The moon hung low over Dragonstone, casting silver shadows across the obsidian towers. Within the heart of the ancient keep, I stood barefoot upon heated stone. My tiny hands trembled, not with fear — but with growing power.
Three years old.
But I remembered everything.
From Earth.
From history.
From prophecy.
And now, from the world whispering beneath my feet.
"Aegon."
The voice was warm, soft, but firm — the voice of a woman who had seen war, love, and loss all within one lifetime.
Lady Daenara Velaryon, my mother.
The moment I turned, her face broke into a rare smile. She knelt, opening her arms, and I walked into her embrace.
"You're always down here these days," she whispered into my silver hair. "Among the stones. With your dragon."
Balerion loomed in the shadows behind me, already the size of a small horse. His black scales shimmered faintly in the torchlight. His eyes tracked my mother, not with hostility — but with primal awareness. He knew she was mine. And therefore sacred.
"I'm building, mother," I said softly. "The stone listens. The fire obeys."
She paused, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. Her fingers trembled. "You speak as if you're twice your age."
I nearly laughed. I am twenty-five inside, Mother. You have no idea.
But instead, I said, "Because the world is waiting. And I must be ready."
Later that night…
In the solar chamber above the dragon forge, a heated argument boiled between my parents.
Aerion Targaryen, my father — sharp-jawed, proud, and wary.
"She's filling his head with tales of gods and monsters!" he snapped. "This 'faith' he speaks of? What of the Seven? The realm already has a religion!"
"She's not the one filling his head," Daenara countered. "He was born strange. The day he touched that egg... something awoke. You saw it too, husband. You felt it."
"I felt fire," Aerion growled. "Enough fire to burn a ship. The babe had flames in his crib, and the dragon was not tamed — it submitted. That's not natural."
"It's divine."
They both fell silent.
I listened from above, Balerion crouched beside me on the rafters. We were silent, breath synced. Listening. Learning.
The Forge Caverns
The next morning, Lucien accompanied me to the ancient volcanic forge beneath Dragonstone — a place even my ancestors rarely touched.
I knelt before a pool of glowing lava, feeling the pulse of the mountain beneath.
[Earthbending: 20% Mastery — Milestone Reached][New Skill Unlocked: Geoforge][Firebending: 15% Mastery — Passive: Flame Memory]
"I will build cities," I murmured.
Lucien, ever silent, merely inclined his head.
"One for each Great House. With these hands."
With a motion, I drew stone and fire together — and shaped them into a miniature city in moments. Rising towers of obsidian, flowing aqueducts of molten silver, terraces filled with fertile soil.
"First," I said, "for the Starks. Winter holds the roots of old magic. I'll remind them the flame can warm as much as it burns."
The Raven Scrolls
Over the following weeks, seven ravens took flight.
Each bore a scroll, etched with fire-hardened runes and sealed in crimson wax bearing my personal sigil: Three Dragons — Black, Red, and White — the black one soaring between the others.
To the Lord of Winterfell, I offered a fortress of warmth and stone grown from the snow.
To the Lord of the Eyrie, a sky palace in the clouds.
To the Durrandon king, a city built where storm and stone meet.
Each gift... a betrothal.
Each city... a throne of loyalty.
Each construction... proof of my divine right.
[Quest Progress: Great House Betrothal Gifts — 0/7 Complete][Reward: Enhanced Noble Loyalty + Permanent Trade Routes + Faith Expansion]
At Home…
Meanwhile, Rhaenys and Visenya had begun developing their own strange gifts.
Visenya had taught herself to call wind without speaking. The ravens feared her, and servants avoided her eyes.
Rhaenys, more playful, began crafting flowers from stone and making them bloom with a laugh.
[Visenya: Windborn Ascendant — 17% Mastery][Rhaenys: Verdant Flame — 22% Mastery]
Mother had begun watching us with a mix of fear and awe.
And Father... he had begun writing to Valyria.
Aegon's power had bloomed too quickly.
And the world was beginning to notice.