"A crown prince is not merely a successor; he is the kingdom's promise of tomorrow. He must learn not just to rule, but to conquer fear, command loyalty, and wield power with wisdom. For when the throne is empty, it is not the blood in his veins that will make him king—it is the fire in his soul."
*******************to*******************
The dragons crawled toward him, their scales still damp from their hatching.
The black one climbed onto his shoulder, curling its tail around his arm. The white one perched near his leg, tilting its head curiously. The red one settled by his side, eyes locked onto his face.
Aegon slowly reached out, his fingers brushing against the black dragon's scales.
The moment skin met scale, a rush of something ancient and powerful surged through him.
Memories of fire and flight. Visions of great dragons soaring across the sky. The roars of Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar.
The blood of Old Valyria surged within him, responding to the creatures before him.
Aegon let out a slow breath, his lips curling into a small smirk.
The world did not know it yet.
But Dragons had returned.
And soon, all of Essos and Westeros would burn in their fire.
The morning sun bathed the Dothraki camp in golden light, but it was not the sun's warmth that the warriors felt.
It was something else entirely.
The three creatures that perched near Aegon's tent had become the new heart of the camp their eyes burning, their scales gleaming, their presence undeniable.
Dragons.
The Dothraki hardened warriors who feared little, stood in stunned silence.
Some whispered among themselves, others gripped their arakh blades tightly as if expecting a fight to break out at any moment.
Yet none dared move.
Even the horses, creatures that had carried these warriors through endless battles, trembled and whinnied, their instincts warning them of a greater predator.
And at the center of it all stood Aegon, a small smirk on his lips as he tossed strips of fresh meat into a roaring fire.
The three dragons watched the flames, their heads tilting as the scent of cooking meat filled the air.
They had not yet breathed fire, but Aegon could tell it was there, waiting.
The black dragon was the first to act.
With a powerful leap, he landed near the fire, his golden eyes locked onto the roasting meat.
The white dragon was more cautious, her body low to the ground, his wings twitching as she examined the flames with an analytical gaze.
The red dragon was the most aggressive his tiny maw parting as he let out a sharp, demanding snarl.
Aegon chuckled.
"Patience," he murmured, using a knife to cut the roasted meat into smaller chunks.
The moment he tossed them onto the ground, the dragons pounced.
They ripped into the meat, their small but sharp fangs tearing through flesh with ease.
The Dothraki watched in silence.
These warriors, who had spent their lives believing in the strength of the horse, now witnessed something greater.
Fire and blood.
The return of a Dragonlord.
As the dragons ate, Aegon crouched near them, watching each of them with a keen eye.
He had been thinking about this moment since their hatching.
Names were powerful.
A name was more than just a title it was legacy, strength, and fate intertwined.
He reached out and ran his hand over the black dragon's scales.
Pitch black, as if it absorbed the very light around it. Silent, watchful, calculating.
"You are Bahamut," Aegon declared.
The dragon stilled, then turned its golden eyes toward him.
Aegon felt its recognition.
Not just understanding, but acceptance.
He then turned to the red dragon a beast of ferocity, filled with fire and instinct.
He placed a hand on its warm scales, feeling the heat radiating from its tiny form.
"You are Igneel."
The dragon let out a low growl, its molten gaze filled with burning intensity.
Lastly, he looked at the white dragon the most intelligent, the most reserved, yet undoubtedly deadly.
He smirked.
"You are Albion."
The white dragon blinked, tilting its head, as if testing the name before letting out a soft, approving hiss.
The names had been given.
And none would ever forget them.
Soon the little spectacle was done and Aegon and the dragon returned to his tent.
Aegon sensed her before she even entered the tent.
The Dothraki woman, his Khaleesi, stepped forward, her eyes filled with wonder and disbelief as she took in the sight of the dragons.
Her hands instinctively touched her stomach the child growing inside her.
"These… these are…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Aegon turned to her, his expression calm yet proud.
"Dragons."
She slowly moved closer, her hesitation clear.
The Dothraki believed in strength, in power.
And there was nothing in the world stronger than the beasts before her.
Aegon gently took her hand and placed it against Albion's scales.
The white dragon let out a small huff, but did not resist.
Aegon's voice was low, filled with unwavering certainty.
"Our child will ride a dragon also."
Her breath hitched, her gaze snapping to his.
It was not a question.
It was a promise.
The Dothraki followed strength, and she had already begun to see Aegon as the greatest of all Khals.
But this…
This was beyond strength.
This was legend.
Her lips parted, and for the first time, a small smile played at the edges of her mouth.
"Our child…" she whispered, as if testing the words.
Aegon's smirk widened.
"Our child will fly."