**YEAR 2069 AFTER THE LONG NIGHT**
**2 YEARS AFTER THE BIRTH OF THE TWINS**
**Dragonstone**
**THE BABIES GROW**
Two years have passed since Visenya and Rhaenys came into the world.
Two years of diapers and bottles, of sleepless nights and dawns with crying. Two years of first smiles, first teeth, first words barely understood but filling the hearts of those who hear them.
The children's room in the fortress, once empty and silent, is now a hive of life.
AEGON is 3 years old.
He is no longer that baby who arrived in the world in the midst of tragedy. Now he is a small child, with the characteristic silver hair of his blood and those violet eyes that seem to see beyond what others perceive. He crawls with skill, but what he really likes is testing his legs. He takes clumsy, uncertain steps, but firmer every day. As if the stone floor were an enemy to conquer.
His violet eyes, the purest ever seen, look at everything with curiosity. Every corner of the fortress is a world to explore. Every sound, a mystery to solve. Every person, a potential friend.
ORYS is also 3 years old.
The rescued bastard, the child of the sea, the little miracle who survived when all others perished. He does not have the silver hair of the Targaryens. His hair is dark, almost black, like a moonless night. His gaze is more serious than Aegon's, as if something in him remembered what he never lived.
But when his brother looks at him, he smiles.
And that smile lights up the room.
Because Orys, despite his seriousness, despite his eyes that seem too old for a three-year-old child, loves Aegon with an intensity that only those who have survived together can understand.
VISENYA and RHAENYS are 2 years old.
The twins, the two dragons who came to restore hope to a broken island.
Visenya, the firstborn, already shows character. She cries little. Very little. When she does, it's because something truly bothers her. Most of the time she observes. Her eyes, violet like her older brother's, follow every movement around her with an intensity that unsettles the nurses.
—She seems to understand everything —they murmur—. As if she were judging.
Rhaenys is different. She is all smiles and outstretched arms. When someone enters the room, she is the first to react, stretching her chubby little hands toward the visitor, asking to be held, kissed, loved.
The two, so different, so complementary.
They sleep in the same cradle, embracing. When one cries, the other stirs. When one laughs, the other imitates her.
As if they were one soul in two bodies.
The four spend their days in a large crib, specially designed for them.
It is a structure of dark wood, carved with dragons on every corner. It takes up almost an entire wall of the children's room. Inside, small mattresses, blankets knitted by the island's old women, wooden toys carefully carved by the craftsmen.
The nurses care for them with devotion.
Young women, some widowed by the tragedy, who have found in these children a reason to continue living. They bathe them, dress them, sing them lullabies that their own mothers used to sing to them.
The mothers breastfeed them.
Elera, despite her obligations, never delegates this task. Every morning, every afternoon, every night, she is there. With her children. Feeding them. Watching them. Loving them.
The fathers watch them with pride.
Dareo, when not on trading voyages, spends hours in the children's room. Sitting in a low chair, watching the children play, grow, become people.
Sometimes, Elera finds him crying silently.
—What's wrong?
—Nothing —he replies—. It's just... they're so beautiful. So perfect. And I'm so afraid of losing them.
She embraces him.
—We won't lose them.
—How do you know?
—Because we'll protect them. Because we'll love them. Because we won't let anything or anyone hurt them.
Dareo nods.
But the fear never fully disappears.
And AEROM... Aerom watches them from the shadows.
He doesn't come down often. When he does, it's like an apparition. The children look at him with curiosity mixed with something they can't name. The nurses step back respectfully. The parents greet him with a nod.
He doesn't speak much. Only observes.
But his eyes, those grey eyes that have seen so much, scan each child with an intensity that is frightening.
As if he saw something others don't see.
As if he knew something others don't know.
The afternoon is golden. The sun, low on the horizon, streams through the great hall windows, tinting everything in warm tones.
Dareo kneels on the floor, several meters from where Aegon holds onto a chair.
—Come, son! —he encourages, arms outstretched—. Come to Papa!
Aegon looks at him.
His violet eyes assess the distance. He seems to be calculating, as if understanding the risk.
Then, he lets go of the chair.
Takes a step.
Wobbling, uncertain, but a step.
Another.
His arms extend sideways, seeking balance. His legs, still weak, tremble with each movement.
But he continues.
Behind him, Orys walks, following him.
He doesn't want to walk. Not yet. But he doesn't want to be left behind. He wants to be where his brother is. Always.
—Come on, Aegon! —Elera shouts from the other side.
The child smiles.
Takes another step.
And another.
And suddenly, he's in his father's arms.
—You did it! —Dareo shouts, lifting him in the air—. You did it, little dragon!
Everyone applauds.
The nurses, the servants passing by, the guards at the door. Everyone applauds.
Even Visenya, from her cradle, seems to smile.
Her eyes, always attentive, have followed every step of her brother. And when he reaches his destination, she makes a sound. Like a coo of approval.
Elera cries with joy.
Tears run down her cheeks, uncontrollable. She doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything.
—Look at them —she says, embracing Dareo—. Look at them. Four. Four new lives.
Dareo embraces her with one arm, while holding Aegon with the other.
—And more will come —he says.
But deep down, they both know they don't know that.
They can't know it.
The future is as uncertain as ever.
But today, at this moment, it doesn't matter.
Today, their son has taken his first steps.
Today, life has won.
**GRANDFATHER'S TOWER**
Aerom's tower is a place few visit.
It stands at the highest part of the fortress, accessible only by a long spiral staircase. The walls are covered with ancient maps, drawings of dragons, symbols in forgotten languages.
And ravens.
There are always ravens.
But sometimes, Aerom comes down.
He doesn't announce it. Doesn't ask permission. He simply appears.
One afternoon, as the sun begins to decline, Aerom sits beside the large crib.
The four babies are awake.
Aegon, who has already tested his legs, sits playing with a wooden dragon. Orys is beside him, watching him, learning.
Visenya watches from her side of the crib. Her violet eyes follow her grandfather's every movement.
Rhaenys, as always, stretches her arms toward him.
Aerom hesitates.
His gloved hands. Always with gloves. No one has ever seen him without them.
But today, slowly, he extends a finger.
Aegon grabs it.
The child looks at his grandfather with those violet eyes that seem to understand more than they should.
—Little dragon —Aerom whispers—. You don't know what awaits you.
Visenya, from her side, makes a sound.
As if she wanted to say something. As if she wanted to ask.
Aerom turns toward her.
—You neither, little one —he says, with a sad smile—. None of you know.
The ravens at the window caw.
The babies look toward them.
Aegon points with his little finger.
—Birds.
—Yes —Aerom says—. They're my friends.
—Friends? —Aegon repeats, testing the word.
—My friends. They tell me things.
—What things? —Aegon babbles, with his half-language.
Aerom leans closer.
—Things of the world. Of the world out there.
Visenya makes that sound again.
As if asking: and us? Will we go out there too?
Aerom looks at her for a long time.
—Yes —he says—. You more than anyone.
**THE WORLD OUT THERE**
That night, after the children sleep, Aerom speaks with Dareo and Elera.
They are in the small sitting room adjacent to the children's room. The fire crackles in the hearth. Shadows dance on the walls.
—The children are growing —Aerom says—. Soon they'll start asking questions.
—They already ask —Elera says—. Aegon points at the sea all the time. As if he knew there's something beyond.
—The sea —Aerom repeats—. The sea and what lies beyond it.
Dareo looks at him.
—Do you think we should tell them the truth? About the world?
Aerom reflects for a moment.
—When they're older. For now, just let them be children.
He rises and walks to the window. The almost full moon bathes the courtyard in silver.
—But when they ask... don't lie to them. The world out there is terrible. Full of wars, hunger, cruelty. They must know. For when it's their turn to face it.
Elera swallows.
—Do you think it will be their turn?
Aerom slowly turns.
His grey eyes, in the twilight, seem to shine with their own light.
—We all have a destiny —he says—. They... they have theirs.
He says no more.
He doesn't need to.
Dareo and Elera look at each other.
And for the first time, they wonder what kind of future really awaits their children.
**THE DRAGONS IN THE MOUNTAIN**
The children grow up looking at the sky.
It's inevitable. On Dragonstone, the sky is never empty. There's always something up there. Seagulls, clouds, stars at night.
But above all, dragons.
There are always dragons.
VALERIO flies with the other four —Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion— in formations that hypnotize.
They trace slow circles, perfect spirals, impossible figures. As if they danced. As if they spoke a language only they understand.
Sometimes they descend to the coast.
People, upon seeing them, run to hide. It's instinctive. Dragons are beautiful, but they are also terrible. They can kill with a single breath.
But not the children.
The children don't run.
Aegon, when taken to the courtyard, stands staring at them. Without fear. Without trembling. Just watching.
—They're ours —he says once.
Dareo, who is with him, freezes.
—How do you know, son?
Aegon looks at him.
His violet eyes, pure as gems, meet his father's.
—I know.
Nothing more.
But those two words weigh more than any speech.
Dareo asks no more.
He can't.
**ORYS'S QUESTION**
One afternoon, while Aerom sits near the large crib, Orys approaches.
The dark-haired child, the bastard, the rescued one, looks at his grandfather with that intensity of his that sometimes unsettles.
—Grandfather —he says, pointing at his hands—. Why do you always wear gloves?
The question falls into the silence like a stone in a pond.
Aerom looks at him for a long time.
His grey eyes, those eyes that have seen so much, seem to cloud for an instant.
—Because it's cold, Orys.
Orys frowns.
—Always?
Aerom nods.
—Always.
Orys nods too, as if understanding.
But he doesn't understand.
No one understands.
Not even Dareo, who has seen his father all his life, understands why he never, ever removes those gloves.
What lies beneath, what he hides, is a mystery no one dares uncover.
It's night.
The full moon streams through the windows of the children's room. The four babies sleep in their large crib.
Aegon, in his corner, with one arm extended toward where Orys sleeps.
Orys, curled up, as if still cold from the sea.
Visenya and Rhaenys, embracing, as always, beside them two dragon eggs.
Dareo and Elera watch them from the doorway.
—They're beautiful —Elera whispers.
—They are.
—Do you think they'll be alright? —she asks, voice trembling—. Do you think the world will treat them well?
Dareo doesn't answer.
He doesn't know.
He wants to say yes. Wants to say he'll protect them, that nothing bad will happen to them. But the tragedy at sea taught him that you can't always protect those you love.
Slow footsteps on the stairs.
Aerom appears behind them.
—Leave me for a moment.
Dareo hesitates. A part of him wants to refuse. Wants to protect his children even from his own father.
But Elera squeezes his hand.
She nods.
They leave.
Aerom sits beside the crib.
The creaking of his bones, the weight of his years, shows in every movement. But his eyes, when he looks at the children, are soft.
The children sleep.
Aegon, Orys, Visenya, Rhaenys.
Four small bodies just beginning to live.
Four souls who don't yet know what awaits them.
Aerom speaks. In a low voice. For them. For himself. For no one.
—Little dragons —he whispers—. You don't know what awaits you. You don't know what's out there.
He points at the window, the sea, the world.
—Wars. Hunger. Cruel men who think themselves kings. Children who die before learning to speak. Injustices that last centuries.
The babies sleep.
But Aerom keeps speaking.
—You... you are different. You have dragon's blood. You have fire in your veins. And one day...
He leans closer.
—One day you will be the ones to bring order to that terrible world. The world out there. The world beyond Dragonstone. Beyond the Celtigar and Velaryon families. The world that doesn't know it needs you.
A tear rolls down his cheek.
—But not today. Today just sleep. Today just be children.
He rises slowly.
The ravens at the window caw silently.
They make no sound, but their beaks open and close. As if speaking. As if understanding.
Aerom looks at them.
—I know —he whispers—. The time approaches.
He leaves the room.
Dareo and Elera, waiting outside, watch him pass.
They don't ask.
They don't dare.
The children sleep.
In their dreams, perhaps, they fly. Perhaps play with dragons. Perhaps laugh, not knowing that out there, in the world, there are things that don't inspire laughter.
Outside, Valerio roars in the distance.
A deep, grave sound that echoes in the cliffs and travels across the island.
The other dragons respond.
Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion.
Five voices. Five broken souls still remembering their riders.
The wind blows.
Strong, cold, relentless.
The sea pounds the rocks with its eternal fury.
Dragonstone rests.
But in the tower, Aerom watches the horizon.
The moon, far away, reflects on the water. The sky is clear. The stars shine brightly.
But he doesn't look at the stars.
He looks east.
Toward Valyria.
Toward the smoking ruins where it all began.
—Soon —he murmurs—. Very soon.
The ravens, around him, wait.
Dozens of them, perched on the windows, on the beams, on the roof. Their black eyes gleam in the darkness.
They wait.
Everyone waits.
And in the children's room, the children dream.
Not knowing that the world, out there, is waiting for them.