Aegon withdrew from the dragon's mind with a sharp gasp, his fingers pressing into temples that throbbed like beaten drums. Even as his mental fortitude grew with each passing moon, the sheer, primal weight of a dragon's consciousness was a staggering burden. To walk within the mind of a beast of the air was not like skinchanging into a hound or a hawk; it was to immerse oneself in a furnace of ancient, predatory will.
"Sunfyre shall bide no longer in these pits," Aegon said, his voice raspy but firm. He turned his gaze upon the Dragon Guard. "Even upon his return, he is not to be shackled. He will have the sky, or he will have your heads."
The Guard's face darkened, a mask of bureaucratic obstinacy. He stepped forward, placing his bulk directly in the Prince's path.
"Your Grace, you overstep the statutes. The Crownlands are not the wild peaks of Dragonstone, and King's Landing is no open mountain. A dragon left to its own devices is a wolf in a sheepfold. Once hunger bites, he will not distinguish between a mountain goat and a highborn lord."
Aegon beckoned Aemond to his side, his expression shifting into a mask of chilling indifference. "Kneel," he said quietly. "I find I mislike looking up when I speak to my inferiors."
He knew well the dangers of a straying dragon, but he also knew that his bond with Sunfyre was absolute—a tether of spirit that no common keeper could comprehend. More importantly, the man before him had forgotten the fundamental hierarchy of the Blood of the Dragon. A servant did not lecture a Prince; a shepherd did not command the sun.
The Guard stood his ground, his jaw set in a stubborn line. Seeing the man's defiance, Aegon offered a thin, mirthless smile. "Perhaps you would prefer to continue this discourse with Sunfyre's teeth at your throat."
As if summoned by the thought, Sunfyre lowered his massive, golden shoulder. The dragon's slit-pupiled eyes locked onto the Guard, a low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest—a sound like tectonic plates grinding together. The sheer pressure of the beast's killing intent was a physical weight.
The Guard's resolve broke. With a frantic swallow, he dropped to one knee, his gaze fixed firmly on the dirt.
Aegon hoisted Aemond onto the dragon's back before hauling himself into the saddle. "Never mistake yourself for the dragon's master simply because you hold the keys to its cage. I shall settle this matter with the King. See that you are more civil when next we meet."
"Hiss!"
Sunfyre let out a deafening shriek that echoed through the vaulted rafters of the Pit. With a violent thrust of his golden wings, he ascended, the downdraft scattering dust and debris over the kneeling men. Within heartbeats, they were a golden speck dissolving into the sea of clouds.
The Guard remained on his knee long after the roar had faded, trembling as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. He had looked into the eyes of the Golden, and he had seen only his own death reflected there. He had fed this beast for years, yet there was not a shred of recognition—only the cold, reptilian loyalty to the boy on its back.
Nearby, an older Keeper spat on the ground. "I warned you, lad. We are but stableboys to the gods. You played the master, and the Prince played the god. Be glad you still have a tongue to wag."
Across the city, within the high walls of the Red Keep, Helaena Targaryen suddenly froze. The beetle she had been watching scurried away, forgotten. Her eyes went wide, reflecting a light that was not of the room.
"Beware the shadow above the clouds," she whispered, her voice a haunting, rhythmic chant. "Beware the shadow... it drinks the sun!"
She scrambled to her feet, clutching her skirts, and ran with a frantic, bird-like desperation toward the royal courtyard. "To the Pit!" she cried to the startled driver of a royal carriage. "Move, or the threads will snap!"
The coachman, terrified by the Princess's sudden mania, lashed the horses into a gallop.
At the Dragonpit, the peace was shattered once more. Dreamfyre, the great blue she-dragon of the late Queen Rhaena, erupted into a frenzy. Sensing the psychic distress of her mistress, the eighty-year-old beast thrashed against her massive iron moorings.
"Quiet her! Bring the prods!" the younger keepers shouted, rushing forward with futile tools. But the veterans knew better; they scrambled for the shadows as Dreamfyre's tail shattered a stone pillar.
She did not breathe fire—her eyes were fixed only on the entrance. When Helaena's carriage skidded to a halt at the gates, the dragon lowered her long, elegant neck in a gesture of profound submission.
In the years since Aegon had arrived, he had secretly mentored his sister, whispering to her of the "Dreamwalkers" of Old Valyria, helping her channel the fractured visions that plagued her. In the quiet of the night, a bridge had been built—a mental bond forged eight years before its time in the histories.
Helaena mounted with a practiced fluidity that defied her age. Dreamfyre surged forward, her pale blue wings catching the wind as she soared into the sky, chasing the golden trail left by her brothers.
An old Dragonkeeper watched them go, his face pale with horror. "To the King! Quickly!" he roared. "Tell him Prince Aegon has stolen away with Aemond, and the Princess Helaena has taken the Blue Queen to the clouds!"
He cursed under his breath, watching the three royal children vanish into the horizon. Princess Rhaenyra had been a marvel for flying at seven, but this... this was madness. A five-year-old girl on a dragon of the Conquest era, flying toward the smoking maw of the Dragonmount. If they fell, the King would not merely hang the Keepers—he would burn the world to ash to join them.