Old dust on a dragon egg

Aegon lay on Sunfyre's back, staring at the devastatingly handsome man on the deck and inwardly railing at him.

Show-off. What an outrageous show-off. (Two letters omitted here.)

And even though he had prepared himself for this, the man had still managed to impress him.

He had known all about Daemon's insane exploits from the original story-charging alone into an enemy camp in the Stepstones, riding his dragon to his death along with Aemond during the Dance of the Dragons. Yet seeing him in person, Aegon still found himself stunned by the man's showmanship.

So the real dragons of House Targaryen all took dragonriding to ridiculous new heights, did they?

The original story had said Daemon excelled at these outrageous displays. Seeing him today, Aegon could only admit that his reputation was well deserved.

He had leaped unaided from a dragon's back nearly thirty feet above the deck and landed without so much as a wobble. This was no mature prince of thirty, but a lunatic with no regard for his own life.

And that lunatic happened to possess the most handsome face in House Targaryen, along with a Dragonlord's wild, unrestrained arrogance. No wonder people often said that at least half of Westeros feared him, while half loved him.

Aegon patted Sunfyre's neck and softly soothed the still-tense Gold Dragon in High Valyrian, which he spoke somewhat better than the original Aegon II, signaling for him to land.

Sunfyre gave a reluctant rumble but obediently began drawing in his wings. After one last disgruntled growl at Caraxes among the clouds, he folded them and slowly descended toward the flagship's deck.

Yet even after his claws settled firmly on the deck, he kept his wary gaze fixed on Daemon, a low warning rumbling in his throat.

He spread his already enormous forelimbs and wings, sheltering Aegon behind him, afraid that this stranger, who radiated a wicked charm, might hurt his rider.

Rhaenyra rushed over almost immediately and lifted Aegon off Sunfyre's back. She checked him all over, then finally let out a deep breath once she was certain he was unharmed. Pinching his little cheek, she spoke with lingering fear in her voice. "You scared your sister half to death! You little rascal, if you ever fly without fastening your straps again, just see how I punish you."

Helpless, Aegon could only wrap his arms around her neck and nod with a show of obedience. Having indicated that he understood, he rubbed his cheek against hers and pleaded softly:

"I'm sorry, sister."

But even with Aegon's arms around her neck, Rhaenyra's eyes inevitably settled on the man strolling toward them.

This was Daemon Targaryen.

The Rogue Prince, conqueror of the Stepstones, King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones, the realm's former Master of Laws, Master of Coin, and commander of the City Watch, lord of Flea Bottom in King's Landing, the future Protector of the Realm-and the sharpest blade the Blacks would wield during the Dance of the Dragons.

He was even more dazzling, even more defiant than the descriptions Aegon remembered from the original story. Even standing there casually, his reckless arrogance was enough to overshadow everyone present.

Watching Rhaenyra hurry toward him, Daemon's purple eyes flickered with amusement, and a teasing smile curved his lips.

He had not seen his eldest niece in almost six years. The little girl with braids who used to trail after him had grown into a graceful young woman, the "Realm's Delight" of the Seven Kingdoms and the lawful heir to the Iron Throne.

Yet she still looked at him just as she had in childhood, with undisguised admiration and affection, like a little bird that had found its way home.

"What? Have six years apart made you forget your uncle?" A husky laugh colored Daemon's voice. His gaze swept over Rhaenyra before settling on Aegon in her arms. He looked the boy up and down, his tone growing still more teasing. "And is this our famous Midsummer Prince? Prince Aegon Targaryen, who supposedly received the white hart's blessing while hunting in the Kingswood at one, and rode a dragon alone at three?"

Daemon seemed untroubled by the inexplicable hostility his eldest nephew Aegon displayed. In fact, he thought it perfectly natural...

He even grumbled inwardly that it was probably all that insufferable Otto's fault. As the boy's grandfather, he had surely spent plenty of time bad-mouthing his uncle. Otherwise, how could this little fellow, who clung even to Rhaenyra, resist his uncle's charm?

He was Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, after all-the idol of countless young men and women on both shores of the Narrow Sea, in Westeros and Essos!

But then he remembered that his elder brother Viserys seemed to have stripped Otto of his position as Hand of the King and sent him slinking back to Oldtown, and Daemon felt pleased all over again.

He took two steps forward and bent to study the little fellow in Rhaenyra's arms. Raising an eyebrow, he gleefully teased his sworn enemy Otto's grandson. "But is this what people mean when they say our little prince rides a dragon alone? Simply lying on his dragon's back and letting him carry him around?"

Aegon's cheeks instantly grew a little hot.

Embarrassing. This was far too embarrassing.

It was not that Daemon's teasing was particularly cutting, but that every word was true. Everyone said he had ridden a dragon at three, but only he knew that this so-called dragonriding had always depended on Sunfyre's intelligence and their shared understanding. Sunfyre did all the flying; Aegon rarely even touched the saddle handles.

Never mind controlling a dragon with enough precision to perform difficult maneuvers like Daemon. He had to spend ages discussing it with the little fellow beforehand just to get Sunfyre to make a steep dive.

But before he could argue back, Rhaenyra, who was holding him, took offense first.

She frowned and stepped half a pace back with Aegon in her arms, calling out to Daemon without the slightest restraint, "Daemon!"

There was no deference to an elder in the way she called his name, only a young girl's petulance and displeasure toward someone close to her.

Still, hearing her address him so directly made the surrounding guards draw sharp breaths. In all Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, aside from the king himself, Princess Rhaenyra was probably the only person who dared call the Rogue Prince by name like that.

"Aegon and Sunfyre haven't even had their fourth birthdays yet. They're both only three, so stop teasing them." Rhaenyra lifted her chin, her protectiveness written plainly across her face. "At three, you probably wouldn't even have dared set foot inside the Dragonpit."

Her response made Daemon burst out laughing.

It had been far too long since he had seen Rhaenyra so full of life. During his last two years before leaving King's Landing, she had been bound tight by the courtiers' rules, her father's expectations, and the disputes over her succession. She had always worn a proper yet distant smile, like an exquisite porcelain doll.

Only now, as she protected her little brother, did she truly resemble the little girl who had once chased noble boys through the Red Keep with a wooden sword when they bullied her.

"All right, all right. My fault." Daemon laughed and raised his hands in surrender, but his gaze returned to Sunfyre beside them. To ease the awkwardness, he deliberately let his smile fade, replacing it with an unmistakably feigned look of incredulous shock.

He stepped forward and circled Sunfyre, brushing his fingers over the Gold Dragon's smooth scales. Sunfyre immediately roared at him, opening his jaws to bare sharp fangs as golden dragonfire flickered deep in his throat.

Daemon promptly withdrew his hand and stepped half a pace back. Still wearing that feigned look of astonishment, he turned to Rhaenyra and widened his eyes theatrically. "Three? Rhaenyra, you're telling me this is a three-year-old dragon?"

With a little exaggeration, Sunfyre was already nearly as large as Syrax, a she-dragon hatched several years earlier. He was more than twice the size of an ordinary three-year-old dragon, with smooth, hard scales and strong, powerful wings. Apart from his demeanor, what about him looked young?

"Are you sure your brother didn't sneak into the Dragonmont and tame some riderless wild dragon I've never heard of?" Daemon raised an eyebrow, his tone full of mischief. "I always thought the story about the egg in our little prince's cradle hatching in three days was a tall tale his insufferable grandfather, Lord Otto Hightower, paid someone to spread. It seems I was simply ill-informed."

Rhaenyra laughed at his teasing, the last trace of displeasure in her eyes vanishing at once. She tightened her hold on Aegon and raised an eyebrow in retort. "Then by your reasoning, Uncle, wouldn't Aegon taming a riderless wild dragon at three be even more remarkable? A dragon hatched in his cradle or one tamed at three-which do you think is more impressive, Uncle Daemon? Which better deserves the name of a true dragon of House Targaryen?"

Watching her radiant smile and hearing her finally change her address instead of snapping his name, Daemon's amusement deepened. He took two steps forward and stopped before Aegon, studying the little fellow's purple eyes as though he meant to see through them to the Dragonlord blood in his veins.

"Both, naturally." Daemon smiled and spread his hands. His gaze settled on Aegon again, a hint of scrutiny in his purple eyes, along with a trace of approval.

In his younger days, when the Targaryen bloodline had flourished, he had known many of his kin-the cowardly, the arrogant, the unremarkable. Yet he had never seen a four-year-old child like this, who could face Caraxes's ferocity without losing his composure. Even when Sunfyre had carried him into the sky moments earlier, there had been no fear in his eyes, only resignation.

True Targaryen Dragonlord blood flowed through this little fellow's veins.

Had Aegon known, however, he would probably have had another complaint. Certainly, he had not been afraid, and certainly, he had been resigned. Cannibal had nearly scared him to death just a few days earlier...

Smiling, Daemon stepped forward and reached for Aegon, intending to take him from Rhaenyra's arms and get a proper look at the eldest nephew whom the nobles of Westeros called a true dragon reborn. "Come, let your uncle hold our little dragon prince."

But the moment he reached out, Sunfyre, who had been lying quietly nearby, abruptly raised his head.

His golden slit pupils fixed on Daemon's outstretched hand, and a deeply threatening growl rose from his throat. His enormous head lunged forward, jaws opening to reveal sharp fangs that almost closed around Daemon's wrist.

"Sunfyre!" Rhaenyra cried. She hurriedly clutched Aegon tighter and retreated two steps, sharply ordering the enraged Gold Dragon to stop.

Sunfyre reluctantly halted, but continued growling fiercely at Daemon. His huge body stood before Aegon and Rhaenyra like an impregnable golden barrier.

Daemon withdrew his hand and examined the scorch marks where the dragon's breath had singed his fingertips. With a Targaryen's resistance to fire and heat, it was nothing serious, but he still patted his chest with an exaggerated show of lingering fright. He shrugged at Rhaenyra, giving himself a graceful way out. "It seems our little Midsummer Prince keeps a fierce dragon to guard him. Can't even his uncle hold him for a moment?"

Holding Aegon, Rhaenyra laughed so hard at Daemon's performance that she rocked back and forth. She took two steps forward and lowered her gaze to the little fellow in her arms, her eyes full of affection.

She kissed Aegon's forehead, then looked up at Daemon with a sly smile in her eyes and a barely perceptible tenderness in her voice. "Speaking of this little fellow, Daemon, you actually have met him before."

The smile on Daemon's face froze.

He frowned slightly, looking at Rhaenyra, then at the dragon before him, golden from head to tail. His purple eyes filled with bewilderment.

Met him?

When had he ever met this dragon?

In 105 AC, he had been forced to return to the Vale and his Bronze Lady of House Royce. In 106 AC, he had attacked the Stepstones, where he had fought for nearly five full years. His visits to Westeros during that time had amounted to only a handful of days, and he had never even returned to King's Landing, usually going straight to Driftmark to rest and refit. How could he possibly have met this three-year-old Gold Dragon?

Yet Rhaenyra's eyes did not look deceitful. Hidden within her smile was also a faint, almost imperceptible complexity and melancholy.

A buried memory, one he had almost forgotten, suddenly flashed through his mind like lightning.

He stood frozen, bewilderment flickering in his purple eyes. Then, as though something had stabbed him hard, his pupils abruptly contracted.

Met him?

How could he not have?

Six years earlier, on Dragonstone.

The dragon egg he had stolen and given to Mysaria. The egg he had wanted to place in the cradle of their child. The egg Rhaenyra had flown to Dragonstone on Syrax to retrieve herself.

And the sudden storm on the Narrow Sea, the child who had never been born, the rift between him and his elder brother Viserys that could never be repaired.

Daemon stood there, his outstretched hand still frozen in midair. All the flippancy drained from his face, leaving only a tangle of feelings beyond words.

He remained rooted to the spot, looking at Aegon in Rhaenyra's arms, then at Sunfyre lying beside them, his golden scales gleaming like molten gold in the sunlight. For a long time, he could not collect himself.