AEGON THE CONQUEROR The story of a dragon who only wanted to fly

Before making the decision that would change the world, Aegon sat alone on the cliffs of Dragonstone. Valerio rested behind him, and the wind carried the smell of the sea and the distance. He closed his eyes. And remembered. He remembered the three ships. Though he hadn't been born yet, his grandfather Aerom told him the story a hundred times. Three ships emerging from the fog, carrying the last survivors of Valyria. His grandmother Aere, with five dragon eggs wrapped in furs. Valerio, barely a young beast, flying above them as a guardian. "We fled," Aerom would say. "Not out of cowardice. Out of hope." He remembered the stone fortress. Years of building, stone upon stone. His father Dareo would show him the walls when he was a child: "Look, son. Every stone was placed by your uncles. Your aunts. Your grandparents. We built this with our own hands." He remembered the three weddings. Dareo with Elera. Eleris with Nemerys. Errol with Aegar. Three brothers with three sisters. Targaryen blood had to remain pure, and so they did. His mother would tell him: "We loved each other, Aegon. We were siblings, yes, but we were also all we had left." He remembered the dragons being born. Caníbal, Tyraxes, Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion. Six dragons for six riders. And Valerio, the greatest, the one still waiting for his moment. "Your grandmother rode him," Dareo said. "He was the only one who could." He remembered the attempts to reclaim Valyria. Expedition after expedition. Soldiers leaving full of hope. Ships returning empty. His uncle Eleris, his uncle Errol, his aunts Nemerys and Aegar... they all tried. They all failed. "Valyria is dead," Aerom said one night. "And we will be too if we keep looking back." He remembered the tragedy at sea. His grandmother Aere wanted to buy things for the coming baby. An innocent trip. She took her four children, she took her six grandchildren. A lighthouse. A black smoke. And out of eighty people, only one baby returned. Orys. The dark-haired bastard. The brother the sea gave him. He remembered his own birth. In the deepest pain, his mother Elera gave birth. A boy. Him. "You arrived when everything was dark," his mother would tell him. "And you brought light." Then came Visenya and Rhaenys. Two girls who filled the fortress with laughter. He remembered his grandfather Aerom. Always in the tower. Always wearing gloves. Always surrounded by ravens. The children were afraid of him at first. But then they learned that beneath that coldness was an immense love. One night, when Aegon was three years old, Aerom sat by his cradle. He and Orys were sleeping. Visenya and Rhaenys too. Aerom spoke softly, thinking no one was listening: "Little dragons. You don't know what awaits you. Wars. Hunger. Cruel men who think themselves kings. Children who die before learning to speak. You... you are different. You have dragon's blood. You have fire in your veins. And one day... one day you will be the ones to bring order to that terrible world." Aegon would never forget it. Years later, Aegon opened his eyes. He had seen the world. He had seen the cruelty of lords. The misery of the smallfolk. The injustice devouring the Seven Kingdoms. He had seen an orphanage in the North. Children laughing when he brought them food. And then he had seen that same orphanage in flames. Small bodies. The boy who asked him why he brought them food, dead on the ground. He remembered his grandfather's words. "You will be the ones to bring order." Now he understood. It wasn't conquest. It was necessity. Aegon stood up. Valerio opened one eye. "Let's go," he said. And the dragons flew toward Westeros.