90 AC - Targaryen Flagship Balerion's Wrath, Narrow Sea

  The massive Targaryen warship cut through the choppy waves of the Narrow Sea, its black sails emblazoned with the three-headed dragon snapping in the salt-laced wind. Six-year-old Aegon gripped the polished oak railing, his fingers digging into wood worn smooth by decades of sea voyages. At his current growth rate, thanks to [Strong Digestion] and [Elastic Frame], he stood nearly as tall as a ten-year-old, though his face retained some childish roundness.

  Not that it stops Daemon from treating me like an infant.

  His older brother stood at the forecastle, black doublet flapping like a banner, pretending to captain the ship. The crew humored him, though the actual captain, a grizzled Velaryon cousin, barked orders from the quarterdeck.

  "Prince! Away from the rails!" Ser Robin Shaw's voice carried over the wind. The Kingsguard lurched toward him, white cloak whipping like a startled bird.

  Aegon stepped back dutifully, though the churning sea fascinated him. The water wasn’t blue this far out, but a deep, ominous green, flecked with white foam where waves collided. Dozens of other Targaryen ships formed their convoy, their sails a constellation of red and black against the horizon.

  All this for a wedding.

  Princess Rhaenys' marriage to Corlys Velaryon had mobilized the entire realm. Grandmother Alysanne and King Jaehaerys had flown ahead on Silverwing and Vermithor, while the non-dragonriders endured the two-day voyage. Viserys and his shadow, Otto Hightower, traveled on the Sea Dragon, their ship visible as a speck to starboard.

  Aegon’s stomach lurched as the deck rolled beneath him. The first day had been miserable, he’d vomited twice before his [CON 6.3] stat finally overruled the seasickness. Daemon had mocked him relentlessly until Ser Clement forced him to run drills until he retched too.

  Below Decks – Officers’ Cabin

  The cramped cabin smelled of salt, lamp oil, and the citrus peel the sailors chewed to ward off scurvy. Aegon traced a finger over the map nailed to the wall, a detailed rendering of Blackwater Bay and Dragonstone’s jagged coastline.

  "When do we arrive?" he asked the ship’s master, a thin man with a spiderweb of tattoos across his knuckles.

  "By evening, my prince," the man said, not looking up from his logbook. "If the winds hold."

  Dragons would’ve had us there by noon.

  The failed [Heir of Old Valyria] class still weighed on him, not just as a missed opportunity, but as an unfinished equation.

  One prerequisite down. One to go.

  He had already handled the first requirement, contact with the dragon remains older than a century. Convincing his grandmother to let him visit the Red Keep’s vaults had been simple enough. A few well-timed questions about "family history," an exaggerated curiosity about Meraxes' skull, and Queen Alysanne had personally escorted him below the castle. The massive dragon skull, its empty sockets staring into the dark, had sent a primal shiver down his spine. The moment his fingers brushed the ancient bone, the Class Tree had acknowledged the prerequisite as fulfilled.

  Now, only the second condition remained: swearing an oath in High Valyrian while touching a dragonglass relic older than 200 years.

  And Dragonstone was the only place in Westeros where such relics existed in abundance.

  The island loomed ahead, its jagged spires clawing at the sky like a petrified dragon. Even from this distance, Aegon could see the telltale veins of obsidian streaking through the black stone. Dragonglass. The volcanic rock was embedded in the very foundations of the Targaryen stronghold, remnants of the ancient Valyrian empire.

  His fingers twitched at his side. The relic had to be old enough. And, most importantly, he had to do it without drawing attention.

  A raucous laugh snapped him from his thoughts. Daemon stood at the prow, shouting something to the crew about "sailing like we’ve got dragons between our legs." The sailors chuckled, though their eyes kept flickering toward the approaching island. Even they seemed to feel the weight of the place.

  Aegon exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

  Tonight.

  The wedding feast would provide the perfect cover. While the lords and ladies drank and danced, he would slip away. The castle’s lower levels, the ones carved into the volcanic rock, were said to hold chambers untouched since the Doom.

  Main Deck – Late Afternoon

  The air changed as Dragonstone emerged from the sea mist. Not gradually, but suddenly, a monstrous fortress of black stone clawing at the sky. Aegon’s breath caught. The citadel looked less like a castle and more like a dragon mid-takeoff, its towers forming spines along its "back." Even from miles out, he could see the smoke curling from Dragonmont's peak.

  Daemon appeared beside him, uncharacteristically quiet.

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  "First time seeing it?" Aegon asked.

  Daemon’s jaw tightened. "I flew over it with Father last year." The lie was obvious, Baelon had refused to take him until he mastered basic High Valyrian.

  A commotion erupted near the bow. Sailors pointed upward as a shadow blotted out the sun. Meleys descended in a spiral, Rhaenys astride her in a gown of seafoam green. The Red Queen’s wings sent spray flying as she skimmed the waves, her shriek echoing off Dragonstone’s cliffs.

  Showing off for her betrothed, Aegon thought. Corlys Velaryon’s flagship, the Tidefyre, was already moored in the harbor, its silver sails bearing the seahorse sigil.

  The gangplank shuddered underfoot as they disembarked. Aegon counted seven other great houses’ banners among the docked ships:

  Baratheon’s crowned stag

  Lannister’s golden lion

  Hightower’s flaming tower

  Arryn’s moon-and-falcon

  Tully’s leaping trout

  Tyrell’s golden rose

  A delegation of Dragonstone guards awaited them, their black armor etched with fiery patterns. At their head stood Prince Aemon, Rhaenys’ father and heir to the Iron Throne. His hair had more silver than Aegon remembered, his posture rigid as a sword.

  "Uncle," Daemon said with a stiff bow.

  Aemon’s gaze slid to Aegon. "You’ve grown."

  Thanks to 50% nutrient absorption, he almost said. Instead: "Sea air agrees with me."

  Aemon snorted and turned toward the castle. "The feast starts in two hours. Try not to embarrass yourselves."

  As they climbed the winding path to the citadel, Aegon noted every obsidian outcropping, every dragon-shaped gargoyle. Somewhere in this volcanic fortress lay the key to his [Heir of Old Valyria] class.

  And he’d tear Dragonstone apart to find it.

  The maids led them to a modest chamber, stone walls, a narrow window overlooking the sea, and two beds draped in black-and-red linens. Daemon immediately claimed the one by the window, tossing his travel bag onto it with a thud.

  "Don’t snore," he said without looking at Aegon.

  "I don’t."

  "You did on the ship."

  "That was seasickness."

  Daemon snorted and started unbuckling his boots. Aegon took the other bed, smoothing the Targaryen sigil embroidered on the blanket. He discreetly checked his attributes:

  [

  CON 6.3

  STR 5.8

  AGI 6.7

  DEX 6.6

  INT 9.7

  ]

  Stats of a ten-year-old in a six-year-old’s world. He flexed his hands, the calluses from training rough against his fingertips.

  "Stop spacing out," Daemon snapped, already changed into a fresh black doublet. "The feast won’t wait."

  Aegon dressed quickly, dark red tunic, silver-threaded belt, boots polished to a shine. He adjusted the fit. The clothes had been tailored for his accelerated growth, but even they were starting to strain at the shoulders.

  The hall roared with layered conversations, clinking goblets, and the occasional burst of laughter. Braziers lined the walls, their flames making the carved dragon reliefs appear to breathe as shadows flickered across their stone wings. Long tables sagged under their burdens - whole roasted boars with apples stuffed in their mouths, towers of steaming bread still dusted with flour, and platters of fruits glazed so thick with honey they sparkled like jewels. The mingled scents of spiced wine, charred meat, and perfumed nobles created a heavy atmosphere that clung to clothes and hair.

  Aegon's eyes tracked through the crowd with practiced precision.

  Viserys, at thirteen but already holding a wine goblet like a seasoned lord, laughed too loudly at some murmured comment from Otto Hightower. The Hightower heir stood closer than proper, his green-and-silver robes untouched by the feast's mess, those sharp eyes constantly evaluating the noble daughters like a merchant appraising wares.

  Near the high table, Lord Corlys Velaryon held court effortlessly. His silver hair, tied back with a black ribbon, gleamed almost as brightly as the seahorse pendant at his throat. Beside him, Rhaenys stood resplendent in deep blue samite, though her restless fingers betrayed her impatience as they tapped against her thigh in time with some unheard rhythm.

  The Baratheon contingent dominated an entire corner, their booming voices drowning out subtler conversations. Lord Boremund's barrel chest shook as he recounted some battle to a captive - or perhaps trapped - audience, his great black beard bristling with each emphatic gesture.

  Then came the tug at his sleeve. Light but insistent.

  "Are you going to eat that?"

  A girl with round, rosy cheeks and a spill of honey-brown hair pointed at the untouched lemon cake on his plate. Up close, her sky-blue silk dress brought out the cornflower hue of her eyes, currently bright with curiosity as she waited for his answer.

  He pushed the plate toward her. "All yours."

  She beamed, scrambling onto the bench beside him with the unselfconscious grace of childhood. "I'm Aemma. Of the Eyrie." She announced it with practiced pride before stuffing a large bite of cake into her mouth.

  Future wife of Viserys. Future mother of Rhaenyra. Future corpse on the childbed. The memories from the show surfaced unbidden, leaving a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the feast.

  "Aegon."

  "I know." Powdered sugar dusted her upper lip as she spoke. "Viserys and Daemon's brother. We're cousins, you know. My mother is your father's cousin." She licked the sugar away thoughtfully. "Which makes us...second cousins? Or is it first cousins once removed?"

  The precision of her question surprised him. "You know your lineage well."

  Aemma shrugged, swinging her legs so her slippers knocked rhythmically against the table leg. "Mother makes me memorize it. Says 'a lady should know her family branches better than her embroidery stitches.'" She mimicked the lofty tone perfectly before giggling. "I'm terrible at embroidery though."

  A serving girl refilled their cups with watered wine. Aemma took a delicate sip, then made a face. "Why do they call this wine? It tastes like sour grapes."

  "Because it is sour grapes," Aegon deadpanned.

  She giggled again, a bright sound that cut through the hall's murmur. "You're funny. Not like your brothers. Viserys just talks about boring lord stuff, and Daemon..." She leaned in conspiratorially, "Daemon smells like he bathes in vinegar."

  Aegon choked on his drink. Across the hall, Daemon was indeed scowling at some Reach lord's son, his expression promising future torment. "Don't let him hear you say that."

  Aemma rolled her eyes with all the fearlessness of an eight-year-old who'd never been on the receiving end of Daemon's temper. "Do you like dancing?" she asked abruptly.

  "Not really."

  "Me neither!" She bounced slightly on the bench. "It's just spinning until you're dizzy and people step on your toes." Her nose wrinkled. "Lord Baratheon's son squashed three of my toes last feast. Mother said I couldn't stab him with my hairpin though."

  Aegon filed away that delightful piece of information. "Your mother sounds practical."

  "She is." Aemma's gaze drifted to where Viserys was now attempting to impress some Tyrell girl. "Your brother's being stupid."

  Following her line of sight, Aegon watched Viserys misquote a Valyrian proverb while Otto hovered like a specter. "Which part? The bad poetry or the worse politics?"

  "All of it." Aemma sighed with world-weary exasperation that seemed absurd on a child. "He thinks talking loud makes him sound smart."

  The musicians struck up a lively tune, sending nobles scrambling to form dance lines. The sudden movement made the hall feel even more crowded, the press of bodies driving the temperature up. Aemma fanned herself with her hand.

  "It's getting stuffy. Want to explore instead?" Aegon asked casually. "Dragonstone has secret tunnels, or so I've heard."

  Aemma's eyes lit up. "Really? Mother says the lower levels are dangerous."

  "All the best places are."

  She hesitated for only a heartbeat before sliding off the bench. "Lets go then!" she whispered, already darting between chairs.

  Aegon followed at a more measured pace, careful to avoid the watchful gaze of the Kingsguard. As he slipped into the shadowed corridor after her, the raucous noise of the feast faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of torch flames and their own echoing footsteps.

  Let Viserys play at being lordling, he thought as Aemma's laughter floated back to him. I'll be securing real power.