The morning air clung with the sharp tang of salt and damp stone, the remnants of last night's rain still weeping from the castle's blackened walls. Overhead, storm-grey clouds stretched thick and unbroken, as if the sky itself mourned something long lost.
The waves roared against the black cliffs of Dragonstone, their restless rhythm a constant presence. Beyond the castle walls, the dormant peak of Dragonmont loomed, its shadow stretching over the island like the lingering remnants of a dragon's dream.
Aemon stood in the castle yard, fastening the last strap of his boots as a squire adjusted the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. The wind tugged at the fabric, and he let it billow behind him, savouring the moment before their departure.
A few feet away, Ser Barristan Selmy stood already prepared, his white cloak pristine despite the damp air. His sword belt rested against his hip, his expression as unreadable as ever, though his eyes held a glimmer of something close to wariness. He had accompanied Aemon on many of his explorations, but today's journey was different.
"We'll need supplies," Barristan remarked, adjusting his gloves. "Water, torches, rope—Dragonmont's caverns are not a place to enter unprepared."
Aemon smirked. "I doubt the mountain will swallow us whole, Ser."
Barristan gave him a look. "It swallowed dragons."
That quieted the prince for a moment. He turned his gaze to the towering mountain in the distance, its peak wreathed in mist, the black stone veined with red like dried blood. Once, fire had ruled there. Once, the sky above had been filled with wings.
Now, all that remained were empty lairs and lost whispers of what had been.
"Then we'll tread carefully," Aemon said at last.
Barristan exhaled, casting a glance toward the castle gates, where a handful of guards waited to see them off. "Your Grace," he said, tone shifting slightly. "I must ask—why this, and why now?"
Aemon met his gaze. "Because I have spent my whole time reading about what we lost," he said. "Now, I want to see it with my own eyes."
Barristan studied him for a long moment, then gave a short nod. "Very well, my prince. Let us hope Dragonmont is willing to share its secrets."
With that, they stepped toward the waiting path, leaving the keep behind, the wind at their backs, and the promise of lost history ahead.
As they ascended, waves of heat shimmered from the black volcanic rock, each breath thick with sulfur and the distant memory of fire.
The climb was steep, each step crunching over brittle volcanic rock that still carried the faint scent of sulfur. The air grew hotter with every breath, seeping from unseen fissures like whispers of fire buried deep beneath the earth.
Aemon walked ahead, light-footed and tireless. Ser Barristan, however, was slowing. His white armour, built for battle and ceremony rather than climbing, was stifling in the unnatural warmth of the mountain. Sweat beaded at his temples, his movements heavier with each step.
Barristan's grip tightened on his sword belt as he cast a sidelong glance at Aemon. Five years old. A child. And yet, his steps were just as sure as his own, if not more so.
"You don't feel it, do you?" Barristan finally asked, his voice even but edged with curiosity.
Aemon blinked, turning his silver-haired head toward him. "Feel what?"
Barristan exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "The climb. The heat. You don't even seem winded."
Aemon tilted his head, confused. "Should I be?"
Barristan let out a low chuckle, running a hand over his damp brow. "Most children your age would beg to be carried by now. I know grown men who would have turned back already." He gave Aemon a long, assessing look. "But you… not even a drop of sweat."
Aemon only shrugged. "It's… comfortable," he admitted, glancing at the steaming rocks.
The heat did not merely wrap around him—it welcomed him. Like fingers of warmth brushing against his skin, like an echo of something long forgotten. It was not just heat. It was a presence. The mountain was alive, and in its depths, something stirred. Something waiting.
"The heat—it doesn't feel bad. It's warm, but not in a way that bothers me." He turned his gaze forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "Feels like… home."
Barristan exhaled, shaking his head. "Then the dragons would have loved you."
Aemon's smile was small and thoughtful. "Perhaps they still will."
As they climbed, Aemon's gaze wandered beyond the winding path, to the distant villages clinging to Dragonstone's cliffs. Smoke curled from their chimneys, barely visible against the dull sky.
He glanced up at the old knight. "How many people live here?"
Ser Barristan raised a brow at the sudden question. "On Dragonstone?"
Aemon nodded.
The Kingsguard took a moment to consider. "Only two to three thousand, including the castle garrison, guards, servants, and common folk."
Aemon frowned slightly. "That's all?"
Barristan gave a small, knowing smirk. "Dragonstone is no city, my prince. It is a fortress first, a home second. It was built by the Valyrians not for comfort, but as a seat of power—to stand against any who might challenge House Targaryen."
Aemon kicked a loose stone from the path, watching it tumble down toward the rocky shores below. "So… no markets? No great ports?"
Barristan shook his head. "There is a small port, used only for ships bearing the Targaryen sigil—merchant ships rarely dock here unless carrying supplies from Driftmark or Blackwater Bay. Trade is not the purpose of this place."
Aemon's lips pressed into a thin line. "So, the people who live here… they have little, do they?"
Barristan regarded him carefully. "No. Life on Dragonstone is harsh, ruled by the tides and the storms. The men here are mostly soldiers and sailors, smiths and fishmongers—those who serve the castle or the fleet. There are no bustling taverns like King's Landing, no great streets filled with goldsmiths or bakers selling sweet cakes." He exhaled, the sea wind rustling his white cloak. "It is a lonely place."
Aemon was silent for a moment. He had always thought of Dragonstone as his home, but now he wondered what it was like for those who had no choice but to live here. The guards stood at their posts through rain and storm. The fishermen who braved the rough waters to catch food. The blacksmiths worked tirelessly, only for their steel to rust in the salt air.
He turned his gaze toward the small collection of wooden houses far below, nestled against the cliffs near the shore. Smoke curled from their chimneys, barely visible against the dull sky.
"Do they ever come up to the castle?" he asked.
Barristan gave a rare chuckle. "Only when summoned. Most prefer to keep their distance—the lords of Dragonstone are not known for entertaining common guests."
Aemon fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the sea.
Then, after a moment, he glanced up at him. "Ser Barristan, tell me about your house."
The knight turned his gaze toward him, an amused glint in his eyes. "Curious about House Selmy, are you?"
Aemon shrugged. "I know the names of all the great houses—the Lannisters, the Starks, the Tullys. But I know little about yours."
Barristan gave a small, thoughtful nod. "House Selmy is no great power, my prince. We are lords of Harvest Hall, a modest keep in the Stormlands."
Aemon tilted his head. "Stormlands…" His mind sifted through the books he had read. "So, you're sworn to the Baratheons, then?"
Barristan nodded. "Aye. The Stormlands are harsh—wet, windswept, and battered by tempests rolling in from the Narrow Sea. It is a land that forges strong men and stubborn lords. The Baratheons rule from Storm's End, an ancient keep built by the first of their line, Durran Godsgrief, to defy the very wrath of the gods."
Aemon absorbed that, picturing the great stone castle standing against the howling storms. "And Harvest Hall?"
Barristan gave a small smile, his tone almost nostalgic. "It is smaller, simpler. The lands are fertile, but we are no Reachmen bathing in endless gold and grain. We are warriors first, farmers second. The Selmys have always been loyal, honourable, but never ambitious. We are knights, not schemers."
Aemon smirked. "Not like the Lannisters, then."
Barristan huffed a short laugh. "No, not like the Lannisters." His smile faded into something more serious. "We are not a house of wealth or cunning. What we have, we earn—on the battlefield, in the honor of our name. My father was a good man, as was his father before him. But our house will never reach beyond its station."
Aemon considered that. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Barristan glanced down at him. "It is not. But it is not my house's name that will be remembered in song."
Aemon frowned slightly. "But yours will be."
There was a pause. The sound of their boots on the rocky path filled the space between them.
Finally, Barristan exhaled. "Perhaps."
Aemon wasn't sure if that was entirely true.
The way Barristan's gaze lingered—how his fingers flexed slightly at his side as if remembering something distant—told him otherwise.
"You never told me," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Why did you choose the Kingsguard?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Barristan exhaled slowly. "Because I wished to serve something greater than myself."
Aemon waited, knowing there was more.
The Kingsguard was a life sentence—a vow of loyalty, of no wife, no children, no lands. He had read the stories of knights who had joined to escape a cruel father or to rise beyond the fate of a second son.
But Barristan Selmy was the heir to Harvest Hall. He could have been Lord Selmy one day, a respected ruler in the Stormlands. Instead, he had chosen a white cloak over a castle.
"Did you always want to be a Kingsguard?" Aemon pressed.
Barristan's lips twitched into a small, distant smile. "Since I was a boy. I was ten when I first saw Ser Duncan the Tall. He had come to Storm's End with the old king, Aegon V. He was…" He shook his head slightly as if the memory was still vivid. "Larger than life. A man who fought for honour, not ambition. He was the greatest knight I had ever seen."
Aemon knew that name. Ser Duncan the Tall—his own grandfather's sworn shield.
Barristan continued. "I squired for a good man, Ser Manfred Swann, but my heart was already set. I wanted to be like Dunk—a knight known not for his wealth or name, but for the weight of his honour."
He sighed, his expression unreadable. "I first earned my name on the lists. Barristan the Bold, they called me when I entered the tourney at Blackhaven at ten-and-five—disguised as a mystery knight."
Aemon's brows rose. "You fought when you were a boy?"
Barristan gave a small chuckle. "A foolish boy. I lost, of course. To Prince Duncan Targaryen."
Aemon blinked. "My father?"
"The same." Barristan's gaze softened. "He unhorsed me in a single pass. But when I removed my helm, he laughed and helped me to my feet. Told me I had a knight's spirit if not yet the skill."
Aemon swallowed. He had never known his father, but this—this was something. A fragment of who Duncan had been.
Barristan's voice turned reflective. "I fought harder after that. Became a knight at sixteen. Proved myself in the Stepstones, in the Ninepenny Kings' war." He glanced at Aemon, his face calm, unreadable. "And when I returned, King Jaehaerys accepted me among the Kingsguard."
Aemon hesitated before asking, "Did you ever regret it?"
Barristan's expression remained composed. But after a long pause, he exhaled.
"No," he said simply. Then, softer — "But there were days I wondered… what life I might have had if I hadn't taken the white."
Aemon thought of duty. Of sacrifice. And he understood.
For a moment, Aemon Targaryen felt the weight of a world he had yet to see.
And he promised himself—he would see it all.
.
.
.
The winds howled as Aemon reached the highest point of Dragonmont, the very peak of the volcanic mountain that had birthed dragons in ages past. The climb had been steep and treacherous in places, but now, as he stood there, the world seemed to unfold before him.
The sea stretched endlessly, a vast and restless expanse of shimmering blue and silver, reflecting the late morning sun like a thousand dancing stars. White-capped waves rolled toward Dragonstone's jagged shores, where the island's cliffs stood unbroken, carved by centuries of storm and salt.
Below, the castle itself, ancient and brooding, stood against the craggy coastline, its black walls veined with red like the molten rock that had shaped it. Further beyond, small villages nestled along the winding paths of the island, their rooftops speckled with smoke from morning fires. In the farthest distance, Aemon could make out tiny ships on the horizon, their sails unfurling toward the unknown.
It was… mesmerizing.
Aemon exhaled, feeling the crisp salt air bite against his skin. The wind howled, carrying with it the scent of salt and fire, of journeys yet to come. The world stretched out before him—vast, untamed, waiting.
For a long moment, he said nothing—just stood there, drinking in the scene, feeling something within him stir. A longing, an ache that was both exhilarating and painful. He was born here, but he knew—he was not meant to stay.
Then, slowly, he walked toward the edge of the cliff, where the stone jutted out over the vast drop below. He lowered himself down, his boots brushing against the cool rock, and then, without hesitation—he sat.
A small smile played on his lips as he patted the space beside him.
"Come, Ser Barristan," he said, glancing up at the knight. "Sit with me."
Barristan hesitated—he was a Kingsguard, trained to be ever watchful, ever-ready—but after a moment, he sighed and relented, settling beside Aemon with all the grace of a man who had spent his life standing, not sitting.
The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was peaceful.
Aemon tilted his head back, closing his eyes for a brief moment, letting the wind whip through his silver hair. He felt something settle in his chest—something quiet, something real.
"This world," he murmured after a time, "is far more beautiful than my old one."
Barristan turned to him, brow furrowed. "Your old one?"
Aemon chuckled softly. "The halls of King's Landing. The Red Keep. The walls that kept me enclosed." He exhaled, opening his eyes again. "It always felt… small."
He gestured outward, toward the endless horizon. "But this? This is boundless."
Barristan watched him in silence, studying him in a way that Aemon was beginning to recognize. The old knight wasn't just listening—he was measuring, weighing the prince's words in his mind, as though already imagining the man he would become.
Aemon leaned forward, resting his arms against his knees. "I want to see everything."
The knight's brows rose slightly. "See what, my prince?"
Aemon's violet eyes flickered with something—something wild, something untamed.
"Everything," he breathed.
He turned his gaze toward the sea, watching the tiny sails drifting into the unknown. "Westeros, yes. But not just Westeros. I want to see Essos, where the Free Cities rule and where Valyria once stood in fire and glory."
His voice took on a dreamlike quality.
"I want to stand beneath the great golden domes of Volantis, where the rivers are black as ink, and the slaves whisper of forgotten kings."
"I want to see the painted temples of Yi Ti, where their emperors live longer than men should."
"I want to set foot on Leng Island, where strange-eyed people live in misty jungles, and they whisper to gods older than even the Faith of the Seven."
"I want to hear the drums of the Summer Isles, watch the warriors dance in the heat of battle beneath a golden sun."
"I want to sail past the famed Sunset Sea, where no man has returned."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I want to see Sothoryos," he said, voice laced with both excitement and curiosity. "The land of jungles, where monsters hide and men say only death lingers. I was born in a castle of stone—but I was meant for the world"
Barristan exhaled, rubbing a gloved hand over his jaw. "You do not dream small, my prince."
Aemon smirked. "Small dreams are for men with short lives. And you'll come with me, won't you?"
The knight blinked. "What?"
Aemon turned to him, his expression so bright, so full of life, that for a moment, Barristan felt himself transported back—to the stories of Dunk and Egg, of a squire and his knight on the road to adventure.
"We'll travel the world," Aemon said. "Just like Duncan the Tall and Aegon the Unlikely."
Barristan opened his mouth, then closed it. A moment passed before he exhaled, rubbing a gloved hand against his knee. "My duty is to you, my prince."
Aemon tilted his head, smirking. "You'd make a fine Dunk, Ser Barristan. And I'd be Egg."
The knight huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You would not be Egg."
"Why not?"
Barristan turned his gaze to the distant sea. "Because Egg was humble."
Aemon chuckled. "Humble? That is merely another word for patient. And I am patient—when I must be."
The knight exhaled through his nose, but his lips twitched into something almost like amusement.
"You know," Barristan said, watching as the boy gazed out over the endless sea, "I think you might be my favourite prince."
Aemon smirked. "Might?"
Barristan huffed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I've known a fair few princes in my time."
Aemon turned toward him, resting his chin against his knee. "And?"
"And most of them were either dull, spoiled, or insufferable." Barristan gave him a pointed look. "You, at least, manage to be tolerable."
Aemon gasped in mock offence. "Tolerable? That's the best you can do?"
"I said 'at least.' It's a step above 'intolerable,' which is where most of your kind tend to fall."
Aemon laughed, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were supposed to be my sworn protector. Shouldn't you be showering me with praise?"
Barristan sighed dramatically. "If I must. You are, without a doubt, the most peculiar prince I've ever met."
"Peculiar?"
"Oh, certainly. You think before you speak, which is more than I can say for most lords. You read more than the maesters, which I suspect is why Maester Geradys looks half a century older every time I see him."
Aemon grinned. "He says I 'provoke unnecessary philosophical debates.'"
"Yes, that sounds about right." Barristan shook his head, amused. "And unlike the rest of your family, you don't sit around dreaming about prophecy or dwell in politics. No, you sit on cliffs and brood about sailing to the ends of the world."
Aemon stretched his legs out, tilting his head. "You make it sound ridiculous."
"Oh, it is," Barristan said with a smirk. "But at least it's interesting."
Aemon laughed again, and Barristan found himself smiling as well. He had never expected to enjoy the company of a prince—not in the way a man enjoyed the company of a friend. But Aemon had a way of pulling people into his world, making them forget about duty, about titles, about what was expected.
And perhaps that was why Barristan liked him.
Because Aemon was not like the others.
And that, more than anything, made him worth protecting.
The wind howled once more, carrying the scent of salt and fire, and for a brief moment, there was only the sky, the sea, and the quiet dream of a boy who would one day travel a world he longed to see.
.
.
.
.
The entrance to Dragonmont loomed before them—a gaping maw of blackened stone, its jagged edges carved by time and fire. As Aemon stepped closer, the air changed. Heavy. Ancient. The very ground beneath him seemed to hum, as though the mountain itself was breathing. Then, in the distant darkness, something shifted—faint, almost imperceptible. Not the rustle of wind. Not the crack of stone. Something deeper.
The path leading inside was uneven, the stone cracked and worn from centuries of heat and time. Sulfur thickened the air, seeping from deep below, filling the tunnels with the scent of something ancient—something that had once been alive.
Ser Barristan shifted beside Aemon, gripping the torch tighter. The flickering flame cast their shadows against the walls, making them seem like wraiths moving through the darkness.
Aemon took a step forward, his boots crunching against loose bits of stone. He felt the warmth pressing against his skin, but it didn't burn—not like it should. It felt almost familiar, like stepping into a long-forgotten home.
"Are you certain about this, my prince?" Barristan asked, his voice even but wary.
Aemon shot him a playful glance. "Starting to feel your age, Ser?"
Barristan scoffed. "If you think I'll be the one carried out of here, you're sorely mistaken."
Aemon chuckled, then turned his gaze deeper into the cavern. The lairs stretched ahead, the passage twisting like the ribs of some long-dead beast. He had read of these places—the nesting grounds of the dragons of old. Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar… and countless others that had come after.
But now, there was nothing. No roars, no shifting wings. Only silence.
The deeper they ventured into Dragonmont, the hotter it became. The very air shimmered with heat, curling like unseen flames along the cavern walls. Sweat dripped from Ser Barristan's brow, his usually pristine white cloak already damp and clinging uncomfortably to his armour.
The torch in his hand flickered wildly, struggling against the heavy, stifling air. Every step felt like wading through an invisible furnace. The warmth radiating from the stone was relentless, pressing against him like the heat of a forge.
Aemon, however, walked ahead with an easy stride, completely unbothered. If anything, he looked at home here. His silver hair, damp with perspiration, clung to his forehead, but he wasn't winded, nor did he seem to notice the suffocating heat.
Barristan gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the growing discomfort. He had fought in deserts and sailed across blazing seas, but this—this was something else entirely.
Aemon turned back, arching a brow. "Ser Barristan, are you all right? You're walking like a man dragging a horse behind him."
Barristan exhaled sharply, waving off the concern. "I'm fine."
Aemon's eyes gleamed with amusement as he took in the older knight's flushed face. "Are you sure? You look like you're about to roast inside all that steel."
Barristan scowled, adjusting his gauntlets. "A knight does not remove his armour, my prince. It is his second skin."
Aemon smirked. "That may be, but in about ten more steps, your 'second skin' is going to cook you alive." He crossed his arms. "Unless you'd rather become the first Kingsguard to die of heatstroke rather than battle."
Barristan shot him a look. "I am not removing my armour."
Aemon hummed. "So, you'd rather collapse halfway through Dragonmont than admit you're suffering?"
The knight huffed, his patience fraying. "Knights endure worse than this."
Aemon gave him a slow, knowing look before stepping closer. "Ser Barristan, do you remember what you once told me about battle?"
The old knight raised a brow. "I've told you many things about battle."
Aemon grinned. "That you should never let pride slow your blade."
Barristan narrowed his eyes. "This is not battle."
"No," Aemon conceded, "but if you drop dead before we reach the hatchery, I'll have to tell the court that Ser Barristan the Bold was bested by hot air."
Barristan let out a low sigh. "You are insufferable."
Aemon beamed. "I prefer persuasive."
The knight held his glare for a moment longer before finally giving in with a grumble. With great reluctance, he removed his gauntlets first, then began undoing the straps of his breastplate. The moment the metal came off, he let out a breath of relief, rolling his shoulders as the cool air hit his sweat-slicked tunic.
Aemon smirked. "Better?"
Barristan shot him a dry look. "If I get skewered by a Shadowcat down here, you'll be the first to answer for it."
Aemon snorted. "If a Shadowcat is lurking inside a volcanic mountain, then perhaps it deserves to win."
The knight shook his head, rolling his sleeves up. "You should not mock your sworn shield."
"I'd never mock you, Ser Barristan," Aemon said solemnly, then ruined it with a grin. "I'm merely ensuring you don't melt before we find something interesting."
Barristan exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "One of these days, your wit will get you in trouble, my prince."
Aemon grinned. "Then you'll be there to save me, won't you, Ser?"
Barristan exhaled, but his lips twitched. "As always."
He had known many nobles. Too many. Most were soft things, raised in velvet and arrogance. But this one? He was different. He was clever. And the clever ones were dangerous.
With Barristan now free from his suffocating armour, they pressed on, moving deeper into the lairs.
They moved forward, the torchlight casting flickering gold against the obsidian walls. Faint carvings remained in some places—worn sigils, and faded High Valyrian inscriptions marking the names of dragons that had once made their home here.
Barristan reached out, brushing his fingers over a deep claw mark carved into the stone. "Even after all these years… they still left their mark."
Aemon nodded, running his hand over the rough surface. The grooves were deep as if something massive had once scraped against the walls in frustration—or longing.
The cavern walls swallowed them whole as Aemon and Ser Barristan stepped deeper into the lairs of dragons long gone. The heat remained thick in the air, lingering like the ghost of fire that had once breathed life into this place. Shadows danced wildly against the rough, blackened stone as their torches flickered, the flames casting eerie shapes along the cavern's ridges.
As they moved further, the ground beneath their boots shifted, no longer smooth volcanic rock but uneven terrain littered with debris. At first, it was difficult to make out, but as Aemon knelt to inspect the floor, his fingers brushed against something hard—something unmistakably bone.
He lifted the fragment carefully, the torchlight revealing a jagged, cracked piece of what was once a skull.
"Ser Barristan," he called, holding it up. "These belonged to their prey."
The old knight stepped closer, his sharp blue eyes scanning the cavern's floor. Around them, scattered in heaps and piles, lay the bones of long-dead creatures. Some were small, their delicate structures suggesting goats or sheep. Others were larger, their broken remains twisted and blackened as if scorched by fire.
Barristan exhaled. "Even in death, this place still bears the shadows of dragons."
Aemon ran his fingers over the ridges of the skull fragment. "They must have brought their kills here, feasting in their dens before returning to the skies." He turned the bone over, noting the faint burn marks. "Some of these were cooked before they even hit the ground."
Barristan gave a small, grim chuckle. "A convenient way to prepare a meal, I suppose."
Aemon set the fragment aside and straightened, his torchlight sweeping further ahead. And that was when he saw the scales.
At first, they were barely noticeable, half-buried beneath dust and stone.
They were scattered across the lair, remnants of dragons who had once ruled the skies, their massive forms now nothing more than legend.
Aemon knelt again, his heart pounding in his chest. Carefully, he reached out and plucked one from the dirt—a black scale, large and heavy, its surface rough yet smooth like polished obsidian.
"Balerion," he whispered, turning it over in his hands.
The Black Dread himself had once walked these halls. His wings had darkened the skies, his fire had forged crowns and melted swords. And now, the last of him—of all of them—was here, scattered in the dust like forgotten relics.
One by one, Aemon collected them, brushing off the dirt before tucking them into the leather pouch he had brought with him. They were warm—warmer than they should be. As he picked them over in his hands, he could almost hear the distant beat of wings, the whisper of fire long extinguished.
Vermithor's bronze shimmered in the firelight.
Caraxes' crimson burned like dried blood.
Vhagar's deep jade-green gleamed softly, aged but still regal.
Each scale was a piece of history, a fragment of something greater.
As he turned the black scale over in his hands, something strange happened.
The warmth from the cavern did not just intensify—it pulsed. Aemon inhaled sharply. Beneath his fingertips, the black scale seemed to hum—not just warmth, but a pulse, like a heartbeat long silenced. A deep, lingering resonance, like the fading echo of a distant roar, trembled through his skin. He was not just holding history—he was feeling it, alive, waiting.
A whisper of fire long extinguished, waiting to be rekindled. And for a fleeting moment, he swore he felt something deep within his chest—an ember reigniting.
Aemon frowned, flexing his fingers, feeling the lingering heat trapped within the ancient scales.
Could they still hold the fire of the past?
For a brief moment, he wondered—could dragon scales be reforged?
The thought flickered, like an ember waiting for breath.
Barristan watched silently as Aemon gathered them, his face unreadable. Finally, he spoke. "You honour them by keeping their memory."
Aemon looked up. "Someone has to."
He closed the pouch carefully, securing it at his belt. His fingers lingered over the leather, feeling the weight of it. Not just of the scales, but of what they meant.
A legacy.
A reminder.
A promise that their fire was not truly gone.
He turned back toward the lair's depths, where darkness loomed ahead.
"What else do you think they left behind?" Aemon murmured.
Barristan adjusted his grip on his sword. "Only one way to find out."
Aemon and Ser Barristan pressed deeper into the lairs, the cavern began to change. The rough volcanic walls smoothed in places, bearing deep claw marks where dragons had once sharpened their talons. The deeper they ventured, the more the space shifted from simple dens to something larger, something ancient.
The lairs were not just individual chambers—they were tunnels.
Aemon's torch flickered as he peered down one particularly wide passage, the ground sloping downward into the earth. "This isn't just a cave," he murmured, his voice echoing softly. "It's a system."
Barristan followed his gaze, his expression unreadable. "A warren of dragon dens…" He ran his gloved hand along the rock, feeling the grooves carved by centuries of dragon claws. "This was more than a resting place. It was a road."
Aemon's heart quickened. "A road to where?"
As they moved forward, the tunnels twisted and split, branching off in different directions. Some paths led deeper into the mountain, where the air grew thick with heat and sulfur. Others were smoother, the ground worn down by the passage of massive creatures over countless generations.
Then he spotted it—an ancient carving half-buried beneath soot and dust. He knelt, brushing the grime away with his fingers until the shape became clear.
A dragon's head.
Not just any dragon—a three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen. And below it, faintly inscribed in High Valyrian:
"Hen nāry urēbzi, naejot nāry dāeremagon. Hen nykeā mōzūs, ēdruta perzys."
"From fire they are born, to fire they return. In darkness, they slumber, awaiting the flame."
The words were carved deep, the edges softened by time but still legible in the flickering torchlight. Aemon traced the letters with careful fingers, and as he whispered them aloud, the cavern seemed to exhale around him.
"This leads somewhere."
As the words left Aemon's lips, the air around him seemed to shift. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration passed through the stone, like an exhale long held. Dust stirred at his feet, and for a brief moment, the heat in the cavern pulsed—alive, aware.
Ser Barristan studied the tunnels ahead. "These passageways… they don't just end in the mountain."
Aemon nodded slowly. "They lead to them somewhere."
Aemon's breath caught as the realization set in.
"This was their path to the skies," he whispered.
It made sense. The Valyrians had built Dragonstone as a fortress, but also as a home for their dragons. They wouldn't have kept them confined to open-air pens. They had woven a network beneath it— away for their dragons to move freely beneath the keep, to emerge only when it was time to take flight.
He turned his torch ahead, illuminating the tunnel's downward slope. The air shifted—it was no longer thick and heavy but carried a faint draft, a breeze from somewhere further down.
They were close.
The stone was worn, but markings remained—scratches, deep grooves where claws had once scraped as dragons lifted into the air. The platform's edge jutted out toward a great opening, its mouth carved into the side of the mountain, looking out toward the sea beyond.
A launching point.
Aemon's gaze swept across the chamber. He could see it—Balerion, Vermithor, Vhagar—dragons of legend taking flight from this very place. He could almost hear the rumble of their wings, the roar of fire as they soared into the skies above.
But now, the cavern was silent.
The dragons were gone.
Only shadows remained.
Aemon turned to Barristan, his expression thoughtful. "We walked through Dragonmont," he said. "And somehow, we ended up here."
The knight let out a short breath, shaking his head. "It means the tunnels are connected."
Aemon nodded. "Which means, the lairs. The hatcheries. The castle. All of it was connected. The Valyrians had built more than just an outpost—they had built a sanctuary for their dragons, woven into the very bones of the mountain."
Ser Barristan sheathed his sword, exhaling. "A hidden way through the mountain."
Aemon's lips curled slightly. "A forgotten way. But not anymore."
They had come seeking the past—but they had found something more.
A path between the past and the present.
For the first time in generations, someone had walked the path of the dragons.
But their journey was not yet finished.
Aemon turned toward the last tunnel, the air shifting to something thicker—denser. The hatcheries. He had come this far. He could not stop now. His ancestors had left their fire to die in darkness. But he would not.
Aemon nodded, but as he stepped forward, the heat thickened around him, pressing against his skin like a living thing. The air carried a distant scent—something more than sulfur. Something ancient. Something watching.
A single breath passed. Then another.
For a moment, everything was silent. Too silent.
And then, from deep within Dragonmont, the earth rumbled—just once, as if answering.
Barristan's grip tightened on his sword. "If the dragons were prepared for flight here, the eggs must have been kept further below."
Aemon exhaled, stepping forward. The air thickened, heavy with something unseen, something waiting. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Then that's where we're going..."