**THE FAME GROWS**
One year has passed since the journey to Braavos.
One year of glances following Targaryen ships when they dock in foreign ports. One year of whispers in taverns and markets, of stories growing with each telling, of legends beginning to weave around four children who haven't even turned thirteen.
The tale of the four young riders who saved a caravan and frightened a scammer mage has already spread through all the ports of Essos.
Merchants speak of them in the taverns of Pentos, while drinking wine and negotiating their next deals.
—They are children of Valyria —they whisper, leaning over the table —. The ancient blood. The true blood.
Sailors, on the docks of Braavos, tell of seeing enormous dragons flying over the sea, their silhouettes outlined against the moon, their roars echoing in the night.
—They are children —say others, the more skeptical, those who need to see to believe —. But with dragons. And that makes them more dangerous than any army.
And where there is fame, there are enemies.
Where there is power, there are those who want to seize it.
Where there is light, there are shadows that lurk.
On Dragonstone, the children train harder than ever.
Aerom has tested them every day. Not just with books and lessons. With strategy exercises, with battle simulations, with questions that have no easy answers.
—Your fame precedes you —he tells them one morning, in that small courtyard where lessons are always harshest —. And it also follows you. There will be those who want to meet you, yes. Kings, mages, lords of coin. And there will be those who want to kill you.
Visenya smiles.
That fierce, defiant smile of hers.
—Let them come.
Aerom looks at her seriously.
His grey eyes, so old, so tired, meet his granddaughter's.
—When they come, child, they won't be scammers with sand. They will be real men. With real magic. With real armies. And they will not hesitate.
Silence fills the room.
Even Visenya finds no answer.
Because she knows her grandfather speaks the truth.
**THE MESSAGE**
One afternoon, as the sun begins to decline and shadows lengthen over the port, a ship arrives at Dragonstone.
It is not a merchant ship like those that dock every week. It is different. Small, fast, with sails black as night and a hull that seems to absorb light.
From it descends a man wrapped in purple robes, his arms covered in rings that gleam even in the twilight, and eyes too bright, as if he carried fire within.
—I bring a message for the young riders —he says in a honeyed voice, bowing before Dareo, who receives him at the dock —. My master, a great mage from an island to the east, wishes to meet them. He offers alliance, gifts, knowledge.
Dareo looks at him with distrust.
His instinct, the one that has kept him alive for so many years, tells him something smells wrong.
—What kind of mage? —he asks, in a neutral voice.
The emissary smiles. A smile that does not reach his eyes.
—Of the powerful kind —he replies —. Of those who know things others ignore. Of those who can offer protection... or quite the opposite.
That night, after the emissary retires to sleep on his ship, the four siblings gather in Aegon's room.
—It's a trap —Visenya says without hesitation —. It smells like a trap. Smells like a cheap mage with delusions of grandeur.
—Maybe —Aegon replies thoughtfully —. But if we're afraid of everything, we'll never leave this island.
Orys, sitting on the floor with crossed legs, intervenes:
—We could go. But prepared. If we see anything strange, we leave. If they attack, we respond.
Rhaenys nods.
—If it's a trap, we burn the mage. If it's true, we make an ally. What do we lose?
—Our lives —Visenya says.
—Only if we lose —Rhaenys smiles.
Aegon looks at his siblings.
Three pairs of eyes watch him, awaiting his decision.
—We go —he says finally —. But we go together. And at the first sign of betrayal... fire.
**THE JOURNEY**
The four take off at dawn.
The sky is clear, the wind favorable, the sea shining like a sheet of silver under the rising sun. As if the gods blessed the journey.
Aegon and Orys ride Valerio.
The great dragon, the largest, flies with the smoothness of one who has soared these skies for decades. His wings beat with a hypnotic cadence, lifting currents that the small dragons use to play.
Visenya rides Vhagar.
Her green dragon, now a bit larger, flies close to Valerio, like a cub beside its mother. Visenya, with wind whipping her silver hair, scans the horizon with hawk's eyes.
Rhaenys rides Meraxes.
The blue dragon, calmer than her sister, flies in tight formation. Rhaenys, from her back, observes everything with that gaze of hers that never misses a detail.
The sea passes beneath them.
Tiny islands, green spots in the blue immensity. Fishermen's boats that seem like toys. Whales leaping, enormous and indifferent.
—Do you think it's dangerous? —Orys asks, holding onto Aegon.
His voice, barely a whisper, is almost lost in the wind.
—Yes —Aegon replies without turning —. That's why the four of us are going.
Orys smiles.
He no longer trembles so much.
**THE ISLAND**
The island appears on the horizon like a nightmare.
Small, yes. But surrounded by black cliffs that seem like stone teeth. The sea breaks against them with a fury that should not be natural. The waves, too high, too violent, pound without rest.
In the center, a tower of grey stone rises like an accusing finger toward the sky.
It is not a friendly tower. It has no cheerful windows or welcoming banners. It is dark, massive, threatening. As if the stone itself wanted to say: do not approach.
Around the tower, armed men.
Dozens. Fifty perhaps.
With spears, swords, and crossbows. Ordered formations, eyes to the sky, prepared.
—I don't like this —Rhaenys says from Meraxes.
—Neither do I —Aegon admits.
Flying over the island, they see more. Barracks for the soldiers. Storehouses. A dry moat around the tower. Prepared defenses.
This is not the residence of a scholarly mage.
It is a military fortress.
—Do we land? —Visenya asks.
Aegon hesitates.
A moment. Just a moment.
Then he nods.
—We land. But the dragons stay alert.
They descend to a nearby beach, the only one not guarded. Black sand, sharp rocks, the eternal sound of waves.
The dragons remain alert. Valerio, immense, lifts his head and sniffs the air. Vhagar and Meraxes, beside him, mimic his posture.
The children walk toward the tower.
**THE MAGE**
The mage awaits them at the tower entrance.
He is a thin man, almost skeletal, with a grizzled beard hanging from his face like lichen from a dead tree. He wears a black robe embroidered with gold in symbols the children do not recognize, but that make them shiver.
—Welcome, young riders —he says with a smile that does not reach his eyes.
His eyes, yes. Those are the worst. Too bright, like embers about to flare up.
—I have been expecting you.
Aegon does not beat around the bush.
—For what?
The mage laughs. A dry, cracked laugh, like stones grinding together.
—To offer you a deal, of course. Your blood is valuable. Very valuable. Dragon blood, ancient blood. With it, I could...
He does not finish the sentence.
Visenya has already drawn her dagger.
The blade, small but sharp, gleams in her hand.
—Trap —she says —. I KNEW IT.
The mage sighs.
As if regretting having to do what he is about to do.
He raises his hands.
And the world fills with illusions.
**THE BATTLE**
Serpents of smoke rise from the ground. Large, threatening, with fangs of shadow. They writhe in the air, advancing toward the children.
Shadows move along the walls. Deformed, grotesque figures whispering names the children should not know.
But the illusions are weak.
They dissolve with the wind.
Valerio, from the beach, roars. The sound, pure, real, shatters the spells like a hammer shatters glass.
The mage pales.
—KILL THEM! —he shouts.
The fifty warriors advance.
They are not illusions. They are real. Their swords, real. Their spears, real. Their crossbows, real.
Aegon whistles.
Valerio roars again. Takes off. His shadow covers the battlefield. But Aegon raises his hand: "Not yet."
He wants his sisters to fight.
Wants them to learn.
Vhagar and Meraxes descend like furies.
Green and gold fire bathes the soldiers. Screams. Smoke. Blood. Men fall burned, their armor melted, their flesh charred.
Visenya fights with her dagger, hand to hand.
She moves among the soldiers like a dancer of death. Dodges, cuts, dodges, cuts. Her dagger finds throats, eyes, tendons. Soldiers fall around her.
Rhaenys covers her from above with Meraxes.
Where Visenya cannot reach, Meraxes' fire reaches. Where soldiers try to surround her, the dragon burns them.
An arrow whistles near Visenya's head.
Whistles. Grazes her ear. Embeds in the ground at her feet.
—VISENYA! —Rhaenys shouts.
Meraxes dives. Her claws find the crossbowman. Lift him. Drop him. He falls from above.
Visenya looks at her sister and smiles.
—I OWE YOU ONE!
—YOU'LL PAY ME BACK LATER!
Orys fights beside Aegon, sword in hand.
He has no dragon. Has no fire. But he has courage. His sword dances among the soldiers, cutting, deflecting, killing. Aegon, beside him, fights with his dagger and with commands, directing Valerio, the small dragons, his sisters.
The soldiers fall one by one.
The dragons are too fast. The fire, too lethal. The siblings' coordination, too perfect.
The mage, seeing his illusions useless and his warriors dying, tries to flee.
He runs toward the tower. Toward a back door. Toward darkness.
Aegon sees him.
—Valerio —he says softly.
The great dragon opens his jaws.
A roar.
Black fire.
The mage disappears.
Nothing remains. No ash. No memory. Only a black stain on the stone and the smell of sulfur.
**THE VICTORY**
Silence.
The silence that follows battle, that heavy, dense silence that seems to absorb all sounds of the world.
The bodies of the warriors smoke on the ground.
The mage's tower is ablaze. The fire, fed by some broken spell, devours stone as if it were wood.
The four siblings gather in the center of the battlefield.
Visenya has a cut on her arm. The blood, red and hot, stains her clothes. But she smiles.
Rhaenys has soot on her face. Her eyes, violet like her sister's, shine with a new light.
Orys is covered in blood not his own. That of enemies. That of those he killed. He trembles, but he stands.
Aegon, standing, looks at his siblings.
And suddenly, he laughs.
—WE DID IT! —Visenya shouts, jumping.
—They almost killed me! —Rhaenys laughs, pointing at the arrow embedded in the ground.
—But they didn't! —Visenya replies, embracing her.
Orys collapses to the ground, exhausted but happy.
—I never thought I'd fight an army.
—It wasn't an army —Aegon says, offering him his hand —. It was fifty men and a weak mage.
—It was an army to me —Orys smiles, accepting the hand and rising.
Aegon embraces him.
—Well fought, brother.
Orys nods, proud.
They fly back to Dragonstone.
The journey is silent. Each processes what has happened. The battle. The death. The victory.
When they land at the port, the sun is already setting. The clouds, tinged orange and pink, seem painted by a benevolent god.
Dareo and Elera await them.
They saw the bloodstains from afar. Saw the exhaustion on their faces. Saw something new in their eyes: the look of those who have killed and survived.
—What happened? —Dareo asks, worried.
Aegon dismounts. Walks toward his father.
—A mage —he replies —. With fifty warriors. He wanted our blood.
—And?
—He wants nothing now.
Dareo looks at his children.
At Aegon, with his calm but new gaze.
At Visenya, with her bandaged arm and fierce smile.
At Rhaenys, with soot on her face and pride in her eyes.
At Orys, covered in others' blood, trembling but whole.
And he smiles.
—My children. My brave children.
He embraces them all. The four, together, pressed against his chest.
Elera cries, but with pride.
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches everything.
The ravens caw around him. Dozens of them, perched on the windows, on the beams, on the roof.
One of them, the largest, the one with the brightest eyes, speaks.
Not caws. Speaks.
—They won —he says, in a hoarse, human voice.
—Yes —Aerom replies —. But they were weak. Lesser mages. Untrained warriors.
—Those who come...
—Those who come will not be weak —Aerom interrupts —. Those who come will know what they are. And they will come prepared.
He looks north.
Toward where the mountains disappear into the eternal mist.
—The time approaches. Sooner than they think.
His eyes, for an instant, shine blue.
An icy blue. Deep. Ancient.
Then they return to normal.
The ravens caw.
They wait.
That night, Dragonstone celebrates.
Not a planned celebration, not a party with guests and speeches. A spontaneous celebration, born from the joy of seeing the young riders return alive.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families join. They bring food, wine, musical instruments.
There is music in the great hall. Ancient songs, those sung in Valyria, those that speak of dragons and heroes.
There is food on the tables. Roasts, fish, fruits, pastries. The cooks have worked all day.
There is wine for the adults. The children drink water and milk, but no one complains.
Visenya shows her bandaged arm with pride.
—My first war scar —she says, showing it to anyone who wants to see.
—It wasn't a war —Rhaenys laughs —. It was a fight.
—It's a war to me.
Aegon watches his family from a corner.
His parents, dancing embraced. His adoptive uncles and aunts, laughing with cups in hand. His grandfather, up there, always vigilant.
Orys sits beside him.
—What are you thinking?
—That this is what matters —Aegon replies, pointing at the scene —. This. Them. Us.
Orys nods.
—It will always be like this.
—I hope so.
**THE QUESTION**
Later, when everyone sleeps, when the torches have gone out and only moonlight remains, Rhaenys climbs to Aerom's tower.
The stairs are long. Cold. Each step echoes in the silence.
When she reaches the top, she finds her grandfather as always: with his back turned, looking at the night.
—Grandfather... —she says, softly.
Aerom turns.
—Rhaenys. Shouldn't you be sleeping?
—I couldn't.
She approaches. Sits on the stone bench.
—Grandfather... why do the mages want to kill us?
Aerom looks at her with tenderness.
A tenderness few see. That almost no one knows.
—Because they are afraid, child.
—Afraid of us?
—Afraid of what you will become. Afraid of what you can do. Afraid that one day, you will be more powerful than all of them combined.
Rhaenys nods.
—And should we be afraid of them?
—No. But you must be prepared. Because those who come... will not be like today's.
—What will they be like?
Aerom sits beside her.
—Stronger. Smarter. More ruthless. They will come with armies, with true magic, with alliances you cannot imagine.
Rhaenys looks at him.
—But we have dragons.
Aerom smiles.
—Yes. And you have something else.
—What?
—You have each other. That, little one, is more powerful than any magic.
Rhaenys smiles.
—Thank you, grandfather.
—Sleep, little one. Tomorrow there is more training.
Rhaenys rises. Descends the stairs.
Above, Aerom whispers to the ravens:
—Watch. Always watch.
The ravens fly into the night.
Their black wings disappear into the darkness.
Seeking.
Always seeking.