"Hiss!"
Sunfyre's descent was a violent affair, his golden wings churning the air into a gale that sent salt-spray and fine grey sand stinging against the hovels of the fishing village. The smallfolk scrambled back, eyes wide with the primal terror that only a dragon can evoke.
Aegon looked down from the high saddle, his silver hair whipped by the wind. "Which of you knows a blacksmith by the name of Hugh?" he called out, his voice carrying the effortless ring of command. "A man of base birth, yet of great stature."
An elder, his face a map of weathered creases, stepped forward with a trembling gait. "I... I know the man, my Prince."
Aegon reached into his doublet and flicked a heavy gold dragon toward the man. It caught the dying light as it spun through the air. "Is he the only Hugh to ply the hammer in these parts?"
"The only one, Highness."
"Excellent. Find him. Tell him the Blood of the Dragon summons him to the Stone Drum Tower. He is to come at once."
Without waiting for a reply, Aegon hauled on the reins. Sunfyre leaped from the earth, the beat of his wings echoing like thunderclaps as they vanished into the gathering gloom of the Dragonmount.
Upon their return to the fortress, Sunfyre eschewed the damp warmth of the pits, choosing instead to coil his golden length before the iron-studded gates of the Stone Drum Tower. He settled there like a living treasure, his golden eyes watching the approach.
"Prince," the guard at the threshold saluted, his spear rapping against the black stone.
"A smith named Hugh will arrive shortly," Aegon said, dismounting with a lithe jump. "Bring him to me without delay."
The Stone Drum Tower was the heart of the ancient Valyrian stronghold. Built with a masonry lost to the Doom, its walls were fashioned from fused obsidian and black stone, carved into the likeness of dragons and gargoyles. When the great storms rolled in from the Narrow Sea, the very wind seemed to howl through its hollows, making the tower rumble like a beaten drum.
Aegon bypassed the gardens where Helaena and Aemond sought solace and climbed the winding stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table.
It was a circular room at the tower's peak, dominated by a massive slab of wood fifty feet long, carved in the exact likeness of Westeros. It was here that Aegon the Conqueror had plotted the downfall of kings. Aegon took his seat at the head of the table, looking down the length of the continent, waiting.
He did not have to wait long. Hugh was brought in, looking small despite his towering height of nearly two meters. He was a man of the forge—broad-backed and thick-waisted, his skin stained with the soot of a thousand fires. He stood uneasily, his large hands twitching at his sides. He had been packing his meager life, preparing to take his pregnant wife to the sprawl of King's Landing in search of a better life.
"I am told," Aegon began, his gaze sharp as a kestrel's, "that you are a man who can bend iron bars with your bare hands."
Hugh looked up, his confusion plain. He had heard the singers praise the young Prince's wisdom, but he could not fathom why such a boy would seek a common smith. "It is a great honor, Your Highness. But... I have never put my strength to such a purposeless test."
Aegon leaned back, his eyes narrowing. If the man had not tried, it meant his limit was yet unwritten. "A merchant told me of you. He spoke of a smith with the strength of an ox and the heart of an honest man."
It was a lie, of course—a silk-wrapped hook.
Hugh remained silent, his brow furrowed. He thought of his wife, six months gone with child, and the meager coin they had saved for the journey. He feared the whims of princes; they were like dragons—beautiful to behold, but prone to burning what they touched.
"Forgive me, Highness, but my wife waits. I must return to her. If there is a service you require of my hammer, I shall give it my all, but I am a simple man."
Aegon, sensitive to the flickers of the man's spirit, saw the tether that bound him. His wife. A man with something to lose was a man who could be bought with the promise of safety.
"I am curious to see this strength for myself," Aegon said. At his gesture, a guard brought forth a bar of pig iron, as thick as a man's thumb.
"Try it," Aegon urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial silk. "This is more than a feat of strength, Hugh. This is the threshold of a new life. Whether your wife walks in rags or in silk depends entirely on the power in those arms. Seize the chance."
Hugh swallowed hard. He took the cold iron in his calloused grip. His muscles bunched and surged beneath his tunic, his face turning a dark, weathered red. With a low, guttural grunt, the iron began to yield. It groaned and buckled, twisting into a distorted 'U' before the guards' astonished eyes.
Clang.
The spent metal hit the floor. Aegon stood and began to clap, a slow, rhythmic sound in the hollow chamber.
"Superb," Aegon beamed. "Truly, the blood of the forge runs hot in you."
The Prince stepped down from his dais, looking up at the giant. "I have need of a man like you. Not just a smith, but a shield. Serve as my personal guard, and when your child is born—be it son or daughter—they shall have a place as my personal attendant."
Hugh stared, breathless.
"Land, titles, a keep of your own... these are not dreams, Hugh. They are the wages of loyalty. Perform well, and you shall never strike a cold anvil again."