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Chapter Text

Aegon stood on the rocky beach of Dragonstone, the wind tugging at his cloak as the clam sea lapped at the dark shore. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Westeros, a land of sheep and men who fancied themselves kings. He could almost see it in his mind’s eye, a patchwork of fields and castles, ruled by those who believed that crowns and sigils made them mighty. Fools, all of them.

He picked up a smooth stone, its surface cool and weighty in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skimming across the surface. He watched as it skipped and danced, breaking the stillness of the water. Aegon’s thoughts wandered as he watched it sink down slowly, lost to the depths.

His fingertips grazed the deep purple bruise on his cheek, a reminder of the price he had to pay for standing up for his ideals; a reminder that still throbbed with every heartbeat. His father’s rage had been swift and brutal, but Aegon bore it with pride, as he always did.

He would do it again; he’d endure the relentless assault again, that was the kind of man Aegon was, after all. He refused to bow to a man who had forgotten the fire that coursed through his veins. Aerion Targaryen, the Lord of Dragonstone, was no dragon. No, he was a merchant, a man more concerned with coin and trade than with the legacy of Old Valyria.

How could a merchant understand the true essence of a Targaryen? How could he comprehend what it meant to be a dragon?

Aegon clenched his hands into fists as his anger flared within him. His father was a failure, and he knew it. They rarely spoke, and when they did, it was often strained, two people walking different paths that never seemed to converge. Yesterday had been no different.

His father’s latest folly was to marry Rhaenys, his precious little sister, to a Tyroshi merchant—a clown of a man, spoiled and ineffectual. The absurdity of it had left him stunned, and for a moment, he had thought he’d misheard. His sister of not even fourteen namedays, barely more than a girl, sold off like a trinket for the sake of trade relations. It was unthinkable.

It was a transgression so grave that it bordered on sacrilege.

He remembered the surge of rage that had overtaken him, how the words had spilled from his lips like venom. He had called his father a disgrace to Old Valyria, and accused him of selling out his blood for gold. The memory of his father’s fist connecting with his jaw was vivid, the taste of blood on his tongue, the sharp pain that had brought tears to his eyes. He had crumpled to the ground, but Aerion had not stopped there; he continued to beat into his heir, even when he was on the ground, not resisting him. Aegon had felt like a child again, a boy of seven, cowering beneath his father’s fury.

Only when Visenya had intervened did the beating cease. Visenya, always there, always watching over him—always the guardian of her foolish younger siblings. She had a way of calming their father, a skill that Aegon both admired and resented. It was her duty, he supposed; to mend the rifts that he could not.

He picked up another stone, his movements slower, more deliberate this time. He felt the weight of it in his hand, as if it were the burden of his thoughts. He threw it, watching it skip once, twice, before sinking into the depths. His father’s words echoed in his mind: he would be sent to Tyrosh, to learn humility, to grow some sense. The mere thought of it filled him with dread. His father was exiling him, exiling him to a foreign land far away from anything he knew. He would be surrounded by men who reeked of perfume and wore garish silks, men who thought themselves clever but knew nothing of dragons or fire.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him drew his attention. He turned slightly, already knowing who it was. Visenya came to stand beside him, her silver hair glinting in the twilight. She bent down, selecting a stone from the shore. Without a word, she threw it, the stone skipping gracefully across the water. Aegon watched it go.

“Our father has fallen ill,” Visenya said quietly, throwing yet another stone. “The maester doesn’t think he’ll make it.”

Her tone was both gentle and strangely matter-of-fact. Their father was sick, the maester’s prognosis bleak. He might not survive.

Aegon’s heart skipped a beat, a surge of emotion flashing through him—was it sadness, or something akin to relief? He turned to his sister, her face was a mask, unreadable in the fading light. Aegon suspected, deep down, that Visenya had a hand in this sudden illness. But it was a thought too dangerous to entertain, even in the privacy of his own mind.

Visenya, always looking out for her foolish younger siblings.

He threw another stone, watching it skip farther than the others. Aegon Targaryen was made for more than this. He was meant for more than just being the lord of some unimportant volcanic island, for more than taking over his father’s pathetic trading business. No, he was a dragon, born of fire and blood. And dragons were not meant to be caged.

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They said Aegon looked just like his grandsire—Aegon the First, the Conqueror, the man whose name he bore. The courtiers would whisper it behind their hands, servants would murmur it in the shadows, and knights would say it to his face with a mixture of reverence and expectation. The Conqueror’s blood ran in his veins, his name on his lips as a prayer, a promise, as if bearing his name alone was a mantle heavy enough to shape a destiny. Could he ever hope to be a great man like him? Could he truly match the might of the one who had forged Seven Kingdoms into one?

The wind whipped through his hair as he soared through the sky on his father’s dragon Quicksilver—his dragon now—he had to remind himself. His father’s legacy was now his to claim, just as the throne was, the one stolen by his uncle, the tyrant and usurper Maegor.

Beneath him, fifteen thousand men marched, an army raised in his name, men ready to die for his cause, for the rightful king. Their banners snapped like the tongues of flames in the brisk wind. They were his own soldiers, loyal to a cause, marching with a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of the dragon beneath him. They looked to him to lead them, to be the man who would restore justice and honor to House Targaryen.

Quicksilver chirped beneath him, her scales gleaming in the daylight like polished silver. Aegon could feel the dragon's unease, a ripple of anxiety that mirrored his own. They weren't truly in sync yet; Quicksilver was still getting to know her new rider, and Aegon was still learning how to command such a powerful creature. The bond between dragon and rider was sacred, but it was not always immediate, not always effortless. He ran a soothing hand along the dragon's neck, trying to calm her, to project confidence that he wasn’t sure he possessed.

His gaze drifted northward, where the vast expanse of the God's Eye spread out like a mirror reflecting the sky. At its shore stood Harrenhal, the melted ruin was but a grim reminder to all of Westeros of what real power was—what dragonfire could do. Aegon couldn’t help but think of the stories his father told him, of how the Conqueror had turned that mighty fortress into a charred skeleton on Balerion. This was Valyria’s true legacy; anyone who stood in a dragon’s way had to deal with the consequences.

Quicksilver’s agitation grew more prominent, her movements sharp and erratic. It was clear that something was wrong; the dragon’s unease was palpable, a restlessness that made Aegon’s heart beat faster. He leaned forward, speaking to the dragon in a soft, firm voice, trying to soothe her, but Quicksilver seemed almost frenzied.

The unease in Aegon’s chest turned to ice. There was something in the air, a tension that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His eyes darted upwards, following a dark shadow that had emerged from the clouds. His breath caught in his throat.

Out of the clouds, dark talons emerged, each one longer than a grown man, attached to a beast that blotted out the sun. Balerion. The Black Dread. Aegon’s heart froze in his chest. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. His uncle’s dragon was a living nightmare, a creature of legend and terror, and it was here, in the sky above him.

The last thing Aegon felt was the shared pain as Balerion's massive talons dug into Quicksilver’s flesh. The agony was so intense that it felt as though it were his own, a searing, blinding pain that consumed everything. Quicksilver's screams echoed through the air, a sound of such pure, primal pain that it broke something inside him.

Rhaena deserved better—the thought came as a surprise. His sister, who had believed in him, counted on him… she deserved more than this. More than a brother who had failed.

It all fell away, all the hopes and dreams he harbored—everything he thought himself to be. The only thing that remained was the haunting truth that he, like his father before him, had fallen short of the greatness that his name demanded.

Chapter Text

Aegon was consumed by a rage so fierce, it threatened to tear him apart from the inside. He held a bloodied wooden bat in his hands; blood and bone clinging to it. He relentlessly beat into the mutilated remains of the man who had once been a serjeant of the City Watch. The sack of flesh and bone beneath him no longer resembled a man, but Aegon didn’t care. He couldn’t stop. His fury demanded more, fed by the image of Jaehaerys—his innocent, sweet boy—lying lifeless.

The dungeons were silent around him, but Aegon’s world was filled with the echo of his own anguish. For two weeks, he had made the man suffer. For two weeks, he had peeled back the layers of this traitor’s flesh, enjoying each scream, each plea for mercy. He had inflicted pain beyond measure, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough to balance the scales, to bring back his son, his Jaehaerys. The thought of his boy—so full of life, so undeserving of such a brutal end—only stoked the fire of his rage.

Helaena had been shattered by the experience. She had always been fragile, but now she was utterly broken. She did not eat, she did not sleep. She spoke only in riddles, driven insane by the loss of their son. She could not bear to look at Maelor, the boy she had chosen to die. She could not bear to look at Jaehaera, the girl who was like a mirror image of Jaehaerys. She could bear to look at the empty cradle.

Aegon clenched his teeth so hard that he thought they might break.

He hadn’t wanted this marriage, hadn’t wanted to bed his sister, to sire children when he was barely more than a child himself. He did not desire her in that way; the Valyrian custom of marriage between siblings had always been strange to him. He sometimes wished he had been born a commoner, to some whore in Flea Bottom—that life would’ve suited him better.

He had fought against his mother’s demands, of course. He had argued and resisted, but in the end, duty had won out. It was pitiable, really; children having children, bound by a crown and the legacy of a name he had never asked for. And yet, despite it all, despite their flaws and their resentments, Helaena had given him three children—three pure, innocent souls who had become the light in his dull world.

They were good, so achingly good, and they were proof that he, Aegon, the drunkard, the failure, the cucked firstborn son, was capable of creating something worthwhile. In them, he saw hope, redemption, a future that he had never imagined for himself. And now, one of them was gone. Taken from him by this man, this worthless traitor who had dared to defy the crown, who had dared to rob him of his son.

He swung the bat faster, driven by a fury that seemed endless, reducing the man’s skull to fragments, to nothingness. His bones broke and his remains splattered in the cell. The man was dead now, Aegon knew that, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to quell the storm inside him. He had lost everything he cared about, and all that was left was this, the violence, the vengeance, the pain.

He hadn’t wanted the crown. He had grown accustomed to being hated by his father, to being the disgrace of House Targaryen, a wayward prince who could never live up to the legacy of his namesake. But when the time had come, when Cole and his mother had told him that it was either take the throne or watch his brothers and sons die, he had taken it. He had become king, not out of desire or ambition, but out of necessity. And now, because of that choice, because he had dared to sit the Iron Throne, one of his sons was dead regardless.

Why? Why? Why?

The question echoed in his mind, tormenting him. He knew the answer; it was because he had taken the crown. Because Aemond had killed the bastard. Because he had been born, and they had named him Aegon. He felt tears welling up, hot and bitter, streaking down his bloodied cheeks. He didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to show weakness, but the grief was too much, the weight of it crushing his collarbones.

Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her name seared into his thoughts like a brand. She would pay for this, he vowed. She would pay for every drop of blood, for every tear shed, for every life stolen by this war. He would make sure of it, even if it was the last thing he ever did. The rage still burned within him, but now it was a cold, calculated fire. He would bring down vengeance upon her, upon all who had wronged him. He would make them suffer as he had suffered, until the name Aegon Targaryen was spoken with fear and reverence again, until his son’s death was avenged.

Aegon stood over the mangled corpse, his breath ragged, his bat dripping with blood. He was a king now, and kings did not forgive. Kings made the world bleed for their losses. And he would bleed them all dry.

Chapter Text

Aegon sat in the Hand’s study, his eyes fixed on the tapestry that hung before him. The intricate stitches wove together scenes of grandeur—dragons soaring over the burning fields, armies scattering like ants beneath their shadows, and the great Aegon the Conqueror astride Balerion, his dark eyes full of the fire that had forged an empire. The images were meant to inspire pride and awe, but the sight of it only filled Aegon with a deep, gnawing dread that he was too ashamed to admit, even to himself.

It was embarrassing, but yes; the sight of those stitched dragons filled him with an almost paralyzing dread.

The dragons on the tapestry seemed to move, their jaws opening wide as if ready to unleash their terrible fury upon him. Aegon’s breath caught in his throat as the image in his mind shifted, the stitched dragons transforming into a memory he could never escape. He saw Aegon the Elder's golden dragon, its jaws snapping shut around his mother. He could still hear her screams, the way they had echoed in his ears and lingered in his nightmares. He could still smell the sickening, metallic tang of her blood, hot and fresh as it sprayed across the courtyard of Dragonstone.

His nails dug deep into the flesh of his palms, a sharp, grounding pain that pulled him back from the abyss of his memories. The sensation was comforting, a reminder that he was still here, still breathing, and not lost to the terror that lived within him. He knew that fear was unbecoming of a Targaryen, especially one who bore the name Aegon, but it was a fear that had become part of him.

His younger brother, Viserys, sat across from him, his voice a distant hum in Aegon’s ears. Viserys was talking about something—dragon eggs, bringing mages from Essos to King’s Landing, some grand plan that Aegon could barely register. The words flowed around him like water, slipping through his mind without finding a place to linger. Viserys had always been the more enthusiastic of the two when it came to their family's legacy, the dragons, the old magic. Aegon, on the other hand, had come to detest them. The last one, a miserable creature barely larger than a dog, had still filled him with an irrational terror—even in its pitiful state.

He knew what people whispered behind his back, the cruel snickers that followed him through the halls of the Red Keep. They said he had poisoned the dragon, that he had killed it out of cowardice or spite. But that was a lie. The creature had died because it was missing something vital, something that had been lost when the dragons fell and the war tore their house apart.

The war—the senseless, brutal conflict that had ripped apart House Targaryen and snuffed out the dragons—was never far from his thoughts. Viserys still clung to the hope that the dragons might return, that their house’s power would be restored. But Aegon secretly prayed that they never would. Dragons were a strange, uncontrollable force, a power that had no place in the hands of men. The Valyrians had been too arrogant, too blinded by their own sense of invincibility to see the danger that lay beneath their feet. That arrogance had led to their ruin, just as it had with House Targaryen. They had believed in their own myth, in the lie that their mastery over dragons would ensure their rule forever.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments when the weight of the crown felt too heavy to bear, Aegon wished that the Conqueror, his namesake, had never laid foot on Westerosi soil. He should’ve been content with remaining on Dragonstone. Perhaps then, they might have been spared the curse of their blood, the endless cycle of ambition, fire, and blood that had brought them to this place of ruin.

“Are you even listening to me, brother?” Viserys’s voice cut through Aegon’s thoughts, sharp and impatient. Aegon blinked, meeting his younger brother’s gaze. Viserys was more of a king than he was; Aegon knew that. He looked almost regal as he sat in his armchair, a goblet of wine in his hand and the pin of the Hand of the King gleaming on his chest. His eyes were filled with frustration, and Aegon could see the tension in the set of his jaw.

“I’m listening,” Aegon replied, though his voice lacked conviction. It was a lie, and they both knew it.

Viserys let out a sigh, his free hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’re not,” he said, his tone resigned but not unkind. “You’ve been lost in your thoughts again, haven’t you? I was speaking about Essosi mages, about bringing them here, to King’s Landing, they might help with hatching the eggs. It could be the start of something new, something better.”

Aegon looked at Viserys, seeing the hope and determination that had always burned in his brother’s eyes. Viserys still believed in their house’s ancient glory, still held onto the dream of dragons and fire. But he didn’t understand; he hadn’t seen what he had seen.

“Dragons have brought us nothing but pain, Viserys,” Aegon said quietly. “They’re not a power we should seek to revive.”

Viserys frowned, his brow furrowing. “But they are our legacy, Aegon. They’re what made House Targaryen great. Without them, we’re just another noble family, nothing more.”

“Maybe that’s what we should be, Viserys.” Aegon shook his head, his nails biting into his palms so hard he thought he might break the skin. “Maybe we were never meant to wield such power. Look at what it’s done to us, to our family. Look at what it’s done to you and me.”

Viserys opened his mouth to argue, but the words seemed to die on his lips. He looked at Aegon, really looked at him, and something in his gaze shifted. For a moment, there was only silence between them.

Finally, Viserys sighed again. “Perhaps you’re right, brother,” he said softly, though his tone made it clear that he didn’t truly believe it. “But we’re Targaryens. We can’t escape what we are.”

Aegon’s gaze remained on his brother—this was important to Viserys, Aegon knew. He could see it in the way his brother’s hands trembled slightly, the way his voice, usually so steady, wavered with unspoken hope.

Aegon shook his head, feeling the ache deep in his chest intensify. He knew what he was about to say would only encourage Viserys, would fuel that hope even further, but he couldn’t bring himself to crush it entirely. “Do what you think is best, Viserys,” Aegon said finally, his voice tight. “Bring the mages to King’s Landing. If they can help with the hatching, then... so be it.”

Viserys’ reaction was immediate—his hands clasped together, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face. Meanwhile, he wanted to cry, wanted to let the tears fall and wash away the gnawing despair. But he couldn’t. Not in front of Viserys, not now. So he bit down on the inside of his cheek, letting the sharp pain anchor him, and forced himself to nod as if in agreement.

Viserys, too caught up in his own excitement, didn’t notice the tension in Aegon’s shoulders, the way his brother’s gaze had turned glassy and distant. “You won’t regret this, Aegon,” Viserys said earnestly, his hands still clasped together as if in prayer. “This could be the beginning of a new era. A chance to rebuild, to bring back the strength and power we’ve lost.”

He wanted to believe him; that they could bring back the dragons, that they could wield their power without it destroying them. But deep down, he knew better. He had seen too much, lost too much, to believe in such things anymore.

Someday, even Viserys would have to face the truth—that some legacies were meant to be left in the past, no matter how much you wished otherwise.