Young Aegon strode into Storm's End's great hall, filled with boundless ambition.
His first move was to seize Edric Storm. Having learned of how Stannis hatched silver dragons, Aegon's mind was already made up.
He, too, would have his own dragon. Right here in Storm's End, with the blood of kings.
Jon Connington, who loathed the Baratheons with all his heart, tacitly approved of this madness. Captain Harry, however, watched with shifting eyes, his thoughts unreadable.
Aegon commanded soldiers to pile a massive pyre in the main courtyard. At its center, they placed the reddish-brown dragon egg fossil and then bound the struggling, wailing Edric Storm to the woodpile.
"I am your king. This is glory! Your blood shall awaken the true dragon!" Aegon shouted at Edric, trying to persuade him—and himself.
But his voice trembled slightly with emotion.
The flames were lit.
Edric's piercing screams instantly tore through the skies above Storm's End. The sound, filled with utter agony and terror, made the watching soldiers and nobles turn pale, unable to bear it and looking away in horror.
Ser Connington squeezed his eyes shut.
He despised the Baratheons, but he could not stomach this cruelty.
Even some of the Dothraki fell silent, watching as the flames consumed the young life.
The fire burned through the night.
Aegon stood nearby, his eyes fixed intently on the dragon egg at the heart of the flames, hoping for a miracle. His face was a mix of longing and growing frustration.
Yet, by morning, as the flames died down and the pyre turned to ash, the dragon egg still lay there, cold and gray, utterly lifeless.
Nothing had changed, except for the deeper layer of soot on its surface.
"Why?! Why won't it work?!" Aegon roared uncontrollably, kicking aside a piece of charcoal in frustration. "We share the same royal blood! It's the same dragon egg! Why could Stannis do it, but I cannot?!"
A heavy silence hung in the air.
No one could answer him.
Then, a timid voice spoke up from a Stormlands knight who had pledged allegiance to Aegon:
"Your Grace... perhaps... Perhaps royal blood alone isn't enough. Magic is needed, like the red priestess who stands by Stannis..."
"Magic?" Aegon whipped his head around, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. Finally, as if recalling some distant rumor from the eastern lands, he bellowed,
"Bring that Lannister from the dungeon!"
The others exchanged confused glances, their expressions full of uncertainty.
Soon, Tyrion was brought into the hall.
Seeing the mountain of charred remains, Tyrion immediately understood what had happened, his face turning ashen with horror.
Aegon spoke, his tone cruel and mocking. "I've heard in certain ancient magical tales, the genitals of dwarves—especially clever dwarves—contain peculiar vitality and magic. Perhaps..."
All eyes instantly turned to Tyrion.
His face drained of color, becoming as white as paper.
Tyrion stumbled back in terror, shouting incoherently. "No! No! Bullshit! Those are just ignorant legends! Lies! Your Grace, spare me! I'm useful to you! I can help you against Cersei! I can... I can..."
But Aegon, his mind clouded by the dragon's hatchling, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light, shouted,
"Seize him!"
Several soldiers, fierce as wolves, immediately pounced, ignoring Tyrion's frantic struggles and desperate screams. They pinned him to the ground.
"No! Don't! I beg you! Brother! Jaime! Save me!" Tyrion cried in despair, tears and snot streaming down his face as overwhelming terror consumed him.
In his panic, he even cried out Jaime's name.
A sharp little knife was thrust into Aegon's hands.
The blade rose and fell.
A piercing, heart-wrenching scream echoed through the courtyard.
Tyrion curled into a ball on the ground, his lower body a bloody mess. The excruciating pain and the psychological blow nearly knocked him unconscious.
Yet after the blood-soaked "sacrifice" was tossed into the embers, someone added more fuel, reigniting the flames. As time passed, Young Aegon's face grew increasingly grim. The dwarf's manhood still brought no miracle. The dragon egg remained as silent as ever.
Sir Harry Strickland, captain of the Golden Company, could bear it no longer. He stepped forward and declared firmly,
"Your Grace, true dragons do not need to rely on such dark sorcery. Your strength comes from your bloodline, from the loyal armies under your command. Hatching a dragon is not something that can be achieved in a day. Even if Stannis succeeded, that little dragon is now lost to the world, utterly useless in battle. Our immediate task is to press our advantage. I suggest we send troops to attack Duskendale, threatening the very gates of King's Landing!"
Young Aegon panted heavily, his eyes fixed on the unresponsive dragon egg and the unconscious Tyrion on the floor. The wild fire in his gaze slowly died down, replaced by deep disappointment. Finally, he waved his hand and hoarsely muttered,
"Ser, do as you say."
Just as Young Aegon was sinking into gloom over his failed dragon-hatching attempt, a guard announced the arrival of Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne.
Arianne was ushered into the main hall. She wore a vibrant silk gown in the Dorne style, boldly revealing her smooth shoulders and slender waist. Her jet-black hair cascaded in curls, and her olive skin glowed with health and vitality in the candlelight. Every movement carried the distinctive passion and wild beauty of Dorne.
"Aegon Targaryen?" Arianne's gaze swept unabashedly over the young man on the throne, tinged with curiosity and scrutiny. "I am Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne. My father, Prince Doran, hearing of your return, sent me to see you." Her words maintained a careful distance, laced with a hint of testing.
Young Aegon lifted his head. Though his spirit was darkened by recent defeat, the sight of Arianne instantly sparked a flicker of awe in his eyes. Arianne's beauty dispelled some of the gloom within him. He rallied his spirits, presenting his best self:
"Princess Arianne, your arrival is like sweet rain in the desert. I thank my uncle, Prince Doran, for his concern. As you see, I am restoring my father's lands. Now, Storm's End is already within our grasp."
The two began a polite, probing conversation. Arianne inquired about his plans, mentioning the historical ties between Dorne and the Targaryens, especially the tragic fate of her aunt Elia, her voice tinged with quiet sorrow. Young Aegon recounted his upbringing on the eastern continent and his ambitions for the future.
Already handsome, his deliberate confidence and the melancholy aura from his failed dragon-hatching attempt unexpectedly struck a chord with Arianne. Arianne's original mission was to observe and assess, but this young, handsome cousin, steeped in legend, proved far more captivating than she had anticipated.
She found herself drawn to the resolute gaze he held while speaking, the slight lift of his chin when discussing ideals, and even the hint of vulnerability born from his setbacks. People of Dorne revere passion and desire, and her heart soon ceased to remain calm.
That evening, after a small banquet to welcome the princess, perhaps fueled by alcohol, perhaps by the mutual admiration and desire they could no longer hide in each other's eyes, Young Aegon invited Arianne to his private chambers to "discuss alliance details."
The moment the door closed, the last veil of restraint between them was torn away. Arianne threw herself at Young Aegon, passionate and unrestrained. He responded with equal fervor, as if the pressure and frustration of recent days had found an outlet.
They stumbled toward the ornate bed, clothes hastily discarded. Arianne's skin was smooth and supple, like the finest silk. To Young Aegon, Arianne was not merely a beautiful woman, but the embodiment of Dorne itself. To conquer her felt like conquering that vast and powerful land.
For Arianne, Young Aegon was the symbol of the true dragon; it was his passion and ambition that ignited her. Desire burned like wildfire as they entwined in frenzied passion. Sweat soaked the sheets, and urgent sounds echoed through the chamber.
After their union, Arianne lazily nestled against Young Aegon, tracing circles on his chest with her fingers. Her olive eyes shimmered with contentment.
"My father must witness your resolve and strength…" she murmured softly. "If you will it, the spears of Dorne may fight for you, but we need a closer alliance."
Young Aegon stroked her hair, his heart brimming with the thrill of conquest and visions of the future.
"Tell me what to do, my princess."
"Write to my father…" Arianne lifted her head to meet his gaze. "Formally propose an alliance and request Dornish troops. I shall write this letter myself, telling him all I have seen—of a king truly worthy of allegiance."
Young Aegon was overjoyed and immediately summoned paper and ink. Leaning against the bedhead, Arianne wrote the letter to Prince Doran without concealing her beautiful, unclothed form. Within its lines, she extolled Young Aegon's valor and charisma, urging Dorne to dispatch troops without delay.
That very night, a raven carried the missive from Storm's End, soaring toward the lands of Dorne.
...
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