(King's Landing, 119 AC)
The Hill of Rhaenys did not smell like a city; it smelled like the inside of a volcano.
As the royal retinue ascended the winding path toward the Dragonpit, the air grew thick and heavy. It tasted of sulfur, ash, and the dry, metallic tang of scorched meat. To most, it was a stench that watered the eyes. To the Targaryens, it was the perfume of power.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, now six years old, walked beside King Viserys. He wore a simple tunic of dark grey wool, a stark contrast to the crimson and gold silks of his cousins. He did not cover his nose with a perfumed cloth like the ladies of the court. He breathed it in.
Sulfur. Brimstone. Old stone. Heat.
His mind cataloged the scents, filing them away. But there was something else. A vibration. A low, thrumming frequency that he could feel in the soles of his boots.
"Do you feel it, Aeryn?" Viserys asked, his voice breathless from the climb, but his eyes shining with a fanatic's light. "The heartbeat of Old Valyria."
"I feel the ground shaking, Uncle," Aeryn replied.
"It is not the ground," Viserys said, stopping to catch his breath and gesturing at the colossal dome rising above them. "It is them. They sing to us, in a language only our blood can hear."
Ahead of them, Prince Aegon—now twelve and strutting with the confidence of a boy who had bonded with the most beautiful dragon in the world—laughed loudly.
"Come on!" Aegon shouted to his younger brother, Aemond, who trailed behind with a sullen, envious expression. "Sunfyre is hungry. Maybe if you stand close enough, he'll mistake you for a sheep and actually pay attention to you!"
Aemond, nine years old and dragonless, clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. He didn't answer. He just glared at the massive bronze doors of the Pit, his desire burning hotter than any flame.
Rhaenyra walked a few paces behind, holding Jacaerys's hand. She looked at Aeryn. She was waiting for the fear. The Royces were men of the earth; they feared the sky. She expected Aeryn to shrink back, to hide behind Ser Vardis's leg.
But Ser Vardis had been ordered to wait outside. In the Dragonpit, only the Blood of the Dragon was welcome.
Aeryn walked through the doors alone.
Inside, the Dragonpit was a cavernous cathedral of shadows and light. The sun streamed down from the open dome, illuminating the sand-covered floor.
And there he was.
Sunfyre. The Golden.
The dragon was still young, but he was magnificent. His scales shone like beaten gold, his wing membranes a pale, translucent pink. He was feasting on the carcass of a bull, tearing the meat with razor-sharp teeth.
Aegon ran forward, fearless. "Dohaerās, Sunfyre!"
The dragon lifted its head, a low growl rumbling in its chest. It recognized its rider. It nudged Aegon with a snout hot enough to blister skin, letting out a puff of smoke that swirled around the boy.
Viserys watched with pride. "Look at them. A bond of the soul."
He turned to Aeryn. "Go on, boy. Step closer. You have nothing to fear. You are my brother's son."
Aeryn hesitated.
He looked at the beast. His memory froze the image: Golden scales. Vertical pupils. The heat radiating in waves.
But it wasn't the sight that stopped him. It was the feeling.
As he stepped onto the sand, the "hum" in his blood intensified. It was like a tuning fork being struck inside his chest. He felt a sudden, violent clarity. He understood the dragon not as a monster, but as a biological extension of himself.
I am not afraid, he realized with a jolt. I am... connected.
He felt the dragon's hunger. He felt the dragon's territorial aggression. It wasn't a psychic voice; it was an instinct, ancient and dormant, waking up in his DNA.
Sunfyre stopped eating. The golden head snapped toward Aeryn. The vertical pupils dilated. The dragon let out a hiss, not of aggression, but of curiosity. It sensed the blood. It sensed the Zaldrīzes.
Rhaenyra stepped forward, her hand tightening on Jace's shoulder. She saw the dragon's reaction. She saw Aeryn standing there, calm, unmoving, staring into the eye of the beast.
He has it, she thought, a cold dread settling in her stomach. He has the fire.
Aemond saw it too. He saw the way the dragon acknowledged Aeryn—Aeryn, who didn't even care!—while ignoring him completely. The injustice burned him.
"Touch him," Viserys whispered, urging Aeryn forward. "Claim your birthright, Aeryn. Not Sunfyre, but... there are others. Deep in the dark. Vermithor. Silverwing. They sleep. They wait."
Aeryn stood at the edge of the circle. The heat was immense. The power was intoxicating. He realized, with the cold logic of his mind, that he could do this. He could descend into the dark. He could sing the songs. He could ride the wind.
He looked at his hand. He looked at the emerald ring Viserys had given him—Fire.
Then he looked at the sword at his hip. The bronze-wire hilt—Stone.
Fire burns, his mind whispered. Fire consumes. Daemon is fire.
He remembered the push in the Great Hall. He remembered the cruelty in his father's violet eyes. That was what fire did. It hurt the things that got too close.
Aeryn closed his eyes for a second. He silenced the hum in his blood. He pushed it down, locking it in a mental vault alongside the memory of the canyon.
He opened his eyes and took a step back.
"No," Aeryn said softly.
Viserys blinked, confused. "No? Aeryn, the dragon greets you. Do you not feel it?"
"I feel it, Uncle," Aeryn said, his voice steady, mature beyond his six years. "It is loud. And it is hot."
He turned his back on Sunfyre. He turned his back on the golden promise of power.
"I prefer the ground," Aeryn stated simply. "The ground does not burn you if you forget the words."
Viserys looked at his nephew, stunned. He saw a boy who had stared into the face of a god and politely declined the invitation. It was baffling to him.
But Rhaenyra... Rhaenyra let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders relaxed. He is a Royce, she told herself, relieved. He is a coward of the dirt.
But as Aeryn walked back toward her, passing Aemond, he paused.
Aemond was trembling, tears of frustration in his eyes. He hated Aeryn for refusing what he so desperately wanted.
Aeryn looked at Aemond. He didn't mock him. He didn't pity him.
"They are just beasts, Cousin," Aeryn whispered, low enough that only Aemond could hear. "They are not gods. They are just... heavy birds."
Aemond stared at him, confused by the strange comfort.
Aeryn walked out of the light and back into the shadow of the entrance, where Ser Vardis was waiting.
As he crossed the threshold, Aeryn touched the ring on his thumb again.
He understood now. He wasn't just bronze. And he wasn't just fire.
He was the stone that survived the fire.
Fire and Blood, the Targaryens said.
We Remember, the Royces said.
Aeryn looked at his hand. I remember the fire, he thought. And that is why I will not let it rule me.
He took Ser Vardis's hand. The knight's gauntlet was cool and solid.
"Ready to go, my Prince?" Vardis asked, eyeing the dragons with distrust.
"Yes," Aeryn said. "Take me back to the books, Ser Vardis. Dragons are too... messy."