impeccably complete.”

Vaegon leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Do you believe the Doom was inevitable?”

“I do,” Othar admitted after a slow, measured breath. “But inevitability has causes, lad. Even the mightiest threads can be frayed to ruin when pulled too tightly. Valyria stretched the fabric of magic further than it had been stretched before—farther than it should have been.”

Vaegon tilted his head, interest gleaming faintly in his violet eyes. “You believe it was magic itself that failed them?”

Othar’s leathery lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “I do not think magic failed, Vaegon. I think magic rebelled.”

The younger man’s brow furrowed slightly. “Elaborate.”

The archmaester chuckled, low and dry. “Have you studied the folk of Ghis and the Rhoynar, Vaegon? How they worshiped their gods and spirits—not Valyrian arrogance, gods—and paid blood, tears, and prayers to feed the roots of their magic? Sacrifice, lad. Balance.”

Vaegon nodded slowly. “The Ghis claimed their strength stemmed from their... devotions. And the Rhoynar believed their rivers held power...”

“Not believed, boy,” Othar corrected. “They knew. They knew the price. They knew the cost. And they learned better than to take more than they gave.”

“And Valyria did not,” Vaegon murmured.

Othar smiled faintly in approval, continuing, “The dragonlords? Bah. They came. They conquered. They demanded the heavens and the earth bend to their will. Magic was not a boon to them—it was a tool, always shoved deeper into its limits, deeper into peril. They built their empire on a foundation of blood and fire, Vaegon, and never considered how deep the cracks might run.”

A beat of silence passed as Vaegon absorbed the words, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with thought. “And you propose the Doom was the collapse of those cracks. That... their carelessness destabilized something fundamental to the world?”

“Precisely,” Othar said softly. His voice grew thoughtful, almost reverent. “The Valyrians consumed magic with their excess: their sorcery, their dragons, their glyphs, their experiments. They twisted it to their will as if they alone owned it, smothering the old rituals of the peoples they destroyed, ignoring the delicate balance their power demanded.” He leaned forward as much as his frail body allowed. “And balance demands retribution sooner or later, lad. Always.”

Vaegon leaned back slightly, his gaze distant as he wrestled with the implications of Othar’s theory. Finally, he asked, “If it is as you say, if the Doom was a reckoning for Valyria’s sins... then how did my ancestors escape it unscathed?”

Othar’s good eye glinted in the lamplight, mirthless and faintly grim. “Because your ancestors fled,” he said simply. “They saw the storm coming and turned their backs to it. Perhaps through luck. Or wits. Or...” His lip curled faintly. “Or a whisper of prophecy.”

Vaegon straightened at that, his jaw tightening slightly. “Dragon dreams.”

“A powerful gift—and curse,” Othar said, his voice falling softer still. “But I wonder...” The old man’s face turned pensive. “Did your ancestors avoid the fate of Old Valyria entirely? Or did they merely escape its end only to carry its echoes with them? You’re quiet in Westeros now, boy. But power... fire always spreads.”

Vaegon’s lips thinned. “You think Westeros will suffer for the remnants of Valyria.”

“I think you’ve had your fair share of portents,” Othar rasped, his voice faint but deliberate. “Dragon dreams. Aegon’s ambitions. The Dance of Shadows?” He paused, his voice weighted with finality. “Fire consumes. And as long as your line wields it, there will be a price, whether you see it coming or not.”

The lamplight sputtered slightly, throwing their faces into flickering relief—one old and pale, one young and pensive. Finally, Vaegon broke the silence, his tone measured. “You speak of balance, Archmaester. Of the need to give as we take. To honor the foundations we stand upon.”

“That I do,” Othar replied with a faint, wheezing smile.

Vaegon’s gaze cooled, faint traces of stubborn pride settling across his sharp features. “Valyria may have burned for its sins,” he said quietly. “But I am not Valyria.”

“No,” Othar murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear. “But Valyria made you, boy. And the cracks remain.”

The conversation ended there, but the questions lingered—thick as smoke in the narrow chamber.